She said as much to her companion. His teeth glinted in the darkness.
‘It will be worthwhile,’ he assured her. ‘The governor and the procurator are both there. We will strike, and we will fight, and we will seize them. When both governor and procurator are at our mercy, then and only then can we hope to achieve our goal. I’ll have my enemy at my mercy.’
‘How can you be so sure that he’s the man?’ she asked, glancing at him. He seemed obsessed by the idea, as if it was an evil spirit that plagued him.
‘I can’t be!’ said her companion. ‘At least, not yet. But once they are in my hands, then we will see. All that matters is that your tribesmen strike hard and strike fast. There are both Thracian auxiliaries and Roman legionaries in the fort. They will put up a hard fight, but we will have the advantage of surprise. They will not be expecting an attack from Tribune Quintus and his woman.’ He rapped tinnily on his stolen breastplate. ‘Once we have the governor in our hands, we will have what we came for. As long as our plan comes together.’
‘You realise it hinges on so much that is beyond our control?’
‘It’s a gamble,’ he admitted. ‘But the stakes are high.’
‘I don’t like the idea of sacrificing the tribesmen,’ she told him frankly. ‘Will it be worth their lives?’
‘Oh, their sacrifice will be well worth it,’ he said coldly.
Heartsick, she turned her gaze back at the distant walls and towers of the fort. Waiting for sunrise. Waiting for the sign to attack.
— 23—
German Ocean, 15th June 125 AD
Southwards the galley sailed as the moon rode the night sky. Soon they would reach the estuary of the Tinus River, up which they would travel until they reached the bridge Hadrian had had built, beneath the hill where stood Pons Aelius, the fort that was Platorius Nepos’ current residence.
Here they would go ashore, and Junius Italicus would use his influence as commissary centurion to gain entry to the fort, and make a request to see the files of the procurator. If, as was rumoured, he travelled with his entire archive, things might go smoothly. If not, they would be forced to travel the three hundred or so miles to Londinium, in which case they would return to the ship and sail there. All they had to worry about was Platorius Nepos’ reaction. He had banished both Flaminius and Junius Italicus from the province. If he saw them before they had accessed the files, things would get very difficult indeed.
Flaminius stood in the bow, leaning against the rail, peering into the darkness, listening to the thrum of the cordage and the plash of the oars. They must be almost there, he told himself. To his landsman’s eye in this darkness, it was hard to tell; the shore was almost indistinguishable from the dark waters, although the skipper told him he could make it out.
Flaminius’ nostrils twitched and he turned to see Rhoda had come up from her cabin. She tottered across the deck towards him. He smiled sympathetically.
‘I’m no sailor either,’ he confided, as she joined him.
Rhoda shivered in the sea breeze. ‘Then why are you up on deck?’ she asked, giving the waves a bitter look. ‘I hate it out here. I’m sure that I will fall over the side at any moment.’
Flaminius laughed. ‘But you’re a Greek, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘Greeks love the sea. It’s we Romans who would rather build roads everywhere so we can stay on dry land.’ He gripped the rail firmly. He knew exactly how she felt.
‘But you’ve been out here for hours,’ she complained.
Flaminius nodded darkly. ‘I’ve had some thinking to do.’
‘We’re almost there, surely,’ she said. ‘I don’t just mean we’re almost at the estuary. I mean, you have the best clue we could ever hope for.’
Flaminius was stroking the ring key that he wore, his fingertips tracing the numerals stamped into the shaft. ‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ he said shortly, dropping his hand to his side.
‘So why the anxiety, sweetheart?’ Rhoda challenged him.
Flaminius turned to face her. ‘Firstly, I’m liable to be arrested, if Platorius Nepos recognises me.’ As Rhoda started to protest, he raised his hand for quiet. ‘I have full faith in your ability to disguise me,’ he went on. ‘But it’s still a possibility. And Junius Italicus is just as unwelcome in the province. But you must realise how much this means to me.’
Rhoda nodded quietly. ‘Yes, I understand. Probus was your friend.’
