On Hadrian's Secret Service

by Gavin Chappell

‘Juvenile fantasy,’ said Flaminius with a dismissive laugh, secure in his three years of seniority. ‘Karus couldn’t tell Caecuban wine from British beer. And he gets drunk on grape juice. I’m serious, I’ve seen it happen.’

  ‘Well, keep your eyes open and see what you can help yourself to, chum. Even an amphora of Falernian will get a good price from this man I know in the civilian settlement.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll be sure to bring back some wine, my friend,’ Flaminius said, cutting an elegant dash to the barracks room door. ‘It’ll be in my belly, mind, but maybe I’ll bring it up in the night. Get your amphora ready, won’t you?’ he added with a malicious smirk.

  He ventured out into the bitterly cold evening of Eboracum, bundling himself in his thick, woollen Gaulish caracalla cloak. Wind scurried dust devils about the neatly raked gravelled paths that ran between the barracks blocks. Patrolling legionaries saluted respectfully as Flaminius passed by. He came out onto the Praetorian Way and made his way north towards the headquarters building where the new provincial governor was holding his latest gathering.

  Overhead the sky was dark and overcast. The sun was setting over the western rampart. Sentries’ helmets glittered in its last light as their owners patrolled the parapet.

  The headquarters was the largest building in Eboracum. From outside it was as bleak and forbidding as the rest of the fortress, but Flaminius knew that it was a fitting place for social functions, such as they were in this remote outpost of the empire. The senatorial elite, who treated the top posts in the legions as stepping stones in their political career, were accustomed to a life of luxury. The common soldiery was heard to mutter darkly about the style in which the commissioned officers kept themselves. The senators were the rotten heart of a still flourishing oak, Flaminius told himself. One strong wind—one concerted effort by the barbarians—and the whole tree would topple. With this on his mind, Flaminius approached the main doors to the headquarters building.

  The sentries respectfully ushered him through. Inside, all was much as he had feared, marble floors, fluted columns, and a tinkling fountain amid some indeterminate vegetation… It was like stepping into the atrium of some wealthy man’s townhouse.

  One of the sentries pointed the way to the dining chamber, from which spilled light, warmth, and a gentle hubbub of conversation. Flaminius approached, his military boots clattering on the marble. Two more guards stood to attention on either side of the doors, resplendent in highly polished breastplates and crested helmets, glittering spears and shields.

  Despite the deference of the guards, Flaminius felt more than a qualm of social anxiety as he passed through the doorway.

  ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus !’ A Phrygian slave announced Flaminius to the swarming throng of guests. Trying to look confident and at his ease, the tribune entered the dining chamber.

  It was decorated with ornate frescoes that depicted pastoral and mythological scenes. Tables and couches took up much of the mosaic floor, and most were occupied by men—staff officers in dress uniform—who spoke quietly among themselves while a group of slave musicians played in one corner. The Phrygian led Flaminius to a spare couch. Only one girl was in the room, although at his cursory glance she was quite a looker. And here was Commissary Centurion Julius Probus! He could have said that he’d been invited to this gathering as well. It was nice to see a friendly face, though the centurion’s craggy features weren’t a patch on the girl’s…

  ‘Ah, our gallant young tribune, by Jove!’ A man in senator’s robes rose from his couch and welcomed Flaminius. ‘Welcome to my little gathering. I’m Falco.’

  ‘Governor!’ said Flaminius, with a hasty salute. It seemed odd to be saluting a man in civilian dress.

  ‘No need to be so military in here, tribune,’ Falco said generously. ‘This is just a relaxed, informal get-together. Let me introduce you to a few faces.’

  Flaminius’ superior officers were more polite to him than was their wont, Lucius Aninius commenting approvingly on the tribune’s extra mural adventures. The legate was a man who had seen more than a few British winters, although his career had led him to many far-flung corners of the empire. Next Falco introduced Flaminius to the girl, whose name was Medea. From her accent Flaminius realised she was a Greek. He was not quite sure where she fitted in.

  ‘It’s an honour to meet the Roman hero,’ Medea murmured, studying him with big eyes.

