Germania (Veteran of Rome Book 5)

by William Kelso

  ‘That’s our best hope. I had to offer him something,’ Marcus said unhappily. ‘You heard Ninian’s advice. It was worth a try and now I have gained an insight into what we are up against. Priscinus is willing to negotiate.’ Marcus paused. ‘And he is also willing to kill to get what he wants.’

  Dylis looked away.

  ‘So now what?’ she hissed.

  Marcus took a deep breath and glared at the distant villa.

  ‘This is just the start,’ he murmured. ‘The sensible thing to do is to prepare for trouble but to seek some sort of deal with Priscinus which will be to our mutual advantage. This situation will only be resolved by a compromise. It will only be solved by doing a deal with that monster. However hard and unpleasant that may be. We don’t have a choice. Our options are limited.’

  At his side Dylis turned to give her brother a contemptuous glance.

  ‘The love of those Hyperborean smoking herbs has made you weak,’ she hissed.

  Chapter Ten – The End of Us

  Marcus, Efa, Dylis and Cunomoltus stood in a semi-circle in the mud looking down in silence at the simple, altar stone that had been erected in the wet grassy field. A little way off, Elsa and one of the household slaves stood watching them. The shivering, and trembling girl clutched the reins of the horses, her cheeks rosy from the cold and her hair plastered to her skull by the heavy rain. Above her in the sky, dull grey rain clouds covered the heavens to the horizon. A week had passed since the encounter with Priscinus, but on this sombre and wet day all that was momentarily forgotten. Marcus, clad in a long, black, travelling cloak, with the hood pulled over his head, was the first to look up from the Roman army altar, that had been erected to commemorate the soldiers who had died here in this place, fighting against Boudicca, the Barbarian Queen. He sighed as he surveyed the grey rain swept fields trying to imagine the battle in which Corbulo had fought all those years ago. His father had spoken little about the battle, other than to say that it was the most important day of his life. Idly Marcus glanced around the non-descript landscape. The forests on either side of the battlefield were still there. The six thousand or so heavy infantry of the Twentieth and Fourteenth Legions, he knew, would have been concentrated in the centre, facing the vast horde of tribesmen and women which Boudicca had brought with her to this decisive spot. Governor Paulinus had placed his lightly armed auxiliaries and what little cavalry he still possessed, on the flanks, knowing they would be protected by the dense woods. But it had been the Roman legionaries who had won the day. Severely outnumbered, it had been they who had received the fierce, tribal charge and it had been they who, through sheer guts and brutal determination, had fought the Britons to a standstill and then slowly started to drive them back, massacring the tribesmen in their thousands.

  Marcus turned, as silently Efa grasped him by the arm and gently started to lead him away from the altar stone and towards the middle of the field. As they picked their way through the wet grass, he spotted a solitary memorial stone. The stone looked out of place, all alone in the grass.

  ‘That is the spot where we buried Quintus,’ Efa said pointing at the stone. ‘And beside it, is where we shall lay my Corbulo to rest.’

  ‘Are you sure,’ Marcus muttered.

  ‘I am,’ Efa nodded firmly. ‘This is where he wants to be.’

  For a moment Marcus said nothing as he stared at the patch of wet grass beside the stone. Then he turned and beckoned for the slave to join him. At his side Dylis and Cunomoltus were silent as they stared down at the grass.

  ‘The end of us,’ Efa said in a calm composed voice. ‘This is how it will be. One day all of us will go back to the embrace of the earth mother and we shall be whole again. My Corbulo has waited long enough, but today his long wait is over and he will be at peace.’

  As the slave approached, carrying the heavy looking memorial slab, Marcus grasped hold of it and carefully lowered it to the ground. Then he knelt and together with Cunomoltus and Dylis, the three of them, using their hands, quickly dug a deep and thin, rectangular hole in the ground and slid the stone into place. As the other two got back up onto their feet, Marcus remained on his knees scraping out some more earth in front of the stone to create a deep hole. Reaching up he took the leather bag proffered to him by Cunomoltus and, from within it, he carefully took Corbulo’s skull and the small urn containing his father’s ashes and placed them both at the bottom of the hole.

  ‘The coin,’ Marcus muttered, glancing at Cunomoltus, as he raised his hand.

