On Hadrian's Secret Service
Date: 2015-04-13 04:00:00+00:00
Publisher: Schlock! Publications

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

Gavin Chappell

Copyright © Gavin Chappell 2015

Cover art by Medium69

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law.

The right of Gavin Chappell to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Map of Roman Britain by Notuncurious. Licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Published by Schlock! Publications 2015

ISBN-13: 978-1511703383

ISBN-10: 1511703385

This book is a work of fiction and any similarities to actual persons and/or places are purely coincidental.

Schlock! Publications
www.schlock.co.uk

In the same series:

On Hadrian’s Secret Service

Murder in Hadrian’s Villa

The Hadrian Legacy

Our Man in Alexandria

The Games of Hadrian: The Gladiator Gambit

The Games of Hadrian: The Archimedes Stratagem

And by the same author:

Crocodile and Leopard

The Man Who Sold the Roman Empire

The Blood Eagle

Starkad the Viking

Starkad the Outcast

Starkad the Old

Vikings—Voyage to the Edge of the World

—1—

Rome, AD 120

Shadows were lengthening in the City, and the cries of the hawkers echoed back from marble pediments and Ionic columns, from temples and taverns and tenements, as the richly appointed litter was borne through the bustling streets. Inside it, Quintus Pompeius Falco sat back against the plump cushions, bracing himself against the bone jarring rattle as slaves hurriedly carried them towards the Esquiline Gate. As he did so, he listened absently to the anxieties of his stout wife, Sosia Polla, who sat discontentedly at his side.

‘… and I really have no idea if this gown I am wearing is at all suitable,’ she was saying, indicating her blue stola with a self-consciously elegant gesture. ‘We have never been invited to the new emperor’s villa before.’

His imperial majesty Publius Aelius Hadrianus Augustus had decreed that all members of the Senate would celebrate his fourth year as Emperor with a banquet in his opulent new villa outside the City. Naturally Falco and his wife would be attending.

‘It’s only just been built, Sosia dear,’ Falco reminded his wife. ‘In fact, I believe construction is still going on in many parts of the grounds.’

Sosia raised her eyebrows in horror. ‘You don’t mean that we’ve been invited to a building site by this… Greekling? How gauche.’ She made a moue of disgust.

‘Please don’t call the Emperor Hadrian a Greekling, dear,’ Falco reproved her sharply. ‘You never know who might be listening.’ Even in a litter, their words could be overheard by the wrong ears. It had happened before to other senators, with tragic, terminal results.

‘But that’s just it,’ Sosia said, reaching out to tweak Falco’s new beard resentfully. ‘I really do not know what is happening to Rome, what with all these Greek fashions springing up everywhere. Time was, Roman men went clean shaven, and didn’t wear beards fit to frighten Socrates. Besides, how am I to know what to wear? What on earth do Greek women wear to symposiums?’

‘Greek women aren’t invited to symposia,’ Falco teased her. ‘Not respectable ladies, that is. The new emperor…’

‘… is barely even a Roman!’ Sosia interrupted. ‘He was born in Hispania, my handmaidens tell me. I doubt he’d even seen the City before Trajan of Sacred Memory adopted him.’

‘Better that than that Rome should endure another civil war,’ Falco said with gruff complacency. ‘That’s what everyone said at the time.’ Everyone who still lived, he corrected himself. ‘Besides, Trajan also came from Hispania, and yet like the Emperor Hadrian he was a Roman citizen, and of Italian stock. Long ago Hadrian’s family moved to Hispania from Adria, on the Adriatic. Hence his name.’

As they spoke, the sweating slaves negotiated them through the bustling suburban streets and out into the sun drenched open countryside beyond.

‘But all this pandering to Greek customs and Greek learning,’ Sosia went on censoriously. ‘It’s un-Roman. If the Greeks were as wonderful as everyone keeps saying, why is it that we rule over them? Answer me that.’

‘Why indeed?’ said Falco. He affected boredom, although he too had his doubts regarding Emperor Hadrian. Not so much his concessions to Greek fashions and philosophy so much as the fact that his Praetorian Prefect had four senators of consular rank killed the year he came to power—without trial—on suspicion of conspiracy, before Hadrian had even set foot in Rome as emperor. Falco wasn’t the only senator to disapprove of this turn of events.

Sosia came from an old patrician family that had found itself on the wrong side in that terrible period of civil war that ended when Augustus became emperor. They liked to believe themselves to be the last true Romans still surviving into a latter age. Of course, this had never stopped them from accepting consulates from the emperors, or other important posts in the senate. Falco’s own family, on the other hand, came from relatively obscure origins in the East. Still, there were ways in which he sympathised with what she had to say, even if he wished she wouldn’t say it in public.

‘Besides, who was the last emperor to admire the Greeks?’ she added. ‘Nero! And look how he ended up! A simply dreadful year of anarchy after he committed suicide.’

She was right, of course. When Falco was a young man, the Greeks had been a notorious joke in Rome and the provinces. Always on the make, always looking for new ways to cheat Roman citizens—that’s when they weren’t importing the latest absurd new religions from the East. Most of the Greeks Falco had known during his career had been Imperial freedmen, all oiled ringlets and studied superciliousness. He could think of only one Greek whose winsome ways and lithe body had gained his approval.

And he had no real desire to attend a banquet thrown by a Greek loving Spaniard, doubtless attended by fawning senators who aped the emperor’s outlandish manners in order to secure his approval. Especially not when he was compelled, by the latest imperial edict, to wear a heavy woollen toga that made him itch and brought him out in a rash—oh, the sacrifices one had to make as a public official! But there was a very important reason why he had to see the emperor in his villa.

‘I can hardly set out for my new posting in Britain without popping in on his imperial majesty, now can I?’ he told Sosia jovially.

Sosia shuddered. ‘I cannot imagine what wrong you have done to be appointed provincial governor of Britain. That remote island at the edge of the world is notorious for its rebellions, and this latest turmoil is no better than any others.’

Word of unsettled conditions in that most northerly of provinces had been filtering down to Rome for some time now. The current provincial governor’s term of office was drawing to its close, and Falco had an intimation that he must be very glad to be moving on. But should he himself be glad to be replacing the man?

‘I shan’t take you with me, or the children either,’ Falco reassured her, touching her gently on the arm. ‘The emperor trusts me to put down the trouble among the tribes, that’s all. You remember I’ve spent some time on the Danube frontier, so I’m no stranger to the edges of civilisation. Men close to him have spoken in my favour, praised me to him.’

Privately he wondered if that was right. If his allies had indeed favoured him, surely they would have secured him a cushier post. Yes, the tribulations inherent in a lifetime of selfless public service!

‘You certainly won’t drag me or the boys to Britain,’ Sosia replied, outraged by the very idea. ‘But you’re not worried about making me a widow, or them fatherless. Besides,’—her dark eyes narrowed—‘I know full well who you will take with you. Your freedwoman, the ghastly little trollop! She’s a Greek herself, isn’t she?’

Her olive face was pale in the gloom of the litter. Pale with fury. As furious as she ever was when the subject of Medea came up. The former slave performed many services for Falco, and she would be much more convenient on campaign amongst the barbarians than his refined, elegant Roman wife. More decorative too, though he kept that thought very much to himself.

Outside the sacred precincts of Rome, they disembarked from the litter and entered a waiting carriage that would whisk them away to the emperor’s villa. Silence hung over husband and wife as the slave who drove it whipped up the horses, and as they settled in in the interior, hoofsteps began to clatter on the worn paving stones of the Tiburtine Way. They spent the rest of the journey to Hadrian’s Villa in much the same icy hush.

About twenty five miles from Rome, just outside the town of Tibur[1], the slave turned off the road and guided the carriage down a long drive lined with laurels. This led through the fields in the direction of Hadrian’s Villa. The great house itself nestled indolently amid groves of laurels and neatly cropped lawns on the slopes of the Tiburtine hills.

Sosia twitched back the curtain and gazed in disapproval at the opulent gardens and the half seen temples and colonnades which covered acres of country. Birds soared through the evening blue skies, twittering swifts hastening back to their nests. ‘It is a building site after all,’ she confirmed gloomily to her own satisfied displeasure.

Falco caught the scent of box and cypress mingled with stone dust, heard the exotic cry of peacocks undercut by the distant clink-cling-clink of hammer on stone. In many places, Hadrian’s walls were still under construction. It seemed to Falco that their builder was still entrenching himself in his newly acquired empire.

‘His imperial majesty has only recently begun work on his villa,’ he reminded his wife. ‘It is a work in progress, and no less impressive for all that. They say that when it is finished, the gardens will represent the entire known world, and will include places such as the Lyceum, the Academy, and the Prytaneum of Athens, the Canopus of Lower Egypt, and the Vale of Tempe.’ He laughed. ‘I have even heard it said that, in order not to omit anything, he is making himself a Hades.’

‘He sees himself as a god,’ Sosia hissed. ‘A Greek god, too! One of those shockingly libidinous characters from Homer…’

Over her disapproving shoulder, Falco gazed through the opening in the curtains. As the slave drove them along a gravel track, temples and theatres, libraries and palaces could be seen amidst the immaculate lawns, the neatly clipped hedges and laurel groves. As Sosia had indicated, many of these scaffold-surrounded buildings were indeed still under construction.

The villa had originally been the property of the Emperor Hadrian’s wife, Sabina, who had been ward and kinswoman of the former Emperor Trajan, and it had included a traditional old Roman villa. Falco saw no sign of the latter amongst so many buildings of Greek and Egyptian architecture.

At last they came out into a large plaza surrounded by colonnades and porticoes. It was taken up chiefly by a long, still, rectangular pool of greenish water, lined with statues. Here they were met by a flustered looking major domo who directed them to the nearby baths, where he encouraged them to unwind and wash the dust of the journey from their tired limbs. To Sosia’s genuine delight, there was a separate bath house for women.

Falco turned to dismiss the slave who had driven the carriage only to discover that he had vanished. He stared around him in puzzlement. Here they were in the middle of a plaza, and he could see no sign of his slave, or the carriage either! The fellow must have made himself scarce with more dexterity than was customary for him. Falco might consider commending him for his speed and efficiency when he next saw him—assuming he hadn’t been spirited away to the Underworld for his many sins. He chuckled to himself.

Two slave girls had already escorted Sosia into the women’s bath house. Dismissing the mystery of the vanishing slave for the moment, he allowed the major domo to lead him into the men’s baths.

In the tepidarium, he encountered two good friends, Rufinus Crassus and Julius Ursus Servianus, who he knew of old from the Senate.

‘Falco!’ Rufinus greeted him as he joined them lounging naked in the warmth of the room, preparing to take a hot bath in the caldarium. Rufinus was a relatively young man, in his late twenties, who could raise no more than a fuzz of beard in fashionable imitation of his emperor, although his physique was still impressive. He regarded his fellow senator with dancing eyes. ‘You’ve also come to see his imperial majesty, I take it?’

‘I hear you got that posting in Britain, old man,’ added Ursus Servianus gruffly, shaking his head. Another Spaniard, Ursus Servianus was brother in law of the emperor himself. He was much older than Rufinus, and unlike most senators this summer—not to mention, unlike his brother in law—he had a traditional Roman hairstyle, and his lean, cadaverous face was clean shaven. ‘A bad business, what’s going on up amidst the heather. I was posted there as a young tribune, you know, not long after the Boudicca affair.’ He shook his head. ‘They’ll make a man of you, those blue arsed savages, if it’s the last thing they do.’

‘You’re the right man for the job, Falco,’ said Rufinus soothingly.

‘I’m more nervous about the imperial banquet,’ Falco joked.

He’d seen active service before, of course, he was no stranger to war. He had been on the Danube with Trajan, and more recently he had served as provincial governor in the frontier province of Lower Moesia. The Britons didn’t scare him. He’d fought Dacians—not to mention the wild Sarmatian nomads who had swept in from the steppes to supplant the Dacians after the latter’s wholesale extermination. ‘What will we be eating?’ he added. ‘The finest Greek cuisine, eh?’ He made a noise of disgust.

The two senators exchanged wary glances. ‘We’ll certainly have a lot to talk about after the meal,’ Rufinus observed. ‘Now let us see what the new emperor’s steam bath is like.’

As soon as their ablutions were complete, they went to join their respective wives, and not long afterwards they and several other senatorial couples who had appeared from the gardens were all announced into the Serapeum, the great domed temple that opened out onto the far end of the great pool. Falco gathered that it doubled as the imperial banqueting hall.

‘Have you seen the slave?’ Sosia asked him, looking troubled as she often was about domestic matters. ‘After a good long soak I came out to give him his orders and he had vanished, carriage and all. Has he run away?’ Her voice held an anxious note. Being unable to control one’s slaves led to one being talked about.

‘Surely not,’ Falco reassured her. ‘He won’t get far in the imperial villa! The Praetorian guards will soon feel his collar if he wanders around the grounds without permission. Don’t make a fuss, my dear,’ he went on in an undertone, ‘this is an important occasion.’ He shrugged. ‘I think he must have been shown to the slave barracks. He did seem to vanish, it’s true…’ he added with a laugh.

His words were cut off as the major domo boomed out, ‘Quintus Pompeius Falco, senator; his wife Sosia Polla!’

They swept into the great marble hall, which was already thronged with toga clad senators and their stylish wives. Beneath the great monumental dome, the temple was a vast, echoing space, nowhere near as large but every bit as impressive as Falco remembered the Pantheon back in Rome, before the recent fire had transformed it into a fire blackened ruin[2]. Dwarfed by its immensity, the senators and wives stood in little knots, talking quietly. It seemed that the latest parties were the last to arrive.

A cool breeze drifted in from the plaza. On the far side was a dais on which stood two Egyptian columns and an image of the god Serapis. In the middle, a fountain poured water into a tank from which a channel led into the great pool outside, and over it all loomed a bust of the goddess Isis.

Sosia drew a little closer. ‘Egyptian gods,’ she emphasised with distaste. ‘Nothing Roman here but we guests, it seems, and the good Latin soil.’ Falco hushed her sharply.

Out from behind the pillars strode a cavalcade of Nubian slaves dressed in Egyptian loincloths and headdresses. Forming two lines they blew a loud brassy blast on trumpets. Shortly afterwards a figure appeared from the shadows on the dais, a tall, bearded man, elegant in appearance and strongly built. Falco was relieved to see that rather than dressing as an Egyptian pharaoh or a Greek philosopher, the Emperor Hadrian wore a simple woollen toga with a thick purple stripe, identical to those worn by all the senators gathered in the room. Uncomfortable, in this weather, but at least it was solidly traditional.

‘Welcome, friends, by Hercules welcome!’ The emperor boomed a greeting to the guests. ‘Welcome to my humble little villa! How glad I am that you’ve all agreed to celebrate the passing of the fourth year of my term in office.’ Hadrian spoke of his position as if he was nothing more than a publically elected magistrate, rather than the most powerful man in the known world.

‘They tell me he really wears that notorious beard to cover up some quite awful facial blemishes,’ Sosia whispered spitefully in Falco’s ear as groups of people began to drift up and greet the emperor. ‘Nothing to do with admiring the Greeks. It’s simply a cover. Quite literally!’

Smiling rigidly at a passing couple, the current quaestor and his blowsy wife, Falco steered his wife over towards a great semi-circular couch overlooking the tank of water, where they could recline while waiting for their meal.

‘That’s enough, dear,’ he told her firmly.

When the crowds thinned a little, and the guests had withdrawn to their own part of the couch, Falco led his wife up to greet the emperor. Seeing their approach, Hadrian’s bearded face split with a charming smile. Two men accompanied them, dressed in togas that bore the narrow purple stripe of equestrian rank, with the addition of military belts. Their haircuts were military, too. Plainclothes Praetorians, Falco told himself darkly.

‘Senator Falco,’ the emperor said, ‘and your lovely wife.’

Despite herself, Sosia blushed. ‘Your villa is very… impressive, your imperial majesty,’ she simpered. ‘Most… exotic.’

‘Do you really think so?’ he asked, delighted. Falco noted his provincial accent disapprovingly, although it was not as thick as he remembered Trajan’s had been when the latter had first become emperor. ‘I’ve had the finest craftsmen shipped in from the ends of the Empire, Egyptians and Greeks.’

‘No Romans?’ Falco really couldn’t help himself.

The Emperor Hadrian favoured him with a penetrating look. ‘Of course, we have Roman workmen employed on the project,’ he said. ‘Even some Roman edifices. But Rome has an empire, as well you know, that stretches from the sands of Africa to the forests of Germany. I think it is time we Romans learnt to celebrate that.’

‘Or even as far as the heaths of Britain, for that matter,’ Falco suggested.

Hadrian laughed. ‘I’m afraid Britain has produced very little in the way of impressive architecture as yet,’ he said disparagingly, ‘apart from rude avenues of stones and so forth. But of course—you’re referring to your new posting! Yes, you’ll soon be going to Britain to put down the troubles with the natives. The borders of the Empire are rather less tranquil than you’ll find things here in its indolently beating heart, it has to be said. I shall brief you about it in more detail after the banquet, but in the meantime, may the gods go with you.’

Falco nodded and began to say something else, but before he could finish, Hadrian was already away greeting more guests. Frowning a little, the senator steered his wife back towards the feasting couch. As he did so, they passed Rufinus Crassus again, and his horse faced wife, whose name Falco could never remember—like Sosia, she was good stock, her lineage being from one of the oldest Roman families.

‘I see the emperor gave you his undivided attention,’ Rufinus murmured sardonically.

Shortly afterwards, Falco and Sosia lay side by side on the feasting couch, chatting quietly amid the hubbub of the guests as they began the first course, peahens’ eggs containing garden warblers cooked in spiced egg yolk.

‘Considering you’re going to be dealing with the problems of one of the Empire’s worst hot spots,’ Sosia said, tugging the folds of her gown around herself crossly, ‘the emperor could have spent more time speaking to you.’

Falco gazed at her and shook his head in wonder. It was clear that she loathed the new emperor—for his provincialism, for his Greek affectations, for everything about him. But nor could she stand the idea that Hadrian had treated them differently from the rest of the senatorial families. She really wanted to have things both ways. Typical of the woman.

The Emperor Hadrian now lay on the couch near the dais, picking at his meal with his beautiful wife Sabina, the original owner of the villa. As far as Falco could see, the empress was a refined lady in her forties who smiled placidly at all the guests, indulged in polite conversation, and spent absolutely no time making barbed asides to her husband. Perhaps she had the good grace to save that for when they were alone.

As the banquet continued, the sun set dramatically in the west, throwing long shadows from the pillars and statues in the colonnades outside. Slaves lit torches and lanterns and the guests continued eating in their light while two rhetoricians debated the pros and cons of Epicureanism and Stoicism to the delight of all. Falco noted with approval, as he tucked into a second course (olives flanked by a gridiron of sausages, damsons and dormice coated with poppy seeds and honey), that it was the stoic who won the contest. Stoicism might be a Greek philosophy, but at least it embodied old fashioned Roman virtues—unlike the self-indulgent maxims of Epicurus.

Dancing girls—none of them a patch on Medea, to Falco’s mind—gyrated amidst the light of the flickering torches. While the banqueters finished off a pig stuffed with sausages and meat puddings, actors and acrobats entertained them in other parts of the Serapeum. By now the banquet was beginning to break up. Several senators had evidently drunk too much wine and were being quietly berated by their wives as their dinner table conversation grew coarse.

Falco, of course, remained entirely on top of things. He drank his wine properly watered and kept a steady head. At his side, his wife was talking at length with the lady next to them about the latest foreign cults to gain popularity in the City, while the lady’s husband, a senator whose name Falco could not remember, looked bored and openly yawned a couple of times. As Falco lay back, silently sympathising with the man, he felt a touch on his arm. He looked up.

Rufinus Crassus loomed over him. ‘Come with me, Falco,’ the young man urged. He had a guarded expression on his bearded face.

‘But the emperor…!’ Falco said. ‘It would be the worst of snubs to depart in the middle of things! And my wife will…’

‘It’ll not last long, man,’ the youthful senator said. ‘Tell your wife that we’re talking business. Ursus Servianus wants to speak with you.’

Puzzled, Falco slipped away from his wife. She acknowledged him only vaguely as he patted her on the shoulder and whispered a hurried explanation. Rufinus led him out onto the portico beside the pool, now a mysterious place of darkness and flickering shadows, pleasantly quiet and cool after the bustle within the Serapeum. The gibbous moon rode high overhead accompanied by a glittering star, while a chill wind blew down the colonnade, although otherwise the night was warm. They crossed a lawn and passed under another colonnade which led to a moonlit garden of laurel trees and box hedges, quartered by gravel paths. On the far side of this, Rufinus halted.

‘Where is he, then?’ Falco asked. He hadn’t seen Ursus Servianus leave, but when they had departed, the banquet had rapidly been becoming an incoherent affair.

Two slaves scurried past.

‘Down here,’ Rufinus said, indicating a flagstone while he stared disapprovingly at the passing slaves. ‘What we want to talk to you about is not for ears that pry or eyes that spy.’

Falco looked stupidly down at the flagstone. What in Pluto’s name was Rufinus talking about? What could possibly be special about this flagstone, one of many in the plaza? But then the young senator leaned down quickly, slipped his hand into a groove, and hauled the flagstone upwards. There was a grinding sound of stone on stone. All of a sudden Falco realised that it was a trapdoor. Darkness within was profound, but Rufinus had brought a torch from the Serapeum and now he lifted it up to reveal a flight of steps leading into the ground.

‘Down there,’ Rufinus urged him.

Falco was about to complain, but in the torch’s flickering light he noticed that Rufinus’ jovial, youthful face was set and grave. Without any further words, he followed his companion through the trapdoor and trailed the gleam of his torch down the flight of steps. A chill closed around him.

As the descent into the cold bedrock continued, he nerved himself to speak. ‘Surely you should have a golden bough if you’re leading me into the Underworld?’ He laughed nervously and it echoed back from the rock. The tunnel was dank and he almost slipped on the steps as he addressed his companion.

Rufinus looked back. ‘Indeed. As you might have heard, not only is the new emperor building an empire in miniature aboveground, beneath it he has made himself an underworld.’

Falco remembered the rumours. So this was the famous Hades of the emperor, his underworld!

‘But what on earth for?’ he asked. It seemed a remarkable extravagance to go to merely to replicate the world of mythology. Did Hadrian have nothing better to do? He had no time to speak to men who would be fighting for him on the edges of the empire, but apparently all the time in the world to dig tunnels in the rock for no very good purpose!

Rufinus did not look back. ‘Slaves use these passages,’ he called back, his voice echoing weirdly, ‘so they can pass from one section of the villa to another without being seen. Happily, the tunnels are not locked, so we can also use them for our own purposes.’

Falco wanted to ask him what these “purposes” might be, but he was worried that he would not like the answer. He decided to change the subject.

‘My wife will be concerned about me,’ he said. ‘This has been very interesting, and I’ve known a little of how Aeneas felt when he descended into Avernus. But I really think we should be getting back.’

But then Rufinus stepped through an arch at the bottom of the steps and took the torchlight with him. Falco stood still for a second in the cold and dark, one foot raised to go down another step. The only light was that oozing dimly from ahead. He would break his neck if he tried to go back up those wet steps without light.

Filled with trepidation, he followed the stink of burnt pitch through the arch. He stopped dead a second time.

He had come out into a vast tunnel, freshly hewn from the bedrock, its wet floor littered with fallen chips of limestone. Rufinus stood waiting for him, glancing over his shoulder with an impatient expression on his face, holding the torch up high like a statue. The rock walls towered on all sides, and a ceiling of rock arced high overhead, while the tunnel vanished into darkness in either direction. Falco stared about him in amazement. He could never have believed that such a huge cavity of the earth lay beneath the villa’s lavish grounds. It made him shudder to think that such vast wormholes might riddle the seemingly solid rock. He strongly wanted to deny it, to give the lie to that crushing weight of rock above him.

In that brief moment he almost believed that Hades was a real place, not just an old fable from the poets.

‘Where… where is Servianus?’ he nerved himself to ask at last.

‘This way,’ was all Rufinus would say, and with that he led Falco down the tunnel at a brisk walk.

Groups of hurrying slaves passed them several times, glancing curiously at the two senators, but wisely not asking questions. At last Rufinus led Falco through an archway and they came out into another torch-lit chamber.

Here Julius Ursus Servianus sat on a hard rocky seat, as calmly as if he was at his own table at home. The elderly senator had with him a jug of wine and a small pot of olives, no doubt filched from the feast above, and was casually chewing at an olive.

‘You’ve decided to join the party, then,’ he said gruffly, and patted the rock beside him. Falco sat down. Young Rufinus remained standing stock still in the archway, keeping an eye on the echoing passage beyond it.

‘Join?’ Falco said. ‘Precisely what party am I joining, by Jove?’

‘It was we who pulled the strings, Rufinus and I,’ Ursus Servianus told him, pouring his visitor a hospitable goblet of wine. ‘We got you your new posting because we thought you were… sound. A man who we could rely on.’

Falco gave a shrug and leant back against the cold stone wall. ‘I suppose I have that reputation,’ he said, accepting the goblet. ‘I must admit I was surprised to find myself posted to the province of Britain considering the ongoing troubles, and considering how far I have proceeded in my career, but you know that I have dedicated my whole life to public service.’

He took a sip. It was an excellent vintage.

‘Don’t be so pompous, man,’ the old man barked. ‘We know full well how far you’ve travelled along the course of honour. We know you prospered under Trajan of Sacred Memory. We know that you led the Fifth Legion against the Dacians with great success. You distinguished yourself in the siege of Sarmisegethuza. We know that you are devoted to the cause of Rome.’

‘As are we,’ Rufinus said earnestly, turning away from the open archway.

‘Then why this secret meeting?’ Falco asked. He placed the goblet on the stone beside him. ‘What is it that you wish to discuss with a man like me, who as you say is dedicated to Rome, that can’t be said openly? Bear in mind that we won’t be able to remain away from the banquet for long without having suspicion cast upon us. The emperor has his Praetorian Guard, and doubtless other agents.’

‘Pretty soon you will be a long way away from any of the suspicions that you might be subject to in the environs of the City,’ Ursus Servianus said, pouring himself a goblet and draining it in one gulp. ‘Soon you’ll be at the overall head of three legions, out there on the frontier. But that could change. From the margins of the empire you could return in triumph to the beating heart of Rome.’

Falco’s eyes grew wider as he listened to the plan that his fellow senator began to outline. Ursus Servianus’ face was avid, intent, transformed into a shifting mask of tragedy by the flickering of Rufinus’ torch. As Falco became more and more fascinated by Ursus Servianus’ words, he hoped that this transformation was not an ill omen.

What the man was saying could only indicate a change in the course of his career.

—2—

Eboracum[3], Roman province of Britain

The newly built stone walls of the fortress towered proudly against the northern stars. Outside the barracks room office, the night was still and cold. The breath of passing sentries misted in the gloom. Within the walls of the camp all was orderly and disciplined. Long straight lanes between red tiled barracks blocks and storehouses led to the parade ground at the centre of the fortress. The latter stood just outside the headquarters building. Here the current provincial governor was readying himself to move down to Londinium before departing from the province. Meanwhile, in the offices of the commissary, a middle aged man sat at his desk, deep in thought.

Beyond the walls, the wilds of Britain rolled endlessly beneath the moon, towards the hills that snaked along the western horizon. Less than a hundred years of Roman rule had done little to civilise the northern regions of the province. The further one went, the weaker grew Rome’s grip. In the far north, Rome had no influence at all.

Despite the famous victory the legions had won over the Caledonians thirty seven years ago, when Commissary Centurion Julius Probus had not long been out of swaddling clothes, the conquest had ground to a halt shortly afterwards. Trouble had flared up in Dacia[4], and Britain’s subjugation had been abandoned. The result? A turbulent province, where those tribes officially within the empire were constantly at risk of being incited into rebellion by those not fully tamed. Not enough legions to control the place, or to protect those tribes loyal to their Roman masters. And as a result, the supply lines—one of Probus’ main concerns—were constantly threatened.

It was the tribes, of course, who posed the real threat to the empire, but was the loyalty of the legions and the senators who led them to be relied upon? How faithful were they to the emperor, when he was so far away in Rome? These were the thoughts that had already been passing through the mind of Probus before he began reading the report before him. All these worries notwithstanding, it would appear that one enthusiastic young tribune—doubtless a chinless wonder out from Rome with no more than a few years’ experience of commanding auxiliary troops—had been rigorously defending Rome’s honour.

With a muted grunt, the centurion took a metal scraper and scraped the waxen tablet clean. Then, from force of habit, he peeled away the wax itself and scratched the wood beneath until any impression of the message would be rendered unreadable. He did this almost automatically. Once he was finished he dropped the tablet on the desk to one side and stared into space.

‘Jupiter’s balls,’ he muttered at last. It was intolerable. Utterly intolerable.

A thickset man, at first glance he seemed to be broader than he was tall, and he had a short beard and thick eyebrows. He wore a rough, wine stained red military tunic—a half empty beaker of well-watered soldier’s wine sat on the table beside him, and he sipped from it from time to time—and even in the office he wore a military belt heavy with buckles, metal plates and strap ends, that jingled when he rose and when he sat down again. His sheathed sword lay balanced on the stool opposite him.

This missing auxiliary troop was certainly a worry, and it wasn’t just because a young tribune had gone with it. It was no skin off Probus’ over large nose if another wet between the ears rich boy had been lost with his first command. What mattered was what the situation told him about the unrest in Brigantia and parts further north. As far as any of his agents could tell, it was a new resurgence of ancient, incomprehensible feuds that had had their origin when the Selgovae first marched south to fight with one of the sub tribes of the Brigantian federation, to carry off their cattle and their women, in that long ago age of legend before the coming of Rome. And yet in itself all that was unimportant, the kind of foolishness one might expect from the Britons as long as their native stiff neckedness remained unbowed by Roman manners and Roman clothes, Roman bathing and Roman banquets.

It saddened Probus that in order for Rome to triumph over these virile northern peoples, it would be necessary to bring to them all the luxuries and degrading corruptions of the City. He detested the time he had to spend in Rome. Every time he went there it seemed more decadent than the last.

But what mattered most was the part played in the disappearance of this auxiliary troop, while out in Selgovae territory, by those sinister forces north of there, the Caledonian tribes who remained aloof and free from Rome and its civilisation—and its corruption. The local squabbles of Brigantian tribes and the Selgovae could easily be settled, or so it seemed to Probus—and he was in an ideal position to find out. But if, as he suspected, they were being stirred up by the untamed peoples of the North—those blue painted savages among whom, it was rumoured, the druids still practised their unholy rites—why, that was an entirely different matter.

But nobody in Eboracum knew what the situation was, and that was why the simple business of a tribune missing in action had been passed to the commissary centurion, the so-called gatherer of grain. Of course, anyone who knew anything about the legions knew that Probus’ task was to glean a different kind of grain from wheat, or even the meagre barley, rye, and spelt that could be garnered among the heathered uplands of Britain. Intelligence was what he gathered. And yet his investigation had been unproductive in this matter, that of Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus .

Two days ago the tribune had ridden north into the heather at the head of a division of Frisian auxiliaries, but since then no word had returned to the fortress. Tribune Flaminius’ mission had been to speak with the northern Brigantes and their enemies in Selgovae territory, to palaver some sort of solution to the ceaseless raids between the two tribal groups. Was he laid up in some reed thatched hovel, perhaps wounded, perhaps a prisoner, perhaps with friend, perhaps with foe? Or had that young man of twenty summers—Probus had never met the lad but he knew his type only too well—ended a brief, promising life with a pool of blood drying black around him in a ditch somewhere, sightless eyes staring up at a sky where kites and ravens circled?

Or worse… had Flaminius and his men been seized and taken north to the hill forts of the Caledonians, perhaps to be sacrificed on their unholy stone altars by the druids?

Probus shook his head. He was a straightforward, practical minded Roman. His life was one of order and sanity, though he was often forced to fling conventional morality to the winds in the interests of his work, to further the wider interests of the empire. But the idea of the druids, and the superstitious Caledonian tribes who sheltered them, sent a thrill of horror down his spine.

For the moment his hands were tied, and indeed the hands of the provincial governor were too, since Rome had yet to admit that the local troubles were anything more than traditional cattle raids. Perhaps the new provincial governor would be easier to persuade that something darker lurked behind these disturbances. Perhaps if Probus waited that long, he’d be able to proceed as he wished. But perhaps if he left it so long, he would find he had waited too long.

There was no way of knowing what could be happening up there, among the mists and the heather. No way of knowing what thoughts were stewing in those twisted Caledonian minds, what plots they were hatching… or was there?

He rose and went to the door. In the outer chamber, beneath a lantern identical to the one in Probus’ office, a legionary laboured away at a report written on a waxen tablet. He glanced up, then rose to attention. Like Probus, he wore a brooch on his tunic that took the form a lance-head.

‘Centurion?’

‘Take two men into the civilian settlement outside the walls,’ Probus said, ‘and bring me the Caledonian merchant Tigernos.’

‘Tigernos?’ The legionary stared. ‘It’s late. What if he doesn’t want to come?’

‘Then persuade him, legionary!’ Probus barked impatiently. ‘Persuade him! Now jump to it!’

The legionary fled. Moments later, Probus heard the crunch of military sandals receding down the gravel roadway outside. Satisfied, he returned to his desk in the inner room and settled down to some serious brooding.

After a while, he got out the calculi board. Tigernos was fascinated by this traditional Roman board game, and they would play every time they spoke. The Caledonian merchant was by no means free with his information, but in return for anything Probus could tell him—within reason, of course—he was willing to speak of what he had seen during his peregrinations between here and Caledonia. How much of it was true, Probus reflected, as he set up the stones on the calculi board, was always a difficult question, but the merchant was by no means the only informant available. Through careful and patient cross checking, it was possible to calculate the true state of play in those wild lands beyond the ambit of Rome’s influence.

Two legionaries marched into the office, Tigernos held by his forearms between them. The tall Caledonian looked calm and collected, despite having no doubt been dragged from the arms of one of his cheap whores. He had even taken the time to struggle into the cut price linen toga which he wore in imitation of those Romans with whom he did business. His red hair was clipped short in Roman style, not spiked with lime like that of his fellow tribesmen. Only the labyrinthine knotwork of tattoos that crawled bluely around the base of his neck, and the way he loped into the room like a Caledonian wolf, not to mention the fire in his watery blue eyes, hinted at the spirit that lurked within his rangy frame.

‘You wanted to see me, commissary centurion?’ he said, speaking Latin well for a native, Probus nodded to the two legionaries to free him. ‘Always a pleasure at any hour.’ Without waiting to be invited, Tigernos pulled up a stool and seated himself on the other side of the desk. ‘I have a fresh consignment of oats that I am willing to sell at a competitive price.’

Probus looked up at the legionaries. ‘Dismissed,’ he told them, and they marched out.

‘They weren’t too rough, I hope,’ he added solicitously. Tigernos was rubbing his right arm as if it pained him, while he studied the calculi board. Probus poured him a goblet of wine, which the barbarian preferred unwatered.

‘Otherwise, I have little to interest the commissary centurion,’ Tigernos added, evading the enquiry but accepting the goblet. ‘Only a Caledonian bear to be sent south for the beast hunts in your amphitheatres… Ah, I see you have set up the game of stones,’ he observed.

Probus gestured at the board invitingly. Tigernos made an opening move then sat back and sipped at his wine. ‘You didn’t just invite me here in the middle of the night to play games,’ he said. ‘Word has suddenly come to you of something. My glut of grain, perhaps. Or is that the problem? Are you still waiting for the whisper on the wind?’

Probus made his counter move, blocking the Caledonian’s escape to the square on his right.

‘They tell me things are unsettled upcountry,’ the centurion commented. ‘It must be bad for trade. Grain… and other matters.’

Tigernos moved another piece, adjacent to the first but in another direction.

‘Not particularly,’ he said. He sipped his wine. ‘Salt beef and hides are cheap, there’s a glut of slaves as well as grain. Otherwise matters remain as beforehand. Bears are hard to come by, so I hope to make quite a profit with this one. Perhaps even sell it on to an agent from the Colosseum.’

‘It must be hard going when you’re travelling north,’ Probus said, cutting off Tigernos’ new line. His own pieces were scattered about the board, he was scotching the Caledonian’s schemes but had achieved nothing lasting. ‘What with those marauding war bands on the prowl.’

‘They know not to tangle with my merchants,’ Tigernos said complacently, placing a new stone elsewhere on the board. ‘These piffling little hill tribes know better than to meddle with the people of the North. Good King Calgacos is not forgotten.’

‘Jupiter’s balls! Calgacos was no king,’ said Probus dismissively, joining up two of his stones with a third. ‘Just a war chief, a passing thing, a man thrown up by the times.’

‘Sister’s son of the high king,’ Tigernos corrected him calmly, adding a piece to the previous one, ‘he was given a realm of his own for his valiant deeds. He slew the warriors of the king of the world. He was the son of a god, some say. When he was mortally wounded, betrayed by his faithless men, three queens came from the Otherworld to escort him to the land of Summer where still he lives. Men sailing off the western isles say they have seen him.’

‘The heather ale must be strong in those parts!’ Probus growled, placing a stone in the way of the growing line. ‘Calgacos was defeated by the Roman provincial governor Agricola, when I was only a child.’ He frowned and caught Tigernos’ eye. ‘So you say a man could travel north and meet no opposition.’

‘A Caledonian, yes.’ Tigernos laughed. ‘A foreigner might find himself flayed, his tanned hide swaying in the breeze of a sacred grove.’

He drank deeply from the wine beaker, then placed it back on the table. A red trickle ran from his mouth like blood. Absently he wiped it away.

Probus’ skin crawled. ‘Are you saying that’s what’s happened?’

‘To whom, commissary centurion?’ Tigernos asked innocently. He moved another piece on the board. ‘Has one of your troops failed to return to Eboracum?’

Probus did not reply. It had been neverending endemic warfare in the North ever since Agricola was recalled. There simply wasn’t a large enough military presence in the province to police it properly, with only three legions, two guarding the western hills and a single one based up here in Brigantia. Not that anyone ever admitted that war existed, of course, but raids and reprisals occurred every year.

Probus was certain that the Caledonians were at the back of the ongoing disturbances, them and their network of druids, squatting up there among their mists and mountains. And from what Tigernos had let slip, Gaius Flaminius was the latest casualty in this undeclared conflict.

Or was he? The Caledonian’s words were difficult to interpret. What was certain was that Flaminius had ridden north with his men, up to the borders between the Brigantian confederation of tribes and the Selgovae, and he had never been heard of since then. What else could have happened other than his death and the loss of his entire command? Poor lad. The end of a promising career, no doubt.

An idea occurred to him. It would mean a chance for Tigernos to make peace, assuming he wasn’t implicated in… in whatever it was that had happened.

‘You must have many agents in the field,’ he began slowly.

‘Agents?’ said Tigernos swiftly. ‘Surely you’re thinking of yourself.’

He moved another piece. He had almost completed a line. Hurriedly, Probus moved a piece to cut him off. As he did so he saw that somehow, while he had been distracted, the Caledonian merchant had begun another line at right angles to the first. This was also near completion. His own pieces had no pattern and no more than two stood side by side.

