The tribune ran up the slope towards the Wall’s ramparts. From here he could see the whole field, the rigid lines of the legions broken up now as girls flirted among them and the wine began to flow. Paternus and Brenna sat in the centre under their awning, receiving gifts and donations and fawning speeches from Celt and Roman alike. From this distance, they looked like any other happy couple, married for love.
‘Talassio!’ Justinus heard the old Roman wedding greeting he had not heard for years as one of the older officers scattered petals over the newly weds.
The fires were still bright over Aesica that night and lovers lay entwined under the stars. The distant guard calls of the Wall watch echoed across Valentia. The muttered curses of the watchers themselves, those who had missed out on the festivities, carried no further than the nearest semisallis, who immediately told the grumblers their fortunes. Horses whinnied and stamped at their tethering ropes and the music had dwindled to a single, lonely harp and the irregular tap of a drunken drum. Away on the edge of the camp, a single voice, plaintive on the evening air, sang a love song which everyone understood, whatever their native tongue. It wove into the brain and told of loss and longing. The lonely felt even lonelier, the loved held their beloved tighter as the song wound to a minor chord and stopped.
Paternus and Brenna lay in their huge tent, her hair still studded with petals. For a while they both lay there, on their backs, staring at the roof-joists overhead. Then she turned to him and ran her fingers over his naked chest. He could feel her breasts pressed against him and her thigh sliding over his.
‘I know you cannot love me,’ she said, her voice a honeyed whisper in the darkness.
He looked down at her upturned face, earnest, pleading. Then he turned away. It had been a long time since he had lain with a woman and he had never lain with a queen. He was expected to do his duty, not just as a husband but as the living link between Valentia and Rome. He lifted her chin and kissed her full on the lips. She ran her fingers through his hair and he returned her caresses. The ghosts that lay between them never said a word.
‘This had better be important, tribune,’ Magnus Maximus hauled on his shirt and turned to talk to someone in the inner tent. 'Don't go away. I won't be long.’
Justinus had been on his feet now for hours. Ever since he had seen the man at the wedding, he had been scouring the ground, looking for him. He had seen no one ride away to the north of the Wall and the guard had orders to let no one pass to the south. He had peered into every tent, looked under every market-stall awning and had found nothing.
Maximus splashed his face with cold water and helped himself to a jug of Votadini ale. He did not offer one to Justinus. ‘Well?’ he snapped. ‘I’ve got a hot woman waiting for me in there. What do you want?’
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ Justinus asked him.
Maximus blinked, looking at the beer in case that was responsible. ‘Goodnight, Justinus,’ and he turned to go.
‘No, sir,’ the tribune held his sleeve. ‘I’m serious.’
The general frowned. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘No, I don’t. Now, what is all this nonsense about?’
Justinus paced backwards and forwards in the entranceway. For some time he had been worrying this, wondering how he could put it so that it made any sense at all. ‘Earlier,’ he said, ‘Soon after Paternus made his vows, I saw someone.’
‘Anyone in particular?’ Maximus asked.
‘Artabanus, the arcanus.’
The general blinked. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Meaningless.’
‘Artabanus,’ Justinus repeated. ‘Do you remember the tale Metellus told?’
‘Er … the signifer of the Ala Invicti Britanniciaci? I heard about it, yes.’
‘Artabanus was the arcanus, the scout, that rode out with Fullofaudes.’
Maximus shrugged. ‘So?’
‘So,’ Justinus was making his point. ‘No one survived. Except Metellus. That was the whole point. Valentinus let him live to carry his tale back to us. No one else survived. Yet, earlier today, I saw Artabanus, as clearly as I’m seeing you now.’
‘The signifer got it wrong,’ Maximus explained it away. ‘ I heard he went to pieces afterwards.’
‘No, sir,’ the tribune stood his ground. ‘He didn’t get it wrong. Do you remember, when we found the mouth of hell?’
‘I do,’ Maximus nodded.
‘A good choice of field, was it, for us, I mean?’
