by M. K. Hume
The old man who had spoken was an ancient veteran, a soldier from the ranks who had served under Theodosius Major’s father. This worthy survived on the charity of the estate and tried to repay his debt to the master by polishing the tack in the stables. Balbus had forgotten that the old man even existed until he spoke out in defence of Pig Boy.
‘I would be very careful, Balbus,’ the general said in a firm voice. ‘No one is above my law, especially long-standing servants who seem to have abused their privileges.’
Then Theodosius turned briskly and wiped his hands on the strip of cloth that all soldiers, high and low, wore as a matter of routine.
‘I am growing bored with this tissue of falsehoods, so I will consider the words of my old friend here.’ He paused and looked up from under his bushy brows at the old veteran. ‘I’ve forgotten your name, Grandfather, so please accept my apologies.’
‘There’s no need, master. I was called Nerva when I was young because I was such a large lump of a man. But look at me now!’ The old man smiled and revealed mere stumps instead of teeth. ‘Yes, my eyes are weak-like, but I can hear real good and the fight in the stable happened as Master Maximus described it.’
‘Hmmmmn! You have my apologies for doubting your word, young Maximus. I’m afraid I succumbed to old prejudices and loyalties for a moment, so I’ve been unfair to you.’
He turned to the servants who were guarding Pig Boy. ‘Let the boy go free.’
But Maximus still had one last observation to make.
‘There is one further matter that must be addressed here, sir. When I examined his pallet, I found a scrap of vellum belonging to the boy. I felt it was of importance to you, so I removed it immediately in case others might have it destroyed. I ask that you examine this missive, my lord. This fragment suggests that Pig Boy, who is named Andragathius, was sent to you by his father, Andragathius Major, who was a long-standing decurion in your service.’
‘Andragathius! Andragathius!’
A hand was shaking at the horse captain’s shoulder. The hand was tentative at first, but then firmed as Andragathius surged out of sleep, his gladius half drawn.
‘My apologies, sir, but dawn is near and you bade me wake you before first light.’ Conanus pushed the blade of the gladius, now fully exposed, away from his chest.
‘Cabillonum is awakening, so it’s time we were gone.’
At the end of the previous day, the troop had ridden through the twilight until the sun had finally plunged the road into darkness. Then the tired men had made camp for the night and all souls had slept, deeply and without dreams, except for their captain who had remained tortured by the past. The troops woke to the first traces of light on the horizon, fresh and eager to arrive at a conclusion to their long hunt, but Andragathius felt the burn and grit of dreams that had strained his eyes and sapped his strength at a time when he needed it most.
As the troop mounted, Cabillonum was visible in the distance. The town was no larger than Bibracte, but the fields around its walls were verdant with vegetables and produce gardens, because a river provided the farmers with regular water for an irrigation system that protected the growing crops from the hot sun. A simple stone bridge served as a river crossing and a track wound its way through the countryside to join the main road that followed the path of the river into the south.
‘I’ll wager that Gratian is feasting somewhere ahead of us,’ Conanus muttered in a soft voice that could only be heard by his captain. ‘And I still don’t understand how we’ll enter an armed camp built by the Praetorian Guards, no matter how rudimentary it is.’
‘Any Roman commander worth his salt can erect a small fortification that will protect them for a day or two at a pinch. The legions have successfully protected themselves in this way for hundreds of years, because such precautions are a matter of accepted military practice.’
Andragathius shaded his tired eyes and peered into the distance, willing his senses to catch a trace of their elusive quarry, but the road remained empty. Common sense told the horse captain that Gratian would be well beyond Cabillonum but he was always hopeful.
‘Hmmnf!’ Conanus snorted. ‘I’ve never understood the Roman compulsion to sleep with earthen and log walls around them. It’s against all logic! Your soldiers break their backs to build protective walls and then head off to sleep. I noticed that you always did the same when you were in Britannia.’
Sardonically, Andragathius grinned over his shoulder at his British friend. ‘That’s probably why we found it so easy to defeat your tribes.’
Left with nothing further to say and biting his lip with chagrin, Conanus was forced to pick up the pace and follow his captain when Andragathius kicked his roan in the ribs to send it into a brisk canter towards the outskirts of Cabillonum.
Their reception in the town was one with which they were now all too familiar. Caution, hatred and sullen resentment were evident in the hostile eyes of the townsfolk as the troop passed through the newly opened gates and headed towards the central square.
Cabillonum had a larger Roman presence than the towns through which they had previously passed, so any anger was kept ruthlessly under the control of those Roman legionnaires who were stationed here to maintain the peace. The captain led his troop towards a small central building of stone that was notable for the inclusion of coloured and veined columns in its forecourt, architectural elements that were designed to add to the prestige of the Roman headquarters. Dismounting briskly, Andragathius led Conanus into the interior of the building and discovered two guards inside the door who had been tasked to intercept unexpected visitors.
‘I’ll wager that this is the town council building. It’s probably the administrative centre for this region. There will be a larger, more splendid complex in Lugdunum, but the small garrison here keeps order, hence the nature of our welcome, compared with the hostility at Bibracte.’
