‘That one is Orion,’ he said, pointing out at the sky, ‘and that one dogging his heels, that’s Sirius. Orion was a hunter, you know, in the old Greek stories…’
All of a sudden he remembered that Medea was a Greek herself, if not what he would call old.
‘Go on,’ she said.
‘When Sirius rises over the Nile, that’s when the Egyptians know that it’s going to flood. That’s good news for them, of course, because that’s where the silt comes from. Their farming’s based on that, you see, it’s very fertile. They’ve been civilised thousands of years, long before us in the empire. We were much like’—he jerked his head—‘this lot.’
She shivered. ‘You must hate the barbarians.’
‘Oh, they’re alright when you get to know them,’ he said, a little boastfully. ‘Perfect gentlemen, some of them. I’ve spent time with them, you know. Came to like them, respect them even.’ He related his experiences among the Selgovae.
She rearranged herself and leaned closer.
‘Tell me more about yourself,’ she murmured.
Flaminius downed the rest of his goblet. ‘Me, my lady?’
‘I’m bored and lonely, all the more so since we began heading into Caledonia. You’re the only person I can talk to properly, although you’re forever at your work. But…’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Are you avoiding me?’
‘This is the first time I’ve been off duty except when I’ve slept of nights. Falco wou…’
Medea shook her head. ‘My master doesn’t understand me. Oh, he’s treated me well, and I’ve lived a life that no concubine could ever dream of. But he simply does not understand me.’
Flaminius opened his mouth but could find no words brave enough to leave.
‘We should be better acquainted,’ Medea informed him. ‘Tell me more about yourself. Why did you join the legions? What has Rome done for you, that you’re willing to risk your life for her?’
‘I grew up happy,’ he replied. ‘We were safe, and protected. We had a good life, if not as good as the one you know. Thanks to Rome.’
‘You’re from a poor family?’
‘Hardly.’ Flaminius shook his head. ‘Middling, you might say,’ he went on. ‘I had a good tutor who taught me grammar and logic and rhetoric and then I was packed off to the legions to work out what the hell I could do with them in the middle of a battlefield. So I became a tribune of auxiliary horse. Nothing illustrious, the lowest of the low in officer terms, but… Well, my family did its duty by me. I have a career, my lady, a future…’
She reached out and stroked his hand. ‘I’m a freed slave,’ she said. ‘I’m not a Roman, although any children I have will be. My name is Medea,’ she added. ‘Not “my lady”.’
A jolt shot through him. Immediately he thought, Medea the witch, but she certainly wasn’t any kind of hag. Although she was enchanting, undeniably.
‘What a hard life you must have had,’ she added. ‘And still you’re willing to fight for Rome.’
‘Well, it’s certainly a tough life in the army, but I’ve had good times, too. There’s been camaraderie and…’ He faltered and blushed, thinking what some of that camaraderie had involved. ‘I don’t have much experience of sophisticated ladies…’
She came and sat beside him. The world was filled with her scent. ‘Well, now you have your opportunity.’
—10—
Pinnata Castra, Caledonia
The hill fort that guarded the entrance into the kingdom of Caledonia stood atop a hill that overlooked the river Taon[16] as the latter wound its way down from the mountains in the direction of the Oceanus Germanicus[17]. Only three miles downstream stood the ruins of one of the fortresses built furthest north by the foreigners, a massive undertaking on a scale comparable with Eboracum, the work of the far-famed Agricola in the days of Good King Calgacos. A generation ago the fortress had stood proud and dominant, but now it lay in ruins, overlooked by the mighty hill fort where Catavolcos now stood, gazing down from the ramparts, down the glen of the Taon.
Catavolcos had urged old grey bearded Brennos the High King to rebuild and reoccupy the hill fort. Now its parapet looked out over the lowlands of the Caledonian kingdom, with the mountains behind it. The kingdom was a wide realm by local standards, if nothing besides the vaunted domain of the king of the world. It had been as an act of defiance against that very king that Catavolcos had insisted the rebuilding of the hill fort.
