‘Salve,’ he wheezed, ‘Salve, Comes Rei Militaris, great Theodosius. I am Julius Longinus, Consul of Maxima Caesariensis. Welcome to Londinium.’
‘You want a what?’ Longinus could not help himself. He had not meant to be rude to the Count, but it just slipped out.
‘A triumph,’ Theodosius said, frowning. ‘Surely you’ve heard the word.’
‘I have indeed, sir,’ the Consul said, ‘but it’s been two hundred years since …’
‘Oh, I know it’s a little old-fashioned,’ the Count apologized, ‘but I’m a traditionalist at heart. A bit of old-fashioned ceremony – the crowd love it.’
‘I’m sure they do, Count,’ Longinus said, clicking his fingers so that a slave poured more wine for his visitors. ‘But … there’s no easy way to put this … didn’t they stop triumphs because of the risk? I mean, troops in the city? Armed men with limitless power, for all they were supposed to leave their weapons at the gate. I don’t have to paint you a mural, I’m sure.’
‘Ah, but that was Rome,’ Theodosius reminded the official. ‘The eternal city has always had her problems.’
‘Yes, well, she’s not alone there,’ Longinus muttered. ‘Look, Count, I have to be honest. It’s not a good idea. I’ve got Christians on the rampage, adherents of Mithras and Sol Invictus wherever you turn. Then there’s crime …’
‘Crime?’ Theodosius raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes.’ Longinus gulped from his goblet. ‘I’ve never known it so … well, organized.’
‘Perhaps a few troops on street corners wouldn’t come amiss, then. Anyway, I’m more concerned about the military situation. On the way here we fought half a dozen skirmishes – I’ve got prisoners shackled south of the river.’
‘Well, yes,’ the consul conceded, ‘that is a worry. Oh, we’ve had no trouble here in the city as such. There are stories, of course. A few villas looted, the odd village burned to the ground. But that’s beyond my jurisdiction. I have no authority.’
‘But I do,’ Theodosius said, looking at the man flapping before him. ‘The Duke is dead, so is the Count of the Saxon Shore. Whether you are aware of it or not, we are in the middle of a rebellion, Longinus.’
The consul looked at the Count, like a man suddenly facing his own mortality. ‘You’d better see this,’ he said and crossed the room to a cabinet full of scrolls. He pulled one out and showed it to Theodosius. The Count read it. It was written on vellum, in excellent Latin and it was a death threat.
‘I don’t know who that lunatic is,’ Longinus nodded at the parchment, ‘but if he seriously thinks I will surrender my garrison and calmly hand over the biggest city in Britannia …’
‘Oh, he does, Consul,’ Theodosius said. ‘That lunatic has already wiped out the Wall and we believe he was responsible for the death of Fullofaudes and Nectaridus. When you see that name,’ he tapped the written word ‘Valentinus’, ‘you should be very afraid. When did you get this?’
‘Last week,’ Longinus said. ‘Some scruffy little peasant brought it.’
Theodosius strode to the window. From the front of the governor’s palace, he could see the sunlight dancing on the river and the white-sailed fishing boats coming in with their catch from downstream, nudging their way in to the crowded quayside. ‘We must look to your defences, Consul,’ he said. ‘You need a wall, here, all the way along the waterfront. Twenty feet high.’
‘A wall?’ Longinus turned quite pale. ‘And who’s going to pay for that?’
‘You are, Consul,’ Theodosius told him. ‘You and the good people of Londinium. Now, about my triumph …’
It had been so since the days of the Republic. A conquering general came back from a campaign, laden with gold, silver and precious stones. He bought captives, defeated warriors in chains for the rapturous crowds to spit at and kick as they shambled past. At the city gates, that general had to ask permission of the Senate to enter; he had to kneel and make obeisance to the genius of the city of Rome.
That day in Londinium, as the June sun scorched helmets and burned grass even in the marshes across the river, the Senate met Julius Longinus, an increasingly worried man. He had hastily convened a meeting of the Ordo, the city council, and, in the spirit of democracy which the Republic had stolen from the Greeks, told them all exactly how it was going to be. The Comes Rei Militaris was going to bring his legions into the city and the entire Ordo would turn out to see it. They would all put on their finest robes and their best grins and they would love it. Was that, Julius Longinus wanted to know, understood?
