‘Thank you for waiting for me,’ Catavolcos said graciously to the cowled figure who waited in his private chamber when he swept in. ‘I was down at the ruined fortress, at a meeting with the foreigners.’ He paced up and down. ‘Would that my duties did not require me to fraternise with that filth…’
The druid Lugutorix nodded his head slightly, and waited for Catavolcos to stop.
‘You were sent back here after your mission to Eboracum was aborted,’ Catavolcos said abruptly.
‘I made an attempt to obtain the files of the commissary centurion,’ Lugutorix replied, ‘but failed. That is why I was sent back home.’
‘You tried to penetrate his security?’
‘Yes, my lord. I have learnt much since my initiation as a druid. I can walk unseen, change my face, make people see warriors where there are none, bring down the mist and the rain, raise tempests…’
Catavolcos knew from experience that the druids’ powers were nowhere near as miraculous or magical as they sounded: they could move quietly, without drawing attention to themselves, they knew how to disguise themselves, and they were experts at sleight of hand. From this they had derived an ability to mystify many, but it also made them invaluable as spies.
‘… I walked unseen into the foreigners’ camp and entered the commissary centurion’s office again unseen,’ Lugutorix was saying. ‘But when men came I had to flee. I could have killed one with a blow of my open hand, yet more and more came.’
‘You and your kind are renowned for spying abilities,’ Catavolcos said. ‘But would the commissary centurion recognise you if he saw you? You know he has come here with the other foreigners.’
Lugutorix was silent for a moment. ‘He will not know me,’ he said. ‘I escaped before I could be recognised.’
‘Good…’ said Catavolcos. ‘I have a desire to bring this sneaking, spying centurion to his defeat. He is as old a hand at this game as you are, so he will expect the customary sleights. You must ponder your hardest to find a way to… surprise him. Should you succeed, you may rest assured that you will not go unrewarded…’
Lugutorix listened patiently.
For the next few days Falco was in palaver with the Caledonian and his companions. Probus was forever being summoned to the presence of Catavolcos. Often it was about some minor question concerning the Selgovian and Carvettian troubles. Having been summoned, he was unable to leave, and thus was forced to participate in the Caledonians’ endless, overblown discussions.
Whenever Probus’ presence was not requested at one of these interminable palavers, he continued his study of the Caledonian tribes, talking both with people from the hill fort and others from the neighbouring farms. The Caledonians were very hospitable, and answered many of his questions, and he had long discussions with chieftains and farmers, making many potentially valuable contacts. But he felt that he was learning next to nothing. Nothing of any use, certainly. Nothing about the subject tribes to the south.
In itself, this told him a great deal. Catavolcos said that they had little information about the Selgovians because they sang few songs about them. But he heard any number of tales and songs about subject tribes in the north, such as the Creones, the Carnonacae, the Caereni, the Cornavii, even about the Caledonii proper, in their great glen over the mountains. Not to mention the Taexali, who occupied the great plain to the south and east of here. But little of the Damnonii or the Votadini, and absolutely nothing of the Selgovians. Probus wondered what the Caledonians had planned for the other southern peoples.
To begin with, the commissary centurion had been aided in his work by the lad Flaminius. But then it was suggested that it should be Tribune Flaminius who would journey around the Caledonian territory, accompanied by the young blades of the court, sons of chieftains whose rank or social standing, not to mention age, was equivalent to his own.
‘Will you do this?’ Probus had asked him.
‘By all means,’ said Flaminius eagerly. ‘I’m tired of being stuck in this dismal old camp. I’d be happy to get on a horse and meet some more of the people of the heather.’
‘Good,’ Probus said. ‘It’ll keep your grubby paws off the provincial governor’s concubine, too, and you never know, you might learn something useful out there.’
Flaminius headed for the tent flap. Lazily Probus reached out and restrained him with a ham-like fist. ‘You’re the decadent Roman out in search of vicious entertainment amongst the licentious natives. That’s what these barbarians will expect. It would be wrong to disappoint them with the clean limbed, sound in mind, sound in body reality we know and love.’ He winked.
‘And don’t forget to blab and babble and ask idiot questions. Can you manage that? Yes, of course, I’ve already noticed you practising. So ask foolish questions but don’t seem so inquisitive that they think you’re a spy.’