And so the hill fort rose high above the Taon River, its shadow at sunset stretching down the glen like a finger pointing derisively at the ruins of the Roman fort. Except now, of course, they were no longer deserted. The legation from the foreigners had set up camp within the ruins, although as yet they had made no attempt to refortify it except with a light palisade. After sunset the lights of its campfires glittered like red rivals to the stars overhead, tiny spots of light in the midst of all encompassing darkness.
Once the sun had set, Catavolcos withdrew inside his hall, in a small room off the main building. Here was his treasury and the place where he now kept all his secrets. Only a select few were allowed within here, and it was always guarded.
Catavolcos opened a small coffer with a key that was always about his person. Within lay a collection of what an unpractised eye would regard as twigs and sticks. A closer inspection would notice the lines apparently at random that had been cut along each twig. Only this initiated into the rites of the druids, like Catavolcos himself and his spies, would know them for what they were: coded messages carrying news of the lands all about.
He took out one slim birch twig and ran his fingers along its length. Information came to him, words and phrases like magic. He had read it before, but now it was imperative that he respond. They were allowing a tribe to slip straight through their fingers.
He called to the guard. ‘Bring me my sister’s son.’
‘You summoned me, mother’s brother?’ said Maglocunos shortly after, entering Catavolcos’ chamber.
‘I did,’ Catavolcos replied. ‘You must be aware that the men of the king of the world have reoccupied their fort down the glen, just as they have done in Selgovae country.’ The youth nodded, scowling. ‘Our erstwhile subject tribe now speaks of peace with the Brigantes. The current Selgovian chieftain must be replaced by one friendly to King Brennos and Caledonia.’
‘I will do it gladly, if that is what you wish,’ Maglocunos said with a sneer, ‘but his people will resent our interference. So will other subject tribes, more closely allied for the time being. It could throw your plans awry. You told me you were playing a long game.’
Catavolcos scowled. ‘I must speak with the men of the king of the world,’ he said. ‘A banquet has been prepared and they are invited. I know that if we move openly it will not go well. We must show fair faces to them while hiding foul thoughts.
‘We are working towards a time when all Britons are free of the yoke of the foreigners, but we must wait until the time is ripe. It will be soon, perhaps within our own lifetimes. The foreigners are past their prime. One day they will be pushed back into the sea from which they came. But we must be subtle meanwhile in regaining our freedom. Ours is a weak child now, which must be nurtured and guided, kept from straying into trouble. An unforeseen move by the foreigners could have terrible repercussions for us, and for our secret plan. The more information we gather, the better our chance of making the right decisions. We need to understand them. We need to learn how they think.
‘They are mighty. It is no bardic exaggeration to call their ruler the king of the world. Only Caledonia remains free, that and Hibernia. But I do not wish them to rule here, and as long as they remain in Britain, they pose a threat. They will never be content with the lowlands while they know that we reign free amongst our mountains. So it is them or us. Either they return here in force and rule over us… or we force them back and back, until they are pushed back into the sea. That is why I speak to you, who are my sister’s son as well as a chief, and not
my other warriors.
‘Take men you trust and return to Selgovia. Use the serpent’s tongue as well as its fang. Meanwhile, I must speak with the foreigners. I deem my task more loathsome than your own. Go!’
Maglocunos nodded, and slipped from the chamber.
Catavolcos sat on his high seat for a while. It had been a long, long day and he was not as young as he had once been. His bones ached. He wished he could return to his own hill fort deeper in the mountains, overlooking the long lake. He wanted to be home. He wanted to be in his own lands, in his own bed. But the foreigners awaited, and once he had finished entertaining them he must meet with one of the druids whose network spread far into the South, as far away as Eboracum.
What was his name? Ah yes… Lugutorix. The man had an urgent report. Afterwards Catavolcos could sleep, only then. He took a swig of mead from a horn brought him by a slave, then set out for the foreigners’ encampment.
