Authors: Douglas Jackson
Valerius nodded his acceptance. ‘I will be glad to attend.’
‘When will your men be ready to start work? As I said, there is much to do here and the rains will begin soon.’
Valerius realized that Petronius expected his legionaries to carry out construction work in Colonia itself, and he almost laughed. ‘I’m sorry,
quaestor
,’ he said, allowing his voice to take on an edge of irritation. ‘My men are soldiers, not house-builders. They carry out military projects. We have a warrant to repair the roads and bridges to the north of here.’ With a curt nod and one final look at the temple, he returned to his men.
VI
Three hours later Julius lurched into the cohort’s administrative tent to find Valerius sitting in the lamplight at his collapsible desk with a writing block in front of him and a stylus in his hand.
‘My apologies, tribune, I understood you were staying in the town. If I’d known …’
Valerius looked up. ‘No apologies required, Julius. That’s exactly what I intended to do, but I wanted to see the men settled in, and I rode out to visit the cavalry
ala
at the auxiliary camp to the south-east. They’re Thracians who’ve been here since just after the invasion and their prefect is a very conscientious young man – Bela, son of one of their tribal chieftains. His troopers showed me some tricks on horseback that would make your hair stand on end. Tomorrow will be time enough to seek out my billet. I’ll be happy in a tent tonight.’
‘Falco …’
‘Falco is an unusual officer.’
‘A good officer. The best.’
Valerius accepted the unspoken reproach. ‘They tell me he has three thousand men under his command?’
Julius shook his head. ‘Perhaps nominally, but he gives the figure as less, nearer two thousand. But two thousand veterans who were once the cream of the legions. The Colonia militia. They don’t look like proper soldiers, I’ll grant you. But that doesn’t make them bad soldiers. I served with many of them. As long as they can walk and carry a sword they can still fight.’
‘As long as you don’t ask them to walk far.’
Julius laughed. ‘Yes, I wouldn’t like to march them much more than a mile. But I’d venture they’re still good, and they’ll stand. You’ll see.’
‘I’ll see?’
‘He – Falco – requests that you inspect them. He’ll have them on parade on Saturday, on the old cavalry exercise ground by the river. Will you agree, sir?’ There was a hint of appeal in Julius’s voice and Valerius realized that Falco was seeking a chance to prove himself and his men. Saturday was five days away: plenty of time to polish armour and sharpen swords.
‘Of course. What was he like … as an officer?’
‘A complete bastard.’ Julius laughed again. ‘But the toughest, hardest-fighting bastard in the entire Roman army. You’d have liked him.’
‘I think I do like him.’
‘Now he’s a wine merchant. Rich. He imports Faustianum wines from Falernia and sells them to the British aristocrats and legionary messes across the south. A good man to know.’ The words came out a little slurred and it was clear Julius had sampled his old friend’s wares while they’d been reminiscing about old times.
‘You should sleep, Julius. I want the men ready for a full inspection at dawn as usual. Then we’ll put them through their paces. No reason why we shouldn’t give old Falco and his militia something to think about over the next few days. It’ll do them good to see real soldiers sweat.’
Julius yawned. ‘You’re right, sir. Perhaps a little too much of the good vintage.’ He turned to leave. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. You are invited to a dinner at the temple tomorrow. Apparently the council is eager to meet you.’
‘I know. Just what I need: four hours of boring provincial gossip and a sore head the next morning. I’d rather storm another hill fort.’
The centurion smiled. ‘For once I’m glad I don’t have your social advantages. Good night, sir.’
Valerius rose before dawn. He detected an unfamiliar chill in the air that hinted at more than autumn, and he shivered as he washed and dressed. By the time he left the tent the men were already turned out in their sections and centuries on the parade ground. Eight hundred legionaries, five double-strength centuries rather than six normal ones because this was the First cohort, twenty eight-man sections to each century, the elite of the legion; the shock troops who would go where the danger was greatest and the fighting hottest.
He gave them a long look. Marius’s Mules they called themselves. Lean and tough: mostly men of only medium height, but strong and hardy. If necessary they could march twenty miles in a day, carrying the sixty-pound loads of their gear, rations and weapons, and be ready to fight a battle within the hour.