Flaminius pondered. ‘They would suspect something if I just rode around showing no interest in anything other than wine, women and song, or whatever the native equivalent might be.’
‘It’ll be a steep learning curve,’ Probus admitted, ‘but this is how you will get the experience you need.’
He watched the young man hurry away, and sighed. It didn’t seem likely that the lad would turn up anything significant, but it would certainly be a test of his ability. He’d sink or swim up in the sea of heather.
Certainly things needed stirring up. They couldn’t remain at the artificial impasse that Catavolcos seemed to be playing for. Potential existed that it would be foolish not to exploit. But tied down here on the edges of the Caledonian territory, kept busy with the pointless drivel of diplomacy, Probus was unable to exploit that potential as he wished. What had seemed like a perfect chance was becoming more and more complicated.
So it seemed that young Flaminius was the one best suited to take action.
—11—
The Caledonian highlands
Flaminius knew that people back in Rome who’d heard of the Caledonians assumed they were colonists from the German lands across the sea. On the other hand they spoke much the same language as the Gauls, and indeed the people of lowland Britain, though, and Frisian auxiliaries like Hrodmar scorned the notion there was a link between the two peoples. Yet there were those from the western shores of Caledonia, and the Ebudes islands beyond, who spoke another language entirely, neither German nor Gaulish.
Allcallorred spoke Caledonian only haltingly, but none of the other men who accompanied Flaminius on his journeys through the kingdom spoke a word of the man’s native tongue. They whispered amongst themselves that this small, dark haired man was of the Old People, the aboriginal Ebudeans, one of Caledonia’s most lowly subject tribes.
He was a kind of servant for the other Caledonians, although he had trouble even pronouncing the word. Flaminius, for that matter, could not get his tongue round the man’s own name, but he listened with interest when Allcallorred spoke of his homeland, the islands of the Ebudes in the west.
Beyond the Ebudes themselves, a series of islands dotted the ocean, each separated by five days’ sail. On one of them, a dethroned god was kept prisoner, although some people said that it was Calgacos himself who had been taken there to have his wounds healed by three goddesses. Further on, beyond a congealed ocean, lay another continent, also inhabited.
Flaminius listened to this tale as they sat round a turf fire, camping out in the moors one night, and he struggled to understand the man’s words. Were they true? Or was this just a myth? If it was true, then this intelligence would expand Rome’s knowledge of the world immensely—another continent! It seemed unbelievable, though. Even Allcallorred’s fellow Caledonians spoke dismissively of his stories.
The tribune sat with the Roman and Dumnoualos, a young man of the Caledonian court whose mother’s brother was a chieftain of many men. While among the Romans there would be a yawning social chasm between Dumnoualos and Allcallorred, here they seemed to be on jovial, almost egalitarian terms.
Allcallor
red had not been to these strange western islands ‘beyond the sunset,’ but he was certainly a travelled man. ‘Me went south to a stranger country,’ Allcallorred went on, ‘where folks like the forest men’—he seemed to mean the Caledonians proper—‘lived belongside men who dwell in boxes of stone. Was an uncanny journey. Naught went well hitherwards. Was glad to join another lord, merchant Tigernos, who took us many leagues.’
Dumnoualos snarled something in a rough approximation of Allcallorred’s own speech, and the dark little man quietened. Flaminius was intrigued by the reference to “boxes of stone.” Roman forts? And then Tigernos the merchant…
‘Tigernos who has his shop in the civilian settlement of Eboracum?’ he asked.
Allcallorred gave Dumnoualos a slitted glare and ducked his head. ‘Reckon so, reckon so,’ he replied. ‘Didn’t get to Eborac’ but met the man who’s its king. Was secret meeting, in the wilderness.’
Flaminius’ drowsy mind awoke to sudden life. He had to seize the opportunity this presented, notwithstanding Dumnoualos’ attempts to move the conversation onwards. But he had to keep his public image at the same time. He gazed thoughtfully at Allcallorred.
Flaminius had enjoyed acting the spoilt epicurean while he accompanied the young Caledonians through the countryside. In a land where women were owned in common and children were raised by the community, a young man could sow his wild oats far more ably than in prissy, prying Rome.
