On Hadrian's Secret Service

by Gavin Chappell

  ‘His Latin is meagre,’ Probus replied, ‘and even though I have more than a smattering of the British tongue, why should he tell us what he knows, betray his own people, without some sort of incentive?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll tell you exactly what you want, under torture,’ Falco said. ‘Anything and everything. But will it be true? Or just what you want to hear?’

  Probus looked resentful. ‘Our interrogators know better than that,’ he told him. ‘You don’t seem to understand, senator. It’s vital we get the information out of him. His people, or the Caledonians who seem to be backing them, are plotting something. We need all the intelligence we can wring out of this captive, and we can’t afford to be squeamish about how we get that information.’

  ‘And you seem to be forgetting my plan,’ the provincial governor countered. ‘We want to send him back, with this lad’—he clapped Flaminius on the shoulder—‘as an emissary. We want to win the Selgovae over to our side. Your rash action could well have compromised that plan utterly, centurion.’

  Probus barked a short laugh. ‘He can take it,’ he said. ‘This is a barbarian. He’s not used to merciful treatment from his enemies. Strength and ruthlessness is the only thing these people understand. You know how his tribe treats the Brigantes, not to mention our own men. You know what they did to the tribune’s troop.’

  Falco relented. ‘I’m no milksop. I know it’s important to make a show of strength. I simply think that your actions may have caused more problems than they’ll solve. Very well, continue to question the prisoner, but torture must only be employed as a last resort. I shall expect regular reports.’

  He turned on his heel and left the room.

  Probus went to speak with the interrogator, making exasperated gestures with his arms. Flaminius, feeling that his own part in capturing the prisoner had been rather forgotten, stared up at the chained figure.

  ‘Agree with the provincial governor, do you?’

  Flaminius turned to see Probus approaching. He shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It seems that you could be being rash, like he says.’

  ‘We need answers,’ Probus replied grimly. ‘We need to know what is going on, and what the Caledonians have to do with it. We could be faced by another revolt, worse than Calgacos, worse than Boudicca. We could lose Britain completely. We don’t know, though, so we need information.’

  ‘We know very little about the Selgovae,’ Flaminius said. ‘And if we’re to win them over to our side, we’re not going the right way about it. I don’t think we’re winning this one over by torturing him.’

  ‘So you think you know how I should run my operation?’ Probus asked gruffly, but there was a twinkle in the centurion’s eye.

  Flaminius’ own eyes narrowed. ‘You know more than you’re letting on!’ he said accusingly. ‘More than you told the provincial governor, or the legate! You know…’

  Probus gestured him to quietness. ‘Enough!’ he hissed. He paused, and studied the tribune. ‘What are you doing, wasting that brain working as a tribune of auxiliary horse?’ he asked quietly. ‘You should come over to the Commissary permanently. We need perceptive types like you.’ He frowned. ‘Your rank might be a problem, of course. We don’t tend to accept commissioned officers, nothing above centurion. But for you, I might push for making an exception.’

  Flaminius was unenthusiastic. ‘Thank you for your faith in me, centurion,’ he said. ‘Very flattering…’

  ‘But?’ Probus said.

  Flaminius was awkward. ‘This is… well, it seems to me a pretty sickening business,’ he said frankly. ‘Sorry, centurion. But I think I’d rather command a troop or two of half barbarian horsemen than get involved in these dealings…

  ‘I joined the legions because it was expected of me. My elder brother’s set to inherit. I needed some kind of career. The legions are the best option.’ He shrugged again. ‘I didn’t join up because I had a burning desire to civilise the world or to defend Rome’s interests. It was just a job. And I’ve seen some action. The adulation that comes afterwards is pretty good. But I lost most of my command out there. No one is calling them heroes. And, well, even the enemy…’ He gestured at the Selgovian warrior hanging in his chains.

  Probus grinned. ‘You’re comparing this unspoilt child of nature—he also indicated the stoic, silent, fettered barbarian—‘to our provincial governor, soft gutted as he is, with his cavalcade of scullions and whores—yes, I know you like the girl, I have eyes, but she’s no more than a whore, lad—a man who seems to have moral qualms about standard interrogation methods!’

