The Hadrian Legacy

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘How did you win over so many Gauls and Britons?’ Flaminius asked. ‘You’re Roman citizens, all of you. Oh, except you, madam,’ he added with an ironic little bow to Epasias. But he kept his sword steady in his hand. No one was going to get near him without a fight.

  ‘We’re all Gauls,’ said Corvus. ‘Roman citizens, too, in the case of myself and Magnus here. But Gauls in blood and bone. My family have held Roman citizenship since Caesar’s day, when one of our ancestors was a senator. Sadly, the rest have not held such high posts, what with one thing and another, but we have owned land in Gaul for generations.’

  ‘Long before they were Romans, eh, Corvus?’ said Marcius Magnus. ‘I can’t count my ancestors like Corvus here can, but like him, my bloodline goes back to the tribes of old.’

  ‘And my family were always druids,’ Corvus said. ‘When druidry was persecuted following the Roman conquest, it seemed best to publically renounce our heritage, but to continue the old ways in secret. Yet always we looked forward to a time, as prophesied, when the druids would regain their power and Gaul would be free. We almost succeeded in Civilis’ day…’

  ‘But you’re Mithraists,’ Flaminius said. ‘You converted me to Mithraism. Mithras is a god of light, not some dark god of the druids.’

  ‘Perhaps all gods are one,’ said Corvus dreamily. ‘No matter—I have always worshipped the gods of the land wherever I have gone. That is the way of the druids. And when I was initiated into the cult of Mithras in Syria, I saw how the cult could be used, a cult that was rapidly growing throughout the empire, especially among the legions, a cult that required unquestioning loyalty and obedience from its initiates. I rose in the ranks, became a power to be reckoned with, reached the grade of Father, and ultimately became Patriarch of the cult in Gaul and Britain. Then I used my influence.

  ‘I used my status as hereditary Archdruid to suborn the Gaulish auxiliaries who killed Pulcher, the previous procurator. I used my influence amongst Mithraists to get myself the new post. I was expecting trouble with imperial agents, but when I met you I realised you would be easy to deal with. Your centurion was a Mithraist, of course, so putty in my hands, although you as a recent convert were less amenable. When I heard your investigations on the Wall were getting too close, I spoke words, sent messages—my birds, which I brought north from Gaul, took many messages for me—and had you done away with. Or so I believed. The men reported it done.’

  ‘They deceived you just as you’ve deceived yourself,’ said Flaminius. ‘I escaped, and went undercover. Joined the very auxiliary group that had murdered your predecessor. Who very mysteriously received orders to move south to Deva. Then sent a patrol of recruits into the hills that wound up joining the bagaudae—if not entirely willingly.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Corvus replied. ‘It was necessary to remove them from the area of the Wall. I gave orders for several troops to move to tactical positions—the orders came from the highest authorities, of course, and were obeyed as if the governor himself had given them. My attack was always intended to hit the south hardest, the soft underbelly, so the troopers needed to be moved away from the Wall. They had taken on new recruits, I knew, and they needed the training their veteran companions had undergone back in Gaul, in the forest of the Carnutes, before they were posted to Britain. I did not realise you were among their number.’

  By now the sound of fighting was again audible outside. ‘Listen to that, Corvus,’ said Flaminius. ‘That’s your nemesis. That’s the sound of Romans taking back their province.’

  ‘Britain never really interested me,’ Corvus said gloomily. ‘Only that it had been the origin of the druidic religion, and it had been here once that people went to learn the deepest mysteries. But the druids of Britain were dead and gone, all but those of Caledonia and Hibernia. And they are a poor, ignorant lot these days, the ones I’ve spoken to.

  ‘My father laid a compulsion upon me on his death bed to revive the fortunes of the druids, make real the prophesied Gaulish Empire. He had sent me to Britain as a young man to learn druidry from its masters, but those who professed the vocation presented me with nothing more than a jumble of herbalism, folklore and superstition.’

  ‘Was it ever anything else?’ Flaminius went unheard as the roar of combat grew ever louder.

