‘You can do better than that,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Don’t go thinking that just because I’m a Roman I know nothing about conditions outside the empire. I have travelled both within and without Rome’s lands. I was in Pinnata Castra with Falco. I am one of the few survivors of the Ninth Legion.’
The Archdruid’s face grew pale. ‘No one survived of the Ninth Legion. Brennos’ warriors slaughtered them.’
‘You know that that’s not true,’ Flaminius said. ‘Men survived. I for one, because I had urgent business in the south. Brennos’ men slaughtered the most part of the Ninth Legion, it’s true. But that wasn’t the plan, now was it?’
The Archdruid shook his head. ‘No. We struck a deal. A standard was to be raised by the Romans, and this was to be taken as a sign for us to retreat. Falco made a bargain with us…’ He broke off.
Flaminius rested a hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Go on…’ he said encouragingly. ‘You were doing very well.’
The Archdruid scowled. ‘I’ll not speak with you,’ he said. ‘Torture me. Do your worst.’
Flaminius gestured to where Junius Italicus and his men stood by the mast, watching uneasily. ‘You have no hope, you know,’ he said. ‘Tell me what I want to know and I’ll let you go.’
The Archdruid was silent for a while. Junius Italicus paced across to Flaminius. ‘We don’t have time for this, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ll take him down into the cabin and singe that beard of his until he squeals.’
Flaminius shook his head. ‘Go back to your men, centurion,’ he said. ‘The Archdruid is a gentleman. He’ll help because he sees that it’s the right thing to do.’
Reluctantly Junius Italicus returned to the mast, where he stood talking in an urgent undertone to Rhoda. Flaminius smiled at the Archdruid.
‘We don’t need any unpleasantness, do we?’ he said. ‘Now, you’ve told me what I already know. You were plotting with Falco. I know all about his conspiracy; more than you perhaps. After this easy victory, his men would proclaim him emperor and he would have stripped Britain of her legions and marched south to Rome. He also promised that you and your people would live peacefully without further trouble from the Romans. But there must have been more to it than that. The men of the Ninth Legion who would proclaim Falco emperor—what was in it for them? Glory? In my experience of the Ninth, hard coin meant more to the men than any honours when it came down to it. Now, you’ve become very rich very suddenly, haven’t you? How did that come about? You’re a power in the land now. You’ve bought that power, I think.’
The Archdruid gazed into space. ‘After the Ninth was slaughtered, only a few escaped south to Eboracum, Falco among them. Once we had burnt it, no Caledonian would go near the ruins of the foreigners’ fort. My people are highly superstitious.’
‘But you’re not,’ said Flaminius, ‘for all that you exploit their superstitious fears. You and the other druids lack the superstitions of the mob.’
The Archdruid spat over the side. ‘Most druids are as terrified as any peasant—when it comes to a place where so many foreigners lost their life. But I did not fear. I knew that I would learn the truth of what has made Rome so powerful if I searched amongst the ruins. So I did. And I found it—the source of your power.’
Flaminius nodded. ‘Gold,’ he said. ‘That’s what you found. Gold that once belonged to the king of the Dacians.’
‘I had been exploring the ruins for some days,’ the Archdruid recalled. ‘Alone. No one would come with me, but it was better that way. It took a long time to dig my way into what was left of the headquarters building. At last I found the chest. It had escaped the flames. Nearby I found a ring with a key attached. Falco must have been about to open the chest to provide bribes for the men who would hail him as emperor. But it seems he dropped the key when he had to leave in a hurry. So it lay until I found it.’
‘And so you helped yourself to the gold,’ Flaminius said. ‘I had almost found your secret when your men took me. They were less fearful than others, it seemed, to follow me into the ruins.’
‘You allowed yourself to be captured,’ the Archdruid said accusingly. ‘It was a trick—so you could take me prisoner in turn?’
Flaminius nodded. ‘I knew enough to realise that the gold must have been there, and you had become very rich and powerful very suddenly. So I allowed myself to be taken, but did not speak. I knew that you took a personal interest in the more recalcitrant prisoner, it’s in the Commissary reports. So I waited until you came, and so did my men, out in the estuary, until the coracle of the Archdruid crossed the firth. Then they struck.’