  Flaminius understood the provincial governor’s queasiness about torture. He’d seen people executed in horrific ways in the Colosseum, criminals thrown to wild beasts. He’d killed men in fair fight besides, and that was much worse, the stink of blood and emptied bowels. But to stand here calmly applying hot irons to a bound captive… Well, it was cowardly. It was unfair.

  Probus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your barracks now,’ he said. ‘Spend some time with your messmates, the other tribunes. But while you’re with them, give the idea some thought. Rome needs people like you. And the best place for you would be the Commissary.’

  Flaminius departed the chamber, deep in thought.

  —5—

  Luguvalium, Carvetti territory

  Drustica’s village lay some way north of the hill forts and the main centres of Carvettian life, on the borders of their territory—therefore vulnerable to raids—but as Drustica explained to Flaminius during his next visit, it was where her ancestors had lived for generations.

  Flaminius nodded slowly. To his relief she wore no woad today. ‘But if you do what I suggest, you may not have to fight a war with anyone,’ he suggested. ‘We could bring about peace.’

  Drustica looked askance at him. ‘Why should we want peace?’ she asked, surprised. ‘My people have been at war with the Selgovae, aye, and other Brigantes too, often as not, for generations. War brings us riches and plunder. Peace is weak and unmanly,’ she added. ‘Good enough for you Romans, maybe…’

  Flaminius had hardly got the impression that she thought he was weak and unmanly on their last meeting. Or maybe a warrior woman preferred her men spineless.

  ‘I was told by my superiors to suggest the idea to you,’ he told her with a shrug.

  ‘But it doesn’t appeal to you, Gaius,’ Drustica half stated, half asked.

  ‘Rome wants peace and security on her borders,’ Flaminius told her.

  He wanted to explain how they had gained Mesopotamia and lost it to barbarism almost immediately, how it had been the first province Rome had abandoned, how some people in the City whispered that this was the beginning of the end of the empire: from here on things could only go downwards…

  ‘Why not slaughter the Selgovae? Wipe them out?’ asked one of Drustica’s warriors, a brawny, moustachioed man in middle age who was lounging by the fire nearby. ‘I have seen your legions. You could do it with ease. Better that than to palaver with them.’

  Drustica spat, narrowly missing him. ‘We shall not do that,’ she told the warrior. ‘A balance must be preserved. War is one thing, wholesale slaughter of a people is a thing hated by the gods.’

  Flaminius remembered how the Romans had been forced to exterminate the Dacians in the end. Perhaps Rome’s misfortunes since the massacres had been a result. Maybe the gods indeed hated them now.

  ‘We will fight them when they come south,’ she said. ‘But we only raid their lands because they raid ours.’

  ‘Maybe they see things the same way,’ Flaminius suggested gently.

  ‘We have our lands,’ Drustica said, ‘and they have theirs. Let them stay in their own territory, not take our cattle.’

  ‘Which is exactly what would happen if Rome could broker peace between your two tribes,’ Flaminius pointed out. ‘I’m not opposed to the idea, mainly because it would upset the Caledonians, who are doing their best
to stir things up down here. They clearly have some longer term goal. Besides, why would it be so bad to speak with the Selgovae?’

  ‘How do we speak with them?’ the burly warrior pleaded. ‘The moment we enter their territory, they will attack us. If we go with a small war band, we will be massacred. If we go with a larger war band, or with your legions, then it will mean war. They will not parley!’

  ‘Be silent,’ Drustica told him fiercely. ‘This lies between Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus and I.’

  ‘The expedition will be made up of Romans, for the most part,’ Flaminius said, ‘but we don’t want to provoke war or alarm, we want peace. That being said, it will be a large enough force to stand on its own two feet. All we require from you is that you provide us with a base, a staging post before we enter the Selgovian territory.’

  ‘Your people built a camp in our territory,’ Drustica said, ‘but it was abandoned. Do you wish to build another? My people may possibly accept this. It will be discussed.’

  An alarm horn boomed from the village gates.