‘Of course,’ the centurion grunted, ‘what I mean is merchants in your employ. Associates, you might say.’

Tigernos placed another piece in one corner. Probus studied the move, scowling. What was the Caledonian trying to do now? Starting another line of attack?

‘I have friends plying their trade between here and the Orcades[5],’ Tigernos told him, and it didn’t sound like vain boasting.

‘One of our troops of auxiliary horse has indeed gone missing,’ Probus said frankly, deciding there was nothing to be gained by being evasive. ‘Including a young officer from a fairly influential family. It would be a goodwill gesture if we were to work together to establish his fate.’

Tigernos looked astounded. Probus cut off the new piece’s line with one of his own.

‘Together?’ the Caledonian said. ‘You want my men to guide you through the debatable lands? It would endanger both my merchants and your men. The hill tribes are currently at war, as well you know.’

‘I know this,’ said Probus patiently. ‘I don’t ask you to guide my men, I ask you to put out feelers, to ask questions. Try to find out what has happened to Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus .’ Probus tried to conceal his desperation. ‘I could make it worth your while.’

‘Indeed!’ Tigernos scoffed. He shook his head. ‘It would be quite impossible. And I suggest you make no independent attempt to investigate. Another troop could also go… missing.’

He completed his vertical row with a contemptuous flourish, drained the wine beaker, and rose.

‘Thank you, commissary centurion,’ he said with a slight yawn. ‘Very good of you to invite me to such a fascinating game. I assume you have no use for my grain. Shall I see myself out?’

He turned but as he did so, the legionary from the outer office appeared.

‘Is the native gentleman leaving?’ the latter asked.

Probus nodded. ‘See him to the main gate, soldier,’ he instructed. Smiling pleasantly, Tigernos followed the legionary from the office.

Probus reached for his beaker of wine to find that he had already emptied it. He rose and poured himself another beakerful. Sitting back down, he sipped at it. All of a sudden he put his hands to his face.

He was tired. Weighed down by his duties. Weighed down by the gloom of this land, with its bleak, windswept heather and its grey skies, its rainclouds half obscuring its mountain peaks. Its secrets and its mysteries, its woad painted warriors and its sinister cults. Its dark deities.

He looked appealingly at the altar in the corner of the office containing his own household gods, but they gazed back in stony silence. The druids believed it to be wrong to carve representations of the gods, they said that the divine could not be represented. Perhaps they had some kind of wisdom.

Wisdom? Pah! The wisdom that led to human sacrifice, of the kind that Rome and the rest of the civilised world had abolished over two hundred years ago. So much for their so-called wisdom! It was the wisdom of magic, of superstition, the wisdom of witchcraft. He drained the beaker, rose, snuffed out the lamp and quit the office.

The moon had risen over the battlements since he had last been out, and its silver light flooded the gravel lanes between the buildings of the fortress, glimmered ghostly from the red tiled roofs. He gazed up at it, transfigured.

The gravel spat and crunched under his military boots as he strode down the Praetorian Way, away from the headquarters building and towards the main gate to the north. On either side, the glow of lanterns glimmered from barracks blocks and he could hear the rough murmur of the men. A strange tension hung over everything, intensified by the gleam of the moonlight. At last he reached the ladder leading to the parapet. He began to ascend. The rungs were cold and silvered by the moon.

Up on the parapet, the wind was bitter, blowing down from the North, chilling him to the bone. It was all pitch black out there, beyond the ruddy light cast by the sprawling civilian slums that nestled outside Eboracum’s fosse. Among those winding little lanes dwelt a heterogeneous population of camp followers and merchants, whores and tavern keepers, quack doctors and hedge priests and astrologers, parasites living off the soldiery. And among them, Tigernos, merchant, smuggler, spy of the Caledonian druids who were sworn to rid the land of the invader.

Could the word of such a man be believed? Could the slightest crumb he let slip be taken seriously? It could be that he was willing to taunt Probus with the truth, or it could be he knew no better than the Romans what had happened to Flaminius.

He heard the tramp of military boots and turned to see a sentry approaching.

‘Who goes there?’ the man barked. He wore full armour, carried a rectangular shield and a spear, but beneath his helmet his pimply face was that of a young man, almost a boy. A stripling like the missing tribune Flaminius, if not of such high rank.

‘Commissary Centurion Julius Probus,’ he replied, with a weary salute.

The sentry’s face whitened in the pale moonlight. ‘Sir!’ he stammered. ‘I hadn’t recognised you. I thought you might be an intruder! I heard something before…’

It was Probus’ turn for his face to fall. Even before realisation had fully dawned, he had whirled on his heel and taken the ladder two rungs at a time. As he reached the bottom he heard the sentry hurrying clumsily after him.

‘Sir? Sir! What is it?’ the man called as Probus raced back down the gravel lane towards his office.

The reports! So preoccupied had he been with Gaius Flaminius’s fate, he had entirely forgotten to file the reports. Oh, he’d destroyed the confidential one, as per regulations, but the rest still lay scattered on his desk. He could see them in his mind’s eye, just as the lantern had been extinguished. He had seen them but they had not registered with him. He had just left them lying there. Jupiter’s balls, he must be slipping! And he was certainly in breach of regulations.

‘Sir! Sir!’ the sentry was bleating. Ignoring him, Probus sprinted onwards. The office building appeared as he turned a corner. His window was visible. A dim yellow glow peeped through the shutters. His worst fears were realised. Somebody was in there!

Gesturing to the sentry to follow, he drew his sword and advanced on the otherwise deserted blockhouse. Quietly he unlocked the main door. How had the intruder got in?

‘Sir?’

He spun round, and clutched at his chest gasping. The sentry had crept up on him.

‘You almost sent me off to join the shades, you asinine young idiot,’ Probus hissed. ‘Be quiet! There’s an intruder in my office. Follow me.’

He turned and pushed the door open, slipped inside, sword at the ready. The sentry blundered enthusiastically after him, like the pup he was.

As Probus thrust open his own door, the light within was abruptly extinguished. He rushed inside. Something moved on the edge of his vision. The centurion whirled round but as he did so the sentry was there, his own sword flashing in the gloom. A figure dropped to the floor, spilling as it did so a stack of reports that clattered across the tessellated tiles. Probus caught a brief glimpse of a man with a Thesean tonsure, the front part of his scalp shaved like a charioteer’s. Like a druid’s. Probus, trembling despite himself, went to the lamp and relit it.

In the flickering yellow glow, he saw the sentry standing over a pool of blood that oozed across the tiles. The window swung open, showing how the tonsured man had escaped.

The man Probus had seen so briefly was a tattooed Briton, quite possibly a druid. For a moment, Probus wondered if it had been Tigernos himself. Impossible, of course, the merchant had gone. But Probus was sure that this was a spy of the Caledonian. How had he gained entry to the fortress? Had he slipped in while Tigernos had been here?

‘Call out the guard. He could still be within the fortress,’ he ordered breathlessly. ‘I’m going to speak with the legate.’

Grimly, he swept back out of the office.

—3—

Carvetti territory, edges of Roman Britain

Through a dripping, lichen hung wood Gaius Flaminius Drusus rode with the survivors of the Brigantian war band. He cast a glance over his armoured shoulder as they reined their steeds deep within the spinney of beeches. Far behind him now was his slaughtered troop, miles away, days ago. For the moment there was no sign of pursuit.

The troop had not been his first active command. He had been with the legions for three years now, as a tribune of auxiliary horse now attached to the Ninth (Spanish) Legion, and had certainly seen action before, but only in line of battle, supporting the legions themselves. And this first time when he had been in full command, even of a small troop on a diplomatic mission, he had failed utterly. His men had been cut down one by one when the Selgovae and their Caledonian allies had attacked, and it had only been the timely intervention of these Brigantian warriors that had saved his own hide. All but one of the Frisians who he had commanded had died in their own blood.

It had been too far to return to Eboracum as they were, and with the countryside in ferment. The warrior woman Drustica had agreed to take him back to her home in Luguvalium[6], in the territory of the Carvetti, a sept of the main Brigantian confederation. But it was a long journey over the moors. The weather had turned from bad to worse, and now the rain was falling slantwise along the glen as the wind drove it. He knotted his woollen scarf more securely round his neck and sat his horse despondently.

The Carvettian riders, mounted on their small, shaggy ponies, peered out from the eaves of the wood at the lowering sky and the lashing rain. Grunting discontentedly, they took out more of the bannocks of oatmeal they seemed to live on—one had almost broken Flaminius’ teeth when he tried it earlier—and ate now that they had the chance. Flaminius himself rooted in his saddle bags for the last of his Roman rations, stale spelt bread, which he gnawed at distastefully. How fondly he remembered the wine he had guzzled and the oysters he had bolted in the officers’ mess just before he departed on patrol!

He had certainly not expected that it would end the way it had done. They had been a long way into Brigantian territory when it had happened, too, and a long way from the nearest Roman camps. How had the Selgovae known where he would be? Or had it been a lucky guess?

It had definitely been a Caledonian leading them, Flaminius knew, and that fact was ominous. It suggested that this local trouble was a rather bigger matter. If the Caledonians were stoking the fires of war, this could be the beginning of something much more serious than a squabble between two minor border tribes.

‘Why did the Selgovae attack us?’ asked Hrodmar, the surviving Frisian auxiliary, picking his teeth as he trotted over to join him. He spoke Latin with so thick a Germanic accent Flaminius often had difficulty understanding him. It was a shame the decurion hadn’t survived, his Latin had been almost perfect.

‘I think,’ Flaminius said meditatively, ‘that these raids on their lands are something more than a fresh bout of old enmities. I think that our involvement, Roman involvement, is what someone has been hoping for.’

‘Surely the man I fought with at first was no Selgovian?’ Hrodmar asked shrewdly. ‘He was bigger, rangier, with red hair.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘He was a Caledonian,’ he said. ‘The Brigantians say they’re not at feud with the Caledonians. Only with the Selgovae, who drive off their cattle and drag their women and children into slavery, as they have done since the beginning of time.’

Much as their own people have done in reprisal since the beginning of time, Flaminius wanted to add, but one of the Carvettians might hear—they all spoke Latin after a fashion, some with a better accent than Hrodmar. He was officially on a diplomatic mission, and did not want to add another disaster to the list. Besides the little Frisian trooper, these uncouth barbarians were the only friends he had in this howling, rain lashed wilderness.

He hunched over, drawing the hood of his cloak to cover his bare head from the water that dripped down from the writhing branches. The Carvettians sat their ponies in silence as the rain hissed down beyond the grove. Flaminius had lost his helmet in the fight, it lay amidst the heather several days’ journey away. He remembered how, three years ago, he had received a stern reprimand from the camp prefect at Eboracum for mislaying his helmet on his first day. The humiliation had engraved itself into his brain like an inscription on marble. Yet here he was, seeing action in the raw, and already his helmet was gone. And that was not the worst of it.

His right hand drifted down to his empty sheath, fingers twitching as they failed to close round the comforting worn hilt of his missing sword. Without a helmet, he was at a disadvantage. Without a sword, he was in serious trouble indeed.

It had been knocked from his hand by the wild swing of that Caledonian redhead who had led the Selgovae in the attack. Shortly afterwards, Drustica and her Carvettians had galloped to the rescue, and urged Hrodmar and himself to ride into the trees. Flaminius had wanted to stop and retrieve his sword from the heather where it lay, but his explanations had gone unheard in the confusion, and before he knew anything they were riding for Carvetti territory.

‘Epona’s teats, why don’t we turn back and return to the fort?’ Hrodmar found it difficult to remain quiet. Flaminius had already reprimanded the little auxiliary for his garrulousness but to no avail. ‘Why are we going further and further into this unsettled country?’

‘We’re going to stay with our allies, the Carvetti,’ Flaminius began.

‘I thought they were Brigantians!’ the Frisian complained, interrupting.

‘The Carvetti are a sept of the Brigantian confederation,’ Flaminius lectured him, parroting the legate of the Ninth Legion. ‘A sub tribe. And they are going to protect us. They say that under current conditions there’s no way we could make it back to Eboracum alive, so we’ll take shelter in their village until things get quieter, then ride back and make our report. Now hush!’

‘Are the Selgovae following us?’ asked the irrepressible Frisian.

Flaminius sighed. ‘Maybe, trooper,’ he said. ‘It certainly seems to be the case. According to our allies they may well be on our trail. We’re waiting to see if they appear. That’s why we’re hiding in this grove—in silence!’

Hrodmar took the hint and stopped talking.

Dolefully Flaminius stared out at the trail, waiting for any sign of pursuit. He was tall, seemingly little more than a lanky young man. The rain plastered his hair to his helmetless head, but under happier conditions it was thick and curly. His piercing eyes were as black as olives but his broad, pleasantly ugly face was paler than it had been back home. Not surprising, after three winters spent in this most northerly province of the empire.

Beyond the beeches was a slope that, when it could be seen through the curtains of rain that intermittently concealed it, was purple with heather and yellow with gorse, and orange brown with bracken. The trail led alongside a ridge, at the bottom of which lurked a small, dank bog whose waters danced with the lashing rain and the soughing wind. The sun was invisible, glimmering feebly high above through dark banks of clouds. It looked as if the country had never been tamed.

That impression was reinforced when he turned in his saddle to consider the wild semi-barbarians who were his allies and his saviours. He hadn’t seen a Roman citizen in several days. Even Hrodmar, though as foreign to these dank surroundings as himself, was a wild man from beyond the limits of civilisation.

As an auxiliary, the little Frisian would be granted Roman citizenship after surviving twenty five years of service, but right now that eventuality seemed unlikely. Flaminius wasn’t entirely sure how many years Hrodmar had already served as an auxiliary, but he had a terrible feeling that the Frisian’s time was up—and so was his own, after only three years. So unfair.

Hrodmar was as alien to these surroundings as was Flaminius himself. He was stocky and pale, with long fair hair and hawkish blue eyes, and rode a purebred stallion, while the Carvettians who sat their ponies across the clearing were for the most part tall, gangling and blond—although in some cases this was the result of the lime wash these barbarians applied to their hair—with eyes as grey as the skies above. The shaggy coated ponies they rode were miserable beasts compared with Hrodmar’s highly strung mount.

Hrodmar, like Flaminius, wore a cuirass of mail, and had retained his Roman auxiliary helmet, although he nursed it under his heavy cloak to protect the plumes from the dripping rain. His cavalry longsword was longer and slimmer than the legionary sword or even the British sword Flaminius had seen wielded to effect by Drustica, the mysterious warrior woman who spearheaded this small troop. The rest carried lances, though they were a far cry from the leaf bladed weapon Hrodmar still bore.

‘Still no sign of any pursuers,’ the Frisian commented, uneasy with the silence, although now he had the decency to whisper. ‘Do you really think those Selgovians are tracking us?’

Flaminius nodded.

‘The reports say that the Selgovae are expert hunters and trackers, whether or deer or of humans beings. We escaped them, but they won’t let us get away. They’ll follow us and follow us until the end. Our only hope is either to seek shelter—and the Carvetti village is still some days off—or to ambush them.’

‘How will you fight them when you don’t have a sword anymore?’ Hrodmar asked after a brief silence.

Flaminius snarled at the man. ‘Give me your own weapon, then!’ he said impatiently. Hrodmar had a point, in more ways than one. ‘You still have your lance.’

Hrodmar grunted, and reluctantly unbelted his longsword, then handed it over. Flaminius strapped it on and rested his hands on the new belt. The weight of the sword was comforting.

Hrodmar returned his attention to the track beyond the dripping eaves. ‘No sign of pursuit yet,’ he said. ‘Are you sure they’re on our trail? I say we should get back to the road and ride in haste to Eboracum or the nearest outpost.’

Flaminius tugged at his nose. ‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘There’s been no sign of them, except once during that dry spell yesterday one of the Carvettians thought he saw the sun on armour miles back up the trail. I told Drustica that our presence was only going to cause problems for her, that she should let us ride back, but she told me that she had sworn to bring us back to her village and would not let us out of her protection.’ The warrior woman was a difficult person to refuse. ‘A Caledonian warrior riding with our enemies is worrying, but I shouldn’t think that he would want to provoke a fight with Rome. They don’t want war on the frontier any more than we do, surely. Our strength in Britain’s limited. And despite their support from the northern tribes like the Selgovae, so is theirs. War is something to be avoided at all costs.’

‘Epona’s teats! Cowardice,’ Hrodmar growled. ‘We should ride in there and wipe them out.’

‘You and whose legion?’ Flaminius was sardonic. ‘I tell you, we don’t have the numbers to counter another rising of the tribes.’

Hrodmar grunted again, despondent.

‘It’s the waiting I can’t stand,’ he admitted. ‘I never could, not even in the old days before I became a Roman auxiliary. We would wait in the dark forest night for a merchants’ caravan to pass, then ride down and surround it. When we were fighting, I was happy—until the legions defeated us and we were given the choice of joining up or becoming slaves… But the waiting, in the cold of the forest night, was torture. Here it’s even worse.’

Flaminius looked away. He had known little about the auxiliary’s background, simply that he was a Frisian. He knew that it was military policy to field auxiliary units as far from their own lands as possible, to lessen the chances of them joining the enemy. In Frisian lands Hrodmar would forever have that temptation, but here, his loyalty would be to Rome, which provided pay and clothing and a decent roof over his head, and most of all, a chance to become a Roman citizen if he survived his years of service, and for his children to grow up as inhabitants of the greatest empire the world had ever known.

He sneered cynically at the thought. The Frisian would have been better off staying in the forests and marshes of his home. Flaminius himself should have remained on his parents’ little farm in Latium, where the Apennines glimmered bluely on the horizon and the scent of the olive groves filled the lazy summer air. He shivered with cold, then looked up when he heard a low cry from one of the scouts posted on the edge of the wood.

‘They’re coming,’ the man hissed, urging his pony to trot down to join the others. ‘They’re coming! The Selgovae!’

Drustica rode up. Her cold, beautiful face was set, her faded war paint seemed to shine with new vigour. Her unconfined fair hair hung in rats’ tails about her face as she loaded a sling with a clay ball.

‘Where are they?’ she hissed, and added, without waiting for an answer, ‘Get to your positions, men.’

As the Carvettians dismounted and readied their spears and shields, Hrodmar turned to Flaminius. ‘The hunters! The Selgovians!’ he cried. ‘They’re here.’

But Flaminius had already seen them.

Coming down the trail from the brow of the adjacent hill was a group of riders. Like the Carvettians, the Selgovians were mounted on small, shaggy ponies that trotted wearily down the muddy path, hoofs splashing through the puddles as they passed between the banks of heather. There were several warriors clad in blue and white chequered breeches and blue or green tunics, over which some wore mailcoats. Several also had helmets, fantastically wrought affairs of wings and horns, totally unsuited, to Flaminius’ mind, for the fight. The rest went bare headed and their lime washed hair was arranged in elaborate crests. Two carried brazen shields that glimmered dimly in the grey light. All carried spears and lances.

Abruptly, Flaminius’ mouth went dry while his bladder seemed full to bursting. He remembered the sudden ambush, how the Selgovians had leapt down upon the auxiliaries, their knives glittering as blood spouted from slit throats. He remembered the tall, imposing Caledonian who had led them, a terrifying warrior. Flaminius scanned the line for that rangy red headed form, but there was no sign. Where had he got to? His absence was more worrying than his presence.

Still the Selgovians rode down into the wooded glen. At times they would vanish behind groves of gnarled, moss grown trees, only to swim into view again further down the rain lashed slope.

Flaminius realised that Drustica sat her pony beside him, watching the approaching foe just as he was. Her blue war paint made her seem as savage as any of the Selgovians. Though slender, her armoured form promised immense strength and power.

‘Gaius,’ she murmured. ‘They will pass us soon. Are you ready? We must slaughter them!’

‘If we do,’ the tribune whispered, ‘then I will have to leave you, and take the news back to my legion.’

She glanced at him, and to his surprise he saw that this troubled her. Her face hardened, seeing him looking at her, and she gave a curt nod. ‘You will ride back to your Roman masters and muster them to join us on the field of battle,’ she stated.

Flaminius gave her a grimace of regret and began to explain just why that was impossible, but before he could finish she turned away and gestured silently to her warriors to come closer to the edge of the grove. Flaminius saw that the Selgovian riders had now reached the narrow glen bottom and were riding alongside the burn. As he watched, the trail led them across the beer brown waters at a ford of flat stones and the next thing he knew they were crossing the emerald green turf—directly towards the gnarled grove where the Carvettians lay in wait.

He gripped the longsword that he had requisitioned from Hrodmar, and wondered what use it would be. The Carvettians all had javelins or slings at the ready. It was clear that the ambush would work best through surprise. They would kill as many as possible with their missiles.

Drustica saw his uncertainty. ‘When the volley is over,’ she said in a matter of fact tone, ‘we will ride out and butcher the survivors.’

She was nothing like the Roman ladies Flaminius had been accustomed to back home. Very unlike. More vicious but also more vivacious, in her own barbarous, woad painted way.

‘Now!’ Drustica whirled her sling round and round her head, then flung the deadly clay missile.

As she did, the rest of the Carvettians pelted the passing Selgovians with slingshot and javelins. The warriors were caught off guard. Flaminius saw several men topple from their steeds in the first instant, skulls staved in with slingshot or with javelins jutting from their chests.

The survivors rallied round their leader, another man of their tribe, who was searching the wall of trees for their attackers. His eyes met Flaminius’ through the curtain of leaves. Then he lifted his hand and pointed—and a sling stone hit him in the forehead, knocking him backwards over his pony’s crupper. Drustica reloaded her sling and offered Flaminius a savage grin.

But now the rest of the Selgovians had located their attackers and they were galloping towards the trees. At once Drustica shouted something in the British language and kicked her own pony into a gallop, leading the others straight out into the open. Flaminius and Hrodmar rode along with the rest, the Frisian levelling his lance, Flaminius brandishing his borrowed longsword.

The two lines met in the middle of the green sward, churning up the mossy turf with their ponies’ hoofs. Flaminius found himself faced by two Selgovians, who lunged at him with their long lances. Desperately, he lashed out with his sword and succeeded in deflecting one probing spearhead, but the second darted like lightning and thumped into his mail clad chest. He sprawled backwards on his horse, his sternum hurting and bruised from the blow, although his mail clad breast had not been pierced by the wicked spearhead.

Another Selgovian warrior charged right at him, standing up on his pony’s back, whirling a sling. Flaminius ducked at the last moment as the sling stone whistled towards him, then used his position to aim a cut at the man’s exposed hamstrings as his pony took him thundering past. Wailing loud enough to be heard over the noise of the fight, the Selgovian warrior fell forward over his pony to hit the turf. He sprawled there, twitching feebly, and seconds later, another Selgovian inadvertently rode his pony over his head.

Flaminius wheeled his horse. A warrior leapt off his pony straight at him and the tribune found himself grappling the stinking, tattooed attacker, who was a scrawny, wiry youth who fought like a trapped wild cat. Flaminius struggled to bring his longsword to bear as the youth wrapped his skinny arms round him in a bear hug and then head-butted him. Stars exploded across Flaminius’ vision and pain lanced through his body. With his left hand he scrabbled for his dagger. With his right he grabbed the frenzied warrior by the jaw and forced him backwards, holding him back as the ringing sang in his ears. Blood was sticky on his forehead, though whether it was his or the youth’s or someone else’s he didn’t know. Now he truly regretted losing his helmet.

The youth snarled and struggled. He seemed to have no sword or spear, only a sling—useless this close—and a burning urge to murder the foreign invader, which seemed to be much more effective.

At last Flaminius’s questing fingers closed round his dagger hilt, he tore it out of its sheath and sank its honed blade into the Selgovian youth’s kidneys. The youth spasmed with pain, seized hold of Flaminius’ right forearm, tried to wrestle him from the horse. Desperate, Flaminius sank the dagger into the youth’s ribs. Blood spurted hot and wet right across his wrist. Abruptly the youth slumped back, a dead weight. Literally, Flaminius realised with a wry, pale smile.

He pushed the corpse away. It slithered over the pony’s back and hit the turf, taking the dagger with it. Flaminius turned in his saddle at a shout from Hrodmar and saw another warrior riding straight towards him, sword outstretched. Flaminius lifted up his own longsword and spurred his horse into a gallop. They closed. Flaminius swung his sword with all the strength he could muster. The warrior lifted his shield and deflected the blow, then swung his own blade in a high overhead blow at Flaminius’ unprotected head.

Flaminius quailed, and tried to roll away, falling back onto his horse’s rump. It reared, and he plunged over the side, grabbing futilely at the creature’s hide. The warrior’s sword cut straight through the saddle and plunged meatily into the horse’s spine and as Flaminius hit the turf with a jarring thump, he heard it give a last piteous whinnying scream.

The tribune rolled over, scrambling to his feet as a hundredweight of horseflesh crashed to the ground where he had lain. He examined his erstwhile steed cursorily and saw that the sword cut had broken its backbone. The turf thundered again as the warrior rode straight for him. Flaminius tensed, longsword extended (somehow he’d kept a hold of it this time) as the fight raged all around them.

The air whirred as if a pigeon or woodcock were passing overhead, the warrior’s face exploded with gore and he fell backwards off his pony. Flaminius spun round in a complete circle, breathing harshly, his eyes darting all around him. Finally he saw Drustica nearby, gazing sphinx-like down at him from her own pony, reloading her sling.

‘Thank you, my lady!’ Flaminius called.

Her lips pouted, and her eyes narrowed. Then as the turf thundered again, her eyes widened as she lifted her sling once again, whirling it round her head as another rider approached, lance pointed directly at her. She loosed. The slingshot missed and bounced off the turf beside Flaminius.

Flaminius whirled round again, sword still in his hand, and leapt at the passing rider. He landed clumsily on the back of the Selgovian’s pony, which whinnied and threw them both. Rising from the wet ground, Flaminius flung himself at the rider. He lifted his sword, then brought it down again pommel first, panting wildly, and hit the back of the Selgovian’s unprotected head. The warrior went still.

Flaminius turned to see Drustica staring down at him from her own pony. ‘It seems that I must thank you,’ she grunted.

Flaminius gave her a charming smile that hid the horror that he felt. It had been a shocking few minutes. To his numb surprise, the fight seemed to be over. The few surviving Selgovians had ridden back up the slope, and several Carvettians were riding after them. He caught the reins that dangled from the pony and did his best to calm it.

‘My warriors will become the hunters now,’ Drustica added with a throaty laugh. She jumped down from her shaggy pony, approached him, and laughed again, as if she had said something witty. ‘Do you not know?’ she added in explanation. ‘In the British tongue, “Selgovae” means hunters.’

‘Is that so?’ Flaminius said, with a polite laugh. He had a smattering of her tongue, but this was new. ‘Then I owe you for slaying my foes, and for the language lesson too. I’m truly indebted to you.’ He knew he was laying it on thick, but he had heard that these barbarian women appreciated praise—as much as they could get.

But Drustica shook her head. ‘It is I who owe you.’

Hrodmar rode up at that moment, or their fencing might have gone further. Flaminius turned in his saddle and snapped out, ‘Report!’

‘The survivors have ridden off into the heather, sir,’ the little auxiliary trooper said. ‘We trailed them a long way but the trail went cold.’ He shrugged. ‘There weren’t many left, though, and they’re a long way from their own lands.’

‘Indeed,’ said Drustica. ‘And my own village is much closer. Come! We shall ride there.’

Flaminius nodded to Hrodmar. ‘Bring that,’ he said, indicating the unconscious Selgovian warrior.

Drustica nodded, and turned to one of her warriors. ‘And also bring that,’ she said, indicating Flaminius’ dead horse. ‘We feast tonight.’

Luguvalium, Carvetti territory

The moon shone high above Drustica’s village, its silver light limning the turf outside the halls, bothies and granaries that lay within the palisade. It shone through the clouds that hid most of the stars. Silence hung heavy over the village, which had earlier rung with celebration on the return of the warrior woman.

Flaminius stood with Drustica at an ancient, uncarved, standing stone that reared up from the midst of the turf. He had gathered that it was a holy object, of unbelievable antiquity if the Carvetti were to be believed. These people did not believe in making images of the gods, but perhaps this was their primitive equivalent of an idol. Drustica had offered a sheep to it, and the animal’s blood still stained the stone and the turf at its base. Her face was rapt.

‘… and I must thank you again, Roman,’ she told him. ‘I am a respected warrior woman amongst my people. You will be well rewarded.’

‘Just doing my duty!’ Flaminius told her with a self-effacing laugh. He repressed a belch. That horsemeat they would had at the feast had been filling. He had felt a little guilty eating his own steed, but after spending so much time out in the wilds it had been as good as a feast.

No, it had been a feast!

She shook her head. ‘You risked yourself for my people. It will not be forgotten.’ She looked at the blood smeared stone. ‘The one who you took prisoner…’

He shuddered. The captive was under Hrodmar’s guard. ‘You can’t sacrifice him. He’s more valuable alive.’ If Flaminius returned with a prisoner, it might make up for the fact that he had lost most of his command.

Drustica laughed. ‘I do not intend to sacrifice him,’ she murmured with a smile. ‘We Carvettians do not sacrifice men any more, you Romans taught us not to. I want merely to have speech with him!’

‘He will be questioned,’ Flaminius reassured her. ‘I’ll take him back to Eboracum where he will be grilled by the finest Roman interrogators the Ninth can supply.’

‘Very well,’ said the warrior woman submissively.

She leaned closer to him. He tried not to gag; she still stank of the woad she had worn as war paint. It was no kind of perfume, unless hint of open sewer had caught on among the scent merchants since Flaminius had last been in Rome—and yet he found it oddly alluring.

‘We pay your people tribute, and we see the legions passing by, but I have never known a Roman like you.’ Flaminius felt a pleasurable tingle run uncontrollably through him. ‘Will you join me in my bothy?’

Flaminius’ mouth was dry. He was tempted. There was something earthily fascinating about this woman, killer though she was, even with the rank odour of woad still hanging around her. But that was it. A Roman woman who offered herself to him—and there had been no few in the last few years—would be another matter. This barbarian lady was unpredictable. Besides, he had to get back to Eboracum, not indulge in affairs with the native women, who were notorious for their easy ways in love—it was even said that they happily coupled in public. Not his idea of fun.

‘Humble apologies, my lady,’ he said formally. ‘We Romans are forbidden such liaisons.’

Drustica looked thwarted. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘You know where my bothy is, though, should you unbend.’

She moved away into the night, leaving Flaminius standing in silence beside the bloody stone.

—4—

Eboracum, Roman province of Britain

Lucius Aninius Sextius Florentinus, the legate of the Ninth Legion, welcomed Britain’s new provincial governor to the fortress at a formal reception in the lavishly appointed headquarters. To the provincial governor’s mind, the main building of the fortress was more reminiscent of a luxury villa than a military command centre, with statues and furnishings and curios and a sizeable peristyle garden where Falco strolled with the legate.

‘And how was your journey north?’ Lucius Aninius asked solicitously as they passed a statue of Hercules slaying the hydra.

Falco grunted. ‘I’m glad to have got here,’ he told the legate. His present environs presented a pleasant contrast to the drab, gloomy, lowering world of woods and heaths and rain soaked skies that had met him on arrival in his new province.

‘The countryside around Londinium shows pleasing signs of civilisation,’ he observed, making the best of things. It had been tolerably well farmed in places, studded with small villas and towns, one of which even had a theatre of sorts. ‘But I must go where the action is.’ That was here in the North, with Eboracum being the nerve centre.

The function held by Lucius Aninius, a burly man in his forties, fashionably bearded, was likely to be a tedious affair, and Falco was doubly glad that he had not seen fit to drag his wife to Britain; she would not have been impressed. Over the next few days he intended to hold his own gatherings where he would really get to know all of the key players in the legion. It would be an opportunity to learn what was truly happening up here. He could see plenty of opportunities here in this forsaken land.

One of the soldiers he decided to invite was a young equestrian tribune who Lucius Aninius said had made a name for himself upcountry.

Flaminius had been closeted with Julius Probus, the commissary centurion, since his triumphant return from patrol with a barbarian prisoner. It turned out that the centurion’s commissary duties were only one aspect of his role, and the gathering of intelligence took precedence. How the grizzled middle aged soldier managed to carry out both duties so capably was a testament to the efficiency of the Roman military machine. The fact that this secret service was run so efficiently by centurions—men from the ranks—rather than senatorial fops such as Flaminius; odious, effeminate messmate Tribune Karus, or even the new provincial governor, was not lost on Flaminius. He mentioned his misgivings to the commissary centurion after he received his surprise invitation to the provincial governor’s little gathering.

‘The legions are run by self-serving politicians, eh?’ Probus had suggested. ‘A wonder that the empire still stands, with that gang of crooks in charge. Is that right?’

Flaminius nodded nervously. ‘They do seem a bit soft,’ he said. ‘All that pleasure and wine bibbing. Not that I’m entirely opposed to it, mind, I’ll bib wine with the best of them off duty…’

It was good to be back in the fortress, with running water and decent facilities, a complete contrast to the draughty, leaky, turf roofed bothies of the natives. All this and wine too, no more of the native beer!

‘But would your men allow themselves to be led by common soldiers?’ the centurion asked. ‘Folk like me, Roman citizens but from humble backgrounds? No. They need the mystique exuded by these soft pleasure loving senators, the poor saps. Senators give the orders, we enforce them, and the men follow them—sometimes to the death. It’s complicated, but it works. Coming from such a humble background yourself, perhaps you’re unfamiliar with Livy? The story about the body parts conspiring against the belly?’

Flaminius flushed. Of course, he wasn’t from nearly such a humble origin as the centurion. He was siding with the men because he was envious of those on top. His family back in Italy was of equestrian status: middle class, not rich enough to be in the Senate, but better off than most.

He’d read Livy as a boy. He’d read Aesop’s Fables, too, but he lacked the courage to tell Centurion Probus that the story originated with the latter… How the hands and feet had taken umbrage against the belly since it did nothing in their opinion except eat. So they stopped feeding it, only to find that they were growing weak themselves, and at last they learnt the belly’s purpose.

‘You see,’ Probus explained, ‘for the legions to function, to serve the people of Rome, they must be part of the system. Our purpose is political, therefore we need politicians. We may not like them, we may see them as greedy and soft, but that would be a mistake. They have that luxury because they’ve worked for it, and the way they’ve worked is through politics—a dirty business though it may be, and it hardly looks like work to the likes of you and me. They may seem soft, but as long as we are strong, that doesn’t matter. The skull is hard but the brain beneath is soft. You could see us as a wall, built to keep the barbarians out…’

‘I know nothing of politics,’ Flaminius protested, almost wishing he was back with the barbarians. Politics wasn’t something his family had ever discussed. Money and property, yes, if discreetly. But the running of the empire? His father wouldn’t presume!

‘Oh, you’ve not been invited there to discuss politics,’ Probus reassured him. ‘You’re the hero of the hour, a swashbuckling escapee from the baby eating barbarians. You’re there to entertain the provincial governor and his guests. There’s not a lot of culture in Eboracum, so Falco must content himself with a ripping yarn or two from a junior officer. But mind you, don’t get too contemptuous,’ the centurion added; ‘he’s no fool, for all his airs and graces. He’ll be assessing you, just like everyone else he’s invited. Weighing you up. Wanting to know how the men under him really feel about recent events.’

Flaminius nodded wisely. ‘So—how do we feel?’ he asked. ‘What’s the official take?’

Probus shrugged. ‘What d’you think about the situation? Surely you’ve got an opinion. Lads your age always do.’

‘I didn’t realise that Rome paid me to have an opinion,’ Flaminius said, with a grin, ‘but from what I’ve gathered listening to my messmates, we’re here to civilise the Britons, bring them the benefit of our superior culture, our bath houses and our banqueting halls and our hypocausts and villas and roads. Quite how we’re to do that when we don’t have enough legions to police the province, I don’t have a clue. None of this would have happened if our victory over the Caledonians had been followed up by decisive conquest, my messmate Postumus says. Maybe now the Dacian wars are over…’ He shrugged. ‘But quite frankly, I don’t see what Rome wants with this country. It rains all the time! You can’t walk anywhere without the mud squelching over your sandals. And the natives aren’t exactly what you’d call friendly.’

Drustica excepted, he had added to himself.

Probus gave a wry smile. ‘Truth be told, we’re still looking for something to justify Claudius’ invasion[7],’ he said. ‘If it were left up to me, I’d say let the Caledonians and their chums have the place and welcome to it, but it would be humiliating for Rome to run away, tails between our legs. We’ve already abandoned Mesopotamia[8] after holding it only a short time. Another loss like that and the barbarians of the outlands might start thinking Rome is weak…’

Flaminius departed the office deep in thought.

‘You’re going to see the new provincial governor?’ Tribune Postumus lounged on his bunk and looked sardonically at Flaminius when he returned. ‘How did you wangle that one, me laddo? You’re nothing but a tribune of auxiliary horse.’

‘You’re a tribune yourself, friend,’ Flaminius said, brushing dust off his dress uniform.

‘At least my troops are Roman citizens, even if most of them did crawl out of a Subura[9] sewer,’ Postumus said snidely. ‘And I’m not the one who lost an entire troop. They should put you on a charge for that, not invite you to fancy dos.’

‘You’re not a hero either,’ Flaminius mocked, although he was secretly wounded by the comment. ‘You should try losing a few men yourself, see what it does to your standing. You know they serve the finest vintages at the provincial governor’s parties, not this horse’s piss we get in the tribune’s mess…’ He sipped at his beaker and pulled a face.

‘Speaking of which,’ Postumus adopted a serious tone and Flaminius groaned. ‘Speaking of which,’ the tribune insisted, ‘odds are that they’ll be drinking the finest Caecuban wines. That’s what Karus said when he drank when he was at one of the provincial governor’s receptions the other night. You can’t smuggle out an amphora, can you? I’ll split the profits with you when I sell it to a man I know in the civilian settlement.’

‘Lucius Aemilianus Karus is a pipsqueak patrician with bum fluff,’ Flaminius said. He knew all about the man who Postumus knew in the civilian settlement, even if he’d never met him. And as for Tribune Karus! ‘His word isn’t worth a straw in the wind. He’s going to be a senator one of these days, for Jove’s sake! Believe me, Postumus, even a senator straight from Rome does not serve Caecuban wine at a bash like this.’

‘Karus said the provincial governor had them practically bathing in the stuff! He got pretty drunk, I can tell you that much.’

‘Juvenile fantasy,’ said Flaminius with a dismissive laugh, secure in his three years of seniority. ‘Karus couldn’t tell Caecuban wine from British beer. And he gets drunk on grape juice. I’m serious, I’ve seen it happen.’

‘Well, keep your eyes open and see what you can help yourself to, chum. Even an amphora of Falernian will get a good price from this man I know in the civilian settlement.’

‘Oh, I’ll be sure to bring back some wine, my friend,’ Flaminius said, cutting an elegant dash to the barracks room door. ‘It’ll be in my belly, mind, but maybe I’ll bring it up in the night. Get your amphora ready, won’t you?’ he added with a malicious smirk.

