Britannia: Part I: The Wall

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Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 18

by Richard Denham


  Both men nearly fell off their horses. The rider was a woman, with a melodic voice that sang out over the tumbling, hissing waters of the Blyth. Justinus recovered first. He held up the scarlet flag. ‘We are the Victores Legion,’ he said, ‘General Magnus Maximus commanding.’ He passed the pole to Paternus and unbuckled his helmet, looking the woman straight in the eye. ‘We mean you no harm. We are looking for the man called Valentinus.’

  The woman half turned in her saddle and the horse shifted, tossing its head and snorting. Then she unbuckled her helmet too and let her hair fall free. ‘I am Brenna,’ she said, haughtily. ‘And these are my people.’

  ‘Sol Invictus!’ Paternus gasped. He was looking at a ghost.

  The spears came down and both armies relaxed. Two miles upstream the river broadened out to shallows, through which the horses could cross. At times like these, Maximus wished he had the Batavi with him, men renowned for water-crossings, but in the event, all was well. There were no buildings on these windswept moors for the leaders to meet in, so Maximus took half his staff and an escort of cavalry across to the north bank and they sat on the ground, facing each other.

  The Votadini had milk, bread and cheese which they passed to the Romans. The Romans in turn gave them creamy almonds and dried apricots, leathery outside but sweet as honey inside. To wash it down, there was wine from the south. When the small talk was over, the general got down to business. ‘We have been friends for centuries,’ he said, ‘the Votadini and Rome.’ He was not used to dealing with women on equal terms.

  Brenna nodded, sipping the dark red contents of her cup. ‘It was always so,’ she said, ‘since the days of Hadrian. But now …’ her voice trailed away.

  ‘Now?’ He looked up. They were speaking through Justinus as interpreter, since Brenna only knew a few words of Latin and the general had no Votadini at all.

  ‘Now the world has turned upside down,’ she shrugged. ‘Since Valentinus.’

  ‘What do you know of him?’ Maximus asked.

  ‘Not much,’ the queen admitted. ‘Some say he came from the east, from Rome itself. But the people he leads are outlanders, strangers like the Attacotti and northerners like the Picts.’

  ‘You’ve seen no Saxons?’

  Brenna consulted briefly with one of the tall warriors sitting beside her. ‘Once, crossing the mountains in the north. They came ashore in great ships, perhaps a thousand warriors.’

  ‘Do you know where Valentinus is now?’ Maximus asked her. ‘We’ve heard he is to the north, somewhere near here.’ The warriors around Brenna looked alarmed and muttered together.

  ‘We’ve heard nothing,’ she said, resting her hands on her knees as she sat cross-legged. ‘Except that you gave the Picts a bloody nose to the south-east.’

  ‘It was our pleasure,’ Maximus smiled. ‘We know they follow Valentinus, and the Saxons and the Attacotti and the Scotti. Who else?’

  Brenna’s face darkened. ‘Some of the Selgovae from the west,’ she said. ‘And, I’m ashamed to say, some of my own people.’

  ‘But you have an army here,’ Maximus raised his cup to the troops standing in clusters nearby, waiting for Brenna’s word of command. She leaned forward, looking the general in the face. The jaw was strong, the cheeks hard and tanned by years of campaign in the sun and the wind. Because she spoke no Latin she could not detect an accent and so had no idea where he came from. But the eyes, the eyes were kindly. There was ambition there, but there was humanity too.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked. Justinus duly translated for her.

  ‘As much as I can trust you,’ the general said. And they both smiled.

  ‘I have an army, yes,’ she agreed, ‘but what you see is what you get. There are eight hundred men at my back and that is all I have. From here to our capital, you won't find another fighting man. All the others have gone over to Valentinus. And by the way,’ she leaned back, finishing her wine. ‘Take a good look at my men. Nearly half of them are grandfathers and children whose voices have yet to break. I’m glad you weren’t in a fighting mood today, Roman.’ And they laughed.

