The Londinium File

by Gavin Chappell

  Besides, they were under attack from cavalry. He was no military man, but he knew that infantry, even Roman legionaries, could not hope to prevail long against mounted opponents. It was futile even to try.

  His head lolled back against the paving stones.

  The riders met the legionaries halfway down the street. Flaminius recognised them as auxiliaries, carrying the shields of Thracian cavalry. For a fleeting instant, he felt a heart wrenching nostalgia for the Frisian horsemen he had commanded so long ago—five years, was it? Six?—when first he had come to the province.

  The riders smashed into the advancing legionaries and instantly it was a scene of slaughter. Armoured men fell, trampled beneath hoofs. The legionaries no longer carried javelins, only short swords and daggers, and the combination of these and shields was little defence against the wild riders. Flaminius, unarmoured, bearing only a sword, was at an even greater disadvantage.

  One of the legionaries cast aside his shield then ran straight at the lead horse, seized the rider’s booted foot as he cut at fleeing legionaries with his longsword, and yanked him sideways. Off balance, the mailed auxiliary scrabbled for a hold on his rearing horse, aimed a clumsy lunge with his sword, bringing it over the horse’s mane as he tried to despatch his attacker, but the attempt itself further unbalanced him and he fell from his saddle, striking the ground hard with his helmeted head.

  The horse screamed and trotted round in circles, trailing its bridle. The legionary ran after it, trying to catch the reins, then fell with a shriek, a javelin buried between his shoulder blades.

  Two more legionaries took on an auxiliary who swung his sword in wild loops on either side, cutting down men on either side. One hacked at his horse’s hamstrings, the other caught his sword blade in his shield, then thrust his own short sword upwards, deep into the man’s thigh, beneath the skirt of his mail. But the auxiliary freed his sword, despite the blood that jetted from his thigh; as his horse went down, frothing with foam at its shrieking mouth, he spitted the first legionary on his longsword; his blade entered his body at the side of his neck and came out beneath his breastplate.

  Flaminius found himself fighting two riders, both wielding longswords. He was at less of a disadvantage than he had thought, also carrying a longsword as he did. But he was still weak from the tortures of the druids, he bled from several serious wounds, and in the cramped conditions of the street it was impossible to fight with any skill.

  He heard the brassy note of a horn. The centurion was sounding the retreat!

  Flaminius was about to follow the withdrawing legionaries when an auxiliary caught him a glancing blow across the chest that sliced open his tunic, leaving a long line of red across his tattooed chest. Bowled over by the force of the blow, he fell back against the door of a barracks block. It burst open under the impact and he fell into the gloom of the room beyond.

  As he lay there, half stunned, galloping horses charged past him. Had the centurion lost his nerve? Or was he withdrawing to a better tactical position? Fighting cavalry in the narrow street was a recipe for disaster. Maybe in the gatehouse they would stand a better chance.

  Flaminius’ groping hand found his fallen sword lying close beside him, and he gripped it for comfort. The street outside was void of living fighters. As he used the sword to help himself to his feet, he saw bodies lying scattered in ungainly attitudes. A dead horse here. Two dead auxiliaries there. Several dead legionaries.

  Each one was dead, some trampled by horse hoofs, others sword slashed and bloody. Looking down the street, he saw the horsemen milling outside the gatehouse, where the surviving legionaries stood at bay. There was no way he could return to his comrades without passing through the ranks of mutineers, and they would hardly permit him to pass them.

  He wondered what Junius Italicus’ reactions might be, how Rhoda was bearing up. He must find a medic, he told himself, and somehow get him to her side.

  He looked in the other direction. Through the billowing smoke he saw the red roof tiles of the headquarters building, from which emanated the distant clash of blade on blade and the blare of shouting voices. It looked like this was no better an option. He would be best advised to remain where he was until he saw an opportunity to join his comrades.

  Absently, he stroked the ring key that he wore on his right hand.

  He had to get to the headquarters. He had to find the procurator’s files. They represented his only hope of clearing Probus’ name and regaining his own position in the Commissary. But going by the thick clouds of smoke, either they had already been burnt or would go up with the fort pretty soon. Unless somebody did something.

