In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  “No, she decided that the rigours of a military campaign would not suit her. I quite agree; war is men’s work. She is back in Rome.”

  Brude breathed a mental sigh of relief. Changing the subject before he gave himself away, he said, “Please do tell your sisters I am glad to hear they are well.”

  “I will,” Lucius promised. “Now, let us go and see Geta so that we can get your son back for you.”

  The three of them made their way back down to the lower floor. They walked through some antechambers, then along a succession of corridors until they reached a guarded door, which led to the office where Geta Caesar organised the running of the logistical support for the imperial military campaign. Lucius was admitted without question. Brude followed him, with Cleon tagging along as if he was quite entitled to be there. They found a brightly lit room with large, glazed windows. Several oil lamps gave additional illumination while a blazing fire burned to keep the room warm in the unseasonably cold snap.

  Geta was seated at a desk while messengers and officers brought him reports or carried away his instructions. Clerks scurried to and fro carrying scrolls and parchments or presenting Geta with documents that required his seal. The young Caesar was only twenty-one years old, clean shaven, unlike his father and older brother, with short brown hair and matching eyes. He was wearing a simple tunic of white linen with a broad purple stripe on the front and back. He smiled when he saw Lucius, waving him over. “Festus!” he called, addressing Lucius by his cognomen, “Come and rescue me from this paperwork. I am drowning!”

  Lucius walked over to the table. With a smile, he said, “I’m afraid I only bring more work for you, Caesar. My friend and client, Septimius Brutus, needs your help.”

  Geta looked at Brude. “Does he indeed? Well, then, let us retire to my private chambers. Then we might be able to discuss what he needs without being interrupted.” He sealed the document in front of him, pressing his large ring into the hot wax. Then he rose to his feet and waved everyone else away. “Let’s have a short break, gentlemen. I’ll take lunch in my private chambers with Festus and his friend. You can pester me with work this afternoon and all evening as well.”

  Wide double doors were opened in the far wall. Geta led them through to his private chamber. Cleon followed, even though he had not been invited, though Geta did not seem to mind. Brude could already sense that this young man was very different from his brother. All around Caracalla men walked in fear, never knowing when he might suddenly turn on them, while those around Geta seemed relaxed and at ease.

  Slaves quietly and efficiently produced platters of bread, cheese, olives, grapes, figs and eggs along with pitchers of wine and water. Most of them left but two stayed silently in the room, standing against the wall like statues, in case Geta should need anything else.

  Geta sat on a low couch, indicating that the others should do the same. “There are no formalities here,” he explained to Brude. “Help yourself to as much as you want. I owe you my thanks for letting me escape that army of clerks, so tell me what it is I can do for you.”

  Brude looked to Lucius for encouragement. These two men were several years younger than he was, but they were very much in charge here. He felt out of his depth seated beside them. During his time in Aquila’s service, he had been around enough powerful Romans to know that someone in his position was normally expected to know his place. The young man seated on the opulent couch opposite him was one of the three most powerful men in the world, however affable he might seem.

  Lucius came to his rescue, outlining Brude’s predicament. Brude grew concerned when Lucius gave Geta the true story, rather than the edited version, but Lucius made great play of Brude’s friendship and how he had served with the legions in Germania. He emphasised that Brude had helped Priscus’ legion in the current campaign but he did not mention Caracalla at all.

  Geta listened patiently. When Lucius was finished, he looked at Brude with interest. “Did you meet my brother at all?”

  “Only briefly, Caesar,” Brude replied. “And I was one of a number of people present.”

  “What did you think of him?” Geta asked, his eyes warning of the potential trap waiting for an incautious answer.

  Brude had heard that the emperor’s two sons disliked each other and he had picked up on Lucius’ failure to mention Geta’s brother, but he also knew that criticising a member of the imperial family was normally a quick way to commit suicide. “I hardly spoke to him, Caesar, but he listened to what I had to say and he acted decisively. He seems to enjoy the military life and he is certainly proving very successful.”

