by Kirsty Ferry
‘Yes! What was that funny word you used, Sir? Enchant-something-or-other?’ cried Mary.
‘Enchantrix,’ replied Nicholson, curling his lip with distaste as he looked at this stupid, ill-educated and over-confident wench.
‘Yes. That’s it. She’s an enchantrix. Mr Hay said so when he was running away from her. He didn’t want to be there with her, he was running like he was scared of her. Like he’d come to his senses,’ declared Mary. She put her hands in her hips and nodded. ‘Yes, Sir. I know what she is now. It makes sense. She does odd things, Sir. Has funny beliefs. I can tell you where she might be if you like? If she’s not in her cottage there,’ she nodded towards the little house with the sacking across the window, ‘then she’ll be up on the moors, doing weird stuff with herbs and the like. She was raving that she’d seen her friend’s ghost up there. Mad, I tell you. Mad.’
‘Or a witch,’ replied Nicholson. ‘Bell – find out from this woman where this witch practices the dark arts. We shall track her down and deal with her. Fret not, my dear,’ he said, bowing to Lizzie, as a man broke away from the processions and dismounted from his horse to speak with Mary. ‘The witch will be given a fair trial. We do not deal in false accusations. We strive to discover the truth. Good day,’ he said. He could practically feel the three pounds he would earn from this village in his leather purse. If he didn’t get this enchantrix they were talking about, he would get one of the others. Either the dark-haired one, the hag or the whore. He didn’t care which one. It would be more fun trying the younger ones though. He looked forward to the challenge.
AD 391
‘I request an audience with the Commandant,’ stated Janus. He was standing at the door of the Commandant’s house, his breath freezing in small puffs as he faced the man who served as a sort of porter to the Commandant. The man looked at him.
‘What is it that you wish to discuss with him?’ he asked.
‘I have information relating to the murder of his daughter,’ replied Janus. The porter nodded and closed the door. Janus waited silently, fingering the item he had brought with him. It had been almost too easy. The necklace had been simple to unclasp. The ring had slipped effortlessly off her finger as well; he knew Marcus had paid a good deal of money to have that made for her. The sentiment it portrayed was practically Christian. Janus grimaced in distaste. That was why he had disposed of the ring – he had thrown it in the back of a cart bound for Corstopitum. The less Christian artefacts around here, the better. Plus, if the Commandant ever saw it, it would be more difficult for his story to be believable.
After Janus had taken Marcus back to his quarters, he returned to the temple. The girls’ body was still there. Janus knew that the cult members would not dare to return to deal with it. At heart, they were all peaceful men. He was still annoyed that he had been left with the clearing up; but the men needed to be taught a lesson. He was certain it would have worked. Secrecy was paramount, and most of the men had family in the fort or lovers in the vicus. Janus had removed the jewellery and slung Aemelia’s body across his shoulders. He took it across the moors and rolled it into a disused quarry. He had returned to the temple afterwards and seen the skull. He had picked it up, and to his mild disgust it was still sticky with her blood. He had taken the skull to Coventina’s Well and thrown it in. The water was deep enough; they would never drain it. It would stay there forever. The corner of his lip curled into a slight smile. It was quite ironic. The Christian girl had become a sacrifice and finally an offering to the Pagan gods. Then Janus had slipped back into Marcus’ room and taken the tiny bone-handled knife from his quarters. Janus knew that it would come in useful. He hadn’t risen to Pater by hesitating during moments like that. Then the rest happened just as smoothly as he had expected. He knew Marcus would come to find him wanting to confess to his sins. It was in his nature. Janus sighed. He would never have amounted to much in the cult; he obviously didn’t have the dedication required. A few years ago, it wouldn’t have mattered so much. But Emperor Theodosius had a lot to answer to; he was trying to turn the Empire Christian, to upset all the belief systems that had been in force for centuries. Janus knew it was because he was trying to keep Bishop Ambrose happy. But why should the entire Empire pay for Theodosius’ mistakes? It wasn’t their fault the Bishop had excommunicated him. Had they ordered that massacre he had been involved in? No. So why should they suffer?
