'Yes, I did. And I agree.'
'You agree?' Severinus stared at him.
'Totally.' The procurator was not smiling now. 'Of course I do. Moreover, so does the emperor.'
'But –'
'Commander, please listen very carefully. I asked for your opinion and now I'll give you mine. We're not all fools by any means. This revolt has come very close to losing Rome a province. We have just witnessed seventeen years of work undone in two short months at the gods know what cost in human life and suffering, followed by a further five months of calculated, systematic barbarity which will ensure that we are hated for at least another generation.' Classicianus leaned forwards suddenly. 'Mothers alive, man, this isn't the bloody Republic! We want a province, not a desert! Of course I agree! What man of sense wouldn't?'
'Paullinus, for one.'
'I stipulated a man of sense. Suetonius Paullinus has many excellent qualities, but they do not include sense. Besides, as of five days ago he is no longer governor.'
Severinus blinked. 'I'm sorry, sir?'
'Paullinus has been recalled. The new governor will arrive, all being well, early in the new year. Who he will be I'm not sure as yet, but he will not have his predecessor's taste for blood. There has been enough blood spilled these last few months, Severinus. It's up to us, now, to see that it isn't wasted. In the meantime, as caretaker I am doing what I can, which includes putting together an administrative staff – a sympathetic staff – of my own. Hence this interview.'
'You're offering me an administrative post, sir?' Severinus's head was still spinning.
'In my capacity as emperor's representative and interim acting head-of-province, yes.'
'Doing what?'
'You would work directly for me as a procuratorial agent, with the responsibilities and duties that that would imply, but my principal concern – and the emperor's – is to undo the effects of the crass stupidities that caused this unholy mess. That are still causing it.'
'You think that's possible?'
'I used the word "sympathetic", Commander, and I used it advisedly. A sympathetic approach is essential. Perhaps, given time and reasonable goodwill on both sides we might at least make a start, but we need the right people to do it.' Classicianus paused. 'Well?'
'I'm no administrator, sir,' Severinus said carefully. 'My family's army, both sides, regular army, not political. I appreciate the honour, but –'
'Commander,' Classicianus interrupted. 'There I'm afraid for the reasons we discussed at the beginning of this interview you've burned your bridges already. At least as far as promotion is concerned. The decision is yours, naturally, but personally I think you'd be a fool to refuse. Also, I'd be failing in my duty to the emperor and to my own conscience if I did not try very hard indeed to persuade you. Britain is unique. We stand at the beginning here. If I can build a working relationship now with the tribes then the province will become a worthy part of the empire. That will take time, patience and – I repeat the word – sympathy, and I cannot do it without help. Intelligent help. There are enough Catuses and Paullinuses ready and waiting to use their methods even in this comparatively enlightened age, and the emperor, as you know, judges by results. Quite simply he is willing to indulge me, but I have to prove myself. It will be no easy task.' Severinus said nothing. 'You're a horseman, or so I'm told, as am I. Would you train a horse by beating it into submission?'
'No, sir. Of course not.'
'Quite. I told you; I want a province, not a desert.' Classicianus stood up. 'I won't ask you for an answer immediately. That would not be fair, and I will demand total commitment. Think it over, please.' He smiled. 'Only not for too long. I start back for London in two days. Give me your decision by then.'
45
In the villa's dining-room the table was set for the Samhain meal. The servant Ertola had left the shutters unbarred, and the draught from the open window behind them caught at the lamp-flames, making the shadows dance across the walls and ceiling. Senovara lay watching the patterns they made, knowing that there was more to them, tonight, than was due to fire and darkness. Samhain Eve was a time outside time when the barrier between the worlds was lowered and the dead returned to mix with the living. They would all be here: her father, Matugena, little Ahteha, perhaps Tigirseno, although the mountains were far away and even a ghost could get lost...
Senovara touched her stomach where the child, hers and Marcus's, was growing. Don't blame me too much, she thought. He will belong to all of us.
As if in answer, the lamps flickered. Romans, she knew, did not believe in ghosts, or not as the British did: that not all brought harm with them when they drifted in from the dark to sit with their kin. And the Romans did not celebrate Samhain. She wondered if despite that Aper and Ursina were also here tonight, and if they were what they thought of a British woman living where they had lived, married to their son and carrying his child.
The thought made her uneasy. Samhain was a time for self-examination, and Senovara was still not sure herself why she had agreed to the marriage, any more than Marcus – so he said – had known why he had suggested it. It had not been a love match on either side, yet from the beginning there had been no doubt in either of their minds that it was right. It had seemed somehow natural, as if everything had been settled long before and tacitly accepted by both. Love, if it ever came, would be an extra.