  Geta laughed. “Well said, Brutus. Very diplomatic. The truth is that my brother is an arrogant pig with no virtues and many vices. You need not fear telling the truth about him here.”

  “I cannot possibly know him as well as you do, Caesar. But I would agree that he appears quite ruthless.”

  “Hah! That’s an understatement,” Geta said bitterly. “Rome has won her place in history by being ruthless when it is necessary, but few enjoy acts of violence as much as my brother.” Then he waved a hand dismissively. “Still, we are not here to discuss my family, but yours. Whatever Festus says, though, I can’t see there is any way that your son can be regarded as a Roman citizen. But you are, and you have given valuable service to the empire, even if some of it was to my brother. And, of course, Festus is a valued member of my team here. My father always says that the job of an emperor is to keep the soldiers happy, so I think we can solve this very easily by freeing your son and making him a Roman citizen.”

  Brude’s heart surged with relief. Having met Caracalla, he had not been confident of his chances of getting anything from Geta, or even of getting a chance to make his appeal. Meeting Lucius so unexpectedly had turned a possible ordeal into an easy solution. “Thank you, Caesar,” he said with feeling. “Might I ask the same for the young girl who was taken captive with him?”

  Geta’s eyes shone with amusement. “Of course. Cleon, seeing as you are here, you may as well make yourself useful. Get the papers drawn up. Then you can all go along to find these two prisoners.”

  “At once, Caesar,” said Cleon, rising from the couch and somehow managing to give the impression that he had only joined them because he had expected his services to be needed for this very purpose.

  “Well, it seems I only have a few more minutes away from that deluge of bureaucracy my secretaries have waiting for me,” said Geta with a smile. He turned again to Brude. “So what will you do when you have them back?”

  “I will take them home, Caesar. It seems that the whole of Caledonia will soon be part of the empire. My people will probably need my help to adjust.” Brude had only just thought of that, but it seemed a plausible answer.

  “Very good,” nodded Geta. “We could do with some friends in our new province. Who knows, perhaps there will be opportunities for you to help in governing the place.”

  That was the last thing Brude wanted but he acknowledged the compliment without demur. In Roman society it was always good to have friends in high places and they didn’t come much higher than the emperor’s second son. Barring some sort of miracle, the whole of the lands of the Pritani would indeed soon be part of the empire as Septimius Severus and his sons finished off the job the Romans had left undone one hundred and twenty years earlier. Although the thought of helping the Romans impose their culture on his people was not something Brude relished, he knew he would have to help what was left of the Boresti come to terms with that new world somehow.

  Cleon returned, carrying a letter, which Geta signed and sealed before handing it to Brude, with a smile. After offering his thanks, they said farewell to the emperor’s son, leaving him to his afternoon of paperwork.

  Lucius guided Brude back outside. They headed for the main gate, Cleon struggling to keep up with the eager pace Brude was setting. The rain had stopped but they had to avoid several puddles and wrap their cloaks around themselves to fight off the chi
ll wind. “Does the sun never shine in this damned country?” complained Cleon.

  “You get the odd day,” Brude told him. “Last summer was good.”

  “I was in Germania last summer,” Lucius said. “It seems to have been raining ever since we got here.”

  Their grumbles were cut short when they left the fortress because Brude saw that Mairead and Fothair were waiting for him. Mairead’s expression was a mixture of eagerness tempered with apprehension when she saw Lucius but she hurried over to meet Brude. Bursting with excitement, she said, “We’ve found them! They arrived just a short time ago.”

  Brude hugged her and she clung to him, relief flooding through her every fibre. “Where are they?” he asked.

  “The amphitheatre.” The unfamiliar word sounded odd when she said it but Lucius understood and repeated it.

  Brude made the introductions. Mairead and Fothair had picked up the odd Latin word and phrase but not enough to have any conversation while both Lucius and Cleon spoke only Latin and Greek, which meant that Brude had to interpret everything. When he told Mairead who Lucius was and that he had helped get Geta’s permission to release Castatin and Barabal, she put her arms round Lucius, hugging him even though he was wearing his army breastplate. The young Roman was embarrassed at this outward display of emotion but when Mairead released him he gave Brude a knowing look and said, “I see now why you were so keen to get home.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Cleon. He then blushed when Mairead gave him a similar hug.

