Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8)

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘I am always ready to serve, Caesar,’ Valerius assured him.

  A genuine smile and the pale eyes twinkled. ‘But are you willing? That is the question. What has Titus told you?’

  ‘Only that Governor Agricola plans a series of campaigns to pacify the north of Britannia and bring it under Roman control.’

  ‘Precisely, and that is why …’

  ‘Caesar?’ An aide approached holding what looked like a napkin.

  ‘I am afraid we must postpone our talk until the race ends,’ Vespasian apologized. He accepted the napkin and Titus helped his father to his feet, accompanied by a great roar from the crowds below. Valerius searched the ranks of patricians in the reviewing stand for Domitian and his wife, but could see neither.

  Vespasian held out his right hand with his arm extended and a hush fell over the multitude in the great stadium below. A hundred thousand held a single breath …

  The napkin fluttered from the Emperor’s hand and a tumult erupted that made the earlier noise seem like a whisper. Simultaneously, the starting gates sprang open and eight chariots hurtled out on to the track, instantly manoeuvring for the most favourable position closest to the spina wall. Valerius knew the start was one of the most dangerous parts of the race, when eight or twelve four-horse teams fought for the best line at the first corner. A collective gasp went up as two of the fragile wood and leather cars clashed wheel to wheel. Another heartbeat and one or other would have capsized. But these drivers were veterans and with a twitch of the reins they allowed the chariots to drift apart without losing advantage. A pair of carts emerged ahead of the free-for-all, the leader with a driver sporting a green tunic and a team of bays taking a wider line half a head behind. Vespasian turned to his son.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ he shouted, his voice brittle with excitement. ‘Scorpus is already ahead.’

  ‘But that’s Atticus’s bays and Perseus on his shoulder.’ Titus’s passion matched his father’s. ‘Ten aurei says he takes him by the fourth turn.’

  Vespasian spat on his palm and held it out, accepting the bet. Titus grinned and slapped his father’s hand.

  By now the leading chariot was approaching the first fiendishly tight turn at astonishing speed. The drivers rode with the reins wrapped around their middle, leaving their hands free to wield the whip and for the more delicate manoeuvres. Valerius imagined the moment Scorpus leaned out to ease his lead runner into the turn. From above it appeared the team moved as a single unit flowing effortlessly through the corner, but he knew it took hundreds of hours of practice to achieve that effect. Each horse in the team would have an entirely different stride pattern. If one were half a stride out the chariot and team would be a heap of wreckage in a moment. The driver of the bays had to take a wider circuit and lost ground. Behind them four teams thundered for the same patch of sand and somehow came through unscathed. Green and White were neck and neck through the second turn, but Scorpus made a fractional error at the third. Vespasian groaned as the bays edged into the lead.

  ‘Yes!’ The clamour of cheers and roars all but drowned Titus’s shout and the wall of noise from the stands below took on a new volume.

  Now the chasing pack hit the far turn for the second time. White had the advantage, skimming the spina wall by a hand’s breadth, with Blue and Red outside him. Scorpus’s fellow Green took the wider line and Valerius watched with his heart thundering as the Red chariot eased him ever closer to the stand wall. Green must give way or …

  One moment the chariot was a single object, the next a cartwheeling cluster of spinning wheels and splintered wood. A tumbling body flew into the air, the driver still attached to his team by the reins at his waist. Every charioteer wore a padded tunic to protect him against a crash and carried a curved knife ready to hand to cut the reins. Green must have managed it because he parted company with his galloping horses after a few moments. Yet his senses were stunned by the battering and he stood, swaying on his feet, until the horses of the second Blue chariot rode over him as if he didn’t exist. Valerius saw the chariot jump as its right wheel hit an obstacle, but the driver somehow regained control, leaving a crumpled green heap lying in the dust behind him.

  Seven circuits of the oval track. One by one the gilded dolphins of the lap counter dropped. Five chariots left, but Titus and his father only had eyes for White and Green, who had exchanged the lead three times now. White had the advantage by half a head as they entered the final lap. The Emperor and his son looked on, puzzled, as the Green chariot dropped back so it was running directly behind the leader.

