by Ian Ross
Arpagius raised an eyebrow. ‘Impressively detailed,’ he said. Castus suppressed a smile, and gave silent thanks to his standard-bearer.
‘I want you to prepare those men you have available for immediate departure,’ the prefect went on. Castus said nothing.
‘You may want to sit down, centurion,’ one of the tribunes said, pointing to a stool. Castus winged his shoulders, then he sat down stiffly on the stool with his back straight.
‘One of our frontier scouts,’ Arpagius said, gesturing to the man in the native cloak, ‘has just brought some potentially troubling information from north of the border. It appears that Vepogenus, who you may know is High Chieftain of the Pictish confederation, has died. Apparently a case of accidental food poisoning – he was feasting on mushrooms – but there are necessarily doubts about what’s happened.’
Castus nodded, staying silent. He had never heard of Vepogenus, or the Pictish confederation. The Picts were a savage people who lived far north of the frontier, past the wall of Hadrian and the settled lands beyond, but he knew no more about them than that.
‘Since the death is in dispute,’ Arpagius went on, ‘Vepogenus’s military commander has declared himself regent until the tribal leaders can be gathered to select a new high chieftain.’
‘The Picts have a multitude of leaders,’ said the second tribune, Callistus, a solid military-looking man with hard eyes. ‘But they’ve taken to… electing a chieftain to stand above the others. It’s a new thing – easier for us when they just fought among themselves!’
‘Vepogenus fought against us in the past,’ Arpagius said, ‘but he agreed to a treaty several years ago. He swore to keep the peace and not to attack the settled tribes to the south who are clients of Rome, and he’s stuck to it. With him gone, there’s potential for troublemakers to step in – the Picts are a very backward people, and believe treaties are made between individuals, not states. Therefore we must send an envoy, with a diplomatic party, to the tribal gathering and ensure that the old treaties are honoured by the newly elected chieftain, whoever he may be. I want your men to act as a bodyguard.’
‘Prefect, with respect,’ the tribune Callistus broke in, ‘will a single reduced century be enough? Less than sixty men? We should send a cohort, surely…’
‘No. This is an honour guard, nothing more. If we sent a whole cohort the tribes would suspect we were invading their land. Which we have no intention of doing.’
Watching the exchange, Castus was surprised by the change in Arpagius. On his last meeting the prefect had seemed worried, irresolute. Now he was much firmer, with a decisive note in his voice. Even so, the plan lacked appeal. Castus knew nothing of Picts or any other savages, and the notion of standing around acting as a ceremonial guard surrounded by howling barbarians tightened his stomach. He thought enviously of Valens, still at the Blue House with his dark-skinned Cleopatra…
‘Would a mounted escort not be faster?’ asked the bearded man. Castus had ignored him until now.
‘Over that distance, no,’ Arpagius replied. ‘There’s limited horse fodder north of the wall – the stunted little ponies the natives ride seem to live on air – and a cavalry force of that size would have to carry its own provisions or spend half their time foraging. Our soldiers can cover twenty miles a day on foot. Besides, I want legionaries there – the savages respect our legions; they fear them. They’re Rome, to the natives’ understanding. Centurion, you have a question?’
Castus paused, unaware that he had been staring quizzically. ‘Dominus,’ he said, ‘I just thought… why choose my men for this?’
Arpagius gave him a thin smile. ‘Because I warmed to you on our last meeting, centurion! You’re the sort of plain, honest soldier I like. And because you’ve turned an unpromising crop of men into the smartest century in the legion. They look good and they march hard, and that’s what I need at this moment. Besides, I suspect you’ll impress the natives. They’re quite puny, on the whole.’
Nothing more to be said then, Castus thought. He recognised a foregone conclusion when he heard one. Standing up, he clasped his hands at his back, raised his head and stuck out his chest. ‘Dominus! What are your orders?’
