by Jack Whyte
Britannicus turned to me, his face fixed in an expression that masked any signs of disgust or disapproval. "Varrus, " he murmured, "oblige me by walking to our friends and telling them who we are. I have no intention of shouting like a market huckster to allay the fears of a nincompoop." I was grinning to myself as I walked forward, but as I drew closer to the newcomers I found myself becoming more and more conscious of the sorry figure I presented — unkempt and bearded and wearing the tattered rags that had once been my centurion's uniform. I looked nothing like a Roman centurion, and, as I approached them, I could see hostility and suspicion in the stares with which they catalogued and analysed my appearance. I eventually came to a halt directly in front of them, looking up at their shining splendour and having to remind myself forcibly not to salute them. I was no supplicant junior, I was a Senior Centurion, pilus prior, of the Second Millarian Cohort, and all of these youngsters were junior to me. I drew myself to attention and spoke.
"Publius Varrus, pilus prior, Second Cohort, Twentieth Legion, under the command of Caius Britannicus, who awaits your recognition." Their faces registered their confusion and their lack of knowledge of what to do next. I saved them the agony of deciding. "Who commands here?" I asked. One of the young men, presumably the senior, nodded towards the rear, over his shoulder, in the direction of the advance party.
"Tertius Lucca, " he said. "He is senior tribune here.... We thought you were hostiles."
I grinned, asserting my seniority. "Don't let our sad appearance influence your judgment. We are Roman, and we're glad to see you. We've been searching for you for a long time. It's unfortunate that we ran out of clean uniforms before you came along — about a year and a half ago, in fact — but I suggest to you that our commander can be hostile if he puts his mind to it. You had better get Tribune Lucca over here to welcome us formally back to civilization, before Britannicus decides he is being insulted. I would also suggest that it might be politic for one of you to offer my commander the use of a horse. We had to eat his some months ago, and he dislikes walking."
The young man was still confused, blinking down at me like some kind of owl.
"What's your name?" I asked him.
"Placidus. Barates Placidus. Tribune, Third Cohort, Forty-first Legion."
"How long have you been in Britain, Tribune? I didn't know the Forty-first were here."
"Three months." He cleared his throat. "We landed with the consular army of Theodosius, Count of Britain by the appointment of the Emperor Valentinian."
I made no effort to conceal my surprise. "Theodosius is here in Britain? And named Count of Britain? Why?"
The young man frowned. "Because the Emperor orders it thus."
I shook my head. "But what about the other military governors, the Count of the Saxon Shore in the south and the Duke of Britain? What happened to them?"
He blinked at me in astonishment. "They are dead, killed in the Invasion."
I looked backwards towards Britannicus and our men, and then returned my eyes to the young officer. "Invasion? The incursion was that big?"
"It was complete and almost totally victorious. The province was overrun by a conspiracy of Picts, Scots and Saxons. All of the northern and middle lands went down. Only the home base in Londinium was held. How could you not know this?"
I shook my head, trying to rearrange my thoughts. "We have been occupied in local fighting, trying to get back. We have had no contact with anyone since the day the Wall was overrun. So now you tell me Theodosius is here, to win back the province, obviously. He is already campaigning?"
"He is."
"Good. Successfully?"
"Of course."
"Of course." I was not being ironic. I had heard much of Theodosius and knew him to be no man's fool. I wondered what Britannicus would make of this news.
"Well, Tribune Placidus, " I said, feeling lightheaded, "you bring good news with the bad. I am going to return to Commander Britannicus and tell him that you are reporting our identity to your superior, and that he will be coming to welcome us back to the fold as soon as you have done so. Don't forget the horses. We have six officers." I saluted formally, and as I returned to Britannicus, I heard them wheel their mounts and gallop away behind me.
When Britannicus heard what I had to say, he frowned and bit the inside of his lip. I assumed he was thinking about the scope of the invasion, but I was wrong.
"The Forty-first Legion? Are you sure about that, Varrus?"
