by Kirsty Ferry
‘I have managed to explain your absence to the troops, and to keep people away from your quarters. I do not know what happened to you in the temple, but you can discuss it with me if you see it fit,’ he said, his eyes searching Marcus’ face for an answer. Marcus did not respond. He shook his head and pushed Janus out of the way, trying to get back to the quadrant.
‘Marcus, my friend! What is the problem? Have I done anything to upset you in any way?’ asked Janus, his face falling. ‘What I said about Antonia, perhaps...’ He looked askance at Marcus, half-smiling, trying to get him to acknowledge the deliberate mistake. It had become part of their banter, an accepted form of repartee.
‘Don’t,’ said Marcus. He pressed his lips together and tried again to leave, pushing Janus out of the way.
‘Marcus, this is madness. You have to tell me what has happened. There are rumours that your beloved has flown the coop. The Commandant has half the cohort searching for her in the countryside. Do you know anything...’
Before Janus could finish his sentence, Marcus turned and threw a punch at him. Janus ducked out of the way, an expression of disbelief on his face. He grabbed Marcus’ wrist and twisted his arm behind him, making Marcus drop to the floor and cry out in pain.
‘You are mad!’ Janus cried, his eyes wide. He released his friend. ‘Please. You have to tell me what happened. This is out of character for you.’
‘I cannot tell you what happened!’ hissed Marcus. ‘It will put us both at risk. Just leave me alone!’
‘I can help!’ said Janus. ‘You have to trust me. I know it has something to do with that girl. Please.’
Marcus sank down onto his haunches and dropped his head into his hands. He shook his head wordlessly and then covered his face.
‘You cannot help. There is nothing you can do for me. This is my problem. Everything that happened was because of my mistakes. I cannot drag you into it,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Please. Just go back to the quadrant and leave me here. I shall follow later.’
Janus stood for a moment and stared down at Marcus.
‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘But you can confide in me. Nothing about that cult can be that secretive. Nobody can be harmed by its actions.’
Again Marcus shook his head.
‘You do not know the half of it,’ he said. ‘Leave me alone.’
Janus waited a moment more, then nodded. He turned and left Marcus and walked back towards the quadrant, his leather sandals wet from the slush that still lay on the ground.
Marcus stayed hidden behind the stable block for quite some time. The thought of going back into the company of the men made him feel physically sick. How many of them had witnessed the deed in the temple? How many of them knew the secret he had been sworn to keep? Everywhere he went, he felt as if eyes were staring at him, accusing him of the cold-blooded murder of an innocent girl. Every time he closed his eyes, the vision of her broken body lying in the temple haunted him. He couldn’t share this with anyone; he just couldn’t. It was a burden he would carry to the grave. Perhaps the search party would give up; perhaps her body would have been disposed of somehow and nobody need know what had happened. Perhaps some merciful battle would occur and he would be killed by the Barbarians, and no longer have to suffer...
Marcus hauled himself up from the ground and made his way slowly back to the quadrant. He pulled up short as a flurry of activity blurred before his eyes. Men were running around, not in the neat ranks they were used to, but scurrying back and forth, casting terrified glances at one another. He stood motionless as the Commandant and his wife appeared from their home, surrounded by guards. The Commandant had aged over the last few days; his wife was being supported by another woman as she wept hysterically. Someone ran up to him and grasped his arm.
‘They found the girl!’ said the man. Marcus registered that it was Felix. ‘Or what was left of her. They found her body hidden on the moors! She’s been murdered. They tried to decapitate her.’ Marcus blanched and felt himself sway. He steadied himself by clutching Felix.
‘When?’ he asked, fighting back the nausea he felt rising from his stomach into the back of his throat.
‘Not long ago. They brought her back. The Commandant is going to make us pay for this. It’s not fair! We are all honest men here. Who would harm a girl like that?’
‘I do not know,’ said Marcus. He stared across at the gathering troops. The Commandant was searching the men for a guilty face. The sweat beaded on Marcus’ brow. He would sense it. Titus Perpetuus would know who was to blame. Slowly, he took his place in the line, trying to compose his features and maintain a blank expression.