Flaminius looked at her, startled. He had never seen the Chief in those terms. The grizzled, thickset old schemer had never been one to evoke the finer feelings. But Flaminius had known him through five long, arduous years, known him through thick and thin, known him since he was no more than commissary centurion for the province of Britain.
‘My friend…’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps comrade would be a better name for him. But wasn’t he your friend?’
Rhoda made a non-committal shrug. ‘He paid well,’ she said. ‘He bought people’s loyalty, in my experience. That’s when he didn’t use blackmail. If he had not been serving Rome, I think he would have made a good thief. He would have risen to the top of the underworld in no time, until someone slipped a dagger into his ribs. That’s what happens to successful criminals…’ She broke off, realising what she was saying. ‘Sorry,’ she said inadequately.
Flaminius understood. He was reminded of the old story about Alexander the Great and the pirate; when questioned as to why he led the life he led, the pirate had said, “What I do with my small ship you do with a fleet, and yet I am called a robber and you an emperor.”
‘You’re right. He became too powerful for… someone. Someone so influential he was able to gull the emperor himself into having him dismissed. Someone…’ He broke off, and peered into the night, muttering, ‘Surely not. No, that’s impossible. And yet…’
Rhoda studied him. ‘What is it?’ she asked urgently. ‘Have you worked out who had the Chief murdered?’
Flaminius looked at her.
‘All I can be sure of is that someone close to the emperor is working against him,’ he said. ‘Hadrian was betrayed by a friend. We know that already. Falco was an old friend of his, and look what he was involved in.’
‘Falco?’ she said. ‘The previous governor of Britain? Is that who you mean?’
‘It was back when I first knew the Chief. He uncovered the plot, and I was instrumental in foiling it. The beginning of my career in the Commissary. But I think I’ve learnt something that escaped even Probus.’
‘About the gold, sir?’
Flaminius turned to see Junius Italicus. Moving very quietly for a man of his bulk, he had joined them on deck. The sea wind ruffled the feathers of his helmet plume. He carried an amphora and three wine cups. The latter he handed to the other two, and filled them from the amphora, which he tossed negligently over the side once he had emptied it. Then he took a wine cup from Flaminius and sipped it with relish.
‘Drink up, sir,’ he urged them. ‘It’ll keep you warm, if you must stand out here in the cold.’
‘You’re becoming a drunk,’ said Flaminius in tones of reproof. ‘You were never like this when I last knew you.’
‘The pressures of duty, sir,’ the centurion said owlishly, ‘must be alleviated somehow. I heard you discussing the Chief when I came up the companionway.’
Flaminius sipped his wine. It was rough and a little sour, but it reinvigorated him after the time he had been standing out here.
‘I was indeed,’ he said. ‘I’ve been thinking about him a great deal.’
Junius Italicus nodded broodingly. ‘I’ve thought about him as well,’ he admitted, ‘since he recalled me from Dacia. By the time I got back to Rome it was too late. Here’s a libation to his shade, wherever he is.’ Junius Italicus poured a little wine on the deck. ‘Always liked a drop of wine, he did,’ he added.
‘But he had powerful enemies,’ Flaminius said.
‘Ah,’ said Junius Italicus, clapping Flaminius on the back, ‘but we’ll find them out soo
n enough, won’t we, sir? If we can provide the emperor with the proof, we’ll restore Probus’ good name and see his enemies crucified.’
Onwards they sailed, the three companions drinking in the bow as the oars splashed in the sea below and the sail bellied in the sea wind. The dark shadowy shape of the coast loomed before them, an indistinct line of blackness between the starry sky and the dark sea that mirrored it. They were drawing closer to the land now, and the helmsman in the stern heaved on the rudder as they turned about, until the shore lay directly before them.
The skipper materialised from the gloom. ‘We’re bearing down on the British coast,’ he told Flaminius. ‘Soon we’ll be reaching the Tinus Estuary, sir. We’ll weigh anchor there…’
‘We will not,’ Flaminius said impatiently. ‘We’ve got to get to Pons Aelius straightaway. No delays.’