And there they were, under the awnings in the forum, Longinus on his dais being fanned by a slave with the only ostrich-feather fan in the country, waiting to greet the conquering heroes. The roar of the people told them how near the heroes were and minor officials clinging precariously to the roof-tops of the basilica watched them come on.
At the head of the column, Count Theodosius was the vir triumphalis, the man of triumph. He rode his grey hung with ribbons in its plaited mane and tail, the count’s parade armour shining in its gilt and bronze, the scarlet sagum dangling to his leopard-skin boots. At his elbow rode his son, equally resplendent in his white sagum and plumed helmet. Both men smiled and waved at the crowds who threw petals at them and cheered wildly.
‘You know, Pa,’ young Theodosius said, ‘I could get used to this.’
The Count knew his history. The list of all-conquering generals who had fallen foul of Rome was long indeed. And Emperors today were ten to a denarius. He chuckled and murmured to his boy the old warning. ‘Remember you are mortal. Look behind. Look behind.’
Behind came a knot of Theodosian attendants, the fawners and hangers on who went with the territory. And behind them, the prisoners from the Thamesis marshes, chained to yokes that cut grooves into their shoulders. There were no great generals here, no Jugurtha or Zenobia or Vercingetorix, none of the terrible names of the past who had made Rome tremble. These men had no names that either Theodosius could be bothered to find out or to remember. The Count only wanted one man to be there, on his way to a slow strangulation – Valentinus. And his day would come.
The triumphal way was lined with people, laughing, waving, eyeing the marching legions of the Heruli and Batavi with adoration, suspicion, greed or horror, depending on their standing. Paulinus Hupo was delighted. His role today was to blend in, so he had left his flash robes behind and had had his slave shave his head so that he looked just like another dock-worker. In the crowd on both sides of the Via Triumphalis, his people were quietly going about their business, slitting silently with their razor-sharp knives and separating solid citizens from their small change. Paulinus knew only too well that times were hard and every denarius counted.
Behind the Heruli with their painted shields and tall spears, two bulls were being dragged along for the ritual sacrifice. Tradition dictated that they should have been pure white, but the consul had not had long to prepare for this and Theodosius had to settle for a black one and a brown one with white markings. The animals plodded up from the river, garlands on their brows and little boys on their backs. No one could smell the blood yet.
A thunderous applause broke out as the animals thudded past. Decius Critus was the priest of Mithras and normally the man walked in shadows, watching his back. They had burned his temple down years ago in this city of heretics and the cult he spoke for met in secret, deep in the bowels of the city by the stream called the Walbrook. But the bull was their bull, its throat slit by the god Mithras himself at the dawn of time and this was a good sign. Mithras was the soldiers’ god. And eight thousand soldiers were marching through Londinium.
From his place just outside the forum, Dalmatius the Bishop was furious. They were bringing sacrificial bulls into the heart of his city, the city of Christ. He looked around him, as did his priests in their robes with the Chi-Rho, the shepherd’s crook and looped cross of martyrdom on their chests and backs. Everybody was cheering, laughing. This was a holiday when it should ha
ve been a holy day. He would stop it. This disgusting pagan spectacle had gone on for long enough. And he tried to push his way through the crowd, but the crowd held him back.
At the gates of the forum, Theodosius dismounted and his son followed suit. Only two men followed them into the open square, both wearing the uniforms and scarves of tribunes, the new rank bestowed on them by the count. Leocadius and Vitalis were walking with kings today, perhaps even walking with the gods.
All four men unbuckled their helmets and knelt before the consul Longinus, the military power subservient to the civil. He made the sign of the cross over them, as befitted an officer who served the Christian emperor of a Christian state and the Theodosii crossed themselves accordingly.
‘Salve Flavius Theodosius. You and your men are welcome to our fair city, Count.’ Longinus raised his voice so that the watching crowd lining the forum could hear. ‘What we have, is yours.’
