Several people including children, clad in long robes, were quietly standing in the middle of the cavern, seemingly waiting for him. Marcus grunted as amongst them he suddenly caught sight of Esther, holding a small oil lamp in her hand. As she saw him she smiled warmly. Then, in the dim flickering light, she took a step towards him. Her head was covered in a shawl and in her other hand, she was clutching her wooden cross.
“Don’t be afraid Marcus,” Esther said in a quiet voice, “these people do not mean you or Petrus any harm. They are my friends, my family.”
Carefully Marcus’s gaze slipped away from Esther and to the group of people gathered around her and as it did, the tall stranger who’d brought him to this subterranean place, stepped across the floor of the cave and joined them. The adults and children, including some very old-looking men and women, were staring at Marcus in a calm, quiet and composed manner that unsettled him.
“Who are you?” Marcus asked suspiciously, “Christians?”
“They are my friends,” Esther said, as she reached out and gently touched Marcus on the side of his shoulder. “They are Christians and they have accepted me into their community. They will protect me. I have come home, Marcus.”
“What happened to you?” Marcus demanded, rounding on Esther, his eyes flashing angrily. “Why did you have to leave without saying anything? We came all the way to Rome for you. We do not deserve to be treated like this.”
“I know,” Esther said, lowering her eyes, “You are right. I should not have treated you in this way. But I was worried that you would not let me go, and this is something that I had to do, Marcus, and I am glad that I did.”
“What happened to you?” Marcus repeated, staring angrily at Esther.
Standing before him Esther lowered her eyes once more, as behind her the group of people looked on in stoic silence.
“This place,” she said, gesturing around her, “this cavern connects to the catacombs of Rome; a vast hidden warren of tunnels that runs right underneath the city. It is in these hidden places that we come to pray. It is in these tunnels and caves that we worship God, baptise our children and bury our dead, whilst we wait for the day, when we shall be able to do so openly and in the light.”
Esther paused and glanced round at the people standing behind her.
“They are good people,” she said at last, “and I belong here, with them. You have completed your journey, Marcus. You should go home. I know you long to be back with your family. You have done God’s work and I am truly grateful but the time to say goodbye has come.”
“I don’t understand,” Marcus said, with a shake of his head, “What happened? How did you manage to find this place; these people?”
“I went back to the house on the Aventine, the place where I was born,” Esther replied calmly, turning to gaze at Marcus. “And this time I managed to speak to the the wife of the man whose family once owned my mother and me. She is a righteous person, a good woman and she was kind to me. She told me that after emperor Nero had my father crucified in the arena, Christian people came looking for my mother. When my mother died giving birth to me, these people wanted to take me away. They said that I was a special child. But her husband refused of course. I was his property and he was not going to let me go for nothing. He banned these people from coming to his house; then he died and his wife sold me, when I was a girl, to traders who brought me to Britannia.”
“Get to the point,” Marcus said.
Opposite him Esther’s eyes were suddenly heavy with emotion.
“These people who came looking for me,” she whispered in a hoarse emotional voice, “they were Christians. Some of them now stand before you, Marcus.”
Carefully Esther raised her hand to dab at her face. “They never gave up hope of finding me. So, when my old mistress, bless her soul, made it known to them that I had returned, they came for me, just like they had first tried to do, more than forty years ago. They had never given up hope.”
“Why?” Marcus persisted, frowning as he glanced at the silent group of men, women and children clustered behind Esther, before slowly turning to fix his eyes on her. “What is so special about you?”
“It’s because of my father; because of who he was. But until yesterday I did not truly know who he was,” Esther replied lowering her eyes. “I told you when we were still in Britannia, that my father was a Christian priest and that emperor Nero had him crucified in the arena for that. My father’s name was Simon Peter, and he was one of the close friends of Jesus. After the crucifixion of Jesus my father came to Rome and helped found and organise the Christian church here. That is why emperor Nero had him crucified in the arena. I am his daughter. These people are my father’s followers and before my father was taken, they promised him that they would protect and take care of his wife and his coming child. That is why they have come to look after me.”