  His gaze fell on one of the dead auxiliaries. This one had lost his helmet. And there was something familiar about his appearance.

  Flaminius crouched down beside him, studying the barbaric blue tattoos that swirled around the man’s neck and cheeks. They seemed to confirm his suspicions. This was not a dark bearded, dark eyed Thracian of the kind he remembered from his time as an auxiliary tribune. Nor was it a Frisian, like his old comrade Hrodmar.

  Grimly, Flaminius wondered where the chirpy Frisian had got to. This dead man brought back memories from these days, but he was neither Thracian nor German. He came from this very island, if Flaminius was any expert. And he had made a good study of the tribes and nations of Britain when he was younger.

  ‘A Caledonian?’ he muttered. ‘Disguised as an auxiliary?’

  A thought struck him. He examined the dead man’s tattoos closely. What he saw gave him considerable pause for thought. Here was a mystery indeed. Something was very wrong here.

  He rose. The entire fort resounded with the sound of fighting. It didn’t inspire confidence, but he didn’t seem to have any option. He started walking up the street.

  Sidonius Placidus saw a ragged figure appearing from the smoke that still swirled in the Praetorian Way. He had watched the skirmish between horsemen and legionaries feeling numb, seen the legionaries forced back without feeling anything. Now this apparition materialised, unsheathed sword in his hand, and he began to feel the stirrings of terror.

  Who was he? The man’s hair was wild and unshorn, his beard longer and more ragged than that of a peripatetic philosopher. He walked slowly, wearily, head bowed, as if he bore the very heavens on his shoulders, like the titan in the old myth. And he was heading straight for Sidonius Placidus.

  ‘Please!’ the procurator gasped out. ‘I’m a civilian—a non-combatant! Don’t kill me! I would be worth more to you as a hostage.’

  Flaminius saw a portly man clad in the sooty remnants of an equestrian toga, weak chinned and wide eyed. He had all the looks of a jumped up clerk. Flaminius had met many such in his career.

  ‘I’m not attacking this place,’ he told him. ‘I’m a Roman, like you.’ He helped the man stand.

  ‘From your Latin, I believe you,’ wheezed the man. ‘You didn’t learn to speak it in this dismal outpost of empire. And I can tell that you are not one of these Iberians who have risen under the new emperor. Very well, I shall risk telling you who I am. My name is Sidonius Placidus, procurator of the province.’

  Flaminius laughed harshly. ‘The very man I’m looking for, procurator,’ he said. ‘I expected to find you under different circumstances. What has happened to Pons Aelius?’

  The clamour of fighting came from every side, but here all was peaceful. ‘Mutiny, young man,’ announced the procurator, looking about him as if expecting attack at any moment. ‘I don’t fully understand what has happened, but for some reason a member of the governor’s staff took it into his head to suborn a group of Thracian auxiliaries to attack us…’ As he gave a garbled, confused account of what had happened, Flaminius listened patiently.

  ‘Out into the wilds beyond the Wall?’ he said at last. ‘Into Caledonia?’ Sidonius Placidus nodded vigorously. ‘I examined the corpse of one of the auxiliaries who attacked us in the Praetorian Way,’ Flaminius went on. ‘He was no Thracian. His skin was tattooed w
ith the designs worn by the tribes that live in these parts.’

  ‘A Caledonian?’ The procurator grimaced. ‘That would explain much. It seems that the auxiliaries that Tribune Quintus took with him on his hunting expedition were ambushed by Caledonians, who gained access to the fort under their guise. Then the Germans threw in their lot with the mutineers, perhaps out of simple opportunism. But it does not explain everything…’

  ‘What does it not explain?’ Flaminius asked curiously.

  ‘I saw little sign of Quintus when we were negotiating,’ the procurator mused. ‘There was a man who could have been him, but I never saw his face. The apparent leader of the attackers was his woman.’

  Flaminius looked questioningly at him. ‘His woman? You didn’t mention her. Did she go with him on this hunting trip, then?’

  ‘Did I not tell you? But she was the instigator. A Roman woman, they say, but I doubt she has seen the Seven Hills in her life. They call her...’