But he had ensured that they respected him all the same, shown that he was as good a hunter as they for all his airs and graces. Naïve as he was in their eyes, and ever eager to prove himself to his superiors, he had to admit that his role was more an exaggeration of his own personality than anything Plautus would have called acting.
He guzzled ale and considered their surroundings. They sat beside a smoking turf fire amidst a collection of standing stones, memorials of a long forgotten people, Flaminius assumed, although none of the Caledonians could satisfactorily explain them to him. Horns of heather ale were in their hands, much the same brew he had become accustomed to in the Selgovae lands. They had taken refuge from the winds of the moor after riding out from a little settlement further down the glen. The village was still distantly visible, beehive-like round bothies amid the trees in the lea of the great crags. Above the green grass of the glen bottom, slope after slope of heather stretched up towards tumbling, scree-strewn precipices. The wind was bitter but now they were out of the worst of it, sitting beside the fire in the shelter of these stones.
A hunter’s moon hung in the sky.
‘Tigernos had a secret meeting with the man who is… king… of Eboracum?’ Flaminius asked. There was no “king” of Eboracum. Allcallorred could only mean either the legate of the Ninth or the provincial governor, Falco himself.
‘Aye, sir,’ Allcallorred answered. ‘Went with Tigernos to have speech with him. Know not what, was on sentry-go. Mates sat in on the meeting.’
Mentally, Flaminius compared this wild scene with the Apennines where he had grown up. In many ways as wild, if not so gripped by boreal cold. The native tribes of the hills were rough, half barbarous people, but his parents had farmed in the valleys there like Romans anywhere. Anywhere could become civilised, if enough effort was put into it. And that was what made the two peoples enemies.
‘I suppose, though,’ Flaminius added, ‘you’d swap tales round the feast fires then, after you left?’
‘Aye, aye,’ said Allcallorred, ‘but were told to keep our teeth together about the journey. Was hard when a man got up to brag, not to boast him out of the running.’
‘You must have heard a lot about Eboracum and Brigantia,’ Flaminius suggested. ‘Didn’t you ask your mates who sat in what the meeting was about?’
But Allcallorred was drinking now, and Dumnoualos broke in, ‘Do you wish to hear feast fire fables? You’ve listened to a lot of Allcallorred’s stories, but there are many better ones.’ Allcallorred tried to interrupt, but Dumnoualos spoke over him. ‘We’ll leave this tale and wet our dry throats with more drink.’ He glowered at Flaminius. ‘Agreed?’
Flaminius grinned sardonically.
Inwardly, he was cursing. It had all been going somewhere, he knew it. He had been on a new trail, and it had certainly been leading somewhere. Where, he couldn’t say. And now it looked like he was never going to know, not unless he got lucky again. Which seemed a little improbable.
More heather ale cheered him. As they had rode across the hills he dreamed of dashing deeds of derring-do, but he had never seriously expected to achieve anything exemplary. But he had now received some glimpse, some notion of something that had happened behind the curtain of ignorance that hung over these peaks. At least a hint that there was a darker reason for the Caledonians’ interference in the Selgovae lands.
The secret meeting with Falco could not be explained, unless Probus knew about it, too. The provincial governor had no business having secret meetings with Tigernos unless the Commissary was informed. And to his knowledge, it hadn’t been.
Of course, the moment he stumbled upon this, down came the cloak of secrecy, much like the dark cloak that hung around the druidic rites he was certain were still practised in these remote lands. Men who knew the facts had gone missing. Had they been murdered by the druids? No, that would be going too far—wouldn’t it? But they were strangely unavailable now that the Romans were in the vicinity. It seemed that Tigernos the merchant, Caledonia’s unofficial emissary to the Romans, knew more than might be imagined. But it seemed that what was really going on was known to one Roman, at least.
Certainly Dumnoualos knew nothing, but he and his friends had been told to make sure that Flaminius learnt nothing about certain matters.
Flaminius thought that his Caledonian companions seemed honest, decent people. Their friendliness was genuine. He enjoyed their company as he had done that of the Selgovae. All the same, he knew that they would follow the orders of Catavolcos and his druids, who were clearly plotting… something. Invasion of the Roman province? How could it be anything else?