When everyone was silent, the Commandant stood on the plinth and faced the men.
‘Cohort!’ he bellowed. ‘You know why I have gathered you together. My daughter has been savagely murdered and I believe the culprit is standing in this square.’ His face worked as his voice caught on the words. His wife collapsed into the arms of her slave and howled in despair. ‘I shall stop at nothing to find the guilty party,’ continued the Commandant. ‘Somebody here knows something about it. You have twenty four hours to do the honourable thing and confess your part in the attack. Should you not confess, I shall begin the most savage punishment available to me as a Commandant. I shall order decimation, until somebody confesses to this crime.’
There was an audible gasp from the soldiers. They had heard of this punishment, but it had never been carried out within this cohort. One man in every ten would be randomly slaughtered. They all looked at one another, terrified. To be killed honourably in battle was one thing. To be killed by your own men, by your friends and colleagues was horrific.
‘The gates to the fort will be barricaded until this matter is resolved: in either way. Dismissed!’ stated the Commandant and turned his back on the cohort. Placing his arm around his wife, he guided her back into their home. A slave closed the door behind them and the quadrant erupted.
‘Who is responsible for this?’ cried one of the Centurions. ‘You must confess. We are all at risk because of you!’ The men echoed his cry and the men turned to one another, scanning the troops, looking – as the Commandant had looked – for a guilty man.
‘You were the last person to see her,’ said someone. Marcus stared at the man who had spoken. It was Milenius, the standard bearer. ‘What happened after you left her? We saw you leaving Aelia’s garden together. Longinius and I were in the market,’ Marcus shook his head mutely. ‘Speak to us!’ said Milenius. ‘Tell us what happened.’ His face was hard, suspicious.
‘She...she was alive,’ Marcus managed. ‘I came back to the fort. I...’
‘And what happened after that?’ pressed Milenius. ‘Did you see her any more that evening? We have to piece it together. If you are innocent, you have to give us all the information.’ His eyes roved around the quadrant. ‘These men; your friends. Your troops. We are all at risk. We must work together to solve this.’
‘A Barbarian,’ stammered Marcus. ‘Or – or a Pict. They came to the defences; maybe took her away...?’
Milenius looked at him in disbelief.
‘Do not treat us as if we are uneducated idiots,’ he said. ‘You know that could not have happened. Carrawburgh is guarded at all times.’
‘Then I cannot help you,’ said Marcus. He turned away from the standard bearer and pushed his way through the anxious men who were shouting theories at one another in panic. This whole episode was a disaster. Marcus could see no resolution to it. He hurried away towards his quarters. Perhaps he could lock himself in there and pray to the gods, for what it would be worth, anyway.
‘Marcus!’ He heard a voice calling after him. He began to run faster. Yet he knew in his heart he would look like a guilty man by running. Perhaps they would misinterpret it; they might think that he had realised he would be one of the Prefects chosen to carry out the decimation. ‘Marcus!’ Footsteps pounded up behind him. It was Janus again. Of course. The man missed nothing.
<
br /> ‘I told you, leave me alone,’ said Marcus.
‘No. You know more than I think you do,’ said Janus. ‘Does it have something to do with the cult? That is the only thing you can be hiding from me.’
‘I can’t tell you!’ shouted Marcus.
‘Yes, you can,’ said Janus coldly. ‘It has to be the cult. Look. I shall make it easy for you. I can maybe help you. But you have to trust me. You have to tell me exactly what happened in the temple. If you feel you can do this, I shall be waiting for you behind the bath house at midnight. Then we can decide what to do. If not. Well,’ he shrugged, defeated. ‘I shall see you tomorrow, and we shall take turns killing innocent men. Perhaps you will have to kill me. Or I you. Think about it, Marcus. You can prevent it, if you share the secret with me.’
Marcus twisted around and looked at Janus. He shook his head slightly, then turned away, leaving Janus standing at the edge of the building watching him as he disappeared into his quarters.