Arpagius nodded slightly, pleased. ‘The decision of the tribes,’ he said, ‘is scheduled for the first light of the new moon, which is in fifteen days’ time. The party will consist of one of my secretaries, Flavius Strabo’ – he gestured to the bearded man, who bowed his head – ‘and our envoy, to be collected from his villa a day’s march north of here.’
‘I’m not sure about that plan either,’ the tribune said quietly, but Arpagius ignored him.
‘Prepare your men to leave before dawn. I’ll supply a docket to draw all necessary supplies from the commissariat, and eight mules to carry the baggage together with slaves to handle them. I’ll also write an order to the commander of Bremenium fort to detach some mounted scouts to accompany you north of the Wall. I must remind you, centurion, that your force will not be expected to fight – they are an honour guard alone. Your first responsibility will be the protection of the envoy himself, then the security of your own men. You will have no say in any diplomatic negotiations, and should keep yourself and your men separate from the natives at all times. Do you understand?’
‘I understand, dominus. We will do what we are ordered…’
‘…and at every command we will be ready,’ Arpagius said with a smile, finishing the customary soldier’s pledge. ‘Dismissed, centurion.’
3
Mile after mile, the road ran on across the open landscape, straight and true as a line scored on a surveyor’s plan. The soldiers marched in open order, spread out along the road with the pack mules at the centre. As they passed the fourth milestone from Eboracum the sun rose, lighting the brown moors to either side and throwing their long shadows out over the gravel ahead of them.
Castus marched at the head of the column. Behind him came Evagrius, carrying a banner with the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth Legion, and after him the remaining fifty-seven men of the century. Each carried a full load – mail armour and helmet, shield and spear, sword, two light javelins and a sheaf of darts, plus a full canteen and hard rations for five days. Another twelve days’ food per man was carried on the pack mules, together with the tents, cooking utensils, entrenching tools and fodder, and a sealed package of diplomatic gifts to present to the Picts. It was a heavy burden, but men and animals moved easily now, falling into the rhythm of the march. Castus had done his planning well.
It had been a different picture two hours before, when he had mustered his men in the pre-dawn twilight, just inside the river gate of the fortress. All of them bone-tired and aching from broken sleep, unwashed and unfed, none knowing where they were going or why. They had marched out in a ragged column, across the bridge and through the silent civilian settlement with their boots crunching loud on the cobbles. Castus had decided not to tell his men of the nature of the mission until they had a day’s march behind them. He knew so little himself about what lay ahead.
But a winter of route marches had toughened the men up, and with the sun on their backs they soon picked up a good pace. The country to either side was open moorland, then at the seventh milestone they crossed a brook and moved into rolling cultivated hills. It was familiar territory to them all. Castus hung back every few miles and let the men pass him, swatting at his thigh with his staff as he checked them off.
‘Atrectus! Get your spear up off the dirt – it’s not a walking stick! Shoulder!’
‘Sorry, centurion.’
Valerius Atrectus was a red-haired joker, and had often been on punishment back at Eboracum. Beside him marched Genialis, a slow, simple soldier who generally did whatever his friend told him. The worst men in the century for discipline, but Castus regarded them now with a contented smile. All of them were his brothers, his men, his command. He looked towards Evagrius, swinging along in the lead now with the standard over his shoulder, the hornblower
Volusius marching behind him, Timotheus bringing up the rear with his easy stride. He checked his section leaders, each in charge of a group of eight: Culchianus, Attius, Januarius… All of them looked keen, disciplined and strong. Ready for whatever he might order. If Castus himself felt the tremor of uncertainty about what lay ahead, he was determined not to let it show.
Flavius Strabo, the governor’s secretary, rode his pony along the verge of the road, remaining apart from the soldiers. Castus had hardly been aware of him when they had left the fort, and the man had said nothing to anyone since. Now, as he moved back up the line, Castus regarded him carefully, sizing him up. He was a smallish, fattish man, and sat badly on his pony, seeming to bounce up and down in the saddle as he rode. He probably only had a year or two on Castus, but with his shining bald forehead and trimmed beard he looked much older. Plainly dressed, but he wore an expensive-looking gold brooch securing his cloak. Castus had little experience of civilians, and little desire to expand on it – they were generally a nuisance anyway, interfering with the work of the professionals. Fine for selling beer or cattle, good at running inns, but little use for much else.