‘Thank Jesus and all his angels for something, although I didn’t like the way some of those toughs at the last crossroads eyed our swords and the horses,’ Conanus responded dourly, for he was still smarting from his captain’s dismissal of Britannia’s fighting capabilities.
Andragathius decided to adopt a high-handed attitude with the guards so he could speed up an introduction to the chief magistrate of Cabillonum. As the two guards approached the Roman officers, arms outstretched to halt their entry, the horse captain shook off their restraining hands with a proud twist of his shoulders.
‘I’ll take your arms clean off if you touch me. Take me to your master.’ Andragathius’s voice was more dangerous because it was so soft and controlled. His eyes stared fixedly at the offending hands stretched out towards him in the gloom, so the two guards drew them back with alacrity.
‘My pardon, good sir, but I ask that you replace your sword in its scabbard. Our master, Tatius Septimus, has issued orders that we are to guard this doorway with our lives. You may kill us, sir, but we would be failing in our duties if we allowed you to pass without permission.’
Andragathius considered the guard’s speech for a moment and then sheathed the sword that had seemed like a natural extension of his right hand.
‘Very well, but I require you to send word to your Tatius Septimus immediately. I have an urgent message from the person of the emperor and I don’t like to sit around and cool my heels in doorways.’
One of the guards ducked his head in relief, looked towards his fellow guard for confirmation and then hurried away to find his master.
‘Why didn’t we just kill them, Andragathius?’ Conanus joked in his commander’s ear. ‘They’re fat from good living and must have been around for at least forty summers. We’d hardly raise a sweat.’
‘But they meant what they said, Conanus, so their deaths would have been pointless,’ Andragathius replied curtly, careless of the close proximity of the remaining sentin
el. ‘They would have died senselessly and I’d have been guilty of taking the lives of good men. I would also have upset this Tatius Septimus. I think I’d rather have the magistrate willing to hear what we have to say.’
The two officers stood in the doorway and waited. As the morning breezes swirled down the street outside, the first leaves from the amber trees fluttered to the ground, hinting at an early autumn. Andragathius was unusually philosophical. Perhaps it was the effect of the previous night’s dreams.
‘Human lives are important, Conanus, especially the lives of ordinary soldiers who are becoming harder and harder to recruit with the passing of the years. Rome has pillaged the citizens of its empire for a hundred years longer than should have been necessary, yet the barbarians still mass on the frontiers and the ranks of our legions grow thinner and thinner. I’ve been to Germania in the north, where the savages can fight in winter just as easily as they hunger for Roman blood in the spring. The height, strength and extra reach of the barbarian warriors makes them almost unstoppable. Yes, we have beaten them in the past, again and again, but only because our tactics and strategies are superior. Look at what happened when Versingetorex learned to understand the arts of Roman military strategy.’
Conanus was wearing a blank expression on his face. ‘Who or what was Versingetorex?’
‘The Versingetorex! He was the great Caesar of the northern tribes of Gaul.’
Andragathius continued to stare irritably at Conanus, who merely shrugged his shoulders. He was in complete ignorance of the feats of this barbarian general.
The sound of footsteps on marble interrupted the impromptu lesson in military history. Andragathius frowned at Conanus to warn him to silence, as the captain moved a step forward to salute the grey-haired, balding man who was standing in the passageway inside the building. The man, obviously the magistrate, was talking to the guardsman who had been tasked with finding his master.
From a distance of twenty feet or so, Tatius Septimus appeared to be short and plump, as befitted a career public servant, but this administrator walked in a palpable aura of self-importance that was complemented by his snowy toga, which possessed an extremely narrow band of purple around the hem. One podgy, be-ringed hand held the toga negligently over one arm, while his gait was heavy from excess weight and pomposity. He accepted the salutes of these Roman officers as the respect due to a Roman magistrate.
‘The man is a bladder of self-importance that is just begging to be pricked,’ Andragathius hissed from the corner of his mouth in the British language.
‘Imagine the squeal!’ Conanus agreed in the same language with a slow wink.
It was obvious that at least one of the guards was a veteran of British service, for he grinned companionably towards Andragathius, revealing a missing upper tooth in the process. Although his back was straight and soldierly from behind, the guard’s face revealed his amusement at the scorn shown by these real soldiers who were calling on his master.
‘Lord Magistrate, I am the emissary of Flavius Magnus Maximus, who is the new emperor of these wide lands after he defeated Emperor Gratian in battle. At this moment, my master is hastening to Italia where he will claim his own. It now behoves all loyal Romans to declare their allegiance to the new emperor and throw their resources behind his army.’
Tatius Septimus rubbed his hands together with oily pleasure. With a sudden surge of disgust, Conanus realised that the magistrate was wearing a strong floral scent. The air around him was drenched with the powerful aroma of over-sweet roses, rotting lilies and the tang of lemons. Conanus wanted to gag when the magistrate stood close to him and gazed intently at the novelty of this barbarian warrior from the backwoods of Britannia.
‘And who might you be, good fellows?’ the magistrate asked.
‘I am Andragathius, Captain of Horse, and this is Conanus, a prince of one of the tribes of Britannia. We serve under the auspices of Flavius Magnus Maximus in the lands of Gaul.’
