On Hadrian's Secret Service

by Gavin Chappell

  On they rode under the paling, grey dawn skies.

  As the noonday sun shone down on the hill fort, Catavolcos—newly returned from business elsewhere—received two Roman visitors in his great round reed thatched hall. Probus saw the summons to the hill fort as a sign that recent events had rattled the old warrior, he needed to retreat to familiar ground rather than speak with them in their camp. The commissary centurion strode along the straw strewn, packed earth floor of the great hall. At his side was the provincial governor, who had also only recently returned from high adventures in the South. The pair made for awkward companions.

  As Probus approached the high seat where Catavolcos sat in barbaric splendour, his boots rang hollow on the rough-hewn boards that covered this part of the hall. The Caledonian chieftain sat bolt upright, with an expression of savage dignity on his face. In his hand he held a ceremonial sword, and round his shoulders he wore a wolf skin.

  ‘Signal fires blaze and messenger birds flit the length of the kingdom,’ Catavolcos boomed. ‘Trackers have found Flaminius’ spoor. A troop of charioteers is on his trail, but he is nearing the borders of our realm. We have heard nothing from his pursuers for some time.’

  ‘I have proscribed the malefactor,’ Falco said. ‘That means he is now outside Roman law, you understand, my lord—and I’ve sent messages southwards to that effect. Let us hope they reach the imperial outposts before he does! Wherever he goes, his name will have a black mark against it—indicating that he may be killed on sight. If he is taken alive… well, his citizenship has been stripped from him and he has lost all Roman rights.’

  ‘My lord,’ Probus interjected, ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus is a Roman citizen with a commission in an auxiliary cohort attached to the Ninth Legion. I insist that he is treated as an officer and not as a common criminal.’

  ‘May I remind you that I am the emperor’s representative in Britain, Centurion Probus?’ Falco snapped. ‘And your protégé has lost all Roman citizenship, as I have explained.’

  ‘Centurion,’ Catavolcos said, ‘You may speak freely.’

  ‘Should you throw us out of your lands for our misdemeanours,’ Probus began, ‘Rome will have no grounds for complaint. But if you were to take any other course of action against all or one of us, Rome will have no option but to see this as grounds for military action.’

  ‘You have no right to spy on us,’ Catavolcos growled.

  ‘True,’ said Probus. ‘And nor do your people have the right to spy on me. The druid Lugutorix was set to shadow everything I did. Not very friendly, especially when we are negotiating. In the end it turned out that he sympathised with Rome…’

  Catavolcos’ smile was bleak. ‘I’m sure there was more to it than that, centurion. Perhaps you had met him before…’

  ‘Rome will deny any such allegation.’

  Catavolcos nodded thoughtfully. ‘No doubt. What do you think Rome will say?’

  ‘That’s the emperor’s decision, my lord, and it depends on any number of factors. But if Caledonia takes a course of action that is favourable in Roman eyes, Rome will be equally reasonable.’

  ‘And it would be favourable in Rome’s eyes,’ Catavolcos said, ‘to let you off the hook?’

  Probus gave a shrug. ‘What else? Lugutorix and Flaminius both acted on impulse. I knew nothing of their overzealous actions. Wouldn’t it be better to forget and forgive than to risk war? What happens to Tribune Flaminius is beyond either of us. We cannot contact him now, or the men you sent after him. I’m not motivated by self-consideration. My work for Rome is not yet done.’

  ‘You think so?’ Falco sneered.

  ‘Centurion, I understand your point,’ Catavolcos said. ‘Falco will oblige me by assuming your innocence.’

  Falco looked betrayed. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘Probus should be kept under guard while my legation remains in your country! When we return to the empire he will have a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Governor, if you want to continue our discussions, we will. With certain… conditions. If this Flaminius does get back to the empire, then as you know he is in possession of military secrets affecting both of us. Send a message to the nearest Roman outpost. If Rome is willing to bring us his head, Caledonia will cooperate in future, as long as is expedient.’

  ‘That is a good idea indeed,’ said Falco eagerly.