  Paternus was watering his horse on the Votadini bank. On the south side, Maximus had ordered a camp set up and the earth was flying and the hammering of the timbers echoed across the mews. It was dark and the parley had gone on for hours while negotiations continued. All that time, he had rarely taken his eyes off the queen of the Votadini, the way she laughed and smiled, the tilt of her head. Even her eyes, dark and sparkling like the waters of the Blyth, reminded him of …

  ‘You didn’t tell me your name … last time.’ A voice made him turn so sharply that his mare’s head came up and the animal skittered. Paternus spoke soothing words to it and stroked its neck. It blew down its nose and shook its head then settled back to its drink. The tribune bowed stiffly. ‘It’s Paternus,’ he said. ‘Paternus Priscus. The last time, I didn’t know I was talking to a queen.’

  ‘You weren’t,’ she said, nuzzling the soft cheek of the horse and whispering in its ear. ‘My father was still alive then and we were on the run.’

  ‘Your father?’

  ‘Braciaca, lord of the Votadini. I am his only child.’

  ‘And they follow you? Your warriors, I mean?’

  Brenna laughed. ‘Of course they do,’ she said. ‘It is our way. Only you Romans refuse to be led by a woman.’ She tapped him playfully on the shoulder. 'Don't tell me,’ she said. ‘A woman’s place is down there,’ she pointed to the ground, ‘with her legs open.’

  ‘No.’ Paternus was not smiling. ‘No, I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, sensing that she had hit a nerve.

  ‘When I saw you last,’ he said, ‘There was a boy with you, not much taller than my boot.’

  ‘My son,’ she said. ‘Named Taran.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Safe, pray the shining one.’

  ‘And his father?’

  Brenna’s smile at the remembrance of her boy had gone and she stood at the river’s edge, staring into the water. ‘He drowned,’ she said. ‘The will of the shining one.’ She looked up at him. ‘You have lost someone too,’ she said. ‘A wife, perhaps?’

  ‘A wife and son,’ Paternus told her. ‘To Valentinus.’

  ‘Then we both have new lives to find,’ Brenna said, looking into the man’s eyes.

  ‘We both have lives to avenge,’ the tribune answered.

  The attack came out of nowhere. A sickle embedded itself into Paternus’ ribs and he was sent flying sideways by the impact. The horse whinnied and bolted, splashing back across the river.

  ‘No!’ Brenna screamed at the warrior who was standing over Paternus ready for the fatal blow.

  ‘His men killed Segomo,’ the warrior growled. ‘You were there, lady.’

  ‘His men killed Segomo because Segomo was about to kill him,’ she shouted. There was a dagger in her hand and the warrior was not about to cross iron with his queen. ‘Put that down,’ she was pointing at the sickle, trembling with the shock of the last few seconds. The warrior straightened and let the weapon fall. People were running from both directions, the Votadini grabbing their swords and spears, Romans snatching up shields and javelins.

  Paternus saw his men coming, splashing through the shallows in the half light. ‘No,’ he said, raising himself up as best he could. ‘It’s nothing. An accident. Everything’s all right.’ Somehow he managed to stand and held his hand out to the soldiers, already in skirmish order with their javelins raised. ‘Go back,’ he said. ‘You men have a marching camp to finish.’ He turned onto his hands and knees, letting his head hang to relieve the pressure on his lungs. After a couple of laboured breaths, he staggered to his feet, stumbling against Brenna, who held him upright. She turned to his attacker.

  ‘You are banished from the lands of the shining one,’ she said, levelly. ‘You and your kin. And this I swear by Belatucadros, if I see you again, I’ll hang you.’

  She waited until he h
ad gone, then took the full weight of the wounded tribune on her shoulders. Cold sweat was trickling down his forehead and his skin was clammy and pale. His blood, dark in the half light, was spreading over his mail coat above his belt and staining her armour too.

  ‘I must get back across the river,’ he said. ‘I must die with my men.’

  She held up his drooping head and did her best to keep her voice steady. ‘You’re not going to die,’ she said. ‘Do you hear me? You have lives to avenge, remember?’

  CHAPTER XII

  ‘Pa, Pa!’ Quin’s voice sounded in his ear, now soft, now loud.

  ‘What is it, little man?’ Paternus asked, rolling over on the bed.

  ‘Pa, get up. Time to play.’

  ‘It’s always time to play,’ Paternus yawned. ‘Go and bother your mother.’