He ventured out into the bitterly cold evening of Eboracum, bundling himself in his thick, woollen Gaulish caracalla cloak. Wind scurried dust devils about the neatly raked gravelled paths that ran between the barracks blocks. Patrolling legionaries saluted respectfully as Flaminius passed by. He came out onto the Praetorian Way and made his way north towards the headquarters building where the new provincial governor was holding his latest gathering.

Overhead the sky was dark and overcast. The sun was setting over the western rampart. Sentries’ helmets glittered in its last light as their owners patrolled the parapet.

The headquarters was the largest building in Eboracum. From outside it was as bleak and forbidding as the rest of the fortress, but Flaminius knew that it was a fitting place for social functions, such as they were in this remote outpost of the empire. The senatorial elite, who treated the top posts in the legions as stepping stones in their political career, were accustomed to a life of luxury. The common soldiery was heard to mutter darkly about the style in which the commissioned officers kept themselves. The senators were the rotten heart of a still flourishing oak, Flaminius told himself. One strong wind—one concerted effort by the barbarians—and the whole tree would topple. With this on his mind, Flaminius approached the main doors to the headquarters building.

The sentries respectfully ushered him through. Inside, all was much as he had feared, marble floors, fluted columns, and a tinkling fountain amid some indeterminate vegetation… It was like stepping into the atrium of some wealthy man’s townhouse.

One of the sentries pointed the way to the dining chamber, from which spilled light, warmth, and a gentle hubbub of conversation. Flaminius approached, his military boots clattering on the marble. Two more guards stood to attention on either side of the doors, resplendent in highly polished breastplates and crested helmets, glittering spears and shields.

Despite the deference of the guards, Flaminius felt more than a qualm of social anxiety as he passed through the doorway.

‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus !’ A Phrygian slave announced Flaminius to the swarming throng of guests. Trying to look confident and at his ease, the tribune entered the dining chamber.

It was decorated with ornate frescoes that depicted pastoral and mythological scenes. Tables and couches took up much of the mosaic floor, and most were occupied by men—staff officers in dress uniform—who spoke quietly among themselves while a group of slave musicians played in one corner. The Phrygian led Flaminius to a spare couch. Only one girl was in the room, although at his cursory glance she was quite a looker. And here was Commissary Centurion Julius Probus! He could have said that he’d been invited to this gathering as well. It was nice to see a friendly face, though the centurion’s craggy features weren’t a patch on the girl’s…

‘Ah, our gallant young tribune, by Jove!’ A man in senator’s robes rose from his couch and welcomed Flaminius. ‘Welcome to my little gathering. I’m Falco.’

‘Governor!’ said Flaminius, with a hasty salute. It seemed odd to be saluting a man in civilian dress.

‘No need to be so military in here, tribune,’ Falco said generously. ‘This is just a relaxed, informal get-together. Let me introduce you to a few faces.’

Flaminius’ superior officers were more polite to him than was their wont, Lucius Aninius commenting approvingly on the tribune’s extra mural adventures. The legate was a man who had seen more than a few British winters, although his career had led him to many far-flung corners of the empire. Next Falco introduced Flaminius to the girl, whose name was Medea. From her accent Flaminius realised she was a Greek. He was not quite sure where she fitted in.

‘It’s an honour to meet the Roman hero,’ Medea murmured, studying him with big eyes.

She was reminiscent somehow of the strapping Drustica, although her scent was exquisite Judean balsam, not a pungent admixture of woad and blood. Her clinging, diaphanous turquoise gown did little to conceal her slim yet full figure, and a chaplet of sweet scented flowers was perched on her long, dark hair. Her kohl-rimmed eyes were deep and dark, her nose was slender and delicate, her mouth full and forever pursed as if on the verge of an amused smile.

‘You have no drink,’ she said with a reproving laugh as he stood there in silence. ‘Here, let me make recompense!’ She called over a slave and soon Flaminius was sipping a goblet of Falernian. ‘I’m expecting to hear the whole story,’ she added, with a charming twinkle.

Flaminius took a deeper sip. ‘Nothing much to say, really,’ he replied, seized by a sudden, uncharacteristic urge to be modest—and honest. ‘I lost my troops, got caught up in the midst of a vicious tribal war, got out again with the aid of friendly natives—some of them very friendly—and brought a prisoner with me, who’s been under interrogation ever since. So I don’t know even if he had any vital information…’

‘And you call that nothing,’ Falco said with a laugh. Flaminius noticed Probus was shaking his head in the background, and remembered that he was there to tell a ripping yarn. ‘I wish “nothing” happened to me more often,’ the senator went on. ‘It would liven up the duller senate meetings, for sure. We need more murderous savages to jolly things up, by Jove.’ He laughed at his own joke.

‘Hardly murderers,’ Flaminius snapped. ‘Oh, er—sorry, provincial governor! But they’re fine people, the Carvetti.’

Falco lifted an eyebrow. ‘You like them?’ He made it sound like an impossibility.

Flaminius nodded seriously. ‘When I first got here, it was just duty. Now I’ve met the people we’re fighting for, well, I want to help them.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Falco said airily. ‘That’s the purpose of the empire, of course, we’re here to end their petty tribal wars just like we did in Gaul, to enlighten their barbarian darkness, to spread the Roman peace. Still, we’re here to benefit the Selgovae, too. And even the Caledonians, when we get the chance, when they let us. If only they could see it our way…’

‘Sir,’ Centurion Probus told him calmly, ‘the Selgovae did try to kill Tribune Flaminius. They also succeeded in slaughtering all but one of his men.’

‘And one of my first actions on reaching Eboracum,’ the provincial governor replied, ‘was to order reprisals. Several Caledonians were killed as well as Selgovians, it seems. When the imperial courier came with his report, I was receiving a Caledonian merchant, name of Tigernos, who seemed to think I ought to see him… Rather embarrassing, it was.’

‘Tigernos is well known,’ Probus said wryly. ‘I assume he didn’t twitch a hair at the news? He knows as well as we do that we will protect our own, and that any attacks made on our legions will result in retaliation. Besides, the Caledonians aren’t openly backing the Selgovae, so they have no reason to make a complaint. The Brigantes, including the Carvettians, have been within the empire for years, and we’re obliged to protect them against any unruly peoples from beyond it. What’s more, Tigernos is supposedly nothing more than a merchant, as you say. We’re not supposed to know he’s a spy for King Brennos. So he can’t say anything, just as we can’t say anything about Caledonian involvement.’

‘What if word got back to the Caledonians, and they ordered counter reprisals?’ Falco inquired.

Probus shook his head gruffly. ‘The Caledonians have not budged.’

The provincial governor nodded. ‘Indeed. It doesn’t look like they’re gathering the tribes for a last ditch attempt to push the invader into the sea… But how much can we trust these semi barbarians? Tribune Flaminius’ sentiments notwithstanding. Sooner or later, these local skirmishes, this tribal war with its mysterious and complicated genesis in the mists of antiquity, will get out of hand. It will escalate. There will be wholescale rebellion in Britain, and not for the first time. And whoever puts down the revolt will be as much of a Roman hero as the dutiful tribune here.’ He laughed modestly. ‘Rather better known, too, I should think.’ Flaminius got the impression that the provincial governor fancied his chances.

Probus scowled. ‘No doubt he’d receive the thanks of a grateful emperor,’ he said. ‘It seems to me, though, that the Caledonians have done a lot to help escalate matters pretty high. Those killed in the reprisal weren’t merchants but warriors and charioteers. Besides, the tribune told me that it was a Caledonian who led the attack on his troop.’

‘Perhaps a Caledonian mercenary led them,’ Falco said dismissively, ‘or a landless youth out to carve himself a chiefdom. The fight is between this sept of the Brigantes and their traditional enemies to the north, the Selgovae. The Caledonians may be helping them covertly, by Jove, but that does not make it a war between the empire on the one hand and Caledonia and its subject tribes on the other.’

Probus took an angry swig of red wine. ‘These little hill tribes have been carrying out cattle raids and fighting their petty feuds for centuries. These days we do our best to police the area with what legions Rome deigns to spare us for the job. But the recent disturbances are another matter. The Caledonians are stirring things up in preparation for something bigger. King Brennos remembers Calgacos, and how close he came to victory. He knows we’re undermanned. He knows the loyalty of the tribes is shaky. Why, it’s obvious to any fool that he’s exploiting traditional feuds to provoke war on a grand scale!’

‘Centurion!’ Lucius Aninius spluttered. ‘You’ve decidedly exceeded your remit!’ The legate’s staff officers looked horrified. Such impudence, and from a non-commissioned officer, as well!

Falco laughed. ‘Not at all, not at all,’ he told them soothingly. ‘The commissary centurion is refreshingly frank with me. We need more of his sort in Rome. So many sycophants and lickspittles…’

He clicked his fingers at a slave, and told him to refill the centurion’s goblet.

‘What exactly are Caledonians doing fighting alongside the Selgovae?’ asked one of the legate’s hangers on.

Probus accepted the drink. ‘We really don’t know at the moment,’ he said, ‘but our intelligence has been greatly augmented by Tribune Flaminius’ report. Not only did he fight his way out of an ambush almost single handed, clever lad, but he has also made personal links with the Carvetti, a Brigantian sept on the very edge of the empire, whose loyalty could be suspect. Furthermore he has brought back marvellous detail about them and their way of life, and has had, ahem, diplomatic overtures from a veritable Amazon amongst their people. And what’s even better, he brought back a Selgovian warrior as a prisoner.’

Medea’s big eyes widened. ‘These are the people you admire so much?’ she asked Flaminius in wonder. He looked at her briefly, then studied the mosaic floor in embarrassment.

‘They’re barbarians, of course,’ Probus said. ‘Flaminius has made some good friends among them, and I have high hopes for the information we’ll get out of the prisoner he brought back with him.’

Medea tapped a foot. ‘Can we hear the tribune’s story now?’ she asked impatiently. ‘The full story?’

Probus made an encouraging motion to Flaminius, as if he was ushering an unenthusiastic gladiator into the arena. Feeling self-conscious, Flaminius told his story again, in more detail this time, with so many elaborations on his previous version that at one point Probus choked on his drink.

‘… and so I rode southeast with the prisoner and my surviving auxiliary, Hrodmar, and we reached the outpost at Cataractonium[10] within a few days. From there we were escorted safely to Eboracum…’ He shrugged. ‘And, well… that was that.’

Medea wriggled her back against the couch on which she had sat during his story, and gave a sigh. ‘It sounds so very exciting,’ she told him wistfully. ‘Terrifying, too. Have you seen this barbarian lady—Drustica—since then?’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I’ve been working with the commissary centurion ever since I got back. But the warrior woman made it quite clear that I was welcome at any time.’

Medea pouted pensively.

‘We have had our share of problems while palavering with the Brigantes,’ admitted the camp prefect, Roscius. ‘Their loyalty has been varied, to say the least. They’ve recently accepted our assistance against the Selgovae, but there still seems to be an anti-Roman party among them, even if it isn’t on top at the moment. They’ve been fighting the Selgovae for centuries, of course, so many of them think they need no help from Rome.

‘The Carvetti, with whom Tribune Flaminius has recently been liaising, are a different matter. They have historical links with the Brigantes, it’s true, but they are widely considered to be a race apart. They live closer to the Selgovae and further from the main concentrations of our military, so they have more reason to appreciate our aid. They provide us with a pathway into the situation.’

‘I’d like to question this barbarian captive personally,’ Falco announced.

Probus looked startled. ‘You wish to see him, provincial governor?’

‘Indeed I do,’ said Falco. ‘He could also provide a way in, a way to ensure that we can achieve total victory over the barbarians.’

‘How so?’ Probus asked, puzzled.

Falco looked thoughtful. ‘We find out all we can from him, then send him back to his people, accompanied by an emissary. It could give us a foot in the Selgovian camp, help win them back into the fold, and that might well lead to an end to the war, one way or the other.’

Probus looked sceptical. ‘Any Roman we send to them will be sacrificed on their unholy altars.’

‘What if it was part of a native group? A tribe that is neither Brigantian nor Selgovian.’

‘The Carvetti?’ Probus looked surprised. ‘How can we persuade them to get involved?’

‘I would have thought that obvious,’ Falco replied. ‘We ask our young friend here to palaver with them.’

Medea looked in surprise at Flaminius, whose pulse tingled. ‘That would be wonderful,’ the concubine exclaimed. She nudged the tribune. ‘You will do it, won’t you?’ she pleaded appealingly.

‘Of course,’ Flaminius said, flushed. ‘It would be an honour!’ He beamed at her.

‘It’s not been finalised,’ Probus growled warningly.

‘It will have to be discussed in a formal setting,’ Falco said, glancing at Lucius Aninius, ‘and it will go through all the appropriate channels, although I’d like to see this captive in a while… but here we are, talking shop.’ He tutted. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration! Let’s have some music and some dancing! Drinks all round. The food is wonderful, I’ve brought my best cook with me from Rome…’

As he embarked on the scandalous tale of a senator, his slave girl, the senator’s wife, and a Praetorian Guard tribune, Medea led Flaminius from the laughing throng of older officers.

‘Thank you,’ Flaminius murmured, relieved.

She wasn’t much older than he was as far as he could tell, but she seemed a whole lot more sophisticated. In this gathering he felt like a country bumpkin. However much he might lord it over the junior officers’ mess with his cultivated cynicism, he was out of his depth.

The peristyle garden beyond the dining chamber was dark and shadow hung. As he walked alongside Medea across a neatly trimmed lawn, he wondered again at all this sybarite luxury in the heart of the fortress. The moon hung in the sky above the cypresses at the garden’s edge, glaring down like the eye of a midnight cyclops.

‘Such a terrible place,’ Medea said with a shiver. ‘I hope you will be able to go home soon.’

‘I never thought so aristocratic a lady should come out here to such a barbaric country,’ Flaminius ventured.

‘Aristocratic?’ Medea said with a tinkling laugh. ‘How adorable of you to think so. I’m not the senator’s wife, you know, merely his concubine. I accompany him on all his official postings, whether his wife remains in Rome or not. I’m an important appendage, like the cook.’ She smiled, and lightly touched his arm. ‘He’s a hardworking man, and needs relaxation. I’m sure you are very hardworking too.’

As she spoke, Flaminius saw Probus appear silently in the door. He apologised with a grimace, put a hand on her soft, warm arm, and murmured, ‘I’m sorry, but it looks like I must be going. Duty calls.’

The Selgovian captive hung in chains from the wall in the interrogator’s chamber, his tattooed flesh bronzed by the flickering flames of a brazier in which lay several irons, glowing cherry red. The chief interrogator stood to one side, a tall, spare, bare armed man who never smiled, clad in a green legionary tunic and military belt. As the provincial governor entered, accompanied by Probus and Flaminius, he turned from a muted discussion with two subordinates and saluted smartly.

‘At ease,’ Probus told the interrogator. ‘What progress have you made?’

The interrogator shrugged. He indicated white burn marks on the Selgovian man’s chest. ‘We’ve tried a little persuasion,’ he said; ‘nothing too heavy. But he’s not talking yet.’ He cracked his thin knuckles. ‘He will talk, sooner or later,’ he affirmed.

Falco approached the captive and looked up at him. The man opened his eyes and stared boldly back. The provincial governor turned to the interrogator.

‘Torture?’ he asked, with a look of distaste.

‘Standard procedure, provincial governor,’ Probus broke in impatiently. ‘Slaves and barbarians only, of course. No Roman citizen would receive this form of encouragement.’

‘Has it occurred to you that you might get the answer by simply asking him?’ the senator inquired acidly.

‘His Latin is meagre,’ Probus replied, ‘and even though I have more than a smattering of the British tongue, why should he tell us what he knows, betray his own people, without some sort of incentive?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’ll tell you exactly what you want, under torture,’ Falco said. ‘Anything and everything. But will it be true? Or just what you want to hear?’

Probus looked resentful. ‘Our interrogators know better than that,’ he told him. ‘You don’t seem to understand, senator. It’s vital we get the information out of him. His people, or the Caledonians who seem to be backing them, are plotting something. We need all the intelligence we can wring out of this captive, and we can’t afford to be squeamish about how we get that information.’

‘And you seem to be forgetting my plan,’ the provincial governor countered. ‘We want to send him back, with this lad’—he clapped Flaminius on the shoulder—‘as an emissary. We want to win the Selgovae over to our side. Your rash action could well have compromised that plan utterly, centurion.’

Probus barked a short laugh. ‘He can take it,’ he said. ‘This is a barbarian. He’s not used to merciful treatment from his enemies. Strength and ruthlessness is the only thing these people understand. You know how his tribe treats the Brigantes, not to mention our own men. You know what they did to the tribune’s troop.’

Falco relented. ‘I’m no milksop. I know it’s important to make a show of strength. I simply think that your actions may have caused more problems than they’ll solve. Very well, continue to question the prisoner, but torture must only be employed as a last resort. I shall expect regular reports.’

He turned on his heel and left the room.

Probus went to speak with the interrogator, making exasperated gestures with his arms. Flaminius, feeling that his own part in capturing the prisoner had been rather forgotten, stared up at the chained figure.

‘Agree with the provincial governor, do you?’

Flaminius turned to see Probus approaching. He shrugged.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘It seems that you could be being rash, like he says.’

‘We need answers,’ Probus replied grimly. ‘We need to know what is going on, and what the Caledonians have to do with it. We could be faced by another revolt, worse than Calgacos, worse than Boudicca. We could lose Britain completely. We don’t know, though, so we need information.’

‘We know very little about the Selgovae,’ Flaminius said. ‘And if we’re to win them over to our side, we’re not going the right way about it. I don’t think we’re winning this one over by torturing him.’

‘So you think you know how I should run my operation?’ Probus asked gruffly, but there was a twinkle in the centurion’s eye.

Flaminius’ own eyes narrowed. ‘You know more than you’re letting on!’ he said accusingly. ‘More than you told the provincial governor, or the legate! You know…’

Probus gestured him to quietness. ‘Enough!’ he hissed. He paused, and studied the tribune. ‘What are you doing, wasting that brain working as a tribune of auxiliary horse?’ he asked quietly. ‘You should come over to the Commissary permanently. We need perceptive types like you.’ He frowned. ‘Your rank might be a problem, of course. We don’t tend to accept commissioned officers, nothing above centurion. But for you, I might push for making an exception.’

Flaminius was unenthusiastic. ‘Thank you for your faith in me, centurion,’ he said. ‘Very flattering…’

‘But?’ Probus said.

Flaminius was awkward. ‘This is… well, it seems to me a pretty sickening business,’ he said frankly. ‘Sorry, centurion. But I think I’d rather command a troop or two of half barbarian horsemen than get involved in these dealings…

‘I joined the legions because it was expected of me. My elder brother’s set to inherit. I needed some kind of career. The legions are the best option.’ He shrugged again. ‘I didn’t join up because I had a burning desire to civilise the world or to defend Rome’s interests. It was just a job. And I’ve seen some action. The adulation that comes afterwards is pretty good. But I lost most of my command out there. No one is calling them heroes. And, well, even the enemy…’ He gestured at the Selgovian warrior hanging in his chains.

Probus grinned. ‘You’re comparing this unspoilt child of nature—he also indicated the stoic, silent, fettered barbarian—‘to our provincial governor, soft gutted as he is, with his cavalcade of scullions and whores—yes, I know you like the girl, I have eyes, but she’s no more than a whore, lad—a man who seems to have moral qualms about standard interrogation methods!’

Flaminius understood the provincial governor’s queasiness about torture. He’d seen people executed in horrific ways in the Colosseum, criminals thrown to wild beasts. He’d killed men in fair fight besides, and that was much worse, the stink of blood and emptied bowels. But to stand here calmly applying hot irons to a bound captive… Well, it was cowardly. It was unfair.

Probus clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Go back to your barracks now,’ he said. ‘Spend some time with your messmates, the other tribunes. But while you’re with them, give the idea some thought. Rome needs people like you. And the best place for you would be the Commissary.’

Flaminius departed the chamber, deep in thought.

—5—

Luguvalium, Carvetti territory

Drustica’s village lay some way north of the hill forts and the main centres of Carvettian life, on the borders of their territory—therefore vulnerable to raids—but as Drustica explained to Flaminius during his next visit, it was where her ancestors had lived for generations.

Flaminius nodded slowly. To his relief she wore no woad today. ‘But if you do what I suggest, you may not have to fight a war with anyone,’ he suggested. ‘We could bring about peace.’

Drustica looked askance at him. ‘Why should we want peace?’ she asked, surprised. ‘My people have been at war with the Selgovae, aye, and other Brigantes too, often as not, for generations. War brings us riches and plunder. Peace is weak and unmanly,’ she added. ‘Good enough for you Romans, maybe…’

Flaminius had hardly got the impression that she thought he was weak and unmanly on their last meeting. Or maybe a warrior woman preferred her men spineless.

‘I was told by my superiors to suggest the idea to you,’ he told her with a shrug.

‘But it doesn’t appeal to you, Gaius,’ Drustica half stated, half asked.

‘Rome wants peace and security on her borders,’ Flaminius told her.

He wanted to explain how they had gained Mesopotamia and lost it to barbarism almost immediately, how it had been the first province Rome had abandoned, how some people in the City whispered that this was the beginning of the end of the empire: from here on things could only go downwards…

‘Why not slaughter the Selgovae? Wipe them out?’ asked one of Drustica’s warriors, a brawny, moustachioed man in middle age who was lounging by the fire nearby. ‘I have seen your legions. You could do it with ease. Better that than to palaver with them.’

Drustica spat, narrowly missing him. ‘We shall not do that,’ she told the warrior. ‘A balance must be preserved. War is one thing, wholesale slaughter of a people is a thing hated by the gods.’

Flaminius remembered how the Romans had been forced to exterminate the Dacians in the end. Perhaps Rome’s misfortunes since the massacres had been a result. Maybe the gods indeed hated them now.

‘We will fight them when they come south,’ she said. ‘But we only raid their lands because they raid ours.’

‘Maybe they see things the same way,’ Flaminius suggested gently.

‘We have our lands,’ Drustica said, ‘and they have theirs. Let them stay in their own territory, not take our cattle.’

‘Which is exactly what would happen if Rome could broker peace between your two tribes,’ Flaminius pointed out. ‘I’m not opposed to the idea, mainly because it would upset the Caledonians, who are doing their best to stir things up down here. They clearly have some longer term goal. Besides, why would it be so bad to speak with the Selgovae?’

‘How do we speak with them?’ the burly warrior pleaded. ‘The moment we enter their territory, they will attack us. If we go with a small war band, we will be massacred. If we go with a larger war band, or with your legions, then it will mean war. They will not parley!’

‘Be silent,’ Drustica told him fiercely. ‘This lies between Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus and I.’

‘The expedition will be made up of Romans, for the most part,’ Flaminius said, ‘but we don’t want to provoke war or alarm, we want peace. That being said, it will be a large enough force to stand on its own two feet. All we require from you is that you provide us with a base, a staging post before we enter the Selgovian territory.’

‘Your people built a camp in our territory,’ Drustica said, ‘but it was abandoned. Do you wish to build another? My people may possibly accept this. It will be discussed.’

An alarm horn boomed from the village gates.

Flaminius rose, wide eyed. He stared around at the Carvettians, who were now sitting up, looking alert and ready. The horn rang out again, echoing back from the encircling hills. Drustica’s warriors now leapt to their feet and grabbed spears and swords from the racks on the walls. Drustica herself remained sitting but her face was twisted into a vulpine snarl.

‘An attack?’ Flaminius asked. ‘This far into your territory?’

If it was the Selgovae, they would have had to ride miles into Carvettian lands to get to Drustica’s village, even if it was near the borders. Surely word would have been sent, warnings from villages even closer to the tribal border. But the attackers had penetrated this far without any warning. What had happened?

Drustica rose and armed herself. ‘We go to war,’ she said, her eyes blazing with delight, and led them from the longhouse.

Out in the yard, the auxiliaries sat their neighing horses. Hrodmar stared worriedly at Flaminius as he emerged into the light. Carvettian warriors rushed to and fro, spears and swords at the ready, but in a panic. Smoke billowed up from the vicinity of the gate. Flaminius could see no sign of the attackers whoever they might be, but the cold air was alive with tension.

‘They’ve set fire to the place!’ Hrodmar reported. ‘Epona’s teats! They’ll burn us alive!’

Fire was the worst possible danger in this village of wattle and daub. Flaminius could see them surrounded by a wall of flame if the fire spread. As he watched villagers formed a chain leading from the well in the middle towards the burning bothies and passed leather buckets down the line to fling water at the flames.

Straining his eyes, Flaminius caught sight of woad painted figures riding in chariots outside the village. Their hair was spiked with lime.

They looked like Caledonians, not Selgovians.

Drustica swung round. ‘Your men are ready,’ she told Flaminius. ‘You must ride against the enemy. I shall go to my warriors and calm them. Then they will be able to join you.’ Her face was bitter. ‘We’ll take a few of them with us when we go.’ She gripped his forearm fiercely. ‘Perhaps we will meet again in that land beyond the sundering seas.’

‘I hope we’ll meet again a lot sooner than that,’ Flaminius said grimly.

His orders were that he was not to become involved in any confrontations if they could be avoided, but he would not stand idly by and allow Caledonians to slaughter the people he had come to regard as friends. He turned to Hrodmar. ‘To horse!’

Hrodmar looked half shocked, half hopeful. ‘We’re riding out on them?’

‘What are you talking about, decurion? No, we’re leading the attack. Get moving.’

Flaminius went to where his horse was tethered and mounted it hurriedly. Less enthusiastically, Hrodmar sat astride his own horse. The auxiliaries’ steeds were whinnying and rearing nervously at the crackling flames.

Still the Carvettians milled around, seeming to have lost all morale despite the efforts of Drustica to calm them. A few had weapons unsheathed and were staggering towards the gates, beyond which the Caledonians waited in wickerwork chariots decorated with severed heads.

Flaminius led his auxiliary troopers at the gallop down the track between the blazing bothies, towards the gates. At this the Carvettians finally rallied and soon they were following along behind them, with Drustica at their head, howling a war cry.

They burst out of the village gates. Spike haired warriors stood on the turf, holding flaming torches. Selgovae, as far as Flaminius could tell. Behind them were arrayed the chariots. As the auxiliaries rode out with the Carvettians running alongside them, the Caledonian footmen veered out of the way and then the chariots began to thunder down. One headed straight for Flaminius, so he drew his longsword and awaited the attack.

He saw a man whirling a sling round above his head while he stood up in the chariot. He had lime-washed hair and woad blue war paint, and was stripped to the waist, while before him a small charioteer crouched over the reins. The two ponies neighed and screamed wildly as they plunged towards him.

The man loosed and a grisly looking missile sped towards Flaminius. Drustica had told him that the Caledonians—and her own people in former times—used missiles made from the brains of their enemies mixed with lime. Instinctively, he swung himself low in the saddle, and the lime ball shot overhead. It struck an auxiliary in the face and knocked him flying backwards out of the saddle.

In a small, still voice somewhere at the centre of his being, far from the noise and terror of the fight, it came to Flaminius that this was nothing like the chariot races he had attended in the Circus Maximus. The chariots themselves were utterly alien to those of the Roman races, being square not crescent shaped, with two semi-circular walls of wicker on either side in between which the charioteer sat and the warrior stood. The beasts that drew them were not the elegant creatures who raced in the Circus, but shaggy ponies, unkempt, ill cared for beasts. And yet the bloodlust was the same, the snarling expression on the warrior’s face was identical to that of any charioteer back in Rome… Civilisation was only skin deep, even in the City.

Still riding low in the saddle, Flaminius thrust out his longsword as his horse galloped past the chariot. He glimpsed shaggy ponies, caught a waft of pony stink, and then was passing the wickerwork walls. He saw the charioteer, still clutching at his reins, staring in surprise while the auxiliary troopers thundered straight past. The warrior standing up behind him flung away his sling and snatched at his sword hilt, but before he could draw the weapon, Flaminius rose in the saddle, whipping his longsword in a crescent shape that split the Caledonian from groin to throat. Blood spurted out into the cold air, painting the blue daubed body a new shade of red, and the lime-washed hair darkened with gore as the warrior toppled across the wickerwork walls of his chariot.

The ponies galloped away under the control of the charioteer.

Already Flaminius had passed through the line of chariots, but sprinting towards him now were the Selgovian foot soldiers. They had doused their torches and now they wielded spears and swords and they were rushing to surround him. He sawed at his reins while his horse neighed and reared, kicking out at any Selgovian who came too close. Gripping on to his steed with his free hand, Flaminius cut about him with his bloody longsword, but it had little effect.

The chariots came hurtling back over the battlefield. The charioteer whose warrior Flaminius had slain moments ago had already found another man to replace him. The other warriors pursued the auxiliaries, who spread out in confusion as the chariots zipped about the churned up turf. Now Drustica’s warriors rushed out to engage the Selgovian infantry that had surrounded Flaminius. The tribune took the opportunity to ride down the nearest warriors and gallop to the aid of his auxiliaries.

‘To me, men!’ he shrilled. ‘Hrodmar, to my side.’

The little Frisian carried the standard. He galloped to Flaminius and the others grouped up around him as the chariots rumbled round and round them. When the auxiliaries charged, the chariots scattered, then reformed and began to make darting attacks that put Flaminius in mind of flies around dung.

Nearby, Flaminius saw, Drustica was fighting in single combat with a Selgovian warrior. Romans had been forbidden by law to fight in single combat since the days of the early Republic. But this gave him an idea.

He galloped out from the line of his men, and as his horse rode round and round in circles he brandished his sword at the lead chariot and its warrior.

‘Fight me!’ he shouted. ‘Come and fight me! I challenge you!’

The Caledonian did not seem to have much Latin, but it seemed that he understood the gist of Flaminius’ words. Now the chariots came to a stop, parked in a straggling line alongside the field, and the warriors jumped down. The chief leapt from his chariot and strode out into the open, swinging an ornate sword back and forth.

‘I fight you,’ he called back to Flaminius. The tribune dismounted.

‘Sir, what are you doing?’ Hrodmar cried in sudden horror. ‘Don’t get yourself killed, for Epona’s sake!’

Flaminius grinned up at him. ‘We don’t want too much bloodshed,’ he replied. ‘We’re trying to make peace with the Selgovae. Right now, the Caledonians are fair game, though.’

Despite his bravado, when he strode across the turf towards the Caledonian, he felt as if he was quaking inside.

Before he could issue a challenge, the Caledonian sprang through the air from a standing position, leaping like a salmon, his sword like a bolt of lightning. Flaminius lifted up his longsword to block the blow. The force of it shuddered through the blade and for a moment Flaminius felt as if he was going to drop it again. He gripped it tightly, so tight it hurt his palm, then swung it at the warrior, who leapt again, crashing down with both feet on Flaminius’ shield.

The tribune staggered back, his arms going out, only staying on his own feet with some effort. These Caledonians were skilled but showy warriors. He realised that he would have to show the man some Roman fortitude.

The Caledonian hit the turf and swung round with his sword, stabbing at Flaminius’ unshielded chest. The blade thumped into the tribune’s mail shirt, feeling like a battering ram. The steel links did not give—the sword point was far from sharp enough to pierce them—but Flaminius was left winded and gasping for breath. Wincing with pain, he bashed the blade aside with his shield then brought down his longsword.

The Caledonian danced backwards and the tribune’s sword slashed through the air in front of his face. He lunged again with his own blade but Flaminius parried the attack.

All around them, the Selgovae and Carvettians were fighting fiercely. The Caledonians and Roman auxiliaries had been halted by the sight of the single combat but now fights were breaking out between chariots and mounted troopers. The battlefield was a nightmare of smoke and death.

His tendons shrieking agony, Flaminius deflected another blow, then followed it up with a lunge that bounced off the Caledonian’s chest then ploughed straight into his face, smashing teeth and jaw and sinking into his skull. As the body fell to the turf, Flaminius ripped his sword back out with an expression of disgust. He turned and at once was knocked backwards as a Selgovian warrior crashed into him. He hit the turf with a thump and the Selgovian towered over him, spear lifted to spit him. A blade flashed in the sunlight and blood spattered Flaminius as Drustica cut the warrior down.

Flaminius grinned up at her, his face slick with blood. For a moment, everything went black.

He recovered to find Drustica kneeling beside him.

‘Gaius? Gaius, are you wounded?’ She anxiously dabbed away the blood that covered his face.

He pushed her away and sat up, feeling weak. Around him the turf was littered with fallen bodies. In the distance, auxiliaries were galloping after hurriedly retreating chariots. A few Selgovians still fought Carvettians. More Carvettians were rushing from the village. The Selgovians, realising they had been abandoned by their Caledonian allies, broke and ran.

‘We must pursue them!’ Drustica said as Flaminius rose to his feet.

‘We will not,’ Flaminius said. The auxiliaries were riding back.

Hrodmar wrested off his helmet and reported, ‘They got away into the trees, sir. Shall we ride after them?’

‘Our policy makers do not want open war with the Caledonians,’ Flaminius stated firmly. ‘We are here to defend the Carvetti against the Selgovae. Those are our orders. We are to step lightly where Caledonians are involved.’ He turned to Drustica, who looked disappointed. ‘With luck, though, the provincial governor may now be more inclined to aid you against the Selgovae, instead of planning to make peace with them. I can’t guarantee anything, though.’

‘I would much prefer that, Gaius,’ the warrior woman said heavily. She turned away to organise the tending of the wounded and the extinguishing of the fires still raging within her village.

Flaminius went with her.

—6—

Eboracum, province of Britain

Tigernos the Caledonian sat back easily in the chair in Falco’s office, smiling coldly.

‘Governor,’ he said, ‘my king has no wish to go to war with Rome. The Selgovae people are clients of my own folk, and their rule over their hills is undisputed. Should tribesfolk from the Brigantian confederation enter their territory without permission, they have no option other than to retaliate, and if this retaliation means crossing over into the Carvetti country, so be it! You suggest my people are involved? Yet it was your own auxiliaries who slew Selgovian warriors when you have not declared war on that tribe. If any Caledonians, working on their own initiative, came to the aid of the Selgovae when you had attacked them without provocation, then they are merely upholding their obligation to a subject tribe. However, they were not working on the orders of Brennos the High King, and we have made no attempt to follow up with an attack on your own lands.’

Falco smiled back, gravely. ‘Should you or your subject tribes have attacked Roman lands, then the legions would have been mustered and they would have marched to repulse you. Your people know this, of course. Maybe that’s why you didn’t follow through.’

‘In which case, it would be your people declaring war,’ Tigernos replied. ‘Has your emperor given you the authority to initiate hostilities?’

‘Caledonians have attacked the Carvetti,’ Falco replied, ‘a sept of the Brigantes, a tribe that is under Roman protection. It seems to me that your people have already begun a war.’

‘As I said,’ Tigernos replied, ‘any Caledonians who accompanied the Selgovae into battle were working independently. Young men looking for adventure, perhaps. The Selgovae themselves were retaliating after Brigantian incursions into their territory.’

Falco’s expression grew graver. ‘Some autonomy is allowed to frontier provincial governors in order to settle local disputes with military force. It means they do not have to send messages back to Rome before they can retaliate against border infractions. This is not the same as war, however. Rome’s only interest is in achieving peace. Perhaps we can seek to change the rules, in the case of your own people, but this will only be in return for concessions on your own part.’

‘Concessions?’ Tigernos laughed. ‘Of course, I’m only a merchant, but I keep in regular touch with our king, and I understand that he’s anxious that you release your prisoners.’

‘I don’t believe we have any Caledonian captives,’ Falco said blandly.

He knew that they had taken prisoners after previous engagements, and that Probus was still interrogating them—not torturing them, though, if he knew what was good for him. But Falco honestly wasn’t aware of any Caledonians held captive after the recent encounter. Was the commissary centurion keeping things from him? ‘I shall look into the matter,’ he conceded.

Tigernos thanked him. ‘As for your Brigantian allies, what’s their opinion on recent events? What do they wish to do?’

‘We have no allies,’ Falco said, ‘since we’re not at war. We have client tribes of peregrines[11], much like your own people. But we are not in a state of war in Britain.’

‘Of course not,’ Tigernos said. ‘But my king wishes it to be known that we of Caledonia will not rest idle if our subject tribes are attacked by you or your… clients.’

‘We are currently doing what we can to ensure the Brigantes do not make retaliatory raids on your Selgovae,’ the provincial governor replied testily, ‘if you must know. Taking security measures.’

Tigernos said nothing. His eye twitched. ‘Security measures?’ he said at last.

Falco nodded. ‘A cohort of the Ninth Legion will be despatched to the Brigantian border with Selgovian territory. That’s no secret. They will only enter into hostilities in self-defence, should the Selgovae make any further border incursions.’ He smiled. ‘I do hope that none of these hot headed young men of Caledonia will be tempted into fighting alongside the Selgovae. Sadly, we will have no option but to intervene if they do.

‘Obviously this would not be a move against Caledonia, since they are not representatives of your king. The cohort will primarily be involved in seeking a truce and a cessation of hostilities between our Brigantian friends and the Selgovae.’

‘I see.’ Tigernos nodded slightly.

‘We know very little of the Selgovae, of course,’ Falco added, ‘but we hope to earn their cooperation and trust. I’d be obliged if your people could use your influence to encourage them to listen to us.’

‘Then you want Caledonians present?’

Falco shook his head. ‘No, the mission will be entirely Roman. We will be doing the spadework. After that, perhaps…’

‘You mean that Lucius Aninius refuses to work alongside Caledonians?’

Falco shook his head, although indeed the legate had not wanted to take the peace negotiations that far. ‘We simply want to avoid any confusion,’ he dissembled. ‘I’m sure your Selgovian friends will keep you informed as the negotiations continue. Rome needs to become much more familiar with the Selgovae—friendly with them—before we are able to ensure peace along our borders.’

‘I see,’ Tigernos repeated doubtfully.

‘The border tribes must remain at peace, a lasting peace, with no more of these “traditional raids”, before Rome and Caledonia can work together. Assuming that’s what you want.’

‘A gradual process,’ Tigernos said.

Falco nodded. ‘Indeed. I want nothing more than peace and security on the northern borders, and I’m sure all right thinking people want the same. But we can start here. We can work together to ensure that the Brigantes remain peaceful, or in your case the Selgovae. Neither side wants to see an escalation of hostilities. You have that much influence over the tribe? Or your network does?’

Tigernos nodded. ‘We have influence over their chiefs, for the most part. But although they are a subject tribe, they are free to make their own decisions in these matters. We cannot tell them how to act.’

‘I’ll be talking to you again,’ Falco said, rising, his hand extended. ‘This meeting is merely to establish communications to liaise with your king on the matter. You can contact me again while I’m still in Eboracum, or send messengers to my location should I go elsewhere.’

Tigernos nodded and also rose. ‘Farewell, provincial governor,’ he said, shaking hands with him, and allowed two legionaries to escort him from the headquarters building.