‘Decidedly not,’ the general said, taking up his ale again. ‘The worst possible.’
‘What did you put that down to?’ Justinus asked.
‘Bad luck,’ Maximus murmured. ‘Or bad generalship. I’d never heard much good of Fullofaudes.’
‘What if it was neither?’ Justinus said. ‘What if Fullofaudes was taken straight there, to the mouth of hell by someone working for Valentinus? Artabanus didn’t go down under the dragon standard, he helped to cut it down.’
‘I see.’ Maximus paused in mid-swig. ‘So …’
‘So what if Artabanus has been here all along? Count Theodosius believed there was a spy in Eboracum, didn’t he?’
‘It seems likely,’ Maximus said.
‘What if that was Artabanus, sneaking into the colonia, sniffing us out and stirring things up?’
‘Do we need these arcani?’ the general asked.
‘They have their uses,’ Justinus had to admit.
‘I’m not sure they do. If there are any more of the bastards lying pissed out there by morning, round them up. We’ll ask a few questions and tell them their services are no longer required.’
‘Magnus …’ a sweet voice wheedled from the inner tent.
‘Yes, yes,’ the general yawned and drained his cup. ‘But before you round up the arcani, Justinus, find yourself a woman, will you? This bloody Wall has taken over your life.’
Liber III
CHAPTER XVI
Autumnus, in the Year of the Christ 370
The room was silent save for the faint hiss of needles busily employed mending linen and the room was soft with sunlight. The women sat around a low table, with a bowl of olives, slick with oil, some bread and a salty cheese set out for the midday meal. A slave added a plate of smoked fish and a pitcher of wine. The consul’s wife set aside her sewing and, leaning forward, began to pile her plate with food. She had been a beautiful and lascivious girl when she had met Julius Longinus, back in the day when he was a thrusting young merchant but now she was fat and lazy with more than a suggestion of a moustache across her lip. She looked up at her daughter, who was still sewing.
‘Julia,’ she said, in a harsh voice which set the consul’s teeth on edge whenever he heard it and made him long for one of Hupo’s compliant girls, ‘eat.’ She filled her mouth with soft cheese and bread as she spoke, reaching out with her free hand as she did so.
Julia put her sewing aside but didn’t reach for a plate. She sat back instead and smiled a small smile at her mother. ‘I’m not really very hungry, Mama, thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll have a piece of bread, just to keep you company.’
Her mother looked at her, almost uncomprehending. Matidia Longinus had always had a good appetite. Once it had been for lying with her husband but that had not lasted, to their mutual satisfaction. On the occasions that she felt the need, there was always a slave handy but those times were few and far between. Now, her appetite was for food and that her daughter didn’t share her enthusiasm was beyond her. She took another bite.
Julia took a small piece of bread, dipped it in some oil and put it on her plate, untasted. ‘I don’t feel very hungry most of the time, Mama, if I told you the truth.’
Through a mouthful of bread, Matidia snapped at her child. ‘I hope you always tell the truth, Julia. I have brought you up to be honest, at least. Yes.’ She nodded complacently to herself, her chins compacting with each move of her head.
Julia took a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to disappoint you, Mama. I am as truthful as I can be.’
Matidia’s little eyes were suddenly piercing. ‘Do you have something to tell me, Julia? Nothing to upset me, I hope. You know my health is not good.’ She put a greasy hand to her bosom but she was not built to look frail.
Julia dropped her head and muttered something her mother did not catch.
‘What?’ the woman grated. ‘What was that?’
‘I have been … I have been seeing a man. In my room. At night.’
Matidia had a sudden flash of memory, of her legs squeezed tightly around the young Julius Longinus, of her stifled screams that her mother must not hear. She shook her head and stood up, plates and bread and fish going everywhere. ‘You slut!’ she screamed. ‘If it’s that slave …’
‘No, Mama. It is the tribune, Leocadius Honorius.’
Matidia had heard stories about the tribune that did not redound to his credit, but this was not the time. It seemed her daughter may have caught herself a man who was on the rise, just as she had years ago and by a similar method.