  “Mairead is thanking you for your help,” Brude explained with a laugh.

  “Castatin didn’t look well,” Mairead told Brude. “I tried to get Barabal’s attention but she didn’t see me. I couldn’t go too close because there were a lot of soldiers. I didn’t know what to do, so I fetched Fothair and we came to find you.” The words tumbled from her in her anxiety. Her son was alive and they had found him at last. She was bursting with impatience to get him back, to free him.

  The five of them walked through the busy streets to the edge of the town where the amphitheatre lay. Made from earth embankments with wooden walls and seats, it was a small arena, probably only capable of holding a few thousand spectators. It reminded Brude of his very first fight in the wooden amphitheatre at Paestum, where he had faced the black-skinned Retiarius. The guards at the main gate snapped to attention when Lucius approached. At his command, they opened the gates to let him in. Lucius suggested that Cleon, Mairead and Fothair should wait outside. “I don’t expect any trouble from the prisoners, but it’s best not to take any chances by bringing in civilians,” he explained. Brude translated for Mairead’s benefit before following Lucius through the dark tunnel that led to the arena, leaving Mairead fretting outside while Cleon and Fothair tried to make small talk despite the difference in language.

  In the amphitheatre, four more soldiers under the command of a young optio guarded the doors at the inner end of the tunnel. Again, Lucius’ rank combined with Geta’s seal on the papers acted like a magic charm and the doors were opened, allowing them to walk through. For Brude it was a strange sensation walking out into an arena again, especially unarmed, but this time there was no crowd roaring a greeting, no baking sun beating down on the sand and no smell of sweat and fear from gladiators. Instead, the surrounding seats were deserted apart from a few patrolling soldiers who watched over the arena, which was full of ragged people, lying or sitting dejectedly on the hard earth, their clothes, skin and hair dirty and matted, their eyes sullen anresentful.

  Lucius stopped. With a wave of his hand, he said, “I’ll let you find them.”

  Brude began walking slowly through the prisoners, trying to ignore the silent appeal in their faces. These were his people and he wanted to free them all but he knew that was a futile dream. All he could do was find Castatin and Barabal. For the rest, as he knew all too well, there was little hope. He hardened his heart to their plight.

  He checked each person, terrified that he would miss them, telling himself Mairead would not be mistaken about something like this. He made his way through the crowd carefully, wondering why they did not see him and come to him. At last he found them, near the far wall. It was Barabal he recognised but she was not looking at him. She was sitting with her back to the wooden wall, cradling Castatin in her arms, his head on her lap and his eyes closed. Brude squatted down in front of her, reaching out with his hand to feel the clammy heat of Castatin’s forehead. “Hello, Barabal. I’ve come to take you home.”

  The girl looked at him, her eyes blank. Then she recognised him and she began to cry. She tried to speak but only sobs came from her tortured throat as she held on to Castatin and cried and cried.

  Under the jealous gaze of the other prisoners, Brude gently moved Barabal’s arms from around his son. He lifted the boy up. “Come on. He is not well and we need to make him better. Come with me.” He thought at first that she would remain sitting there but she slowly pushed herself to her feet, shuffling after him, with tears still rolling down her cheeks. He made his way through the other captives, some of them looking threateningly at him as he carried Castatin towards the doors. Then Lucius came to meet him, two soldiers at his side, and the slaves made no move to stop him.

  They passed through the doors, along the cool, dark tunnel which led outside. Mairead ran to meet them. “What’s wrong?” she asked anxiously. “Is he all right?”

  “He has a fever,” Brude told her. “Let’s get him back to the room. Can you look after Barabal?”