  She was reminiscent somehow of the strapping Drustica, although her scent was exquisite Judean balsam, not a pungent admixture of woad and blood. Her clinging, diaphanous turquoise gown did little to conceal her slim yet full figure, and a chaplet of sweet scented flowers was perched on her long, dark hair. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were deep and dark, her nose was slender and delicate, her mouth full and forever pursed as if on the verge of an amused smile.

  ‘You have no drink,’ she said with a reproving laugh as he stood there in silence. ‘Here, let me make recompense!’ She called over a slave and soon Flaminius was sipping a goblet of Falernian. ‘I’m expecting to hear the whole story,’ she added, with a charming twinkle.

  Flaminius took a deeper sip. ‘Nothing much to say, really,’ he replied, seized by a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to be modest—and honest. ‘I lost my troops, got caught up in the midst of a vicious tribal war, got out again with the aid of friendly natives—some of them very friendly—and brought a prisoner with me, who’s been under interrogation ever since. So I don’t know even if he had any vital information…’

  ‘And you call that nothing,’ Falco said with a laugh. Flaminius noticed Probus was shaking his head in the background, and remembered that he was there to tell a ripping yarn. ‘I wish “nothing” happened to me more often,’ the senator went on. ‘It would liven up the duller senate meetings, for sure. We need more murderous savages to jolly things up, by Jove.’ He laughed at his own joke.

  ‘Hardly murderers,’ Flaminius snapped. ‘Oh, er—sorry, provincial governor! But they’re fine people, the Carvetti.’

  Falco lifted an eyebrow. ‘You like them?’ He made it sound like an impossibility.

  Flaminius nodded seriously. ‘When I first got here, it was just duty. Now I’ve met the people we’re fighting for, well, I want to help them.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Falco said airily. ‘That’s the purpose of the empire, of course, we’re here to end their petty tribal wars just like we did in Gaul, to enlighten their barbarian darkness, to spread the Roman peace. Still, we’re here to benefit the Selgovae, too. And even the Caledonians, when we get the chance, when they let us. If only they could see it our way…’

  ‘Sir,’ Centurion Probus told him calmly, ‘the Selgovae did try to kill Tribune Flaminius. They also succeeded in slaughtering all but one of his men.’

  ‘And one of my first actions on reaching Eboracum,’ the provincial governor replied, ‘was to order reprisals. Several Caledonians were killed as well as Selgovians, it seems. When the imperial courier came with his report, I was receiving a Caledonian merchant, name of Tigernos, who seemed to think I ought to see him… Rather embarrassing, it was.’

  ‘Tigernos is well known,’ Probus said wryly. ‘I assume he didn’t twitch a hair at the news? He knows as well as we do that we will protect our own, and that any attacks made on our legions will result in retaliation. Besides, the Caledonians aren’t openly backing the Selgovae, so they have no reason to make a complaint. The Brigantes, including the Carvettians, have been within the empire for years, and we’re obliged to protect them against any unruly peoples from beyond it. What’s more, Tigernos is supposedly nothing more than a merchant, as you say. We’re not supposed to know he’s a spy for King Brennos. So he can’t say anything, just as we can’t say anything about Caledonian involvement.’

  ‘What if word got back to the Caledonians, and they ordered counter reprisals?’ Falco inquired.

  Probus shook his head gruffly. ‘The Caledonians have not budged.’

  The provincial governor nodd
ed. ‘Indeed. It doesn’t look like they’re gathering the tribes for a last ditch attempt to push the invader into the sea… But how much can we trust these semi barbarians? Tribune Flaminius’ sentiments notwithstanding. Sooner or later, these local skirmishes, this tribal war with its mysterious and complicated genesis in the mists of antiquity, will get out of hand. It will escalate. There will be wholescale rebellion in Britain, and not for the first time. And whoever puts down the revolt will be as much of a Roman hero as the dutiful tribune here.’ He laughed modestly. ‘Rather better known, too, I should think.’ Flaminius got the impression that the provincial governor fancied his chances.

  Probus scowled. ‘No doubt he’d receive the thanks of a grateful emperor,’ he said. ‘It seems to me, though, that the Caledonians have done a lot to help escalate matters pretty high. Those killed in the reprisal weren’t merchants but warriors and charioteers. Besides, the tribune told me that it was a Caledonian who led the attack on his troop.’