The skipper laughed. He was a Roman citizen from one of the tribes of the Gaulish coast, a scrawny man with a wisp of beard, but he laughed like a bear. ‘We’ll do as I say, sir,’ he said complacently. ‘You know your job and I know mine. I know the sea, aye, and the estuary too. We’ll wait for the turn of the tide before we enter the river mouth. Else we’ll run aground on a sandbank, you mark my words. And then the imperial treasury will have to buy me a new ship.’
Flaminius flushed, feeling foolish. A few years out in Egypt, with responsibility for the security of one of the richest provinces in the empire, had changed him. He had matured, grown in confidence and insight. But the ways of the sea remained a mystery to him.
He felt a foreboding. For some reason he could not put into words, he knew that they had no time. They had to reach the fort before dawn.
‘Very well, captain,’ he said regretfully. ‘I bow to your superior knowledge! We don’t want to run aground. But we must get to Pons Aelius as soon as we can, you understand?’
The skipper agreed, and took his farewell of his passengers, returning to the stern. Rhoda touched Flaminius’ arm.
‘Don’t feel too bad, honey cake,’ she said. ‘We’re all anxious to get there. But we can afford a delay of a few hours. The governor isn’t going anywhere.’
‘Come back down to the cabin, sir,’ Junius Italicus urged him. ‘You need to get some rest. And get out of the cold, by all the gods.’
Shortly afterwards, they were sitting in the cramped conditions of a cabin that had been given over to them by the skipper. Flaminius drank deep of his wine as the light of the oil lamp flickered crazily back and forth across the cabin as it swung from its chain. How much longer would they have to wait? The sooner they got this over with the better, he thought.
Rhoda asked him about their previous time in Britain.
‘That was a difficult one,’ Flaminius said reflectively. ‘It was then that Londinium was burned. Luckily the procurator’s palace escaped the worst of the fire, or we would have no hope of success today. I uncovered a plot against the province, but Romans were also involved. The procurator of that time was at the heart of the conspiracy.’
Junius Italicus took up the story. ‘Flaminius deserted, after he was attacked by auxiliaries in the procurator’s pay. I didn’t know what was going on myself. I learnt later that he had joined up with the very rebel army that was working against the province!’
‘It’s the best way to vanish,’ Flaminius said, ‘if you can pull it off. But in the meantime I joined the auxiliaries at a fort some way along the Wall. Gauls, they were being suborned to join the rebel army, which was gathering in the mountains of the Ordovices. The druids were at the back of it…’
‘The Archdruid? The one who you flung over the side?’ Rhoda asked.
But Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t believe there was any connection,’ he said. ‘Corvus, the procurator, was descended from Gaulish druids, who went underground long ago. I don’t know if they had any links with distant Caledonia. There was a druidic prophecy of a Gaulish empire, it seems…’
‘But they chose Britain as the place to begin their uprising,’ Junius Italicus added. ‘It was from Britain that the druids first came.’
‘Romans and druids, working together,’ Rhoda mused. She shivered. ‘It’s a horrible thought. But isn’t that what happened before? In Caledonia?’
Flaminius nodded. ‘Falco did a deal with the Archdruid, it’s true. I’d never thought there could be a connection. I should have asked the Archdruid….’
‘But how did you, a Roman citizen, join the Gaulish auxiliaries, and then penetrate the conspiracy?’ Rhoda asked.
‘I had help,’ Flaminius admitted. ‘You should know the virtues of a good disguise. You must remember you asked me about this marking when you saw it.’ He pulled down his tunic top to show the barbaric blue tattoo pricked into his chest. ‘Not all the Britons are opposed to Rome. There was one who assisted me... A girl.’ He broke off.
Rhoda snorted. ‘I might have known,’ she said with a laugh.
‘I thought I’d never have a chance to see her again,’ Flaminius mused. ‘I thought I’d never return to Britain again. And now I’m here, I’ve been so taken up with my work I never thought of her until now.’ He turned to Junius Italicus. ‘Tell me, whatever became of Drustica of the Carvetti?’
Although the first light of dawn was glimmering in through the hatch, the commissary centurion had been dozing. He started and shook himself, then asked Flaminius to repeat his question. When the tribune did, he grunted, and scratched himself meditatively.