His thoughts were interrupted as the porter opened the door to the quarters and beckoned him in.
‘The Commandant will see you now. He wishes this matter to be resolved as quickly as possible,’ said the porter. Janus nodded and followed the man through the villa and into the Commandant’s private apartments. A small fountain trickled in the atrium. The icy conditions must not have affected that too much, thought Janus. He despaired of this place, he really did. Coventina was supposed to melt the snow and make the rivers run again. Perhaps the offering he had thrown into her Well had done some good after all.
1650
Meggie looked up at the sky and shivered. It was March, but the winter seemed to have lasted an age. A heavy, grey cloud was moving slowly through the leaden sky. She knew it would bring snow with it. Out here on the moor, there was nowhere to shelter. She would rather stay here, though, than go back home and face the villagers. Gossip had spread around the place like a worm – she was being accused of turning on ‘poor Mr Hay’ and attacking him for no reason. She had come out to Coventina’s Well to try and ground herself; to find some inner peace and ask the goddess for guidance. She had almost come to the end of her money and she knew that she couldn’t rely on Hay any more for an income. She was considering leaving the village and going to one of the bigger towns – like Hexham, or maybe Newcastle – and finding some sort of work there. She could go further if she needed to. She could just disappear, and nobody would bother her.
The first few flakes of snow fluttered down and Meggie pulled her shawl closer to her body. Her gaze drifted up to the old Roman fort and she saw the man again. She was used to him now; a dark human-shaped figure, standing on the side of the hill. A robe flapped around his body and he was holding a sword in his hand. He usually stayed there for a few moments then disappeared. Sometimes, she felt his presence beside her at the Well. He didn’t scare her any more. The one person she longed to see was Alice. If she couldn’t see her shade, then this man’s was proof that something existed after death; and in some small way it gave her comfort.
But today, there was something different. Meggie cursed her poor eyesight and squinted into the snow flurry. The spectral soldier seemed to be raising his hand and he pointed it in her direction. From behind him, came more shapes. They broke away from their solid, black mass and separated out into a group of men. These were no Roman soldiers, Meggie realised. They were as human as she was. Their voices carried faintly down the hill on the wind and someone led a horse to the man at the front. He mounted it and began to walk it down the hillside, followed by a line of men on foot. Meggie watched as they snaked down the hillside and her heart began to pound. What did they want?
‘You have to leave here,’ said a voice. She jumped and looked around. There was nobody there.
‘Who speaks?’ she asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘It was a mistake,’ the voice said. ‘If you stay, you will suffer for your mistake as well. They lied.’
Meggie stood up and turned herself slowly in a circle, searching for the owner of the voice.
‘Please, show yourself to me,’ she said. ‘Are you the soldier? Are you the spirit who haunts here? Or do you bring me a message from the deities of this sacred place?’
There was an almighty crack and one of the stones which surrounded the Well fractured from top to bottom. Meggie jumped backwards in shock.
‘There have been too many mistakes!’ said the voice. A hazy figure broke away from the shadows of the Well and stood before her. As he became stronger, his eyes burned into hers. They were a deep, cornflower blue and s
eemed to Meggie to hold indescribable suffering; she sensed a torment that was somehow keeping him tied to this place. She knew that this was the man she had seen looking across from Carrawburgh fort so often.
‘What happened to you?’ she whispered. ‘I can help you. I have been trained ...’
The man shook his head. He looked past her, at the train of men approaching the Well.
‘We are too late,’ he said. Meggie turned and followed his gaze. She saw the men coming towards her and her mouth went dry. She looked back to where the man had been, but he had gone.