The magistrate peered at the two Roman officers who stood before him and they could tell that he considered them to be very much his inferiors.
‘I can inform you now that the legitimate emperor, Gratian, passed this way only yesterday, so I believe that your Maximus has been premature in his declaration of victory. It has come to my attention that the Roman troops in Gratian’s army have submitted to this Maximus, but I must ask how your master plans to defeat the legions once Gratian is safely ensconced in Italia where he will easily raise a fresh army? I think your master will be forced to scamper back to wherever he came from, once Gratian reaches the safety of home soil.’
Andragathius allowed himself the barest flicker of a smile.
‘You are totally underestimating the ability of my master. Flavius Magnus Maximus is not only of Roman descent, but he is also the High King of the confederation of Kings of Britannia. The best and the bravest warriors of that land are riding with him . . . be it to glory, victory or death.’
‘Just like your friend here, I would presume. Why, man, this Briton is a savage. He is unshaven – and that hair! Goodness! He looks like a bear or a Wilde Man from out of the woodlands. Gratian has nothing to fear if this man is an example of your Britons. The emperor is a gentleman who has been educated and instructed in battle-craft for all of his adult life.’
Conanus snarled, revealing teeth that had been cleansed and whitened by twigs chewed when he was on horseback. He flicked his so-objectionable hair so that the plaits danced and flickered like serpents, while his eyes promised Septimus a very unpleasant fate if the magistrate continued to insult him.
Septimus was a creature of little common sense who believed that his status as a Roman citizen, even though he had been born in Gaul, elevated him above the ranks of less fortunate men. He wrinkled his nose as he smelled the combination of horse, leather, man-sweat and the garlic from the last meal that had been snatched in Bibracte.
‘Your friend smells,’ Septimus said in a censorious tone and began to turn his back on both cavalrymen to let them know he was dismissing them.
Before Andragathius could stop him, or the guard could draw his sword, Conanus stepped forward with lightning reflexes, lifted the magistrate with a fistful of toga and began to shake the unfortunate fool as if he was a rat in the jaws of a terrier. Septimus screamed shrilly, but Andragathius dragged his comrade off the magistrate in an exercise of brute strength.
‘Put him down, Conanus! Are you crazed, you fool? Ignore his pathetic insults, because the idiot doesn’t know any better.’
Andragathius could see the blood lust in Conanus’s eyes, so he slapped his comrade across the cheeks until signs of common sense returned.
‘Do you feel a little better, now that you’ve frightened your host shitless?’ Andragathius released Conanus and turned to offer his hand to the cowering magistrate, who had been tossed into a corner of the anteroom when Conanus had been forced to release him.
Tatius Septimus looked at Andragathius’s outstretched hand as if he was being offered a live snake. In his haste to scramble to his feet, he almost lost his toga, while he exposed an expanse of hairy belly. ‘Stay away from me, or my guard will cut you both to pieces,’ the magistrate warned with quivering lips and eyes that were leaking fat tears of embarrassment.
‘Just when we were beginning to know each other,’ Andragathius quipped, but then thought better of his jest. ‘No, Magistrate, I’m afraid that your guards will not care to protect your person. They aren’t used to battling with trained soldiers and they don’t have the fortitude of the Praetorians. They have no intention of dying needlessly for a worm like you.’
‘Come, Conanus! And you too, Septimus!’ He beckoned towards the guard. ‘Where is the triclinium, Septimus? You don’t mind if I use your praenomen, do you?’
Septimus was frog-marched through the various administrative rooms where scribes and other cleri
cal staff worked and kept their records. The men passed through a library where hundreds of slots for the storage of rolled scrolls were evident, until they were led into a back room of a more domestic nature, where the magistrate and his family would normally eat their meals. Several frightened slaves scattered at their approach, so Andragathius hurried Septimus into a room that had already been prepared with dining couches for a morning meal.
Surprised by the men’s arrival, one of the slave girls dropped a pitcher of beer and began to wail. This added to the general cacophony so, when two more guards arrived at a run, they found their master cowering on an eating couch and snivelling with terror. Conanus was seated on another couch cleaning his nails and the horse captain was sitting with his bared sword on the table as he encouraged the crying girl to pick up the broken shards of pottery.
‘I hope you don’t plan to intervene, gentlemen. Your master is unhurt and will remain so, as long as he continues to behave himself. I’d rather we didn’t damage this fine room with sword play if I can help it but, as the assigned representative of the new emperor, I require information and access to a few other items of equipment. I’m sure you’ll be able to help me.’
The four guards looked at each other in an agony of indecision. They had once been regular legionnaires, but advancing age and their health, not to mention the evidence of scarring on their bodies, had rendered them unfit for the rigours of active service. Guarding the security of low-level officialdom in the provincial offices of the Roman administration provided a livelihood for men who had nowhere else to go and no other way of earning their bread.
‘You should be sensible, gentlemen. I have another twenty men outside, and you can be assured that they’ll come running with drawn swords if I should raise my voice. Nor will the townsfolk lift their hands to help you or Master Septimus. You must be aware of how little love there is for Gratian in these lands.’