Quintus had ridden out on a seemingly rash hunting expedition, but now he had returned. And so Rome would triumph wherever she went in the world. It would not be long before all Caledonia had been reconquered, the Wall given up as a frontier, and Rome would rule this island from shore to shore…
‘Come on, trooper,’ said Egbertus as the riders drew closer. ‘We’d better go down and open the gate.’
The wooden steps boomed to their sandaled feet as they trotted back down to the ground level of the gatehouse. Here they propped their spears against the side of the arch and Theodoricus and Egbertus both lifted up the massive bolt that locked the ‘in’ gate, then put their backs into opening the two doors.
The reek of moorland filtered in, a peaty miasma of corruption, redolent of dank bogs and murky streams. But with it came the light of day, illuminating the interior of the gatehouse for the first time since Quintus rode north.
At last the doors rumbled to a stop. Revealed in the open archway was a view of the moors rolling towards the horizon, desolate and dark. Galloping triumphantly up the track towards them, armour glittering in the light, were the auxiliary horsemen.
The clatter of hoofs on the broken stones of the track grew louder, a drumming like the pounding of blood in Theodoricus’ ears. As the riders drew closer, Egbertus picked up his spear and stepped outside.
‘Just a formality, sir,’ he called up to the cloaked rider at the head of the troop. ‘But can you give me the password?’
A sword flashed in the sunlight. Blood sprayed from Egbertus’ throat as the crimson cloaked rider cut him down.
Seeing that the cloaked man’s bearded face was the face of a stranger, Theodoricus turned to run, to sound the alarm, but as he did so, Publia galloped past him. Her sword flashed once in the sunlight as it sliced straight through his neck.
Leaving the carcase of the deer lying beside the dead troopers, the tribesmen galloped under the massive arch of the gatehouse, bursting out into the fort beyond, brandishing lances and longswords as they thundered into the light…
The fort was aligned on a north-south axis. Like everything built by the Romans, its construction was very precise. Due south of the gatehouse, a neat gravel street led between three rows of barracks blocks, straight up to the headquarters building, which the auxiliary prefect had yielded up to the visiting governor.
The street was quiet at the time of the morning, with only a few auxiliaries on their way to take up guard duty on the wall. Seeing the horsemen riding through the gate, they made the same mistake as the troopers on the gate.
‘Tribune Quintus!’ shouted one. ‘The tribune returns from his hunting!’
A spear whistled through the air. For an instant it jutted from his chest, thrumming, almost as if he had grown a new limb. Then he spread his arms akimbo and fell flat on his back.
‘Attack!’ shouted another auxiliary, turning to run. ‘We’re under attack…!’
His words were cut off as Publia rode him down.
Other auxiliaries were visible on the parapets of the fort, gathering around the gatehouses to left and right, on a line with the headquarters. They stared at the scene of confusion in horror. Without awaiting orders, they began to rain the street with arrows. But they succeeded only in hitting semi-armoured auxiliaries as they ran out of their barracks in response to the shouts of alarm.
More armoured figures appeared from the headquarters building. They stopped in their tracks on seeing horsemen racing down the street, cutting down men on either hand, spitting them on lances, or trampling them beneath their horses’ hoofs.
One of the newcomers, a tall, scarred centurion with a grim face, barked; ‘Mutiny! It’s a mutiny! They auxiliaries are in league with the druids again, I’ll wager. Call out the guard!’
Men of the Sixth Legion flooded out of the barracks south of the headquarters building. Many had served in Britain during the rebellion of the Gaulish auxiliaries when Londinium had gone up in flames. Only a protracted campaign, which delayed the construction of the Wall for several months, had successfully put down the mutiny. The legionaries attacked any auxiliaries they saw.
Already combatting what they took to be their own comrades, the Germanic auxiliaries of the fort found themselves fighting on two fronts now that the Roman legionaries were also attacking. Confusion grew as Germans attacked Romans. Someone set fire to one of the barracks blocks. Thick choking black smoke began to billow into the air.
