Brude found a small taverna where the owner kept hot food in great pots that were held in circular holes in his shop front counter. The pots were lowered into the holes where a small fire burned beneath them to keep the contents warm.
After their meal they went to the slave pens. They found them crowded and well guarded, with soldiers constantly patrolling the perimeter. Brude tried to bribe his way in, claiming he was interested in buying some slaves but he got short shrift and was sent packing. The slaves, it seemed, were not for sale because they were all to be taken to Rome. “No exceptions,” the centurion in charge told him, “so you might as well be off.” He would not even change his mind when Brude showed him the letter from Caracalla telling all soldiers to allow Brude to pass freely. “That doesn’t apply here,” the centurion growled impatiently. “Geta Caesar is in charge here. My orders are that all the slaves will be sent to Rome as soon as we get enough ships together. No exceptions.”
There was no point in arguing. Geta, younger son of the emperor Septimius Severus, gave the orders in Eboracum. The three Boresti went back to their room where Brude stared hopelessly into the fire, not knowing what to do.
Eboracum A.D. 210
The following morning they went to the amphitheatre but met with no success there either. The answer was the same: no exceptions.
Brude was aware that the three of them were arousing some suspicions. Although the bulk of the army was north of the Wall, Eboracum was a legionary base and Geta Caesar had made it his headquarters so there were still plenty of soldiers in evidence. Brude reckoned there was at least one cohort of Praetorian Guards plus several hundred auxiliary troops. In a remote province, with a member of the imperial family in residence, the guards were naturally cautious and Brude was asking unusual questions. With his broad shoulders and stoy build, he was hardly inconspicuous but Mairead and Fothair were drawing attention too. Mairead’s striking looks and Fothair’s height were enough to mark them out in any company but their clothes and language were also distinctive. To help them blend in, Brude bought some more suitably Roman-style tunics and leggings for himself and Fothair, and purchased a long Roman-style dress for Mairead. Because the weather was still poor, he also bought a hooded cloak for each of them, hoping this would help hide their features a little.
By early afternoon they had run out of ideas. “We don’t even know if they are in there,” said Mairead, her tone betraying her concern. “What are we going to do?”
“We can’t fight our way in, that’s for sure,” Fothair said.
“Trying to break in is too dangerous,” said Brude. “There are too many guards.”
Mairead looked at him imploringly. “There must be something we can do.”
Brude had only one option left. Another desperate idea in the succession of desperate ideas that had somehow got them this far. The appeal in Mairead’s eyes, her need for a solution, was too strong for him not to try. “We can appeal to Caesar again.”
“To the emperor?” Fothair was alarmed at the prospect.
“To his son. Geta is in charge here. As a citizen, I have the right to make an appeal to him.”
“If this Geta is like his brother, that could be dangerous.”
“Perhaps not dangerous, but very difficult. It’s getting past all the courtiers, guards and freedmen that is the problem. From what little I have heard about him, Geta is not like his brother at all, but I have to get to him somehow.”
“Couldn’t you use that letter you got from Caracalla?” Mairead asked.
“That’s what I was thinking, but there is no guarantee it would do any good. The two brothers hate each other. The centurion at the slave pens wasn’t interested in anything except orders from Geta. The letter might create more problems than it solves.”
But there were no other options available to them, so Brude set off on his own, leaving the other two to watch the slave pens and the amphitheatre as discreetly as they could, in the hope that they could catch a glimpse of Castatin or Barabal either inside or arriving with a new batch of captives. Even if they did see them, he knew that they would not be able to do anything, but if they could find out where the two young villagers were, it would be a start. At least it gave Mairead and Fothair something to do.
Brude made his way to the legionary fortress where Geta had his headquarters. Eboracum had grown up around this fortified camp, which the Romans had built over a hundred years before, on the fringes of the territory of the troublesome Brigantes. Originally built of wood, the fort had turned into a permanent legionary base and was now an impressive stone-built fortress with the Principia serving as a Governor’s palace as much as a military headquarters. The emperor had used this building as his base before moving northwards. He had even named Eboracum as the capital of Britannia Inferior, the northern part of the province. It was not the sort of place anyone could simply stroll into unchallenged.
Brude was stopped at the main gate, searched, then directed to the Principia, to which he followed the main central road. Where the Principia was usually a tent in marching camps, as he had seen when with Caracalla, or perhaps a wooden upper structure on a stone or brick foundation as he had seen in Germania, this one was built entirely of stone. It even had its own column-fronted basilica. Outside the basilica was a queue of civilians who were waiting to see an official who would decide whether their case warranted referral to higher authority. Pulling his hood over his head against another shower of rain, Brude ducked into the sparse cover of the colonnaded portico outside the basilica. He joined the queue, waiting patiently for his turn. He saw some of the people turned away, while others stayed inside, presumably having been allowed to move on to the next stage.