Falco sat back and clicked his fingers for a drink. A slave stepped forward with a brimming goblet and he sipped it. What now? Well, now he would remain in Brigantia, reading reports in Eboracum, making tours of inspection among the lesser camps. No doubt his presence would be resented by Lucius Aninius and his men. The legate clearly thought that Londinium was the right place for the provincial governor, not here on the frontline. But the action was here, or within a hundred miles or so, and where the action was, it was imperative that he should be too. All the same, for the moment things would be quiet. He was glad he had brought Medea with him to keep him company of nights. He rose and went into the private living quarters.

The girl lounged on a couch, looking bored as a slave read aloud Catullus’ poem about his lover’s sparrow. She glanced up in surprise as he sat beside her. He caressed her shoulder. Her gown was thin and flimsy and he could feel the warmth and firmness of her young flesh. Discreetly, an expensive perfume trickled into his nostrils.

‘Catullus again?’ he asked as the slave girl’s recitation ended. ‘By Jove, do you never tire of him?’

She shook her head. ‘Reminds me of sunnier climes… We’re so far from Rome here,’ she added with an involuntary shiver.

Falco shrugged. ‘We were like them once. My people were. Your people were! Don’t the Britons remind you of Homer’s Greeks? Admirable, perhaps, when you consider the corruption of the empire in these latter days.’

Medea pursed her lips. ‘Perhaps…’ She sighed. ‘I never did like the Iliad. Too warlike, too aggressive. Your Roman Catullus is much more to my taste. Warm days, sunshine, and love. Not all this hyperborean gloom and sudden violence. And loneliness.’

He stroked her hair. ‘You have company.’

‘Slaves,’ she murmured. ‘I can talk to your officers, but what about? They’re ambitious, some of them, but they’re all careerists, though. They bore me.’

‘Do I bore you?’

She laughed. ‘No! Not at all. But you’re so busy here.’

The provincial governor shrugged. ‘We may have other company.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘Centurion Julius Probus will join us on the expedition deeper into the barbarian lands,’ Falco began. ‘He’ll be an asset on the expedition—he’s currently involved in establishing a strongpoint in Selgovae country. Oh, and he’ll bring along a few aides. Handsome young officers, like that auxiliary tribune you were so fascinated by the other month. Perhaps Flaminius—was that his name?—himself, in fact. I understand he’s been seconded to the Commissary.’

‘You’re not so old—or ugly,’ she told him. ‘You’re much more handsome than Gaius Flaminius Drusus .’ But doubt lingered in her big eyes. She pouted.

He smiled, leaned forward to kiss those pouting lips. Dutifully, Medea surged up to meet him.

—7—

Luguvalium, Carvetti territory

Hat-like, the fog sat on the hills above Drustica’s village. Lichen-hung bushes and the thatched eaves of the bothies dripped. The air itself was dank as Flaminius and a small group of Romans waited in the middle of the settlement, watching as one of Drustica’s people opened the doors of a small lockup. With Flaminius was Probus, who had arrived from Eboracum the other day.

His face was set, intense, as he watched the Selgovian warrior being hustled out into the cold air. Drustica’s man forced the enemy to his knees before Probus. The prisoner was a burly man in middle age, bare to the waist and heavily tattooed, with a drooping moustache and long hair.

Probus spoke to him quietly in his own tongue, a dialect similar to Drustica’s but with certain differences that made it closer to Caledonian. The Selgovian looked startled by this foreigner’s knowledge of his tribal jargon, and answered in sullen grunts.

After a while, Probus nodded. ‘You can let him go,’ he said.

Flaminius turned to the auxiliaries accompanying him and nodded to them. They took the Selgovian to the edge of the village and set him free. He hurried away into the dripping trees.

‘Hail and farewell, Carbantovolcos,’ Probus murmured.

Flaminius looked askance at him. ‘Is that his name?’ He hoped he wouldn’t be expected to pronounce it.

Probus nodded. ‘We were getting on quite well,’ he said. ‘I don’t think he would have opened up so much to his tribal enemies, but his first meeting with a Roman—off the field of battle—seems to have made quite an impression on him.’ He turned back towards Drustica’s village. ‘They won’t show up for some time. But be prepared.’

He went to the tents the auxiliaries had pitched on the village field and stepped inside his own. Flaminius stood alone, looking after him. He wondered how much Probus had learnt. Had it been any more than he had got from the prisoner in Eboracum?

The auxiliaries were relaxing, rolling dice with some of Drustica’s men. Flaminius felt lonely, miles from anywhere and with very little in common with his companions. Here he was, hero of two skirmishes, the man who Falco was relying on to make peace between the Selgovae and the Brigantes, but it seemed he was expected to do nothing more than stand around looking pretty—something he personally found difficult.

Drustica’s people trusted him. But sometimes his auxiliaries seemed to regard him as no more than an over enthusiastic puppy.

He crossed over to Drustica. At least the warrior woman appreciated him.

‘I don’t want you going into Selgovian territory,’ she told him with a frown.

‘Personally, I’m looking forward to it,’ he replied breezily. ‘Few Romans have ventured so far since Agricola’s day.’

Drustica shuddered. ‘It is a terrible land—where the druids still hold sway, where the skulls of our forefathers adorn the trees of the sacred groves, where the Carvetti’s restless dead wander at night. Fighting is better than peace with such people. Don’t go.’ She laid a hand on his brawny forearm.

‘I won’t be long. This is just to negotiate the reoccupation of one of the camps we built in earlier days, during the campaign against Calgacos. Once that’s done, my people will take control of the situation.’

‘Will you remain in this camp for long?’

‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘If things go well, I won’t be needed so much. You know that they have come to respect me. Your doing, I should imagine? Anyway, I’ll be needed elsewhere once things are settled.’

‘I will not be here when you return,’ Drustica said. ‘I must go to speak with my chief about all these matters.’

‘You’ll be back, though, won’t you? Send a messenger to me in Eboracum and I’ll come as soon as I can.’

Drustica looked sullen. ‘One day you will leave Britain for good.’

‘My career may take me elsewhere, yes. To other parts of the empire.’

‘I would like to see Londinium,’ she said, her tone wistful. ‘I have heard so much of the city. So far away. It sounds like a place where gods walk. Like the Otherworld. Is it?’

Flaminius grunted. ‘Not really,’ he said. He looked round at her dank village. ‘It’s a provincial capital. Nothing much. You’d like Rome, though,’ he added enthusiastically.

Not that he understood what this other-world she spoke of really was. They knew so little about these tribes and their beliefs. Only that the druids had once reigned supreme over all these lands, until the Romans had wiped them out. Or so they had thought. It was evident that druids still clung on in the North, even though their superstition had been extirpated completely among the southern tribes, where the people resembled those of Gaul, and proper Roman religion had taken its place.

But the further north one went the stranger it all became. These people were nothing like the Gauls, they were more like Hrodmar’s tribe in size and strength—although Hrodmar denied any connection and regarded them all as inferior specimens. And the druid network seemed to stretch everywhere. He wasn’t sure it didn’t have influence among the Brigantes. Certainly it would pose a threat when they were negotiating with the Selgovae.

But few people in Rome cared anymore for learning about the ways of barbarian tribes. The empire seemed more concerned with shoring up what it had got than with venturing into new territory. Here in Britain they had already given up a lot of ground and their control over the Brigantes was debatable, although in Agricola’s day the empire had stretched much further north. Of course, this was a symptom of a malaise that gripped the entire empire. The new emperor, this Hadrian, had marked his accession by abandoning his predecessor’s conquests in Mesopotamia. Flaminius hoped the same would not happen in Britain. It would be bad news for Drustica’s people if Rome withdrew. Bad news for civilisation in this island. If Rome abandoned Britain, it would sink back into the mire of barbarism.

The bushes rustled and out of the woods came a rider on a shaggy pony, a Selgovian horseman, who halted outside the village gate. This far away Flaminius couldn’t work out if it was Carbantovolcos or another man. The rider put a horn to his lips and blew a booming blast, followed by a second one.

‘That’s the signal,’ said Probus, coming up to join Flaminius. ‘We follow.’ He mounted his horse.

The Selgovian galloped away into the trees. Flaminius and the auxiliaries mounted and rode after Probus. He glanced back to see Drustica’s mournful face as she stood solitary in the gateway of the village. Then they had entered the woods, and the village vanished from his sight.

‘Follow in closer formation,’ Probus ordered as they rode through the dripping eaves. ‘Remain vigilant but don’t attack unless they attack first. This is a diplomatic mission.’

The Selgovian rider was visible far ahead, vanishing at times into the pools of shadow that spread beneath the trees. Things grew darker the further they climbed up the hillside. Now birches and beeches were replaced by towering pines. Needles littered the forest floor, which continued to slope upwards. Through a gap in the trees, Flaminius saw a bird flying over. It looked like an eagle.

They crossed over the hills with the Selgovian rider ever ahead of them. By now they must be in his own tribal territory. Glancing left and right, Flaminius began to see figures among the trees trailing them, some on ponies, others on foot.

They were being followed.

Crossing a ridge, they saw a wooded glen open up far below them, with a river rushing through boggy meadows. On the far side the slope rose until it reached a series of parapets lined with palisades. It was far away, but Flaminius could not see any armoured figures patrolling. Behind the hill fort, three wooded peaks stood proud against the skyline.

Talking to Probus as they proceeded, Flaminius had learnt that according to earlier intelligence, the Selgovian territory consisted of four towns, or hill forts, Trimontium, Carbantorigum, Corda, and Uxellum. He gathered that they had reached the proximity of Trimontium, the capital.

Hoofs drummed among the trees and out galloped a troop of Selgovian riders who headed toward the auxiliaries. They wore plumed helmets and chainmail cuirasses, carried oblong shields and long lances. The rider who they had been following spoke with the Selgovian chief. Then the other riders fanned out to surround the auxiliaries and escort them onwards and downwards towards the hill fort.

They rode along a track that passed through fields of oats and barley. Flaminius saw pig pens, and herds of cattle and goats in fields of grass as they crossed the river and entered the vicinity of the hill fort. Farm workers looked up from their labours as the warriors escorted the Roman auxiliaries onwards. A man with a cart stood to one side of the track, glowering resentfully as the riders passed. As they drew closer to a village that lay at the foot of the hill, Flaminius saw barns and a mill where slaves trudged round and round, grinding grain.

It turned out that the hill fort itself was no longer in use, having been sacked by the Romans back in Agricola’s day. Flaminius also saw, to one side, the charred and broken down wooden walls of the old Roman camp, apparently torched in reprisal at some more recent point, but the Selgovian riders urged them on before he could investigate it any further.

The village gates stood open and men waited at either side as the riders rode in, Selgovae at the front, more at the back, Flaminius and the auxiliaries in the middle as they passed through the palisade. Skulls grinned from poles as Flaminius and his companions drew closer. It was a grisly, brooding sight.

They came out into a wide open space, surrounded by parapet and palisade on all sides. Bothies and granaries and one sizeable longhouse stood amidst the mud and grass.

A crowd had gathered among the bothies outside the longhouse. Flaminius saw many women and children. The men seemed to be otherwise engaged, guarding, or tending crops, Flaminius presumed.

The longhouse itself was a high roofed wooden building about half as big as the headquarters back in Eboracum. Reed thatch covered the high sloping roof, while ornately and brightly painted carved wooden beams thrust out from the peak. Again Flaminius saw skulls and severed heads arranged on posts before the longhouse. His mouth went dry. What was he getting himself into now? Would his own skull end up adorning a pole?

He jerked in his saddle as a war horn belled out from the far side of the bothies behind them. The spaces between the bothies filled with woad painted figures on horseback, their hair spiked with lime, spears and shields in their hands. Flaminius glanced at Probus. The centurion’s eyes were wide.

‘A trap!’ Flaminius shouted.

‘No,’ Probus shouted back. ‘Look at our escort! They’re as surprised as we are!’

The Selgovian riders who had led them into the settlement were staring in confusion at the newcomers who had appeared as if from nowhere. Their leader rode forward and shouted out a challenge. A chieftain among the newcomers shook his spear and shouted back.

‘What are they saying?’ Flaminius couldn’t follow the exchange. ‘Are they Caledonians?’ Surely Caledonians had chariots.

‘These are not Caledonians,’ Probus told him. ‘They seem to be a rival faction of Selgovians, who have come to dispute their capitulation.’

He watched the exchange between the two chiefs. The friendly Selgovians gripped their weapons uneasily and snarled. Finally, the rider at the head of the hostile newcomers shook his head vigorously, and made a curt gesture with his arm. He turned to his men, and urged them forwards.

‘They’re going to attack!’ Flaminius cried.

Probus scowled. ‘I should have foreseen this,’ he muttered. ‘This is what comes of listening to senators and their naïve notions.’ Falco’s plan was failing.

‘Auxiliaries, right wheel!’ Flaminius shouted. ‘Turn about and prepare to charge hostiles.’

With discipline that would shame these wild warriors from the edges of empire, the auxiliary troop rode round in circles to face the threat. Now they had the longhouse at their back.

Even as they turned about, though, their Selgovian allies met the first attack of the hostiles. Sword blades flickered in the dismal sunlight, spears rose and fell to rise again, bloodied. Ponies screamed, men fell to be trampled by their hoofs.

Flaminius saw one warrior ride straight at another, spear levelled as a lance, and spit his enemy straight through, so that the gory head of the spear jutted from between the Selgovian’s shoulder blades and he tumbled off the back of his steed.

‘Epona’s teats! Our allies are getting slaughtered, sir,’ Hrodmar reported, riding up to the two Romans. ‘Should we not be helping them?’

Flaminius was about to answer when Probus interrupted. ‘No, we should stay back and watch the fight. Let them cancel each other out. The fewer warriors remain, the easier we will find it to assert our rule.’

Flaminius scowled. How could the man be so ruthless? ‘May I remind you, centurion,’ he said, stressing the man’s rank, ‘that I am tribune here, and this is my command?’ He addressed Hrodmar. ‘Ready the men to attack.’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ said Hrodmar, ‘but the men are already prepared.’

Flaminius cursed silently. He could see the Selgovians still fighting unabated. The skirmish had only been going for a moment but already the muddy ground was littered with dead and dying ponies and men. He drew his sword.

‘Charge!’ he shrilled, and led the auxiliaries straight at the embattled barbarians. As they smashed into the struggling figures, he caught sight of Probus watching sardonically from the side-lines.

A Selgovian came at him, whirling a sling, and he ducked as the stone shot at him, then he rode forward, hanging by his left hand from his saddle, sword extended. As he galloped past the slinger, who was fumbling to draw his own sword, he slashed at his legs. He felt his blade sink into flesh and scrape bone. Blood jetted out and the man screamed in pain.

Then Flaminius was past him.

Two more Selgovians rode at him. He stood up in his stirrups and brought his already bloody sword down on the first one’s helmetless head, splitting him from crown to jawbone. As the warrior fell back, covered in his own blood and brains, the next one jabbed at him with a long, wickedly sharp spear. Clumsily, Flaminius deflected the blow with his shield then cut at the man with his sword, opening up a gash in the man’s blue painted chest. Snarling, the warrior thrust his spear at Flaminius a second time, managing to get under Flaminius’ shield and hitting his mailcoat with the force of a battering ram.

Winded, Flaminius fought against the pain in his chest and swung a desperate blow at his attacker, catching him on the side of his neck. Blood showered his forearm. The man fell.

Flaminius caught his horse’s reins with his shield hand and sawed at them. His horse turned about and Flaminius saw on either side, his auxiliaries and the friendly Selgovians battling the hostiles. But even as he watched, Hrodmar, fighting the rebel chief, flung his sword like a missile at his enemy’s face. It went right through the man’s skull, jutting out of the back of his head and he fell back.

At that, panic rode through the ranks of the hostiles. Before Flaminius could shout another order, they broke up into undisciplined groups then melted away through the bothies and out of the settlement.

As the Selgovians sent riders after them to hunt them down, Flaminius returned to Probus’ side. ‘Thanks for your assistance,’ he said bitterly.

Probus shrugged. ‘A diplomatic move,’ he conceded. ‘Now you’ve cemented your alliance with the tribe by helping them wipe out their rivals, supporters of the Caledonians, sealing the pact in blood. Now those who waver in their feelings towards Rome will be more certain of which faction to support.’

‘I worked that much out myself,’ Flaminius replied, although in fact he was too tired from his exertions to assess the political situation. ‘Shame you couldn’t help us cement the alliance.’ None of this was working out as Falco had envisaged it.

Probus gave him a look that suggested he suffered fools, if not gladly than at least with tolerance. ‘I’m a commissary officer,’ he said. ‘My place is not on the battlefield.’

Flaminius returned his gaze coldly.

—8—

Trimontium, Selgovae territory

Several weeks later, a new camp had been constructed on the ruins of the old one, and despite some initial trouble while further rebel groups were subjugated, the Romans soon found themselves accepted into Selgovian society without undue fuss. Now Flaminius anticipated that Probus would subject him to more of the same drudgery that he had known back at headquarters, reading reports, assimilating data, writing reports, reading reports, writing more reports… And all without any of the entertainment that could be provided by Eboracum’s civilian settlement, too. The Selgovae didn’t even seem to have taverns or alehouses, let alone bath houses or racing tracks. Truly they were in dire need of Roman civilisation, if only to give the Romans themselves something to do.

But in the end he discovered that Selgovian life was the high life. Certainly if you were a noble retainer of the king, and Flaminius seemed to have become one by default.

They were a fascinating people. Some of their practises were more than a little barbaric, but Flaminius hadn’t—to his knowledge—encountered any actual druids yet, or seen human sacrifice. Instead he went on frequent diplomatic missions out to the surrounding farms and villages, where he and a few companions made diplomatic links with Selgovian nobles and chieftains. It consisted mainly of deer hunting by day and drinking heather ale and honey mead by night. Heather ale gave him wind, but he grew fond of mead—too fond, if truth be told.

Fond, too, of sitting round blazing fires in roundhouses and longhouses—even if his back was always icy cold, drinking and feasting down among the dogs and the household retainers, and he learnt to play the complex games with which these savage barbarians whiled away the cold evenings, one called throwboard becoming a particular favourite of his.

He had enjoyed the company of Drustica and her Carvettians, but now the Selgovians, who had seemed so ferocious and bloodthirsty at first, seemed to him to be more fun loving than other Britons. If anyone had told Flaminius that diplomacy consisted of such entertainments, he would have long ago decided to become a diplomat, not a soldier.

Since neither Flaminius nor Hrodmar, his usual companion on these jaunts, fully understood the local dialect, they were also accompanied by Ivocatos, who spoke broken Latin with a thick accent. Other Selgovians who accompanied them on their rounds of the local countryside included Ariotagos, Katuloukos, and the ovate Poredix. An ovate was a kind of junior druid, apparently, the closest Flaminius had come to such gentry and really something of a disappointment, quite benign, not one of the bloodthirsty maniacs of the stories.

Different factions within the tribe had their own ideas about the desirability of the Caledonians, on the one hand, and the Romans on the other. After the withdrawal of the Roman troops, the elders had gone over to the Caledonians out of a sense of pragmatism, those highlanders being the greatest power in the northern regions. But many Selgovians remembered with fondness the days when the Romans had first reached these parts.

‘We fell upon the camp and slaughtered the legionaries as soon as it seemed the Roman star was no longer in the ascendant,’ Ivocatos explained, ‘but it was with regret. Your people brought with them many good things.’

Flaminius looked away as they rode on across the heather. He knew that Falco’s plan for making friends with the barbarians could not be as selfless as it seemed. Lucius Aninius had openly disagreed with the move. In the end Probus had agreed with it, but only on the condition that it should be used as an opportunity for further intelligence gathering. He still thought it was a rash idea. They had already had to fight one desperate skirmish.

Ariotagos seemed to agree. ‘We will never be at peace with the Brigantes. Wolves and sheep will never be friends! As long as our northern cousins offer us aid, we will take it. It is our duty to the tribe.’

‘Why can’t both the Caledonians and the Romans leave us be?’ Poredix asked. ‘Then we could go back to the way it was between us and the Brigantes in the morning of the world.’

‘Who cares about the future or the past?’ Katuloukos said impatiently. ‘Time’s a-wasting. The deer will have gone by the time we get there.’ He kicked his pony into a gallop and rode towards the ridge.

Flaminius was less adept at deer hunting than his companions, but he enjoyed it nonetheless. To the Selgovae, however, it was a quasi-religious act, which reminded him that Drustica had once told him that their name meant “Hunters.”

In Roman society, hunting was a sport, a pastime of those rich enough to afford enough land to support deer or boar or other beasts of the chase. A few Italian tribes made their living by hunting and trapping, up in the Apennines, or the Alps. And of course, everyone was familiar with beast hunting from watching venatorial displays in the arena—but somehow that wasn’t quite the same.

To the Selgovae, who held their land in common, and therefore considered the herds that roamed it to be common property, hunting was another matter entirely. All very manly and admirable, Flaminius thought, like something from the days of Romulus and Remus. The trouble was, the Selgovae also seemed to see cattle raiding, driving off animals owned by other tribes, in a curiously similar light.

From a Roman perspective it looked a lot like stealing.

By the time the stag carcase had been bled and gutted, the sun hung low over the northern hills. Katuloukos suggested they ride for Uxellum.

Uxellum was the closest “town”, or hill fort, to the area where they had been hunting. It stood on a high hill surrounded by huge drystone walls that looked from afar deceptively like the ramparts of a Roman camp of long standing. The massive gateway echoed deafeningly to the hoofs of the riders as they rode in to receive a warm welcome from the chieftains and people of the hill fort. They accepted the young noblemen’s quarry in return for a place by the fire in the main hall that evening.

Flaminius was made most welcome of all, no doubt due to his exotic origins, and he danced with many friendly local maidens that night. For some inexplicable barbarian reason they insisted that he wear the stag’s antlers as he danced, but the ensuing night proved to be suitable recompense for this humiliation. Or had it been a religious rite? Much as the Selgovae held lands and herds in common, so it seemed they practiced a primitive communism concerning their women.

That afternoon, the Uxellans went out into the meadows to play and sport. Flaminius left his armour behind and joined in the festivities. Quite what they were celebrating he was never quite sure, but he wasn’t complaining.

‘Next time you come with us, we will go to Corda,’ Ivocatos told him as they rode back to Trimontium. ‘It lies amidst the moors, lonely and magnificent, where the deer herds roam and only the wolf and eagle are stronger than men.’

‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Flaminius, and he was speaking the truth.

When he rode into the Roman camp after bidding farewell to his barbarian friends, he felt sickened, repelled. The uniformity, every tent the same, every wall of the palisade the same. After days spent among the barbarians out on the wide open moors, his own people’s lives seemed bleakly regimented, sterile, and his own people resembled lumpen louts.

‘How was your journey?’ Probus asked as they entered his office.

‘Enjoyable,’ Flaminius said with a contented sigh. ‘Very enjoyable,’ he added.

‘The hunting was fine,’ added Hrodmar, who had been less enthusiastic during his stay. ‘The whores are better in Eboracum, though. When are we going to have a beast fight round here?’

‘I’ll thank you to give your report according to correct protocol,’ Probus grumbled at them.

Scowling, Flaminius gave a bad tempered summary of events. It had been an adventure, and now he was going to have to file it as a report. The monotony brought him back to earth with a resounding bump.

When he had finished Probus grimaced. ‘I only wish my own efforts had been so successful.’

Flaminius went cold. Had the druids been stirring up trouble? ‘Problems?’ he asked nervously.

Probus grunted. ‘Making peace between the Selgovae and the Carvetti is vital to our continued presence in these parts. But they have too many flashpoints. The Selgovae are culturally hunters, they pride themselves in it, and as you say they consider all animals held in common, including herds. Including herds the Carvetti consider to be their own. The Carvetti only raid the Selgovae cattle in retaliation for Selgovae raids, the Selgovae hunt the Carvettian cattle because they think it is their divine right, a sacrament to Cernunnos, the horned god of hunters.

‘The Carvetti do not believe any of this. They think their cattle are their own property, as any Roman farmer would. They are outraged by the constant thefts—as they see them—perpetrated by the Selgovae. I have explained to the Selgovae how the Carvetti see things, but they in turn were outraged by the Carvettian view. How could they possibly believe that they can own animals, when they are the property of the god Cernunnos alone, which he deigns to share with deserving humanity out of his own bounty?

‘The Carvetti have thrown out all the druids, but they linger in Selgovae lands and further north, although no one seems absolutely certain just who is a druid. It’s very convenient for the Selgovae to take that attitude, but it’s uncivilised. We must stamp it out.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s difficult. Very difficult. But they won’t accept Roman ways until they have turned their back on this druidic superstition. As long as they are willing to believe in druidry they remain aligned to the Caledonians. Yet if we go against their beliefs, it will antagonise them, and that will play into the hands of Tigernos and his spies, who are all druids, as far as I can understand.’ He scowled. ‘I’m hoping that we can persuade both tribes to come to terms, but it seems it will be a long hard struggle.’

‘We can’t go back to fighting them,’ Flaminius complained. He couldn’t face Ivocatos or his friends on the field of battle.

‘We can’t?’ asked Hrodmar. The auxiliary had listened in uncharacteristic silence, but now he was moved to speak.

‘After all the hospitality they’ve extended to us…!’

Hrodmar scowled. ‘By birth I’m a barbarian myself, you understand. But I can see that belonging to your empire is better than scrabbling for life as an isolated tribe.’

‘As far as you’re concerned, tribune, it’s academic anyway,’ Probus went on carelessly. ‘Orders are that I return to Eboracum. I want you to come with me. We set out tomorrow morning.’ He sipped at his wine and noted the tribune’s doleful expression. ‘You want to stay with these barbarians?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Flaminius told him. Technically he outranked the centurion, and it should be Probus calling him sir, but that never felt right. No shame in it, even Falco seemed to defer to the commissary centurion. After all, he was an imperial agent. ‘I’ve gathered a lot of information. And I’ve made…’ He paused and shrugged, ‘… a lot of friends, sir.’

‘Friends, eh? Oh, I see what you mean, contacts among the enemy. Good work, but there are more pressing matters. I reckon you are the right man for the job.’

‘Job, sir?’

‘The provincial governor is riding north into misty Caledonia with three cohorts of the Ninth Legion. I’m going to meet him at Corstopitum[12] and go with him—in a commissary capacity, of course.’ He winked. ‘I could do with an aide, skilled in… commissary matters. Interested?’

Flaminius was astounded, but he couldn’t find any words to express himself with.

‘I take it you are, then,’ Probus added. ‘I’m hoping to gather intelligence, of course. No cloak and dagger melodrama involved, I’ll just be keeping eyes and ears open, and I want you to do the same. We’ve had reports from Caledonia, of course, in earlier times, but nothing very clear. It was the work of soldiers, not agents such as you and me, who gathered very little other than enemies.

‘I really should bring an experienced agent with me, but there aren’t any others available in this province. You’re pretty useful, it seems to me, for a young lad. The experience could do you a lot of good if you decided to follow a career in the Commissary. You’ll be on the provincial governor’s staff, with all that wine and good cooking—as far as is possible in Caledonia—and quite possibly you’ll be transferred back to Rome at the end of the mission, rather than spending more time in Britain. What do you think?’

‘Yes sir!’ Flaminius said eagerly.

Probus grunted. ‘But don’t think it’s all going to be luxury. You’ll have a lot of hard work to do. This is a unique opportunity, and very important. We need to get to the bottom of what’s going on in Caledonia. I’ll be sure to work you like a slave, don’t worry about that. It’ll be hard, dull work, unless things go wrong—in which case you could end up very dead, probably after some pretty unpleasant torture. I shouldn’t think King Brennos has any of the provincial governor’s qualms. Give it some thought.’

Flaminius did not. The only thing that bothered him was the possibility of never seeing Drustica again. But of course there were other girls—and most of them painted themselves with cosmetics, not woad. One of the latter, he seemed to recall, was on the provincial governor’s staff.

‘I’m coming with you, sir,’ he said.

—9—

The Via Caledonia[13]

Accompanied by auxiliary horsemen, three cohorts of the Ninth Legion marched north, their sandaled feet taking them over the windswept hills and moors, further and further beyond the empire, following the old Roman roads that had been constructed by the legions when Agricola conquered the area. In the relatively short space of time since the Emperor Trajan withdrew his troops to fight on other frontiers, and the rule of Rome had retreated to Brigantia and further south, the roads had fallen into disuse and disrepair. It seemed that the local tribes, the Selgovae and the Votadini and those further north, avoided the roads out of some kind of superstitious dread.

Flaminius had already seen much of this during his forays into Selgovian territory, but the disrepair grew significantly worse the further north he rode accompanying the provincial governor’s staff officers. At times the road almost vanished into cold, sucking bogs. Often the legionaries had to wade through mud, and when the column was slowed Flaminius experienced some particularly tense moments. Although the provincial governor’s visit to the Caledonian kingdom had been agreed upon with the rulers, there was no guarantee that they would not be attacked by raiders outside King Brennos’ influence. For all anyone knew, the whole expedition could be a trap.

In places they passed the burnt out ruins of old forts and signal towers, reminiscent of the derelict fortress that Flaminius had found at Trimontium. The Britons had been swift to attack these relics of Rome once they had fallen beyond the narrowing margins of the empire.

It seemed that Rome had passed its noon of glory, that lesser men ruled and fought. Where once the Caesars had pushed back the boundaries of civilisation, barbarism was creeping back in, taking advantage of the increasing weakness of the empire.

And yet these rolling, uncultivated moorlands possessed a kind of savage beauty, much like the mountains that marched along the northern horizon. The people who sometimes watched their passage from the rocky outcrops above the lost road were tall, rangy, gangling redheads—a different people, it seemed, from the Britons further south. These Caledonians were a race apart, a savage, primal people from some age of legend predating the beginnings of civilisation.

At least they made no attempt to attack. King Brennos’ rule over his people might be shaky by Roman standards, but it seemed that word had gone out that the foreign men in the lobster armour should go unharmed. Of course, it would be futile for these few herdsmen to fling themselves at the marching might of Rome, but Flaminius was afraid that the word would go out through the heather, that the clans would gather, that woad painted warriors would attack the legionary cohorts at some narrow rocky pass or other vulnerable point, and put them all to the sword. That the Ninth Legion would never return from the northern mists.

Despite the mountains on the northern and western horizons, the land that the legionaries marched through was flat and fertile and green, well-watered with silvery rivers, swathed with trees, a home to farms and smallholdings. Flaminius had thought that all Caledonia was a land of heather and rock, but as the cohorts penetrated further into the kingdom, marching ever north towards Pinnata Castra[14], the abandoned fortress Agricola had established on the margins of the Caledonian heartland, he saw that the strength of the northern people did not lie only in desperation. As well as flocks and herds, they had some forms of agriculture. If an invader seized this coastal plain, they would have a chance to starve the Caledonians out of their mountains.

One evening Falco and Centurion Probus sat together talking into the night. Falco invited the commissary centurion to his tent and they ate well, courtesy of Falco’s excellent cook, and drank vintage Falernian wine. The two men had developed a good working relationship—despite the strange deference Falco showed to this non-commissioned officer, due to his ambiguous status as a secret service operative—and yet nothing more.

The food was excellent, even by the provincial governor’s standards, and all the more so for Probus, accustomed to much the same nutritious stodge as the men. As for Falco’s wines, they were first rate, though the provincial governor grumbled that they had not travelled well.

The tent walls shuddered in the biting Caledonian wind, and from outside, from out of that dark Stygian night, drifted the clank of armour as patrolling legionaries passed. There was a distant, muffled exchange of passwords. Within the tent, the brazier kept the place warm, while the exquisitely fashioned lamps ensured that it remained as light as day, and the air hung with a discreet spicy scent.

After the Spartan rigours of camp and the march, the provincial governor’s luxuries came as a welcome change to Probus, though he told himself he despised them.

‘So you’re from Pannonia[15], are you?’ Falco said. ‘I was in Moesia before I was sent to Britain, not far down the Danube from your homeland. Of course, Dacia’s the real frontier now, but your people must have been hardy to settle on the limits of the empire.’

‘Provincials, originally,’ Probus replied dismissively. ‘Gaulish farmers for the most part, but my great grandfather joined the auxiliaries, receiving Roman citizenship and a farm in Pannonia when he was demobbed. There’s not much society in Pannonia, not of the kind you’re accustomed to, senator. Only the provincial governor up in Carnuntum, and his cronies. Otherwise it’s Roman colonists, and of course the locals, folk not unlike the Britons in many ways, but softer. They’ve been civilised for much longer. Debilitated. Like a lot of the Gauls, for that matter.’

‘Hence your unswerving loyalty to the emperor,’ Falco observed. ‘Yes, that’s understandable, given your background but, by Jove, it’s a narrow view. You should open your eye—and open your mind to other alternatives.’

‘What, hide behind your walls,’ Probus suggested, ‘seizing the day and doling out bread and circuses to keep the plebs happy while pretending there are no barbarians at the gate? Sardanapalus did that, but the Assyrians came down like the wolf on the fold in the end.’

‘You’re confused,’ the provincial governor said. He gave the laugh of a man who had received a first rate education from the best of tutors, not one who had picked up what culture he could find whenever he felt a lack in his knowledge. ‘Sardanapalus was an Assyrian. It was the Medes and Persians who overran his empire while he hunted beasts, oblivious in his park in Nineveh. All the same, I see your point…’

Probus flushed. ‘My duty is to hold back the barbarians, not to lecture on ancient history. My wife and child live in Pannonia, not far from the frontier.’

‘No, centurion, your duty is to ensure the barbarians don’t need to be held back.’

Probus laughed humourlessly. ‘Fine, as long as the barbarians agree with you.’

‘Why shouldn’t they?’ Falco asked. ‘The Caledonians have got their country, we’ve got ours. They don’t want us to invade them, to carry out reprisals, we don’t want them to invade our lands. Peace is in the best interests of both Roman and barbarian, on all frontiers. It doesn’t matter who started it, whether we invaded their lands or they attacked our merchants,’ he added wearily. ‘That kind of viewpoint is just plain childish. It’s the bloodfeud writ large, not the justice one should anticipate from a civilised society. Rome’s empire grew and grew, higgledy-piggledy, a series of reactions to events, as we got drawn into situations that on the whole we’d rather not enter. One province was left to us by its last king in his will! Before we knew it, we were masters of the Mediterranean and rapidly expanding.

‘But what do we get for our effort? More and more troubles. We don’t need any more empire. Britain is a running sore, because we’re not willing to commit enough troops to subdue her completely and yet we refuse to run away in shame at our inability to conquer her. The new emperor withdrew from Mesopotamia, that neverending mess, and although I don’t know that I agree with all his policies I will say that at least he knew when he was beat. Better to accept defeat, draw a mark in the sand—or the mud, in these parts—than to allow conflicts to escalate to nobody’s benefit.’

‘This is hardly the first time I’ve heard such nonsense,’ Probus grumbled. ‘People look at the way Alexander’s empire fell, the Assyrians and Babylonians, the Persians. They say our time has come and gone too. We’re no longer expanding. We’re overstretched. Dacia was a step too far, Mesopotamia was the tipping point. We’re not the men our fathers were. The barbarians are strong and virile, and they will sweep away decadent old Rome…’

Falco shook his head. ‘The barbarians don’t have it in them to conquer the empire, they’re too divided. Maybe the Parthians could have done it once, but we tore the heart out of them in the last war, even if we couldn’t hold on to Mesopotamia. Alexander couldn’t rule the entire world, and nor can we, but we’ve lasted a lot longer than that pederast of a Macedonian bandit ever could. Right now, we’re consolidating our borders, we’re strengthening what empire we have rather than expanding indefinitely. The barbarians on the borders can surely live with that! We no longer threaten them.’

‘I don’t imagine the Caledonians want to be like us,’ Probus said. ‘They don’t want a world empire. They simply want more land and more influence further south. Our presence threatens their security. You’ve seen these bogs and moors. You’ve seen the mountains ahead of us when we’re on the march. Who would be content with that when they know that fertile land lies to the south? At the very least they intend to balance things out by raiding, carrying off what wealth they can win by their valour. But with their druid connections, they are strong enough to influence events, to pull strings, more dangerously, in areas closer to the empire, if not within the empire itself. That’s as far as I understand it from the Caledonians and other Britons I’ve spoken with. I hope to become clearer about the situation during our time here…’

‘I hope you do,’ said Falco. ‘The information would be fascinating. On the condition that you don’t resort to underhand tactics. If I find you have been making trouble during our stay, centurion, it’ll be the worse for you.’

Probus was unnerved by the abrupt change in the provincial governor’s tone. Maybe Quintus Sosius Falco wasn’t simply the over privileged weakling, reliant on his cooks and his concubines and his luxuries, that he seemed to be.

‘Jupiter’s balls! The Caledonians aren’t interfering in Selgovian affairs because they want to protect them from other tribes. Those charioteers who’ve been seen with the Selgovians aren’t just young men off on a jolly adventure before they settle down. The Caledonians quite definitely are up to something! I don’t even think their spies in the empire know the exact plans, not the ones I’ve interrogated. No doubt it’s only known by the highest of archdruids and the king himself. But they know alright. Oho, they know.’

‘A great raid on Roman lands?’

‘No, I think that the Caledonians see that we have weakened our forces in Britain and they intend to snatch the lands that we can’t control, to give themselves a more secure border with the empire. Presumably they think they have sufficient strength to face up to a legion or two.’

‘They must think Rome is willing to give up its land here as it has done in Mesopotamia. It’s strange but true how quickly news travels. The Caledonians must have their ears open in the empire, at least in Britain. Maybe talk of the Emperor Hadrian’s retreat has reached them… All this troublemaking with the Selgovians is certainly leading up to something.’

‘That’s the idea I’m working with… But…’

Falco nodded decisively. ‘I intend to make it clear to them that their plans are not going to work. Not an official warning, of course. If we can find who is… reasonable among them… we can speak with those parties. Cooperate with them. Aid them in their struggle with the warmongers. Give them a plan they can work with, where both sides will benefit.’

But he looked away from Probus as he said this.

Medea had poured herself a goblet of wine and now she sat on a stool, head turned away, listening with a shudder to the howl of the wind from outside. Through the half open tent flap, the stars shone, brighter and clearer out here in the barbarian wastelands than they were in the empire, even more so than in Selgovian lands, it seemed to Flaminius, and the wind was keener.

The country was savage yet beautiful, rather like Drustica in that respect, but Flaminius thinking more of the tame beauty who sat across the table.

‘That one is Orion,’ he said, pointing out at the sky, ‘and that one dogging his heels, that’s Sirius. Orion was a hunter, you know, in the old Greek stories…’

All of a sudden he remembered that Medea was a Greek herself, if not what he would call old.

‘Go on,’ she said.

‘When Sirius rises over the Nile, that’s when the Egyptians know that it’s going to flood. That’s good news for them, of course, because that’s where the silt comes from. Their farming’s based on that, you see, it’s very fertile. They’ve been civilised thousands of years, long before us in the empire. We were much like’—he jerked his head—‘this lot.’

She shivered. ‘You must hate the barbarians.’

‘Oh, they’re alright when you get to know them,’ he said, a little boastfully. ‘Perfect gentlemen, some of them. I’ve spent time with them, you know. Came to like them, respect them even.’ He related his experiences among the Selgovae.

She rearranged herself and leaned closer.

‘Tell me more about yourself,’ she murmured.