  ‘But I shouldn’t think the fugitive will get as far even as your nearest outpost. Our patrols will quarter the country that lies between here and the Roman lands. The closest Roman fort lies in Selgovian territory and I should think he will go in that direction, if not straight to Eboracum. The chances of our patrols finding him in such a wide area are small—until he is near one destination or the other. If he escapes, I’ll want to guard the approaches. But my high king has no more desire to escalate the conflict than does your emperor. Your men in the empire must be told to cooperate with my men. Will you send these orders?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Falco, beginning to feel more optimistic. He ignored the way Centurion Probus was staring at him.

  ‘This may well not be needed,’ Catavolcos said. ‘My men will soon catch up with this Flaminius. They will return with him, dead or alive, at their horses’ tail.’

  The hills marched along on either side of them. For miles, Flaminius and Medea had ridden along a boggy glen where the road vanished into stinking mire. Now they had returned from a search for firewood to the dry spot where they had tethered the three horses. Medea had been doing her best to justify her place with him, cooking for him and fetching and carrying. Her cooking was certainly a great improvement on his. Her clothes were travel stained, a smudge of mud was on her cheek, but she looked more beautiful than ever. Or were his senses heightened by the nearness of death?

  Pursuing Caledonians had been visible the previous day. Ultimately the two fugitives had shaken them off, but the warriors in their chariots had appeared time and again, far away in the distance to the north. Medea had been anxious.

  ‘Why do we stay on the road where they know to follow us?’ she asked. ‘Why not take to the heather where their chariots can’t travel?’

  ‘The heather is their country, not ours,’ Flaminius told her. ‘It would delay us, while I’m sure they travel as well on foot as in their chariots. I want to get to civilisation as soon as possible. If we pussyfoot around trying to shake off pursuers, we’ll never get there.’

  After finishing eating, they saddled their horses and rode on. No sign of the pursuers yet. ‘What will happen to us?’

  ‘We must keep them at bay. We’re on horseback, they’ve got chariots. There are more of them but we’re more mobile.’ He appreciated the chance to talk it through. ‘We can keep going, as long as we and the horses have enough rest. As soon as we reach a Roman fort, we’re safe.’

  She rode on in silence. ‘I’m afraid,’ she told him after a moment.

  ‘You think I’m not?’ he said. ‘We must keep riding. If they catch up with us…’ He paused, realising that she was seeking reassurance. ‘Medea, thank you for coming with me.’

  But even as he spoke, chariots appeared over the skyline behind them, the Caledonian warriors in them yelling war cries as they bounced into sight. Flaminius studied them over his shoulder. Five of them. They had caught up at last. That rest had been unavoidable, but it had lost them their final chance of escape.

  The chariot wheels rumbled down the cracked paves of the forgotten road. Flaminius could see the woad blue faces of the warriors twisted with hate. One of them whirled a sling.

  Medea shouted, ‘Look out, Gaius!’

  Flaminius hauled at his reins. The chariot hurtled towards him. The warrior let the sling stone fly but Flaminius swerved to one side and the sling stone whizzed past. He drew his dagger and flung it over his shoulder, then rode on. A gurgling cry made him turn his head again. Medea followed his gaze. The charioteer tumbled from the chariot, dagger sticking from his eye, and went under the wheels of the chariot behind h
im. This chariot careered out of control, hitting the mossy kerb. The warrior in the back, halfway through reloading his sling, was flung out. The chariot went over, dragged by its ponies. With a terrible snapping of wood and a screaming of frightened ponies, the chariot behind collided with them.

  Flaminius rode on, fighting for breath. Medea was sobbing. They rode over the rise. The country opened up before them and they galloped on. Flaminius turned to look back. No sign of their pursuers. They had left the Caledonians behind.

  He stood upon his stirrups and let out a whoop of delight. Medea smiled over at him.

  ‘We’ve escaped,’ she called as they rode along, ‘but we’re still a long way from civilisation, and we don’t know what awaits us.’

  ‘This is only the beginning of the journey,’ Flaminius replied. ‘But we’ll make it, I assure you.’