AD 391
The porter bowed as he opened the door into the Commandant’s room and stood aside to allow Janus to pass. Janus waited until he heard the door shut behind him and bowed to the Commandant. Titus was reclining on a sofa, the remains of a meal next to him. The tragedy regarding his daughter had obviously not affected his appetite too much, thought Janus.
‘My porter suggests that you have information for me?’ said the Commandant. ‘I hope this is useful and truthful information. I do intend to carry out the punishment should this matter not be resolved.’
Janus nodded.
‘I believe I have discovered the culprit, Sir. I have pieced what little I knew together and followed my instincts. But just to confirm it, does this item look familiar to you?’ He held out the necklace and watched the Commandant blanch as he recognised it.
‘The cross. Yes. That is my daughter’s. Where did you find it?’ He reached out his hand and Janus dropped the necklace into his open palm. Titus curled his fingers around it and pressed it against his cheek, closing his eyes. Then he placed it on his lap and rubbed his forehead. He suddenly looked very old.
‘I found the cross in the possession of the Prefect Marcus Simplicius Simplex, Sir. He did not report for duty this morning, so, as a friend as well as a colleague, I took it upon myself to visit his quarters.’ He dropped his head, as if trying to contain his emotions. ‘I found all I needed to know, Sir,’ he whispered.
‘Tell me!’ cried Titus. ‘What happened? What did he say?’
Janus shook his head.
‘He did not speak, Sir. When I found him, he was dead. I believe it was suicide. I found this in his quarters as well.’ He handed over a wax tablet. The words ego sum rumex were scratched onto it. I am sorry. Titus turned the tablet over in his hands.
‘Where did he get this from?’
Janus shrugged.
‘I do not know, Sir. I can only suggest that he was improperly pursuing your daughter and she rejected his advances. Our men often saw them together. Why, I was with him myself on several occasions, when he saw you daughter and broke away from me to speak to her.’ He frowned. ‘She did not look happy with him, Sir. She always seemed to be trying to get away from him; yet he continued to harass the girl. It makes sense, Sir. He was hot tempered. He did not like rejection. I wonder, Sir, whether his passions over-ruled him one final time.’
Titus stared at the wax tablet, not speaking.
‘And where is the body now?’ he asked finally. ‘I take it you did not disturb the scene?’
‘No, Sir. As soon as I found him, I came straight over to tell you. I have not mentioned this to any of the men, just in case you required further clarification. I can take you there, Sir, if you want to see for yourself?’ Janus offered.
‘Yes. Yes, please. I think I need to see this for myself,’ he said, suddenly no longer a Commandant but a bereaved father, wanting to see justice done for his daughter.
‘As you wish, Sir,’ said Janus. Titus stood up and called for a slave. The man Syrus came in and waited for his orders.
‘Find my wife. Tell her I believe that we have resolved the situation. I am going to see the remains of the heathen who did this. Then we shall send the message out that the other men are safe. There will be no decimation. Send two of my guards to me and we shall take our leave. Syrus bowed and slipped out of the room. Within moments, two burly guards entered the room and stood to attention.
‘Come,’ ordered Titus. He turned to Janus and gestured to him to lead the way. ‘Take me to this Prefect’s quarters.’
Janus led the way across the fort to the barracks. He looked neither right nor left. He was aware that the men he passed were all staring at him and whispering as he went by. Soon the story would be out. Or rather, his version of the story would be out. He would act the concerned friend, of course; tell them in the taverns that he would never have believed it of his friend. Make an offering to Coventina and the water nymphs to aid his friend’s redemption in the afterlife. Then, after a while, recruit a new Corax. But he would choose the man more carefully next time.
Janus pushed the door open to Marcus’ quarters, and stood back to allow the Commandant access. Titus walked into the room where the bed was. Marcus lay on a blood-soaked straw mattress, a bone-handled knife by his hand. It was clear that the man’s throat had been cut. Titus walked towards the bed and stood over the body, staring at it in disgust.