‘He loves you?’
Julia was startled. It had never been something that she had considered. ‘I … don’t know,’ she said, finally.
Her mother sat back, legs apart, a meaty hand on each knee. ‘You don’t know?’ she echoed. ‘What do you talk about, then, in your room at night?’
‘We …’ Julia’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘We don’t seem to talk much …’
Her mother leaned forward, her own appetite gone. ‘Then … you are making sure you don’t bring disgrace on us, I hope.’ Matidia was proud of herself for not grabbing the slut’s hair and banging her head on the table. She was behaving as a loving mother should. The screaming could come later.
‘I don’t know what that means,’ Julia said, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘I … I just let him take me.’
‘You didn’t sneeze? Use rue? Nothing?’ Matidia’s voice was rising to a crescendo and outside the door a small gaggle of sniggering slaves was beginning to gather.
‘I didn’t know any of those things,’ Julia was on her feet now, her hands protectively across her belly. ‘I am with child. Leocadius’ child and I don’t know what to do!’ She collapsed back on to her couch, curled up and sobbing.
Matidia sighed and helped herself to another piece of cheese. It wasn’t how she would have chosen to get a tribune as a son-in-law, but now it was here, it was as good a way as any.
Honoria knocked on the door of her mother’s apartment and receiving no reply, opened it and peeped round into the room. It was dark, despite the sun outside, the small, high window being draped with gauze. As her eyes adjusted, she saw that the bed was occupied and withdrew her head. Before she had quite closed it, she heard her mother call.
‘Honoria? Is that you?’
‘Yes, Mama.’ She waited with her ear to the gap.
‘Wait a moment, darling. I won’t be long.’ Her mother’s voice was always full of laughter and this was no exception. She heard her say, in honeyed tones, ‘You won’t be long, will you?’ Her question was answered by a grunt. Then another and another. Her mother spoke again, a congratulatory note in her voice this time. ‘Well done, Plautius. I knew we’d get there in the end. Just leave the money on the dish by the door as usual and tell my daughter to come in as you leave.’
The door swung open and a merchant Honoria knew well as a customer of Hupo’s slunk out, holding the brim of his straw hat well down over his face. Honoria called a greeting, but just got yet another grunt in reply. She pushed open the door and went over to the window to pull aside the gauze. Her mother sat up in the bed and patted the edge of it for her to sit.
‘I need to talk to you, Mama,’ Honoria said.
‘Will it take long?’ her mother said.
‘Do you have another caller expected?’ Honoria asked, looking round at the door.
The woman smiled. She looked scarcely old enough to be out by herself, let alone be Honoria’s mother. Partly this was because she was adept with makeup, partly it was because she was beautiful to start with and partly because she had had Honoria when she was only fourteen. ‘No, darling,’ she said, patting her daughter’s knee. ‘When old Plautius is my customer, I always give him the whole day. He sometimes takes a while.’
The women laughed. Honoria had not had the pleasure herself, if that was the word, but Plautius did not have a high reputation amongst Hupo’s girls.
‘No, I just need to … well, I don’t need to tell you, dear. Wash. You don’t want a little brother or sister, now, do you?’
Honoria looked at her mother. ‘No,’ she said. ‘How do you feel about a little granddaughter or grandson?’
Her mother leaned back on the pillows and looked long and hard at her daughter. This had been a good while coming. The girl had been in Hupo’s household these five years now and she knew she had been giving herself for free for years before that. She smiled and held the girl’s hand.
‘I hope the little bastard has got a rich papa,’ she said. ‘Anyone I know?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ Honoria said, with a smile.
‘If it’s the tribune, take care,’ her mother said. ‘If it’s Hupo … well, you could do worse. He has no other bastards that I know of.’
‘I’ll see,’ Honoria said.
Her mother swung her legs out of bed and walked away from her daughter, reaching for her sponge. ‘Off you go, darling,’ she said, rolling up her gown. ‘Mama is busy.’
She didn’t turn as her daughter softly closed the door. Both women would have been surprised to see the tears on the other’s cheek.
