‘Assuming that it’s not just another attempt to lure Roman soldiers into a trap in the far north.’
‘What happened in Caledonia was a tragic mistake which neither side wanted,’ said Falco in pious tones. ‘King Brennos’ men got out of hand. The Ninth was not prepared for a battle on such a scale. You know the circumstances. I’ve already explained them.’
Flaminius gritted his teeth. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘Faults on both sides,’ Falco said with a tolerant twinkle. ‘We’ve both made mistakes, but we’re both motivated by the good of Rome. Really, I admire your achievements. Quite incredible in one so young. Shall we let bygones be bygones?’
He put out his hand for Flaminius to shake it. Reluctantly, Flaminius complied. Falco gave him a genial expression. ‘I’m off to prepare for my journey to Londinium, then I shall be returning to Rome to spend time with my family. But if you want to talk to a certain concubine, you’ll find her back in my quarters.’
Flaminius thanked him abruptly and hurried away. Soon his anger was ebbing, giving way to an empty feeling. When he entered the provincial governor’s quarters, he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
He turned to go.
Then a slim figure appeared from further inside the suite and flung itself at him. Medea was clad in a silken gown that could best be described as diaphanous, and she wore a chaplet of vine leaves. She wrapped her arms round him and rested her head on his chest. He could smell her fragrant hair.
Flaminius did his best to comfort her. How long had it been since they would last seen each other? He had abandoned her, let her go off with that Greek eye doctor all the way to Eboracum, with no idea of where he had gone. And then there had been Drustica.
The British girl had returned to her people now, to share their uncertain fate. But until she had gone, Flaminius would not have felt at all easy contacting Medea.
They sat down on the couch. She clapped her hands for a slave to bring them food and drink. Flaminius sipped at a goblet of wine and picked at chicken Numidian style. Medea seemed subdued now.
‘Will I see you again?’ she asked after a while. ‘I must go with him, you realise.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘The legate of the Sixth Legion has made it clear he has no room for me. I think I’ll be posted to the Peregrine Camp, the central base of the Commissary, unless they find me work elsewhere. I’m still to talk to Probus about it. That’s if I want to follow this career after all.’
‘I could get you a post,’ she told him. ‘Maybe in the Praetorian Guard! With your newfound reputation…’
‘Thank you,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ll get by in life without a woman to help me.’
Her face fell as she realised she had insulted him. He regretted his hasty words. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I appreciate the gesture, really. This job, in the Commissary… well, I think I’m right for it. It’s just… sometimes I have doubts.’
‘We all have doubts,’ she said, and her words were loaded with a significance Flaminius didn’t understand. He struggled for something to add to the conversation but it seemed that he had said everything, although he felt like he had said nothing at all.
Then she kissed him. Her eyes brimmed. ‘Go to Probus.’
Flaminius worried about her. ‘He said that if you were cast off, a living would be found for you…’
‘I shudder to imagine the living the Commissary would find for me,’ she said with a cracked laugh. ‘No, the senator holds no grudges. He whipped me, of course, but that was an end to it.’ Flaminius winced. ‘He might keep me on a few more years, until I get too old. But I’ll land on my feet, I always do. I don’t need the Commissary’s grubby notions of a career, thank you very much, if he does cast me off.’
He felt happy. No longer did he have to worry about Medea’s future, he could concentrate on his own, which, everything considered, still seemed uncertain.
He kissed her goodbye. They clung to each other for one last time. From the start, he’d known it wouldn’t last, but back then it hadn’t seemed so important.
When he was back outside, he felt empty again. He took a deep breath. Time to speak with Probus. Time to face up to the future.
The centurion was at his desk in his office, leafing through a sheaf of reports. Business as usual, apparently. He sat back as Flaminius entered from the outer office.
‘I heard you were back,’ he said. ‘You’ve made a name for yourself in some quarters, I hear.’
Flaminius sat down across from him without waiting for an invitation. ‘It means nothing,’ he said.
Probus produced an amphora and two goblets, and poured two drinks. He handed one to Flaminius, who took it gratefully and clutched it without drinking. Probus surveyed him. ‘Turns out I won’t be kept on by the Sixth after all,’ he said. ‘I’m off to Rome.’ He sipped at his wine.
Flaminius knocked his own drink back. He banged it down on the table. Like an accommodating barman during a slow night at the wine shop, Probus poured him another.
‘What is it?’ the centurion said gently.
