Eagle in the Snow (2 page)

Sometimes I used to ride over to a neighbouring fort, Vindolanda, and play draughts with Quintus Veronius, its praefectus, though he got angry when I called him that. “I am a tribune,” he would say haughtily, “even though I do command a rabble of auxiliaries.” He was my own age, always rode a black horse with white feet and was the best cavalry officer I ever met. He had been posted here from the Tenth Gemina in Pannonia following a scandal over some girl, and when he was drunk he would talk excitedly of a troop of Dacian horse he had once commanded and who, he would swear, were the best cavalry in the world. But he never spoke of the girl. His family came from Hispania and he missed the sun and was always hoping for a transfer there. But though he wrote numerous letters to influential relatives nothing ever came of it; and I was selfishly glad.

Quintus took a great interest in our catapults, which surprised me, for cavalrymen usually thought of little but swords and charges.

“I was on the Saxon Shore under my countryman, Nectaridus,” he explained. “He is a great fighter.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

He shrugged. “It was so cold standing there on those great flat-roofed towers at Lemanis. The wind howled in your face and your eyes ached as you stared out into the darkness. The Saxons used to slip in quietly if they could, sails lowered, on the midnight tide. If you spotted them you hit them with the ballistae until their ships broke up. Then you killed the survivors with arrows while they struggled in the surf.”

“Good shooting,” I said. I was impressed.

“That was Nectaridus. He insisted that we must never fight dry Saxons: we must always kill them while they are still wet.”

“Why did you leave?”

He said, casually, “I wanted command of the Ala Petriana, but I was turned down. Then, oh—I got drunk and did something stupid.” He looked at me with a smile. “So I was sent here.”

I said, “It is a good place if you like fighting.”

“It is also a good place in which to be forgotten. I was always cold on the Saxon Shore, but I would return to-morrow if they would let me.”

I said, “We must go hunting together some time.”

He cheered up then and said, “That would be good. It is lonely here, and I am somewhat tired of the company of slave girls who speak bad Latin.”

I laughed. “Come to Borcovicum and meet Aelia. She is a great talker.”

He said, “I met her once when I was out riding, I think. You—you are very lucky.”

“Yes, I think I am.”

He said, suddenly, “Maximus, why are you here?”

For a moment I did not answer. Then I said, quietly, “One posting is much like another. I hope I shall not be here always.”

It was then that he changed the subject.

When Aelia came back from the birth of Saturninus’ firstborn she was very quiet, after the initial joy women show on these occasions. I took her hand and said, gently, “You are not to worry. There is plenty of time yet. We shall have a son. You pray to your God and I will pray to mine. That way we shall have two chances of favour instead of one.”

She laughed, momentarily, and then her face changed. “Perhaps it is a punishment for my sins.” She was very serious now, and I was worried.

I said, lightly, “There is not much opportunity for committing wrongs at Borcovicum.”

She said, in a low voice, “With us they can be in thoughts as well as deeds.”

I returned to my letter. Presently she looked up from the fire. She said, “Do you remember the time that sentry slept at his watch and Saturninus asked you to overlook his offence?”

“I remember.”

“I came in when you were discussing what to do with him. And he said—do you remember?—he said, ‘You never had pity, sir, on the other one either.’ What did he mean?”

My hand shook. I said, “He thought I was being too strict.”

She said, “You are a good soldier. Even I can see that. But I think Saturninus is right. You can be very hard.”

“I try to be just.”

“It is sometimes better to be kind.”

She was silent then and went on staring into the fire. I stopped writing and looked at her. I loved her so much, but I did not know what she was thinking.

We had been there two winters when, on a warm spring day, I rode out to the second mile castle east of the camp, where some of our men were repairing the road. After my inspection was over I sat on a boulder, not far from the gate, and chatted with the post commander. As I did so I could see a man walking up the track towards us. I finished my conversation and mounted my horse. There was something in his walk that disturbed me, so I sat still and waited till he came up. I knew that kind of walk well, and when he stopped ten paces away and stared at me with that terrible tight look they always have, and the eyes that watch every flicker of a shadow and yet have no feel in them, no warmth of any kind, I knew who it was.