  Despite her concern for her son, Mairead went to the girl. She put her arms around her, telling her she was safe now. Barabal cried and held on to her while Cleon, unable to say anything they would understand, stood silently. Lucius, unused to seeing the grief of slaves at such a personal level, looked away. The Roman asked Brude where they were staying. Brude told him. Lucius said, “We’ll have to find somewhere better than that for you. Follow me. We’ll go to see Caralugnus.”

  The strange procession attracted a lot of stares as they made their way round the edge of the city to a large, two-storey Rman house, elegantly decorated with murals and roofed with red tiles. This, Lucius announced, was the city home of Caralugnus, one of the leading citizens of Eboracum. Caralugnus turned out to be a middle-aged British nobleman who had wholeheartedly adopted Roman customs. In true Roman fashion he was busy in one of his public rooms, conducting business with some of his clients, but he quickly excused himself from them, hurrying to meet Lucius and his unusual companions. When Lucius mentioned Geta’s name, Caralugnus clapped his hands to summon some servants. He ordered two rooms to be set aside on the upper floor of his home for Brude and the others. “You may stay as long as you need,” he assured them. “Any friends of Geta Caesar are welcome in my home.” He spoke to them in his native Brigante tongue, which they understood far better than Latin. Mairead thanked him profusely.

  Brude carried Castatin up the stairs and laid him in a bed. He checked him over, heard the laboured breathing and felt the fever burning inside the boy. He turned to one of the servants. “I need a bowl of lukewarm water and some cloth, please.” The servant scurried off while Mairead helped him undress Castatin. “We need to cool him down. And I need some medicine for him. When the water comes, you wash him all over. Try to get his body cool. I’ll see if Lucius can get me into the legion’s medical store.”

  Lucius was only too happy to oblige. Brude was back inside an hour, able to mix a drink for Castatin, using some medicine requisitioned from the legion’s medical supplies. Mairead had got the boy’s temperature down slightly but his head was still hot and he was breathing with difficulty. Brude gently lifted his head to put the beaker to his lips, talking to him, telling him to drink. He managed to get some liquid into Castatin’s mouth. The boy swallowed, coughed, then took some more. His eyes flickered open and he saw Brude. “I knew you’d come,” he said softly.

  Castatin hovered in a fever for three days while Brude and Mairead took turns to watch him. When t
he fever broke, he was still weak and had trouble breathing. Brude was concerned because the chill had obviously got into Castatin’s lungs. In Germania, he had seen men die when that happened. But at least the boy’s fever was gone. He could only hope that time and rest would heal him completely.

  Caralugnus was a concerned host and when Brude apologised for taking up room in his house, the old man brushed off his concerns. “Stay as long as you like,” he insisted. “I have no family here and the place is too big for me anyway.” He seemed anxious to please. Brude learned from Cleon that Lucius had told Caralugnus that Brude was an important Caledonian chieftain, an ally of Rome, and a friend of the emperor. That explained Caralugnus’ generosity, Brude thought. He was tempted to tell Caralugnus the truth but Castatin would recover faster here than at Niger’s rooms so he played the part of a dispossessed noble for the boy’s sake.

  He and Fothair had fetched their few belongings from Niger’s rooms, telling the surly landlord to keep the balance of the money he had been paid already. Brude was glad to be away from Niger’s place. He had shared out their money because he did not want to leave it in the lodgings while they were all out, and it was too risky to have one person carry all their wealth. Caralugnus’ home was far safer.

  He went to see Lucius again, handing him a bag of coins. “Your share of the profits, as promised,” Brude told him.

  Lucius smiled. “The money was intended as a gift, Marcus.”

  “I know. Take it anyway.”

  “My father always said you were an honourable man,” Lucius said.

  They settled in to their new home quickly. Barabal, washed and dressed in new clothes, with her hair brushed and combed, seemed to have recovered from their ordeal but she remained quiet and slightly withdrawn. Mairead told Brude the girl had been raped. She was still having nightmares about it, and about Seasaidh’s murder. Barabal always hid in one of the rooms whenever Lucius came to see them; she saw any soldier as a threat to her. Brude was not sure what they could do but he and Mairead did their best to include her in their conversations, trying to reassure her that she was among friends.