  Probus gazed meditatively at his visitor. The mysterious message the man had brought had driven from his mind for a while all his concerns about the fate of Flaminius. He sat back on his camp chair and stared at the man, a short, sturdy Caledonian who seemed ill at ease in the musty confines of the tent.

  ‘Very well,’ he said abruptly. ‘Supposing I believe you. What do you want in return for your news?’

  ‘I want twice the usual payment,’ the Caledonian informed him. ‘Surely it’s worth it, foreigner.’

  The Caledonian, Tarvorix, had been reporting to him for some time. He was a poor peasant farmer who lived on land owned by Catavolcos and was in serious debt to his noble landlord. In return for help with his rent from the commissary centurion—it consisted of a tenth of the farm’s produce each year, but Tarvorix was three years behind—the farmer reported everything he heard to Probus. Usually they met clandestinely, after nightfall on the edge of Tarvorix’s lands, but the farmer seemed to think this latest news highly urgent.

  ‘Let’s go over this snippet of gossip again,’ said Probus disparagingly. ‘What makes you think it’s so important that I’ll pay you twice your usual payment?’

  Tarvorix looked hurt. Probus restrained himself from grinning. It didn’t do to be too generous with agents like this one. Wounding the man’s pride always had results.

  ‘I told you!’ the farmer said aggrievedly. ‘This new prophecy the druids have brought us.’

  ‘You said something about the sign of the stag rising over the battlefield,’ Probus replied, emphasising the outlandish phrase satirically. ‘Explain it to me again. It sounds like worthless gibberish.’

  Tarvorix looked offended. ‘I came here in daylight, risking my life to bring you this news,’ he said, turning as if to go.

  ‘Risking both of our lives,’ Probus said savagely. ‘I’ve promised your chef—and Falco too—that I will no longer spy on the activities of him and his druid cronies. What’s the significance of a stag?’

  Tarvorix shook his head. ‘Forget I ever mentioned it,’ he said, reaching out to pull back the tent flap.

  ‘I can’t double your payment right now,’ Probus said, ‘or the missing grain will be noticed. But if your news is worth my while, I can pay you half now, half next week.’

  Tarvorix came back and placed his hands on the rickety little table, staring balefully at Probus.

  ‘By next week, who knows what will have happened?’ he said. ‘For all I know I’ll be able to help myself to your grain after the Caledonian warriors have slaughtered you and your men.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Probus assured him confidently. ‘Besides, if it did, you’d have a lot of competition. Tell me again the prophecy.’

  ‘When the skull of a stag lifts high above the fight, flee, for the gods show their wrath,’ Tarvorix said as if by rote. ‘That is the prophecy. A druidess who lives along in a cave many miles up in the hills uttered those words.’

  Probus shook his head. ‘It’s meaningless. For this you want twice as much grain? Bring me news, not the maunderings of some toothless old hag.’ He sat back.

  ‘All the warriors are talking about it,’ Tarvorix told him. ‘They’re afraid. Everyone knows war is near, but is the anger of the gods at hand?’

  Probus grunted. He felt sure that if the Caledonians tried anything, the Ninth Legion would be safe behind its palisade. Then again, Falco was intent on winning a great victory over the barbarians, as he had heard from other agents within the Roman ranks—a great staged victory—perhaps this prophecy was in some way connected. Probus had already realised that the druids controlled their people mainly through such manufactured prophecies. But why did Falco want to stage a victory?

  He’d have to give this some thought. In the meantime, he would pay the peasant no more than his usual. ‘Be off with you,’ he said abruptly. ‘Don’t come here again. Your grain will be delivered tonight.’

  Giving the centurion a dark look, the Caledonian slipped from the tent.

  —13—

  Borders of the Roman Empire

  Sitting on a boulder, Flaminius gazed from the ridge down at the heathered lowlands. The low hills rolled away into the distance, as far as the margins of the empire. Somewhere down there lay the lands of the Brigantes and Carvettians, not to mention the fortresses and camps of the Romans. But here, on the borders of the territory of the Selgovae and their eastern neighbours the Votadini, he and his companion were still outside the empire, still within the sphere of influence of the Caledonians, although they were a long way from that kingdom. Of course, the Selgovae lands were turning towards Rome now, or they had been when Flaminius had last come this way. But who knew what developments there had been during his absence?