On the last word, Flaminius fitted actions to words, and he snatched hold of the ring key the Archdruid wore on his finger. The Archdruid tried to struggle, but Flaminius forced him against the side and held it aloft.
‘You’re a cunning man, foreigner,’ the Archdruid said bitterly. ‘Very well! I used the gold to make myself more powerful. I mean to unite the Caledonians again…’
Flaminius was examining the key. It bore an inscription in Roman numerals. He grinned harshly. ‘Here’s proof,’ he said, not looking up, and the Archdruid went silent.
‘Proof of what?’ he said at last. ‘Give me my key back.’
Flaminius looked up. ‘It’s not your key, is it?’ he said. ‘This is Roman workmanship. This inscription, you see it? A number, corresponding with the coffer that it opens. Of the kind carried by an imperial courier. When the coffer containing the gold was brought into Britain by the courier, it will have been logged, and its sender’s name was recorded in the files kept by the procurator’s office in Londinium.
‘We’re very finicky for such things, although you need high security clearance to inspect the contents of a courier’s coffer. Whoever sent the gold knew that. Knew it would be safe to send it using the courier system. A more effective method of smuggling does not exist inside or outside the empire. But there are regulations, of course. If I could find the relevant file, I would know who sent this coffer to Britain. And then I would know who was at the heart of the conspiracy that claimed the life of my friend and mentor.’
The Archdruid looked bewildered. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ he said. ‘The gold was Falco’s. Now it is mine. Give me my key back. You said you would let me go if I spoke.’
‘The gold was sent to Falco,’ Flaminius said. ‘I know Falco was part of the conspiracy, but he’s been a good boy in recent years. What I need to know is who provided the gold. Who took it from the hoard of Decebalus the Dacian king, who kept it hidden, then tried to use it to help Falco become emperor. Whoever it was is still alive, and able to work against the man who was on his trail.’
He beckoned Junius Italicus over, and the centurion lumbered to join them. The Archdruid gave him a frightened look.
‘Time for the hot irons, is it, sir?’ asked the centurion. ‘They’ll be scorching by now.’
‘Our friend has told me all I need to know,’ said Flaminius. ‘This key,’ he added, slipping the ring onto his finger, next to the signet ring Probus had once worn, ‘is the key to the whole conundrum. All we need to do is take a trip south, and consult the procurator’s files. We’ll have to go there undercover. The governor will have us both arrested if he knows we’re at large in his province…’
‘While she was in Londinium, Rhoda heard that the procurator has gone with Platorius Nepos to a fort on the Wall,’ Junius Italicus said. ‘They’re celebrating the completion of its construction. By all accounts, the procurator goes nowhere without bringing his paperwork with him. But it won’t be easy gaining access to them. Is that our next move, sir? Sail south, to the province?’
Flaminius nodded. Junius Italicus turned his gaze on the Archdruid. ‘But what do we do with this?’ he added.
Flaminius shrugged. ‘I said I’d let him go if he spoke.’
‘It’s a long way to the shore, sir,’ said Junius Italicus reprovingly. ‘And our mission is urgent. We can’t waste time.’
‘So we�
�ll drop him off here,’ said Flaminius, laying a hand on the Archdruid’s arm.
Dagodubnos started. Before he could break free, Junius Italicus seized him by his legs. Together they hauled the screaming old man to the side and flung him overboard.
— 22—
Pons Aelius, 14th June 125 AD
That evening, Theodoricus joined Egbertus on sentry duty at the main gates. They saluted the auxiliary guards going off duty, exchanged greetings, then as the others marched off to their barracks took up their positions on the observation platform overlooking the main gates.
‘Any word of the missing tribune?’ Theodoricus had asked idly as the guards turned to leave.
The two men exchanged glances and then the taller of them shook his helmeted head.
‘Not a sign, friend,’ he said, pausing to lean on his long oval shield. ‘He’s vanished into the heather and a whole troop of men with him.’