  ‘Folk in Gaul such as my father remembered even less,’ the Archdruid went on, heedless of the clamour, ‘nothing more than a holy duty to liberate our people from Roman rule. Even in Caledonia and Hibernia, when my travels as a youth got me that far, druidry had diminished to become little more than a political force, a secret society more than anything interested in preserving the status quo. But everywhere I went, although I learnt more of the druidic mysteries from the writings of Caesar and Posidonius than in Britain and Gaul, there lived that burning desire for revolt—for revenge!

  ‘For sentimental reasons, it seemed right to train the men who would conquer our empire near those druidic groves once cut down by conquering Romans, so I sent Epasias to oversee the proceedings. But once we are secure in Britain we will cross to Gaul and rule over it.’

  ‘You’re living in a dream,’ Flaminius shouted. ‘Go out there and surrender yourself to the legions. Why should the war continue any longer? Why should people who have no interest in your fantasies suffer? You’ve lost, Corvus. You’ve lost. Face up to it.’

  Corvus shook his head. ‘This is a setback,’ he confessed, ‘but not the end. We still have the Caledonians in the north.’

  ‘Who you were dismissing a moment ago as ignorant,’ Flaminius said. ‘Just as before you were talking about retreating. You don’t know what you’re doing, Corvus. I can’t understand how you got this far. You, a provincial, of equestrian rank! How could you pull so many strings?’

  ‘Well,’ said Corvus, modestly. ‘I did have help. Sometimes friends in high places can work wonders.’

  ‘What friends?’ Flaminius barked. ‘What are you talking about, you madman?’

  ‘Speak more respectfully to the Patriarch of Mithras,’ Metellus barked.

  Flaminius turned to him and brandished his sword.

  ‘You’re in no position to give me orders, tribune,’ he said. ‘What’s in it for you, anyway? You’re no Gaul, surely?’

  ‘I’m loyal to Mithras,’ said Metellus. ‘I do what my Patriarch tells me to do.’

  ‘Knowing what he was up to?’ Flaminius demanded, although he could see from the tribune’s expression that he’d had no idea. ‘Would Mithras want this? Where does your true loyalty lie, to the Patriarch here, or to Rome, to the emperor?’

  ‘Really, it is starting to sound dangerous out there,’ said Corvus suddenly. ‘I think we should start making plans for escape.’

  ‘The slaves’ tunnels?’ suggested Marcius Magnus.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Corvus. ‘We can hardly leave by the main courtyard.’

  He rose. Flaminius was with him in a flash. He seized the procurator tight with his left arm, and placed the blade of his longsword to his neck. He looked warningly at the other men and women in the room. As well as Corvus and his immediate entourage, two bagaudae remained.

  ‘You’re going nowhere except where I say,’ he said. ‘The lot of you, against the wall. Your Archdruid is coming with me. Anyone trying to follow and he’s dead.’ He surveyed them as they obeyed, and his lip curled. ‘If there was anyone to help me, I’d take you all into custody. But as it stands, I’ll hook the biggest fish. Turn around! Face the wall.’

  Like naughty children punished by their tutor, the rebels did as he commanded.

  Flaminius pushed Corvus towards the doors, and the procurator went without a struggle. As they passed down the passage, stepping over the huddled bodies of dead guards—presumably they couldn’t be won over to his side, unlike Metellus—the Archdruid said, ‘What do you hope to achieve by this?’

  ‘I’m going to make sure you face justice,’ Flaminius told him.

  Corvus laughed. ‘How pompous you sound. How
Roman. You like things to be simple, don’t you, Roman? Straight lines. Straight walls, to keep out the world you don’t understand, the world of chaos. We druids know the secret of chaos. The world endures, though at times fire and water prevail. The soul is eternal. Chaos is an illusion. Accept it, don’t fight against it or try to fence it out…!’

  Flaminius didn’t need marketplace philosophy from the son of a druid. They were not far from the exit into the courtyard. More bodies of guards lay on the ground. The sound of fighting was getting louder, if not loud enough to drown out Corvus’ interminable monologue.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ he said, ‘or I’ll cut your tongue out.’

  He shoved the man ahead of him. They continued the journey, Corvus in silence, but casting looks in Flaminius’ direction as the tribune, brows furrowed, approached the great doors to the colonnade. Outside was a scene of chaos to warm any Archdruid’s heart.