  Flaminius rose, wide eyed. He stared around at the Carvettians, who were now sitting up, looking alert and ready. The horn rang out again, echoing back from the encircling hills. Drustica’s warriors now leapt to their feet and grabbed spears and swords from the racks on the walls. Drustica herself remained sitting but her face was twisted into a vulpine snarl.

  ‘An attack?’ Flaminius asked. ‘This far into your territory?’

  If it was the Selgovae, they would have had to ride miles into Carvettian lands to get to Drustica’s village, even if it was near the borders. Surely word would have been sent, warnings from villages even closer to the tribal border. But the attackers had penetrated this far without any warning. What had happened?

  Drustica rose and armed herself. ‘We go to war,’ she said, her eyes blazing with delight, and led them from the longhouse.

  Out in the yard, the auxiliaries sat their neighing horses. Hrodmar stared worriedly at Flaminius as he emerged into the light. Carvettian warriors rushed to and fro, spears and swords at the ready, but in a panic. Smoke billowed up from the vicinity of the gate. Flaminius could see no sign of the attackers whoever they might be, but the cold air was alive with tension.

  ‘They’ve set fire to the place!’ Hrodmar reported. ‘Epona’s teats! They’ll burn us alive!’

  Fire was the worst possible danger in this village of wattle and daub. Flaminius could see them surrounded by a wall of flame if the fire spread. As he watched villagers formed a chain leading from the well in the middle towards the burning bothies and passed leather buckets down the line to fling water at the flames.

  Straining his eyes, Flaminius caught sight of woad painted figures riding in chariots outside the village. Their hair was spiked with lime.

  They looked like Caledonians, not Selgovians.

  Drustica swung round. ‘Your men are ready,’ she told Flaminius. ‘You must ride against the enemy. I shall go to my warriors and calm them. Then they will be able to join you.’ Her face was bitter. ‘We’ll take a few of them with us when we go.’ She gripped his forearm fiercely. ‘Perhaps we will meet again in that land beyond the sundering seas.’

  ‘I hope we’ll meet again a lot sooner than that,’ Flaminius said grimly.

  His orders were that he was not to become involved in any confrontations if they could be avoided, but he would not stand idly by and allow Caledonians to slaughter the people he had come to regard as friends. He turned to Hrodmar. ‘To horse!’

  Hrodmar looked half shocked, half hopeful. ‘We’re riding out on them?’

  ‘What are you talking about, decurion? No, we’re leading the attack. Get moving.’

  Flaminius went to where his horse was tethered and mounted it hurriedly. Less enthusiastically, Hrodmar sat astride his own horse. The auxiliaries’ steeds were whinnying and rearing nervously at the crackling flames.

  Still the Carvettians milled around, seeming to have lost all morale despite the efforts of Drustica to calm them. A few had weapons unsheathed and were staggering towards the gates, beyond which the Caledonians waited in wickerwork chariots decorated with severed heads.

  Flaminius led his auxiliary troopers at the gallop down the track between the blazing bothies, towards the gates. At this the Carvettians finally rallied and soon they were following along behind them, with Drustica at their head, howling a war cry.

  They burst out of the village gates. Spike haired warriors stood on the turf, holding flaming torches. Selgovae, as far as Flaminius could tell. Behind them were arrayed the chariots. As the auxiliaries rode out with the Carvettians running alongside them, the Caledonian footmen veered out of the way and then the chariots began to thunder down. One headed straight for Flaminius, so he drew his longsword and awaited the attack.

  He saw a man whirling a sling round above his head while he stood up in the chariot. He had lime-washed hair and woad blue war paint, and was stripped to the waist, while before him a small charioteer crouched over the reins. The two ponies neighed and screamed wildly as they plunged towards him.

  The man loosed and a grisly looking missile sped towards Flaminius. Drustica had told him that the Caledonians—and her own people in former times—used missiles made from the brains of their enemies mixed with lime. Instinctively, he swung himself low in the saddle, and the lime ball shot overhead. It struck an auxiliary in the face and knocked him flying backwards out of the saddle.