‘Falco’s off the hook!’ Flaminius said. ‘I told the emperor himself what I heard from your agent. Falco led the Ninth to massacre and yet he just gets another posting elsewhere. Where’s the justice in that? All because a dead druid wasn’t deemed to be a good enough witness, and nor was a Roman junior officer. It would have been different if Rufinus Crassus hadn’t died. He was a senator. No one doubts that he wanted the emperor dead. And he was hardly working alone.’
‘Jupiter’s balls! No, indeed,’ said Probus. ‘We have a file on that young man. He was seen getting friendly with Falco before the senator was posted here. He was also very close to another senator. Once a rival for the succession, now said to be the emperor’s own choice for the succession on his own death. Perhaps getting impatient…’
‘You think this other senator is at the back of this?’ Flaminius demanded. ‘Why not report him, whoever he is?’
Probus shook his head. ‘Persuading the emperor to have a man of such exalted rank brought to trial would be rash. Working on his own initiative, the Praetorian Prefect had several senators of doubtful loyalty put to death when Hadrian succeeded. When the emperor reached Rome, he had that prefect removed. It doesn’t do to offend the senate, if you’re the emperor. Three hundred men are watching you like a hawk, all with the conviction that they could do your job better than you.’ He shook his head tiredly. ‘No, the best we can do is to scotch such schemes before they are hatched.’
‘And then the conspirators go scot free?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What about Falco? Is he going to be allowed to try it again?’
‘Falco’s finished,’ Probus said frankly. ‘After he returns to Rome the emperor will be cold with him in public—not very good for one’s standing in society, don’t yer know—and then he’ll get some dead end posting—with honour, of course! Proconsul of Asia or some such—and that’ll be the end of his career.
‘A slap on the wrist.’ Flaminius resorted to cliché. Probus went on regardless:
‘He’ll go into retirement in his villa after that, if he has any sense, and try not to get mixed up in politics and plotting again. Perhaps future emperors will visit him in his dotage, seeking advice on a solution to the British problem.’
‘But is it right?’ Flaminius asked, rhetorically. ‘It was because of him that an entire legion was massacred, and you and I and the other few survivors are to be reposted elsewhere.’
Probus looked a little uncomfortable.
‘Not entirely to blame,’ he muttered.
Flaminius frowned.
‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Falco’s not to blame? If what you say is right, he took the legion into the heart of enemy territory as part of some crazy plot to win a staged victory over the barbarians which he could use to lever himself into power, aided by Rufinus Crassus and this mysterious other senator. His machinations led to the massacre.’
Probus played with a s
tylus on his desk.
‘Before he died, you learnt a lot from Lugutorix,’ he said, ‘my druid agent. Enough for you to be able to make your dramatic ride down to Rome to warn the emperor. Like a latter day Pheidippides’—Flaminius considered reminding the centurion that Pheidippides had been a runner, but let it go—‘you raced heroically to the rescue, your tame Briton at your side. But I had other agents, too. I learnt of the plot, the staged victory, from others. I also learnt how it was to be achieved.’
‘How it was to be achieved?’ Flaminius echoed.
Probus nodded. ‘A prophecy was circulated through the ranks of the Caledonians by the druids. It stated that if a standard of a stag’s skull rose above the battlefield, it was a sign that the gods were angry, that the Caledonians would suffer defeat if they continued their attack. I heard this from another agent and thought no more of it at the time, just more druidic superstition it seemed to me.
‘Then, not long after your hasty departure, the tide turned, and the Caledonians surrounded the camp. Falco was adamant that we could no longer palaver, that we would have to cut our way out of there. It seemed a desperate resolution for a man who had spent so long seeking a solution that would benefit both sides. But then I learnt that Falco had a banner that incorporated a stag’s skull.
‘In a flash, I knew something was up. I realised that if the provincial governor won a victory over the Caledonians, it would make him the hero of the hour—and that if news came that the current emperor had been struck down and that the empire stood in jeopardy, the Ninth Legion would take little persuading to declare Falco emperor. Presumably the other legions in Britain would follow, perhaps those in Gaul if no one got at them beforehand. Falco would lead them south to Rome, settle all opposition, and make himself emperor.
‘How long he would have lasted, I don’t know. He was only a tool of more powerful forces. Whether the mastermind of the plot would be content to rule through Falco, or whether Falco would meet with an unfortunate accident, to be quickly replaced, I do not know. All I can say is that the empire would fall into chaos as a result. Ultimately, one senator or another would rule, and crush all opposition. But in the meantime, there would be suffering throughout the empire, particularly here in Britain and in other frontier provinces, where the barbarians would be quick to take advantage. Stability is better than chaos. So I decided that it would be necessary to make sacrifices.’