Behind her father on his dais, Julia Longinus could not take her eyes off the handsome young tribune with the dark curls kneeling in front of her. He had noticed her too and he smiled so that excitement shot through her like a sudden wind blowing away propriety and sense.
‘Salve, Julius Longinus,’ Theodosius offered the usual response. ‘We are your men, pledged to the defence of your fair city. We will obey her laws and respect her people, as God is our witness.’
Standing alone in a corner of the forum, where the morning sun had not yet reached, a young man smiled at the Count’s words – ‘… as God is our witness.’ His name was Pelagius. And one day he would change history.
CHAPTER X
Londinium, Ver
For three days and three nights the festivities continued. They put on plays in the amphitheatre south of the fort and Leocadius fell asleep in two of them. Vitalis was taken on a tour of the city’s oyster beds and pottery workshops as one of the younger Theodosius’ staff. He had never yawned so much in his life. The Count was busy throughout this time marching along the river front, in earnest consultation with his son’s engineers, checking the lie of the land and the speed of the river’s current. The Thamesis was tidal – any fortifications along its banks would have to take that into account. The ditches of the days of Diocletian would have to go – they served no purpose. And if the walls, of grey ragstone and red tile, were to be the height of three men, there must be flanking towers a man higher, large enough to take the weight of ballistae, the massive catapults that hurled rocks and flaming pitch into enemy formations, spreading fear and hideous death in equal measure. And these towers must be built to the east, too. That was the most likely direction of any attack, if it came by sea. And the talk turned to the bestiality of the Saxons and the Franks.
On the last night of the triumph, Julius Longinus threw a magnificent dinner, for selected guests only, at the governor’s palace by the Walbrook. The Theodosii were there, of course, and their respective staffs and the tribunes of the two legions. Vitalis had been backed into a corner by a publisher, who proceeded to explain to him the different qualities of vellum and ink and what a tragedy it was that society was going to the dogs and that nobody read these days.
‘I can't begin to tell you,’ Longinus was saying, sotto voce, to the Count, reclining on the next couch, ‘how many shrines there are in this place. The chap before me had the temple of Isis pulled down – people were throwing stones at it. There are half a dozen to Jupiter Highest and Best, of course; more Mother Goddesses than you’ve had hot dinners; you can't move for pots with Mercury’s name on them; and don’t get me started on Sol Invictus.’
‘What about Mithras?’ Theodosius asked. ‘A lot of my lads are adherents, one way or another.’
Longinus eased himself closer to the man because he knew very well, the walls of the governor’s palace had ears. ‘Bit of a sore point, actually. The temple of Mithras used to be just behind us, a couple of hundred paces up the Walbrook.’
‘Used to be?’
‘Taken down … or, to be more precise, desecrated by the Christians. Er …’ the consul checked himself. ‘I’m not giving offence, am I?’
The Count chuckled. ‘Not to me, no,’ he said. Then he too closed to the consul. ‘But I wouldn’t be so careless in front of my son. He takes this Galilean fellow very seriously.’
‘And you don’t?’
‘God, no,’ Theodosius held out his goblet to a passing slave. ‘There’s plenty of room in our pantheon for one more. It’s just that … well, it’s the official religion of the state now, isn’t it?’
‘God help us, yes,’ Longinus said, waiting for the slave to top him up too. ‘You’ve met Bishop Dalmatius, have you? Pompous git, sitting over there, boring everybody to death?
‘Sadly, yes,’ Theodosius sighed. ‘He bent my ear on the way in about how he disapproved of the bull sacrifices in my triumph.’
‘Yes, well, he would,’ Longinus grunted. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Not half as sorry as the bulls, I’ll wager,’ Theodosius winked.
‘What? Er … no, no indeed. No, it’s the man’s brass neck I can't stand. Do you know he’s started referring to the north-east gate as his? Bishop’s gate, he calls it. How ludicrous!’ Longinus took a deep draught of his wine, but his small, grey eyes soon found another target for his suspicion. ‘Who’s that, Count?’ he asked. ‘The tribune over there who seems to have his eyes glued to my daughter’s cleavage?’
Theodosius followed his host’s gaze. ‘That? That’s Leocadius, hero of the Wall.’