  Sidonius Placidus broke off. Flaminius was no longer listening to the procurator. He raised a hand, and the procurator listened. Although the fighting was not over down by the gatehouse, silence had fallen over the headquarters building.

  ‘Is the fight at an end?’ Sidonius Placidus asked, his voice brimming with hope. ‘Have we won?’

  Followed by her tribesmen, Publia swept through the archway into the headquarters building, the bodies of the fallen lining her way. As she came out into the colonnade she saw the courtyard where so much of the fighting had taken place. Surviving legionaries knelt in the dirt, tribesmen stood guard over them.

  In the great hall stood the governor, Platorius Nepos, a wry smile on his face as men in the armour of auxiliaries menaced him with swords. On the mosaic floor lay the huddled form of Camillus Marcellinus. He had fallen while bravely defending his governor. What had happened to Sidonius Placidus he did not know.

  Seeing Publia appear, surrounded by her barbaric coterie, he waited patiently for her approach.

  ‘Governor,’ said Publia, her voice echoing in the marble hall. ‘You were wise to surrender. If only you had done so earlier, there would have been much less killing.’

  ‘There would have been no slaughter at all,’ said Platorius Nepos darkly, ‘had you and your fool husband not taken it into your silly heads to suborn the auxiliaries. What in Jove’s name was it all about?’ He looked searchingly at the men who accompanied her. ‘Where is that cursed traitor Quintus? I would speak with him.’

  ‘You’re our prisoner, governor,’ said a man in a red cloak. ‘We are here to speak with you!’

  At first Platorius Nepos thought that it was Quintus who was speaking, but this was a bearded fellow in middle age, although he wore tribune’s regalia. Broodingly he studied the auxiliaries who stood with Publia and this enigmatic figure. He recognised none of them, and he always made a particular point of memorizing the names and faces of all men who served directly under him.

  ‘You’re not Quintus,’ he said. ‘Nor are these men the Thracians who rode out into Caledonia. There is only one of you who I recognise, and that is you, woman. Who are you? What have you done with my tribune and my men?’

  ‘You know who I am,’ Publia said, and again the governor felt that haunting sense of familiarity. ‘I was with your tribune for a year. Was I beneath your notice? We didn’t attend many social functions, of course... Well, now he is gone, and you are my prisoner. There is much that we need to discuss. But first,’ she added, coughing in the smoke, ‘this fire must be extinguished before the whole fort burns down to the ground.’ She clicked her fingers and a group of her men hurried away. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t do something about it before, governor.’

  ‘I despatched men to put it out,’ Platorius Nepos said, ‘but it seems they did not succeed. I should imagine your men killed them. Are you telling me you launched this attack solely to make me your prisoner?’

  ‘You are governor of this province,’ Publia said. ‘An important man. Yes, we came here to capture you. But we were also hoping to speak with the procurator.’ She looked around her. ‘Where is he?’

  — 29—

  ‘I do not know what has happened to Sidonius Placidus,’ Platorius Nepos said. ‘Things have been very confused today. Perhaps you should speak with one of his clerks. I am chiefly concerned with military matters, not civil administration.’

  At an order from Publia one of the tribesmen swaggered from the hall and returned soon after dragging a flabby fellow clad in the simple linen tunic of a freedman. His eyes were big with fright and he seemed on the edge of weeping.

  ‘Where is the procurator?’ Publia demanded.

  The freedman opened his mouth to wail, ‘He told me to get him a horse, two horses. One for him, one for the files. I got him one horse at great personal risk and he rode away.’ He spoke in the high pitched voice of a eunuch.

  The bearded man in the red cloak looked closely at him. ‘And the files?’ he asked.

  The eunuch freedman shook his head. ‘I could not find another horse! Smoke was everywhere, and fighting men. When Sidonius Placidus saw that there was no hope of saving the files, he rode away.’

  ‘The coward!’ Platorius Nepos said contemptuously. ‘This won’t look good in my report to Hadrian.’

  ‘Are you so sure you’ll be able to write that report?’ asked Publia. She gestured at the tribesman. ‘Take horse and follow.’