"Yes, Commander," I answered. "I didn't think they had been in Britain before the invasion, so I asked him, and he verified that they have only been here three months, as part of Theodosius's consular army."
"Aye, I hear you. A consular army of four, perhaps six legions, and we are rescued by the Forty-first. That is enough to make a man doubt the existence of God."
I blinked at that but said nothing, knowing from long experience that if Britannicus chose to explain himself, he would.
He glanced around him, checking quite obviously to see who was within hearing distance. Nobody was, but he inclined his head, indicating that I should walk with him. When we were far enough removed from casual hearing, he remarked, "Varrus, do you recall the night we first met?"
"In the desert. Aye, Commander, I do."
"We spoke of Seneca. Do you remember?"
"I remember. My old legate."
"Yes, your old legate. Well, unless things have changed in the past two years, the legate of the Forty-first Legion is a Seneca, too. The eldest brother of your former legate. His name is Titus Probus Seneca, and he is the senior of a brood of six brothers, so everyone calls him Primus." He stopped and I waited, trying to make sense of what he had told me. I knew that there was no love lost between the families of Seneca and Britannicus, but I failed to see any traumatic importance in the identity of the legate commanding the legion that had found us. Britannicus, meanwhile, had fallen into a reverie and had forgotten that I existed. I coughed politely.
"I beg your pardon, Commander, but the significance of this is unclear to me."
"Significance? It has a vast significance, Varrus — to me, but far more seriously to you and to all our men. Primus Seneca is one of the two men in this whole world whom I can accurately call a deadly enemy. He hates me and mine, but the essence of his hatred is for me, in person. You know me well by now; I do not exaggerate. I have tried to kill him, and he has tried to kill me, and to have me killed, several times in years past. Only the benevolent interference of the Fates has frustrated both of us. We detest each other. It confounds me that it must be to him that I report today, in view of the fact that we have been absent from duties for so long. I have no fear of the man, but neither do I have an iota of trust in his humanity. I promise you, if there is a way for Primus Seneca to make trouble for me, and for anyone connected with me, he will not neglect it."
I could feel the confused frown etched into my forehead. "So," I ventured, examining my words carefully before bringing them out, "you think that this Primus Seneca will cause trouble for us? Now? How can he do that, Tribune?"
Britannicus smiled at me — a pitying, almost condescending smile — and gave his head a little jerk.
"Varrus, " he whispered," you are almost too innocent to be alive. Think of our situation. We have been absent, without leave or notice or communication with the army for more than a year. Missing, believed dead. Or perhaps, to some who are less charitable than you, missing, believed deserted." He brought his hand up quickly to forestall my shocked reaction. "No, wait. I am not saying we shall encounter anything like that, but it is a possibility, and I want you, at least, to be aware of it as such. What I am saying is that you should hold yourself prepared for anything, any kind of unpleasantness, and be equally prepared to inform our men as to what is happening, and why. That is all. I hope my suspicions are unfounded, and I know I am at fault in confiding them to you — that could be prejudicial to good discipline. I also know, however, the animal with whom I am shortly going to
have to deal, and I want you to be aware of the political and the personal implications of what we are about to undergo. Do you understand me now?"
I shook my head, still unable to believe what I was being told. He raised an eyebrow at me, a half-smile on his face. "Come now," he said. "I speak only of possibilities, not of certainties."
I finally found my tongue, and my understanding. "I hear you, Commander, and I understand what you are saying, but..."
"But what, Varrus?"
"Nothing, Commander. We can but hope you are wrong, and that the command of the Forty-first has changed hands."
"Exactly. Then we are in agreement."
"Yes, Commander. But... what if you are correct?
What if this man is still in charge? And if he does decide to use this situation to personal advantage? What then?"
He looked hard at me for a long moment, chewing on his inner lip, before answering.
"Then, Centurion Varrus, we must hope that he is accompanied by others who can sway him to behave as a Roman legate and not as a vindictive Seneca."
"Is that likely, Commander?"
"I have no idea. But I suspect we will not have long to wait to find out. Here comes our rescuer."