But on closer inspection the First was not quite the perfect fighting machine it appeared. He walked along the ranks with Julius at his side, pulling at straps to ensure the armour was tight and pointing out an occasional imperfection on a weapon or a piece of equipment. Not that there was much to point out. As usual, the turnout was exemplary. He knew how difficult it was to keep armour bright in the damp British air and the constant attention required to stop leather from rotting. No, it was the legionaries themselves who were out of condition. The eyes that stared through him as he walked along the lines were red-rimmed and buried deep, like slingshot pellets fired at a mud bank. The rank smell of stale wine assailed his nostrils. He heard the sound of vomiting from one of the rear centuries, but decided not to notice.
‘Your name and rank, soldier?’ he barked at a bleary-eyed specimen who stood out because he was taller than any man in his unit.
‘Decimus Lunaris,
duplicarius
, front rank, second century, sir.’ The answer was equally brisk. A
duplicarius
was a double-pay man, a senior legionary with a trade.
‘So, Lunaris. My orders were to return to the camp before sunset. Were those orders obeyed?’
‘Sir!’
‘They were, sir. I counted them in myself,’ Julius said helpfully. Valerius stared at him, but Julius had been as helpful as he was going to be.
‘You don’t look like a man who returned to camp before dark, Lunaris. You look very much like a man who spent the entire night drinking. How do you account for that?’
Lunaris opened his mouth, then hesitated.
‘Speak freely, legionary. You’re among friends here,’ Valerius said smoothly, allowing a note of sympathy to coat his voice. Lunaris grinned. He was among officers here, and he knew an invitation to walk into a trap when he heard one.
‘I look like a man who’s
had
an entire night’s worth of drink, sir.’
Valerius raised an eyebrow.
‘You specified the time, sir, but not the volume. The second century likes a challenge, sir.’
Valerius stifled a laugh. ‘Six merit points to the second century for enterprise, centurion.’ He watched Julius note the award on his writing tablet. ‘So, Lunaris, the second century likes a challenge?’ The legionary studied him warily. ‘I want the second century to be ready in full battle order in five minutes;
scutum
and a pair of
pila
, do you think, Julius? Then the second century will lead the cohort on three full circuits of the outer walls … at double pace.’ He looked up at the sky, which was now a deep, cloudless blue. ‘That should be enough of a challenge before noon.’
Lunaris had barely completed half a circuit at the head of the unit by the time Valerius caught up with him, but sweat was already pouring down the
duplicarius
’s face.
‘That must be almost pure wine. You shouldn’t waste it.’
Lunaris looked across, surprised. Most tribunes weren’t prepared to suffer with their men. But then he’d heard this one wasn’t like most tribunes. Valerius wore his full armour and carried his shield on his left arm and a pair of the heavy
pila
in his right hand. Normally a legionary on the march bore his shield in a leather cover on his back, and, unless there was an imminent threat of danger, a handy mule transported the majority of the unit’s spears. The shield was big and heavy and needed constant adjustment to stop it obstructing its bearer, and the two spears had a habit of crossing so that the lead weights which gave them their accuracy and power wanted to go in different directions. Added to the difficulty of jogging across uneven ground with a large pot on your head, cooking in an iron shell, it made for an interesting exercise.
‘Not wine … vinegar.’
Valerius shot him a puzzled look.
‘The bars here,’ Lunaris grunted. ‘The wine they sell is pure vinegar.’ He grinned and gradually stepped up the pace, but if he thought he would leave the tribune behind he soon found he was mistaken. Valerius’s long, powerful legs covered the ground in a loping stride that never seemed to falter. His armour had been fitted by an expert and allowed him greater ease of movement and less chafing than the
segmentata
worn by the rank and file. It was lighter too, but just as strong, because the armourer had chosen iron with a greater carbon content. By the second circuit, Lunaris was drawing in the warm air in prolonged, shuddering gasps, and Valerius could hear groans from the ranks behind him. He slowed imperceptibly, allowing the grateful
duplicarius
to drop back with him. As he ran, he studied Colonia’s walls and defensive ditch.
‘What do you think of the defences, soldier?’
Lunaris spat. ‘What defences?’