Marcus looked at Esther and her people and finally, slowly nodded his head and smiled.
***
The Temple of Saturn was quiet and nearly deserted, as two days later Marcus stood beside the great veiled statue of Saturn, waiting for his visitor to appear. It was early evening and outside in the forum, the merchants and businessmen were breaking down their stalls and going home for the day. At the base of the temple steps the detachment of praetorian guards were still at their posts. Standing beside Marcus, with his arms folded across his chest, Paulinus looked impatient.
“Will he come?” the prefect of the state treasury asked Marcus as he gazed out through the big temple doors and down the steps leading into the forum.
In response Marcus silently gestured at something with his chin. Coming up the steps towards them was a big, broad-shouldered man. Catching sight of Marcus, a contemptuous grin appeared on the man’s face. Slowly and without any haste he ambled over towards the two waiting men.
“Hello Cunitius,” Marcus said, raising his head and glaring at him.
“So, this is where you have been hiding,” Cunitius replied in a contemptuous voice as, with a bemused look, he took his time to glance around the temple. “That was clever. I would have never have suspected. So, imagine my surprise when I received your message that you wanted to meet me here. Have you finally decided to surrender?”
“No,” Marcus replied shaking his head.
“My name is Paulinus Picardus Taliare, first prefect of the state treasury,” Paulinus said in a harsh, commanding voice as he took a step towards Cunitius. “And you Sir, need to know that this man, Marcus, is now under my protection until his case and petition has been properly examined and reviewed by the procurator augusti of the province of Britannia. If anything were to happen to this man, his family or his friends, you,” Paulinus emphasising the words and jabbing a finger at Cunitius, “you will be held personally responsible. Have I made myself clear? Yes or no?”
For a moment, Cunitius hesitated in surprise as he stared at Paulinus. Then rapidly his composure returned.
“I have orders from the imperial governor of Britannia himself,” Cunitius replied with a confident smile, “This man here is guilty of harbouring a runaway slave and he is party to the murder of an important Roman citizen. I have all the authority that I need to find and apprehend him.”
“No, that is no longer the case,” Paulinus replied in a curt voice. “The governor of Britannia has been recalled and his authority in this matter has come to an end. This is now a matter for the procurator in Britannia. He has the proper legal power to conduct this investigation and he will do so. You are to cease your investigation immediately and return to the shit hole from whence you came.” And as he spoke, Paulinus took a menacing step towards Cunitius. “Disregard these instructions and you will find yourself on the wrong side of the law with all the consequences that will have for you. Good day to you Sir.”
And with that Paulinus abruptly turned on his heels and strode away into the temple.
Cunitius watched him go with a puzzled frown. Then he took a deep breath an
d turned to gaze at Marcus.
“Made some new friends, have we?” Cunitius sneered.
“What did you do to Clodovicus” Marcus asked menacingly. “If he has been harmed or worse, then your days are numbered.”
“Who?” Cunitius snapped, squinting at Marcus with a hostile expression. “Oh, your Batavian friend in Hengistbury Head. No, he still lives. It took me some time to get the truth out of him, tough man he was, but in the end, they all talk. No man can keep a secret forever, not when you know how to coax it out of them.”
“You should go home,” Marcus said angrily. “Your task here is finished. Fuck off and go home. My business is no longer your concern.”
Cunitius’s face darkened and slowly he raised a finger and pointed it accusingly at Marcus. “But I still know what your sister, Dylis did,” he hissed. “Abraham came to me and told me everything including your confession. I know the part your family played in the murder of Priscinus. You are guilty Marcus, you and your family are guilty of murder and helping a slave runaway. I won’t forget, you can count on that. I will not forget.”