But as he dropped back into the rhythm of the march, Castus was aware that the secretary surely knew much more about the task ahead of them than he did. Stepping down off the roadway, he paced up alongside the man on the pony, trying to appear casual.
‘So how far is this villa we’re heading for then?’ He was not sure how to address the secretary – dominus would surely be too deferential. As far as he knew, the secretary was only a minor functionary.
‘Oh, quite a bit further. Three hours’ march beyond Isurium, I’d say.’
Castus nodded. More or less as he had expected. They could break the march for a few hours at Isurium and make it to the villa before evening.
‘And what about this envoy we’re meeting?’
The secretary turned in his saddle and glanced down with a wry smile. ‘The less you know about him the better, I’d say!’
‘Fair enough.’
They moved on in silence, Castus falling in with his men again. He was sure now that Strabo knew something important about the mission ahead. Either he wanted to talk, but had been ordered not to, or he had been ordered to communicate something but was playing a waiting game. Either way, if the fat man wanted to be mysterious, he would let him. Castus could happily march twenty or more miles a day in complete silence with barely a conscious thought in his head, but the secretary appeared to be the kind of man who disliked silence. Give him a few more miles, Castus thought, and we’ll see how well he fares with his attempt at secrecy.
He did not have long to wait. As they passed the eleventh milestone and trees closed around the road the secretary eased himself off his pony, wincing, and walked along with the reins in his hand.
‘Do you think we might take a short rest, centurion? It’s getting rather hot!’
‘Don’t worry about that. My lot can march five hours a day like this. They haven’t even broken sweat yet. We’ll rest when we get to Isurium, but if you want a lie down you can catch us up later.’
‘Oh no, oh no…’ the secretary said. He was kicking up dust as he walked along beside his horse. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little short with you earlier. You must understand there are some things I can’t openly discuss – or not yet, anyway.’
‘That’s fine. We’ve all got our orders.’
They walked on a little further in silence. The trees opened out, and the sun shone hot on their backs. Castus had been exaggerating about his men not sweating. He glanced at Strabo: the desire to talk, whatever prohibition might be on the man, was almost palpable. Fine then; he would draw him out gradually.
‘Tell me about these Picts,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes, the Picts,’ said Strabo, widening his eyes. They had drawn ahead of the marching men a little – Castus had not noticed. He reminded himself not to become complacent about this man.
‘They live in the mountains and valleys, beyond the settled peoples to the north of the Wall of Hadrian,’ the secretary said. ‘Originally they were a collection of feuding tribes – Caledones, Miathi, Venicones and others. They fought many wars against Rome over the years, whenever they banded together and tried to resist us. Then the emperor Severus marched into the north with a huge army. You’ll have read about Severus in the histories, I expect?’
Castus, of course, had read nothing at all, but he had heard of Severus. The emperor who had built the current walls of Eboracum fortress. He nodded.
‘Severus campaigned against the tribes for three years, but failed to completely subdue them. His army burned and destroyed their homes and killed anyone they could find.’
Castus gave an appreciative grunt. He had always liked the sound of the emperor Severus: clearly a commander who knew the best way to treat savages.
‘However, Severus died before he could finish the campaign. The tribes, though, had been driven back into the deepest and most inaccessible valleys of their homeland, and there they remained for most of the last hundred years, fighting among themselves, giving us no trouble.’
‘Good result,’ said Castus. As he had expected, the secretary had shrugged off his fatigue in his enthusiasm to talk. ‘So then what?’