‘Oh, her. I remember you two were close,’ he said with a leer. ‘No, I’ve not heard from her in a while, sir. Lost touch after I was kicked out of Britain, same time as you were. When I was working a desk job in the Peregrine Camp, I read a few of her reports. But she’s not had much to do with the Commissary recently, as far as I know, although at one point she was one of our top civilian agents. Word was she got married…’
— 24—
Pons Aelius, Province of Britain, 15th June 125 AD
As dawn rose in the east, suffusing the heather with its lurid red light, the tribesmen tightened the girth straps of their ponies, checked their equipment, placed helmets firmly on heads and gripped spears and shields in gauntleted hands. Guiding their mounts with their knees, they trotted from the grove across the heather towards the cracked old trackway.
Publia crouched over her horse’s neck, willing the stallion to gallop faster. They had come so far, they were almost there. The road to vengeance had been long and winding, more a native trackway than a Roman road. Great injustices had been committed against her people by the man they hoped to find within the fort that loomed on the skyline.
The fight would be savage, many of the tribesmen would die. Roman subjects and citizens would die. She felt more than a little pang at this. But she knew that the result would justify any evil. She had learnt that during her time within the empire. But now she was outside it, beyond the massive abutments that marked the end of civilisation. And barbarians rode with her.
Men had gone hunting the night before, and now the carcase of a deer hung on poles between two horses. As the troop rode up onto the trackway, the riders of these two galloped forwards until they rode between Publia and her companion, who wore Quintus’ red cloak.
‘The guards will see that our expeditions has been a successful one,’ she remarked, ‘even if we don’t bring back the promised quarry.’
They rode up the trackway, their ponies finding the going easier now, and soon the Wall filled the entire horizon. The early morning sun glanced from the armour of men on the parapet of the fort, flashing like lightning until Publia had to turn her gaze away. But onwards she rode, undeterred.
Theodoricus yawned, and stretched as well as his armour allowed him. It had been a long night, and now that it was morning he was tired and aching, and hoped only for the relief guard. Would they never come? Despite the morning sunlight, he was chilled to the bone after a night on the parapet. From time to time he and Egbertus had marched a short way up and down the Wall. More
than once one had covered for the other while his comrade snatched a few minutes sleep while leaning against his spear.
The night had been silent but for the sough of the wind amongst the heather. It was as if nothing lived beyond the Wall, as if it was some spectral land of death of the kind his people told legends of, back home. It had swallowed up Tribune Quintus and his woman, that much was for sure. He and the men he had taken with him on his ill-fated and ill-advised ride…
‘What’s that?’ said Egbertus urgently, leaning forwards. Theodoricus started from his reverie, and glanced at his comrade in puzzlement. The auxiliary peered out from between two crenellations as if he had seen something out there. Theodoricus felt a chill hand of foreboding. Were the Caledonians massing against them? Had the attack come at last?
But when he followed Egbertus’ gaze, his heart leapt.
Riding up the track through the heather was a troop of auxiliary cavalrymen. At their head were two riders, a man in a red cloak, and a woman. And behind them two auxiliaries rode, bearing between their mounts the carcase of a deer!
He leant his spear against the parapet and slapped Egbertus on the back. ‘They’re back,’ he said. ‘Quintus has come back!’
Egbertus gave him an appraising look. ‘You thought he wouldn’t return?’ He was beaming. ‘Of course Tribune Quintus has come back. When the governor hears of this, he will gather his cohorts to march north to the site of the Ninth Legion’s slaughter, and build the shrine he vowed to their shades.’
‘And if the gods smile upon us poor troopers,’ Theodoricus said with a laugh, ‘he’ll leave us behind to man the fort.’
Egbertus laughed in return. Both men felt a shadow lift from their souls. Partly it was relief at seeing Quintus return when it seemed that he had been murdered somewhere in the darkness north of the Wall. Partly it was in anticipation that the governor would depart and their sleepy posting would return to its slumber. But also they felt a strange joy that the superiority of the Romans had once again been proved.
The Londinium File Page 18