“You should know that I never wanted this conflict,” Marcus spoke in a hard, cold voice. “It was Priscinus who started it and it is he who first resorted to violence. He attacked my family and my farm and destroyed my crops. The man was a greedy arsehole. I tried to negotiate with him but he would not listen. And consider this,” Marcus said, “here we are, you having chased me half way across the empire, and we are resolving this dispute in a peaceful manner by talking about it. If you are going to remember anything, then it should be that disputes like these, do not need to be necessarily settled by violence. This is a job for the law, applied by professionals without bias or an interest in the case. And the great thing about this process is that it gives men justice.”
Across from Marcus, Cunitius’s eye twitched and for a while he was silent as he glared at his opponent. Then abruptly his expression seemed to soften.
“I was just doing my job,” Cunitius said as a little bemused smile appeared on his lips and to Marcus’s surprise, the man suddenly stretched out his hand. “So, no hard feelings eh? It was never personal. It was just a job. Like I told you at your farm, Priscinus was never a friend of mine. I was telling the truth.”
Marcus hesitated. Then with a grunt he clasped Cunitius’s hand in a brief handshake.
“So, what about the woman, Esther,” Cunitius asked curiously. “Come on, Marcus, I have been hunting you for weeks and I and my men have travelled a long way to find her. Come on, what have you done with her?”
Once more Marcus hesitated, his eyes fixed warily on Cunitius.
“She is dead,” he muttered at last, “On our first day in Rome we took a room in the Subura and that night we were robbed. It is a dangerous neighbourhood. Esther took a knife to her chest during the struggle. It was an accident and we burned her body. She is dead. Your search is over. You should go home.”
For a moment, Cunitius remained silent. Then slowly he shook his head and the bemused smile re-appeared.
“You are such a lying sack of shit, Marcus,” he said.
“Heh arsehole,” a voice suddenly called out and from a dimly-lit corner of the temple, Petrus suddenly appeared, sauntering towards Cunitius. In his hand, he was casually twirling his loaded sling.
“Yes, I am talking to you, arsehole,” Petrus called out as he stared at Cunitius. “Not so big and strong now are you. And here is some advice for you. Why don’t you turn around, walk down those steps and just fuck off and leave us alone! God, I have waited a long time to be able to say those words. So, go on, fuck off.”
Cunitius gave Petrus a silent bemused look. Then acknowledging Marcus, he turned away and started down the steps.
“I will be seeing you again, Marcus,” Cunitius called out. “And do me a favour, muzzle that boy of yours, he whines too much.”
Petrus hissed angrily as he came to stand beside Marcus and the two of them watched Cunitius vanish into the crowds.
“You know,” Petrus muttered at last, “Esther was right. God has worked his magic through you Marcus for everything that has happened to us in Rome. It all started with a single act of kindness and generosity.” Petrus took a deep breath as he turned to look at Marcus with sudden respect. “If you hadn’t stopped to give that army beggar in Portus a coin, we would never have met Valentian, or the Batavians and in turn we would not know about the school, we would not have met Lady Claudia or through her, Paulinus. God was guiding you that day, when you gave that veteran a coin.”
Marcus was silent as he stared out into the Roman Forum. Then at last he stirred and laying a hand on Petrus’s shoulder he sighed. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Eighteen – On the Frontier
Spring 106 AD - The Province of Lower Pannonia
Fergus stood at the bow of the river barge, holding onto the rigging with one hand and clutching his long wooden optio staff in the other, as he peered at the barbarian shore. Here and there in the dense, impenetrable forests that covered the banks of the Danube, he could see that the winter snows had still not entirely disappeared. It was a fresh, grey overcast morning and in the spring sky, dark rain clouds were rolling in from the north. Around him the barge was packed with heavily armed troops. The silent and pensive looking legionaries, clad in their full armour, were standing in every available piece of space, whilst at their banks, the oarsmen, following the rhythmic beat of a drum, slowly and steadily dipped their oars into the dirty brown river, propelling the ship down the Danube. The steady rhythmic beat of the oarsmen’s drum, the splash of the oars and the groan and creak of the vessel were the only sounds on the placid, wide river. Up ahead the next heavily laden transport in the long, Roman-army river convoy was doing the same. The thick rope that linked each barge to the next transport slackened and tightened as it snaked through the water. On the flanks of the convoy, the naval warships of the Danube river fleet, the “Classis Pannonica,” provided a protective screen for the troop transports. The ship’s artillery, catapults and bolt-throwers were aimed at the barbarian shore, conveying the simple and unmistakable message, to anyone who may have been watching from the forest – “don’t fuck with Rome.”