  ‘Come on, Pa,’ Quin had been here before. His mother loved him, combed his hair and made him wash. She fed him with her lovely, warm biscuits that smelt of honey and apples, but she did not play. That was what his Pa was for. The boy tried to lift his father’s dagger down from the shelf, but it was too heavy and he gave up.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ Paternus warned him. ‘Too heavy for a little boy. And too sharp. Race you to the stream.’ And he dashed up, out of the married quarters he called home in the fort of Camboglanna and down towards the cool, beckoning water. It was hot already, south of the Wall and today was his day off – a semisallis of the VI Victrix did not get many of those. Little Quin tried to get under his feet and the pair of them laughed and tumbled until Paternus picked the lad up and collapsed into the water, flailing around, helpless with laughter, as Quin splashed him all the more.

  Suddenly, the boy was gone. He had slipped under the current, his little hands flapping frantically, his terrified face bobbing now above the surface, now below. ‘Hang on, Quin,’ Paternus found his feet and was striding out into midstream, but he could not reach the boy. Every time their fingers touched, the current swirled and carried him away, inches, feet, then yards and Paternus, swimming with all his strength, could not see him any more. All he could hear was his voice, ‘Pa, Pa …’

  ‘… Paternus, Paternus, wake up. It’s all right. It was a dream.’

  The Paternus who lay there under a canopy of trees, had been a semisallis attached to the forts of the Wall, a family man, happy and fulfilled, with all his adult life before him. The Paternus sitting up now was a tribune. He had no family. And his life was over.

  ‘You were dreaming.’ Warm hands were soothing his forehead and wiping the sweat from his face. He tried to focus, but his eyes were not working. The voice was soft and melodic, not his Flavia’s and yet … His chest was heaving with the exertion of the swim, the dream, the nightmare … whatever it was. And he sank back to sleep again.

  She opened his shirt under the wolfskin covers, seeing the old scar there and turned his body slightly to the left. Carefully, so carefully, she stripped away the bandages and looked at the wound. The sickle had bitten deep but the edges of the cut were clean. There seemed to be no infection now but Paternus’ mind was still wandering. He had been like this for two days and all that had passed his lips was some water. True, it was water from the holy well of Verbeia, whose pool they lay beside now, but would that be enough to save him?

  Brenna, queen of the Votadini, wrapped mistletoe around the tribune’s head and kissed it gently. It was a time of waiting.

  While a small escort marched with the queen and the wounded tribune, the rest of the Votadini travelled north-west with Magnus Maximus. Justinus had the job of watching over them because he spoke the language, but in no sense would these tribesmen in their furs and skins ever become a part of the Roman army. They could not march, they rode badly and their idea of a nightly marching camp was to shelter in the lee of some crags or a grove of trees. Too proud to ask for Roman shelter, they gave the earthworks and palisades a wide berth.

  It was two days later that Maximus came across the first signs of his quarry. Justinus left the Votadini trudging behind the Victores column, the chill of an on-coming winter turning hands and noses blue. He was riding ahead with the general and a cavalry escort because the scouts reported a village recently burned by a large army moving south.

  Justinus estimated they were due north of Brocolitia now, riding on a spur of land that fell away on both sides. He could see for miles, the sweep of the barren landscape under leaden skies. Trees only grew in the hollows where the icy winds of winter did not blast them to twisted, stunted bushes and smoke was rising from one of these hollows and one of those clumps of trees. Justinus was the only man in the general’s entourage to know what that burning might be. The Attacotti ate people. And when there was time and wood was plentiful, they cooked them over slow fires, basting and dancing in wild abandon, like insane cooks in the kitchen of some great man’s villa.

  But this was different. It was black smoke, drifting upwards from a dozen hut-roofs and it had been burning for some time. As the knot of horsemen cantered down the slope, there was a shrill scream from the stand of oaks and a naked woman ran across the open ground, tearing her long hair as she ran, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘Tribune!’ Maximus shouted, clawing free his sword and Justinus rammed his heels into his horse’s flanks and galloped after her. She twisted this way and that, leaping over tree roots and making for the blackened, smouldering wrecks of what had once been a village. A few geese the raiders had missed squawked and flapped at the thud of the woman’s feet and ran ahead of her for a few paces, necks outstretched like a bizarre guard of honour. Turning, she dashed into the darkness of one of the huts.