‘Are you really a hero of the Wall?’ Julia asked him, her eyes wide in the candlelight.
‘Can you doubt it?’ Leocadius asked, smiling. ‘You see this?’ He showed her his jet ring that glowed in the myriad flames that danced and flickered in the room. ‘The Count over there has one just like it. So has my friend, Vit …’ he looked around for him but couldn’t find the face. ‘He’s here somewhere. It’s a token of the stand we took against the barbarians.’
‘You’ve fought them?’ she asked. Her eyes shone with excitement and her mouth was moist and slightly open, almost as an invitation. If she were a tavern girl, he would be kissing that mouth now, his hand exploring her thigh, but this was not the time.
‘Oh yes.’ He summoned a slave to add more wine to the girl’s goblet. ‘Many times.’
She looked at him, the deep, dark eyes and the black hair that fell in ringlets over his tribune’s scarf. His teeth were white and even and he smiled a lot. ‘Tell me about them,’ she said, leaning forward.
Leocadius shook his head. ‘Soldiers’ tales, lady,’ he said. ‘They are not for your ears.’
‘I am the daughter of the consul,’ she said, sitting upright. He was staring at her breasts, rising and falling under her pale blue gown and she suddenly felt hot and uncomfortable. No, perhaps uncomfortable was not the right word.
Leocadius shrugged. He was taking a calculated risk, but he knew it would be worth it. ‘Very well, consul’s daughter,’ he said. ‘The Picts are the painted people. They’re from the far north, Caledonia. Have you heard of it?’
She shook her head.
‘Wild, remote place. End of the world. They paint their bodies …’ he reached forward and traced a finger over her cheek and chin. She blinked but did not move. ‘They believe it protects them,’ he went on, his voice dripping like honey trailing his finger down the contours of her neck and over her right shoulder. ‘Keeps them safe from harm.’ His fingers crept lower, under the tie of her gown, searching for her breast. ‘They paint themselves …’ he paused and dropped his voice to an almost inaudible whisper, ‘ … everywhere.’
‘Everywhere?’ she gulped. ‘The women too?’
‘Oh yes,’ Leocadius lowered his head towards hers, their lips close in the candlelight, ‘the women too. I have seen …’
The clearing of a throat brought them both upright again, the tribune sipping his wine in all innocence, the consul’s daughter adjusting her dress. Julius Longinus loomed over the
m.
‘Julia,’ he said sternly, ‘You’re neglecting our other guests.’ And he held out a rigid arm. ‘Forgive me, tribune,’ he said, without a smile.
Leocadius half rose and half smiled. There would be another time.
The Heruli and the Batavi were two of the legions who rarely fought apart. They had a reputation as hard fighters and hard drinkers and as Vitalis wandered north along the bank of the Walbrook that night, he had proof of both. He had seen them in action already, along other river banks to the east, rounding up rebels, killing some on the orders of the younger Theodosius, letting others go on the orders of his father. It was a topsy-turvy world. Now Vitalis saw the legions at leisure. Three men lay outside a taberna, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, fast asleep. Another was crawling along one of the consul’s new pavements on all fours, making wild roaring grunts as he wrestled with the demons of drink. Around the corner a semisallis of the Batavi had got lucky with one of the ladies of the town as they jerked backwards and forwards arch-style, which was often the way with ladies of the town.
‘What are you looking for, soldier?’ a male voice murmured in the shadows. Vitalis whirled round, his dagger blade naked in his hand.
‘Not you,’ he said.
The voice chuckled. ‘No, no,’ it said, ‘Do you take me for a Greek?’ A man walked out into the moonlight. He was tall, with a greying beard and, for all the night was warm, a fur-lined cloak.
‘I’m not taking you for anything,’ Vitalis assured him. He was still pointing his dagger at the stranger, waiting.
‘You’re the tribune Vitalis, aren’t you?’ the cloaked man said. It was not really a question.
‘You know me?’
‘I know of you,’ the man told him. ‘You’re one of the heroes of the Wall.’
Vitalis’ heart fell. That label was beginning to be stitched to his shirt. Soon it would be tattooed on his skin, like a Pict. ‘Am I?’ he said. ‘What business is it of yours?’
Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 15