  Struggling figures were locked in a death struggle. Caledonians and bagaudae fought legionaries. The tides of the dead lapped as far as the steps to the colonnade. Londinium as far as Flaminius could see was the scene of fierce fighting. He could see no one he recognised, and in his current apparel there was a high risk of people getting the wrong idea. On the face of it, a wild Briton was holding hostage a toga-clad Roman citizen. He had to get the Archdruid to whoever was in command of this force, someone he could speak to.

  The tides of fighting ebbed now as the legionaries retreated through the gates. The surviving rebels, howling excitedly, rushed after them. Flaminius led Corvus down the corpse littered steps. The air was rank with blood and shit. In the middle of the courtyard he halted. The fight continued along the banks of the stream. He glanced down to see Centurion Aquila’s huddled form. The rebels must have killed him.

  ‘Why did you sacrifice your own guard?’ he asked.

  ‘The gods are hungry,’ Corvus replied.

  Flaminius stared at him, speechless.

  ‘What now, tribune?’ Corvus added mockingly.

  ‘I’m going to take you to whoever’s in command of these legionaries. They’re of the Sixth, from what I’ve seen. Down from Eboracum—or the Wall…’

  ‘If Platorius Nepos has withdrawn men from the Wall,’ Corvus said, ‘what’s to stop the Caledonians coming south?’

  Flaminius glared at him. All he needed at a time like this was a civilian who had read Caesar’s Gallic War one evening and decided he was a born general. What made it worse was the fact that Flaminius had no very good answer.

  ‘Never mind that,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take you to the tribune or legate in command. Get moving.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Corvus, ‘since you frame your request so gracefully.’

  He turned, tucked up the skirts of his toga, and ran for the colonnade. Angry, Flaminius raced after him.

  As he did so, figures appeared from the main doors. Metellus and the bagaudae. Metellus grabbed Corvus and hauled him inside. Flaminius ran up the steps. He heard a whizzing sound from the air, saw one bagauda with a sling. Something connected with his skull in an explosion of light.

  He knew no more.

  —34—

  ‘This one’s still alive.’

  It was good to know. Where he lay in his haze of pain, he didn’t feel so certain. He winced as rough hands seized him and carried him somewhere, but he couldn’t summon up the energy to complain. Even when he did, when they dumped him on the painful ground, his words came out in a jumble.

  ‘What’s that he’s speaking? Gaulish?’

  ‘Nah, it’ll be Caledonian. See that blue on his face.’

  He tried to tell them he was neither Gaul nor Caledonian, but a good Roman citizen, and spoke better Latin then either of them did. But he still couldn’t summon up the energy. He did manage to open his eyes, though.

  He lay on the banks of the stream that ran through the middle of Londinium. Nearby, equally supine, was Hadrian’s column. The massive bronze statue lay only a few yards away, but rather ghoulishly, it had no head. Axe marks on the neck that showed where some highly-motivated individuals had worked very hard to separate head from body. The head itself was nowhere to be found.

  He remembered the heads he had taken during the attack on the farm near Viriconium.

  That brought it all back to him. He was Gaius Flaminius Drusus, tribune, of the Commissary, late of the Praetorian Guard, currently serving undercover… as a rebel auxiliary trooper. He struggled to rise, but he was a mass of agony. Lying in the shadow of the toppled statue he listened to the pandemonium.

  The skies overhead were grey and cloudy, and the sun was invisible except for a glow in the clouds that said it was a little past noon. Clearly a summer day. At least it wasn’t raining, but in Britain it was always either raining or about to rain. He hoped it would, and wash away the pain, and the noise and the confusion in his head. Or outside it. What was going on?

  He heard cries for mercy, screams, then grisly hacking sounds followed by splashing sounds. And again. And again. And again. Uneasy, he lifted his head, glimpsing the full scene on the stream bank before falling back again.

  He stared blindly up at the sky. All along the bank, men in the same garb as himself, Gauls and Caledonians, knelt, many of them, some of them bound. Going from captive to captive were small groups of legionaries. Even in that short time that Flaminius had kept his head lifted, he had seen a glittering sword swoop down like a hawk, blood spraying, and a Gaul’s head falling from his shoulders to go rolling down the bank.

  Again he remembered the heads he had taken. The heads the whole rebel army had taken. Now it looked like the tables had turned. Now the legionaries were taking heads. They had defeated the bagaudae and retaken Londinium. Now they were sending out a clear message—atrocities the rebels would never forget. Quite rightly, to Flaminius’ mind.