Inside the headquarters building, a tall man in a senator’s toga sat behind his desk, listening calmly to the garbled report of a youth in tribune’s uniform.
Aulus Platorius Nepos liked to cultivate that old fashioned Roman gravitas for which his fellow citizens had once been famous. He looked on in unspoken disgust at the pimply youth of eighteen who sprayed spittle as he spoke, and reminded himself that he had been a young tribune once in his career.
He held up a hand for quiet. ‘Enough, tribune,’ he rasped.
Rising, he went to the stand where hung a silvered cuirass and a military belt from which hung a short sword. He clicked a finger at a legionary orderly who stood to attention by the door, and the man hastened over to help the governor armour himself.
‘Even over your frenzied gabbling, tribune, I can hear that the fort is in a state of conflict. Let us get to the point. You say that the auxiliaries are mutinying?’
‘Yes sir!’ said the young tribune. ‘I didn’t see how it began, but there are cavalry fighting in the Decuman Way. And other auxiliaries are fighting men of the Sixth outside this very building, sir!’
The orderly had finished strapping the governor into his armour, and now Platorius Nepos himself took up his helmet from where it sat on the desk and put it on. The orderly fussed with the chin strap but the governor struck his hand away. ‘Let a man put on his own helmet,’ he growled.
‘Sir!’ said the tribune urgently.
‘What is it, man?’
‘What do we do, sir? We’ll be murdered by them!’
Platorius Nepos tightened the chin strap, half drew his sword from the sheath, then thrust it back in with a satisfying rasp.
‘Do?’ he said in a voice to match. ‘Why, we will do what we did when the auxiliaries rose up against us last time.’ Most of the Gaulish troops had been replaced by Thracians and Germans—men with no connections with the druidic culture of Britain. ‘We will punish them, young man. We will punish them.’
The door burst open and in hurried another frightened figure, a portly man with a cast in one eye, clad in the toga and wearing the silver ring of a man of the Equestrian Order.
‘Governor!’ bawled Titus Sidonius Placidus, procurator of the province of Britain. ‘Men are fighting outside! Are the barbarians at our very gates? I demand an explanation! Had I known that conditions would be so bad I would never have joined you on this expedition! The Wall is finished, you told this office. Well, sir, I find that the Wall is by no means complete, despite having repeatedly exceeded its budget! And now it seems that it is inefficient, too! It is supposed to protect us from the barbarians, and… look!’
He pointed dramatically out of the door. In the marble walled hall beyond, legionaries and mutinous auxiliaries were fighting savagely. As they watched, several men broke free from the fight and ran towards them.
Sidonius Placidus gave a high pitched shriek.
The skipper brought them in at the turn of the tide, and the galley entered the estuary to find it quiet at that time of the morning. The oars rose and fell with a chorus of splashes as the rowers guided them upstream. On either bank the land was as desolate as the moorland north of the Wall, with occasional stands of trees.
From time to time, stone walled settlements came into sight, belonging to the native Brigantian people, surrounded by stone walled fields where goats or cattle grazed or crops grew. The landscape was placid, but Flaminius felt nothing but bleak despair.
Drustica had found herself a husband. This news had brought on a black m
ood, blacker than he had felt since he found Probus’ charred remains in the ruins of the House of the Satyr. He remembered Probus’ own words. If she truly loves you, she’ll wait…
But she hadn’t waited. She had never loved him. Those years in Egypt that he had spent dreaming of her… it had all been meaningless. A hollow illusion.
As the river led into the interior, winding first one way, then another, Junius Italicus joined him in the bow. ‘Another half hour and we’ll be at Pons Aelius,’ he said. ‘It will be a short walk up the hill to the fort. After that…’
‘After that, we stand a good chance of learning who is at the back of all this,’ said Flaminius. ‘This ring’—and he brandished it meaningfully—‘with the key upon it is the key to unlock the mystery.’
Junius Italicus gave a heavy sigh. ‘Only if we can get our hands on the original documentation. The procurator may be able to help. But we must get past the governor first, and for all we know the records were burnt in the rebel attack, when the procurator’s palace was fired.’