Flaminius downed the rest of his goblet. ‘Me, my lady?’

‘I’m bored and lonely, all the more so since we began heading into Caledonia. You’re the only person I can talk to properly, although you’re forever at your work. But…’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Are you avoiding me?’

‘This is the first time I’ve been off duty except when I’ve slept of nights. Falco wou…’

Medea shook her head. ‘My master doesn’t understand me. Oh, he’s treated me well, and I’ve lived a life that no concubine could ever dream of. But he simply does not understand me.’

Flaminius opened his mouth but could find no words brave enough to leave.

‘We should be better acquainted,’ Medea informed him. ‘Tell me more about yourself. Why did you join the legions? What has Rome done for you, that you’re willing to risk your life for her?’

‘I grew up happy,’ he replied. ‘We were safe, and protected. We had a good life, if not as good as the one you know. Thanks to Rome.’

‘You’re from a poor family?’

‘Hardly.’ Flaminius shook his head. ‘Middling, you might say,’ he went on. ‘I had a good tutor who taught me grammar and logic and rhetoric and then I was packed off to the legions to work out what the hell I could do with them in the middle of a battlefield. So I became a tribune of auxiliary horse. Nothing illustrious, the lowest of the low in officer terms, but… Well, my family did its duty by me. I have a career, my lady, a future…’

She reached out and stroked his hand. ‘I’m a freed slave,’ she said. ‘I’m not a Roman, although any children I have will be. My name is Medea,’ she added. ‘Not “my lady”.’

A jolt shot through him. Immediately he thought, Medea the witch, but she certainly wasn’t any kind of hag. Although she was enchanting, undeniably.

‘What a hard life you must have had,’ she added. ‘And still you’re willing to fight for Rome.’

‘Well, it’s certainly a tough life in the army, but I’ve had good times, too. There’s been camaraderie and…’ He faltered and blushed, thinking what some of that camaraderie had involved. ‘I don’t have much experience of sophisticated ladies…’

She came and sat beside him. The world was filled with her scent. ‘Well, now you have your opportunity.’

—10—

Pinnata Castra, Caledonia

The hill fort that guarded the entrance into the kingdom of Caledonia stood atop a hill that overlooked the river Taon[16] as the latter wound its way down from the mountains in the direction of the Oceanus Germanicus[17]. Only three miles downstream stood the ruins of one of the fortresses built furthest north by the foreigners, a massive undertaking on a scale comparable with Eboracum, the work of the far-famed Agricola in the days of Good King Calgacos. A generation ago the fortress had stood proud and dominant, but now it lay in ruins, overlooked by the mighty hill fort where Catavolcos now stood, gazing down from the ramparts, down the glen of the Taon.

Catavolcos had urged old grey bearded Brennos the High King to rebuild and reoccupy the hill fort. Now its parapet looked out over the lowlands of the Caledonian kingdom, with the mountains behind it. The kingdom was a wide realm by local standards, if nothing besides the vaunted domain of the king of the world. It had been as an act of defiance against that very king that Catavolcos had insisted the rebuilding of the hill fort.

And so the hill fort rose high above the Taon River, its shadow at sunset stretching down the glen like a finger pointing derisively at the ruins of the Roman fort. Except now, of course, they were no longer deserted. The legation from the foreigners had set up camp within the ruins, although as yet they had made no attempt to refortify it except with a light palisade. After sunset the lights of its campfires glittered like red rivals to the stars overhead, tiny spots of light in the midst of all encompassing darkness.

Once the sun had set, Catavolcos withdrew inside his hall, in a small room off the main building. Here was his treasury and the place where he now kept all his secrets. Only a select few were allowed within here, and it was always guarded.

Catavolcos opened a small coffer with a key that was always about his person. Within lay a collection of what an unpractised eye would regard as twigs and sticks. A closer inspection would notice the lines apparently at random that had been cut along each twig. Only this initiated into the rites of the druids, like Catavolcos himself and his spies, would know them for what they were: coded messages carrying news of the lands all about.

He took out one slim birch twig and ran his fingers along its length. Information came to him, words and phrases like magic. He had read it before, but now it was imperative that he respond. They were allowing a tribe to slip straight through their fingers.

He called to the guard. ‘Bring me my sister’s son.’

‘You summoned me, mother’s brother?’ said Maglocunos shortly after, entering Catavolcos’ chamber.

‘I did,’ Catavolcos replied. ‘You must be aware that the men of the king of the world have reoccupied their fort down the glen, just as they have done in Selgovae country.’ The youth nodded, scowling. ‘Our erstwhile subject tribe now speaks of peace with the Brigantes. The current Selgovian chieftain must be replaced by one friendly to King Brennos and Caledonia.’

‘I will do it gladly, if that is what you wish,’ Maglocunos said with a sneer, ‘but his people will resent our interference. So will other subject tribes, more closely allied for the time being. It could throw your plans awry. You told me you were playing a long game.’

Catavolcos scowled. ‘I must speak with the men of the king of the world,’ he said. ‘A banquet has been prepared and they are invited. I know that if we move openly it will not go well. We must show fair faces to them while hiding foul thoughts.

‘We are working towards a time when all Britons are free of the yoke of the foreigners, but we must wait until the time is ripe. It will be soon, perhaps within our own lifetimes. The foreigners are past their prime. One day they will be pushed back into the sea from which they came. But we must be subtle meanwhile in regaining our freedom. Ours is a weak child now, which must be nurtured and guided, kept from straying into trouble. An unforeseen move by the foreigners could have terrible repercussions for us, and for our secret plan. The more information we gather, the better our chance of making the right decisions. We need to understand them. We need to learn how they think.

‘They are mighty. It is no bardic exaggeration to call their ruler the king of the world. Only Caledonia remains free, that and Hibernia. But I do not wish them to rule here, and as long as they remain in Britain, they pose a threat. They will never be content with the lowlands while they know that we reign free amongst our mountains. So it is them or us. Either they return here in force and rule over us… or we force them back and back, until they are pushed back into the sea. That is why I speak to you, who are my sister’s son as well as a chief, and not my other warriors.

‘Take men you trust and return to Selgovia. Use the serpent’s tongue as well as its fang. Meanwhile, I must speak with the foreigners. I deem my task more loathsome than your own. Go!’

Maglocunos nodded, and slipped from the chamber.

Catavolcos sat on his high seat for a while. It had been a long, long day and he was not as young as he had once been. His bones ached. He wished he could return to his own hill fort deeper in the mountains, overlooking the long lake. He wanted to be home. He wanted to be in his own lands, in his own bed. But the foreigners awaited, and once he had finished entertaining them he must meet with one of the druids whose network spread far into the South, as far away as Eboracum.

What was his name? Ah yes… Lugutorix. The man had an urgent report. Afterwards Catavolcos could sleep, only then. He took a swig of mead from a horn brought him by a slave, then set out for the foreigners’ encampment.

Guards accompanied him as he strode out through the gates. All around, the hill fort was alive with the quiet sounds of night, sentries patrolled the ramparts, guards marched through the shadows below. It was gloomy, not well lit like one of the foreigners’ fortresses. The dim glimmer of fires from within the bothies and the light of the sickle moon was all that there was.

Outside the gates he and his men mounted waiting steeds and rode for miles down the glen until they came to the palisade that surrounded a well-lit, orderly collection of tents. This was the foreigners’ camp. He galloped towards it, flanked by his guards.

After the sentries admitted them he was welcomed into the command post by a slave, a cubicularius as these foreigners called a steward, who took his cloak and welcomed him with a drink. Within the tent awaited the newcomers, in their togas and their armour, large men of the South with dark curly hair and olive skin.

‘Welcome, Lord Catavolcos,’ said the tall man in the toga. ‘Let me introduce myself. I am Quintus Roscius Coelius Murena Silius Decianus Vibullius Pius Julius Eurycles Herculanus Pompeius Falco, senator of the city of Rome and governor of the province of Britain.’

‘Welcome to Caledonia, O Roman,’ Catavolcos said. He tried not to show resentment at the pomposity of this man with his overlong name, intent instead on his lazy actions, which were at odds with a tough, sinewy frame, his lazy eyes that nevertheless saw all they looked at—and more.

‘And this is Commissary Centurion Julius Probus.’

‘Greetings, O Caledonian lord.’ The thickset, balding man’s Caledonian accent was good. Were it not for his obviously Roman features he could have been a Briton of some sort. He was stocky, with iron grey hair, what little remained, and an aquiline nose that had been broken and reset badly at some time in the man’s life. Probus bore himself like a warrior—no, a soldier, warriors have more pride and less discipline.

So the introductions went on, all as if they weren’t deadly enemies. It was obvious, however, that no one of them was worth Catavolcos’s time except the senator with the absurdly long name and the thickset centurion. Ah, but the centurion’s aide, a stripling of no more than a score of winters surely—he seemed alert and attentive. But no, Catavolcos concluded, he was nothing but a lad, not worth considering.

The other two, however, were certainly dangerous. Particularly the centurion, but the senator was also a force to be reckoned with, despite his effeminate airs.

Catavolcos was presented with a goblet of some spicy southern wine, which seemed rough on his palate after the sweet honey mead and smooth heather ale he was used to. ‘I hope you found the journey over the heather to your satisfaction,’ he said to Falco.

‘It was a little gruelling,’ the provincial governor replied with a little smile, ‘until your riders came to escort us.’

‘And how did you find your time in the Selgovae territory?’

‘The Selgovae!’ Falco said. ‘I passed through, no more. Some of my men are quite familiar with the people there, though. Noble savages, simple children of nature living in the Golden Age, wouldn’t you say?’

Catavolcos frowned at the description. ‘I’ve never spent any time with them,’ he said dismissively, ‘but I hear from my sister’s son that they are fierce fighters.’

He took a great interest in the tribes of the debatable lands on the verges of the foreigners’ dominion, but he had not been that way himself, except long ago, in times of war. Perhaps sometime soon he should pay them a visit, when the foreigners had been repulsed.

‘We don’t really understand your interest in the area,’ Falco said thoughtfully. ‘With the… the unrest in the vicinity… do you not have other areas you could use as trade routes? You could go by sea, for example.’

‘Seaborne trade has its own difficulties,’ Catavolcos replied. ‘Banditry on land is a problem, but at sea there are storms as well as pirates. The Selgovian lands are not ideal, but we are content with matters as they stand. At the same time we can aid a tribe who have clearly aroused Rome’s interest, too. To a distressing extent…’

‘But predictable, surely,’ the provincial governor said. ‘It’s important for both our peoples that there is a buffer zone between us. Your interest in the Selgovian lands, along with the ongoing disturbance in that area, forced our hands. We’re obliged to protect our own peregrines, those who have suffered from intertribal raids by the Selgovae. Neither side, I’m sure, wishes to see war. We want merely to preserve the status quo.’

‘Surely your empire is so large now that there are more important issues elsewhere,’ said Catavolcos.

Falco gave a small frown. ‘These disturbances cannot be permitted to continue, for the security of the empire. You’ve clearly heard of our attempts to bring them to an end, by establishing military posts in the territory. If the Caledonians could assist in the peace making process, it would be to both our benefits. We can cooperate together, as we have done in the past. We have many of the same interests at heart.’

Catavolcos forbore from giving his opinion of the two peoples’ previous “cooperation.” He assumed the senator alluded to the brief period when a fortress stood where now these tents were pitched. But this apparent hypocrisy nettled him.

‘May I ask why the commissary centurion has joined this diplomatic expedition?’ he said, changing the subject. He knew full well what Probus’ real job entailed, from the reports of their man in Eboracum.

Falco’s mouth drooped. ‘The centurion is an adviser on commissary matters. Also on the native peoples. He knows a great deal about them from trading with them and so forth.’ He beckoned the centurion to join them.

Probus swaggered over. ‘My lord,’ he said courteously if gruffly.

‘Catavolcos wishes to know your intentions in these parts,’ Falco said.

‘I’m here to provide what information I have and give my opinions when they’re asked for,’ Probus replied.

‘Surely you have more pressing business elsewhere.’ Catavolcos knew a great deal about the man from repute and from reports, but meeting him in the flesh was quite another experience.

Probus accepted a goblet of wine from a passing slave. ‘We Romans know so little about your people,’ he commented. ‘Do you know, it wasn’t until Agricola’s day we were sure that Britain was an island, and not a whole new continent? Our knowledge of you is hazy. I’ve heard some of your people live on the island of Thule, wherever that might be. There are those in Rome who think you are German in origin, due to your red hair and rangy limbs. Yet you speak a language much like that used by folk to the south, which itself is very similar to the Gaulish tongue.’ He studied the Caledonian. ‘You’re nothing like our German auxiliaries, that’s for certain.’

‘We are not Germans,’ Catavolcos confirmed. ‘Britain is an island, not a continent. And as for this Thule you speak of, I’ve never heard of it. There are the Orcades and the Ebudes[18]. I have never heard of an island called Thule.’

‘What of your knowledge of lands to the south?’ Probus went on. ‘For example, the Selgovae territory. What is your interest there?’

Catavolcos stiffened, tied of evading the same questions. ‘Our trade links are extensive,’ he said, ‘as I have already indicated to your superior officer. And the Selgovae territory is hardly far from our mountains.’

‘But all of a sudden, Caledonians were everywhere,’ Probus said bluntly. ‘How did you get so interested?’

‘Rome had its own outposts in that area not so long ago, but you withdrew from those regions abruptly, as you did from our own country. After this withdrawal, we became interested in what had interested Rome. In the Selgovae lands there was war with their neighbours within your empire. Some of our young men decided to assist. Romans took it into their heads to investigate and the situation abruptly escalated.’

Probus swigged his wine thoughtfully and tried to continue the conversation, but Falco successfully moved it on to other matters. Clearly he did not want the meeting to lapse into an interrogation.

The centurion was like a hunting hound on the track of a scent, Catavolcos thought as he departed a little later. Too good a hunter for his own peace of mind. He was likely to sniff out many a rat. Catavolcos would have to keep an eye on him.

Then again, was he really the one to watch out for? He was known to be the emperor’s secret agent. Not a very secret agent, in which case. Was it really him, then? Was he more a stalking horse than a hunting hound? Did the emperor have another secret agent on the provincial governor’s staff?

Or was that what Probus wanted him to think?

Catavolcos shook his head ruefully. This could go on for ever. Besides, it was not his concern. The druids had eyes everywhere, and every movement the foreigners made outside their quarters would be covertly watched.

Which reminded him, he had an appointment to see the druid who had been into the foreigners’ realm and returned. The merchant Tigernos thought he would be better employed in the tribal lands. Lugutorix had not covered himself in glory on his mission to Eboracum, but it was possible that he might have information worth Catavolcos’s hearing. And then he might give the fellow fresh orders.

‘Thank you for waiting for me,’ Catavolcos said graciously to the cowled figure who waited in his private chamber when he swept in. ‘I was down at the ruined fortress, at a meeting with the foreigners.’ He paced up and down. ‘Would that my duties did not require me to fraternise with that filth…’

The druid Lugutorix nodded his head slightly, and waited for Catavolcos to stop.

‘You were sent back here after your mission to Eboracum was aborted,’ Catavolcos said abruptly.

‘I made an attempt to obtain the files of the commissary centurion,’ Lugutorix replied, ‘but failed. That is why I was sent back home.’

‘You tried to penetrate his security?’

‘Yes, my lord. I have learnt much since my initiation as a druid. I can walk unseen, change my face, make people see warriors where there are none, bring down the mist and the rain, raise tempests…’

Catavolcos knew from experience that the druids’ powers were nowhere near as miraculous or magical as they sounded: they could move quietly, without drawing attention to themselves, they knew how to disguise themselves, and they were experts at sleight of hand. From this they had derived an ability to mystify many, but it also made them invaluable as spies.

‘… I walked unseen into the foreigners’ camp and entered the commissary centurion’s office again unseen,’ Lugutorix was saying. ‘But when men came I had to flee. I could have killed one with a blow of my open hand, yet more and more came.’

‘You and your kind are renowned for spying abilities,’ Catavolcos said. ‘But would the commissary centurion recognise you if he saw you? You know he has come here with the other foreigners.’

Lugutorix was silent for a moment. ‘He will not know me,’ he said. ‘I escaped before I could be recognised.’

‘Good…’ said Catavolcos. ‘I have a desire to bring this sneaking, spying centurion to his defeat. He is as old a hand at this game as you are, so he will expect the customary sleights. You must ponder your hardest to find a way to… surprise him. Should you succeed, you may rest assured that you will not go unrewarded…’

Lugutorix listened patiently.

For the next few days Falco was in palaver with the Caledonian and his companions. Probus was forever being summoned to the presence of Catavolcos. Often it was about some minor question concerning the Selgovian and Carvettian troubles. Having been summoned, he was unable to leave, and thus was forced to participate in the Caledonians’ endless, overblown discussions.

Whenever Probus’ presence was not requested at one of these interminable palavers, he continued his study of the Caledonian tribes, talking both with people from the hill fort and others from the neighbouring farms. The Caledonians were very hospitable, and answered many of his questions, and he had long discussions with chieftains and farmers, making many potentially valuable contacts. But he felt that he was learning next to nothing. Nothing of any use, certainly. Nothing about the subject tribes to the south.

In itself, this told him a great deal. Catavolcos said that they had little information about the Selgovians because they sang few songs about them. But he heard any number of tales and songs about subject tribes in the north, such as the Creones, the Carnonacae, the Caereni, the Cornavii, even about the Caledonii proper, in their great glen over the mountains. Not to mention the Taexali, who occupied the great plain to the south and east of here. But little of the Damnonii or the Votadini, and absolutely nothing of the Selgovians. Probus wondered what the Caledonians had planned for the other southern peoples.

To begin with, the commissary centurion had been aided in his work by the lad Flaminius. But then it was suggested that it should be Tribune Flaminius who would journey around the Caledonian territory, accompanied by the young blades of the court, sons of chieftains whose rank or social standing, not to mention age, was equivalent to his own.

‘Will you do this?’ Probus had asked him.

‘By all means,’ said Flaminius eagerly. ‘I’m tired of being stuck in this dismal old camp. I’d be happy to get on a horse and meet some more of the people of the heather.’

‘Good,’ Probus said. ‘It’ll keep your grubby paws off the provincial governor’s concubine, too, and you never know, you might learn something useful out there.’

Flaminius headed for the tent flap. Lazily Probus reached out and restrained him with a ham-like fist. ‘You’re the decadent Roman out in search of vicious entertainment amongst the licentious natives. That’s what these barbarians will expect. It would be wrong to disappoint them with the clean limbed, sound in mind, sound in body reality we know and love.’ He winked.

‘And don’t forget to blab and babble and ask idiot questions. Can you manage that? Yes, of course, I’ve already noticed you practising. So ask foolish questions but don’t seem so inquisitive that they think you’re a spy.’

Flaminius pondered. ‘They would suspect something if I just rode around showing no interest in anything other than wine, women and song, or whatever the native equivalent might be.’

‘It’ll be a steep learning curve,’ Probus admitted, ‘but this is how you will get the experience you need.’

He watched the young man hurry away, and sighed. It didn’t seem likely that the lad would turn up anything significant, but it would certainly be a test of his ability. He’d sink or swim up in the sea of heather.

Certainly things needed stirring up. They couldn’t remain at the artificial impasse that Catavolcos seemed to be playing for. Potential existed that it would be foolish not to exploit. But tied down here on the edges of the Caledonian territory, kept busy with the pointless drivel of diplomacy, Probus was unable to exploit that potential as he wished. What had seemed like a perfect chance was becoming more and more complicated.

So it seemed that young Flaminius was the one best suited to take action.

—11—

The Caledonian highlands

Flaminius knew that people back in Rome who’d heard of the Caledonians assumed they were colonists from the German lands across the sea. On the other hand they spoke much the same language as the Gauls, and indeed the people of lowland Britain, though, and Frisian auxiliaries like Hrodmar scorned the notion there was a link between the two peoples. Yet there were those from the western shores of Caledonia, and the Ebudes islands beyond, who spoke another language entirely, neither German nor Gaulish.

Allcallorred spoke Caledonian only haltingly, but none of the other men who accompanied Flaminius on his journeys through the kingdom spoke a word of the man’s native tongue. They whispered amongst themselves that this small, dark haired man was of the Old People, the aboriginal Ebudeans, one of Caledonia’s most lowly subject tribes.

He was a kind of servant for the other Caledonians, although he had trouble even pronouncing the word. Flaminius, for that matter, could not get his tongue round the man’s own name, but he listened with interest when Allcallorred spoke of his homeland, the islands of the Ebudes in the west.

Beyond the Ebudes themselves, a series of islands dotted the ocean, each separated by five days’ sail. On one of them, a dethroned god was kept prisoner, although some people said that it was Calgacos himself who had been taken there to have his wounds healed by three goddesses. Further on, beyond a congealed ocean, lay another continent, also inhabited.

Flaminius listened to this tale as they sat round a turf fire, camping out in the moors one night, and he struggled to understand the man’s words. Were they true? Or was this just a myth? If it was true, then this intelligence would expand Rome’s knowledge of the world immensely—another continent! It seemed unbelievable, though. Even Allcallorred’s fellow Caledonians spoke dismissively of his stories.

The tribune sat with the Roman and Dumnoualos, a young man of the Caledonian court whose mother’s brother was a chieftain of many men. While among the Romans there would be a yawning social chasm between Dumnoualos and Allcallorred, here they seemed to be on jovial, almost egalitarian terms.

Allcallorred had not been to these strange western islands ‘beyond the sunset,’ but he was certainly a travelled man. ‘Me went south to a stranger country,’ Allcallorred went on, ‘where folks like the forest men’—he seemed to mean the Caledonians proper—‘lived belongside men who dwell in boxes of stone. Was an uncanny journey. Naught went well hitherwards. Was glad to join another lord, merchant Tigernos, who took us many leagues.’

Dumnoualos snarled something in a rough approximation of Allcallorred’s own speech, and the dark little man quietened. Flaminius was intrigued by the reference to “boxes of stone.” Roman forts? And then Tigernos the merchant…

‘Tigernos who has his shop in the civilian settlement of Eboracum?’ he asked.

Allcallorred gave Dumnoualos a slitted glare and ducked his head. ‘Reckon so, reckon so,’ he replied. ‘Didn’t get to Eborac’ but met the man who’s its king. Was secret meeting, in the wilderness.’

Flaminius’ drowsy mind awoke to sudden life. He had to seize the opportunity this presented, notwithstanding Dumnoualos’ attempts to move the conversation onwards. But he had to keep his public image at the same time. He gazed thoughtfully at Allcallorred.

Flaminius had enjoyed acting the spoilt epicurean while he accompanied the young Caledonians through the countryside. In a land where women were owned in common and children were raised by the community, a young man could sow his wild oats far more ably than in prissy, prying Rome.

But he had ensured that they respected him all the same, shown that he was as good a hunter as they for all his airs and graces. Naïve as he was in their eyes, and ever eager to prove himself to his superiors, he had to admit that his role was more an exaggeration of his own personality than anything Plautus would have called acting.

He guzzled ale and considered their surroundings. They sat beside a smoking turf fire amidst a collection of standing stones, memorials of a long forgotten people, Flaminius assumed, although none of the Caledonians could satisfactorily explain them to him. Horns of heather ale were in their hands, much the same brew he had become accustomed to in the Selgovae lands. They had taken refuge from the winds of the moor after riding out from a little settlement further down the glen. The village was still distantly visible, beehive-like round bothies amid the trees in the lea of the great crags. Above the green grass of the glen bottom, slope after slope of heather stretched up towards tumbling, scree-strewn precipices. The wind was bitter but now they were out of the worst of it, sitting beside the fire in the shelter of these stones.

A hunter’s moon hung in the sky.

‘Tigernos had a secret meeting with the man who is… king… of Eboracum?’ Flaminius asked. There was no “king” of Eboracum. Allcallorred could only mean either the legate of the Ninth or the provincial governor, Falco himself.

‘Aye, sir,’ Allcallorred answered. ‘Went with Tigernos to have speech with him. Know not what, was on sentry-go. Mates sat in on the meeting.’

Mentally, Flaminius compared this wild scene with the Apennines where he had grown up. In many ways as wild, if not so gripped by boreal cold. The native tribes of the hills were rough, half barbarous people, but his parents had farmed in the valleys there like Romans anywhere. Anywhere could become civilised, if enough effort was put into it. And that was what made the two peoples enemies.

‘I suppose, though,’ Flaminius added, ‘you’d swap tales round the feast fires then, after you left?’

‘Aye, aye,’ said Allcallorred, ‘but were told to keep our teeth together about the journey. Was hard when a man got up to brag, not to boast him out of the running.’

‘You must have heard a lot about Eboracum and Brigantia,’ Flaminius suggested. ‘Didn’t you ask your mates who sat in what the meeting was about?’

But Allcallorred was drinking now, and Dumnoualos broke in, ‘Do you wish to hear feast fire fables? You’ve listened to a lot of Allcallorred’s stories, but there are many better ones.’ Allcallorred tried to interrupt, but Dumnoualos spoke over him. ‘We’ll leave this tale and wet our dry throats with more drink.’ He glowered at Flaminius. ‘Agreed?’

Flaminius grinned sardonically.

Inwardly, he was cursing. It had all been going somewhere, he knew it. He had been on a new trail, and it had certainly been leading somewhere. Where, he couldn’t say. And now it looked like he was never going to know, not unless he got lucky again. Which seemed a little improbable.

More heather ale cheered him. As they had rode across the hills he dreamed of dashing deeds of derring-do, but he had never seriously expected to achieve anything exemplary. But he had now received some glimpse, some notion of something that had happened behind the curtain of ignorance that hung over these peaks. At least a hint that there was a darker reason for the Caledonians’ interference in the Selgovae lands.

The secret meeting with Falco could not be explained, unless Probus knew about it, too. The provincial governor had no business having secret meetings with Tigernos unless the Commissary was informed. And to his knowledge, it hadn’t been.

Of course, the moment he stumbled upon this, down came the cloak of secrecy, much like the dark cloak that hung around the druidic rites he was certain were still practised in these remote lands. Men who knew the facts had gone missing. Had they been murdered by the druids? No, that would be going too far—wouldn’t it? But they were strangely unavailable now that the Romans were in the vicinity. It seemed that Tigernos the merchant, Caledonia’s unofficial emissary to the Romans, knew more than might be imagined. But it seemed that what was really going on was known to one Roman, at least.

Certainly Dumnoualos knew nothing, but he and his friends had been told to make sure that Flaminius learnt nothing about certain matters.

Flaminius thought that his Caledonian companions seemed honest, decent people. Their friendliness was genuine. He enjoyed their company as he had done that of the Selgovae. All the same, he knew that they would follow the orders of Catavolcos and his druids, who were clearly plotting… something. Invasion of the Roman province? How could it be anything else?

And yet what was Falco’s involvement? Surely the provincial governor himself would not be working with the druids and the Caledonians against the empire. Flaminius knew that he had learnt something that Probus did not suspect, or at least had not let on to. Yet it would be some days before he could return to the centurion with this information.

He drained his drinking horn and nodded towards the skin bag containing the rest of the heather ale. ‘Any chance of another one?’ he asked.

Pinnata Castra, Caledonia

‘Don’t bother sitting down,’ said Probus the moment Flaminius strode in. ‘We’re going for a walk.’

‘A walk?’ Flaminius stopped wrestling with the chinstrap of his plumed helmet and stared at him in surprise.

‘A bit of exercise will do you good after all the drinking and whoring you’ll have been doing,’ Probus said, striding past him and pulling open the tent flap. ‘I’ve been cooped up here too long while you were out gallivanting with yer barbarian friends. We’ll take a turn around the parapet.’

Flaminius looked out of the opening across Probus’ brawny shoulder. Men passed by, legionaries and auxiliaries, but the camp was otherwise quiet. He had returned at mid-morning. On the distant slopes that were visible beyond the tents, the ramparts of the hill fort stood sharply delineated against the blue grey sky.

‘Look, sir…’ Flaminius began.

Probus let the tent flap drop and turned to face him.

‘What is it, tribune?’ he asked quietly. ‘Something important?’

‘Yes,’ Flaminius stammered. ‘Very important.’

Probus lifted the tent flap. ‘Then all the more reason why we should go for a walk round the parapet. I’d suggest we go for a ride, but I’m sure you’re saddle-sore after your recent adventures. Besides, up on the parapet there’s less chance of listening ears.’

Flaminius stared at him. He knew Probus by now. Something was gnawing at the centurion. Normally, Flaminius would have been expected to make his report then return to desk work. Something must be happening. Which made his own news all the more imperative. But how could he put his intimations into words? They didn’t even make sense!

‘Very well, sir,’ he said at last, and followed the centurion outside.

Hurriedly they made their way to the ladder to the ramparts. Flaminius followed Probus along the walkway.

They paused at the furthest point from any patrolling sentries and gazed down the glen to where pine trees mantled the further slope. Except when a sentry passed, they were away from all potentially prying ears. The musty scent of the pines hung in the cold air. Crows croaked as they flew overhead.

‘As it happens, I have something I want to talk with you about,’ the centurion said. ‘You can tell me your own concerns in a moment. This is confidential, for your ears only. Don’t mention this to anyone, not even the provincial governor.’

Flaminius looked up at this. He frowned. ‘If it’s confidential, is this the right place to be discussing it?’

‘Better than in the tent. Even among our own people, we do not know whose spies could be listening. Out here’—he turned full circle, indicating the distant sentries and the bustling camp below—‘we need not fear being overheard.’

‘But the druids…’ Flaminius looked nervously at a crow that had just perched on a nearby tower.

‘We’re safe,’ Probus reassured him. ‘Take my word.’ He produced a small amphora of wine, uncorked it and took a swig. ‘I need you for a job. It’ll be risky. Are you in?’

Flaminius’s blood pounded. ‘I don’t think I have a choice.’

‘Maybe not,’ Probus said. ‘But I need you to be wholeheartedly behind it.’

He took another swig, then offered the amphora to Flaminius, who shook his head impatiently.

‘As things lie,’ Probus went on, ‘we can tell that Catavolcos is plotting something big.’ Flaminius nodded impatiently. He knew that much. Probus ignored him and went on. ‘It involves the Selgovae and the Brigantes, and the troubles between them. It involves Rome’s future in Britain. What else can it be but a mass invasion, an attempt to push the Romans back into the sea? And yet here we are, with talks between Catavolcos and the ever reasonable Falco, Falco the conciliator, Falco the peacemaker. But now even the provincial governor seems tired of the way the palaver has dragged on. Doubtless that’s why he’s agreed to go with Catavolcos on a hunting expedition among the mountains. Another delay, of course, but Catavolcos is doing it to win Falco over, a gesture of goodwill.

‘I wasn’t invited. I don’t think Catavolcos thought my presence suitable inducement. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t invite Falco’s whore, Medea. That would ensure Falco went. But the provincial governor’s going anyway.’

Flaminius nodded abstractedly. He wanted to tell the centurion what he had found out himself, but the centurion’s diatribe was inexorable, and still Flaminius couldn’t find the words. He frowned at the offensive reference to Medea, but that was another matter.

‘I’m sure that Falco and Catavolcos will enjoy each other’s company immensely,’ he began.

‘Of course,’ Probus interrupted. ‘They’ll have a lot to discuss. I still haven’t persuaded Falco that the situation with the Selgovae is important. I don’t know why Catavolcos accepted the legation, except that it would make his treacherous intentions all the more obvious if he didn’t. He wants to draw things out, just like the talks. But I’ve picked up hints that something else is being planned. And in the meantime we’re cooped up here, unable to do anything. He’s got us fully occupied here while elsewhere something else is afoot. If only I knew what. Which is why we need to act soon, and act decisively.’

Flaminius was about to blurt out what he had learnt when Probus added, ‘I have made a discovery. The druidic order of which Catavolcos is an honorary member has a meeting next full moon at the standing stone beside the river. And I think I know how we can get an agent in there. If we can find out what their plans are, then all we need to do is get the information out at once, back to Rome. I say all, of course. It will be as difficult as penetrating the order. As things stand, if one of us leaves all of a sudden it will be painfully obvious that we know something.

‘And yet we must act quickly or it could be too late. I certainly can’t leave. It would raise an immediate alarm. It would tell everyone that I had finished my work, and everyone has an idea what that is. Falco himself might forbid me to leave, thinking I was going to cause trouble with his own mission. Or else I would suffer from a nasty attack of brigands as I rode away from the kingdom. Perhaps I would be abducted and interrogated. I’d like to think I’d keep quiet but the sad facts are that no one is immune to torture, particularly the sort the druids are said to practise. There are things I know that would be of such advantage to the Caledonians that it doesn’t bear thinking of.’

Flaminius had almost forgotten his own information, which seemed hazy and uncertain besides what Probus was saying. Something equally unclear was what the centurion wanted.

‘You want me to take the information to Rome,’ he said. Probus nodded. ‘You have an agent you can use to spy on the meeting of the druids?’ Flaminius asked. ‘I didn’t realise your network spread so far. A Caledonian? And a druid? You must have been making contacts since we arrived. Otherwise, why come here? Something you learnt in the South but couldn’t discuss with anyone you trusted and could be spared.’

‘Jupiter’s balls! Enough of this,’ said Probus angrily.

Flaminius shook his head. ‘No, I want to talk about it. You’ve had links with the Caledonians for a long time, I think. Which means you must have known that the attack on Drustica’s people was planned. You never told me. If it hadn’t been for a lucky chance, the Carvettians would have been slaughtered.’

He glowered down at Probus, and in that moment saw for the first time how short and squat and beetle-like the centurion was.

‘We have work to do,’ Probus barked dismissively.

‘A vexillation of my auxiliaries could have defeated those chariots before they ever reached Drustica’s settlement. People were killed, burnt to death. Men, women, children. You could have stopped them and yet you did nothing!’

He stormed away down the parapet. Probus marched after him. ‘Come back here!’

Flaminius whirled round. ‘Why should I?’

Probus grabbed his arm. Flaminius tried to shake him off but the little man was as strong as he was broad, and he held him as if he was a child. ‘Yes, I knew,’ the centurion said furiously. ‘And I knew what would happen if I said nothing. When you fought those charioteers off, I made a libation to Jupiter Optimus Maximus and pledged him a yearling ram. What if I had acted, though? Tigernos is not a fool. He would have known that I had a spy among his ranks and he would search for them and he would find them, and for their treachery he would tie their guts around the old oak tree in a druidic grove. And that would have been the end of that, not just of the man but of my intelligence! I already had my agent worked out as someone who could infiltrate the druidic gatherings where they plot against Rome. He was—he will be—the key that will open up the coffer that conceals the truth. How many lives will be saved if we can learn their plot and scotch it before it is hatched? Not just Romans but Carvettians, Brigantes—Selgovae! Caledonians! Stir that thick porridge between your ears, tribune. I’m not saying that I wasn’t guilty of treachery, that if the Caledonians and Selgovae had slaughtered your Carvettian friends their deaths couldn’t be laid at my door, and rightly. But if I had betrayed my source, I would ultimately have betrayed Rome. And that would have been the greater treachery.’

Flaminius gulped for breath. He turned and leaned against the palisade for support. He stared deep into the shadows of the glen, eyes wide with horror.

At last he looked back.

‘My apologies, centurion,’ he said formally. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you as I did. I didn’t know.’

Probus clapped him on the shoulder, grinning with what looked like gratitude. ‘No apologies needed, tribune. It’s been an object lesson for you—and for me. I’m glad to see that someone can still work in this foul cesspit of a job and retain their integrity. Maybe when you have been in the Commissary longer, gained more influence…’

He trailed off and leaned against the palisade beside Flaminius. Together they stared up at the cold blue skies in silence.

‘You’ll need to keep your scruples in what lies ahead,’ Probus said, ‘but the only way we can get the intelligence we need will mean another act of treachery. Well, maybe you can dream up a better approach, but I can’t think of anything.’

Flaminius looked grim. ‘What are you suggesting?’

‘I know my agent can infiltrate the druidic meeting,’ the centurion told him. ‘But the trouble is, as I said before, it will look suspicious if one of us departs abruptly, which will be necessary if we find out what I think we’re going to find out. They will suspect something is happening. Maybe even that their plot has been found out. So there needs to be a good reason for a sudden departure. You could provide yourself with one.’

Flaminius nodded. ‘Go on…’

‘What if our provincial governor found you and his concubine in a compromising position…?’

Flaminius whirled round. ‘What?’

‘Calm down, lad. Don’t tell me there haven’t been… dealings between the two of you. You may have found the Caledonian women easy with their favours, but I know Medea’s taken a fancy to you as well, and she’s been lonely while Falco has been occupied. And you’ve been keeping her company, right?

‘No one suspects except me, don’t worry. You’ve kept it very quiet. But I keep my eyes open, lad. You’ve been missing from quarters in the night, you’ve had little sleep, you keep exchanging meaningful glances with her when she’s around… Don’t worry, I’m not condemning you! Not my place.

‘This provides an opportunity. If Medea is kept in the dark as to when Falco will return, we can make sure that you are surprised together…’

Flaminius was outraged. ‘No!’

‘Don’t worry about the Greek girl,’ Probus reassured him. ‘She’ll get off with no more than a whipping, not for the first time, I’ll be bound. If Falco goes as far as to cast her off, the Commissary will ensure she’s looked after, back in Rome. She could have a good career ahead of her as a madame if she can’t latch on to another senator—and I’m sure she can, she won’t lose her looks for a few more years. I doubt she’d be upset to depart from the provincial governor…’

‘But she trusts me!’ Flaminius objected.

‘It’ll be a dirty trick, I already said,’ Probus replied dismissively. ‘You don’t think she’s in love with you, surely?’

Flaminius stared down at the heather.

Probus barked in laughter. ‘You do. Maybe she is, but a girl like that can cope with a broken heart, they’re tough beneath all that appealing softness. I wouldn’t worry myself about her. You concern me more than she does.’

‘Me?’ Flaminius asked, surprised. ‘Why me?’

‘Falco will have to do something, take some retaliation, so as not to lose face—whatever his private feelings may be. If you do things right, everyone will know, all the Romans and the Caledonians too. He’s going to send an imperial courier back to Eboracum in the next few days with a full progress report. You’ll go back with him in disgrace, on some trumped up charge. Don’t worry, it won’t affect your career. In fact, it’ll be beneficial.

‘During the druidic gathering my agent will obtain the information and bring it to me. I’ll pass it to you, whatever it is. When you get to Rome, when you get to the Peregrine Camp on the Caelian Hill, you’ll say a word that I’ll give you. Then you’ll be there, a fully paid member of the Commissary. You shouldn’t be raising objections and grizzling, lad, you should be on your knees in gratitude! This isn’t an opportunity that comes to every auxiliary tribune.’

Flaminius looked away, gazing down the glen. The wind soughed softly among the treetops.

‘But what of you, centurion?’ he asked at last. ‘And what about all the rest of it?’

‘I’ll remain here until the whole business is seen through,’ Probus assured him.

‘But it could be dangerous,’ Flaminius said anxiously. ‘Things could go wrong.’

‘That’s what you risk, lad.’