She looked up into the shadows. 'Be welcome,' she murmured in Celtic, knowing that if Marcus's parents were here they would understand the words and accept them in the spirit they were offered; as even, perhaps, Albilla would if she was with them.
Albilla. She felt guilty, most of all, about Albilla...
Ertola, small and plump, brown-skinned and freckled like a thrush, put her head round the door.
'That's the master,' she said. 'I'll serve the dinner.'
'Thank you, Ertola.' Senovara sat up and straightened her dress. Her fingers brushed against the coin-pendant Marcus had given her, the British horse with its Roman letters. There had been a travelling goldsmith in the Colony half a month back, one of the signs of returning normality, and she had had him fix the broken chain. The man had been skilful, and it was almost as good as new.
Marcus came in. He had taken off his uniform, but his tunic and shaved upper lip still made him look foreign, alien. She thought of her father, with his braided hair, his trousers and his long moustaches, then, consciously, put the thought aside. He bent to kiss her cheek, brushing it with his lips, then lay down on the couch facing her. She saw his eyes go to the bowl of wine and plate of honey-cakes with the nine lamps set around them, but he made no comment.
'You talked to the procurator?' she said.
'He offered me a post on his staff. I said I'd think about it.' His face wore the distant, too-mature expression that it often did, even when they made love. 'I did, all the way back.'
'And?' Senovara was still watching him carefully.
'I can't accept. It would mean leaving the army, and I can't do that; not now, not ever. I'll give Classicianus my decision tomorrow.'
The flames of the nine lamps dipped as if someone had blown across them, and the shadows swooped and plunged. Senovara looked up: she was lying next to them, and she had felt no draught from the window. Aye, they're here right enough, listening, she thought. All three of them.
Suddenly she knew beyond doubt what they wanted.
'What is he like, this Classicianus?' she said.
'A good man. He'll be good for the province, British and Romans alike. And Paullinus has been replaced. Thank the gods for that, at least.'
The door opened and Ertola brought in the meal, a mutton stew thickened in the British style with barley and spelt and a dish of kale with bacon fat. As Senovara reached for the serving spoon she was aware of a high, soft whisper at the edge of hearing, like a bat's voice.
Wait you, she thought. Let me do this in my own way.
'Yet you're turning him down because of the army?' she said.<
br />
'I have to. The men from the big Roman families can chop and change between army and administration, but for someone like me the choice is final. Classicianus knows that; it's why he wants a firm commitment.'
'And you won't give him one?' She felt her temper begin to rise.
Severinus sat up. 'We've been army for generations,' he said. 'Regular army. I'll not be the one to change that.'
'Aye. Well and good. So Classicianus chooses someone else, one of Catus's staff, or someone he's brought with him from Rome. Some little man from one of your big Roman families who's less concerned with whether he's fit for the job. What then?'
'Classicianus wouldn't do that.'
'No? And why would he not, then? It would be easier, in the end.'
'Maybe. But he isn't the sort to take the easy way out.'
'And you are?'
'Jupiter!' Severinus's hand slammed down on the table, and his eyes locked with hers. There was a long silence. Even the shadows were still.
'Answer the question, Marcus Julius Severinus,' Senovara said quietly.
'Very well.' He had dropped his gaze. 'The answer's no. Or I hope that I am not. Would you have married me if I were?'
'No.' Slowly, so he would not see her do it, Senovara released the breath she had been holding. 'No, I would not.'
'So, then.' He was still not looking at her directly. 'Is that what you think I would be doing? Taking the easy way?'
Carefully, as if she were reaching for an animal that might turn and bite her hand, she picked up the casserole and spooned the thick stew onto the plates. 'It's what you think you would be doing, Marcus,’ she said. ‘That makes all the difference.'
He stared at her for a long time. Then, slowly, he nodded.
'Aye,' he said. 'I suppose it does. Perhaps, then, I may think again.'
After they had eaten Senovara sat watching the Samhain lamps, her hands folded across her stomach. The flames burned straight and bright, and the shadows around her were at rest. She, too, felt contented: both his dead and hers, Roman and British, had had their cakes and their wine, and tomorrow they would be gone beyond the River to wherever ghosts went, leaving the future for the living to take care of as best they could, as they had always done.
That was the purpose of ghosts, whatever language they spoke and whatever they had believed in life; not to act, but to remind and point the way forward, however difficult it was and whatever changes it involved.