Idly, Fergus tapped the wooden deck with his optio’s staff as absentmindedly he started to follow the beat of the oarsmen’s drum. His red Celtic hair had been cut short and his handsome face was clean shaven, but he seemed weary and his eyes looked sleep-deprived. He was clad in his army uniform and full armour and over the long winter along the Danube frontier, he seemed to have matured. The last vestiges of the boy who had joined the Twentieth Legion two and a half years ago, had gone and there was a new toughness and maturity about him, that had not been there when he’d left Britannia. Around his neck hung the fine-looking circular iron amulet, the Briton charm that Galena, his young wife had given him and which she had said would protect him on his long journey. Fergus sighed as he let go of the rigging and reached up to touch the amulet. It had been over nine months since he had last seen his wife. His child would have been born by now. Anxiously he bit his lip. There had been no news, no letters from Galena, nothing at all. Childbirth was as dangerous as going into battle and the lack of news worried him, but there was nothing that he could do but wait. Harshly he pushed the thoughts of his pregnant wife away and instead turned to inspect the men from the 2nd company, 2nd Cohort of the Twentieth Legion, who were standing packed closely together behind him. The men looked pensive and some of the replacements were giving the river nervous glances, for if they were to fall in, the weight of their armour would take them straight to the bottom. Silently Fergus studied his men. In deepest, coldest winter, with all the senior officers either dead or wounded, he had managed to lead the band of survivors from the diplomatic mission to the Vandals, back to Roman territory. It had been one hell of an achievement and now he was their Optio, second in command of the whole company of eighty-four legionaries. He had received his promotion from none other th
an the legate of the 1st Legion, Hadrian, himself.
His gaze passed over the faces of his men and here and there one of the fifty veterans, the soldiers who had survived the brutal winter cold, lack of food and the fighting in Germania, acknowledged him with a grin or a wink. Upon their return from the successful diplomatic mission to the Vandals, the company had been brought back up to full strength over the winter with replacements sent from the home base of the Twentieth Legion at Deva Victrix. With them from Britannia had come Lucullus, now recovered from his wounds, to assume command of the company, as the newly promoted Centurion. The rest of winter had been spent preparing for the coming invasion of Dacia. And now the time had finally come Fergus thought. The battle group commander Hadrian had at last received orders to move the 8,000 men of his battle group to the seat of war. The long-awaited invasion of Dacia was to commence before the end of the month. It had been several days since the convoy, carrying the units of the 1st and 20th legions and the infantry companies of the 2nd and 9th cohorts of Batavians had departed Carnuntum on its river journey down the Danube to Aquincum - capital and seat of government of the province of Lower Pannonia. Hadrian himself however would not be leading his men into battle. With the new orders, Fergus had learnt that the legate was to relinquish command of the 1st Legion and take up his post as Governor of the newly created province of Lower Pannonia. The persistent rumour going around the army camps along the Danube was that Emperor Trajan had fallen out with Hadrian and did not want him to take part in the upcoming campaign.
“Fergus, a word,” a stern voice said from close by.
Quickly Fergus turned to see Lucullus, the newly promoted centurion, his commanding officer, pushing his way towards him. Lucullus was old, in his forties and his grey, thinning hair covered his head. He looked tired, pale and unwell, as clutching his magnificent red-plumed helmet in one hand, he came up to Fergus and reached out to steady himself by grasping hold of the ship’s rigging.
The Dacian War (Book 6 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 16