  ‘Perhaps a Caledonian mercenary led them,’ Falco said dismissively, ‘or a landless youth out to carve himself a chiefdom. The fight is between this sept of the Brigantes and their traditional enemies to the north, the Selgovae. The Caledonians may be helping them covertly, by Jove, but that does not make it a war between the empire on the one hand and Caledonia and its subject tribes on the other.’

  Probus took an angry swig of red wine. ‘These little hill tribes have been carrying out cattle raids and fighting their petty feuds for centuries. These days we do our best to police the area with what legions Rome deigns to spare us for the job. But the recent disturbances are another matter. The Caledonians are stirring things up in preparation for something bigger. King Brennos remembers Calgacos, and how close he came to victory. He knows we’re undermanned. He knows the loyalty of the tribes is shaky. Why, it’s obvious to any fool that he’s exploiting traditional feuds to provoke war on a grand scale!’

  ‘Centurion!’ Lucius Aninius spluttered. ‘You’ve decidedly exceeded your remit!’ The legate’s staff officers looked horrified. Such impudence, and from a non-commissioned officer, as well!

  Falco laughed. ‘Not at all, not at all,’ he told them soothingly. ‘The commissary centurion is refreshingly frank with me. We need more of his sort in Rome. So many sycophants and lickspittles…’

  He clicked his fingers at a slave, and told him to refill the centurion’s goblet.

  ‘What exactly are Caledonians doing fighting alongside the Selgovae?’ asked one of the legate’s hangers on.

  Probus accepted the drink. ‘We really don’t know at the moment,’ he said, ‘but our intelligence has been greatly augmented by Tribune Flaminius’ report. Not only did he fight his way out of an ambush almost single handed, clever lad, but he has also made personal links with the Carvetti, a Brigantian sept on the very edge of the empire, whose loyalty could be suspect. Furthermore he has brought back marvellous detail about them and their way of life, and has had, ahem, diplomatic overtures from a veritable Amazon amongst their people. And what’s even better, he brought back a Selgovian warrior as a prisoner.’

  Medea’s big eyes widened. ‘These are the people you admire so much?’ she asked Flaminius in wonder. He looked at her briefly, then studied the mosaic floor in embarrassment.

  ‘They’re barbarians, of course,’ Probus said. ‘Flaminius has made some good friends among them, and I have high hopes for the information we’ll get out of the prisoner he brought back with him.’

  Medea tapped a foot. ‘Can we hear the tribune’s story now?’ she asked impatiently. ‘The full story?’

  Probus made an encouraging motion to Flaminius, as if he was ushering an unenthusiastic gladiator into the arena. Feeling self-conscious, Flaminius told his story again, in more detail this time, with so many elaborations on his previous version that at one point Probus choked on his drink.

  ‘… and so I rode southeast with the prisoner and my surviving auxiliary, Hrodmar, and we reached the outpost at Cataractonium[10] within a few days. From there we were escorted safely to Eboracum…’ He shrugged. ‘And, well… that was that.’

  Medea wriggled her back against the couch on which she had sat during his story, and gave a sigh. ‘It sounds so very exciting,’ she told him wistfully. ‘Terrifying, too. Have you seen this barbarian lady—Drustica—since then?’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘I’ve been working with the commissary centurion ever since I got back. But the warrior woman made it quite clear that I was welcome at any time.’

  Medea pouted pensively.

  ‘We have had our share of problems while palavering with the Brigantes,’ admitted the camp prefect, Roscius. ‘Their loyalty has been varied, to say the least. They’ve recently accepted our assistance against the Selgovae, but there still seems to be an anti-Roman party among them, even if it isn’t on top at the moment. They’ve been fighting the Selgovae for centuries, of course, so many of them think they need no help from Rome.

  ‘The Carvetti, with whom Tribune Flaminius has recently been liaising, are a different matter. They have historical links with the Brigantes, it’s true, but they are widely considered to be a race apart. They live closer to the Selgovae and further from the main concentrations of our military, so they have more reason to appreciate our aid. They provide us with a pathway into the situation.’

  ‘I’d like to question this barbarian captive personally,’ Falco announced.

  Probus looked startled. ‘You wish to see him, provincial governor?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Falco. ‘He could also provide a way in, a way to ensure that we can achieve total victory over the barbarians.’