Guards accompanied him as he strode out through the gates. All around, the hill fort was alive with the quiet sounds of night, sentries patrolled the ramparts, guards marched through the shadows below. It was gloomy, not well lit like one of the foreigners’ fortresses. The dim glimmer of fires from within the bothies and the light of the sickle moon was all that there was.
Outside the gates he and his men mounted waiting steeds and rode for miles down the glen until they came to the palisade that surrounded a well-lit, orderly collection of tents. This was the foreigners’ camp. He galloped towards it, flanked by his guards.
After the sentries admitted them he was welcomed into the command post by a slave, a cubicularius as these foreigners called a steward, who took his cloak and welcomed him with a drink. Within the tent awaited the newcomers, in their togas and their armour, large men of the South with dark curly hair and olive skin.
‘Welcome, Lord Catavolcos,’ said the tall man in the toga. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Quintus Roscius Coelius Murena Silius Decianus Vibullius Pius Julius Eurycles Herculanus Pompeius Falco, senator of the city of Rome and governor of the province of Britain.’
‘Welcome to Caledonia, O Roman,’ Catavolcos said. He tried not to show resentment at the pomposity of this man with his overlong name, intent instead on his lazy actions, which were at odds with a tough, sinewy frame, his lazy eyes that nevertheless saw all they looked at—and more.
‘And this is Commissary Centurion Julius Probus.’
‘Greetings, O Caledonian lord.’ The thickset, balding man’s Caledonian accent was good. Were it not for his obviously Roman features he could have been a Briton of some sort. He was stocky, with iron grey hair, what little remained, and an aquiline nose that had been broken and reset badly at some time in the man’s life. Probus bore himself like a warrior—no, a soldier, warriors have more pride and less discipline.
So the introductions went on, all as if they weren’t deadly enemies. It was obvious, however, that no one of them was worth Catavolcos’s time except the senator with the absurdly long name and the thickset centurion. Ah, but the centurion’s aide, a stripling of no more than a score of winters surely—he seemed alert and attentive. But no, Catavolcos concluded, he was nothing but a lad, not worth considering.
The other two, however, were certainly dangerous. Particularly the centurion, but the senator was also a force to be reckoned with, despite his effeminate airs.
Catavolcos was presented with a goblet of some spicy southern wine, which seemed rough on his palate after the sweet honey mead and smooth heather ale he was used to. ‘I hope you found the journey over the heather to your satisfaction,’ he said to Falco.
‘It was a little gruelling,’ the provincial governor replied with a little smile, ‘until your riders came to escort us.’
‘And how did you find your time in the Selgovae territory?’
‘The Selgovae!’ Falco said. ‘I passed through, no more. Some of my men are quite familiar with the people there, though. Noble savages, simple children of nature living in the Golden Age, wouldn’t you say?’
Catavolcos frowned at the description. ‘I’ve never spent any time with them,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I hear from my sister’s son that they are fierce fighters.’
He took a great interest in the tribes of the debatable lands on the verges of the foreigners’ dominion, but he had not been that way himself, except long ago, in times of war. Perhaps sometime soon he should pay them a visit, when the foreigners had been repulsed.
‘We don’t really understand your interest in the area,’ Falco said thoughtfully. ‘With the… the unrest in the vicinity… do you not have other areas you could use as trade routes? You could go by sea, for example.’
‘Seaborne trade has its own difficulties,’ Catavolcos replied. ‘Banditry on land is a problem, but at sea there are storms as well as pirates. The Selgovian lands are not ideal, but we are content with matters as they stand. At the same time we can aid a tribe who have clearly aroused Rome’s interest, too. To a distressing extent…’
‘But predictable, surely,’ the provincial governor said. ‘It’s important for both our peoples that there is a buffer zone between us. Your interest in the Selgovian lands, along with the ongoing disturbance in that area, forced our hands. We’re obliged to protect our own peregrines, those who have suffered from intertribal raids by the Selgovae. Neither side, I’m sure, wishes to see war. We want merely to preserve the status quo.’
‘Surely your empire is so large now that there are more important issues elsewhere,’ said Catavolcos.