‘My feelings entirely,’ Valerius agreed. ‘I think we’ll double the guard tonight, just in case. Second century to supply the first watch.’ He moved away so he wouldn’t hear Lunaris cursing under his breath.
VII
She was tall, was that his first impression? No, it was her eyes, he decided; he was drawn to her eyes, which were wide and curious and framed by long lashes. Irises of a deep chestnut brown contained a message which was at once challenging and mocking, and, perturbingly, left him feeling quite naked. Lustrous, shoulder-length hair which matched them was swept back from a broad forehead, leaving tendrils to highlight the perfect oval of her face. The nose perhaps a little too delicate, the mouth a little too wide for classic beauty, but in her they combined to create something more. She wore a full-length crimson dress, the design of which said Roman but something about the way she wore it said not. All this in the time it took for an arrow to leave the bow, or a shot the sling. As he stared into them the eyes changed shape and became serious and he realized the military commander Falco was talking to him.
‘… And this is Lucullus, our foremost Briton, a lord of the local tribe, the Trinovantes, and a longtime friend to Rome.’
A short, rotund man bowed and smiled ingratiatingly. Valerius would have moved on – the local Britons were of little interest to him except as potential enemies – but Lucullus stood his ground and waved the girl forward.
‘My daughter, Maeve,’ he said.
Maeve?
Valerius turned to acknowledge her but she was already walking towards the gate of the temple complex. He stared at the slender retreating figure and was rewarded with a venomous backward glance aimed, fortunately, at her father. He felt an almost unstoppable urge to follow her, but Falco took his arm and steered him round the still smiling Lucullus with a sniff of irritation.
‘Tiberius Petronius Victor, whom I understand you have already encountered.’ Valerius’s mind remained focused on the girl but he noted the hint of disapproval in Falco’s voice. ‘He is Colonia’s senior magistrate, the procurator’s personal representative here and one of our leading citizens.’ The militia commander gave a brittle smile. ‘And he has a tight grip on the town’s purse strings.’
Petronius produced a laugh equally devoid of humour. Clearly little love was lost between the two men. ‘Each of us has our priorities, Quintus. Mine is to ensure we create a Colonia worthy of the Emperor’s name it holds. We have real soldiers, like the tribune here, to keep us safe in our beds. Why should we spend a king’s ransom so that your little army can strut the streets like peacocks?’
Valerius expected the insult to provoke a violent reaction, but it seemed this was an argument so well rehearsed it had lost its power to inflame.
‘Come.’ Falco led him away from the
quaestor
. ‘I will introduce you to the head of the
ordo
, our council of one hundred leading citizens.’ When they were out of Petronius’s earshot, he explained. ‘He means why should we have shields that don’t splinter at the first blow and why must we complain when we wear the same rusty swords we carried all the way from the Rhenus to the invasion all those years ago.’
‘Every army has supply problems … even little armies,’ Valerius said. He recognized the older man’s frustration. Shortages were part of life in the legions. A soldier, even a Roman soldier, had to fight for everything he could get.
Falco looked at him sharply, wondering if he was being made fun of.
Valerius smiled. ‘Perhaps while we are here we will lose a few shields and a few spears. My men are sometimes careless.’ There would be no shortages for a unit taking part in the governor’s campaign against Mona, that was certain, and in any case he would be back in Rome before the legion’s quartermaster worked out what had happened.
The militia commander slapped his shoulder. ‘Now I understand why Julius likes you. Come, we will share some wine. You should have been with us on the Tamesa: Catuvellauni warriors seven feet tall who took a dozen cuts and still wouldn’t fall. I have nightmares about them even now …’
Still talking, he led the way into a long, narrow room with a patterned mosaic floor and walls painted with lifelike scenes of an emperor, who must be Claudius, carrying out his imperial duties as fawning courtiers looked on. Two of the paintings immediately caught Valerius’s eye. In the first, the Emperor was depicted sitting high on the back of a gold-clad ceremonial elephant as a dozen splendid barbarian figures bowed before him. He realized this must be the surrender of Britain, which had taken place close to this very spot. The second took up an entire end wall and showed Claudius standing proudly on a hill above a broad river surveying the crossing of his legions and the hazy battle beyond.