  In a small, still voice somewhere at the centre of his being, far from the noise and terror of the fight, it came to Flaminius that this was nothing like the chariot races he had attended in the Circus Maximus. The chariots themselves were utterly alien to those of the Roman races, being square not crescent shaped, with two semi-circular walls of wicker on either side in between which the charioteer sat and the warrior stood. The beasts that drew them were not the elegant creatures who raced in the Circus, but shaggy ponies, unkempt, ill cared for beasts. And yet the bloodlust was the same, the snarling expression on the warrior’s face was identical to that of any charioteer back in Rome… Civilisation was only skin deep, even in the City.

  Still riding low in the saddle, Flaminius thrust out his longsword as his horse galloped past the chariot. He glimpsed shaggy ponies, caught a waft of pony stink, and then was passing the wickerwork walls. He saw the charioteer, still clutching at his reins, staring in surprise while the auxiliary troopers thundered straight past. The warrior standing up behind him flung away his sling and snatched at his sword hilt, but before he could draw the weapon, Flaminius rose in the saddle, whipping his longsword in a crescent shape that split the Caledonian from groin to throat. Blood spurted out into the cold air, painting the blue daubed body a new shade of red, and the lime-washed hair darkened with gore as the warrior toppled across the wickerwork walls of his chariot.

  The ponies galloped away under the control of the charioteer.

  Already Flaminius had passed through the line of chariots, but sprinting towards him now were the Selgovian foot soldiers. They had doused their torches and now they wielded spears and swords and they were rushing to surround him. He sawed at his reins while his horse neighed and reared, kicking out at any Selgovian who came too close. Gripping on to his steed with his free hand, Flaminius cut about him with his bloody longsword, but it had little effect.

  The chariots came hurtling back over the battlefield. The charioteer whose warrior Flaminius had slain moments ago had already found another man to replace him. The other warriors pursued the auxiliaries, who spread out in confusion as the chariots zipped about the churned up turf. Now Drustica’s warriors rushed out to engage the Selgovian infantry that had surrounded Flaminius. The tribune took the opportunity to ride down the nearest warriors and gallop to the aid of his auxiliaries.

  ‘To me, men!’ he shrilled. ‘Hrodmar, to my side.’

  The little Frisian carried the standard. He galloped to Flaminius and the others grouped up around him as the chariots ru
mbled round and round them. When the auxiliaries charged, the chariots scattered, then reformed and began to make darting attacks that put Flaminius in mind of flies around dung.

  Nearby, Flaminius saw, Drustica was fighting in single combat with a Selgovian warrior. Romans had been forbidden by law to fight in single combat since the days of the early Republic. But this gave him an idea.

  He galloped out from the line of his men, and as his horse rode round and round in circles he brandished his sword at the lead chariot and its warrior.

  ‘Fight me!’ he shouted. ‘Come and fight me! I challenge you!’

  The Caledonian did not seem to have much Latin, but it seemed that he understood the gist of Flaminius’ words. Now the chariots came to a stop, parked in a straggling line alongside the field, and the warriors jumped down. The chief leapt from his chariot and strode out into the open, swinging an ornate sword back and forth.

  ‘I fight you,’ he called back to Flaminius. The tribune dismounted.

  ‘Sir, what are you doing?’ Hrodmar cried in sudden horror. ‘Don’t get yourself killed, for Epona’s sake!’

  Flaminius grinned up at him. ‘We don’t want too much bloodshed,’ he replied. ‘We’re trying to make peace with the Selgovae. Right now, the Caledonians are fair game, though.’

  Despite his bravado, when he strode across the turf towards the Caledonian, he felt as if he was quaking inside.

  Before he could issue a challenge, the Caledonian sprang through the air from a standing position, leaping like a salmon, his sword like a bolt of lightning. Flaminius lifted up his longsword to block the blow. The force of it shuddered through the blade and for a moment Flaminius felt as if he was going to drop it again. He gripped it tightly, so tight it hurt his palm, then swung it at the warrior, who leapt again, crashing down with both feet on Flaminius’ shield.

  The tribune staggered back, his arms going out, only staying on his own feet with some effort. These Caledonians were skilled but showy warriors. He realised that he would have to show the man some Roman fortitude.