After about an hour, he was admitted to a small antechamber where he found a stern looking clerk dressed in a toga and seated behind a table covered with parchment, quills and ink. Two guards, looking appropriately bored, stood by the back wall where a door led through to another room. The office was warm and dry and Brude was thankful to be inside after standing in the drizzle for so long. There was nowhere for him to sit so he stood in front of the desk, rain water slowly dripping off his cloak to the stone floor. The clerk gave him a weary look. “What is it you are here for?” the man asked, managing to convey the impression that he really didn’t care very much what Brude wanted.
Brude pulled out the letter Caracalla had given him and began his rehearsed story. “My son was captured two weeks ago, mistaken for a war slave. I am trying to find him and get him back, along with the daughter of a friend of mine.”
The clerk read Caracalla’s letter carefully, studied the seal closely, then read the letter again. He glanced up and said, “You are a Roman citizen?”
“I am.” Brude handed over his crumpled manumission papers. The clerk pored over these carefully. When he had satisfied himself they were genuine he handed them back and asked, “How did your son come to be captured?”
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“I am a travelling merchant. I was on a long trip north of the Wall and I was staying at a coastal village. The navy raided the place while I was away one day and my son was taken. I heard all prisoners were being brought here but I cannot get in to find him.”
The clerk pursed his lips. “You heard correctly. How old is your son?”
“Thirteen.”
The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “So he was born while you were a slave? Your papers say you were freed only six years ago.”
Brude realised he had walked into a snare of his own making. If Castatin had been born after Brude was free, he would be a Roman citizen, but the child of a slave was a slave. Trying not to show his concern, he answered, “He was born before I was made a slave.” Which was not true although there was no way the clerk could disprove it.
The clerk, though, was well used to people trying to argue with him. “So he was born a barbarian? That makes him a legitimate captive, I think.”
“He is the son of a Roman citizen!” Brude protested. The guards
stood alertly now, watching him for any signs that he might cause trouble. He relaxed his stance. “I am sorry. He is my son. I need him back. As a Roman citizen, and one who has proof of giving service to the empire, I wish to appeal to Geta Caesar.” He wished now that he had made the appeal to Caracalla when he had had the chance, but he had missed the opportunity because he had been too angry at the destruction of Dun Nechtan to think that far ahead. The world of Roman politics and law was a strange and frightening one for him. For all his skill in the arena, he was helpless in his current situation.
The clerk rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It is not a straightforward case,” he admitted after a few moments. “Very well, you may take your case to the tribune. Go through there and wait.” He pointed to the door in the back wall.
“Thank you,” said Brude with feeling. He gathered up his papers and went to the door, which one of the guards opened. He passed through into a second small room where he took a seat beside a couple of other civilians on one of the wooden benches that ran round the walls. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had passed the first barrier.
After a while, another door, flanked by two more guards, opened. A civilian came out, his expression hurt and confused. He was shown to an exit and ushered out, clearly having failed to get what he wanted. A clerk appeared in the doorway and beckoned the next in line to come in.
Brude waited.
The unseen tribune in the next room obviously had considerable authority. Two of the civilians who came out had clearly got what they wanted without going any further into the bureaucracy of the Roman system. The next man went in, leaving Brude as next in line. One more man had got past the clerk and been admitted to the waiting room. Brude sat rehearsing his story, hoping the letter from Caracalla, vague as it was, would help him get what he wanted.
Then his luck changed for the better. An officer of the Praetorian Guard walked in through the external door, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. He had filled out since Brude had last seen him and had lost his boyish looks but there was no mistaking him. Lucius Vipsanius Festus, Aquila’s son and Brude’s one-time pupil, stepped inside. He blinked in surprise when he saw Brude, then a broad smile broke out on his face as he hurried over. “Marcus! What are you doing here?”
Brude stood, unable to keep an idiotic grin from his face. “I am waiting to see the tribune.”
“Whatever for? No, wait! Let’s go somewhere where we can talk in private. Come on.” He saw Brude look hesitantly towards the door to where the tribune dispensed justice. “Don’t worry, I’m a tribune too. Come on, we’ll go to my quarters.”
Earning a sour look of jealousy from the other waiting civilian, Brude followed Lucius outside. They walked round the Principia to the officer’s quarters. The young Roman was in a fine humour. “I can’t believe it’s you. Wait till old Cleon sees you.”
“Cleon is here?” Brude’s spirits lifted at the thought of seeing his old friend and mentor.
“Rather against his will, I’m afraid, but things in Rome have changed so much that I preferred him to come over with me when I managed to get appointed to Geta’s staff. He will be overjoyed to see you. He was even more irritable than usual after you left.”
“It will be a joy to see him again,” Brude admitted. “I often wished he was here but I didn’t think he would be happy living away from what he calls civilisation.”
“He isn’t,” replied Lucius. Outwardly, the young Roman was the same as he had been before, but Brude sensed that something in him had changed. The boy had become a man in the past two years. He seemed prepared to help, but he was more serious than Brude remembered. Brude suspected thats head of the Vipsanius family now that his father was dead, Lucius had probably had a lot of growing up to do in a short time. Working as one of Geta’s staff would not be without its problems either.