Decius Critus sat in the darkness of the Mithraeum that night. The prayers had been said and the blood had been spilled. ‘We haven’t seen you, Vitalis,’ he said to the man sitting next to him, watching the candlelight flicker between the horns of the great bull.
‘No,’ said the tribune. ‘Affairs of state.’
‘The Christian calendar,’ Critus said. ‘Their ceremony to mark the resurrection of their Christ …’
‘We missed it,’ Vitalis said. ‘I sent you word.’
‘Yes,’ Critus nodded, his eyes closed. ‘We got your message. But it changes nothing. That church is an abomination. We can burn it down any time; we don’t need to wait for one of their ceremonies.’
‘But that’s when you’ll find most people there.’
‘Exactly,’ the priest smiled. ‘There’s not much point in making a protest if there’s no one there to see it. If I wanted Dalmatius dead, any one of my people could knife him in some back alley. No, this has to be a celebration of Mithras, a triumph of our god over theirs.’ He looked at Vitalis. ‘We are in no hurry,’ he said. ‘The time will come. And I can count on you, Vitalis, can't I? As a true child of the darkness?’
‘You can count on me,’ Vitalis said.
On the windswept moors north of Aesica, a huddle of peasants stood looking at the line of shields ahead of them and the grim-faced soldiers who held them. General Magnus Maximus was walking his horse to and fro, waiting until the little group was assembled. Then he reined in and spoke loud and clear, Justinus translating his words on the wind.
‘You arcani,’ he said. ‘You secret people; Rome thanks you for your hard work in the past. You have supported us. You have fed us precious pieces of information. You have befriended us against the barbarians.’ He watched their faces as Justinus’ dialect sank in. The Votadini understood him and the Selgovae. It was the end of an era. ‘Now, we have, as you see, a new Wall. And we have a new Rome. There will be peace.’ He did not believe it himself, but it sounded impressive there, with the dragon standard snaking in the wind and the Wall high and solid. ‘There is silver for each of you. May your gods go with you.’
He wheeled his horse away and the cohorts stood firm until the arcani had broken up and had crossed to the tables where clerks were handing over coins and keeping careful accounts in their ledgers.
Dumno went over to the tribune. ‘Io, Justinus,’ he said, half-smi
ling. ‘The end of the road, eh?’
Justinus had dismounted and walked along the little track with the arcanus. The little man looked up at the Wall ramparts. ‘I’m going to miss all this, you know,’ he sighed.
The tribune laughed. ‘You’re going to miss our silver, Dumno,’ he said. ‘Anything else, I’m not so sure.’ He stopped and his smile vanished. ‘Have you seen Artabanus?’ he asked. ‘I don’t see him here this morning.’
‘Artabanus?’ Dumno frowned. ‘Have you forgotten, sir – he died at the mouth of hell.’
‘Did he, Dumno?’ Justinus said. ‘Did he really?’
And the little man collected his silver and rode away.
Count Theodosius had set up a new camp to the west of the city. He was within half an hour’s ride to the west wall, an hour for the marching men. If truth were told, he was tired of Londinium and found himself dreaming more and more of the warm lands of his birth where the orange groves bloomed and the sky was an eternal blue. Here the summer was fading already and he sat on the ramparts as the light dimmed, watching the harvesters carting in their corn, the barley a dull russet where, at home, it would be sparkling gold.
Vitalis found him up here, watching the fishing boats sail upriver to their little jetties beyond the Thamesis’ bend. He was wearing his parade armour, the plumed helmet tucked into the crook of his arm and he stood to attention. Theodosius reached across to help himself to more wine. ‘Tribune,’ he nodded.
‘I want to offer my resignation, sir,’ Vitalis said.
The Count raised an eyebrow. ‘Well,’ he sighed. ‘No sense in beating about the bush. Thank you for coming to the point. Now …’ he poured another cup for Vitalis and handed it to him. ‘Why don’t you tell me what all this is about?’
Britannia: Part I: The Wall Page 24