  He peered into the haze. Far, far away, out of sight, across the sea and hundreds of miles of forest, farmland, mountain and town, lay the city of Rome herself.

  Flaminius turned at a scuff from the cave behind him, and Medea stepped out into the light.

  On learning that they were finally nearing the borders of civilisation, she had made some attempt to make herself presentable. She had washed her travel stained gown, combed and coiffed her hair, and when she reached his side, he could detect a subtle perfume on it.

  She looked questioningly at him. ‘You look troubled,’ she said anxiously.

  ‘I’ve had a lot to think about,’ he admitted.

  ‘Where we should go, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Now we have to settle the question. Eboracum—and I hope we can trust the legate to get a warning sent straight to the emperor—or directly to Rome, as Probus said, so we can warn the emperor ourselves.’

  He had gone over and over it with her until she knew exactly how he felt, but still he repeated himself. ‘It’s one or the other. It will take us long enough to get to Rome, and in the meantime the plot could have reached fruition, it’s set to take place on the empress’ birthday, and we don’t have long until then. The legate in Eboracum can send an imperial courier who will be able to travel much faster than us. But for all we know, the legate could be implicated. It’s clear that men from the Senate are involved.’

  The druid had said “the man who leads you.” Surely that meant that Falco was part of the plot. But also it suggested that his friends plotted to kill the emperor. When Falco had been in his power, Flaminius had felt tempted to kill him, but he would have found it difficult in cold blood, and besides it would have turned Medea against him. Anyway, what could Falco achieve himself, miles and miles from Rome? Some staged victory, the druid had suggested—then when the Emperor Hadrian was murdered, the legion would proclaim Falco emperor and march with him south presumably, to seize Rome.

  It had been done before. It had been done when Flaminius’ father was been in swaddling clothes, after the Emperor Nero committed suicide, when every man with a few legions at his back had marched on Rome, resulting in a year of anarchy, the notorious Year of the Four Emperors.[19] People had expected the same thing to happen again, Flaminius had heard, when he had been a baby himself, and the feeble Nerva had replaced Domitian, although the tragedy had been averted by the peace
ful accession of the heroic Trajan. If Hadrian’s assassination was averted, then the legion would have no reason to proclaim Falco emperor… but what happened to Falco in the end was outside Flaminius’ jurisdiction.

  ‘On the other hand, the Caledonians could still be on our tail,’ he went on. ‘It might be better to get the message to someone we can trust in Eboracum, then put the whole business in the hands of the authorities. They can’t all be implicated, surely. Eboracum is closer than Londinium. Londinium is closer than Rome. Even closer than either is Luguvalium, and our friends the Carvetti. We could seek shelter there and send a message ahead. Then we would be safe from the Caledonians, unless they attack us as we entered Carvettian territory.’

  ‘Surely the Caledonians wouldn’t dare invade the empire,’ Medea objected.

  ‘They would dare anything. They’re not afraid of crossing the border. And they seem to be working with Falco… Yet even without their involvement, who knows how many Romans in the province are implicated…? But you don’t know what the plot is, of course.’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me,’ Medea said, looking resentful.

  ‘True,’ he said. ‘Trust me, it’s better that way.’

  Not long after, they untethered their horses and rode on across the hills. Hour upon hour as the heather flashed by, Flaminius pondered the question in silence.

  ‘You’ve said nothing to me,’ Medea complained as they halted again to water the horses. ‘Nothing since we started riding. I’m going out of my mind with the monotony.’

  ‘I’ve said plenty,’ he said. ‘I’d willingly do more than talk. But for the moment I need to think!’ Women could be so unreasonable.

  She sat down on a rock. ‘This journey is growing to be a bore,’ she complained. ‘It was more exciting than anything I’ve ever known at the start, but right now I’m getting tired of it. And I’m cold and sore and worn out.’

  Flaminius hurried himself to build a fire, but as he did so, his mind was elsewhere.