The Londinium File

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘Sir.’ Camillus Marcellinus saluted and turned away, issuing orders. In no time the entrances to the headquarters were barricaded and guarded.

  They were joined in the courtyard by some of Sidonius Placidus’ civilian staff who had been hiding in rooms off the colonnade, and the procurator spoke encouragingly to them and told them to prepare for their own defence, while brandishing the bloody sword in his hand like a true hero of Rome. Even as he did so, men on horseback tried to force their way in through the northern archway.

  But the attack was soon repulsed, and a quiet settled on the fort. The headquarters was surrounded by mutinous auxiliaries, mounted and on foot, but an impasse had developed. Platorius Nepos beckoned Sidonius Placidus and Camillus Marcellinus to his side.

  ‘We’ve given them a bloody nose,’ the governor told them with a bark of laughter. ‘But we are now prisoners in our own headquarters. The mutineers hold the fort. They surround us.’

  ‘We have supplies for a short siege,’ said Sidonius Placidus, who had obtained the information from his clerks. Speaking with a new tone of authority, he went on. ‘Food and medicine and bandages are to hand. However, the mutineers have the granaries in the fort outside, and they also control the barracks and the armoury.’

  ‘Then we sit tight,’ said the governor. ‘They won’t starve us out for some days, and some of us have extra reserves to draw on,’ he added, with an offensive grin directed at Sidonius Placidus’ gut.

  The Camp Prefect grunted. ‘We can’t stand for this,’ he said. ‘We must cut our way out.’

  ‘We are outnumbered,’ the procurator murmured. ‘And some miles from Corstopitum[15], the nearest fort of any size. What’s more, we have no way of communicating with said fort. We’ve taught them to respect us, and they are now licking their wounds. But so are we. Fellow citizens, I fear that the only option open to us is for us to begin negotiations.’

  Platorius Nepos exchanged a sour look with Camillus Marcellinus.

  ‘Ask them what they want?’ he said. ‘And what if they want your head on a pole, procurator? Will you be so willing to negotiate then? I agree with the Camp Prefect; we cut our way out.’

  ‘The procurator’s right, sir,’ Camillus Marcellinus said, ‘when he says that we’re heavily outnumbered. But reinforcements aren’t as far away as you think,’ he told Sidonius Placidus. ‘There’s a whole century of the Sixth down there on the riverbank. If you remember, due to an administrative error there wasn’t enough room for them to be barracked within the fort so they have been camped there, waiting to escort you two gentlemen back south.’

  ‘How can we hope to contact them?’ Sidonius Placidus asked, stung by the man’s reference to “administrative error”. ‘Down on the riverbank is as far away as Parthia as long as these mutineers surround us. Surely we should seek to negotiate. If we can find out what brought on this mutiny, we can make some token gesture of placating them. And then when they are less wary, we can bring in the reinforcements and crush them between hammer and anvil…’

  ‘Perhaps you have a point, procurator,’ admitted the governor. ‘You show a good grasp of tactics for a desk man. And I would indeed be interested to learn what brought on the attack. What’s more, I want to know what has happened to Quintus. Have I lost two tribunes today?’

  ‘According to the reports, more than one Roman has been seen with the mutineers,’ said Camillus Marcellinus, who had been conferring with a legionary. ‘Two of them, both on horseback. One is a woman. The man wears the uniform of a tribune.’

  Platorius Nepos looked horrified. ‘Quintus—a traitor?’

  ‘The man who went on this hunting trip into Caledonia? And his woman?’ The procurator remembered the banquet when the tribune had made his rash boast. ‘Is this Quintus leading the attack? But why has he chosen to side himself with the rebels?’

  He remembered Quintus’ woman; she’d made for a refreshingly fragrant change in the ultra-masculine world of the camp. Few men had even camp followers accompanying them—Sidonius Placidus had certainly not brought his own wife, leaving the sour old prune in Londinium—and Roman women of any kind were few in these parts.

  Platorius Nepos scratched his head. ‘He rode out into the heather on a hunting trip. Then he returned at the head of a force of attackers. Has he made some deal with the barbarians? It’s unthinkable, quite inconceivable. I know the fellow’s father! He’s from a good Equestrian family. Had a chance to join the Senate one of these days. Has the fool thrown it all away to side with barbarians?’