I turned to see the officers of the Forty-first returning accompanied this time by their senior tribune, Tertius Lucca. We returned to the head of our command as they approached, and I had to bellow at our men to keep them properly silent in the ranks as their natural relief and excitement threatened to overflow.
Tertius Lucca rode ahead of his officers as they came towards us, and in response to some signal unseen by us, they reined in and held their position just over a hundred paces short of where we stood, leaving Lucca to advance in company with one other, the junior tribune, Barates Placidus, to whom I had spoken earlier. When these two had come half of the remaining distance towards us, they stopped and dismounted. I glanced sideways at Britannicus, but he gave no reaction.
"I think they are waiting for you to go to them, Commander."
"Obviously. Well, there seems to be little point in not doing so. At least they haven't shouted at us. Come with me."
I walked one pace behind him on his right as we made our way forward to meet our rescuers, and we stopped within three paces of them. Neither pair of us made any effort to salute the other. Lucca and Britannicus faced each other impassively, neither man's face revealing anything of his thoughts. A worm of dread squirmed in my gut. Britannicus had been correct; we were in trouble with our own people. I fought to keep my facial expression non-committal.
Tertius Lucca was a dark-faced, good-looking man in his late twenties, and his uniform seemed opulent next to our rags. He wore a corselet of burnished bronze plates, cunningly attached so that they overlapped to hang loosely and seemed to shimmer when he moved. His armoured skirt straps and his helmet bore the same sheen of expensive bronze, and his leather harness had that deep, glossed polish that only servants can produce. His cloak and his tunic were of creamy, white wool, decorated with a Greek border in dark green, and the crest on his helmet was of white egret plumes. I noticed, too, that he wore white leggings of the same rich wool beneath his sandals. It was he who broke the silence.
"Have you no salute for me?"
Britannicus shrugged. "I would have, gladly, if I thought you might return it, but I think you might not."
"You are perceptive." The Tribune pursed his lips. "And correct. I could not."
"Could not? On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that you have been found guilty of desertion and are hence beyond the recognition of a soldier."
"I see."
I was biting my tongue. I could hardly believe the coolness of Britannicus's voice.
"Desertion. Not killed in battle. Not presumed dead at all, even though no one has seen me since the fall of Hadrian's Wall. There is no doubt in the official mind, it seems. I did not die in battle. I deserted. With all my men. Look at me, man!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Do you believe I am a deserter?"
"What I believe or disbelieve has no relevance. You stand convicted —"
" Inabsentia!"
"In absentia, as you say. That state of affairs is not uncommon in cases of desertion."
"So," and still Britannicus maintained that calm, even tone, "what is your next step, Tribune?"
"I am unsure..." Lucca's eyes narrowed as he gazed at Britannicus and then turned his glance on me. "I know what it should be... what it should have been. I am guilty, even now, of wrongdoing in speaking to you like this, but this meeting, and the form of it, has been... unexpected."
Britannicus held his peace and Lucca continued. "Had your men been deployed other than the way I found them upon our arrival, I would have joined battle instantly. I suspect you were aware of that?" Again, he received no answer. His next comment was unexpected.
"You owe this courtesy, small as it is, to one of your former officers, a friend of mine who served with you in Africa, years ago. Julian Symmachus. He is not here today, but I remember the fervour with which he defended your name and your honour when he first discovered you had been proscribed for desertion. He swore that you had to be dead, that you were incapable of desertion. He swore too loudly, fought too well on your behalf and made a nuisance of himself. He was transferred.
Britannicus was smiling. "I remember Julian well. I shall thank him for that. Where is he now?"
"He is dead. He was killed in a skirmish with a band of Scots." There was no reply to this. Britannicus simply lowered his chin to his breast.
A large bee appeared from nowhere and began buzzing somnolently around Lucca's chin, attracted by the perspiration that coated his face in the growing heat of the summer sun. He flicked at it without looking, and so fast was his hand's speed that he actually knocked the insect away, whether to the ground or not I did not see. He undid the clasp beneath his chin and removed his helmet, resting it against his hip and wiping the sweat from his brow with his free hand.
