‘Are you sure?’ Drustica said, leaving her hiding place. ‘Those men may come back…’ Now she was the cautious one. Acco and Teutorix followed, casting grim looks at each other and shaking their heads.
Flaminius ran up the ladder. ‘So we need to see where they are,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If it’s clear, we make a run for it.’
He peered out from the top of the hatch. The sails had been reefed and the deck was swarming with men. As he peered out, a figure appeared round the mast. Their eyes met. Flaminius felt a shock of recognition.
It was Marcus Placidus.
‘Drustica, quick!’ Flaminius hissed.
She scrambled up to his side. ‘Is it clear?’ she said. Then Marcus Placidus shouted in alarm and the sailors came running from every quarter of the deck.
‘What’s he doing here?’ she demanded.
‘Only one thing for it,’ Flaminius interrupted her, gesturing to the two warriors to join them. ‘Over the side again and swim.’
He vaulted the edge of the hatch and ran across the deck to the side, aware of Drustica, Acco and Teutorix following. Reaching the gunwale, he vaulted this too, receiving only a brief glimpse of Gesoriacum harbour stretching out before him, with the great wharves close by. He tumbled through the air and hit the water with an impact that knocked the breath from him.
A second later, the other three hit it just beside him.
‘Dive,’ Drustica urged.
Flaminius glanced up and saw sailors lining the gunwale above them, several of them carrying strung bows. As Drustica dragged him under with her, the water hissed with the impact of a dozen arrows.
The water closed around Flaminius’ head. Kicking powerfully forward, he saw Drustica’s sleek body flash past. She had dropped her sword. Easier to swim, but both were weaponless now, while only Acco and Teutorix were still armed, and they were faced with a town that would be in uproar once their presence was reported. Where was she going now?
Again the water above them was disturbed as arrows pinpricked it. Wooden shafts floated down on all sides.
Drustica was swimming away from the wharf—towards the open sea! Acco and Teutorix followed unquestioningly. What had got into their tiny barbarian minds? Then he realised it. They had to get away from the town. If they could make landfall elsewhere they would be less likely to risk attack. Lungs ablaze, Flaminius swam after them.
They waded ashore some way down the shore from the port, in an area that was well wooded and had no sign of habitation. If it wasn’t for the smoke trails that stained the eastern horizon, Flaminius might have thought he was in ancient Gaul before Caesar’s conquest.
‘What do we do now?’ Drustica asked once they had recovered from their swim. They dried their clothes in front of a campfire that Teutorix had lit after a long to-do with a fire drill. Now the two men had ventured into the woods on a hunting expedition.
He grinned at her, feeling better for a bit of heat, and held her close.
‘I’ve got a few ideas,’ he told her.
She wriggled free. ‘I mean, about getting to Rome,’ she told him in annoyance. ‘I suppose we’d better steal horses somewhere.’
Teutorix and Acco returned carrying a couple of dead rabbits and began to skin them and roast them over the fire. After a hasty meal, the four of them rose, kicked dirt over the embers, and vanished into the forest.
They wandered the forests of northern Gaul for some days, eventually coming across a rural waystation where they stole four horses in the middle of the night, when the sentry was sleeping on duty, and rode onwards. After that, Flaminius’ lance-head brooch and Lucius Aninius’ pass helped them bluff their way through several other potentially distressing situations.
Using the highly efficient imperial courier system, they managed to change horses at every waystation on their route. As a result their progress across the empire was rapid. In the meantime, however, Flaminius lost all track of time. When was the empress’ birthday? Would they get to Rome in time?
At last, however, they entered the Alpine pass that led from Gaul into Italy. They reined their horses amidst the snows at the top of the pass and looked south towards the green land dimly visible on the horizon. Beneath them the busy road led down and down, filled with riders and walkers and wagons.
‘Is that our destination?’ Drustica asked. Acco and Teutorix seemed amazed by the vast mountains that surrounded them.
Drustica herself had been amazed by the journey although after a while it had all begun to seem the same. Each wood was a wood, each Roman town was much the same as another. The mountains had been another matter, their snow-capped peaks had been so much higher than any she had seen in Britain.