  ‘As you say, sir,’ said Camillus Marcellinus, ‘it’s unthinkable.’

  ‘Utterly unthinkable,’ the governor agreed, ‘but now I very much want to speak with him. Centurion, take a party and contact the mutineers. Tell them that we wish to negotiate.’

  He clicked his fingers and another orderly hurried forward to set a camp stool down behind him. Sidonius Placidus looked at him curiously as he sat down on it and mopped his brow. He seemed shaken by the news.

  The procurator looked about frostily. One of his clerks caught his eye, rushed inside and returned bearing another stool. Sidonius Placidus sat down facing the governor. ‘This puts a new complexion on the matter,’ he said. ‘What can be the explanation for this reckless action on the part of your subordinate?’ He was glad none of his own clerks had thrown in his lot with the barbarians. ‘Why should he make such an attack?’ he added when Platorius Nepos made no immediate reply. ‘What do you suppose happened to him when he went north of the Wall?’

  Platorius Nepos looked up. ‘Procurator,’ he addressed him in a voice that grated. ‘You—and I—will learn the answer to that when the Camp Prefect returns to tell us that negotiations have been opened with the mutineers. For the moment, however, I would take it as a personal favour if you could cease from troubling me.’

  Stung, Sidonius Placidus diverted his energies into bullying his own subordinates.

  — 26—

  The moment the gangplank was lowered, Flaminius ran down, landing deftly on the muddy river bank. The galley had moored in the lea of the bridge; the gangplank banged again behind him while he turned to get his bearings, and Junius Italicus tramped down to join him. After him darted the slight figure of Rhoda.

  ‘Get back aboard,’ Flaminius told the girl, gesturing to the crewmen watching from the side of the ship. ‘We don’t know what’s happening up in that fort, but it’s going to be dangerous.’ Her skills in disguise would be of no use here.

  ‘You think that worries me?’ Rhoda said spiritedly. ‘I grew up in the gutters of Rome. I’ve seen death many a time.’

  ‘Have you ever seen battle?’ Flaminius asked. ‘Armoured men in their multitudes, hacking and cutting at each other? Not a pretty sight…’

  ‘Sir,’ Junius Italicus interrupted. ‘The fighting seems to have stopped.’

  The fort betrayed no signs of the combat they had heard earlier, apart from the column of black smoke towering into the sky. Was this a lull in the fighting, or had one side or other triumphed? And if so, which side?

  ‘Have the Caledonians annihilated the garrison?’ Flaminius muttered.

  ‘If so,’ said Junius Italicus, ‘the governor and the procurator will be dead too. At the very least they must be prisoners, sir. We’ll have no luck in finding the answer to the riddle now. For all we know, that’s the procurator’s archive gone up in smoke.’

  ‘Ever the optimist, centurion,’ Flaminius began acerbically, but Rhoda interrupted.

  ‘Sweetness,’ she said, ‘Look!’

  An encampment stood beside the road that ran down from the Praetorian Gate of the fort. A group of legionaries stood outside their tents, gazing nervously up at the fort.

  At a shout from the galley Flaminius turned to see the skipper standing at the top of the gangplank. ‘Will you be needing us any longer?’ he bellowed. ‘If not, we’ll sail south to Londinium.’

  Flaminius pointed commandingly at him. ‘Remain at anchor,’ he shouted
back, ‘but haul up the gangplank. We may need a quick getaway. If we show no signs of returning by the end of the day, you have my permission to sail to Hades or wherever you like.’

  He turned on his heel, and led his two companions up the roadway. Spotting a centurion standing with his crested helmet under one arm, he marched up to him and gave him a salute.

  ‘Centurion, are you not going to the aid of your comrades?’

  The centurion turned in surprise. He looked Flaminius up and down, lingering superciliously on his beard and his civilian clothes. ‘We have no orders to enter the fort,’ he said dogmatically. But Flaminius could see from his eyes that he was concerned by the fighting.

  ‘You do now,’ Flaminius told him. ‘Muster your men and advance on the fort immediately.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the centurion said, stressing the honorific, ‘but I don’t take orders from civilians. Even if you’re on the procurator’s staff, it would be highly irregular. May I see your credentials?’