“Julian,” I said. “It is Julian.” And I waited.

“The noble commander knows everything,” he replied.

“What are you doing here?”

“I am a free man.” The words were spoken tonelessly. He fumbled inside his cloak and produced a square of parchment. “If the commander does not believe me I have this for proof.”

“So they gave you your wooden foil.”

“Yes. They gave me my wooden foil. We killed each other as you predicted, though some died more quickly than others. They were the lucky ones.”

I watched him in silence. Then I said, quietly, “But you lived.”

“Yes. I lived, if you can call it living?”

“And so?”

“In the end there were two of us left, myself and—but you would have forgotten his name, no doubt.”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I would not have forgotten his name. I remember them all to this day.”

“As I remember yours, noble commander. They matched us to fight at Eburacum. We were the spectacle for which everyone waited, and the commander of the Sixth Legion sat in the seat of honour. It was a holiday, and his daughter newly married, and he wished to celebrate by showing his—mercy. He gave me my freedom while the blood of my companion dried on my sword.”

“I see. Where do you go now?”

“Beyond the Wall to where Rome does not rule.”

I leaned forward then. “Are you mad? What will you do up there, even supposing they don’t kill you first? What kind of a life will you live?”

“That is my concern.”

I said, harshly, “Julian, I have a villa and land in Gaul which I have never seen since we—since I was a boy. You can go to it; you can live on it; you can own it if you wish. I offer that much for the sake of a dead friendship. But don’t, I beg of you, go north of the Wall.”

He looked at me then, and there was still nothing in the eyes of any warmth or human feeling. “I go north,” he said. “And no-one shall stop me.” The spear, that I had thought at first to be a staff, was balanced lightly in his hand, but he was standing carefully on the balls of his feet, and I knew then that he would kill me if I moved. Any other man I could have run down with a fair chance of success. But he was different. He had been a gladiator. They were trained to move with a speed that no soldier could emulate. They could pick flies off the wall with their bare hands. I knew. I had watched them do it.

I turned my horse to let him pass. “You are a freed man under the law, as you said, and you may go where you will.”

“I shall indeed.”

“A word of warning, Julian.”

He turned at that, and for a moment I thought I detected something in his eyes that was almost human. “Well?”

“Go north by all means. But, if you do, then never come south again within spear range of my wall.”

He said, tonelessly, “I will remember that. When I do come you may be certain I shall not come alone.”

I watched him go up the track, saw him show his papers to the sentry and disappear from sight into the heather beyond. He had changed out of all recognition and perhaps I had too. I wondered what the Picts would make of him—a man with no hair.

II

S
OMETIME
in the middle of winter, on a stormy night, two men and a woman, mounted on ponies and riding for their lives, came in out of the heather and clamoured for shelter. They were allowed through and in the morning I interviewed them. By their dress and by the way they did their hair Saturninus thought they might be Vacomagi from the great mountains in central Caledonia—a tribe untouched by Rome since the days of Agricola. But we did not ask them. All were young. The woman was dark, with long black hair and skin the colour of warm milk. She was very beautiful. The two men were her brothers. I heard a confused tale of a tyrannical uncle, of the young lover slain in jealousy by this man, of the brothers killing him in his turn, and of a blood feud that had split the tribe.

“There was a meeting of the elders, excellency,” said the younger brother in a tired voice. “We were proscribed and fled to avoid our deaths.”

“Very well,” I said. “You may stay under the protection of Rome, provided that you are obedient to our laws. But what will you do now?”

The elder brother said, nervously, “We can shift for ourselves. But our sister is another matter. Does your excellency, perhaps, need a woman to manage his house? She is a good cook and obedient and would give no trouble.”