  ‘It should be a gold coin,’ Dylis said in a hoarse voice. ‘A gold coin will get him a better seat on the boat that crosses the river.’

  Without saying a word, Cunomoltus dropped a large, gold coin into Marcus’s outstretched hand and Marcus carefully placed it in the skull’s open mouth. Then he sat back on his haunches, staring down at the gleaming, white skull that was looking back at him from the bottom of the muddy, waterlogged hole. For a moment, no one spoke and the only noise was the incessant patter of the rain. Then quickly Marcus filled in the hole with the displaced earth and finally replaced the tufts of grass, stamping them into place. As he got back to his feet and wiped his hands on his cloak, Marcus glanced at Dylis and his brother. The two of them, clad in their long travelling cloaks, looked sombre and pale. A solitary tear was making its way down Dylis’s cheek as she gazed at the grave stone and Cunomoltus looked haggard, frail and cold. He had still not fully recovered from the illness that had beset him on board the Hermes, Marcus thought. Taking a step backwards, Marcus turned to look down at the abbreviated inscription that had been carefully chiselled into the stone. The words had only been agreed amongst the family, after a lengthy and emotional debate.

  ‘To the spirits of the dead

  And to Corbulo

  A soldier of the Twentieth Legion

  He served twenty-five years

  Faithful to his vow and promise, he lies here in eternal rest, together with his comrades

  His wife Efa, daughter Dylis and his sons Cunomoltus and Marcus made this

  Do not walk here’

  As Marcus finished reading the inscription, he felt Efa’s cold wet fingers grasp his arm. The old lady, her head covered by her white sheep skin hood, was looking up at him with a gentle happy smile.

  ‘He was a good man,’ Efa said. ‘I am confident he will go to the Elysian Fields. And you have been a good son, as good as any father can expect.’

  Marcus did not reply as he turned to look out across the rain-swept field. He was not so sure that the spirits of the dead would send Corbulo to the Elysian Fields, the paradise that awaited a man who had led a good, heroic life, but wisely he kept those thoughts to himself.

  ‘As his first-born son, I have a few words which I would like to say about my father,’ Marcus growled turning to look at the grave.

  ‘Life is about simple fulfilment,’ Marcus began. ‘It does not matter if we are rich or poor. At the start, we all have a choice. We must decide what is most important to us and follow that, throughout our lives. A man who stays loyal to his wife and family is a man who has led a full life. A man who stays loyal to his principles leads a full life. A man who loves his country and dies for his country has lived a full life. A man who never wavers from what he sets out to do, leads a full life.’ Marcus paused and glanced around at the faces that were watching him. ‘Now Corbulo, my father, was none of these men, even though later he tried to make amends. So, the only thing I can say about him is this. He was a soldier. He was loyal to the Eagle of the Twentieth Legion. In that loyalty, he never wavered, and for that we should honour him. For that reason, I ask the spirits of the dead, to allow him to spend his days in the Elysian Fields.”

  And as he fell silent, Marcus suddenly felt a great weight being lifted from his shoulders. At his side Dylis was choking back her tears and Cunomoltus face was ashen. Only Efa seemed happy and composed. Turning to the slave, Marcus took the small jug of wine from the slave’s hand and slowly and carefu
lly poured the libation onto the ground around the grave.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. Then from amongst the trees of the forest, some fifty paces away, Marcus suddenly caught sight of movement. Frowning he peered towards the trees and then grunted in surprise. Sitting quietly watching them was a grey wolf. In shock, Marcus stared at the beast, hardly daring to breath. Then wrenching his gaze from the animal, Marcus turned to look at Elsa standing in the sodden field clutching the reins of the horses.

  ‘Come,’ he muttered, ‘we head for Londinium. The living need looking after.’

  Chapter Eleven – Hierarchy

  Marcus paused on the pavement of the busy street and warily gazed up at the palace of the Governor of Britannia. The last time he’d been inside that building had been during his court martial some fifteen years ago. It had not been a pleasant experience but Agricola himself had been his patron then, and his influence had been enough to get Marcus pardoned by the military court and reinstated to the Second Batavian Auxiliary Cohort as a common soldier, never to hold a senior rank again. But times had changed. Agricola was dead and Marcus had no patron to protect him now. This time he would have to fight his corner on his own.