  ‘It’s alright, soldier,’ said Junius Italicus, joining them with Rhoda at his elbow. ‘This man is with me.’ He showed his fellow centurion his insignia.

  ‘You’re an imperial courier?’ asked the centurion. ‘We have no mounts, if that is what you require. We’re obliged to feed you, of course, if you want any of the slop they dole out to my men...’

  ‘I’m in the Commissary,’ Junius Italicus said, ‘Thirteenth Legion. You and your men will place yourself under my command.’

  The centurion saluted him resentfully and stood to attention. ‘Your orders, sir?’ he asked, eyes forward.

  ‘Do as my companion tells you,’ Junius Italicus said. ‘This is Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus, late of Egypt.’

  ‘Yessir,’ said the centurion. ‘You commissary types certainly get about.’ He shot Rhoda a disbelieving look, as if he was trying to figure out where she fitted in. Then he turned and stamped away to bellow at his men.

  As the legionaries formed up into ranks, shields clutched in their left hands, javelins in their right, Flaminius grinned at Junius Italicus. ‘Late is the word, centurion,’ he said. ‘Technically, I’m no longer in the Commissary.’

  Junius Italicus laughed. ‘If our enemies had their way, I’d have had my insignia stripped from me as well,’ he said. ‘My life too, perhaps.’

  A group of legionaries began felling a tree that grew beside the camp. Rhoda sighed impatiently. ‘Are these the invincible Roman legions?’ she asked. ‘We need to find out what’s going on in the fort. If the Caledonians have taken the procurator prisoner, we have to set him free if we’re ever to stand a chance of learning who gave the order for Probus’ murder.’

  Junius Italicus laughed. ‘If you want efficiency, you need patience,’ he said. Already the legionaries were standing ready. ‘Very good, centurion. March on the fort. Be ready for any attack. The Caledonians have seized it. They may well come out to meet us.’

  But as they marched uphill, the fort brooded in an eerie hush. Still the smoke billowed into the sky. Was everyone dead? Had both sides slain each other? Were they advancing on a fort manned only by the slain? No guards were to be seen on the parapet. The gates were shut. The fort was silent. But if one side or another had triumphed, why was there no sign of life? Why had no effort been made to douse the flames? Would the fort be allowed to burn down, records and all?

  The tramp of the legionaries’ booted feet echoed back from the dumb, unspeaking walls. Now the crenellations resembled the teeth of a dead man, hungry for life.

  A shadow settled on Flaminius’ spirit. What awaited them beyond those fast shut gates? Would they meet resistance? Or would they find that Platorius Nepos and his men had crushed what must have been a surprise attack by the Caledonians? That was the only explanation; how else would they have succeeded in storming the fort?

  Had they already known that both the governor and the procurator were present? It would be an incredible coincidence if the Caledonians had attacked this fort of all forts at precisely the moment that the two most powerful men in the province were present. If so, how had the barbarian tribesmen happened upon that classified little titbit of intelligence?

  Grimly, he remembered the Archdruid and his subordinates. Had they tortured the truth from some captive, as they had attempted to do with him? Killing that man had been the best thing Flaminius had done in recent days. If their intelligence gathering was of such a high standard, they would pose a terrible threat to Rome. But was it possible? Everything he had heard and seen suggested that the Caledonians as a people were divided, embattled, too busy battling each other to ride against Rome.

  The wind moaned as they reached the top of the hill; the walls stood before them. All was still and silent. At a word from Flaminius, Junius Italicus called a halt.

  All that was audible was the sigh of the wind and the distant crackle of flame. The smell of burning wood hung rank in the air. But there was nothing else… or was there?

  ‘I hear people talking,’ said Rhoda suddenly.

  Flaminius turned to her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There are people in there. But are they Romans or are they Caledonians?’

  ‘We’ll never find that out waiting out here,’ said Junius Italicus. ‘We need to open those doors. Centurion,’ he turned to his fellow officer, ‘we want that gate broken down.’

  The centurion saluted, and gave orders to his men, and those who had marched at the back, carrying the tree they had felled down by the riverside, advanced towards the gate.