It did not seem to me an accurate description of her at all, but I understood what he was trying to say. “Thank you, no,” I said. “I have a wife and my household is full. I have no need of any servants.” The woman stiffened at that and put up her chin. There was, for a moment, an expression in her eyes that I could not read, and then she dropped her head and stared sullenly at the floor.

They stayed in the civilian settlement for a while, and then the woman was taken up by my second-in-command and he asked my permission to marry her. The brothers were agreeable and the woman too, and I said yes without hesitation. She was a woman to turn men’s heads and already there had been fights in the settlement over her. Married she would cause less trouble.

I could not have been more wrong.

Quintus became a regular visitor to our fort, and did much to cheer up Aelia during the cold months of rain and snow. Spring came early that year, and then summer burst upon us in a blaze of heat. Aelia was very pale at this time and a little unhappy, I think, but I put it down to her remorse at having lost one of the ear-drops I had given her, though I had told her a dozen times that it did not matter. To give her a change I arranged for her to spend some months in Eburacum and, after much argument, she agreed to go. At the last moment she changed her mind and wanted to stay, but Quintus, who had ridden over to try our new wine and who was lounging on the steps, agreed with me, so she gave in to our persuasion. I missed her badly but I was soon to be glad that she had gone.

The trouble began in July on the night of the full moon. I was in the office, working late, when my adjutant, Vitalius, came in. There were beads of sweat on his face and he had the look of a man who has talked with demons.

“What is it?” I said. “What’s the matter, man?”

“We have been betrayed, sir.”

“Sit down. You look ill. Tell me about it.”

He licked his lips. “It’s that woman, the wife of Gaius. She knew I was married. She’s been on at me for weeks, pestering me, asking me—she wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“And so?”

“I love my wife.” He stared at me defiantly. “I do. But—but she is very beautiful and—and in the end I forgot myself.” He buried his face in his hands and his shoulders shook at the memory of the betrayal.

“Is that all? Does Gaius know?”

“No. At least I don’t think so. Afterwards, she threatened to tell him unless I helped her. She said I could have her always if I helped her.”

“What help does she want?”

“There is a great conspiracy. The tribes of the far north have promised to join with the men between the walls. She is a spy. She came with her brothers for that purpose. Their story was false.”

“What else?”

“They have been bribing and suborning the auxiliaries. All the Brigantes among the garrison will mutiny when the time comes. The province is to be freed for ever from Roman rule.”

“Boudicca had the same idea.”

“It is true. I swear it. The tribes have taken the blood oath. And they have allied themselves with the Scotti.”

“How many men in this garrison will stand by us?”

“Less than half.”

Now I, too, was afraid.

“When is the rising timed for?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“We have twenty-four hours then in which to save something from the wreckage.” I spoke lightly and he said, incredulously, “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I believe you—though not about the Scotti. When have the Picts and they ever been friends?”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Never mind. On whose side is Gaius? Don’t tell me. I can make a good guess.”

“What shall we do?”

“Get your sword,” I said, as I buckled on my own. “I am going down to the house of Gaius and you are coming with me.”

We went out silently, through the gate and across the hard packed turf to the settlement. Most of the huts were in darkness, but through the open door of a wineshop I glimpsed a girl with lank hair, dejectedly sweeping up oyster shells that lay scattered on the floor. Moving quietly, we went round the back of a timber framed house, along the colonnade and up the stairs to a room where a torch burned in a bracket high on the wall. They were both there, sitting together on a couch, and they had the look of people who have just been making love. Gaius rose as I entered and his face went white as he saw my sword. But the woman beside him did not move.

“Gaius,” I said. “I have proof that your wife is a spy and a traitor. She is also a liar and an adulteress. Now prove to me that you are not a traitor also.”

He stared at me, licking his dry lips. “How?” he said at length, and the one word told me that Vitalius had not lied.

I held out a knife to him. “Kill her,” I said. “Now. With this.” He took the knife, stared at it blindly for a moment and then let it drop to the floor. “I cannot,” he said. “If you kill me for it, I cannot.”