‘But you’re even more at risk,’ Flaminius replied. ‘I’ll be safely away from here, in Rome. You’ll still be here, in barbarian country. I might get away without any problems, but what if Falco puts two and two together later…?’

‘Medea will not be ill-treated,’ Probus reassured him. ‘She’s not worth it. Nor is Falco. If the Caledonians were to take the provincial governor of Britain prisoner, or even kill him, it would be a declaration of war.’

This didn’t reassure Flaminius. ‘What about you, centurion?’

‘Don’t worry about me, lad,’ Probus replied proudly. ‘I’ll die old and blind forty years hence, pissing and shitting myself to my heart’s content. If the chances of that look set to change, I’ve got a blade.’ He patted the hilt of his sheathed sword. ‘I’ll cut my way out of there, or I’ll take plenty of them to accompany me on my passage across the Styx. Never mind all that, are you in?’

It took Flaminius an aeon before he could nod.

The following afternoon, Probus entered the tent where Flaminius was drearily working away at a report. Leaning his head forward, he let the tent flap fall back behind him and said, ‘That’s enough, tribune, work’s over for today.’

‘Thanks, centurion,’ said Flaminius gratefully. He had grown bored beyond bearing while poring over reports, and had been forced to struggle with himself to stop daydreaming about a more exciting life. Then he had turned to thoughts of Medea, but they had soured into self-repugnance at the thought of what Probus wanted him to do. He dropped the tablets on the camp desk and leaned back to stretch. Joints cracked with audible pops. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘A messenger arrived to say Falco is returning tomorrow,’ the centurion told him.

Flaminius’ heart pounded. He whirled round and rose to his feet, head brushing against the roof pole. ‘You want me to…?’

‘I won’t be in these parts,’ Probus replied. ‘I’m going to be visiting a local chieftain tonight.’

Flaminius glanced outside. The sun was not far off setting over the Caledonian mountains. Medea would still be asleep. With Falco away she had no reason to rise, except when Flaminius visited, and that was always at night. She preferred the warmth of her bed to the chill of Caledonia. ‘I take it I’m to stay behind in reserve.’

‘Clever lad,’ Probus said sardonically. ‘Remember what we believe the Caledonians are plotting. What it will mean for the legion. For Britain.’

Flaminius nodded doubtfully. ‘What if things go wrong?’

‘My agent will identify himself by a password: Beware Greeks. Do what you think’s best. Be cautious. Even if everything goes wrong, you could find yourself a chance to escape. But don’t wait around. If you’ve got to get away, get your horse and ride for the frontier. Get that information where it’s needed. Rome.’

By the time Probus set out from Pinnata Castra and rode along the river bank, it was already evening, and the sun was setting over the western mountains, its rays glinting off the spears and armour of the sentries on the ramparts. As the dusk deepened, the light of fires and torches glowed from the bothies in the hill fort as it loomed up on the height, and the smell of cooking rose to the dark blue heavens. The commissary centurion trotted down the track into the glen beneath the hill fort. It was relatively busy with traffic, both walkers and riders, and even an occasional chariot. Soon Probus guided his horse off the beaten track and out into the gathering darkness of the heather.

Amidst a stand of trees, he encountered his agent. The druid sat on a pony, watching him in silence.

‘I’ll be away all night,’ Probus told him. ‘You have plenty of time to ride in secret to the gathering of the druids. If anything goes wrong, what matters most is the intelligence you obtain. Should I be unavailable, Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus is your man. He will be in the camp, either in his own quarters or else in Falco’s tent. I’ve kept your identity from him, but he knows the watchword I taught you. Now get going. And may your dark gods go with you!’

Probus rode on into the fast gathering darkness.

Lugutorix remained where he was, following Probus with his gaze as he rode down the glen towards the farm of Bodurix. The druid felt calm. Once, taking such hazardous action would have terrified him. His blood would have surged and pounded in his temples, he would have thought hopelessly of his loved ones back home in the Orcades. Now, due to the harsh mental training he had received since becoming a druid, he felt nothing. He felt numb. He should have been terrified. He almost wished he was.

He rode away in the opposite direction, towards the standing stone and the meeting of the druids. He had been present at a few such gatherings in his time as a druid. Dark, savage assemblies they had been, with much fire and blood. And for him much fear, until he had mastered the emotion. And illusion—or had it all been illusion? He hoped so.

Riding through the gloom he came to a thicket of thorn bushes, where he dismounted, hitched his pony and proceeded on foot. The stars gleamed above him. The moon had not yet risen, so they provided the only light. He remembered the farm on the Orcades where he had grown up, of the wife he had married, and the children they had raised together.

As he limped onwards through the thorn brakes, Lugutorix was silent, moving unheard and unseen as only one trained as a druid could. He knew that the meeting point must be close by. He knew that no one would dare come anywhere near the standing stone at this time of night. He had nothing to fear, he was a druid and he was attending a druidic gathering—even if he had not been ordered to attend. He did not feel fear, of course. But still he went cautiously, silently. He had not been invited, after all.

Halting, he watched as a tall figure drifted through the trees some way off. Taller than a man, there was a goat skull leering from atop its neck. It vanished into the bushes. Lugutorix limped on his way, knowing that this was not the monster it seemed to be, merely a druid in disguise, patrolling the area to frighten off the curious.

From up ahead he heard chanting and wails. Firelight flickered through the bushes, but he was still too far off to make anything out. He halted by the edge of the thorn brake, then stepped out onto the sward of the meadow that sloped down to the riverbank.

Figures leapt and cavorted around the tall standing stone in the middle of the meadow. Fires blazed in the dark, bonfires on the grass and flaming torches held by motionless figures. Lugutorix watched darkly as black robed druidesses danced and postured, half naked, their hair dishevelled, faces covered by hideous grinning masks, whirling round and round the standing stone.

A figure stepped out into the light at the base of the standing stone. At that moment, a cry went up from a dozen throats. Lugutorix looked up to see standing beside the stone a brawny, masked man wearing a brief costume of oak leaves. In his mighty hands he held a short sword.

Two more druids came forwards, dragging with them a naked woman by the hair. They flung her to the ground at the leaf-clad man’s feet. She whimpered and tried to rise but the man lifted the sword high, then brought it stabbing down. It sank into her white flesh between her shoulder blades and she gave a muffled cry. The leaf-clad man lifted it again, then sank it into her back. Again and again he stabbed and the druids gathered round to watch the way in which she spasmed as her life blood spattered the grass.

Another figure stepped forward, this one wearing an antlered mask like the head of a stag. A haughty Roman voice boomed from beneath it. ‘By Jove, what is this disgusting behaviour?’

The leaf-clad man paused, rose, then spoke. ‘We must know how our plans will develop,’ he replied. ‘From the writhing of this woman we learn much.’

The Roman inclined his stag head doubtfully. ‘Well, what in Pluto’s name have you learnt?’ he asked. The woman was still now. The druids all stood round her motionless form, nodding wisely. One stepped forward.

‘All will go according to plan,’ he said. ‘Your involvement sets the last piece on the board. Now all will benefit, you and your people, and the Caledonians also.’

‘Then this… was an oracle?’ the Roman asked in horrified awe, masked head turned again towards the unmoving body in the middle of the blood spattered sward.

‘Yes,’ the leaf-clad man said. ‘Her final torments predicted everlasting freedom for the Caledonian people. We shall not fall prey to the Roman eagle.’

The stag headed man nodded. ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve promised as much. As soon as it is in my power, I will ensure that the boundaries are drawn clearly, Roman on one side, Caledonian on the other. Never again will you have to fear Roman encroachment on your traditional territories.’

The leaf-clad man clapped him on the shoulder with the hand that was not holding the sword. ‘You come to us as a friend,’ he said.

The Roman stepped back in revulsion. Blood spattered the man’s arms.

‘But none of this will happen unless you do something for me. My friends are poised and ready. They will strike the emperor down at the agreed time: the empress’ birthday, in three months’ time. But if I am to march on Rome and replace him, I must do so at the head of my legions. The legions will not proclaim me emperor unless they have some reason to do so…’

‘We intended to massacre your forces and drive them from the land,’ the leaf-clad man admitted. ‘The war bands have been massing up in the hills out of sight.’

‘That attack may still be made,’ the Roman replied. ‘If the legion wins the victory, my spies among them will agitate to proclaim me emperor. When news comes of the Emperor Hadrian’s assassination, nothing will deter them. But they need a reason in the first place. A resounding victory. Can this be brought about?’

‘You hope to defeat the Caledonians?’ the leaf-clad man asked.

‘You will have to ensure that I win a victory,’ the Roman said. ‘You must give me some sign, something I can show to the attacker at the high point of the battle, which will cause them to turn and flee…’

‘We shall see,’ replied the leaf-clad man. He strode away.

Lugutorix had heard the words but he received only a glimmering of their meaning. Let Probus solve the riddle. His task was finished here.

The masked women had finished cavorting, the druids were intent on the Roman. Quietly, taking full advantage of his druidic training, Lugutorix slipped away into the thorn brake beyond which he had tethered his pony.

But one man came after him, seizing him by the arm as he crept deeper into the thorn brake. It was a druid who glared at him from beneath the hood of his robe.

‘What is it?’ Lugutorix blustered.

‘What is your business at this gathering?’ the druid hissed, brandishing a sickle-like blade. ‘I know you… Your protector Lord Catavolcos is not present this night.’

‘I know this,’ Lugutorix replied. ‘I was commanded by him to join the gathering and report back when he returns from hunting. I can tell you no more. You will let me past and you will not mention my presence to anyone. My attendance here is at the Lord Catavolcos’ bidding only. No one else, not even the Archdruid himself, is to know of it. I go under his authority and his alone. Let me pass.’

‘No,’ said the druid, grasping his sickle firmly.

‘You will suffer for this at Catavolcos’ hands!’ Lugutorix hissed.

‘I will take that risk,’ the druid replied. ‘You shall remain here a prisoner until Lord Catavolcos is present to confirm your claims.’

Desperately, Lugutorix snarled and plunged a dagger at the druid’s belly. It sank in without resistance but as it did so the druid’s sickle-like blade hissed down, cutting deeply into Lugutorix’s shoulder. Blood spurted from the cut. Clutching his belly, the druid sank to the ground, gargling his last. But as Lugutorix dabbed at his own deep wound, he knew that it could well prove mortal.

He whirled round and blundered urgently through the thorn brake.

Shouts of anger came from behind him. Others were coming. He burst out into the open field, upslope from the thorn brake. Even as he did so, running figures appeared from the bushes on either side. One whirled a sling, and Lugutorix felt the impact in the side of his brow. Eyes wide with horror he staggered onwards across the wet grass.

Another sling whirled, and pain shot from his leg. He staggered and fell flat, face first in the mud. His leg had been broken by the sling stone, he was sure of it. And yet somehow he forced himself to his feet and staggered onwards. Pain blossomed in his mind.

He knew he was going to die.

Finally he reached the tethered pony. Whimpering with agony, he leant his hot face against the beast’s coat. It gave a questioning, nervous whinny. Shouts and running feet came from the darkness. He hauled himself painfully over the pony’s back, reaching out to untether it as he did so.

He was dying, he told himself as the pony galloped into the darkness. But he would be glad to die. The druids had taught him that when he died he would be reborn in another life, another world.

No, he didn’t want to die just yet. He must get back to Pinnata Castra in secret. Probus was not going to be available to take his message, but he must ride there—he forced himself to sit up and grab the reins—and bring his report to this Flaminius.

He looked back.

It seemed for the moment that he had left his hunters behind him. There was no sign of pursuit. Relief washed over him. Looking around he recognised where he was. He began to guide the pony down the glen in the right direction for the camp. Maybe it would help him that only the dead druid had seen him face to face. Perhaps this Flaminius would be able to help him, if he survived the ride. He must survive the ride at all costs. His head throbbed, he seemed to soar above great red seas of pain…

The sun had set by the time Flaminius made his way down the narrow lane between the tents leading to the command post. The evening was chill and the way was deserted, no guards. Falco’s personal guard had accompanied the provincial governor on his mission. With luck, Falco would be totally taken aback by his discovery. Then he would be more likely to get angry. But if Medea got advance warning and ushered him out under the tent side before he could be found, everyone would have to know about it, and it would need to get as far as the Caledonians up in the hill fort. He thought he knew how he could get that arranged.

He entered the command post and thudded his knuckles on the flap that covered Medea’s compartment. A sleepy yet sultry voice murmured musically, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me,’ Flaminius hissed.

There was a pause.

Less musical. ‘What is it, tribune?’

Flaminius’ mouth went dry. ‘May I enter?’

She assented, and as he entered the gloom, illuminated by a hastily lit lamp, he saw her struggling into a gown. In the light of the lamp, her face was flushed and her hair disarranged. He pulled the flap closed firmly.

‘There’s no one out there. Just sentries on the perimeter and the rest in their tents or coming back from the parade ground. Centurion Probus has gone to visit a barbarian chieftain, so while the cat’s away…’

A pause. ‘I’m glad you came.’

Their lips met, and it was some time before they parted again. But she seemed colder than usual.

‘Why don’t we stay here?’ he pleaded, indicating her couch.

‘I’d love that,’ she said, ‘but what if someone came in?’

‘While the provincial governor’s away, who’d dare to disturb his concubine?’

She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Apart from you, you mean?’

‘You’re seeing someone else?’ he joked. ‘Not just me?’

She stared at him coldly. ‘Get out.’

He gulped, confused, and rose uncertainly.

She broke into peals of laughter. ‘You’re so easy to tease! It’s no fun for a girl.’ She indicated some cold foodstuffs on the little camp table, eggs in pine nut sauce and fried veal with raisins if he wasn’t mistaken. A small amphora of wine stood in a stand. ‘Won’t you join me?’

Flaminius had eaten nothing but army rations for weeks. He sat uncomfortably on the ground while Medea reclined on her couch and he fell to with a will, satisfying one appetite at least. As the wine warmed him and the rich food filled his belly, he studied her face. She looked up, eyes very big, and he shivered. She did it deliberately, he was sure.

Could he really betray this girl?

‘Your food is as delicious as you are… What do I have, compared with you, what with the places you’ve been and the people you’ve seen…?’

‘Places?’ she scoffed. ‘I’ve followed my lord from one posting to another. They all look the same. Although’—she shivered and pulled her robe close round her, causing Flaminius’ mouth to go dry—‘most were warmer than this one. I’m a woman of the hot South. As for the people I’ve met, they’ve all been lickspittles of my senatorial master, slaves or soldiers… Oh, but not soldiers like you! You’ve shown me a new way of seeing life.’

He reached out and took her face in his hands, gently but firmly. She gazed up at him. Again their lips met. Gently he pressed her down on the couch. The lamp flickered and went out.

And so when he returned, tired and disheartened from his long discussion with the Caledonians, the governor of the province of Britain found his concubine and one of the men lying on the couch in each other’s arms.

‘Medea?’ Falco lifted up a lantern, and the shadows flickered round the tent walls. Flaminius, nervous himself but for different reasons, felt the woman tense beside him, and move like a fawn about to bolt. ‘Medea, where… By Jove!’

Medea snatched up her gown. Flaminius bounded to his feet.

Falco stared at them in shock. Then his face hardened with recognition. ‘I see,’ he said quietly, and placed his hand on his sword hilt.

‘Quintus…’ Medea said, and she licked her lips as if they were dry.

‘How long has this been going on?’ Falco asked. The sword remained in its scabbard.

‘It was all my fault. Not him. He’s just a boy.’

Flaminius objected to that. ‘Senator, it wasn’t gallant of you to arrive without warning. What now?’ His eyes were on the hand that gripped the sword hilt.

‘You’re under arrest, boy,’ Falco said. ‘Get your tunic on.’ He turned and shouted an order. A centurion appeared. ‘Take Tribune Flaminius to his tent and keep him there under armed guard.’ He scowled wearily. ‘All this is beside the point. It can be resolved in the morning.’

Flaminius threw on his clothes, but something about Falco’s manner worried him. He wasn’t angry at all, it was as if something else was preoccupying him.

‘Please, Quintus,’ Medea cried. ‘Leave him alone!’

Falco batted her away and she sprawled across the couch. ‘Enough noise,’ he spat. ‘You think I’m worried about another one of your squalid affairs at a time like this?

‘When word reached me, I gathered my men and marched back as soon as possible,’ Falco told them. ‘Julius Probus is being hunted down now, by my orders. But what part did you play in this little comedy?’ He looked from Flaminius to the weeping concubine on the couch.

It had gone wrong, utterly wrong. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’ll go with the centurion.’ He indicated the man standing stolidly in the entrance.

‘No you won’t,’ the provincial governor said. He drew his sword and turned to the centurion. ‘Get me the camp prefect.’

The camp prefect’s quarters were nearby, and the centurion returned quickly with him. ‘Governor! What’s happening?’ Roscius demanded. ‘You’ve returned? I received no word…’

‘My meeting was infiltrated by a spy. The agent escaped on a horse, although by no means without a scratch. The Caledonians inform me that the spy was known to be working with our very own commissary centurion.’

The prefect’s face fell. ‘Can you be sure?’

‘Of course not,’ Falco replied, ‘but I’m going to get to the bottom of this. At my orders, the Caledonians are searching for Julius Probus. He’s not in the camp, he’s supposed to be staying at the longhouse of a barbarian chieftain for some reason. When they bring him here, I want him under guard. Put him in shackles.’

‘Centurion Probus answers directly to the emperor himself!’ the camp prefect said warningly.

‘That doesn’t put him above the law,’ Falco replied. ‘And you forget that I was also appointed by the Emperor Hadrian, who is first among equals, a senator like you and I. In this province I am your superior, prefect. You’ll do what I say.’

Roscius scowled. ‘Very well.’

‘Our next problem is Julius Probus’ assistant, this lad Flaminius,’ Falco went on. ‘I think I’ll question him personally. But I want two guards to keep him under arrest in his own tent when I’ve finished with him.’

When the prefect had left the tent, Falco turned to Flaminius. ‘Time you started explaining yourself, boy.’

Flaminius’ heart was hammering. He knew now why Probus had said they didn’t want any drama. This was turning into too farcical a song and dance routine. What was going to happen to the commissary centurion? What was going to happen to Flaminius himself for that matter?

Falco poured himself a goblet of wine from the amphora and sipped at it. ‘Come on, out with it. What part did you play in this, lad?’

‘Look,’ said Flaminius, playing for time, ‘if I was involved, would I have been here with your concubine?’

Falco took another sip. ‘Maybe you would.’ He glanced at the trembling girl. ‘What about you?’

Medea’s eyes were wide, but with terror now. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she whispered. ‘Neither does the tribune! I promise it.’

‘Oh, I well believe you know nothing, girl,’ the provincial governor said. ‘You’ve been used by this lad.’ He put the goblet down on the table. ‘Maybe both of you have been used. We’ll find out when Julius Probus is tortured by the interrogators.’

‘You can’t,’ Flaminius said, horrified by the suggestion. ‘He’s a Roman citizen! And an officer! And an imperial agent!’

‘I am the supreme authority in Britain,’ Falco told him coldly, ‘second only to the emperor himself. Centurion Probus does not outrank me, whatever he may think. I’d order it done now, except the chief interrogator is down south in Eboracum. Of course, the Caledonians are passed masters—their druids certainly are. Their imagination puts our Roman interrogators to shame.

‘I’m not letting legal qualms get in the way of the truth. Of course, tribune, if you’d come clean, it would save a lot of time.’

Flaminius knew he had to say something, tell some kind of story, some explanation that would convince the provincial governor. But he just couldn’t think, he couldn’t think! His blood pulsed loudly in his skull. ‘How could we have been spying on this meeting, wherever it was?’ he asked. ‘You know the Caledonians are keeping watch on us all the time.’

‘I always had my doubts about a spy like Julius Probus coming with me on this expedition,’ Falco said. ‘Who’s he supposed to be spying on? The Caledonians? Or me? The emperor has already had senators put to death without trial, due to his suspicions…’ He halted. ‘Why did Julius Probus want to have you working for him in the first place?’

Medea drew herself up, holding onto the tent wall. ‘The tribune proved himself as a servant of the empire when fighting the Britons,’ she said forthrightly.

‘Proved himself…’ Falco sipped more wine. He laughed bitterly. ‘You really are besotted with this plebeian clown. So he’s a servant of the empire. So am I, by Jove! Directly appointed by the emperor himself, what’s more. And regardless of that, working towards the empire’s benefit. Working, not fighting. And it’s hard work but it will be to everyone’s advantage in the end. So, tribune. What did Julius Probus tell you he intended to achieve? The good of the empire? Or of his emperor?’

‘He wanted to learn about how things stand round here,’ Flaminius admitted unwillingly. ‘But not spying, no. And nothing that would not… benefit the empire.’

‘When did this affair of yours begin with Medea?’

‘Er, I… well, we…’ He gulped. ‘It was all my fault. I, er, I seduced her.’

Booted feet tramped outside. A voice called for permission to enter. Falco drew back the tent flap. Another centurion stood there, supporting a bloody, bedraggled figure. The governor pursed his lips in disgust. Horrified, Medea cried out.

‘What in Hades…!’ Falco glared at the centurion.

‘This… man appeared at the main gate,’ the centurion reported. ‘Wants to speak to Tribune Flaminius. Didn’t say why. Didn’t say much.’

He laid the figure on Medea’s couch after Flaminius had rapidly vacated it, a Caledonian in the tattered remnants of a cloak, his body gory. Blood was black on a great cut in his shoulder, and one leg was shattered, Flaminius could see the broken bones sticking through the skin. His gorge rose.

‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus …’ the man said weakly. Flaminius stared at him.

‘He knows you,’ said Falco dispassionately, drawing back and gestured to the centurion with his still drawn sword. ‘Kill this man!’

The centurion looked baffled.

‘Kill him?’ he said. ‘But he’s dying already!’

The man gasped thickly, without looking up, ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus . Which of you is the tribune? Beware Greeks. He said I should say Beware Greeks.’

Flaminius felt his skin draw away from around his eyes. This was Probus’ agent? Mortally wounded? He knelt beside the dying man. ‘I’m Flaminius. What is it?

‘Listen…’ the man whispered reedily. ‘The Caledonians intended to massacre you, but you have been betrayed by your own side. I saw him at a meeting of the druids. The man who commands you will lead you to a staged victory, then the legion will proclaim him emperor…’ His words were so feeble only Flaminius could hear them.

‘Emperor?’ Flaminius whispered in confusion. ‘But Hadrian is emperor…’

‘Not for long. This man’s friends plot to kill your emperor on his wife’s birthday…’

Flaminius remembered what he had heard from Allcallorred about Falco’s secret meeting with Tigernos.

‘You fool!’ Falco shouted at the centurion, pushed him out of the way, and struck. Flaminius leapt back but the sword was not aimed at him. It sank into the dying man’s chest.

Flaminius stared at Falco. The provincial governor was looking rather less splendid than usual—blood spattered his ceremonial armour and he was panting for breath. The centurion stared at him in confusion. Medea held onto the tent wall for support, her face ashen, her beautiful eyes even bigger than usual. The air was rank with the dead man’s blood.

‘I see what happened,’ Falco muttered. ‘Probus had a double agent. He was supposed to spy, obtain the information, and once you’d received it you would take it with you when I sent you to Eboracum in disgrace after finding you with Medea.’ He flung a triumphant glance at the concubine. ‘You were used, my dear. Used! Like a dirty Subura whore underneath the Colosseum arches.’

‘But he told me… he told me…’ Flaminius began. Falco rounded on him.

‘Told you what?’ he demanded fiercely. ‘No, I don’t want to hear,’ he added. ‘You’re now facing a charge of treason.’

‘For trying to save the empire?’

The dying man’s words went round and round in Flaminius’ mind. Much of it he couldn’t understand but one thing he knew, there was a plot to kill the Emperor Hadrian!

‘For spying, for sabotaging my negotiations with the barbarians. Like Julius Probus, you seem to think you’re above the law. Well, you’re a Roman citizen, and you’ll receive Roman justice.’ The provincial governor brandished his blood spattered sword and Flaminius took an involuntary step backwards.

Medea ran forward. ‘Quintus! No!’ She seized the sword and dragged it down. The centurion blundered forward.

Flaminius rushed at Falco. The provincial governor struck Medea again, but she still clung to his sword arm. Flaminius tried to seize the governor, and he aimed a blow at him. Flaminius deflected it, brought his knee up into the senator’s groin, and followed this with a blow to the neck as Falco folded.

Flaminius seized the sword as it dropped and turned to find the centurion lunging with his own weapon. Flaminius parried automatically, and somehow his blade cut into the man’s bull neck. Spraying blood all over the tent wall, the centurion fell to the ground, dead instantly.

Falco groaned and tried to rise. Flaminius held his blade to the man’s throat and snatched out his sword. ‘You’re coming with me. I’m going to get a fast horse out of here.’

Shuddering with horror, Medea rose from where she lay. As Flaminius manoeuvred Falco towards the tent flap, she said faintly, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Making a dash for it,’ Flaminius said. ‘Coming?’

‘Yes… yes!’ she replied. She gave the centurion’s dead body a look. ‘I’m not staying with him!’ Her gaze shifted to the dead druid on the couch. ‘Either of them!’

He hugged her with one arm. Amazement flooded through him. If it hadn’t been for her he’d have been dead. ‘Why did you help me?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Look, Gaius, we’d better get out of here!’

‘Get into your riding gear. Quick!’

Her eyes widened again, and she went to a chest and hurriedly changed into her riding clothes. Flaminius turned to Falco. ‘Now get moving.’

The provincial governor sneered. ‘You think you can just walk out of here, tribune?’

‘I’m going to give it a good try,’ Flaminius told him levelly. ‘And your help will be invaluable.’ He took Falco’s belt and scabbard and put it on. ‘We’re going to walk to the piquet line. If anyone speaks to you, tell them you think I had no connection with Probus. I’ve got important information for you and we’re off to the hill fort to speak with Catavolcos. Any trouble from you and you’re as dead as the centurion at our feet. Understood?’

Falco glared at him and said nothing.

No longer was Flaminius assailed by doubt, he was full of life and vitality and action. Everything was clear and bright and sharply etched: the musty tent, its opulent furnishing, Medea in her riding clothes as she joined them, the stench of blood and shit from the dead bodies. Sweat and heat, the sword hilt in his hand, it was all immediate and clear.

‘Out,’ he said. ‘You first, provincial governor. I’ll come behind. Medea, go at his side. Keep an eye on him. If he tries to attract attention, tell me and I’ll cut him down like I did this dog.’ He indicated the centurion again. He didn’t know if he was proud or deeply ashamed of so decisively ending the stout, dependable, middle aged man’s life.

‘No,’ Medea said, trembling. ‘You can’t kill Quintus.’

‘He was about to kill me. There’s no going back now, Medea! If he does nothing wrong, he’ll live, though maybe he shouldn’t. Get moving.’ He sheathed his sword.

They departed. Flaminius stepped over the centurion’s body with an expression of distaste and regret.

As they came out into the central compartment to find two young tribunes entering through the main tent flap. ‘Is all well, provincial governor?’ one asked Falco. Flaminius’ fingers brushed against the pommel of his stolen sword. With a shock, he recognised the man as Karus, his old messmate.

Falco nodded. ‘I am going up to the hill fort,’ he said, ‘at once. With these companions.’

‘We’ve got confidential documents through there,’ Flaminius added, indicating Medea’s compartment. ‘Don’t go in there. In fact, get a guard set on it until we return.’

The young tribune stared at him in puzzlement. Flaminius was no higher in rank than Karus, lower if anything, since he had only commanded auxiliary horse before becoming a staff officer. Could he bluff his way out? Or was his chariot team going to crash before the first lap of the circus? But Karus and the other one—Flaminius didn’t recognise him, he must be new—were used to obeying orders. It was once Flaminius got out of the fort that he would be facing the real danger.

Guards stopped them halfway down the torch-lit Praetorian Way, but again Flaminius got past them with bluster. The heather beyond the distant gate was lit silver by the risen moon. The night breeze was cold, and in the distance Flaminius could hear the clank and jingle of armour from the sentries on the ramparts.

They reached the piquet line where Flaminius quickly overawed the farrier centurion who led them to where horses stood waiting, heads down and cropping the grass. When the farrier left them to it, Flaminius gestured to Medea and Falco to mount separately.

‘Senator, we’re going to talk our way out of the camp. Are they likely to believe we’re going to the hill fort?’

Falco scowled. ‘When Catavolcos is away?’ Flaminius hadn’t thought if that. ‘Absurd. Enough of this. Surrender, and I’ll ensure you’re treated with all the leniency you deserve.’

‘Looks like we’re doing it the hard way, then. When we reach the gate, you will tell the sentries that you’re going back to retrieve some property you left behind. Connected with the whole Probus episode. Got that?’

‘You really think they’ll believe a word of that?’

‘If not, we’ll cut them down and ride out of here as best we can.’ He mounted his horse and tapped the hilt of his stolen sword. Unlike his longsword it was hardly designed for use from horseback, but he thought he could still do some damage with it, particularly to another mounted man. He glowered menacingly at the provincial governor. ‘Do what I say or I swear you’ll be first to feel this in your guts.’

He knew in that moment what power meant. No longer was he a part of the whole, a tool in the hands of the powerful, right now he was lord of his own little empire, holding absolute power in the form of a sword. But what mattered was keeping the upper hand, not what you held in it. Anticipate the other’s actions and you could counter them. But you must stay in control all the time. Slacken for a second and some upstart would try to knock you from your perch.

For the moment, the most ambitious man in the Roman Empire showed only acquiescence.

‘Please don’t hurt Quintus,’ Medea murmured.

‘I won’t, as long as he gives me no reason to do so,’ Flaminius told her. ‘Now ride!’

The three trotted from the piquet lines. At the gates, a legionary stepped forward. Two more stood to one side, looking alert.

‘Halt!’ the first legionary barked. ‘Who goes there?’ Flaminius shot a glare at Falco.

‘It is I, the provincial governor,’ Falco snapped. ‘I must return to the hill fort to gather papers I left there. Don’t think to impede me or I’ll have your centurion flog you soundly.’

Recognising Falco, the legionaries scurried to haul open the gates. Soon after, Flaminius, Falco and Medea were all riding across the moonlit heather.

‘You did well at the end there, provincial governor,’ Flaminius called across. ‘I really think that legionary is still quaking in his boots.’

‘You’re doing well yourself,’ Falco replied coolly. ‘I can see why Julius Probus wanted to take you on.’

Flaminius shrugged, and kept riding.

‘You won’t succeed, though,’ Falco added in a louder voice after a short while. ‘You’re in the depths of barbarian country, and they certainly won’t let you get away with this.’

‘I hope not,’ Flaminius said. ‘I intend to get away from them.’

The fortress was far behind them now. Mountains marched massively along the western horizon, blotting out the stars. The wind blew cold.

‘In fact, you’re just the man I need,’ Falco added persuasively. ‘A capable lad, full of promise. Just what the empire requires. Someone who could help me once we’ve established peace along the borders.’

‘Shouldn’t we establish peace in the empire first?’ Flaminius asked. He bent low over his horse and rode on.

‘That’s what I want too,’ Falco shouted frantically after him. ‘It’ll happen, under a strong leader. You’ve listened to Julius Probus too much. He’s a narrow minded fanatic. Listen to me instead.’

‘I’m listening.’ Flaminius slowed to ride alongside the provincial governor. ‘Tell me why you’ve been attending secret meetings with Tigernos and the druids.’

‘You know about…?’ Falco stared at him. ‘Very well, I’ve had secret meetings. The druids hold the real power in Caledonia. I’ve made a deal with them, yes. I sounded them out through their master spy Tigernos while I was still in Eboracum. It’s a deal everyone will benefit from. If we allow things to remain as they are, Britain faces war from sea to sea.’

‘If we let the barbarians get their way,’ Flaminius called back, ‘yes, war’s inevitable.’

‘Have you ever asked the Caledonians for their viewpoint?’ Falco demanded.

‘I don’t think we should make it impossible for them to do anything other than fight,’ Flaminius told him, ‘but maybe that’s because I’m just a soldier, not a politician… Now hush up, senator. We’re approaching the moors.’

Ahead lay the rolling heather where the Roman road sank so often into quaking bog and quagmire. The moon had risen now and blazed down its silver light.

A figure rode out from a stand of trees. It was a Caledonian on a shaggy pony. He barked a challenge in his own tongue, and haltingly, Falco replied in the same language.

‘You may ride south but only with an escort,’ the Caledonian added, switching to Latin.

Falco shook his head. ‘That’s not possible, alas. I go on the orders of Catavolcos himself, in pursuit of information for his ears only. You may escort me back to the hill fort on my return.’

‘I shall have to discuss this with my chief,’ the Caledonian said, and he rode back to the trees, where several other mounted men lurked in the shadows.

‘Good work!’ Medea praised Falco, as the three sat their horses and waited for the Caledonian to return.

The provincial governor laughed. ‘Don’t think I’m getting myself mixed up in this spying game,’ he told her coldly. ‘I just want to preserve my life so I can continue to see my plans are carried out. You realise they’ll come after you, Tribune Flaminius? You have all Caledonia and her subject tribes to ride through before you even reach the Roman Empire.’

‘We’ll ride fast,’ Flaminius said shortly. ‘Our horses are better than any of their ponies.’

He whirled his head round at a drumming of hoofs just in time to see the Caledonian leading two more out of the trees at a gallop. All had lances levelled and were riding straight towards the three foreigners. Medea shrieked.

Falco shouted. ‘I have diplomatic immunity! Consult with Catavolcos!’ Flaminius gave him a scowl, kicked his horse into a gallop and rode straight at the attacking Caledonians.

As he rode, he tugged his short sword out of its sheath. It wasn’t designed for fighting on horseback: he missed his cavalry sword. As he rode closer, he shifted his grip of the sword to hold it like a javelin. As the first Caledonian rode straight for him, he flung it.

The Caledonian jerked in his saddle and gave a cry, turning to one side and flinging his spear in Flaminius’ direction. Almost without thinking, Flaminius stuck his hand out and seized the spear, then turned to fling it back. He saw the first Caledonian in silhouette, the sword sticking straight through his head. Then he was gone, toppled over the side of his still racing mount.

His two comrades rode straight past him, spears gleaming in the moonlight. Flaminius reversed the spear in his hand and flung it at the second Caledonian, spitting him through the chest.

The remaining Caledonian took one look at the slaughter, sawed his reins, and rode off northwards across the moor.

Shaking with nerves, Flaminius dismounted, flinging Medea the reins. She stared at him wide eyed. She had seen too much in the last few hours. So had he. The two ponies snorted in fear and bolted at his approach, leaving the bodies where they had fallen in the heather. Flaminius leaned down grabbed the hilt of his sword, put his booted foot on the Caledonian’s bloody face, and heaved. With an awful sucking sound and a scraping of steel on bone, he pulled it free. After automatically wiping it clean and sheathing it, he went back to where Medea and Falco sat their horses.

‘That was… horrible…’ Medea said in a dull voice.

‘Not at all, my dear,’ said Falco languidly. ‘The tribune has proved himself a superlative fighter. If only he knew where his true loyalties lay!’

Flaminius mounted. ‘Let’s get moving before the one who got away comes back with his friends,’ he suggested.

They rode on into the night. Flaminius kept looking over his shoulder, expecting to see Caledonians trailing them. Finally, as the stars were paling over the sea in the east, he called a halt. They were in the midst of the moors, near another grove of twisted trees.

‘This is where we leave you, provincial governor,’ Flaminius said. ‘You’ve been very helpful, thank you. Unfortunately, I’ll have to reward you by leaving you here—to make your way back on foot.’

Falco turned his gaze on the tribune. ‘You’re throwing away a promising career,’ he warned him. ‘I have to cooperate with my Caledonian allies. There is too much at stake. When I return to the camp, I’ll set matters into motion. You’ll be proscribed, tribune. Depend on it. Every man’s hand will be against you.’

At this threat of outlawry, Flaminius placed his hand on the pommel of his sword. In the gloom, Falco saw the gesture and nodded.

‘You could kill me.’ The provincial governor was calm, stoic. ‘That might be better for you. It would be the end of your life as a Roman citizen, of course.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I’ll not do that. Get down off there.’

With a shrug, Falco dismounted. Medea leaned over and gathered the horse’s reins. The provincial governor looked at her.

‘Why not come back with me?’ he asked. ‘Leave this young pup to ride to his death. I don’t want to lose you.’ He said it in a matter of fact tone, as if the concubine were no more than a prize trinket. ‘After all, the only other women in the camp are Caledonians.’ Flaminius caught a delicate shudder.

‘You’d accept me back?’ Medea asked. ‘After this?’

The provincial governor nodded. Medea rode closer, leaned forward and brushed his lips with her own. ‘Thank you for the offer,’ she added. ‘But I’m going with the tribune.’

‘After the way he’s treated you?’ Falco’s eyebrows lifted. ‘After all this bloodshed?’

‘It was necessary,’ she said. ‘I believe what he said.’

Falco snorted, turned and began striding back up the overgrown Roman road.

—12—

Accompanied by the spare horse, Flaminius and Medea rode southward across the moor. The sun rose as a line of red on the eastern horizon while they travelled onwards, but they dared not halt for fear of Caledonian ambush. So far they had been lucky, thanks to the unwilling aid of Falco, but now their luck was walking on weary legs northwards and away from them.

‘I’m glad you decided to keep me with you,’ Medea said shyly. ‘I wouldn’t want to trek back all that way with Falco.’ She paused.

‘I hope I won’t be a nuisance,’ she added.

‘Not at all,’ said Flaminius gallantly. ‘You should brighten up a long cold journey considerably. Now hush, though, we need to ride hard.’

‘I’ll keep quiet,’ she promised, and added, ‘I’m not a complete innocent. The life of a concubine encourages you to learn how to survive. This is the first time, though, that I’ve done something for the good of the empire.’

Flaminius grunted. ‘I’m doing this for Probus,’ he said. ‘Riding with only his shade for company would have been a lonely business. Instead I have you.’

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 him. 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 peaceful 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.

‘What’s the use?’ Medea demanded. ‘As long as you get your message to the authorities, you’ll have done your duty.’

Flaminius shook his head, kindling the tinder as he did so. As the flames grew, he wondered if he would have to go all the way to Rome himself. He could trust no one. Anyone could be implicated in the plot: anyone in the Senate at least, and they were the people with the power, six hundred men in Rome or scattered throughout the empire in civil and military posts, procurators and proconsuls and prefects. Any one of them could be in cahoots with Quintus Sosius Falco, while everyone else in the empire was subordinate to them.

He could trust no one. Would he have to go alone and warn the emperor himself? Or could he trust the legate of the Ninth, Lucius Aninius?

Medea saw something in his face. ‘What is it?’ she murmured. She looked frightened. Her fear mirrored his own. One man against an empire… He knew something of how the emperor must feel.

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said at last.

He could trust her, yes, she wouldn’t betray him. But she might—with the right incentive. She wasn’t a Roman citizen. They could quite legally use torture if she got into their clutches. With horror, he imagined that exquisitely sculpted face wracked with pain. There was no way he could expect her to go with him to Rome, but he couldn’t burden her with the truth.