  ‘Scorpus has no chance of winning now,’ Titus said.

  ‘Perhaps,’ his father conceded. ‘But there is many a slip between the cup and the lip.’

  The Green team was so close their noses were actually over the back of the lead car and the White driver must have felt their breath. Scorpus had barely used his whip, but now he cracked it directly above his horses’ heads, inches from the White charioteer’s back. Once, twice, thrice. Valerius saw the man glance over his shoulder. Scorpus was in danger of killing them both. White’s whip flicked out to urge the bays to greater speed, but Scorpus matched him. A dozen strides and they would be at the corner. The White driver knew he was going too fast, but if he slowed the Green horses would be aboard, all flashing hooves and snapping teeth.

  The roar rose in a deafening crescendo as the leader entered the turn. Valerius watched the chariot drift outwards, could almost sense the moment the team felt the change. Would the lead horse change stride to compensate? Yes, but the second was less experienced. It panicked, touched shoulders with the next in line and the entire team was down in a tangle of heads and legs as the chariot overturned, throwing the helpless driver on his head. An enormous collective gasp. Scorpus and his Green team had nowhere to go; they must smash into the wreckage. But the twenty-five-year-old veteran of a thousand races had foreseen what would happen. The drift had taken the White team a chariot-width out of the racing line, leaving the narrowest of gaps. A twitch of the reins and Green was through.

  Vespasian emitted a cackle of pure pleasure and Titus muttered a muffled curse as he reached for his purse. The noise level dropped as the circus officials prepared for the final race of the day. Vespasian called Valerius forward to a seat on his left. ‘Come, sit by me. Governor Agricola … yes, Agricola.’ A short pause to gather his thoughts. ‘He knows that if he is to subdue the northern tribes he must exert total strategic and tactical control over his legions. You have heard of the Brigantes?’

  ‘Yes, Caesar. The largest tribal federation in Britannia. Suetonius Paulinus persuaded them to act as a barrier against incursion from the north while he dealt with Boudicca’s rebels.’

  ‘Of course, you were in Britannia with Paulinus.’ Vespasian nodded. ‘After the overthrow of their queen they became an infernal nuisance. Cerialis, who was governor, decided he must deal with them once and for all. The man he chose was Julius Agricola, commander of the Twentieth. Despite the size of the territory Agricola took only a single season to subdue them. He understands the scale of the task he faces better than any other man in Britannia. I have told him he has my full support.’

  ‘And he has asked for our help.’ Titus’s voice came from behind Valerius.

  ‘He cannot simultaneously command an army in the remote north and rule the province of Britannia,’ Vespasian continued. ‘His procurator is a sound man who can take care of the financial details, but Agricola is most concerned about the legal aspects. As you know, the governor is called upon to give judgement in countless legal disputes as well as criminal cases. The … shall we call it Romanization of the province only adds to the complications. Agricola has identified five former tribal capitals as locations for self-governing civitates. That means choosing suitable candidates for the ordo and instructing individuals in their specific civic duties. There will undoubtedly be disputes over the acquisition of land for public buildings and the details of a legally binding charter for
each town.’

  Below, the next chariot teams were being coaxed into the starting gates and Valerius could see the aide hovering with a new napkin.

  ‘In short,’ Titus took over from his father, ‘Agricola suggests sending a suitably qualified officer with the rank of legate and the office of legatus iuridicus. The Emperor has chosen you.’

  VI

  ‘We don’t underestimate the burden we impose upon you,’ Titus assured Valerius as they accompanied Vespasian back through the gardens to his palace. ‘But you’re one of the few men with the experience, the qualifications and qualities needed to fill this position. You will be second in rank only to the governor, and when he’s on campaign you’ll essentially be the civil governor of Britannia.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’

  ‘Don’t be. This is a difficult and arduous task that will take you the length and breadth of the province. But it will have its compensations. When it’s over, you can depend on a province of your own. Who knows,’ the Emperor’s son grinned, ‘in a few years we may be consuls together.’

  ‘I’ve no ambition to be a consul.’