Flaminius nodded. ‘Yes, that’s where we’re going. But it’s a long ride to Rome. Many, many miles. And perhaps we’ll be too late.’ He looked anxious.
‘We’d know by now, surely?’ she asked.
He turned to look gloomily at her. ‘I suppose so. The roads would be restricted to the legions. Our way would be much harder. As it is, since we got to Southern Gaul, it’s been a lot easier. Seems that my description hasn’t got this far yet.’
‘Then shall we ride south?’ asked Acco, trotting down to join them.
Flaminius nodded. ‘Come on. We’ve got to warn the emperor.’
They returned to the road, busy as it was, and continued the journey south. Would they get there in time? Drustica hoped so. She knew little about the empire, although she had learnt much more than previously in the last few days of unrelenting travel. She knew even less about the emperor, this Hadrian. But the Romans were her tribe’s allies against the Selgovae and the Caledonians. It was her duty to ensure that the emperor was protected.
But what of her people? What of Britain?
—16—
Pinnata Castra, Caledonia
As Probus left his tent, yawning and blinking in the grey light of dawn, the chanting of war cries and the clang of spear on shield from beyond the palisade grew, like the roar of some vast, angry beast. Hurrying up a ladder the centurion joined a group of legionaries on the ramparts. Falco stood there, peering through a loophole. Probus went to his side.
‘Governor?’ he said, raising his voice over the surging boom of hundreds of Caledonian voices.
Falco looked up, his face dark as he recognised the commissary centurion.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ he commented. Unlike his companions, he did not seem appalled by the Caledonian forces that surrounded them. Instead, he was strangely excited. ‘They seem to have surrounded us in the night.’
Probus frowned. ‘Jupiter’s balls! Did you not have patrols on the ramparts?’
Falco looked down his nose at him. Roscius stood with the legionaries. The camp prefect gave an embarrassed cough. ‘Entirely my fault, centurion,’ he said unctuously. ‘I had somehow got the idea that the provincial governor had seen to the matter, he thought that I had.’
Groaning, Probus put his eye to the loophole. The area surrounding the fortress, and halfway up the slopes leading towards the hill fort, was covered by a vast host of barbarians. War-chariots and horsemen and tattooed footmen surrounded them, covering all points of escape, even the southern road. Spears glittered in the early morning sun. Thousands of woad blue faces were fixed in fury on the Romans’ position.
The legion was vastly outnumbered. Some of those warriors must have been levied from the subject tribes. Caledonia itself was too small for so large a force. Probus’ bowels turned to water.
‘The die is cast,’ Falco said, behind him. ‘Quite why the Caledonians have decided to surround us in the fortress, and what they want, is now irrelevant. All that remains for us is to cut our way out of here and return to the empire.’
‘Would it not be better,’ Probus said, turning away from the loophole, ‘for us to negotiate? Speak with Catavolcos! Surely he doesn’t want battle if he can have concessions instead.’
‘We will not negotiate with barbarians,’ said Falco obs
tinately. ‘Do you suggest Rome should permit concessions to these woad painted Caledonians? It’s unthinkable.’
‘It would be more diplomatic,’ Probus pointed out. ‘We don’t have to follow through with our promises, provincial governor. After all, we can renege as soon as we’re back in the empire…’
‘Which would be dishonourable,’ Falco told him disparagingly, ‘and repugnant. Besides, it would anger the Caledonians.’
‘The centurion’s idea is the most pragmatic,’ Roscius said persuasively.
‘No!’ said Falco. ‘The men will muster on the paradeground and then march out through the Praetorian Gate. The standard bearer will take the new stag standard, but he will not reveal it until I give the order. Now, we must prepare ourselves.’
Stag standard? Probus frowned. He remembered what he had heard about the prophecy of the druidess. At that moment everything fell into place.
Without another word, he turned and hurried down the ladder. He had work to do.