  Justinus swung out of the saddle and let his horse wander. The others were there now, forming a time-honoured circle around the place so the animal was not going to get far. He drew his sword and ducked his head under the half-burned beam. After the brightness of the day he could not see a thing. The smell of burning almost choked him and he felt loom weights and broken pots under his boots. Then there was an ear-piercing scream and the woman he had been chasing was on top of him, beating his shoulders with her fist and trying to wrench off either his helmet or his head. He dropped the sword in surprise and hauled her off, gripping both her flailing arms as she tried to claw his face. She drove first her right foot, then her left into his groin and he doubled up as the sickening pain hit him. She was hurtling out of the door, her hair flying behind her when she came face to face with the flat of a spatha blade and dropped where she stood, out cold.

  A rather sorry-looking tribune of the VI Victrix hobbled out of the smoking hut, his eyes brimming with tears, he told himself, from the smoke. Several horsemen sat their animals looking at him. One of them was General Maximus. ‘Can’t catch a naked woman, laddie?’ he shook his head in dismay. ‘You’ve been too long on the Wall.’

  Her name, she said, was Fanna, daughter of Cernunnos and Epona. She had never married, although she had been betrothed once to a beautiful man who had horns on his head, like her father. In fact, no man had touched her until they came.

  ‘Who are they?’ Justinus asked. From somewhere, Maximus’ horsemen had found a cloak to cover the girl’s nakedness and had given her some food. She ate ravenously, eyes constantly on the move, watching them all. Justinus told his soldiers to go away and even Maximus had taken the hint. Now, just the two of them sat in the smoky hut, less choking than it had been, a small, spitting fire between them.

  ‘The painted ones,’ she said. ‘And the Scotti. They’ve gone, though, now, haven’t they?’ She peered over his shoulder, checking in the shadows for lurking monsters. He could see the goose flesh crawl along her arms in a sudden flare as a log fell in the fire.

  ‘Yes,’ Justinus said softly. ‘They’ve gone. Did you see which way they went?’

  Fanna continued to gnaw on her army hard-tack, sucking through broken teeth and she pointed through the door. The general and his escort stood there, warming their hands around a larger fire. Maximus had sent word bac
k to the cohorts. There would be no marching camp tonight; they were to get here, fast.

  ‘Fanna,’ Justinus was careful to make no move towards the girl. ‘Did you see a man with a helmet?’

  She glanced quickly at the spangenhelm lying next to the tribune. ‘No, not like mine. A mask. A mask of silver over the face.’

  For a moment she did not move, showed no expression. Her eyes widened. Then her face creased into a smile and she started to laugh. ‘He said he liked me,’ she trilled. ‘Said I was beautiful.’ She suddenly stood up and let her cloak fall. Her breasts were bruised and bitten, her thighs and belly covered in scratches. She twirled in the firelight, this way and that. ‘He wanted me,’ she said, taking up the long fronds of her hair and sweeping them mischievously across her face, ‘the one in the silver helmet. Said he had to have me.’ She stopped swaying and the smile vanished. ‘But I wouldn’t let him,’ she said. ‘He was not of my people, so I wouldn’t let him.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’ Justinus asked. He got up slowly, making sure that his movements didn’t bring him closer to her. She was like a strung bow, tensed and ready to fly.

  ‘Well,’ she said, coyly. ‘Perhaps I did. Just once or twice.’ She looked at him through huge, uncomprehending eyes. ‘Do you want to do it with me?’ she asked, hands on hips.

  Justinus bent down and picked up the cloak, spreading it over her shoulders and pulling it closed. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘You should get some sleep. In the morning, we’ll see.’ And he laid her gently down on the soft earth by the fire.

  Outside, Magnus Maximus was still warming his hands. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Valentinus?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Justinus said. ‘She’s Selgovae by her accent.’

  ‘Did she tell you which way the bastards went?’

  ‘South,’ the tribune told him. ‘If we can believe her.’

  ‘She’s lying?’ Maximus asked.

  ‘She’s mad,’ Justinus stretched out his hands too. ‘Whether she was anyway or she’s been driven to it by what they did to her, I don’t know. Says her father is a horned god and her mother is a horse goddess.’

 

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