Flaminius pounded his fist into his palm, glaring out at the passing waters. ‘They’d better not have been,’ he muttered. ‘Otherwise we’re finished. And Probus will never be exonerated.’
The galley rounded a headland. The river’s broad waters flowed between hills on either side. Spanning the river was a wooden bridge. From it a stone road wound up the hillside, heading towards the gatehouse of a fort that dominated the entire area.
It should have been a reassuring sight; a tangible reminder of Rome’s power in the province. But as the oars splashed and the galley drew closer, Flaminius saw a pillar of thick black smoke towering from the centre of the fort, and down the drifting wind floated the distant clash of arms and the roar of embattled men.
Book Four—The Londinium File
— 25—
Pons Aelius, Province of Britain, 15th June 125 AD
The auxiliary attacked.
As Sidonius Placidus sprang clumsily backwards, inadvertently stepping on a fold of his cloak, the young tribune thrust himself in the way, his short sword flashing in the light from the hall. The clash of blade on blade rang out in the confined space of the governor’s office.
Sidonius Placidus fell flat on his back. As steel clashed above his head, the procurator crawled to the shelter of the desk. Here Platorius Nepos stood, coldly watching the fight between the tribune and the auxiliary like an emperor at the Colosseum. Now the orderly had joined them, reinforcing the tribune with his own sword.
‘Get up, man,’ Platorius Nepos growled impatiently. ‘You look ridiculous.’
The governor was not looking at Sidonius Placidus but it was clear who he was addressing. Holding onto the marble topped table for support, the procurator rose shamefacedly to his feet, dusting down his toga.
‘Something must be done,’ he said breathlessly. ‘You should call your guards!’
The auxiliary fell to a sword thrust from the orderly. But the young tribune was also down, sitting with his back against the wall, looking in incredulity at the bloodstained hand he held to his chest. He lifted his head and looked for the governor.
‘Sir,’ he breathed. ‘I need a med…’
He vomited blood and his head rolled back to rest against the wall, his sight-dimmed eyes staring accusingly at the doorway, where the orderly stood astraddle the dead auxiliary. More men were advancing through the hall. From the courtyard outside echoed the clamour of more fighting.
‘My guards are already busy.’ The governor looked about him. ‘We’re boxed in here. Placidus, old fellow, go to that window and see if you can see any hope of escape.’
He drew his sword and went to join the orderly in the doorway. Trembling, Sidonius Placidus crossed over to the window and rubbed at the thick green glass in an attempt to see outside. It gave a murky view of the street, as if the fort outside were under the sea, and all he could see were blurred, fighting figures. Auxiliaries on horseback seemed to be riding down armoured legionaries.
Blades rang out again from the doorway. The governor and his orderly fighting desperately as several more mutineers tried to force their way inside. The procurator looked round the room for any escape route. On one wall stood a door, but that that only communicated with his own office, where his files and records were stored during this visit to the Wall. He had known it would turn out to be a foolish idea, but now he regretted keeping his premonitions to himself.
The whole fort was a scene of conflict and carnage. But what had set these auxiliaries off? He had heard tales of the last revolt in Britain—rumour said that it had all been orchestrated by his predecessor, although that was clearly nonsense! Anyway, those had rebels been Gaulish auxiliaries, whipped up by the druids. These men were Cugernians, German. The Cugernians had been made Roman citizens for their services to the City!
The orderly had fallen to another sword thrust. Now Platorius Nepos stood alone, swinging his sword to block the thrusts of attacker after attacker. The procurator looked on in hopeless horror.
‘Help me, damn you,’ Platorius Nepos roared. He was bleeding from a score of cuts, although two dead auxiliaries lay at his feet. Yet more were coming in waves, intent on cutting down the defiant governor. ‘Get the tribune’s sword.’
Waddling to his side the procurator picked up the fallen weapon. Holding it warily between nerveless fingers he came to stand by the governor’s side. It was many years since he had served in the legions—he had been a young and acne ridden tribune, much like the youth who sat dead or dying beside them. But he still remembered what it was to grip a sword.