  ‘It is not a question of ambition, young man,’ the Emperor snapped. ‘It is a question of serving Rome.’

  Valerius felt the blood rush to his face at the unexpected rebuke. ‘Of course, Caesar.’

  The Emperor’s voice softened. ‘Naturally you will wish to be accompanied by your family. Suitable accommodation will be provided in Londinium.’

  ‘Not Colonia Claudia?’

  Titus shook his head. ‘After the rebellion, Trebellius Maximus decided Londinium had the advantages best suited to a provincial capital, though Colonia Claudia was re-established and the Temple of Claudius rebuilt. I suspect you would find it something of a rural backwater now.’

  ‘It will certainly have changed since my time there with the Second,’ Vespasian recalled. ‘Londinium was a few huts overlooking the Tamesa and my Batavian auxiliaries swam across towing their armour on rafts. Claudius created his colonia close to where he took the surrender of the tribes of southern Britannia. They called it Camulodunum. A few farmsteads tucked in behind turf banks a five-year-old could climb. What did you think of the place? Britannia, I mean.’

  ‘I liked it.’ Valerius smiled. ‘Even with the damp and the cold. Fine farmland and good grazing. I liked the people, too, at least the ones who weren’t trying to kill me.’ He saw Titus glance at his wooden fist. ‘I can’t regret my time there. Without the rebellion I would have returned to Rome and a career in the law, tucked away in sleepy Fidenae with my dusty law books, worrying about the olive harvest.’ He laughed. ‘No one would have offered me a consulship then.’

  They’d reached Vespasian’s palace. ‘So you accept?’

  Valerius knew he could never deny his emperor. By giving him this position Vespasian was awarding him patrician status. The Verrens family had always been equestrians and his father was the first to enter the Senate. He would never have dreamed a Verrens might become a patrician. ‘Yes, Caesar.’

  ‘Then Titus will brief you on the situation in Britannia.’

  Vespasian turned and walked slowly away, followed at a discreet distance by two of his palace guard. Titus watched him go with an expression of real affection, but when he turned to Valerius the warm look had faded, to be replaced by something more sombre.

  ‘He seems well,’ Valerius said.

  ‘Well enough. But he tires easily. I tried to persuade him to allow me to preside over the chariot racing, but he refused. His people must see their emperor, he said.’

  ‘A question of serving Rome,’ Valerius said with a wry smile.

  Titus laughed. ‘Yes, he can still bite. So, Britannia? How do you feel about going back?’

  Valerius considered for a moment before he replied. ‘Excited. Wary. Something else that I can’t define. Am I up to the task.’

  ‘No regrets, then?’

  ‘I’m more worried about how Tabitha will react.’

  Titus slapped him on the shoulder and they took their place beneath the tree where they’d sat earlier. A clerk arrived and placed a set of leather scroll cases on a campaign table set up in the shade. Titus reached for the first and retrieved the contents.

  ‘Agricola has four legions in Britannia, the Twentieth, the Ninth, the Second Adiutrix and the Second Augusta. He intends to use three for his campaign, with Augusta dispersing to provide security across the south.’ He read Valerius’s look. ‘The current situation differs from Boudicca’s day. The south is genuinely pacified. They remember what Paulinus did after the rebellion and there’ll be no repeat. Agricola will have free rein to deal with the northern savages at his leisure.’

  Valerius had a momentary vision of smoke from burning villages that hung from one end of the horizon to the other, slaughtered children, and trees heavy with dangling bodies. Suetonius Paulinus was a hard, unyielding man who had put down the rebellion with pitiless brutality. ‘The Reckoning’, he had called it. He would have salted the fields if Nero hadn’t reminded him the only point of a province was the profit that could be squeezed from it. The dead don’t pay taxes.