  ‘How so?’ Probus asked, puzzled.

  Falco looked thoughtful. ‘We find out all we can from him, then send him back to his people, accompanied by an emissary. It could give us a foot in the Selgovian camp, help win them back into the fold, and that might well lead to an end to the war, one way or the other.’

  Probus looked sceptical. ‘Any Roman we send to them will be sacrificed on their unholy altars.’

  ‘What if it was part of a native group? A tribe that is neither Brigantian nor Selgovian.’

  ‘The Carvetti?’ Probus looked surprised. ‘How can we persuade them to get involved?’

  ‘I would have thought that obvious,’ Falco replied. ‘We ask our young friend here to palaver with them.’

  Medea looked in surprise at Flaminius, whose pulse tingled. ‘That would be wonderful,’ the concubine exclaimed. She nudged the tribune. ‘You will do it, won’t you?’ she pleaded appealingly.

  ‘Of course,’ Flaminius said, flushed. ‘It would be an honour!’ He beamed at her.

  ‘It’s not been finalised,’ Probus growled warningly.

  ‘It will have to be discussed in a formal setting,’ Falco said, glancing at Lucius Aninius, ‘and it will go through all the appropriate channels, although I’d like to see this captive in a while… but here we are, talking shop.’ He tutted. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration! Let’s have some music and some dancing! Drinks all round. The food is wonderful, I’ve brought my best cook with me from Rome…’

  As he embarked on the scandalous tale of a senator, his slave girl, the senator’s wife, and a Praetorian Guard tribune, Medea led Flaminius from the laughing throng of older officers.

  ‘Thank you,’ Flaminius murmured, relieved.

  She wasn’t much older than he was as far as he could tell, but she seemed a whole lot more sophisticated. In this gathering he felt like a country bumpkin. However much he might lord it over the junior officers’ mess with his cultivated cynicism, he was out of his depth.

  The peristyle garden beyond the dining chamber was dark and shadow hung. As he walked alongside Medea across a neatly trimmed lawn, he wondered again at all this sybarite luxury in the heart of the fortress. The moon hung in the sky above the cypresses at the garden’s edge, glaring down like the eye of a midnight cyclops.

  ‘Such a terrible place,
’ Medea said with a shiver. ‘I hope you will be able to go home soon.’

  ‘I never thought so aristocratic a lady should come out here to such a barbaric country,’ Flaminius ventured.

  ‘Aristocratic?’ Medea said with a tinkling laugh. ‘How adorable of you to think so. I’m not the senator’s wife, you know, merely his concubine. I accompany him on all his official postings, whether his wife remains in Rome or not. I’m an important appendage, like the cook.’ She smiled, and lightly touched his arm. ‘He’s a hardworking man, and needs relaxation. I’m sure you are very hardworking too.’

  As she spoke, Flaminius saw Probus appear silently in the door. He apologised with a grimace, put a hand on her soft, warm arm, and murmured, ‘I’m sorry, but it looks like I must be going. Duty calls.’

  The Selgovian captive hung in chains from the wall in the interrogator’s chamber, his tattooed flesh bronzed by the flickering flames of a brazier in which lay several irons, glowing cherry red. The chief interrogator stood to one side, a tall, spare, bare armed man who never smiled, clad in a green legionary tunic and military belt. As the provincial governor entered, accompanied by Probus and Flaminius, he turned from a muted discussion with two subordinates and saluted smartly.

  ‘At ease,’ Probus told the interrogator. ‘What progress have you made?’

  The interrogator shrugged. He indicated white burn marks on the Selgovian man’s chest. ‘We’ve tried a little persuasion,’ he said; ‘nothing too heavy. But he’s not talking yet.’ He cracked his thin knuckles. ‘He will talk, sooner or later,’ he affirmed.

  Falco approached the captive and looked up at him. The man opened his eyes and stared boldly back. The provincial governor turned to the interrogator.

  ‘Torture?’ he asked, with a look of distaste.

  ‘Standard procedure, provincial governor,’ Probus broke in impatiently. ‘Slaves and barbarians only, of course. No Roman citizen would receive this form of encouragement.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that you might get the answer by simply asking him?’ the senator inquired acidly.