Falco gave a small frown. ‘These disturbances cannot be permitted to continue, for the security of the empire. You’ve clearly heard of our attempts to bring them to an end, by establishing military posts in the territory. If the Caledonians could assist in the peace making process, it would be to both our benefits. We can cooperate together, as we have done in the past. We have many of the same interests at heart.’
Catavolcos forbore from giving his opinion of the two peoples’ previous “cooperation.” He assumed the senator alluded to the brief period when a fortress stood where now these tents were pitched. But this apparent hypocrisy nettled him.
‘May I ask why the commissary centurion has joined this diplomatic expedition?’ he said, changing the subject. He knew full well what Probus’ real job entailed, from the reports of their man in Eboracum.
Falco’s mouth drooped. ‘The centurion is an adviser on commissary matters. Also on the native peoples. He knows a great deal about them from trading with them and so forth.’ He beckoned the centurion to join them.
Probus swaggered over. ‘My lord,’ he said courteously if gruffly.
‘Catavolcos wishes to know your intentions in these parts,’ Falco said.
‘I’m here to provide what information I have and give my opinions when they’re asked for,’ Probus replied.
‘Surely you have more pressing business elsewhere.’ Catavolcos knew a great deal about the man from repute and from reports, but meeting him in the flesh was quite another experience.
Probus accepted a goblet of wine from a passing slave. ‘We Romans know so little about your people,’ he commented. ‘Do you know, it wasn’t until Agricola’s day we were sure that Britain was an island, and not a whole new continent? Our knowledge of you is hazy. I’ve heard some of your people live on the island of Thule, wherever that might be. There are those in Rome who think you are German in origin, due to your red hair and rangy limbs. Yet you speak a language much like that used by folk to the south, which itself is very similar to the Gaulish tongue.’ He studied the Caledonian. ‘You’re nothing like our German auxiliaries, that’s for certain.’
‘We are not Germans,’ Catavolcos confirmed. ‘Britain is an island, not a continent. And as for this Thule you speak of, I’ve never heard of it. There are the Orcades and the Ebudes[18]. I have never heard of an island called Thule.’
‘What of your knowledge of lands to the south?’ Probus went on. ‘For example, the Selgovae terr
itory. What is your interest there?’
Catavolcos stiffened, tied of evading the same questions. ‘Our trade links are extensive,’ he said, ‘as I have already indicated to your superior officer. And the Selgovae territory is hardly far from our mountains.’
‘But all of a sudden, Caledonians were everywhere,’ Probus said bluntly. ‘How did you get so interested?’
‘Rome had its own outposts in that area not so long ago, but you withdrew from those regions abruptly, as you did from our own country. After this withdrawal, we became interested in what had interested Rome. In the Selgovae lands there was war with their neighbours within your empire. Some of our young men decided to assist. Romans took it into their heads to investigate and the situation abruptly escalated.’
Probus swigged his wine thoughtfully and tried to continue the conversation, but Falco successfully moved it on to other matters. Clearly he did not want the meeting to lapse into an interrogation.
The centurion was like a hunting hound on the track of a scent, Catavolcos thought as he departed a little later. Too good a hunter for his own peace of mind. He was likely to sniff out many a rat. Catavolcos would have to keep an eye on him.
Then again, was he really the one to watch out for? He was known to be the emperor’s secret agent. Not a very secret agent, in which case. Was it really him, then? Was he more a stalking horse than a hunting hound? Did the emperor have another secret agent on the provincial governor’s staff?
Or was that what Probus wanted him to think?
Catavolcos shook his head ruefully. This could go on for ever. Besides, it was not his concern. The druids had eyes everywhere, and every movement the foreigners made outside their quarters would be covertly watched.
Which reminded him, he had an appointment to see the druid who had been into the foreigners’ realm and returned. The merchant Tigernos thought he would be better employed in the tribal lands. Lugutorix had not covered himself in glory on his mission to Eboracum, but it was possible that he might have information worth Catavolcos’s hearing. And then he might give the fellow fresh orders.
On Hadrian's Secret Service Page 11