An auxiliary lunged at the governor, and then he was there, between them, his blade clashing with that of the attacker. The impact thrilled up his arm, and the rebel looked at him in surprise. He could hardly be as surprised as Sidonius Placidus himself, but the procurator lifted his sword manfully and swung it at the auxiliary, who stumbled backwards, tripping over a fallen body, and fell back into the crowd of blood hungry mutineers.
‘My thanks, procurator,’ Platorius Nepos cried. In the doorway, the enemy could only come at them two at a time, but it was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed. ‘I’ll remember you in my report.’
‘My thanks, governor,’ Sidonius Placidus panted, blocking a cut from the auxiliary who had come to replace the last one. ‘But I fear that we have both written our last reports. Your notion of seeking escape routes was a fine one…’
‘Did you find any?’ asked Platorius Nepos grimly, fighting as he spoke.
Sidonius Placidus shook his head, not looking at the governor. He cut at his opponent, wounding him in the thigh, just beneath his mail. ‘Even if we smashed down the window, we would find ourselves amongst more enemies.’
He glared at the man he was fighting. ‘Why are you attacking us?’ he gasped. ‘Why this treachery?’
He barely parried the savage cut that was the man’s only answer.
‘Someone has put them up to this.’ Platorius Nepos stabbed the man. As the rebel auxiliary fell, another forced his way forwards to take his place.
‘We attack Romans because Romans attacked us!’ growled the German.
Thin lipped, the governor shook his head. The auxiliaries crowded round the entrance as Platorius Nepos spoke calmly to the auxiliary.
‘That is not true,’ he said firmly. ‘The attack came from nowhere.’
‘You attacked first,’ the auxiliary said, and several men nodded their heads. ‘We heard fighting so we ran out. Cavalrymen were fighting Romans. Then the Romans set upon us.’
‘I saw cavalry outside,’ Sidonius Placidus contributed. ‘In the Decuman Way.’
Platorius Nepos hesitated. ‘That young fool Quintus took a detachment of cavalry when he went on this absurd hunting expedition…’
At the sound of renewed fighting from the main doors he broke off. The auxiliaries turned to look and Sidonius Placidus saw that they were under attack from the courtyard, but from his position in t
he doorway it was impossible to see who else was attacking.
The German snarled. ‘You tricked us while your men crept up on us!’ he shouted.
He lunged at Platorius Nepos. Sidonius Placidus looked on, frozen with fear, as the governor leapt back, then returned the thrust with one of his own. With a gurgling cry the German dropped to the corpse littered ground.
But his comrades were out in the courtyard now, and they were fighting. Sidonius Placidus saw the silver glitter of legionary armour. He turned to the governor.
‘Rescue!’ he panted, dashing the sweat from his brow.
Platorius Nepos grunted. ‘Don’t be too sure, procurator.’ With distaste he regarded the bodies that littered the hall. ‘From what that man said, this may all be a terrible mistake. There’s more to it than meets the eye, to be sure.’
Going to the doors of the hall, Sidonius Placidus watched the fight in the courtyard. The ring of blade on blade deafened him. The rank coppery stink of blood turned his stomach. He had seen no active service during his time in the legions, and indeed his only experience of violent death was in the arena, where it all happened at a safe distance. The whole fort was the scene of fierce fighting. It was as if the world had returned to the chaos from which it had once risen.
At last the legionaries were triumphant; no living auxiliaries were to be seen. Stepping across the corpses came the sturdy, comforting sight of Camillus Marcellinus, Camp Prefect of the Sixth Legion, who had accompanied the governor and procurator on the journey north. He was a stolid, bluff, no-nonsense man, and although his speech was crude and he showed little appreciation of art and literature, Sidonius Placidus had come to respect him as a man. Platorius Nepos and the procurator came to meet him, but even as they did, the sound of battle still roared outside.
The governor shook the man’s massive paw. ‘My thanks, Camp Prefect,’ he said. ‘It seems we are besieged. Have your men fortify the building and we will find some way to put down this rebellion.’
The Londinium File Page 19