  The eunuch freedman added urgently, ‘Sir! He did not run away! He went to get help!’

  ‘Where?’ Publia asked.

  ‘Don’t tell her!’ snapped Platorius Nepos. ‘They’ll hunt him down and kill him.’

  ‘We don’t want to kill the procurator,’ the bearded man assured them. ‘Tell the men to bring him back alive, if they find him,’ he told Publia, and it was then that Platorius Nepos realised that Quintus’ wife was not the real power here. ‘We merely wish to consult his records,’ he went on. ‘Through here, are they?’ He indicated the door leading to Sidonius Placidus’ office.

  ‘Yes sir,’ said the eunuch and Platorius Nepos gave him a glower.

  ‘I may be some time,’ said the bearded man. ‘Don’t start without me, will you?’ With a cold smile to Publia, he opened the door and vanished into the office.

  Platorius Nepos sat down on a bench, laid his hands in his lap, and surveyed the crowded hall. Barbarians filled it, clad in auxiliary armour; Caledonians, if he was any judge. Now that they were close, he saw the intricate tattoos that he associated with the northern tribes, disfiguring their faces, forearms, necks—disgusting! Sickening! How any man could subject himself to such cutting and staining was beyond his comprehension as a civilised Roman.

  But these were not civilised lands. He was on the edge of the empire. Face to face with barbarism.

  And yet there was one anomaly: the Roman woman to whom all these barbarians deferred. He had never become closely acquainted with her, even though she had married a man on his staff. Roman as she might be, it would have been as beneath his dignity to be more than coldly polite to her as it was for Quintus to marry her.

  It had been when they were stationed in Eboracum, he remembered. He had spoken with Quintus on the subject, on how foolish it was to lose one’s heart to a female of low rank. No doubt the family had a marriage with a girl of suitable social station arranged back in Rome. But Quintus had been prey to strange notions. He had married her, he confided in his superior, because he loved her.

  Platorius Nepos had been in love, of course, as a young man; his heart had belonged to several pretty girls and boys, at one time or another. But then he had married well, and settled down to a life of public service accompanied by a Roman matron of the old school. His wife, of course, had remained in Rome while he was stationed out in Britain. No doubt she was idling her time away with some lusty gladiator or wrestler, but he felt no jealousy. She had produced healthy children, including a son, Calpurnianus, and that was all that was required of her. She had done her duty. So
had he.

  Outside, the fort was quiet apart from the shouts of the men who were still putting out the fire, and a distant clang of blade on blade that showed that some Romans—perhaps the century that had been encamped by the river—were still battling the attackers. A rank smell of wet ash now hung over all. At least the fire had not reached the headquarters building—or the procurator’s files. Or maybe it would have been better if it had. Why did the attackers want to consult the procurator’s files?

  What the fool had been thinking of, bringing his paperwork on this journey, Platorius Nepos did not know, but no one could fault the fellow for his diligence and hard work. And he had gone to raise the alarm? Perhaps Sidonius Placidus would be able to rescue his career from this disaster. Platorius Nepos doubted that he would—even if he survived the attentions of these Caledonians.

  ‘While we’re waiting for your friend to finish reading through those confidential files,’ he said calmly, addressing Publia, ‘perhaps you could tell me why a Roman citizen like you is consorting with barbarians?’

  She crossed over to him. Now that she was near, he could see that she had little of the Roman in her looks. Despite her olive complexion, she had all the chill beauty of northern women, and her black hair had been dyed; it was beginning to show blonde at the roots.

  ‘We came here because we wanted you, governor,’ she told him. ‘When we have finished with you, you will govern no more.’

  Flaminius peered round the corner of the gate. The smoke was slowly clearing in the courtyard, and the battle was indeed at an end. What he also saw caused his eyes to harden. He watched a little longer, then crawled back to Sidonius Placidus, who had been crouching out of sight within the shadows of the gate.

  He nodded to the procurator and sat down beside him. ‘The fight’s over in there,’ he told him.

  ‘Did we win?’ Sidonius Placidus nodded in the direction of the Praetorian Gate. ‘It’s about time something was done about the fighting around the gatehouse.’