‘Around twenty years ago,’ Strabo said, ‘there were reports of a new power in the north. The scattered tribes had banded together, to threaten the more peaceable tribes allied to Rome. They were led by the Miathi people, but their neighbours called them the Picts. A name to instil terror, it seems.’
‘Doesn’t sound very terrible,’ Castus said. A thought struck him. ‘Do they really paint themselves blue, these Picts, and ride around in chariots? That’s what somebody told me…’
Strabo chuckled dryly. ‘Oh, they do that on occasion, yes. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the Picts soon overran the settled tribal lands and threatened the northern frontier of the empire. At the same time, the Franks were raiding the coasts of Gaul and Britain too. So, as perhaps you recall, when Maximian was appointed co-emperor he sent a man called Carausius to deal with the situation.’
‘Carausius,’ Castus said. He recognised that name at least. The usurper who had seized control of Britain and the Gallic coast and declared himself emperor of the west. Even now, more then a decade after Carausius had fallen, the legions of Britain were still held in suspicion for their support of him. That, Castus had often thought, explained the poor condition of the province, the dilapidated fortresses, the demoralised troops.
‘Shortly after this Carausius claimed the purple, he appointed one of his own officers, Aelius Marcellinus, to drive back the Pictish marauders. By this time they were under the leadership of a high chieftain, Vepogenus, of the Miathi royal house.’
‘This is the one who’s just died?’
‘Yes – I’ll come to that. Anyway, Marcellinus, a Spaniard by birth but married into the native British aristocracy, conducted a short but very effective campaign along the Wall of Hadrian. He broke the Pictish attack, and concluded a series of treaties with them to ensure peace. He also, ah… entered into what you might call a pact of brotherhood with Vepogenus.’
‘A Roman officer did that? Not a good idea.’
‘Well, it was effective. The Picts respect personal bonds much more than political treaties, you see. However, the following year Carausius was murdered by Allectus, one of his own ministers, who took over power, and soon afterwards seized Marcellinus and charged him with treason. Marcellinus managed to escape, crossed over to Gaul and surrendered to the new Caesar Constantius, giving him vital information about the usurper’s forces. And then, as you surely know, Constantius led his army across the Gallic Strait and reconquered Britain for Rome.’
Castus nodded, trying to take it all in. He was aware that Strabo’s story had strayed some distance from the matter of the Picts. Or had it? He was beginning to suspect that this man Marcellinus would become a lot more prominent very so
on.
But Strabo had fallen back now, coughing and rummaging in his saddlebag for a canteen. Castus left him and marched on at the head of his men. Clearly the secretary felt he had said enough, for now.
Fields of young wheat edged the road, and from every copse rose the smoke of a hearth fire. This was rich farming country. Two miles further on, the men let out a ragged cheer as the town of Isurium appeared ahead of them. The walled settlement lay along the bank of a river, its tiled roofs bright in the morning sun. There was even an amphitheatre, the topmost tiers showing white above the trees.
The citizens were used to soldiers passing up and down the road, and few turned to watch as Castus led his century along the muddy main street and out by the far gate to the grassy bank of the river.
‘Timotheus,’ he called, ‘fall the men out. We’ll rest here for four hours. Set a sentry watch of ten men by rotation, and the rest can strip off and bathe in the river, eat and sleep if they can.’
The optio saluted and strutted away, already crying out the orders. Castus dropped down to sit in the grass. His feet were hot and sore in their binding of wool and leather, but he felt invigorated by the morning’s march. The muscles of his legs were hard and strong, and he relished the prospect of another three hours on the road. Glancing over at his men, he was glad to see that they were eager too. They spilled into the river, shouting and kicking up spray.
Strabo was a different matter. The little secretary sat on a flat stone, pulling his boots off and examining his blisters.
‘Better to keep them on,’ Castus told him. ‘They’ll hurt more later, otherwise.’
‘Too late,’ Strabo said, before coming over and sitting beside the centurion. Together they ate cheese and hardtack and drank the watery vinegar wine, as the sound of splashing water and laughter came from the river.