The Principia was a vast complex of rooms, halls and corridors, constructed from carefully carved and shaped stone blocks. Lucius’ quarters were on the upper floor; a small room containing a bed, a table and two stools. It even boasted a thick pane of glass in the window. Lucius called for a slave to bring some wine and three goblets, then told him to find Cleon and tell him to come to join them. He told Brude to sit on a stool while he sat on the edge of the bed. The slave poured the wine then left, closing the door as he went.
“Keep your story until Cleon gets here,” said Lucius. “That will save you telling it twice.”
Brude sipped the cool wine. There was an awkward silence, an acknowledgement that something in their relationship had changed. Brude was no longer the teacher, the trainer and adviser. Lucius was a knight, one of the Roman upper classes, and moving in high circles if he was on the staff of the emperor’s younger son.
Fortunately, they did not have long to wait before they heard footsteps outside. The door opened to admit Cleon. His head was almost completely bald now, and his chubby, pock-marked face seemed to have more lines and wrinkles than ever. He stopped when he saw Brude, blinking in astonishment. Then his face lit up and he rushed to embrace Brude with a cry of joy. “By Hercules, is it really you?”
Struggling to keep his wine from spilling, Brude returned the embrace as he assured Cleon that it really was him.
“I never thought to see you again when I heard you were going north of the Wall,” Cleon said, his voice cracking with emotion. “I am so glad that you have escaped the war up there. But what in Hades brings you here?”
“Marcus was only waiting for you to come before he tells us his story,” said Lucius. “Come, Cleon, have some wine and sit down so that we can exchange all our news.”
When they had settled, Brude looked at them both. He knew he could trust Cleon with anything and he decided he had no option but to trust Lucius. According to Roman custom, Lucius, as his patron, should look after his interests, just as he should support Lucius. “Do you want the story I told the clerk downstairs or the real truth?” he asked with a rueful expression.
“You’d better tell us both,” Lucius replied.
So Brude told them all that had happened to him since he had returned tng with h Tava; how he had learned he had a son and how Colm, his childhood friend, had become corrupted by his desire for power. He recounted how Colm had died because of Lutrin’s treachery, and he told how Castatin, the son he had never known he had, had been taken captive not even knowing the truth of his birth. Briefly, he explained how he had been delayed by the advance of the Roman army, but had then come south looking for his son. Lucius and Cleon listened attentively in silence while Brude told his tale. When he had finished that account, he went on to outline the edited version he had given to the clerk.
Lucius thought for a moment then smiled. “Well, it’s a case the legal experts would love, I’m sure, but there’s an easy way to resolve it. We’ll go to Geta Caesar. No matter what the law says, he can make his own decision. I’m sure we can get it sorted quickly. Assuming your son is here, of course.”
“I daren’t think he is anywhere else,” said Brude.
“Well, the orders are for all captives to come here before being shipped off to Rome but we have few enough ships available at the moment. The emperor and Caracalla have pushed so far north they are stretching our supply lines considerably. The fleet is having to sail further north all the time. Most captives should be here, or due to get here soon.”
“Do you really think Geta will let me take him back?” Brude did not dare to hope too much.
Lucius saw the concern on his face. “Don’t worry, Marcus. Geta is not like his brother at all. Caracalla would probably have your son and the girl you mentioned brought out and sold off to slavery in front of your eyes just to torment you. He’s got a mean streak like that. Geta’s a different sort. I was lucky to get myself on to his staff.”
“You have done well,” Brude acknowledged. He was desperate to go, to find Geta so that he could get Castatin and Barabal back, but he knew how the Romans operated. He looked at Lucius and asked, “So what
has happened since I last saw you? How are your sisters and your step-mother?” He did not really want to hear too much about Agrippina, especially with Mairead so near, but it would have been impolite not to ask. “Above all, how did you persuade Cleon to come with you?”
“My sisters are both well. Vipsania Prima has a son and Secunda is pregnant too. She often asks for you in her letters.” He laughed. “She seems to think Britannia is a tiny place and that I’m bound to meet you every time I step out the door. Wait till I write back to her and tell her I have actually seen you. She’ll be delighted.” He hesitated slightly before going on, “As for my former step-mother, she is now my wife.”
Brude was so surprised he almost choked on his wine. “Your wife?”
“Don’t look so alarmed, Marcus,” said Lucius reprovingly. “It’s not as if she is my real mother. She’s only a few years older than me, after all. About the same age as you, in fact.”
“I’m sorry, Lucius,” Brude apologised. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting that at all. I’m sure you will be very happy.”
“Yes, I am,” said Lucius. “Agrippina is not just a good housewife, you know. She is very beautiful and very, well, you know….” He gave Brude a knowing wink.
Brude, who was all too familiar with Agrippina’s charms, just smiled. “You are a very lucky young man,” he managed to say. “I am sure there will be many who are envious of you.” He caught a glimpse of Cleon who was making a point of not meeting his gaze. The old man clearly had his own views on the matter but did not want to air them while Lucius was present. Brude suspected that anyone in Rome who was envious of Lucius would find plenty of encouragement from Agrippina to satisfy their desires while Lucius was away with the army. A thought struck him. “Is she here? Your wife?”
In the Shadow of the Wall Page 38