  The imposing stone palace, stood on the northern bank of the Thames river and its fine, stone-walls was several storeys high. Its sloping roofs were covered in neat red-roof tiles and the entrance was dominated by a large, stone-statue of the Emperor Trajan. Two armed guards stood flanking the gateway into the building. As he approached, Marcus caught sight of the proud letters SPQR chiselled into the stonework above the entrance. A queue of petitioners hoping to gain an audience with the Governor or his staff, were waiting patiently to be allowed to enter. Quietly Marcus joined the queue and waited until it was his turn. It had taken them a few days on horseback to cover the distance from the battlefield where Corbulo now lay buried to Londinium, capital of the province of Britannia. Where Watling street had met the road leading south to Reginorum he’d said goodbye to Dylis and Cunomoltus, sending them back to the farm, whilst he had taken Efa and Elsa a bit further on to where they had found accommodation above the Cum Mula Peperit II tavern.

  ‘State your business?’ a harassed looking junior official snapped, as he made a note on his wooden tablet.

  ‘Land Surveyor’s Office,’ Marcus muttered. I want to see an Agrimensore, a land surveyor.’

  The official didn’t look up from his tablet as he made a quick note on the wood with his iron tipped stylus, pen.

  ‘Name, rank, place of residence?’ the official asked.

  Marcus gave him his details, and quickly and efficiently, the official pointed him down a corridor. The Land Surveyor’s Office was a small, rectangular room with an open doorway into a second room, in which Marcus could see a huge, stack of ledgers and tablets, lining the walls. The land surveyor was sitting behind a desk with a pile of documents, lying opened on the desk. He glanced up at Marcus with a disinterested, weary look.

  ‘How can I help you?’ the surveyor muttered.

  ‘I own a farm and land on the Isle of Vectis, Marcus replied. ‘Business has been good and I need a surveyor to come down to the property to include it in the official census. I estimate that the place is worth more than a hundred thousand denarii but I need official recognition of this.’

  ‘I see,’ the surveyor grunted. ‘You wish to be enrolled in the Equestrian Order. You wish to become a knight and you want my office to help you.’

  ‘I will pay the survey fee,’ Marcus said hastily.

  ‘Of course you will,’ the official said with a weary, bored expression as if he had heard it all before. ‘But I must warn you that even if you have the right property qualifications, you will not get yourself onto the official lists of Equites. Only someone who is personally approved by the Emperor himself, gets to be enrolled as a knight with Equus Publicus. Your name will not appear on any of the official lists from which the Imperial Government make their appointments. Only a knight with Equus Publicus makes it onto those lists. Do you understand?’

  Marcus frowned. He had not been expecting it to be so complicated.

  ‘So what happens,’ he said. ‘What happens if my property qualifies me?’

  A thin, cold smile appeared on the surveyor’s lips.

  ‘You will become a knight,’ the official declared. ‘You will simply enjoy equestrian status, but you will not be officially part of the order. You will be allowed to wear a toga with a thin, purple stripe; you will be able to wear the gold ring and you will gain reserved seating at the arena. And if, and only if, someone important, truly important, recommends you to the Imperial Government will you be enrolled as a knight with Equus Publicus.’ The surveyor sighed and looked around sadly at the documents that surrounded him. ‘And in this miserable provincial outpost the only person of true importance is the Governor himself so good luck with that.’

  Marcus looked down at the floor. Then he nodded.

  ‘I would like to arrange for a surveyor to include my farm and land in the census,’ he said. ‘How soon can you arrange it?’

  ‘All in good time,’ the official growled reaching for a clean wooden writing-tablet. ‘You said you live on Vectis. There are seven Roman farms on the island. What was the name of your farm again?’

  ‘It used to belong to Governor Agricola,’ Marcus replied with a hint of pride. ‘It lies close to the sea in the south-eastern part of the island…’ Marcus’s voice trailed off as he saw the surveyor looking up at him in sudden horror.

  ‘You are the owner of that farm,’ the official exclaimed, his face growing pale, ‘You own the farm that used to belong to Agricola?’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ Marcus growled irritably.

  The surveyor looked down at his desk and then hastily rubbed his forehead.

  ‘What’s wrong,’ Marcus snapped, his face darkening in alarm.

  The official shook his head. ’I am sorry, I can’t help you,’ he muttered. ‘In the current circumstances I cannot survey your property, it will only get me into trouble.’