And yet what was Falco’s involvement? Surely the provincial governor himself would not be working with the druids and the Caledonians against the empire. Flaminius knew that he had learnt something that Probus did not suspect, or at least had not let on to. Yet it would be some days before he could return to the centurion with this information.
He drained his drinking horn and nodded towards the skin bag containing the rest of the heather ale. ‘Any chance of another one?’ he asked.
Pinnata Castra, Caledonia
‘Don’t bother sitting down,’ said Probus the moment Flaminius strode in. ‘We’re going for a walk.’
‘A walk?’ Flaminius stopped wrestling with the chinstrap of his plumed helmet and stared at him in surprise.
‘A bit of exercise will do you good after all the drinking and whoring you’ll have been doing,’ Probus said, striding past him and pulling open the tent flap. ‘I’ve been cooped up here too long while you were out gallivanting with yer barbarian friends. We’ll take a turn around the parapet.’
Flaminius looked out of the opening across Probus’ brawny shoulder. Men passed by, legionaries and auxiliaries, but the camp was otherwise quiet. He had returned at mid-morning. On the distant slopes that were visible beyond the tents, the ramparts of the hill fort stood sharply delineated against the blue grey sky.
‘Look, sir…’ Flaminius began.
Probus let the tent flap drop and turned to face him.
‘What is it, tribune?’ he asked quietly. ‘Something important?’
‘Yes,’ Flaminius stammered. ‘Very important.’
Probus lifted the tent flap. ‘Then all the more reason why we should go for a walk round the parapet. I’d suggest we go for a ride, but I’m sure you’re saddle-sore after your recent adventures. Besides, up on the parapet there’s less chance of listening ears.’
Flaminius stared at him. He knew Probus by now. Something was gnawing a
t the centurion. Normally, Flaminius would have been expected to make his report then return to desk work. Something must be happening. Which made his own news all the more imperative. But how could he put his intimations into words? They didn’t even make sense!
‘Very well, sir,’ he said at last, and followed the centurion outside.
Hurriedly they made their way to the ladder to the ramparts. Flaminius followed Probus along the walkway.
They paused at the furthest point from any patrolling sentries and gazed down the glen to where pine trees mantled the further slope. Except when a sentry passed, they were away from all potentially prying ears. The musty scent of the pines hung in the cold air. Crows croaked as they flew overhead.
‘As it happens, I have something I want to talk with you about,’ the centurion said. ‘You can tell me your own concerns in a moment. This is confidential, for your ears only. Don’t mention this to anyone, not even the provincial governor.’
Flaminius looked up at this. He frowned. ‘If it’s confidential, is this the right place to be discussing it?’
‘Better than in the tent. Even among our own people, we do not know whose spies could be listening. Out here’—he turned full circle, indicating the distant sentries and the bustling camp below—‘we need not fear being overheard.’
‘But the druids…’ Flaminius looked nervously at a crow that had just perched on a nearby tower.
‘We’re safe,’ Probus reassured him. ‘Take my word.’ He produced a small amphora of wine, uncorked it and took a swig. ‘I need you for a job. It’ll be risky. Are you in?’
Flaminius’s blood pounded. ‘I don’t think I have a choice.’
‘Maybe not,’ Probus said. ‘But I need you to be wholeheartedly behind it.’
He took another swig, then offered the amphora to Flaminius, who shook his head impatiently.
‘As things lie,’ Probus went on, ‘we can tell that Catavolcos is plotting something big.’ Flaminius nodded impatiently. He knew that much. Probus ignored him and went on. ‘It involves the Selgovae and the Brigantes, and the troubles between them. It involves Rome’s future in Britain. What else can it be but a mass invasion, an attempt to push the Romans back into the sea? And yet here we are, with talks between Catavolcos and the ever reasonable Falco, Falco the conciliator, Falco the peacemaker. But now even the provincial governor seems tired of the way the palaver has dragged on. Doubtless that’s why he’s agreed to go with Catavolcos on a hunting expedition among the mountains. Another delay, of course, but Catavolcos is doing it to win Falco over, a gesture of goodwill.
On Hadrian's Secret Service Page 12