  ‘Headhunting bastard deserves it. Justice, isn’t it? Two sesterces that he removes it in one blow.’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Done.’

  He heard the clink of coins. Someone grabbed his shoulder and hauled him to his knees. He saw the stream rushing past. It was red with blood.

  ‘I’m a Roman citizen.’

  ‘He’s speaking Caledonian again.’

  ‘I’m a Roman citizen!’ He tried a second time.

  ‘What was that? That wasn’t Caledonian. Sounded like Greek.’

  Clearly and distinctly, despite the pain and ringing in his head, he said, ‘I’m a Roman citizen, Jove curse you!’

  Three grim faced legionaries were looking down at him. One bore an unsheathed sword.

  ‘You don’t look like a Roman, mate,’ said the sword bearer.

  Another reached forward and tugged disrespectfully at Flaminius’ lime washed hair. ‘Romans don’t have hair like that,’ he said.

  ‘Or moustaches,’ added the third.

  ‘And what’s all that blue dye on yer face?’ said the first.

  ‘Take me to your superior officer,’ Flaminius said, as authoritatively as he could manage. ‘I’m an imperial agent.’ He searched the folds of his clothes for his lance-head brooch. The legionaries tried to grab him. Flaminius jerked himself back out of the way, and produced the ornament.

  ‘An imperial agent, he said!’ hissed the first legionary.

  ‘How do we know he is?’ said the second legionary. ‘Just because he shows us a brooch?’

  ‘Do you want to risk it?’ Flaminius said. ‘Take me to your centurion and see what he says.’

  ‘He is an imperial agent, I’m sure of it,’ said the third of the men, who wore on his helmet the abbreviated crest of an optio. ‘What are you doing here, sir? We found you with a lot of other wounded men. We had orders to behead you all.’ Even as he spoke, another Gaul was decapitated on the edge of the stream.

  ‘That’s on a need to know basis, optio,’ Flaminius said. ‘Now take me to your centurion.’

  The legionaries helped him up. They aided Flaminius’ unsteady progress
across a landscape out of Tartarus. Bodies seemed to lie everywhere, many of them headless. The streets were littered with them. Half the proud new buildings of Hadrian’s proud new town were charred ruins. Some were still burning despite the best efforts of legionaries. A scene of worse horror than anything he had witnessed in the city of the druids, it looked like Flaminius imagined the aftermath of the Boudiccan revolt. At last they reached the fort.

  The sentries were unimpressed by Flaminius’ claims, ready to thrust their spears into anyone vaguely resembling a Gaul or Briton, and the three legionaries didn’t seem willing to contest the issue. Flaminius was getting heated when an armoured figure rushed up.

  ‘Gaius!’ it cried. ‘Gaius! It’s you! You’re not dead!’

  ‘Not for want of several people trying,’ he said, feeling as if he was in a dream. ‘But maybe I am, and this is Elysium. I thought it was you who was dead! What happened at the farm?’

  Drustica glanced at the legionaries who were listening agog. ‘That’s classified,’ she said importantly, ‘as you ought to appreciate. It’s alright,’ she told the men on duty, ‘you can let my colleague enter.’

  With some muttering the sentries allowed Flaminius to enter the fort.

  He walked alongside Drustica down the Praetorian Way. ‘We’re both something the governor doesn’t want people talking about,’ she told him in an undertone as several legionaries passed by.

  ‘Platorius Nepos?’ he asked. ‘You got through to him? How? I thought you were dead,’ he added. ‘Why didn’t you join us in the retreat from the farm?’

  ‘I was thrown from my horse,’ she said, ‘and I woke to find myself a prisoner. I was taken to Deva, where I met an old friend who turned out to be a rebel commander.’

  ‘Marcius Magnus?’ Flaminius said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Drustica, ‘how did you know?’

  ‘I met him,’ Flaminius said, ‘in that particular role. But go on.’

  ‘I realised he was a rebel,’ she said, ‘when he oversaw a mutiny that resulted in the murder of Tribune Priscus and several of his cronies. He thought I was on his side. I did nothing to persuade him otherwise. In the confusion, I stole a horse and rode for Eboracum.