  ‘What,’ Marcus cried out. ‘But you just said you would. And what do you mean, the current circumstances?’

  ‘Please, you should go; our business is finished,’ the official stammered as he rose to his feet and gestured at the doorway.

  ‘I am not leaving until I have an answer,’ Marcus said stubbornly.

  Furtively the surveyor glanced at the doorway, and suddenly Marcus noticed that the man was frightened. Fumbling in his pocket, Marcus slammed a single silver coin down onto the table.

  ‘Tell me what you know,’ he hissed.

  For a long moment, the official remained silent as he stared down at the coin, torn by indecision. Then hastily he pocketed the coin.

  ‘I can’t survey your land,’ the man whispered, avoiding Marcus’s gaze. ‘You have no idea how much trouble you are in. There is a man; his name is Priscinus. He is after your land. He has laid claim to your farm. He has powerful friends. Your farm is not going to be yours for much longer.’

  ‘This I already know,’ Marcus growled.

  The official swallowed nervously and glanced at the doorway, as if he was expecting someone to be listening in to their conversation. Then quickly he looked up at Marcus.

  ‘Priscinus’s family used to be of senatorial rank,’ the official whispered. ‘His father used to be a senator in Rome for fuck’s sake. They are a very important family but since Priscinus became their most prominent member, the family have run into financial difficulties. Their declining fortunes have been so great, that the Imperial Committees have kicked them out of the Senatorial Class and down to the Equites.’ The surveyor nodded eagerly. ‘So you see promotion can go both ways,’ he hissed. ‘But you seem a decent man so it is proper that you know what you are up against.’

  Marcus gazed at the official.

  ‘What am I up against,’ he snapped.

  The surveyor rubbed his forehead again. ‘I can only tell you what I have heard,�
�� the man muttered. ‘Priscinus’s family no longer qualify for admittance into the Senatorial Class, because they have lost a fortune. Now Priscinus wants to get it all back, and he thinks seizing your farm will help him to get back into the senate. That’s why he will drive you out. He won’t back down.’

  ‘He is not going to drive me from my land,’ Marcus said quietly.

  On the opposite side of the desk the official shook his head.

  ‘You still don’t understand how much trouble you are in,’ the surveyor whispered. ‘Who do you think is backing Priscinus’s claim to your farm?’ The official stared at Marcus with wide incredulous eyes. ‘The Governor of Britannia himself,’ he whispered. ‘Yes that’s right. The Governor is backing Priscinus. He is that man’s patron. You won’t stand a chance when they make their move. What can you do against such powerful men? The Governor commands three fucking legions for Jupiter’s sake. Priscinus is going to crush you. Get out now whilst you are still alive and by all the gods don’t mention that I have told you this.’

  Chapter Twelve – Leadership

  It was a short walk from the Mule tavern, where they had been staying, to the doctor’s house close to the Forum. It was just after dawn and the streets of Londinium were already crowded, noisy and smelly. Marcus strode along, supporting Efa with one arm around her waist. Elsa followed a few steps behind them, picking nervously at her fingernails, her face sullen, her eyes fixed on the stone pavement. Marcus glanced sideways at Efa with a concerned look. The old lady looked her usual formidable and confident self, but underneath she was not well. In the morning’s it had become increasingly hard for her to hide her blood-soaked rags from everyone. And now she had started to rapidly lose weight.

  ‘I can still walk by myself,’ Efa snapped crossly as if she had read his thoughts. ‘I am not in my grave just yet.’

  Marcus said nothing as he looked away but he kept his arm around her waist. His family were frightened, depressed and worried. He’d seen it on their faces and heard it in their voices. Danger and disaster were circling the family and none of them knew wherever they would soon be homeless and destitute. They desperately needed some hope and reassurance. He needed to rally them. He needed to give them hope. As they approached the Forum the three of them paused to stare at the truly huge, stone Forum and Basilica that had arisen in the centre of the city. Some of the scaffolding was still in place and workmen were still swarming over the construction site, but the enormous, colonnaded, multi-storey office and market square was nearly complete. The structure, home to the banks, money lenders, lawyers and city merchants dwarfed, every single building around it and, presiding over the magnificent entrance gate, was a huge statue of the Emperor Trajan, crowned with the laurels of victory, his right hand raised in salute.