‘The Tamesa,’ Falco whispered. ‘Claudius wasn’t even there. Didn’t arrive until the next day. He was a fraud, old Claudius, but we didn’t love him any the less for it.’
Valerius looked around to see if anyone was listening. Criticizing emperors, even long-dead emperors, was not something to be done lightly. But Falco only winked.
‘If he was going to strike me down he’d have done it long ago, lad. I sweated and bled for him and now he’s taking care of me in my old age. But he’s still an old fraud.’
The room had been set for twenty-four people, with couches round the walls and a gilt table in the centre. Valerius found himself between Falco and Petronius, and opposite the Briton, Lucullus, who called for wine to be brought.
One by one he was introduced to the men who ran Colonia; bland mercantile faces his brain refused to accept had once been seasoned soldiers of Rome’s finest legions. A few names stuck in his mind: Corvinus the goldsmith, wide-shouldered, dark-visaged and improbably handsome, who had turned his trade as the Twentieth’s armourer into a more profitable business; Didius, tall and thin and with shifty eyes that fitted all too well with his profession as one of Colonia’s foremost money-lenders; and Bellator, who seemed out of place because his exotic name and relative youth identified him as a freedman, and who now prospered by taking a cut of the rent from the
insulae
he administered for his former master. All had one thing in common. They were rich. They had to be, because membership of the
ordo
didn’t come cheap, as Falco explained in his dry monotone.
‘It has its compensations: prestige, which counts for little unless you are a certain type; access and patronage, which counts for more, particularly when that patronage comes from the Senate. We have our say upon who gets what contract, which buildings must be demolished and which must stay; we adjudicate in land and water disputes, all of which can be lucrative and creates a bank of favours which will one day be returned. But the cost …’
‘Yet not so onerous as election to the
augustales
,’ Petronius interrupted from Valerius’s left.
‘Easy for you to say, since a
quaestor
is above such lowly appointments,’ Falco huffed. ‘No payments to the treasury or public munificence from you, eh, Petronius?’
‘
Augustales?
’ Valerius enquired. The title was new to him. A slave brought wine in a silver cup and he accepted it, vowing only to sip, watered or not. The ripe, fruity scent reached his nostrils. No vinegar here. This was as good as anything that would be served at his father’s table.
‘The priests of the temple, those who officiate in the annual ceremonies central to the cult of Divine Claudius,’ Petronius continued airily, taking a deep draught from his cup. ‘It is a great honour … if you are a certain type.’ Valerius noted the repeat of Falco’s pointed phrase of a few moments earlier. ‘However, it also carries great responsibilities.’
Valerius knew that in Rome to be elected to the priesthood of one of the great temples – Jupiter Capitolinus or Mars Ultor – brought with it substantial power and that such an appointment was only open to the knightly classes. ‘Yet even at a price, it must be greatly sought after by the members of your council,’ he said.
Petronius laughed, but Valerius felt Falco shift uneasily behind him. ‘No Roman citizen would be foolish enough to accept it. We leave that honour to the Brittunculi.’ Falco drew breath and the conversation in the room went quiet. Valerius saw the smile freeze on Lucullus’s face, but Petronius carried on as if nothing had changed. ‘For them, it is as close as they will ever come to
being
a Roman. Ah, at last. The food.’
Valerius watched as the dishes were set on the table. In Rome, a banquet like this would be an opportunity to show a flair for the exotic; peacocks still in their livery, swans artfully displayed to seem almost alive. But this was wholesome, rustic fare. Sizzling cuts of beef, venison and suckling pig. Duck, pigeon and partridge, and birds smaller still which looked like particularly plump sparrows. A great fish, probably from the river below, and oysters and crabs from the coast, which he knew to be just a few miles downstream. He set to with a will. Army rations could always be supplemented, but somehow they were still army rations. It had been many months since he’d sat down to such a feast. His companions, too, ate greedily; all except Lucullus, who nibbled at the food, still wearing his fixed smile.
Petronius raised his cup theatrically. ‘Your health, sir. Would that we supped like this every day. No toast required with this wine.’ The comment provoked a burst of laughter. Toasted bread was often crumbled into inferior wines to disguise the bitter taste.