Even as he was explaining this as best he could, they heard the rumble of wheels on the crumbling old Roman road. Coming from the North. Sweating, Flaminius swung round to see a wagon cresting the rise. A wagon, not a Caledonian chariot, a covered wagon drawn by two old nags, with a gaudy awning. Sitting behind the horses was a swarthy, potbellied man with a long, oiled beard.

‘What in Hades…?’ Medea breathed.

‘I thought it was the Caledonians,’ Flaminius admitted, his pulse racing. ‘He’ll be slower than us… but if we could hitch a ride, we’d be less of a target, and surely he’s heading for the empire…’

They awaited the wagon’s approach.

‘Romans!’ the old man roared on seeing them. ‘What brings you out into the wilds?’

‘I could ask the same of you,’ said Medea, speaking pointedly in Greek, of which Flaminius had only a smattering. ‘We’ve had trouble with the Caledonians,’ she added, slipping back into Latin. She introduced herself and the tribune.

‘Aristarchus of Pergamum, the eye doctor, my friend,’ the man replied. ‘Salves, lotions and potions. Magic spells extra, drawn up by my old friend Simon Magus. I wander the edges of empire selling my skills and my salves to the benighted barbarian. I often have to move on in haste, and I’ve had trouble with the Caledonians myself in the past, so I sympathise.’ He indicated their horses. ‘Your steeds are weary, my friends!’

Flaminius gazed at the bald, bearded man and into the shadows of his wagon. All manner of odours and smells drifted from it, the perfumes of Arabia and India. What did he concoct his salves from?

‘Our horses are tired indeed,’ he answered. ‘What brings a Roman citizen to these parts?’

‘Not Roman, my friend,’ Aristarchus barked, ‘a provincial. I’m a Greek! I’ve roamed these lands for four years. Before that, the German marches. I hear no Greek or even Latin for months at a time. But it’s profitable, one way or another.’ Aristarchus’ eyes were on Medea, who was primping her hair and adjusting her gown. ‘Lonely, lonely life. How nice to meet you, indeedy! First we feed your horses, my friends, then you have drinks with me, yes?’ His Latin was not as good as Medea’s.

‘We’d better talk right now, physician,’ Flaminius said. ‘Our horses—no, let’s get out of sight.’

‘You wait. I be alone with the little lady, no?’ Aristarchus laughed uproariously and pawed at Medea. She pulled a face and dodged him. He beckoned them inside his wagon, leering.

‘Don’t annoy him,’ Flaminius hissed before they scrambled up to join the eye doctor. ‘This is wonderful luck.’

She pulled a face. ‘You think so?’

‘Yes. This man can travel between the tribes without being attacked. What a wonderful cover. If I survive this I’ll suggest it to Probus… Look, he won’t give us away. As long as we’re friendly with Aristarchus, we’ll be safe for the next few hundred miles.’

Inside the wagon would have shamed the most slatternly Selgovian housewife, though it smelt like a Tyrian bordello. A cat was curled up in one corner, a black Egyptian creature with an earring, which peered disdainfully at Flaminius before hiding its nose in its tail. The Greek filled goblets with barely watered wine and handed it to them. He knocked his back with exuberance.

‘So, we talk,’ he bellowed. ‘What are you doing galloping about the wilds, a soldier and a fancy girl?’

Medea took her goblet and found the least dirty corner to settle in. Flaminius remained with Aristarchus. The man, his red nose declared, was a drunk. He roamed the wilds selling his skills and salves and panaceas—in return for what, he wondered, surely no one had money round here—he drank most of the proceeds, it seemed. No matter, as long as he could get them out of the reach of the Caledonians—and of Falco’s allies and co-conspirators, whoever they might be.

‘You’re going to Eboracum now?’ he asked.

Aristarchus nodded. ‘Yes, I supply the camp physician. I sell up my stock, buy more. In between, I party! I like Eboracum, Londinium more. But tell me about you two! Much more interesting.’

‘I can’t really tell you anything,’ said Flaminius in what he hoped was an impressive tone, ‘except I’m on a secret mission. I need to get to Eboracum without anyone knowing. If my companion and I can get into the fortress riding in your wagon, and if you keep quiet about our presence, you will have done the empire a real favour.’

‘A secret mission? With a fancy girl?’ Aristarchus guffawed. ‘Secret indeed, I’ll wager!’

‘I rescued her from Caledonians,’ Flaminius told him. ‘That’s why we were on horseback and otherwise alone. There’s trouble up north. I have information for the legate in Eboracum.’

Aristarchus stopped laughing. He took a deep draught of wine. ‘Trouble? War? But I can travel these lands without being attacked. I’m friendly with Tigernos the Caledonian merchant.’

‘And you should still be safe, if they know you,’ Flaminius reassured him. ‘As long as they don’t know we’re with you.’ He worried about the reference to Tigernos, buy surely this Greek was no druid.

Aristarchus mopped at his brow. He regarded himself as a pioneer, an explorer and merchant like the legendary Pytheas of Massilia, or Megasthenes of Arachosia, wandering the wilds. But now he was in too deep. ‘My backers,’ he spluttered. ‘The merchants who have shared in my enterprise. I must take care of their stock.’

Flaminius considered threatening him with his sword, but that had to remain a last resort. ‘Your first duty is to Rome. All you have to do is enter the empire as you would do normally and head for Eboracum, letting us off there. No one need know. The Caledonians will never hear of it, I assure you.’

‘But… but I…’

An idea occurred. ‘As for your backers,’ Flaminius added, ‘you can do them a good turn. These horses we’ve been riding, and the spare mount, they’re yours. Look at them’—he gestured beyond the back entrance to the covered wagon—‘they’re prime horseflesh. Worth plenty.’ He grinned. ‘Of course, you’ll declare the sale to your backers.’

Aristarchus roared with laughter. ‘Why, of course!’ he boomed, giving Flaminius a wink. He drained his drink. ‘Good doing business with you!’ He spat in his palm and extended it. Flaminius copied him a little gingerly, and they shook on it. To her evident dismay, Aristarchus demanded to shake hands with Medea too. Once the eye doctor had gone out to secure the horses, she made a grimace of disgust and wiped her hand several times against the canvas sides. The cat watched her coolly.

‘How long will it take us to get to Eboracum now?’ she asked.

‘Two or three days,’ Flaminius told her, settling himself down for the journey.

‘Three days? With that oaf?’

‘Sorry, but we can’t go back. I’ve traded our horses with him.’ Even now, Aristarchus was tethering the beasts to the back of the wagon. ‘I think we’ve had a stroke of luck.’

‘I hope we’re never so lucky again,’ Medea grumbled. ‘I suppose this means things can’t get any worse.’

But they could, of course.

The following day, they were sitting in the back of the wagon as Aristarchus drove down the ill kept roads running along the edges of Selgovian territory. It was cold outside, and they huddled together for warmth, passing the time with a desultory game of calculi. It wasn’t going well, but the cat had unwound enough to sit on Medea’s lap.

They had stopped in a village while Aristarchus went to barter his services with the locals. Flaminius was about to move a piece on the calculi board when the wagon lurched, the hangings were torn back, and Aristarchus burst in, a long surgical knife in one paw, a tablet of birch wood in the other. An expression of fury was on his bearded face.

Startled, Flaminius went for the sword he’d lain on the floor nearby, but it was too late, Aristarchus held the surgical saw to his throat. The cat scampered for cover.

‘You’re my prisoner!’ the Greek barked.

Flaminius felt sick. ‘What is this?’ Betrayal? Who was the eye doctor working for?

‘Read!’ Aristarchus thrust the tablet at him. ‘You traitor, with your talk of duty to the empire! You try to fool me? Look what I found nailed up in the village square!’

It was a notice, written in Latin: Office of Lucius Aninius, legate commanding the 9th (Spanish) Legion. Flaminius scanned the text.

By order of the provincial governor, Quintus Pompeius Falco, senator, Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus , late of the 2nd Frisian Auxiliary Troop, now attached to the commissary corps, is wanted for mutiny and horse theft…

A less than flattering description followed.

Tribune Flaminius is to be captured and returned under armed guard to Falco, currently in Caledonia. All travellers will be stopped and questioned…

Medea moaned faintly and put her hands to her face.

Falco’s imperial couriers must have somehow got ahead of them during the journey. Flaminius and Medea had spent too much time off the roads attempting to evade pursuit. It must have been then that the imperial couriers had overtaken them. Word had reached Eboracum and now the legate ordered his arrest.

‘Explain!’ Aristarchus growled.

Flaminius leaned against the canvas walls and said nothing.

‘You thought you’d implicate me in your plot, your horse theft?’ Aristarchus was incandescent. ‘I, sell stolen horses? I have a reputation that’s second to none.’

Flaminius looked at Medea. She had lowered her hands but her face was pale. He put down the notice, his mind working fiercely. ‘I suppose I’d better tell you the whole story.’

‘I don’t want to hear, I wan’ no imperial secrets. I just wan’ hand you over to the Roman soldiers.’

Flaminius fell, rolled, came up again with the sword, and swung it to knock the saw from Aristarchus’ hand. It fell to the floor. Aristarchus backed away.

‘You can’t escape,’ he said. ‘We’re in the empire now. The soldiers are looking for you already.’

‘Look,’ Flaminius said, lowering his sword, ‘this is a misunderstanding. Falco is… is mistaken. I do have information, like I told you, and it has to reach… the legate. I want nothing from you but for you to take me to Eboracum. Do what you like with the horses. I have a message to get through, at the highest level.’

‘We’ll be stopped by the patrols,’ Aristarchus objected. ‘They’ll think I’m part of your plot.’ But he was weakening.

‘If so, I’ll exonerate you and request that we are taken to Eboracum. If you get me to Eboracum without arrest, I’ll speak highly of you in the highest quarters. A year from now you could be a Roman citizen.’

Aristarchus’ eyes darted back and forth. He looked pensive, calculating.

‘Either that,’ Flaminius said, gripping his sword, ‘or I tie you up and drive your wagon myself, in disguise.’

‘No!’ Aristarchus said. ‘You’d be caught at once. Word would get back to my backers. I’d be ruined… Very well. But you must stay hidden. Behind my supplies.’

Flaminius realised that Aristarchus could betray him the moment a patrol hove into sight—and he was scared enough to do so without a qualm.

Medea took her fellow Greek’s hands. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said in their own tongue.

‘Wha’s that?’ he grunted.

‘You’re such a man! An Achilles, an Odysseus.’

‘But, girl…’

‘There’s no mention of me in the notice,’ she said. ‘Let Gaius hide with your supplies. I’d rather keep you company.’

‘But… everyone knows I travel alone,’ Aristarchus complained. ‘Who could believe I had so lovely a companion?’

‘Don’t worry about what people will think,’ Medea said, putting a hand to her chest and opening her eyes wide. The cat crawled out from its hiding place in the corner and stared at her resentfully.

Flaminius felt suddenly optimistic. ‘You’ll have some immediate rewards, too,’ he commented.

Aristarchus rose boldly, as if he was indeed a hero of old. He pulled Medea to his side. ‘Why, so I will!’ When the eye doctor wasn’t looking, Medea gave Flaminius a look.

She went out with her fellow Greek to sit on the front board. Aristarchus whipped up his beasts. Flaminius crept into hiding behind the eye doctor’s supplies.

The wagon creaked as it lumbered down the road to Eboracum. From outside came the moan of the wind, the occasional cry of birds, and a smell of boggy land.

Half an hour later, he heard Frisian auxiliaries challenge the eye doctor, heard Aristarchus’ bland words, heard the auxiliaries ride on without checking the wagon. Medea had clearly found some way to stiffen the cowardly eye doctor’s resolve.

The plan was working. Now they were on their way to Eboracum. Again he remembered his doubts. Could the legate be trusted? Or would he have no option other than to travel straight to the emperor, to warn him of the plot? He wondered again if he should share his knowledge with Medea, but no—it would be unfair to burden her, or to make her a target for the interrogators. But he did not know how Lucius Aninius would react. The man seemed to be no friend of Falco, but perhaps that had just been an act. He would want to investigate the safety of his legion, seven of whose cohorts were in Caledonia with the provincial governor. That would waste time. The empress’ birthday was only a month or so away. Even now the provincial governor’s mysterious co-conspirators must be poised to assassinate the emperor.

So if Flaminius was to rely on Lucius Aninius—even assuming the legate was not in on the plot—it would slow things down, perhaps fatally for the future of the empire. Civil war threatened, and who knew how the barbarians would take advantage. No doubt it would be with fire and the sword.

But he did have other allies. The wagon was even now entering the territory of the Carvetti.

He peered out of the back of the wagon. It was growing dark. The three horses trotted along behind them. Flaminius glanced back. Up on the wagon’s main seat, Medea and Aristarchus were talking together in Greek and laughing, the old man leaning a little too close. Flaminius buckled on his stolen sword and reached out to untether the freshest of the three horses. Then he jumped down onto the road, letting the two other horses trot on but hastily mounting the untethered horse.

He tugged on the reins and they halted, watching the wagon rattle on down the road. For a long time he thought he could see the green glint of the cat’s eyes gazing from the gloom of the back of the wagon. As soon as the vehicle was out of sight, Flaminius spurred the horse and rode cross country towards Luguvalium.

—14—

Luguvalium, Carvetti territory

Drustica sat by the smoking peat fire, regarding her unexpected guest impatiently. From outside the longhouse filtered the sound of people moving about in the muddy yard, the clink of armour, muttered voices. Flaminius stared out of the doorway. Luguvalium was packed with armed Carvettians; men in helmets and mail, holding oblong shields and leaf bladed spears, surrounded Drustica’s bothy. They were the warriors of the Carvettians, who had been summoned to the village by Drustica.

Sighing with impatience, Flaminius glanced back at the warrior woman. In the gloom of the longhouse, which was hung with barbaric ornaments, her eyes shone blue and her fair hair seem to glitter like spun gold. Her face split with a wolfish smile. ‘Now we can spend time together.’

A little unwillingly, Flaminius came to sit beside her. Drustica sipped mead from a horn and regarded him. ‘Will you not join me in a drink?’ she added winningly.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He could hardly refuse her gesture of hospitality. Accepting a fresh mead horn from a slave-woman, he sipped at the sweet liquid. ‘At least here I have friends!’

‘Of course,’ Drustica said. ‘My people are all eager to aid you against Rome. They are on the point of rebellion because of the way you have been treated!’ Her eyes flashed fire.

‘Now wait a minute,’ Flaminius protested, aware of how sensitive the situation was. ‘I’ve not turned my back on Rome. I’ve been accused of crimes, yes, but I’m not a rebel. There’s a plot afoot which strikes at the heart of Rome, and I intend to be the man who scotches it.’

‘You are proscribed now, are you not?’ Drustica said as if it was a simple matter. ‘What loyalties do you have to Rome now she has spurned you?’

Flaminius shrugged. ‘I don’t know exactly what’s happening. Falco’s got it in for me, I know that much—and he’s the governor of the whole province. But I think Lucius Aninius can be trusted. The legate of the Ninth Legion is second only to Falco in military matters, at least in the North he is. That’s why I sent those messengers to Eboracum, asking him to despatch a trustworthy man to your village.’

‘I will make it clear to the Romans that they must not take our hero captive,’ Drustica told him, ‘not unless they want an uprising.’

‘No, look…’

‘And they do not want that. Their borders are unstable enough. They need our loyalty!’ She paused, scowling. ‘But you have told me little about yourself. You wrested a mystery from the druids of the North. Now where do you go?’

‘I think I must go to Rome,’ he said bleakly. ‘Far to the South, where the emperor lives.’

She shivered.

‘So very far away,’ the warrior woman murmured, and Flaminius remembered that to her even Londinium was a long way off. ‘Tell me more. Why must you go to Rome?’

He told her of what had happened to him up in Caledonian, editing the facts to ensure there was no undiplomatic mention of Medea. He was just describing his journey south when he heard a distant blare of horns from outside.

A Carvettian warrior rushed in. ‘Romans!’ the man gasped. ‘Romans approaching.’

Drustica leapt to her feet in one fluid movement. She placed her hand on the pommel of her sword. ‘Come,’ she instructed Flaminius. Together they followed the warrior from the hut.

Riding into the town were several armoured men with red crested helmets. They reined their steeds. The lead rider jumped down, removed his helmet and strode forwards.

‘Tribune Flaminius!’ he barked. It was Lucius Aninius. The legate himself had come in answer to his message!

Flaminius marvelled at this as he hurried forward to greet his superior officer, Drustica keeping close beside him. The Carvettian warriors crowded round.

‘Where shall we go to talk?’ the legate demanded, glancing nervously about him. His accompanying tribunes and centurions were giving the Carvettians some very dirty looks.

‘Perhaps we can go into the Lady Drustica’s longhouse,’ Flaminius suggested. He drew closer. ‘Look here,’ he said in a soft voice, ‘the local people are… threatening rebellion. You shouldn’t have come in person, sir. Things could turn ugly.’

Lucius Aninius looked about him. His expression was pretty ugly itself. ‘Is this your work?’

‘No, sir. Not at all. I mean, not intentionally. But they came to support me. They see me as, er, a kind of hero, sir.’ A lot of people did. He’d have to discourage them in future, it only led to trouble. ‘When they heard I’d been proscribed, they offered to rise up against Rome! I’ve not done anything to encourage revolt… look, sir, there’s an explanation.’

‘I’d be fascinated to hear it,’ Lucius Aninius replied drily. ‘You seem to have tipped this tribe over into open rebellion, which is exactly what we’ve been working to avoid. The Carvetti of all tribes! Very well, you are under arrest but we won’t be taking you into custody as yet. Now let us go and discuss your message in this… lady’s… longhouse.’

‘What did he say?’ Drustica had not followed the exchange, which had been in the purest Latin. Flaminius explained as briefly and succinctly as he could. She nodded starkly. ‘I’ll call for some of my warriors to ensure he keeps his word.’

‘He will, I’m sure,’ Flaminius reassured her in her own tongue. ‘Please tell your people to pull back. We don’t want a misunderstanding.’

‘Very well.’ Drustica went to speak to the warriors. Flaminius turned and gestured to the legate and his men to join him in the longhouse.

Drustica swept in after them. She stood rigidly to attention before the legate.

‘At ease,’ said Lucius Aninius crisply. He turned to Flaminius with a raised eyebrow. ‘Won’t you introduce me?’

‘Oh, this is Drustica, a chieftainess and warrior woman of the Carvettian people,’ Flaminius replied. ‘Drustica, this is Senator Lucius Aninius Sextius Florentinus, legate of the Ninth (Spanish) Legion.’

Lucius Aninius saluted in turn, with all the respect due an empress. Drustica eyed him a while, then gave him a perfect legionary’s salute.

‘I feel hope,’ she murmured in an aside to Flaminius.

‘What did she say?’ the legate demanded.

‘I, er, think she likes you!’ Flaminius explained.

Lucius Aninius smiled in his beard. ‘You mean she’s prepared to trust me for the moment.’

‘Please be seated,’ Flaminius said as Drustica produced a wooden stool from the corner of the longhouse. She herself squatted by the fire. The legate sat on the stool, looking slightly ridiculous in his burnished armour. His men looked on, straight faced. Flaminius remained standing, ill at ease but optimistic.

‘You will be glad to hear that the provincial governor’s concubine Medea is safe and well,’ Lucius Aninius told him, ‘although a little the worse for wear after her adventures. She got to Eboracum a few days before the Carvettian messengers reached me. The Greek eye doctor Aristarchus brought her in. She told me how you escaped Caledonia.’

‘I know what the Caledonians are planning,’ Flaminius said hurriedly, ‘and what Falco plots…’

‘Falco has ordered that you be killed on sight if you do not go to him quietly,’ Lucius Aninius informed him.

Flaminius felt rage take over. ‘I’m a Roman citizen! I’m entitled to judgement in a court of law! Would you kill me without a trial?’

The legate stroked his beard. ‘The law says that if a citizen is proscribed he no longer has the privileges of citizenship. And the provincial governor—representative of the emperor in these islands—has indeed had you proscribed, tribune. He says that you endangered his mission to the Caledonians with your plotting, that you threatened to kill him, and abducted him and the concubine. Unless you agree to return to him and face summary justice, I should have you killed.’

‘What exactly are the charges?’ Flaminius asked bitterly.

‘Treason to start with,’ Lucius Aninius replied, and he began listing them on his fingers. ‘Desertion, kidnapping, horse-theft, mutiny… the list goes on! Since then you’ve added several other, including inciting a people under Roman jurisdiction to rebellion. And right now you’re resisting arrest. You have a lot to answer for, tribune.’

‘The provincial governor is a traitor!’

‘You know that’s a very serious charge,’ Lucius Aninius told him gravely. ‘I hope you can substantiate it.’ He said this as if he truly meant it. ‘But why did you not go straight to Eboracum with the concubine? Why go to ground with your barbarian friends here? No disrespect,’ he added, flashing Drustica a charming smile.

She growled at him and gripped her sword hilt. Flaminius shook his head, gesturing warningly at the guards, and continued speaking to the legate.

‘If I’d strolled into the camp with a price on my head, what would have happened? I’d have been killed or sent back to Falco! I tell you, he’s a traitor. A traitor to Rome. A traitor to his emperor.’

‘Go on,’ said the legate cautiously.

Flaminius explained what had happened. All the time he was speaking, he kept his gaze on the legate. Should Lucius Aninius show any signs of being part of Falco’s conspiracy, Drustica could cut him down. The guards would attack, but then the Carvettians would burst in… He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

At last Flaminius fell silent. The guards looked horrified. Lucius Aninius was saddened if not shocked.

‘And you can prove this?’ he said.

Flaminius sighed. ‘No,’ he said, knowing how inadequate it sounded. ‘You’ll just have to trust me.’

He was bargaining from a position of strength provided by the support of Drustica and her people. But how could he expect the legate to accept what he said simply on his say-so?

‘I don’t trust you,’ Lucius Aninius said frankly. ‘I hardly even know you. A junior officer, an equestrian in rank…’ But even as Flaminius stirred uncomfortably and Drustica looked angrily from one to another, the legate added, ‘I do know Centurion Julius Probus, however, and I know he trusts you. I trust him—and what’s more, I do not trust Falco.’

Hope blossomed again. ‘You’re willing to believe my story?’

The legate nodded. ‘Unfortunately, Falco is my superior,’ he added, ‘so I cannot have his order rescinded. By now your name and description will have been passed on to all the garrisons halfway between here and Rome. There’s nothing I can do about it. And I am in no position to abandon my duties here with my legion and go gallivanting off to warn the emperor about a supposed assassination attempt. As you said yourself, the conspiracy exists at the highest levels, and we can trust no one.

‘What I am able to do is to give you a pass that will ensure you receive fresh horses at every waystation between here and Rome. The lance-head brooch that marks you as an official member of the Commissary will speed you on your way. At waystations you’ll be given all the aid that would be given to an imperial courier.

‘You’re on your own, Tribune Flaminius. But I will do everything in my power to ensure you reach Rome and bring your warnings to the Emperor Hadrian. And for Rome’s sake let us hope you are not too late!’

He saluted Flaminius solemnly.

‘What did the Roman say?’ demanded Drustica, who had been unable to follow most of the conversation. ‘Will he help us?’

Flaminius turned to her, feeling tears prickle in his eyes. ‘He’ll do what he can to make sure I get to Rome and warn the emperor. But what’s this about “us”?’

‘You won’t give me the slip, Roman!’ Drustica growled defiantly. ‘I shall accompany you!’

—15—

Rutupiae, Roman province of Britain

A couple of days later four mounted travellers rode into the courtyard of a waystation in Rutupiae[20]. Flaminius, Drustica, and two warrior companions had hit the Rutupiae road south east of Mamucium[21], somewhere in Cornavii country, and then it had led them south east, straight through Londinium—they left the road at this point and skirted round the provincial capital—through Cantium and to Rutupiae itself, which was one of the main British ports for the continent.

Drustica had left the guardianship of her people in the hands of her fellow warriors. The Selgovae were beginning to raid across the border again despite the efforts of the auxiliaries stationed at Trimontium, so it was a bad time to leave her territorial lands, but she thought Flaminius’ cause of vital importance. She had brought with her two warriors of her own household troop, Acco, a hefty, middle aged warrior with fantastically curled moustaches and a deft way with a spear, and Teutorix, an agile, handsome youth whose main skills lay in use of the sling.

Here at Rutupiae, at the mouth of a river, the Romans had gained their first successful toehold in the island, when the Emperor Claudius had made a single hasty visit to the country, accepted submission from a few tribes in the south east, proclaimed a triumph, and hurried back to Rome, leaving the real job of pacification in the hands of a series of overworked provincial governors. The town remained an important place, dominated by a huge triumphal arch set up by Governor Agricola after his victory over the Caledonians, although the fortified depot that also scowled over the civilian town now had a much reduced garrison. Several temples and an amphitheatre were also evident as the four of them rode in, but the new waystation was rapidly becoming the centre of town.

Grooms scurried forwards as they reined their horses in the courtyard. Dismounting, Flaminius wordlessly showed them the lance-head brooch and flung them his reins.

‘When is the next boat to Gaul?’ he demanded as Drustica and the two Carvettian warriors got down stiffly to join him. One groom told them that the boat would leave on the turn of the evening tide. Flaminius nodded at Drustica. ‘Now for some rest.’

Saddle-sore, the four fugitives limped their way over to the main building. Here again Flaminius brusquely showed his lance-head brooch to the attendant, who accepted it gravely, although he looked a little askance at the British warriors accompanying him, and hastily showed them all to a private booth.

‘May I recommend the oysters in egg sauce?’ the attendant suggested. ‘Freshly gathered oysters.’

‘Thanks,’ said Flaminius, eager to see the back of him. ‘And a small amphora of wine.’ The attendant gave a curt nod and left.

‘I’m glad that he’s gone,’ Flaminius began, turning to Drustica, but as he did so the warrior woman nodded her head warningly. A man sat in the corner of the booth, sipping a goblet of wine and staring at the outlandish newcomers who had invaded his space. Flaminius rose to find another place for them all to sit.

‘No, please don’t get up on my account.’ With these words, the man leaned forward into the light. Flaminius saw that he had a thick black beard and beady, piggy eyes. ‘The place is packed with people waiting for the next boat to Gaul. There’s a lot of worry about the rising in the North. You won’t find a free booth elsewhere.’

His gaze settled on Flaminius’ lance-head brooch and his eyes widened a little, then he glanced enquiringly at Drustica and the two Carvettian warriors. When Flaminius made no attempt at an explanation, the man took another swig of wine.

‘My name’s Marcus Placidus.’ He introduced himself in a deep, grating voice. ‘I’m an imperial courier. I can see you’re in the Commissary, friend. But who are your provincial friends? Who’s the lady? Looks like some kind of barbarian Amazon, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Drustica bared her teeth at him, while Acco and Teutorix growled low in their throats like angry hounds. Flaminius laid a hand on her wrist and shot the other two warning glances. Drustica turned to him. ‘What is he saying about me?’ she complained. ‘What is an Amazon?’

‘A warrior woman from the old Greek stories,’ Flaminius said hurriedly, not wanting to go into detail. ‘It’s a compliment, really.’ He wished his companions could have ignored the man. Now he’d have no option other than to talk to him.

Knowing that his description had been bruited about everywhere between here and Rome made Flaminius feel distinctly unsociable. If only the boat was leaving earlier! He considered marching aboard, showing them his lance-head brooch, and demanding they leave at once—but of course, they were waiting for the tide to turn. He couldn’t fight the tide.

‘You’re all from up north?’ Marcus Placidus persisted. ‘How are things up there? All we hear about is raids and skirmishes. They say the provincial governor himself has gone to talk with the Caledonians, who they reckon are at the back of it all…’ He looked at Drustica and the two warriors again. ‘The lady and the two gentlemen look like they might be Caledonians…’

Flaminius gripped Drustica’s wrist before she could react. ‘My three friends are peregrines, Marcus Placidus, members of a people loyal to the empire,’ he said coldly. ‘They have all fought against the Caledonians and their subject tribes. They are no barbarians.’

Marcus Placidus made a conciliatory gesture. Drustica showed no signs of backing down, while Acco and Teutorix were still glowering at the Roman. Things looked like they were going to turn ugly when the attendant entered with a tray piled with two bowls of oysters in egg sauce, and a fresh amphora of wine in a copper stand.

‘Charge it to the Commissary account,’ Flaminius said, then fell to his meal with a will. His Carvettian companions joined him. They seldom turned down food, having known famine too many times in their lives.

‘I’m glad to see that some Britons remain loyal,’ the irrepressible Marcus Placidus went on, apparently not noticing the hostile atmosphere. ‘The messages I’ve taken back and forth suggest the whole island is up in arms.’

‘My people is loyal to Rome,’ Drustica insisted, after pausing and dabbing at her lips. Acco and Teutorix nodded furiously. She took a swig of wine. ‘Particularly to Tribune Fla…’

‘So what rumours have you heard recently?’ Flaminius interrupted. ‘Is it war with the Caledonians yet?’

Marcus Placidus tore his attention from the three peregrines and turned to look at him. Slowly he shook his head.

‘Not yet, but I hear that the Ninth Legion have had to lock themselves into Agricola’s old fortress. Things are turning ugly up there. That was why I wondered if you had anything to add.’

Flaminius shook his head. Things had clearly got a lot worse since his hasty departure. He hoped that Probus hadn’t suffered, that it hadn’t been their plots that had sparked off hostilities with the Caledonians.

Turning his attention to his meal again, he remembered that he had eaten oysters before setting out on that fateful patrol where he had first met Drustica. Perhaps they were some kind of druidic omen. After all, they had been British oysters on both occasions.

Drustica and her two warriors sat there, eating and drinking in silence. Marcus Placidus returned his own attention to his wine. Flaminius began to relax. His muscles ached from all this hard riding.

‘Myself, I hope it will be war,’ Marcus Placidus added breezily. Flaminius tensed again. He wished the man would take the hint and shut up. ‘Britain has been a dull place since I was first posted here!’

‘I’ve seen enough fighting in the North,’ Flaminius told him levelly. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

He sipped moodily at his wine, and toyed with his oysters. It occurred to him that hitting the road with a barbarian warrior woman and her warrior retainers—whose table manners were hardly what you’d expect in Roman society—might not have been the best way to melt into the background. Several times during their journey through the placid lowlands of the province, his Carvettian companions had attracted unwelcome attention. It seemed that the Britons of the South were far too Romanised to accept the notion of a woman with a sword, accompanied by two tattooed warriors.

It wasn’t so many years since Boudicca, queen of the Iceni, had led her hordes across those fertile fields, setting alight Roman towns and piling up severed heads. A generation or more had passed since those days, although the people of the cities had not yet forgotten. All the same, it had been long enough for Roman life to begin to flourish in the South. After so long in the northern wilds, Flaminius felt uncomfortable among these toga wearing semi-barbarians with all their absurd airs and graces and fashions that hadn’t been seen in Rome since Flaminius was a boy. And it wasn’t long before they would be travelling even further south, through Gaul, over the Alps, into Italy itself.

As the Carvettians munched and chomped at their food, he felt himself growing tenser and tenser. It was vital that he should got to Italy and warn the emperor before his wife’s birthday, but what Marcus Placidus had said about the Ninth Legion sounded like bad news. What would happen to Probus? What would happen to Falco? Was this to result in the staged victory he had plotted with Catavolcos’ people? Flaminius sighed. At least it would keep them busy. He’d have no Caledonians on his tail. No, but his description had been cried all along the roads…

Again he noticed Marcus Placidus eyeing him. He stared back defiantly.

Drustica rose, mopped her lips with the back of her hand, and said, ‘Pardon me. I must go to the latrine.’ She blundered past them. Acco and Teutorix began muttering at each other in their own tongue, with frequent glowers around them.

Flaminius sighed. The warrior woman was fascinated by this aspect of Roman technology, and had made a point of visiting every latrine from here to Bremetenacum[22]. He sat back and swallowed the last of his oysters, then finished off his wine, hoping the fresh horses would be ready soon.

Marcus Placidus was looking in Drustica’s direction. He turned back to Flaminius. ‘Nice,’ he said with a grin. ‘No barbarian, you’re right, but no tame Roman matron, either.’

‘Don’t talk about her like that,’ Flaminius snapped. The two Carvettians gave Marcus Placidus unfavourable stares.

‘She’s only a peregrine,’ Marcus Placidus said.

‘She’s a good friend,’ Flaminius added, ‘and worth a century of legionaries in a fight. Like Acco and Teutorix. Their people live on the very edge of civilisation. It’s made them tough.’

Acco gave Teutorix a smug grin. Marcus Placidus leaned forward. ‘So what’s she doing with you? And these two… gentlemen? You’re down from the North, you say. What’s happening up there, and why are you and three peregrines leaving the province?’

‘How do you know we’re leaving the province?’ Flaminius demanded.

Marcus Placidus shrugged. ‘Why else would you come to Rutupiae, unless you like oysters more than most?’ Flaminius felt foolish. ‘Besides,’ the man added, ‘everyone who’s able to leave is leaving this province.’

Why was he talking with this man? Flaminius wished Drustica would return from her ablutions, the tide would turn, and they could all cross the ocean to Gaul without further problems.

‘Tell me about the North,’ Marcus Placidus went on, looking at the two Carvettians as he spoke. ‘I’ve never been there. Is it true, what they say?’

Flaminius tried to sum it up, but what could he say? The closest he could come to doing it justice was to compare Caledonia with Greece in the days of Agamemnon, but that didn’t come close. In some ways it went too far, in others not far enough. He was sure the courier would think the comparison nigh-on blasphemy.

He started explaining this to Marcus Placidus but then Drustica returned to the booth. Acco and Teutorix went quiet again. She glared at them and went to sit with Flaminius.

‘I’m glad you’re all together now,’ Marcus Placidus said, interrupting Flaminius suddenly. ‘I don’t know where the peregrines fit in, but you, my lad, are a wanted man.’

Flaminius felt the blood drain from his face. The man had just been waiting for his opportunity. Flaminius turned, tried to stand up. Drustica glared angrily at Marcus Placidus. Acco and Teutorix gaped around in confusion and also tried to stand up, finding it difficult when their thighs collided with the table top. Marcus Placidus made a sign. Four men marched up from the bar, legionaries with drawn swords.

They had been found already.

‘Look, you can’t keep us here,’ Flaminius babbled, turning back to Marcus Placidus. ‘We’re all on a mission to save the emperor…’

‘Ha!’ Marcus Placidus said. ‘A likely story. I have my orders. And my orders are to secure your arrest and send you back to the provincial governor. I…’

But he stopped abruptly at the noise from the booth entrance. Flaminius swung round to see Drustica, bloody sword in hand, standing over the body of the first legionary. Shouts and shrieks came from the people in the bar. The second legionary, face pale, lunged at the warrior woman. Flaminius drew his own sword and cut him down before he could reach her. Acco and Teutorix scrambled over the table and flung themselves at the remaining two legionaries.

As pandemonium broke out in the bar, Flaminius turned back to Marcus Placidus. All of a sudden he noticed that the man, who was crouching back in fear against the back wall of the booth, also wore a brooch in the form of a lance-head.

He was about to speak, to explain, to tell Marcus Placidus how vital it was that they should get to Rome and warn the emperor before his wife’s birthday, when the assassins plotted to kill him. But before he could open his mouth, he heard shouts and screams and grisly sounds from behind him. Swinging round again he saw that the three Carvettians were now fighting their way through the bar, which was rapidly losing customers, either through the doors or to the warriors’ gory blades. Flaminius glanced at Marcus Placidus again, opened his mouth to speak, and thought better of it.

‘Come, Gaius!’ Drustica cried across the bar. ‘Let us leave this place!’

Flaminius rushed after his companions. As he did so, the last of the living patrons fled, panic stricken, out of the door into the courtyard. Drustica, Acco and Teutorix raced outside after them and Flaminius followed, groaning.

Out in the courtyard the exodus continued as the patrons streamed out through the main gate. Two grooms, halfway through saddling a horse, looked on, mouths wide with amazement as the running figures passed them on both sides. Seeing the Carvettians appear with their bloody blades, they bolted.

The tethered horse neighed and reared up. Drustica wiped and sheathed her sword, then caught the trailing reins and soothed the horse. Acco and Teutorix found another horse and led it by the reins to join her.

She turned as Flaminius approached.

‘Get up behind me,’ she said, as if everything was still normal, and then she leapt astride the steed. Shaking his head, Flaminius clambered up behind her. Acco and Teutorix mounted their own stolen horse, and they all rode out into the streets beyond.

Legionaries from the garrison were hurrying towards them, shoving their way through the streams of fleeing people. Drustica rode straight for them, drawing her sword and swinging it about her. Teutorix whirled his sling and sent a man flying with a staved in skull. The legionaries scattered.

The hooves struck sparks from the cobbles as they rode out of town.

They found sanctuary from their pursuers, who galloped off down the road without realising their absence, in a wood on a hill looking down on the town. Rutupiae was still disturbed, seething like an anthill. Beyond the grid of streets and buildings, boats lay at anchor in the tranquil harbour that opened out into the estuary, beyond which the blue grey waters of the sea were visible.

The sun was beginning to set behind them, throwing long shadows across the grass. Flaminius got down painfully off the horse. Drustica grinned down at him while Acco and Teutorix also dismounted and rubbed at their sore thighs.

‘We escaped,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius flatly.

‘You are not happy,’ Drustica told him, concerned. ‘What is it?’

Flaminius indicated the town and its harbour. ‘We didn’t want to escape, we wanted to wait for the tide to turn so we could get ourselves passage on a boat to Gaul.’

Drustica looked so downcast Flaminius couldn’t carry on feeling angry with her. ‘Alright,’ he told her, ‘here’s the plan. We sneak back in at nightfall and try to secure passage on the boat.’

‘It will be difficult,’ said Acco, looking repentant. ‘We have stirred them up now, have we not?’

Flaminius nodded, then shrugged. He was beginning to wonder if he wouldn’t have been better staying with Medea.

‘Do you suppose it will even be possible now?’ Teutorix added dolefully.

‘We must try!’ Flaminius insisted, and they nodded, unspeaking.

They waited for night to fall. As they did so, it came on to rain. ‘What will we do?’ Drustica said anxiously. ‘What will we do when night falls?’

Flaminius motioned her to silence as he caught the drumming of hoofs from beyond the screen of bushes. Peering through the rain he saw the group of auxiliary troopers who had been searching for them gathered on the roadway, their armour glinting in the gloom.

‘Listen to me,’ said the decurion in charge, a wiry Batavian, as his men listened truculently. ‘We know that a known fugitive, proscribed on the orders of the provincial governor himself, and his Caledonian accomplices, are still at large in this area. We’ve not been able to find them in the surrounding area. They must have doubled back to Rutupiae! It seems likely that they’re hoping to get across to Gaul. We can’t let that happen. We’ll withdraw to the town and ensure that all roads are heavily guarded.’

The auxiliary decurion reined his horse and splashed off down the road to Rutupiae, followed by his men.