A quarter of an hour later, the impromptu paradeground (no more than a large stretch of grass among the tents) was packed with all the cohorts of the Ninth Legion that had marched north with Falco, as well as the auxiliary cavalry troops. The provincial governor stood upon a tribunal made of bales and crates and prepared to address the men.
The threatening boom of the surrounding barbarians showed no sign of letting up but no attempts had been made to storm the ramparts. Of course, unlike civilised armies, the Caledonians possessed no siege engines or war machines.
‘Fear not, men!’ Falco boomed, looking out over the armoured ranks. ‘We are surrounded by barbarians, but I assure you that I will lead you to victory over them, just as my predecessor Agricola led his troops to victory at Mount Graupius. Soon Rome will be hailing me as a conquering hero! Follow me today, and I promise that you will all be promoted to the ranks of the Praetorian Guard!’
Slowly, truculently, the cheering began. Falco climbed down from the tribunal, mounted his horse, and led them legionaries and auxiliaries down the Praetorian Way.
Hrodmar rode at the head of his troop, under command of a man called Caelestis. This new tribune was no substitute for the now proscribed Flaminius. As they rode down the Praetorian Way towards the roar of the Caledonians, the little auxiliary wondered if he would ever get back to the empire alive.
Probus rode with the officers. Beneath his armour he was sweating. He was sure that the actions he had taken would ensure the salvation of the empire. But he wasn’t so certain that they would be his own salvation, nor that of the Ninth Legion.
The Praetorian Gates rumbled open. The roaring of the Caledonians grew louder. It reminded Probus of the crowd in the amphitheatre at Carnuntum[27], baying for blood. As the legion marched out into the open, the wild painted warriors began to pour down across the heather.
The advance guard of legionaries strode forwards inexorably. As the Caledonians rushed towards them, yelling wild war cries, the stolid soldiers flung their javelins into the surging mass. Caledonians fell to the heather, writhing and screaming, javelin shafts jutting from their bodies. Others caught the javelins in their shields only to have their very shields snatched from them by the weight of the weapons. Yet more ran on, leaping over the fallen.
The legionaries flung a second volley of javelins and more Caledonians fell, but then the first wave was upon the Romans, battering upon them as they fixed shields in a tortoise formation.
Yelling Caledonian warriors thrust spears savagely, rained blows upon the rectangular Roman shields, forced blades between gaps to find flesh beneath. Missiles filled the air, arrows and slingshot. A second rank of legionaries marched up to support the first, hacking Caledonians down with short swords after they had flung their javelins. More spearmen surged up on either side.
Probus saw one legionary’s helmet knocked off by a slingstone, then a Caledonian long sword flicked out and the head was toppled from its shoulders. Blood sprayed the battlefield.
Kites and ravens were circling above, and their bleak cries punctuated the roar of the embattled mob. Falco gazed on grimly as wave after wave of Caledonians forced back his iron legions. Probus turned to him, staring at him sardonically as he sat his horse like a statue.
‘They must have been massing for weeks,’ he shouted. ‘Up in the hills while Catavolcos kept us tied up here.’
Falco looked across irritably. ‘This will be a field of victory, centurion,’ he said.
Don’t depend on it, Probus thought as the chariots collided with a troop of Frisian auxiliary cavalry.
Horses whinnied with fright, men were cut down. Empty chariots were dragged across the heather by frightened ponies. But more were coming. Probus saw one Caledonian leap down from his chariot to saw off the head of an auxiliary he had killed with a slingstone. The tides of war obscured the vision, but Probus knew that soon the severed head were be adorning the man’s vehicle. He thought he saw Flaminius’ old comrade Hrodmar, fighting valiantly against four Caledonians until he was dragged down into the seething chaos and Probus saw no more of him.
Forced back by the wild onslaught, the legionaries gave more and more ground until they were fighting in the lea of the fortress itself. Probus drew his sword and hacked about him as even the command group, up until then out of direct contact with the attackers, was set upon by a group of naked, woad-stained swordsmen. All the Caledonians were eventually cut down, but for each one who died, four or five Romans had been killed.
‘Very well,’ Falco announced. ‘This is the point where we begin fighting back. Standard bearer!’