‘This man is responsible for my daughter’s death,’ he said. He stared closely at the body and twisted the head around to see the slash mark. ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It is a clean cut. A clean, straight cut. The man did not hesitate. I might have expected a little uncertainty from him whilst he positioned the knife blade.’ He moved away from the bed, but left Marcus’s head turned towards the door. The once blue eyes stared unseeingly at Janus; stared accusingly, even. Janus had the grace to drop his own gaze to the floor and turn slightly away from the body.
‘Have you seen enough, Sir?’ he asked, anxious now for the man to leave the room before he made any more comments. Titus shook his head, moving around the room, fingering items here and there. It was as if he was trying to get a feel for this man, trying to decide what had made him do it.
Titus moved aside a piece of cloth that was hanging against the wall. He jumped backwards and roared.
‘An altar!’ he cried. ‘Look! Hidden away in an alcove. The man is a Pagan. He has an altar to his gods in his quarters.’
‘Most men here are Pagans, Sir,’ said Janus tightly. Titus held his hand up to stop him talking. Janus pressed his lips together, biting against them so hard he almost drew blood. This was taking a great deal of self-control. He willed himself to remain calm.
‘Who is this altar dedicated to?’ growled Titus. He looked around for his guards. One of them stepped forward and bowed. ‘Inspect it. I refuse to touch anything as evil as this piece of stone,’ he cried. The man stepped forward and leant into the alcove where the altar was.
‘This altar is dedicated to Mithras, Sir,’ he said.
‘Mithras?’ snapped Titus. ‘The god who is causing so many problems and so much conflict with the true religion. That temple down there is dedicated to him, is it not?’ This time he looked at Janus. ‘Answer me!’ he shouted as Janus stared back at him like a sullen child. ‘Is that temple dedicated to Mithras or not?’ Janus curled his hand around the wood of the door, squeezing it so hard he thought a chunk might splinter off in his hand.
‘Yes, Sir. The temple is dedicated to Mithras,’ he said. His hand moved slowly towards the hilt of his dagger. The second guard moved closer to Janus and grasped the hilt of his sword, staring at the Prefect. Janus relaxed his muscles and dropped his hand back to his side. Later, he promised himself. I will think of a plan later.
Titus whirled around, glaring at the men in the small room.
‘Then I decree that all worship of the Pagan gods is banned from this fort. It will be banned from Carrawburgh itself. It will be banned from the vicus. He looked directly at Janus. ‘I expressly forbid the worship of your deities, as from now,’ he said. He pointed at Marcus’ body. ‘This is what happens when you worship Pagan gods. The men cannot separate reality from their beliefs. They murder innocents for their beliefs. My daughter was a Christian. She was a child of God. This man did not agree with what she believed in and this is the result. I myself saw the error of my ways years ago, and I conv
erted to Christianity. This,’ he waved his hand around the room,’ is what happens when people do not believe.’
He pushed his way past the guards and past Janus himself and stood on the pathway outside the barracks.
‘Use this murderous Prefect as an example,’ he shouted. ‘The men will not face decimation. They shall instead be called upon to destroy their temple. They must destroy their Sacred Well and their shrines. Let this be a lesson to them. Make it so!’
‘But Sir!’ cried Janus. ‘You do not know if that was the reason he...’
‘The reason does not matter!’ yelled the Commandant. Janus flinched, despite himself. ‘The outcome was the same. My daughter is dead and the man who killed her worshipped Pagan deities!’
Titus stormed back towards the headquarters, calling out orders to his guards as he went. He would have a meeting of the Cohort. He would give the order to destroy the temple and the shrines. And it must be carried out now. Janus stood in the doorway of Marcus’ quarters, seething. He waited until the Commandant was a safe distance away and grasped his dagger. With a savage cry, he plunged the blade into the wood with such force that it snapped. Then he punched the door again and again until his knuckles bled and until, in his imagination, he had beaten the Commandant senseless.