Marcus sat on his bed rocking to and fro, trying to decide what to do. The orders of the Pater resounded in his head – Secrecy is paramount. Nothing which occurs here tonight may be discussed outside the temple. He grasped the edge of the mattress and stared at the door to his room. The remains of a small fire smouldered in the grate and as he focussed on the dying flames he knew had to make a choice. He could not let innocent men suffer because of his mistakes. Had he known the power of the cult, he would have stayed away from it. He could not let Janus make the same mistake. He had to tell him what had happened. Then he would confess to the Commandant, explain what had happened. He knew he could face execution himself for his part in the tragedy; but if it would save the men, he would take the chance. He looked around his room, wondering if tonight would be the last time he slept in it. Then he stood up and pushed the door open. He would meet Janus at midnight as he had requested and tell him the truth.
1650
‘Did you miss me, Meggie?’ asked Charles Hay. He was lurking in the alleyway beside her house, waiting for her to come back home. She had been to the Well, praying to Coventina. She had slipped out in the early hours before dawn, terrified that someone might see her and taunt her. They were calling her a murderess and only yesterday she had found a hen, its neck twisted and broken, lying outside of her cottage.
‘Mr Hay!’ Meggie said, stopping short. He came out of the shadows, grasping his ever-present whip. Meggie heard his horse whinnying softly behind the house. Charles stood between Meggie and the doorway to her home and smiled down at her. Meggie clutched her shawl to her body instinctively. Hay saw the movement and his lips parted in amusement.
‘Dear Meggie. What’s wrong with you? Are you not pleased to see me again?’ He pouted and tilted his head on one side. In anyone else, the gesture may have been appealing. In Charles Hay, it seemed more mocking. He raised his hand and touched her hair gently. His nose wrinkled and he drew his hand away. ‘Ah Meggie. If things were different, eh? If you came and lived at the Manor with me. Then you could have all the finery and delights a young woman could want. You would have hot water to wash with, enough food to fill your little belly. We’d get some meat on those bones nigh enough.’ He sighed and looked at her worn dress and bare feet. ‘Yes. Some dainty little kid slippers for those tiny feet and a frock made of silks and velvet. You’d be perfect. Nobody would know where you’d come from or how you’d been dragged up on these moors.’ He stared into the middle distance thoughtfully and his horse gave a snort. Charles laughed and jerked his head towards the animal. ‘Hear that, my Meg? Jessie agrees with me. You would have your own little pony to ride, just like her. She would take you off, clip-clopping to that Well you often visit…what? What’s wrong? Don’t you realise that I know where it is? I’ve followed you a few times, wondering where you were going. It’s a special place to you, isn’t it?’
Meggie hung her head, flushing scarlet. For a moment, she had been mesmerised by his voice, imagining all the things she might be if she didn’t live the way she had to; if she didn’t just simply exist in this village. She was nineteen years old. She had nobody on this earth who cared for her. A tear rolled down her cheek as she recalled Alice’s face. Now even she was gone. Meggie took a deep breath.
‘Mr Hay, you are a cruel man,’ she said softly. ‘Please. Let me pass and enough of this conversation. I can never be anything more than what I am. I am indebted to you for the generous payments you make me, but that money is all I have. Please do not taunt me with a life I cannot live.’ She made to push past him, but he barred her way.
‘Meggie, come on. It can be, you know. You only have to say the word,’ he whispered, leaning down and bringing his lips close to her ear. She jerked her head away from him and tried once more to get past him, into the safety of her cottage. It was daybreak now, and people would soon be out of their homes. If they saw her talking to Charles, or even just saw her outside, there was no telling what might happen. She began to panic as she heard a door further along the street creaking open and looked up at the young man pleadingly.
‘I have to get in the house, I have to get in,’ she said and summoning all her strength, roughly pushed him out of the way. Charles stumbled and stared at her.
‘Why Meggie, I didn’t know you possessed such strength. By all means, go inside. I shall follow you in.’
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Please. Go home.’ She fumbled with the handle and eventually fell into the cottage, just as she heard a woman’s voice calling to her friend down the road.
‘It’s a fine morning today!’ the woman shouted. She saw Charles Hay look around him and slip into the cottage after Meggie. The woman stood staring at the scene, and immediately jogged down the road to her friend.