  Titus smoothed a sheet of parchment on the table. ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens will be a long way from the excitement. There are already civitates in the south-west, at Isca and Durnovaria.’ Both men had served in Britannia so the general locations Titus described were familiar enough. ‘Agricola has plans for others at Corinium, in the lands of the Dobunni, and the Atrebates capital of Calleva. However, your immediate priority should be the Corieltauvi federation, who control a vast sweep of flatlands from the centre of the province to the east coast. We’ve decided to set up a civitas at Ratae, in the centre of the country, and Agricola wishes to create a colonia at Lindum.’ He met Valerius’s gaze. ‘You know what that means. Trying to find land to provide decent farms for three thousand legionary veterans. We can’t just commandeer it, as Claudius did at Camulodunum. He was a conqueror and the former owners were either dead or enslaved. The Corieltauvi are clients and we’re on good terms with King Volisios. There’s an Imperial estate to the south of the city which will give you a start, but for the rest it’ll be weeks of interminable negotiations, surveys and endless fights over water and grazing rights. All that and you’ll probably arrive to a roomful of unresolved case documents as high as your neck.’ He grinned. ‘Having a change of mind?’

  ‘If I’d known what I was walking into I’d have left your brother alone and stayed on the estate.’

  ‘And that is the other reason Father chose you for this position. It puts you, Tabitha and Lucius beyond Domitian’s reach.’

  ‘If someone got close enough to strangle me in Hispania, why not Britannia?’

  ‘Because I will have my brother watched more closely than ever. And the office of legatus iuridicus entitles you to a substantial personal bodyguard. Thirty picked men supplied by the governor.’ Titus shrugged. They both knew at least one guard would be a spy tasked with reporting Valerius’s movements, but there was no helping that. ‘They will be here within the week. I’ll send them out to Fidenae when they arrive.’

  VII

  Canovium Auxiliary Fort, Conwy Valley

  Twenty-five summers had passed since the conquerors laid the initial layer of turf for the walls and put mattock to soil to dig the first ditch. Not Romans, it turned out, but Tungri, hard-eyed, heavily bearded German auxiliary cavalrymen, quick with sword and spear, who spoke a different language among themselves from that used by their officers. Their horses were twice the stature of the small native breeds and the riders liked to tie the severed heads of their victims to their saddle pommels by the hair. Canovium squatted on a low rise overlooking the river. A rough square surrounded by a pair of ditches and a stout timber wall half as tall again as the height of Owain’s champion Cadwal. It guarded what had always been an important trade route, for the river was fordable here, but high tide allowed Roman ships to ply their way to Canovium with essential supplies for
the garrison. The silver in the soldiers’ pouches attracted craftsmen to supply them with the luxuries Rome would not provide and a settlement quickly grew up outside the walls.

  Owain Lawhir had used the weeks since the gory ceremony on Mona to gather spearmen from every corner of his realm at his capital, Dinas Affaraon. Each warrior carried enough dried fish and rough barley cakes to last ten days. He’d reckoned on two thousand, but the fear inspired by Gwlym ensured his force was closer to three. No tribal leader would risk the wrath of the arch-druid by failing to give his support. It had taken them three days to reach the secluded valley a few miles south of Canovium where Owain left them while he made his final plan of attack. Three times already he’d crept up to the little settlement outside the walls and waited in the darkness listening to the Tungrian sentries making their rounds. Tomorrow six of his best men would visit the tavern which served the soldiers of Canovium thick, dark local beer and provided the use of a back room when they wanted their women. The Ordovices would pose as traders waiting to make the crossing with packhorses loaded with sacks of wool and beaver and otter pelts.

  The guards were the key. These Tungrians were well versed in the art of defence and snug behind their wooden palisades. They’d raised the ground level inside the walls to create a walkway and fighting platform. If the defenders reached that platform in numbers any attack would cost Owain more casualties than he could afford. Even Gwlym recognized a night attack was the only way. Yet, veterans though they were, the defenders had one great weakness: they had been here too long. The Tungrians who frequented the settlement and the sentries he’d listened to at night had the relaxed air of men comfortable in their surroundings. They were surrounded by their enemy, unloved and resented, but Owain’s unpopular policy of live and let live had worked in his favour. Night after night the guards patrolled these walls and in five years they had never faced a threat. The only things that disturbed their sleepy, mind-numbing vigil were the occasional barking of rival foxes or the howl of a lone wolf in the far mountains.