The standard bearer strode forward.
‘Sir?’
‘Bring out the new standard,’ Falco commanded. ‘It will hearten our men and strike fear into the hearts of our foes.’
‘But sir…’
‘Do as I say!’ Falco snapped angrily. ‘The new standard. You brought it from the shrine as I commanded?’
‘Yessir,’ said the standard bearer unhappily. He went to get the standard he had taken from the shrine. Probus watched with doubt and trepidation.
Falco gazed out over the scene of battle, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. Probus followed his gaze. He saw nothing to be happy about. He saw death for all of them.
And it was his own doing. He would die without even knowing if he had been right.
—17—
Rome
One quiet morning, about two months after they set out from Britain, when the shaded streets were being prepared for festivities, Flaminius and his Carvettian companions entered Rome. Flaminius had decided that they should go to the Peregrine Camp on the Caelian Hill as Probus had directed, and give them the watchword. If he could get the Commissary as a whole on his side, it would greatly help him in getting his warning to the emperor. Everywhere they went, posters announced races at the Circus Maximus and gladiatorial displays at the Colosseum.
‘What’s the occasion?’ Flaminius asked a passer-by, a Cappadocian by her looks.
She looked at him oddly. ‘You must be a stranger to our great city—to the empire! If you don’t know that today is the empress’ birthday!’
Flaminius’ face paled. Surely they were too late.
‘Where is the emperor?’ he demanded. ‘I must find the emperor!’
‘Oh, he’ll be in his villa at Tibur,’ the woman said with a shrug. ‘You won’t see him today. He’s celebrating with his closest people. Rome’s celebrating as well, in his absence. We hope to see him return tomorrow.’
Flaminius looked at her levelly. ‘You may,’ he said. ‘You may.’
His grim look unsettled the woman, and she hurried away down the street. Flaminius walked back to the Carvettians, who sat patiently on the kerb.
‘We’ve got to ride east at once,’ he told them. There was no time to waste going to the Peregrine Camp. ‘The emperor is at his villa.’
At noon they left the Tiburtine road and made their way through the olive groves towards the hills swath
ed in cypress and pine that marked the site of Hadrian’s villa. Here they tethered their horses in the midst of a thicket and proceeded on foot.
A quarter of an hour later, they crouched outside a line of conifers that marked the edge of the villa grounds.
Beyond the trees the sun glittered down on tranquil parkland that stretched for as far as Flaminius could see. Red tiled marble temples and theatres and bath houses rising from among the groves, while gravel paths led along avenues of laurels and past wide lawns of well-tended grass. In the distance, men in armour were patrolling the paths, while several carriages were arriving from the road, bringing with them the sounds of jubilation, music and song, laughter and chatter. Other guests had already assembled in a pillared colonnade leading to a bath house.
‘That must be where the emperor is,’ Drustica said. She rose from the cover of the hedge and began to walk across the lawn beyond. Flaminius grabbed her and dragged her complaining back into the shrubbery.
‘We can’t just barge in there,’ he told her sternly. Acco and Teutorix nodded wisely. ‘You see those Praetorian guards?’ He indicated the distant figures of the sentries, who luckily had not seen her appearance. ‘They won’t be interested in our story, they’ll take us to their barracks and interrogate us. With luck, my description hasn’t reached these parts yet, but they won’t let us anywhere near the emperor.’
‘Shouldn’t you just warn them that an assassination attempt is in the offing?’ Teutorix asked, frowning.
Flaminius gave him a look. ‘We’ll circle round the park and look for a way to get to the emperor without the guards seeing us.’ He led them along the line of trees.
A quarter of an hour later, he was getting desperate. The further round the villa grounds they circled, the more they saw patrols of Praetorians, often no more than a handful of the red crested guards, but more than the four fugitives could tackle. Besides, if they began fighting the sound would drift far across the peaceful park and more guards would come running. They had already fought and killed Romans to get here. Even if Flaminius could warn the emperor in time, he would have that to explain, not to mention his proscription by Falco.
On Hadrian's Secret Service Page 20