‘We’ll have to keep a weather eye open,’ said Theodoricus.
‘You won’t see him,’ said the other auxiliary shortly. ‘There’s been word that himself is planning on delaying the march north, though, so we can’t complain.’
They saluted and marched away.
Egbertus scowled at Theodoricus and led him up the ladder to the observation platform where they both received a view of the rolling heather north of the Wall. Far off in the distance, clouds rolled atop the peaks of hills, but the moorland was bare of any life except occasional crows and a few deer.
‘You made a fool of yourself there,’ Egbertus said. ‘The whole fort knows that Tribune Quintus has not returned. Where do you spend your day?’
Theodoricus shrugged. ‘Sleeping,’ he said. ‘I like to get my head down when I’m not eating or on duty.’
Egbertus shook his head. ‘That’s not the way to get on in this troop,’ he warned him. ‘You’ve got to keep your ear to the ground, not your head to the bolster. Keep up with the barrack room gossip! That’s how you learn what’s happening. That way you can turn things to your own advantage. That way you can survive until retirement age, settle down on a plot of land somewhere.’
Theodoricus glanced over the parapet. Although dusk falling, he could see that the tracks were visible in the dirt leading to and from the gates—the one on the right being the ‘out’ gate, the one on the left the ‘in’ gate. The only fresh tracks were those of Quintus’ troop riding out. They came out of the right hand gate and vanished into the distance much as their owners had done.
Again he shrugged. He had no notion of settling down just yet, but he was younger than his fellow trooper. ‘How does it benefit me knowing which chinless senator has got himself in trouble in Caledonia?’ he asked. ‘Quintus was a fool. He let his woman talk him into going for a ride in dangerous country, and it looks like he’s paid the price, his woman with him. The only downside is all the good troopers they took with them. That’s what I object to.’
He’d known some of the men who’d gone with Quintus, drank with them or gamed with them or gone with them to the mud huts that passed for brothels in this district.
‘It benefits you to know whether or not the governor is going to go ahead with this expedition north,’ said Egbertus. ‘For the moment we’ve all got to be on our best behaviour, us troopers. While the governor and all his staff are getting under our feet, we’ve got to make sure our harness is polished until it shines, or we might end up on a charge.’ He nodded significantly at the boss of Theodoricus’ shield, which was beginning to tarnish. ‘When it’s just the few of us, and no Roman officers, we can get away with all manner of little dodges, turn a blind eye to any traders who want to pass through unrecorded, if they’re willing to make it worth our while. But until the governor departs…’
‘I see your meaning,’ said Theodoricus, a little guiltily.
He’d been too tired on turning in to notice the state his equipment was in, and when he woke up he had forgotten to polish it. Egbertus was right; while the governor was in the fort, they had to tread carefully.
‘What if the governor has really got the jitters?’ he asked. ‘I mean, if he decides an expedition into Caledonia isn’t auspicious?’ He uttered the last word with a sneer, imitating the accent of the high born Roman.
‘He’ll find something else to do, won’t he?’ muttered Egbertus. ‘Got to keep strutting about looking important or people won’t think he’s doing his job.’
‘So you think he’ll leave?’ Theodoricus hoped so. It was a strain, having the staff of the governor and the procurator in the fort, and he caught himself thinking with nostalgic fondness back to the days before they arrived.
‘He’s a law unto himself,’ Egbertus said, ‘but I can’t see him freezing his knackers off up here for no reason.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘But he seemed very determined, from what I heard. If he can build this altar in the old fort where the Ninth were slaughtered, it would look good for Rome.’
‘It won’t look good if whoever ambushed Tribune Quintus and his woman kills the governor too.’ Theodoricus might not take the same interest in what was going on as Egbertus, but even he could see that it would be a bad idea. ‘Maybe he’ll give up and go back to Eboracum and leave us in peace.’
‘Some hope,’ said Egbertus. ‘More likely he’ll summon a legion or two and march north when he’s got more men. If we’re really unlucky, we’ll be going along in support.’