He saw Valerius’s look of surprise. ‘Oh, yes.’ He lowered his voice so the young tribune had to lean towards him to hear his next words. ‘Lucullus, our British friend, is responsible for everything you see around you. Food and drink, the couch you lie on and even the upkeep of the building. He is a fine fellow. A friend of Rome and an
augustalis
. He cannot be a member of the
ordo
because although he has chosen a Roman name he is not a Roman citizen, nor ever will be. But as one of the priests of the temple he enjoys great honour among certain of his people and even influence in the Roman community.’
‘He must be a very fortunate man.’ Despite himself, Valerius was impressed. He considered the Celts rough tribesmen. A martial race of hut dwellers. Yet here was a Briton who had adopted Roman ways and already contributed to the new society that a Roman Britain would become.
‘Fortunate?’ Petronius gave a quiet belch. ‘He has a villa on his farm on the hill yonder,’ he waved a hand in the vague direction of the river, ‘and he owns property in town. So, yes, I suppose he could be called rich.’ He smiled and turned towards the neighbour on his left, leaving Valerius to study the figure across the table.
The appellation ‘portly’ could have been coined for Lucullus, but he carried his bulk in a way that told you he took pride in it; that it was, in some way, a measure of his success and position in life. He was short and rounded, with a fringe of mousy hair which circled the back of his head like an untidy laurel wreath. Valerius noted that he shaved his face in the Roman fashion, yet it shouted out that it would never be complete without the moustache his people habitually wore. Lucullus met his eyes and raised his cup in salute. His smile took on a sad, almost resigned aspect. Valerius had seen the look before in clients he had represented in minor court cases – the clients who inevitably lost. In that instant something like pity replaced the natural disdain he felt for the Trinovante. He raised his own cup in reply and wondered what Lucullus was thinking. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.
‘You must come and visit my estate,’ the little man offered loftily in a clipped, unnatural Latin which had a curious singsong lilt. ‘The hunting is good. No? You are not a hunter, then? Perhaps a man of culture. I have many fine pieces – from Rome itself, and even from Aegyptus. The man who painted these walls painted my own. I have a copy of the surrender in my
atrium
.’
Valerius knew he should decline the offer, but a beautiful face flashed into his head.
She
would be there, and this time she wouldn’t be able to run away. ‘If my duties permit it I would be happy to visit you.’ He became aware of a change in the atmosphere, as if a shutter had been opened to allow in the sun. The fixed smile disappeared and a different Lucullus emerged; a Lucullus whose eyes twinkled with surprise and genuine pleasure. ‘My estate manager will arrange it, then.’
For the rest of the meal, Valerius found himself the hub of attention for the members of the
ordo
. Was it true that his soldiers were to waste their time building roads when they had so much to complete in Colonia? How did he think the town compared with Londinium? What was the latest news from Rome? There was a rumour that Burrus might be out of favour. Had he heard the druids were returning? It was true: Corvinus had it from a trader, who had it from a merchant, who had it from a customer, who had it from …
He fended off the questions with polite, harmless non-answers until Falco concluded the proceedings. The banquet broke up with men leaving in pairs, one or two clinging to each other as a result of the effects of the wine. Valerius was surprised to see Lucullus walk out deep in conversation with Petronius.
Falco insisted on accompanying him back to the camp. ‘Then I will guide you to the townhouse where you will stay while you are with us. It is owned by Lucullus, and very comfortable, but the
ordo
will provide the slaves. Better to be spied on by a Roman, eh?’ He laughed.
‘I thought your charter denied the Celts the right to own property in the town?’
Falco gave him a sideways look. ‘The charter was drawn up in different times. Much has changed. It is true that technically no Briton should own property here, but if a man has money there are ways such technicalities can be circumvented. Third party agreements, for instance.’
‘And who would the third party be in this case?’ Valerius knew he was pushing the boundaries of their short acquaintance, but even the small amount of wine he had drunk had loosened his tongue.
The look again, longer this time. ‘Let us just say that Lucullus would do well to be wary of his business partners.’ The militia commander laughed. ‘Of course, I am one of them. Lucullus provides transport for me. He has the largest wagon business in the province.’