"It was Julian's defence of you that I recalled today when Barates told me that Caius Britannicus awaited me. I determined then, right or wrong, to speak with you before taking action against you, and to do so, upon my own authority, with only one witness to our discourse. This was in tribute to Julian Symmachus only, understand. I have no wish to come to grief over you as he did, but neither did I wish to condemn you out of hand without even having tried to assess the accuracy of his judgment. Will you surrender yourself and your men to my authority?"
"As what?" Britannicus raised his head and looked Lucca straight in the eye. "Do you intend to treat us as deserters?"
"I have no choice. I must."
I heard again the sharp sound of my commander sucking air between his teeth, a sound that betrayed to me the perplexity he was going through.
"Do you believe, Tertius Lucca, as a professional soldier and a man of reason, that, being guilty as charged, I would present myself and my command so meekly to the wrath of Rome?"
"You might." Lucca was close to smiling, I thought. "Symmachus often talked of the various kinds of effrontery you have shown in the past, as a resourceful leader. A move such as this might be a master stroke of sheer duplicity."
The worm in my gut was whirling rapidly now, but Britannicus's next words astounded me. "What if I were to tell you I can prove total loyalty to Rome, on my own behalf and that of all my men?" He was standing fully erect, seeming to peer right over Lucca's head. "How would you react?"
"With amazement." Lucca was smiling openly now, but there was no malice in his eyes. "Can you do that? Can you prove your loyalty?"
"I believe I can, if given the opportunity. Even to Primus Seneca."
Lucca made a wry face. "I doubt that. The Legate has no patience with convicted felons."
"And even less with me. We are old enemies. Personal enemies."
"Oh. I was unaware of that. That is unfortunate."
"Will Seneca be my judge?"
"He will. He is the legate. He i
s God, on campaign. You know that."
"He could refuse to countenance my evidence."
Lucca nodded, slowly. "He could, and would be well within his rights. You stand condemned already."
I took advantage of the short pause that followed these words to turn and look back at our forces. Every eye was fixed upon us, and I wondered what they were all thinking. Another bee hummed loudly in my ear and I swatted at it, uselessly. Britannicus spoke again.
"Where is the Legate quartered?"
"Officially? At Lindum, about thirty miles from here. But he is camped much closer today, in a fortified base camp about six miles from here. He has important guests in his train — a senatorial party from the Court of the Emperor, sent to inspect the progress of our campaign. He brought them out to visit the base camp yesterday. They return to Lindum tomorrow."
Britannicus raised his eyebrow. "Senators? Do you know their names?"
Lucca frowned slightly. "The senior is Flavinius Tesca. I do not recall the other names."
"Flavinius Tesca! I know him from better times. He is an honest and honourable man." Britannicus inhaled a deep breath and rose to his tiptoes, before rocking back on his heels. "Tribune Lucca, if you can guarantee to bring my men and me before the Legate Seneca while he has Flavinius Tesca in his train, I will surrender to you and rely on Tesca to see justice done on our behalf."
"I can guarantee nothing, Tribune." Lucca was frowning now, but all of us heard the honorific he accorded Britannicus. "It is my duty to take you and your men into my custody. If that is effected quickly and without strife, then I will deliver you today to face the Legate Seneca. But I must warn you that the Senator, Flavinius Tesca, has no authority over the Legate Seneca in matters pertaining to discipline and military law."
"I am aware of that, Tribune." The resolve in my commander's tone told me that he had made his decision. "But Flavinius Tesca is an imperial senator, and therefore a direct representative of the Emperor himself, here in Britain upon imperial affairs. If you will grant me one moment to address my men, who have no idea they stand accused, far less condemned, of anything, I will surrender them, and myself, to you. It seems ironic that my soldiers expect celebration and reward for having fought for, and maintained, their Roman pride, do you not agree? How eagerly would they have fought this past year, I wonder, knowing that they faced court martial and death on winning home?"