‘That’s really going to make things difficult,’ Flaminius told his Carvettian companions. ‘We’ve got to find some way to get back into the town, and to the harbour.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose we could go to Dubris[23], or Lemanis[24], and try there. But Dubris is the base of the British fleet, and it’s a busier port than Rutupiae.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ Acco asked. ‘More ships.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘Yes, but also more guards to catch us. And Lemanis is miles away. It would slow us down considerably if we were to go there. And remember we have to be in Rome as soon as possible.’

‘It’s dark now,’ Drustica said some time after. It was true, shades of night had crept up like the hungry ghosts of Avernus as the rain eased off, and now all was sombre and funereal. Gloomily, Flaminius gazed towards the only lights visible, the town itself. How soon before the boat departed? Or had it already gone?

‘We’d better chance it,’ he muttered. ‘Come on.’

‘Hyah!’ The warrior woman spurred her horse into a gallop and they rode down onto the highway, followed by Acco and Teutorix on their own horse, then in the direction of the town.

As they rode, Flaminius wondered how the hell they would get as far as the harbour. He’d been thinking about it ever since the auxiliaries had ridden away, but had reached no conclusion. Now there was only one thing for it, to ride and bluster their way in and trust to luck. What luck?

‘Who goes there?’

The voice rapped out from the gloom up ahead as they approached the town. Flaminius couldn’t see the speaker. ‘This road is blocked,’ it added. ‘You can’t go this way. Go back the way you came, citizens. Fugitives are at large.’

‘We bring a special message from the provincial governor!’ Drustica yelled. ‘Out of the way!’

As Flaminius stared at her, she rode straight into what turned out to be a group of legionaries. They scattered as she approached, dropping shields and spears clanging onto the road surface as they did so. Astounded by her audacity, Acco and Teutorix rode after her.

To Flaminius’ surprise, as they approached the well-lit town Drustica galloped off the road followed by the other two, and immediately they vaulted a drainage ditch then struck out across the fields, leaving the pursuing legionaries far behind. Shouts and cries of alarm drifted through the night.

‘Where are we going?’ Flaminius cried, looking back. As he did, the town gates opened and a troop of auxiliaries rode out, some holding torches to illuminate the night.

‘We don’t want to go back into the town,’ Drustica said. ‘They’ll slaughter us. We want to get aboard that boat.’

She reined the horse at the far end of the town wall, where it met the shore of the estuary. Here Flaminius jumped down, followed by Drustica, and the two warriors soon joined them. They slapped their horses’ rumps and sent them both galloping off into the darkness.

The boat was still out there, riding at anchor in the roadstead, illuminated by a huge lamp in the prow.

‘Now what?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Swim,’ said Drustica, and leapt off the cliff.

She hit the water with an audible splash and started swimming powerfully towards the waiting boat, carrying her sheathed sword in one hand and paddling dexterously with the other. Acco and Teutorix followed immediately afterwards. Flaminius gave the scene a grimace, then struggled out of his armour—that would only hamper him now—flung down his sword—after all, he’d stolen the thing—and leapt in after her.

A quarter of an hour later they were all treading water only a dozen yards from the bobbing boat. Crewmen and passengers were visible on deck, dully watching the town, which was still in a state of uproar as patrols searched the houses for the escaped fugitives. They did not realise that Flaminius and his British allies were already here in the water.

‘Tide’s turning, cap’n,’ came a call.

The captain on the poop deck shouted back, ‘Haul anchor. Begin rowing her out into the estuary.’

‘We’d better do something,’ Flaminius said, swimming in Drustica’s direction, ‘or we’ll be left behind.’ Her face was a pale blob in the darkness, but he saw her nod.

Flaminius swam slowly and quietly to the side of the ship, as far from the lantern and the watching passengers as he could manage, and as the oars began to splash the harbour waters, he found a way to clamber up the rounded hull. Drustica and her fellow Carvettians followed him and they peered over the gunwale, left and right like anxious rodents, to find this section of deck deserted. Flaminius straddled the gunwale and hauled Drustica up beside him. Acco and Teutorix copied them. Then they all dropped lightly to the deck.

Shouted orders drifted from the stern. The passengers were below, the crew busied itself above in the rigging as the sails bellied out in the wind.

‘Head for the hold,’ Flaminius hissed, dripping. ‘We need to find somewhere to conceal ourselves.’

They scurried over the deck to a hatch. Unbattening it, Flaminius revealed a dark space below from which came a stench of uncured hides and badly kept seafood. The sound of approaching sailors galvanised him and he jumped down into the darkness. Landing in a pile of rope, he looked up as the shaft of light from the hatch was cut off. His Carvettian companions were still following him.

‘Close it behind you!’ he hissed. Teutorix’s burly silhouetted form nodded, reached out and shut the hatch. Flaminius heard the thumps as the others dropped down beside him.

‘Now we’d better find somewhere we won’t be discovered,’ he told them.

Blindly, with their hands outstretched, they explored the hold. The creaking boat entered the faster waters of the estuary and the vessel picked up speed. At last Flaminius found a group of bales and boxes behind which was a narrow space between cargo and hull. He hissed to his companions. As rats squeaked in the scuppers around them and the creak of the strakes and the wind whistling in the rigging drifted down to Flaminius’ ears, they took refuge.

‘Will we be safe, Gaius?’ Drustica whispered.

‘Luckily we got aboard without anyone seeing us, so I don’t see why not,’ Flaminius replied. ‘That was good thinking.’ Maybe his Carvettian companions weren’t such a liability after all.

He was wet through and felt like he might be developing a cold. All the same, it was good to be turning his back on Britain, to be on the road to Rome at last. He began to squeeze the water from his clothes and the Carvettians copied him.

‘I’ll keep first watch,’ Drustica offered.

‘Thanks,’ said Flaminius. ‘Acco next, then Teutorix. I’ll take last watch.’ Weary, he rested his head on a convenient bale and fell asleep.

He awoke to find sunlight streaming in through the open hatch above. When he moved, he found his clothes had dried crustily on his body. Grimacing with displeasure, he raised his head to see Drustica sitting nearby, sword across her legs. She seemed to be listening intently. Acco and Teutorix were both asleep. What had happened to the watch he’d established was a mystery.

Copying Drustica, Flaminius cocked his head. He realised that there was no sense of motion from the ship, that the whipping crack of the shrouds had died away, and that the wind was no longer whistling in the rigging. He turned to Drustica who looked at him and raised a finger for silence.

‘Gaul?’ he hissed. She nodded shortly.

A shadow blocked off the hatch and a sailor began to descend. Drustica shook Acco and Teutorix into wakefulness then began to unsheathe her sword. Flaminius reached out and gripped her wrist as the two Carvettian men looked around blearily. Drustica looked at him and he scowled, shook his head.

The sailor thumped across the strakes in the direction of the cargo, followed by two more who with him returned soon after carrying boxes. They were beginning to offload. It looked like the ship had reached its destination, Gesoriacum[25]. But their hiding place was soon going to be exposed. Flaminius bit his lip and looked at Drustica again. Her sword was still half unsheathed.

The sailors huffed and panted as they manhandled the boxes back up the companionway. As soon as the last of them vanished out of sight, Flaminius looked round the hold. The men would soon be back for the rest of the cargo. Could the four of them mingle with the passengers and escape that way? Sunlight streamed down the hatch. If only they had reached the port under cover of darkness.

‘Where’s your sword?’ Drustica hissed.

He looked at her. ‘I left it behind in Britain,’ he said.

‘You left it behind?’ Drustica was incredulous. So were Acco and Teutorix. ‘We have to fight our way to Rome and you left your sword behind…?’

‘With any luck,’ Flaminius said, nettled, ‘we won’t have to fight.’

He got up and scrambled over to the companionway. Looking up he saw a square of blue sky framed by the hatch. No one was about. He glanced back.

‘Time we had a look around,’ he said.

‘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 obstinately. ‘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 swathed 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.

The gardens were heavily guarded. Military boots tramped along neat gravelled paths as Praetorian guards patrolled. The sounds of festivity from the buildings in the middle of the villa grounds had died away now that they were on the lonely eastern fringes of the park. But even here, several spear carrying Praetorians marched down a gravelled path in an avenue of plane trees. Flaminius and his companions watched from the shrubbery as the men went past.

Drustica wriggled closer to Flaminius. ‘Can’t we make a dash for it across to that grove of trees across the lawn there?’ she asked him in a murmur.

Flaminius bit his lip. The Praetorian guards had their backs to them as they strode on. He nodded shortly, and started to push himself up. He halted, then abruptly lowered himself again.

‘What is it?’ Acco hissed.

Flaminius raised himself with his right arm and peered cautiously out at the Praetorians. They had been joined by another man, a man with a thick black beard and piggy eyes.

‘Marcus Placidus!’ Drustica muttered as she rose to see.

Flaminius pushed her back down and lay with his cheek to the soil, listening.

‘… last seen leaving Rome and heading this way,’ Marcus Placidus was saying. ‘They’re known fugitives, criminals, and the lad has been proscribed. If you see them, don’t hesitate to apprehend them. If they resist, kill them…’

‘But how did he get here?’ Teutorix hissed at Flaminius. ‘He was the one we met in Britain!’

Flaminius rolled over to gaze at him. He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘He said he was an imperial courier, but he wore a lance-head brooch like me, so that makes him another commissar. The road system is designed to speed such people on their missions for the emperor. But it looks like his mission had been to follow us!’

‘This is not helping the emperor,’ Drustica told them sternly. ‘We must find him and warn him. For all we know, this Marcus Placidus is in league with the plotters.’

Flaminius shook his head. ‘I think he’s just over zealous,’ he said. ‘No doubt a good man in many respects. If only we’d had a chance to explain things to him before—’ Before you cut your way out of the waystation, he wanted to add. He saw her face fall, and shame coloured it. Before Flaminius could say any more, she rose and sprinted across the lawn towards the grove of trees.

Flaminius leapt up, staring in horror as Acco and Teutorix automatically followed her, jogging to keep up. He turned to see the Praetorians marching off, apparently oblivious, Marcus Placidus accompanying them.

‘Flaminius! Hurry!’

Drustica’s hiss drifted across the lawn. He turned to see her crouching in the cover of the grove, beside a statue of a faun. Acco and Teutorix lay on their bellies beside her, weapons gripped firmly in their hands. Drustica beckoned to Flaminius. Nerving himself, he dashed after her.

But the guards had been alerted by all the noise. As Flaminius ran, he heard shouts of alarm. Flinging a look to his right, he saw Marcus Placidus in the middle of the path, mouth open, as the Praetorians sprinted back the way they had come.

Flaminius reached the Carvettians, and flung himself down. ‘They know we’re here,’ he said bitterly. ‘What now?’

Drustica bared her teeth. ‘We could fight them off while you get to the emperor…’

He shook his head. The gravel of the path hissed and spat as the Praetorians ran up.

‘We’ve got to get moving,’ Flaminius said. He forced his way through the grove, his companions at his heels. Shouting, more Praetorian guards came to join the pursuit.

Panting desperately for breath, Flaminius and the Carvettians ran helter-skelter through an Arcadian idyll of groves and lawns, pools and fountains, statues and temples. Bursting out into one garden, they saw a slave trimming the grass. He rose, dumbfounded, dropped his sickle on the turf, and sprinted for a small red tiled temple, apparently still under construction. Entering its portico, he hauled open a hatch in the floor and vanished down it.

‘Flaminius!’ Drustica said, snatching up the sickle. ‘Find where that slave has gone. We might be able to escape the guards.’

‘What will you three do?’ Flaminius demanded, eyeing the sickle in her hand.

‘We’ll fight them off,’ she said determinedly. ‘Now get moving.’

Flanked by Acco and Teutorix, she turned to face the shrubbery on the far side of the lawn, from which even now came the clatter and crash of approaching Praetorian guards. Flaminius turned and ran after the slave.

Reaching the portico of the half constructed little temple, he found no sign of the hatch. The slave must have closed it behind him, and now all that remained was a mosaic floor. Shouts came from the lawn outside, followed by the ring of steel on steel. Flaminius scrabbled desperately at the floor, searching for the vanished hatchway.

He heard Drustica cry out.

Just as he was getting up to see what had happened to her, his hand brushed against a mosaic tile and the trapdoor sprang open. For a second Flaminius stared down at the dark shaft that descended into the depths beneath the half built temple. Then Drustica and Teutorix charged into the portico. Drustica was clutching at a bloody side, but in her hand was a Praetorian Guard’s sword, also bloody.

‘They’re coming,’ she warned. ‘They got Acco, cut him down.’ She stopped, staring at the trapdoor. ‘You’ve found it?’

‘Down here,’ Flaminius urged them. He looked back in horror. Was Acco dead?

‘You first, then Teutorix,’ Drustica said as the Praetorians flooded up the steps to the portico.

As he climbed through the trapdoor opening, Flaminius found a ladder of foot and handholds carved into the living rock. It was ice cold in the gloom of the shaft, the walls were streaked with moisture, and after the warm sunlight of the villa grounds, he found himself shivering as he descended into this unexpected underworld. Moments later, a scuffling sound echoed down the shaft followed by a gentle shower of grit as first Teutorix then Drustica climbed down after him. Angry shouts rang out, muffled, from above, and then Flaminius heard the Praetorian guards following them.

Panting, he reached the bottom. It opened out into a wide tunnel, wide enough that chariots could have gone down it. Its paved floor stretched off into the darkness. Some way ahead, the light of a lantern glimmered like a moving star. The slave, Flaminius guessed.

Teutorix and Drustica joined his side. ‘They’re coming down after us,’ Drustica reported. ‘Where are we?’

‘They killed Acco,’ Teutorix panted. ‘They killed Acco!’

‘It looks like tunnels,’ Flaminius panted. ‘Under the villa. Presumably for slaves to move about without intruding on the emperor and his guests. They lead in the direction of the main palace. But it’s pitch black. We’ll have to tread carefully.’

‘The soldiers are coming down the shaft,’ Teutorix reminded him.

‘This way,’ Flaminius said, and together they ran into the blackness.

Time and again as he ran, Flaminius stumbled on loose rocks. He couldn’t see where he was going and once he blundered straight into the rough rocky wall of the tunnel. The only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that the Praetorians pursued them. Drustica ran at his side, lithe as a cat. Teutorix sped after them like a ghost. The slave’s lamp was no longer visible ahead. It was as black as Tartarus down here.

Light and the sound of running footsteps came from behind them. Flaminius glanced back to see the great tunnel lit up by bobbing lights, lamps held by the pursuing Praetorian guards!

‘Hurry!’ Flaminius ran onwards, without a clue where he was going. The other two ran with him, pursued by fully armed Praetorians who had been ordered to kill them if they resisted.

They reached a junction in the tunnel. Flaminius saw that a smaller tunnel led off to the right, as the shadows danced in the light of the Praetorians’ lanterns. Drustica turned to him, her face ghastly in the shaky light.

‘Shall we go that way? We’ll be better able to defend ourselves there.’

Flaminius paused briefly, struggling to think. Which way should they go? How could they get to the emperor? The Praetorians’ boots banged relentlessly, remorselessly on the rock floor of the passage as their owners pursued them.

‘Yes, go this way,’ he said at last.

She was right, they would be better able to defend themselves if the guards caught up with them. But it was more important that they got to the emperor. By now he was lost, he had no idea as to where they were in relation to the villa. Wheezing for breath, he turned down the narrow tunnel followed by Drustica, her sword at the ready. Acco brought up the rear, clutching his spear.

The tunnel wound deeper and deeper into the rock and soon everything was utterly black again. Flaminius blundered onwards, hands outstretched. The Praetorian guards were still audible, still following them, but their lanterns did not reach this far. They must be falling behind.

Light appeared ahead of them, dancing red, the light of torches. The tunnel opened out into another. Down it scurried a knot of slaves, most of them carrying food, elaborate dishes weighed down with roast meat, fish, pies and jellies. Two bore flaming torches to light the way, and another couple carried bundles of neatly chopped firewood.

They screamed at the sight of Flaminius. Yelling to each other they ran for the far end, some dropping their burdens as they went. He halted and stared after them in bewilderment. As the slaves departed, the illumination went with them.

In the dark, Drustica collided with his back.

‘Why have you stopped?’ she hissed. ‘The Praetorians are coming up behind us.’

He told her what he had seen. ‘They seem to have gone up a shaft.’

‘Taking food to the emperor and his guests,’ Drustica guessed. ‘The senators must be gathering somewhere above us. We’re almost there!’

The narrow tunnel resounded again with the clatter of the approaching Praetorian guards. As Acco joined them, Drustica added, ‘You have to go up there. Find the emperor and warn him before it’s too late.’

‘What about you two?’ Flaminius demanded.

‘We’ll stay here,’ she said, ‘and guard this end of the passageway. Those Praetorians won’t get past us. One warrior could guard this passage against a horde. Two, against all the legions of Rome.’

Flaminius was about to argue, but at the last moment he changed his mind. Accepting this act of self-sacrifice gratefully, he turned and hurried in the direction taken by the slaves.

As he made his way along the pitch black tunnel, he heard the clang of sword on sword again, echoing weirdly up the tunnel from behind him, magnified by the stone walls until it seemed to ring inside Flaminius’ own skull. He tripped and stumbled over something in the middle of the floor, hit the ground with a thump, forced himself up. It must have been one of the bundles of firewood the slaves had dropped.

He staggered on until he reached the shaft. Here he found a shaft of light filtering down, illuminating a flight of steps. Still the tunnel behind him rang with the noise of Drustica and Acco’s desperate fight with the Praetorian guards. Mind filled with misgivings, convinced that he would never see the Carvettians again, Flaminius ascended the staircase.

The steps opened out at last into a small storeroom. He hurried into another chamber that proved to be a large kitchen, but it was deserted, having been abandoned in a hurry, it seemed. Flaminius hurried through the far door and blundered out into a peristyle garden where a crowd of people was gathered.

For a moment he was dazzled, blinking in the sun, which was bright and hot after the cool darkness of his underworld sojourn. He saw several slaves were making themselves scarce in the surrounding colonnades. And a group of Praetorian guards was marching straight towards him.

Panting for breath, Flaminius scanned the murmuring crowd. Standing beside the fountain was a small group of figures including a bearded man of medium height. This man was dressed in a senatorial toga like the rest but Flaminius knew that this was the very person he had sworn to protect, the emperor himself, Hadrian.

He ran, ducking and weaving, across the gravel, leaping box hedges and sprinting over neatly trimmed turf, towards the emperor. Toga clad senators scrambled out of his way. The Praetorian guards closed in. Just as Flaminius reached the middle of the peristyle garden, where the emperor still stood calmly beside the fountain, a burly Praetorian tribune tackled him, bringing him crashing to the gravel.

Flaminius struggled, but the tribune pinioned him roughly, forcing his arms behind his back and his face down into the gravel. He could see next to nothing but the consternation from the gathered senators was still audible. Someone raced up, the gravel spraying from their sandals as they did so.

‘This is the man, your imperial majesty.’ With a sinking feeling, Flaminius recognised the grating, triumphant voice of Marcus Placidus. ‘This is the man I have been pursuing since he left Britain. I’ve followed him by the trail of his dead.’

Flaminius struggled to raise his head, to explain, but the tribune was too strong, and his mouth was filled with gravel.

‘The man who Senator Falco proscribed?’ The new voice was calm, authoritative, in control. ‘I’ve read the reports, of course. They say he was a member of the Commissary. If anything justifies the need for agents like you, it is this, that an agent should make a desperate attempt on me.’

‘Shall I kill him?’ grunted the tribune, his breath hot and wet on the back of Flaminius’ neck.

‘Not at all,’ said the calm voice. ‘We must have the wretch questioned. Who is he working for? Lift him up.’

Flaminius found himself hauled up into a kneeling position, his knees in the gravel. He spat out more gravel. Standing in front of him, looking grim, was the bearded man, the emperor himself.

Hadrian gazed down at Flaminius with distaste. ‘A valiant attempt at my assassination, by Hercules,’ he said urbanely. ‘But I’m afraid my guards are too efficient.’ The Praetorians had all gathered around Flaminius now, and were training swords on him. The senators fussed and clucked around Hadrian like hens. ‘Who put you up to this, boy? Tell me now, and spare yourself unnecessary pain.’

‘Watch out!’ Flaminius shouted suddenly. ‘To your left!’

Hadrian swung round. One of the senators, a young man with a fuzz of beard on his chin, had produced a dagger from beneath his toga. His face a desperate mask of anger, he thrust at the emperor. Deftly, Hadrian leapt to one side.

Shouting, the Praetorian guards rushed forward, abandoning their prisoner in their zeal to protect their emperor. The senator broke away, forced his way through the scrum of Praetorians. And fell, as Flaminius put out his leg to trip him. The senator scrambled up again, but Flaminius flung himself at him and dragged him struggling to the ground. It was his turn to pinion someone.

‘Thank you,’ the Emperor Hadrian said, looking down at them. ‘Release your captive into my men’s hands.’ He signalled to two Praetorian guards to bring the prisoner to him. ‘Rufinus Crassus, isn’t it?’ he asked the young man, disappointedly. The would-be assassin hung his head, saying nothing. ‘Who put you up to this? Or were you working on your own?’

The senator remained sullenly silent. Another senator approached, a cadaverous, clean shaven, older man. ‘Clearly a lone wolf, your imperial majesty,’ he said. ‘A fanatic. You’ll get nothing from him.’

‘That remains to be seen, Ursus Servianus,’ said the Emperor Hadrian. He clicked his fingers. ‘Take him to your barracks,’ he told the Praetorian tribune, ‘and see that he talks. We want to know the names of his accomplices, his motives, and so forth, by tomorrow morning.’

The Praetorian tribune saluted.

‘What about this one?’ he added, indicating Flaminius. The emperor turned to look.

‘Since this young man warned me of Rufinus Crassus’ assassination attempt,’ Hadrian said, ‘I don’t think we need to question him! Rather reward him for his dedication to duty.’

The senator who Hadrian had addressed as Ursus Servianus turned away and spoke quietly to another man while the Praetorian guards dragged the struggling Rufinus Crassus from the garden. Marcus Placidus stepped forward.

‘Your imperial majesty,’ he began.

Before he could say any more, there was a consternation from the gathered senators. A ghastly figure appeared in the doorway of the building from which Flaminius had come. It seemed to be a blood-spattered Amazon, gory sword in hand, staring blinking into the bright sunlight. He could see no sign of Acco.

‘What is this?’ Hadrian said. ‘Is it an omen? Step forward, apparition.’

‘Drustica!’ Flaminius said as she stepped wearily into the peristyle garden. Hadrian glanced at him.

‘You know this virago?’

Flaminius nodded. ‘She is Drustica of the Carvetti. A British people, your imperial majesty. She and her fellow peregrines have been my faithful companions on the road as I came south to warn you of the plot against your life.’

‘You came all the way from the edge of the empire to warn me of a plot?’ the emperor asked in tones of disbelief. As Drustica approached Flaminius explained himself.

‘Gaius,’ the warrior woman broke in, ‘I fought off the soldiers. They killed Acco. He died with honour. Is the emperor safe?’

‘Your imperial majesty,’ Marcus Placidus said again. ‘May I inform you that this man’—he pointed accusingly at Flaminius—‘and this woman’—he indicated Drustica—‘have committed crimes without number on their journey here? By her own admission this barbarian woman and her accomplices have been fighting your guards…’

‘Peregrine,’ Flaminius said obstinately. ‘She is not a barbarian, Drustica is a peregrine.’

‘And a loyal subject of Rome, it seems,’ the emperor added. ‘There are so few about these days! Loyal subjects should be rewarded, not punished. Besides, had it not been for their intrusion, I think my Praetorian Guard would not have been so zealous as to enter this area fully armed. All charges are dropped.’

‘Your imperial majesty,’ said Ursus Servianus, ‘on behalf of the senate, may I suggest that the coming banquet should be one that honours these heroic saviours of the empire?’ He called for slaves. ‘Take these people away and prepare them for the coming feast!’

Flaminius and Drustica were hurried away.

They were taken to a tastefully furnished suite of rooms, where slaves cleaned them and exchanged their stained clothes for fresh new ones; for Flaminius a woollen toga with the narrow purple stripe that showed his equestrian rank, and for Drustica a long russet stola like that worn by the most high class of Roman women. She was delighted.

‘The emperor is pleased with us,’ she commented, twirling on the spot as she admired the gown.

Flaminius sat on a couch, his mind numb. Everything seemed to have happened so quickly. Everything he had worked for had reached fruition, but at the cost of the lives of two of his comrades. What would come next? He wondered what would happen to Falco. To Probus. To Rufinus Crassus.

An hour later, they were escorted by an honour guard of Praetorians, but not to the banquet, which they discovered had been cancelled suddenly. Hadrian looked up from his desk as Flaminius was led into his office.

‘Ah, the hero of the hour,’ he said, but his face was dark. ‘At the moment of your triumph, I’m afraid we have received bad news.’

‘Bad news?’ Flaminius asked. ‘What can have happened?’

‘Fresh word has come from Britain,’ the emperor replied. ‘From Caledonia.’

Flaminius frowned. ‘Britain? Senator Falco?’ Had the provincial governor learnt what had happened here so quickly? No, that was impossible. ‘What’s happened to him?’

‘Shortly after your departure, it would seem,’ the emperor said, ‘the situation in Caledonia worsened. It boiled over. There was a battle between Romans and Caledonians.’

Flaminius laughed wildly. ‘No, no, that was staged,’ he said, ‘staged by Falco in collusion with the Caledonian chiefs. The plan was that when word came of your assassination, the legion would proclaim Falco emperor and march south to Rome.’

‘The Ninth Legion will be marching nowhere,’ Hadrian said darkly. ‘It has been utterly defeated, massacred. Only a few men survived. One of them was Falco.’

In the ensuing silence, Flaminius swayed on his feet, shocked.

‘What of Probus?’ he said weakly.

The emperor looked to the Praetorian prefect. ‘I believe a commissary centurion of that name was listed among the survivors,’ the prefect said.

Hadrian smiled grimly. ‘A few cohorts survived, those that Falco left in their fortress at Eboracum. But the Ninth Legion is finished. It will be struck from the records, forgotten. The survivors will be stationed elsewhere. I shall send the Sixth Legion to Britain to replace it.’

‘And Falco?’ Flaminius asked. ‘He was part of the plot against you.’

The emperor toyed with a stylus on his desk. ‘I’m willing to believe you, but the proof of this is sadly lacking. Until we have Rufinus Crassus’ testimony, we cannot level charges against Falco.’

But the following morning, Rufinus Crassus was found dead in his cell.

—18—

Roman province of Britain

Eboracum bustled with legionaries. The Sixth Legion had come from Hispania to replace or absorb the disgraced remnant of the Ninth. Lucius Aninius had already departed under a cloud, returning to Rome to learn his fate. The cohorts had moved into the red tiled barracks block, and legionaries of the Sixth Legion were strolling along the gravelled streets of the fortress, where men of the Ninth had previously walked. The fortifications were being strengthened, and the noise of hammers and the shout of labouring legionaries drifted down from the walls.

The country had been up in arms between here and Caledonia, but the Sixth was here to restore order. A truce had already been agreed by Lucius Aninius and Catavolcos after the massacre of the Ninth up in Caledonia, but then the Sixth had arrived; it had been proclaimed that the Emperor Hadrian intended to draw a firm line between Caledonian territory and the empire, beginning north of Brigantia. Selgovia, so briefly regained, recently the scene of fierce fighting between auxiliaries and a force of Caledonians, was to be given up. So was the northern half of Drustica’s tribal lands.

The border was to cross the land from side to side. It would have been better to have drawn it further north, where the land was at its narrowest between the two estuaries, but that would have been too close to the Caledonian kingdom. The emperor wanted enough of a buffer zone between empire and kingdom to deter further hostilities. And so several tribes loyal to Rome had been abandoned. Rumours were that soon the border would be more firmly fixed, that the emperor himself was to come to this remote northern province to oversee the proceedings. The stories grew and grew. Where they came from, who could say, from people in the know or the fertile imaginations of barracks room storytellers? There was always someone who knew someone who had heard it from someone who knew a senator or a senator’s slave…

Flaminius strode down the lanes of the fortress, his boots crunching in the gravel as he walked. It was cold and grey after Italy’s sunlight; here the sun glowered down from cloudy skies. Beyond the walls, beyond the civilian settlement, empty moorland rolled towards the distant hills. After the tranquil parkland of the emperor’s villa and the bustling streets of Rome, it was strangely beautiful.

The door to the legate’s headquarters stood open. The two legionaries on duty saluted as Flaminius approached.

‘I’m here to report to the legate of the Sixth Legion, to learn where I will be posted now the Ninth has been disbanded,’ he told them.

They let him in without any fuss. He went inside cautiously to find the place had changed since last he’d been there.

Gone were the hangings and the mosaics, gone was the peristyle garden within. All was bleak and Spartan and soldierly. As Flaminius approached the office, he saw the legate of the Sixth sitting at his desk, accompanied by a guest. From reports, he knew the legate was Senator Lucius Junius Victorinus Flavius Caelianus. To his surprise and discomfort the guest was someone he recognised. It was Quintus Sosius Falco, provincial governor of Britain.

Flaminius had known that Falco had returned to Eboracum after his hair’s-breadth escape from Caledonia, but he’d assumed the man would be in Londinium now, awaiting his replacement and posting elsewhere. Due to Rufinus Crassus’ mysterious death, no evidence could be found sufficient to condemn the provincial governor to death, but it was likely that his next posting would be nothing to write home about.

Quailing within, Flaminius saluted them both.

‘What’s this?’ Falco said, his lip curling. Junius Victorinus looked from the provincial governor to Flaminius, curious.

‘You’ve met?’ the legate asked, but Falco ignored him.

‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus , sir,’ Flaminius said formally. ‘I was ordered to report to the legate. My apologies. I did not know that you were in conference.’

‘Apologies, eh?’ said Falco. Arrogantly, without looking to the legate for permission, he indicated a seat. ‘Not at all. I remember you, don’t you worry. You made quite an impression, for a junior officer. Sit down, tribune.’ Falco turned back to the legate. ‘Continue.’

‘We’ve experience some problems with the Carvetti,’ Junius Victorinus told him. ‘They don’t seem to appreciate the military expediency that puts the border straight through their tribal lands….’

Flaminius felt a pang, remembering his parting from Drustica on approaching the fortress. She felt she had to be with her people at such a time.

‘They feel abandoned by Rome?’ Falco inquired.

‘I spoke with their chiefs,’ Junius Victorinus replied. ‘Indeed they do feel betrayed! I explained that we have to draw the line in the sand somewhere, and their northern lands are no longer defensible. Selgovian chiefs were also present, those who had accepted Rome’s brief return under my predecessor and had been ousted by a war band of Caledonians. They were also angry that they would be left to the northerners.’

Flaminius remembered the Selgovian warriors he had known and gone hunting with. The moors, the heather, the mountains, the pine forests, the hill forts. The lowering skies, the sudden squalls. He had felt so alive in those days. They seemed so long ago now.

‘The Carvettians also said,’ Junius Victorinus added, ‘that the Caledonians would plunder their lands, levy tribute, then steal what was left. They said that war would rage, but the Caledonians, in their mountain fastnesses, would be invulnerable. That it would spell the end of their people. That they needed our protection. I explained that we would patrol beyond the border, that the tribes between the empire and Caledonian would be their own masters, and that we would do what we could to protect them…’

Flaminius listened to his account of the discussion between the legate and the tribal chiefs, taking a close interest. Falco, however, was clearly bored by it. ‘Very interesting, but please get to the point, man.’

‘A report has been prepared,’ Junius Victorinus said, handing Falco a papyrus roll. The senator glanced through it.

‘A summary, legate,’ Falco urged.

‘Both the Selgovians and the Carvettians lay claim to the cattle of the area, for their own reasons; the Selgovians consider them to be common property, the Carvettians say that they were given their herds by the gods. Those Carvettians north of the border fear that their herds will be driven off by their traditional enemies the moment we withdraw. We have done what we can, but there seems to be no way of reaching a compromise. We shall continue to palaver, but it will take a long time. You see, Falco? We cannot leave them to their own devices, because the troubles will continue, giving the Caledonians an opportunity to drive a wedge, which will continue to threaten our borders. The only solution is that we take the border north. I suggest to this point’—he indicated the narrowest part of the island, between the two estuaries, just south of the Caledonian lands.

‘That is not possible,’ Falco told him. ‘As I have already explained, our beloved emperor has drawn the line of the border further south.’ Flaminius noticed the way his lips writhed when he mentioned Hadrian. ‘Besides, is it worth our while to trouble ourselves for such intractable, stiff necked…?’

‘From what I have seen, they are not fools. But the news of the Roman retreat has hit them hard. They know that Rome will protect them against the Caledonians, but they fear that if they are left outside the empire, they will not be protected. They’re afraid that with war raging between Rome and Caledonia they will be between hammer and anvil.’

‘There is no war between Rome and Caledonia,’ Falco stated coldly. ‘And there will never be any war. This border is what we want and it is what the Caledonians want. The wishes of piffling little hill tribes like the Carvettians and the Selgovians is irrelevant, frankly. What matters is that there should be peace along the borders.’

‘Whether or not there will be,’ Junius Victorinus said, ‘remains to be seen.’

‘I will mention your doubts,’ Falco assured him, ‘in my final report to the emperor.’

‘Good,’ said the legate. ‘Please tell his imperial majesty that we need more legions in Britain or it will soon be lost to the barbarians. The trouble between the Carvettians and Selgovians is only a symptom of the problem.’

‘I’ll pass on my opinion,’ Falco said, ‘but I’m afraid I am persona non grata since the massacre in the North.’ He looked haunted. ‘It is his imperial majesty’s decision where the line is drawn or where the border will lie, and I see no reason why the decision will be changed.’

They both rose. ‘I shall be leaving for Londinium at first light tomorrow,’ Falco added. He glanced briefly, uncertainly, at Flaminius. Then his face set firm and marched out.

‘Tribune,’ said the legate, sitting down again. ‘May I help you?’

Flaminius saluted and introduced himself. ‘I was sent back here to find out where I would be deployed now the Ninth is no more. I understand Commissary Centurion Julius Probus is still based in the fortress.’

Victorinus nodded. ‘I believe I received a note of your coming. You’ve distinguished yourself in Rome, I hear. I’m sure you’ll find a posting worthy of your abilities, although right at the moment the Sixth Legion itself is oversubscribed—for a change.

‘Yes, Julius Probus is still here, although I understand he will soon be returning to Rome. You’ll find him in the Commissary barracks.’

Flaminius saluted again and marched out. As he departed from the headquarters, he found Falco falling into step beside him. He felt uncomfortable, to say the least.

‘You’re going to your master, then?’ the senator said. They were heading towards the Commissary barracks. ‘Come along. We have much to discuss.’

‘Sir,’ said Flaminius.

They took a turn around the fortress. Falco led Flaminius up onto the walls and they gazed out across the surrounding wilderness. The senator shivered. His toga flapped around him like an eagle’s wings. Without looking at the younger man, he said, ‘We meet again, it seems. I had not expected to see you here. So the emperor himself has revoked my proscription!’

‘Sir,’ said Flaminius. ‘What happened in Caledonia?’

Falco scowled. ‘Things didn’t go too well. I had arranged it with the Caledonians that they would retreat at a given signal. We agreed that I would show a standard given to me by the druids, and that would be the signal. When it came down to it, however, it had gone missing, replaced by another one that the Caledonians did not acknowledge. There was no hope of restraining either side by the time this became clear. The Caledonians were blooded. I had made no preparations for a real battle. The cohorts were cut to pieces.

‘I escaped. So did your superior, Julius Probus. Very few others made it back to Eboracum. And now the Ninth Legion is no more.’ He looked at Flaminius. ‘Not that I told you any of this, you understand. No one will believe you.’

‘Thank you for explaining,’ Flaminius said, looking away.

‘So it was a mistake on either side. The Caledonians did not wish to enter battle with Rome, they just wanted their borders secured; much like us. But as it happens, what I had promised for them is now being arranged by our beloved emperor. The border will be clearly demarcated. I understand that the intention is to build a wall from sea to sea, would you believe. So, a happy ending for all involved.’

‘Except for the senator who tried to assassinate the Emperor Hadrian,’ Flaminius told him.

‘I hear he died in his cell,’ Falco replied. ‘A sudden distemper?’

‘Yes,’ said Flaminius. ‘Most mysterious.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ Falco laughed. ‘That I went down to Rome while in the middle of a battle with the Caledonians and killed Rufinus Crassus? I don’t suggest you go about town telling people that story. It might be the end to a brief if brilliant career.’

Flaminius felt sick. Yes, it was true that Falco himself couldn’t have killed Crassus. Yes, it was true that he couldn’t prove that the senator had been implicated in the assassination attempt. It seemed that Falco had a charmed life. His status was so great that he seemed to be able to get away with leading an entire legion into a massacre. Of course, a mere equestrian like Flaminius wouldn’t be able to persuade the emperor that a man of such eminence could be involved. It wasn’t politic. It wasn’t done. And of course there wasn’t any proof. No real proof. It was his word against Falco’s.

Even with his own new emperor-rescuing status, Flaminius couldn’t hope to prove the senator’s connection with a murder attempt hundreds of miles away.

And yet Falco was responsible for one of the worst military disasters Rome had seen since the wars with Hannibal, and what was even more serious, he had been involved in a plot against the emperor. But because there was no proof—other than a junior officer relaying the word of a dead druid—and because the emperor had three hundred senators to keep happy—that or potentially face another rising—the traitor would be exonerated. His career would not prosper, but that was hardly as severe a judgement as he deserved.

‘You’re impressed by my achievements?’ Flaminius asked.

‘Of course, young man,’ Falco said heartily. ‘You’ve done very well for a young chap, and one from such humble beginnings, by Jove, a mere equestrian. What’s more, you’ve done your bit to achieve what I wanted for Britain, a clear border that will result in lasting peace with the barbarians. And as regards a certain concubine… Well, boys will be boys.’

‘Peace!’ Flaminius said. ‘We’ve run away, just like we did in Mesopotamia! On every hand the empire is beginning to contract, to collapse. Where will it all end? And what about the Carvettians? What about the Selgovians? Are the Caledonians going to stay up there in their moors and their heather? They have nothing, the empire has everything. Just wait, they’ll find every excuse to raid the province…!’

‘Now just a minute, young man…’

‘They wiped out the Ninth Legion!’

‘Rome has more soldiers,’ Falco said with an airy gesture.

‘And they’ll do more than that,’ Flaminius added. ‘One of these days the Caledonians will sweep across Britain from north to south. Our peregrines will suffer their wrath! Walls? What will walls do to stop them? They can go round walls if they can’t climb them. They’re determined to drive us from this island…!’

‘That’s enough of that, lad,’ Falco said severely. ‘The emperor who you rescued from the assassin’s blade has made this decision, with which I happen to be in full agreement, whatever doubts I may entertain about him otherwise. Augustus was the first to draw lines on the map after losing legions and thus limit the empire’s expansion; his imperial majesty is following an established precedent. And King Brennos has already demonstrated his desire for peace by withdrawing all his warriors from the Selgovian lands. Tigernos the merchant remains in Eboracum to liaise with us in this matter.’

‘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 stylus 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.