Theodoricus shuddered. He would never admit it to Egbertus, but he had a mortal dread of the wild Caledonians. In some ways they reminded him of the Belgic Gauls he knew back home, but while the Gauls had settled down long ago and become as Roman as anyone in the empire, these Caledonians remained in the Age of Bronze, the era the bards sang of, the age of heroes. Which was all very well in songs and stories round a blazing hearth on a winter’s eve, but knowing that he was surrounded by such folk gave him the shudders. On patrol he had seen settlements where the chieftains still kept the severed heads of their slain. And the rumour of the druids sent a chill through him worse than the east wind.
‘Let’s hope that the governor sees the sense in putting his expedition off until another day,’ he said. ‘After all, the Wall is almost fully completed. Though they say the last few stretches are still behind schedule.’
Egbertus nodded. ‘So you know that much at least,’ he remarked. ‘There’s hope for you yet, trooper. Maybe you’ll survive into old age after all. It’s all about keeping one step in front of the Romans in charge.’
Theodoricus decided that, before he sought his bunk that evening, he would go down to the nearby shrine of the god Antenociticus, and make an offering after praying for Platorius Nepos’ speedy departure—whether to the north or the south was of no matter to him. Without, he added mentally, taking the auxiliary troop with him. Glumly, he stared out into the gathering gloom…
Horses were galloping out in that darkness, hurtling down paths through the woods in the valleys. The drumming of hoofs mingled with a jingle of armour. Dark figures rode those dark horses through that darkness. Men in armour. Auxiliary armour.
They were still some way from the Wall, which lay liked a silver glimmer in the light of the newly risen moon. For now, the trees obscured the open heather that led to the foot of the Wall, and much of the moonlight. Only occasional dim shafts pierced the tree cover and glinted from the men’s armour.
At their head was a woman.
Publia rode with grim determination etched upon her cold face, gripping the reins tightly as her steed galloped onwards. Directly behind her rode the bearded man, dressed in Quintus’ distinctive clothes. She flashed him a cold smile, seeing the long line of tribesmen following them, woad scrubbed from their faces as best they could, uneasily wearing stolen armour.
They reached the edge of the trees. The bearded man raised a hand high to signal a halt, and the riders obeyed, dismounting and leading their horses into the shadow of a grove of withered trees. Publia also dismounted, her unshod feet hitting the peaty ground witho
ut a sound, and she went to help her bearded companion to get down.
‘Thank you, young woman,’ he said tetchily. ‘I’m not so old I can’t dismount by myself.’
‘As you wish,’ said Publia. ‘Let us go to the top of the hill and scout out our final route.’
They passed the tribesmen, who were sitting in silence, eating unfamiliar rations from the auxiliaries’ saddlebags while shivering in the cold. But Publia had told them to light no fires. They were close enough to be seen from the nearest fort, and they did not want to risk being seen. The attack would depend upon surprise if it was to succeed.
They picked their way up the side of the heather clad hill, reaching the crest of the rise after a few minutes. Here Publia knelt down and her companion with her, both peering out at the scene that lay before them.
The heather rolled towards the horizon. Not a tree impeded it. Only the grey line of the Wall as it stretched beneath the moon broke up the monotony. Publia gazed up at the massive fortification, wonder in her heart. The Wall extended as far as the eye could see, even in daylight, with a small turret every mile, and the silver gleam of men marching along its parapet like stars fallen to the horizon. To the east it reached as far as the black waters of the moonlit sea.
The work of the Romans resembled the buildings of giants, titans of some former age—and yet she knew that this Wall had been flung up over a space of a few years. She had seen its earliest beginnings. It had cut through the lands of the northern tribes without any consideration for their traditional territories. If the Caledonians ever united, they would be hard put to it to go any farther south.
Such an ambitious undertaking was not Publia’s plan, however. Due south, a larger fort stood. That was where they would strike, at first light. Disguised as her men were, and with the guards anticipating Quintus’ return, it would be an easy matter to gain entry to the fort. Then they would see some hard fighting, and she knew that the forces garrisoned there would outnumber them. Many of the tribesmen would die. It had better be worth it.
The Londinium File Page 17