  Silence fell as their marching feet faded into the distance. The walls were quiet, without a sign of life. Or… was there?

  Out of the corner of his eye, Flaminius thought he saw a face peering at him from between two crenellations. But when he turned to look in that direction, the mysterious watcher had vanished like a dream.

  Rhoda giggled. ‘It will be a surprise for the governor when he finds his own legionaries smashing down his gates.’

  ‘That’s a chance we’ll have to take,’ said Flaminius. ‘If Platorius Nepos sees either Junius Italicus or me, he won’t be pleased—whether we’ve smashed his gates down or not.’ He raised his voice as the impromptu battering ram slammed into the left hand gate. The gate shook but did not give. ‘But it seems more likely that we’ll find him dead and the Caledonians in control.’

  ‘In which case, why are we breaking in if all we’re going to find is trouble?’ Rhoda demanded.

  Before Flaminius could answer, arrows began raining down from the parapet.

  ‘You have us at an advantage,’ Platorius Nepos rasped. ‘Very well. Let us hear your demands.’

  He and the procurator stood in the main entrance to the courtyard, surrounded by legionaries. Out on the gravel streets the rebel auxiliaries sat their ponies, gazing down grimly from beneath burnished bronze helmets. Little could be seen of their savage faces, but Platorius Nepos did not think they were the Thracians who had accompanied him to this fort.

  Sitting her horse in the vanguard, however, was a familiar female figure, bearing an unsheathed and bloodied sword in one hand. On Publia’s either hand were riders who bore javelins, ready to cast them at any wrong move from the Romans. Platorius Nepos had paid little attention to the camp followers of his officers. The woman had only ever distinguished herself at the recent feast where she had taunted Tribune Quintus until the fool took up her challenge. Nevertheless, now he looked at her, she seemed strangely familiar…

  He should have forbidden the hunting expedition, he realised now, but at the time it had seemed like an opportunity: if one of his men could go hunting in the lands north of the Wall and return successful, it would serve to strengthen his case for a military expedition into Caledonia.

  The legates of the three legions in Britain, the Sixth, the Twentieth, and the Second, had advised against the plan, arguing that the Caledonian tribes were by no means quiescent, and it would be a waste of valuable life if they were to march into the North—foolish, argued the grizzled legat
e of the Sixth, to honour the shades of the Ninth by throwing away more legions.

  ‘We have no demands,’ came the woman’s shrill voice, ‘except that you surrender yourself and your headquarters immediately.’

  Sidonius Placidus gave Platorius Nepos a nervous titter. ‘They outnumber us, of course. Accept their demands and perhaps they will let us live.’

  ‘Live?’ Platorius Nepos hissed back. ‘Live for what? You think you will have any kind of career left if this gets out? Don’t be a fool.’

  ‘I, a fool?’ Sidonius Placidus cackled disbelievingly. ‘You can’t see when you’re beaten, governor.’

  Platorius Nepos gave a disparaging shake of his head. ‘We will not accept unconditional surrender,’ he told Publia sternly. ‘We are Romans. I understood that you, too, are a Roman, even if you are a woman. Why have you sold us out to the barbarians?’

  ‘Surrender your headquarters to us,’ she told him, ‘and we will consider sparing your lives.’

  ‘You see, governor?’ hissed Sidonius Placidus. ‘They can see reason. Why can’t you?’

  Platorius Nepos ignored him. He studied the auxiliary horsemen. ‘What of Tribune Quintus? I thought I saw him riding with you. Does he also demand unconditional surrender? I would speak with him.’

  There was a man near the back of the troop who wore a long red cloak. ‘Is that you, lad?’ he called, pointing at him. ‘Trot forward. I would speak to you. I know your father, and it is as a father I would speak.’

  But Quintus, if it was he, would not ride forwards. ‘Enough of this,’ Publia said. ‘We would seek to minimise the bloodshed. Surely you are not blind, governor. Our capture of this fort has resulted in numerous fatalities.’

  ‘You ride with barbarians, woman,’ Platorius Nepos said impatiently. ‘You must anticipate casualties. You may be a Roman, woman, but those you associate with are barbarians. Caledonians, if I’m not mistaken. They would slaughter us as they slaughtered the Ninth Legion.’