The future might not be easy, she knew, but then it never had been.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
The book is set in AD 60/61. Although it can (I hope!) be enjoyed by a reader with little or no previous background knowledge, the following notes may be of interest.
The Colony/Camulodunum
Later writers – including Tacitus himself – use the name Camulodunum to include both Roman colony and British settlement; understandably so, since following the revolt the latter – as such – ceased to exist as a separate entity. Contemporary Colonists and natives, however, would have made a clear distinction. Camulodunum ('the Fort of the War-god Camulos') was the original tribal capital, occupying an area of some ten square miles bounded for the most part by the Colne and Roman River valleys; what I have called the Dun being a sprawl of farmsteads to the south-east, centred around the modern Gosbecks Farm.
In contrast, the Colony (Colonia in Latin: the additional adjective Victricensis 'of the Victors' is perhaps later) was purely Roman. It originated with the decommissioning of the post-conquest legionary fortress to the south of the Colne and its adaptation to civilian use. In common with other coloniae throughout the empire, it was not strictly a town per se but a military settlement of time-served veterans placed in occupied territory. As part of their discharge settlement, the ex-soldiers would receive tracts of land outwith the colony itself, and these would naturally be requisitioned from the tribe in whose territory the colony was sited: in this case, the Trinovantes. Hence, partly, the friction.
For those interested in Roman Colchester and its development, I would highly recommend Philip Crummy's book, 'City of Victory' (Colchester Archaeological Trust, 1997).
Paullinus's movements and the final battle
Unfortunately, Tacitus makes no mention of Paullinus's movements following his abandoning of London, nor – apart from a physical description of the site – does he say where the final battle was fought. Current theory has him return the way he came, up Watling Street (the name is not Roman) towards the advancing Roman forces, and places the battle-site somewhere in the Midlands, possibly near Mancetter. To the novelist – who must, of necessity, deal with motive, albeit ascribed motive – this poses very serious problems: to have Paullinus choose to retrace his steps through territory that he already knows is hostile, slowed down by a large body of civilian refugees, would be to ask far too much of him as a character. Accordingly I returned to the earlier theory (see Spence, Boadicea: Warrior Queen' et al) that he withdrew south of the Thames which – for the reasons I have him give Lupianus – makes good sense. This would place the site of the battle some one-and-a-quarter miles south-west of (Roman) London between the Pentonville rise and the ford over the Fleet known in historical times as Battle Bridge; in terms of the modern city, just in front of King's Cross station.
Place names
Where possible, these are authentic; however, in some cases – notably in the case of the Ninth's fortress at Longthorpe near Peterborough – the original name has not survived and I have had to invent. In compensation, I have tried to make the Celtic name fit, as I have done with other invented names; thus Dercovium, 'the Seeing Place' (ie one with extensive views over the surrounding country). The Icenian tribal centre at Venta Icenorum (Caistor St Edmund, on the outskirts of Norwich) postdates the time of the revolt, and the capital I describe has not yet (as far as I know) been identified; perhaps it lay in the Breckland area north of Thetford. The name I have given it, Coriodurum, means 'the Fort of the Hosting' ('durum' implying flatter ground than the more usual 'dunum'). Braniacum ('the Place of Crows') is a complete invention.
Julius Agricola
The famous later governor, responsible for the push up into what is now Scotland, did indeed serve as a senatorial tribune in Britain at the time of the revolt, and was on the governor's staff. Senatorial tribunes, although very young men in their early twenties, were – technically, at least – second in command of a legion, and the post was regarded as an apprenticeship for later legate status. Although what legion Agricola was attached to is not known, I have suggested the Second, based at Isca (Exeter) since, during the revolt, it was commanded by the quartermaster (praefectus castrorum), who would be third in command. Poenius Postumus is historical; having failed to carry out Paullinus's orders to bring the legion up in support, he later committed suicide.
One other major historical figure involved in the revolt was Titus, son of the later Emperor Vespasian and emperor in his turn; he, too, was a senatorial tribune. I have introduced him (but without formal identification) in the chapter dealing with Verulamium.
Julius Classicianus died in office, and his tombstone has been found in London. Paullinus's successor was Publius Petronius Turpilianus, a relative of the Petronius who appears in Nero.
My thanks again to Roy Pinkerton; to Ann Buchanan; to Derek and Kathleen McMillan for making their holiday detour; to Jim Green of the Holyhead coastguard; to Dianne Hobbes of the Ixworth library; and to the Moug family, Terry, Elli and Richard, for their help with horses. Any mistakes – historical or otherwise – remain my own.
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