‘You decided to make sacrifices! Who made you the supreme pontiff? But you don’t mean to Almighty Jove, do you?’ Flaminius said.
Probus laughed. ‘No, not really. More likely to Mars.’ He gave Flaminius a cold smile. ‘I sacrificed the Ninth Legion.’
Flaminius went pale.
‘I found the stag skull standard in the legion’s shrine, with the eagle. I had… information on the standard bearer, so it was an easy matter to have the skull standard replaced by another one of no significance to the Caledonians. A bear skull, I think it was. Falco didn’t check before we rode out. Too much on his mind.
‘At the height of the battle with the Caledonians, he called to the standard bearer to raise the new standard. The standard bearer produced my substitute. The waves of Caledonians did not turn back as expected. Falco had gambled and lost. His battle plan had been entirely reliant on the idea that the enemy would turn tail halfway through. No general should rely on only one set of tactics. The first casualty of war is the battle plan. And so the legion was massacred. The slaughter was terrible. Both Falco and I barely escaped with our lives, a handful of men with us. Hunted and hungry, we picked our way south through the heather until we reached the empire’s borders and safety.’
‘But didn’t Catavolcos try to restrain his men?’ Flaminius was horrified by what he was hearing. ‘It must have been a disaster for him as well. All his plans gone to waste.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Probus, ‘but it was futile. Their blood was up. I glimpsed the chief shouting and pleading with his men, but they came on in blood mad droves, slaughtering the poorly prepared legionaries and auxiliaries as they did so. To no avail.’
Flaminius was silent. In that battle, Tribune Postumus had been killed, and Hrodmar had also been a casualty, crippled. He would never fight again. To show there was no justice in the world, Tribune Karus had survived without a scratch.
‘You sacrificed all those men,’ he said. ‘For what?’
‘For Rome,’ Probus said simply.
‘For an emperor who is no more than the latest over-privileged fool to succeed to the purple?’ Flaminius said.
Probus shook his head. ‘For the people of Rome, the people, not the senate,’ he said. ‘For Roman citizens everywhere, and even for the peregrines beneath them. For peace throughout the empire. That’s why I sacrificed the legion.’
‘You had no right,’ Flaminius said.
Probus shrugged.
‘I don’t think I want to remain in the Commissary,’ Flaminius told him. He had been meaning to tell him this anyway, but now he said it vindictively, to hurt the old man. He regretted this the moment he said it, but he meant it, he did want to leave. He couldn’t carry on in this line of work. ‘For Jupiter’s sake, post me somewhere else, anywhere. Please.’
‘Are you sure?’ Probus asked. ‘I was hoping to have you with me in Rome. You could learn a thing or two at the Peregrine Camp. Besides, I think Falco’s little concubine will be in the city for a while.’
Flaminius glared at him coldly. The centurion wouldn’t get him that way.
‘I’d rather return to the army,’ he said. ‘To honest soldiering.’
‘Also, while we’re in Rome,’ Probus added as if the tribune hadn’t spoken, ‘I intend to conduct a little investigation. The death of Rufinus Crassus remains a mystery. And should we solve it, we will no doubt be led with certainty to the man at the heart of the conspiracy. Not Falco, he was nothing more than a tool, a catspaw. No, I hope to find out who was at the back of it all.
‘I think I know already,’ he added, ‘but I intend to prove it.’ He studied Flaminius. ‘I’d appreciate your help,’ he added.
Flaminius gazed at him broodingly.
‘Very well, centurion. Count me in,’ he said at last.
The story continues in Murder in Hadrian’s Villa.
[1] Tivoli, Italy
[2] The Pantheon was later rebuilt by Hadrian. Later converted as a church, it still stands today.
[3] York.
[4] Now Romania.
[5] The Orkneys.
[6] Carlisle.
[7] AD 43.
[8] Now Iraq.
[9] Notorious slum of Ancient Rome.
[10] Catterick, North Yorkshire.
[11] Non-Roman subjects of the empire.
[12] Corbridge, Northumberland.
[13] Dere Street.
[14] Inchtuthil, Perth and Kinross
[15] Roughly corresponds with the modern Hungary.
[16] The Tay.
[17] The North Sea.
[18] The Orkneys and the Hebrides.
[19] 69 AD.
[20] Richborough, Kent.
[21] Manchester, Greater Manchester.
[22] Ribchester, Lancashire.
[23] Dover.
[24] Lympne.
[25] Boulogne.
[26] Great St Bernard Pass.
[27] Now a ruined city in Lower Austria.
On Hadrian's Secret Service Page 23