‘There must be another one in trouble,’ she said. ‘He’s at her house again.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said the second woman, shaking her head. ‘I think he’s going for a bit of fun with her instead. Lord knows she’ll be willing to take anybody now and she’ll be grateful for the attention. That’s why she’s been hiding away. I bet she’s the one in trouble.’
‘Yes. You’ll be right. That’s what it is. Typical,’ replied the first woman, glaring at the ramshackle building. ‘Well, she’ll not keep a secret like that for long. There’ll be one more brat coming squawling into the village, staring at us with Mr Hay’s eyes, I’ll warrant.’
The second woman nodded.
‘Aye, there will be that,’ she said.
Inside the cottage, Meggie laid her basket down on the stone floor. Silent as night, Charles closed the door behind him and stared at the girl before him.
‘So. We’re alone again,’ he said. Meggie spun round.
‘You followed me!’ she accused him.
‘Of course I did! I said I would, Meg. I do not lie, you should know that by now.’ Charles looked around the small room and his eyes lighted on a wooden stool by the hearth. ‘Is that your only seat?’ he asked. Meggie nodded, ashamed that he should be standing in her home. What would it look like through his eyes? Poky, no doubt. And dark and small. But it was warm, thanks to the fire she kept burning in the grate. It was as clean as she could keep it. She didn’t have many possessions, so she took care of what she did have. Bunches of herbs hung from the beams in the ceiling and small earthenware jars containing ointments and tinctures stood on a scrubbed table by the window. A pestle and mortar lay beside them, together with a small, sharp knife she used for splitting the stems of the plants and chopping up leaves as she needed them; she had found it on the moors and it seemed perfect for her work. A wooden bowl full of lavender was Meggie’s only ornament, the purple, knobbly flowers spilling out onto the windowsill.
‘Mr Hay, I’m sure you are a very busy man, so unless there is anything you need me to do for you today, I’ll bid you farewell,’ said Meggie. She turned her back on him and began to lay some wood on the fire.
‘Don’t turn your back on me, Meggie,’ said Charles. His voice was low. Meggie heard
him take a step towards her and wait. She finished piling the wood onto the fire and waited until it began to crackle. She straightened up. Turning to face the young man, she waited in silence for his next comment, her heart banging against her chest. He smiled at her.
‘That’s good, Meg. Now we can see each other properly. Be a sweetheart and open your curtains will you? Well, I think they are meant to be curtains. Or ‘it’ is meant to be a type of curtain. It looks like an old sack, really. But that can’t be right. Anyway. As I say, be a sweetheart and pull it open. I want to see outside. It’s such a beautiful morning.’ He sat down on the stool, seeming to fill the tiny room with his presence. Meggie’s heart began to race. All her instincts were screaming at her to run out of the house, and damn what the village would say to her. It was wrong him being in here. He didn’t need her to do anything for him. Wordlessly, she went over to the window and twitched it open.
Meggie’s house was right on the street. Anybody walking past could look into her cottage. And they did. Which is why she had nailed the curtain up above the window. Too many people had taken to stopping outside and staring into her house these last few weeks. Gaggles of villagers would congregate there and she could see their lips moving and their heads nodding towards her house, bobbing around to see if they could see her and see what she was doing. Perhaps she was concocting another murderous potion, who knew? Lizzie had often been amongst the women, nodding along with them. She had been there the day Meggie scrambled up on the table and battered the nails into the window frame to pin the sack in place. Meggie had caught her eye. Lizzie dropped her head and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Lizzie’s youngest, a baby boy was grizzling as he hung over her shoulder, his cheeks flushed red. He had one tiny fist rammed into his mouth and he was chewing on it desperately. Meggie longed to offer Lizzie something to soothe the baby’s gums until his pearly teeth cut through them. Meggie had done it for Lizzie’s other two children. In fact, she had done it for most of the children in the village. How quickly people forgot. Instead, she had pulled the sacking straight and clambered down off the table, leaving Lizzie and her crones outside with nothing to stare at except brown hessian. Meggie had sat on the floor, hugging her knees. She laid her head on them and cried; although nobody heard her and nobody cared enough to soothe her pain.
