The War at the Edge of the World (33 page)

Maybe it was just the sunshine, Castus thought, but being in the city raised his spirits more than anything else these last months. There was a sense of hope here, of pride and of activity. For all his instinctive dislike of civilians, it was good to see them putting their city back together again. He paused for a while in the forum, beside the blackened pillars of the temple of Neptune, and watched the huge temporary wagon park that filled the open space heaving with life.

The prospect of seeing Marcellina again perplexed him. He had been ready to assume her gone and put her from his mind completely. She had no connection to him, beyond the chance accidents of war that had thrown them, briefly, together. And how would she appear now, recovered from her ordeal, composed? Would she too blame him for what had happened? The note had given no clue. But beyond his misgivings, Castus knew that he wanted to see the girl, even if only once. The memory of her had haunted him for too long, the sense of things unspoken and unresolved, and now he needed to lay it to rest.

He found the address soon afterwards, without difficulty. It was only a hundred yards or so from the forum, down a narrow street past the baths: a large house with tall blank walls. The glassmaker’s shop opposite was still a gutted shell glittering with broken shards, but the green doors were hard to miss, standing between their tall masonry columns. Castus knocked, and then stepped back into the sunlight and waited.

A slot in the door opened, and an eye stared out, ringed by wrinkles.

‘Aurelius Castus, Centurion, Sixth Legion,’ Castus declared loudly. ‘Come to pay respects to the Domina Marcellina, as she requested.’

The slot closed, and Castus heard the thud of a bolt and the rattle of a chain. Then the door swung back, and he stepped in over the threshold.

Beyond the door was a large vestibule. The room still smelled strongly of stale urine, and there was a large black scar in one corner where a cooking fire had burned. The painted walls were scratched and gouged all over with crude Pictish-looking shapes that could have been drawings or words. The old door slave bobbed around Castus, staring at him.

‘The domina is… indisposed,’ he said. ‘But the dominus will receive you, with his guardian. Please… allow me to take your cloak.’

Further into the house there were more signs of the destruc­tion. The vestibule opened to a garden portico, but the pillars were pitted and chipped and the garden itself a rutted mess. It looked as if somebody had dug it up looking for buried valuables. The mosaic floor in the portico had been smashed too, apparently with a hammer. Castus rubbed his boot over what looked like a scrubbed bloodstain.

‘They killed the cook,’ the slave muttered. ‘Please – this way…’

The slave led Castus down a short passage from the portico to a room at the rear of the house. It must have been a pleasant chamber once – the walls painted with scenes of flowering shrubs and fruit trees. Castus remembered that this house had belonged to Marcellinus. He wondered whether the envoy had spent time in this room. He would not have liked the look of it now.

‘Greetings,’ said the boy in the embroidered robe sitting in the middle of the room. ‘Please sit. I am Aelius Sulpicianus, son of Aelius Marcellinus. We were expecting you.’

Castus lowered himself onto a flimsy-looking cane chair. The shutters were closed and the room was quite dim, but he could make out the features of the boy sitting before him. Something of his father, and of his sister too – the same delicate oval face, the same large dark eyes. He was about thirteen, Castus remembered.

‘This is my tutor, Aristides,’ the boy said, gesturing to the other man in the room, loitering on the couch. Aristides was bald­ing, with a sour mouth and a badgerish beard. Expensive rings on his fingers. Probably handy with a cane, Castus thought.

‘I got a letter from your sister,’ he said to the boy. ‘She asked me to visit her here.’

‘She wrote to you without the permission of the dominus Sulpicianus,’ the tutor said. ‘As Sulpicianus is now head of the family, this was an error.’ Clearly he was the one in charge here.

‘Your slave said she was… indisposed.’

‘Yes, my sister is unwell,’ the boy said. His expression did not waver. He had something of his father’s nerve at least. ‘The shock of her experiences has wounded her deeply, and she is still not in a state to receive visitors.’

‘She has lucid moments,’ the tutor said. ‘But they soon pass. She faints and sweats, cries out, forgets things…’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Castus said in a level voice. A moment passed, and he heard birds singing from the garden courtyard.

‘You are the centurion who was assigned to protect my father,’ Sulpicianus said. ‘Is it true you were with him when he died?’

‘Yes, dominus.’

‘Then… did you not think it was your duty to keep him alive, and not let him fall into the hands of the barbarians?’

Castus took a sharp breath, sitting up straight on the creak­ing chair: the boy had been schooled in what to say. He glanced quickly at Aristides, but the tutor looked away. Castus felt angry for a moment, but then remembered. Sulpicianus had lost his entire family. He had a right to judge poorly those who had survived.
Say what you need to say
, he told himself.
Then get out
.

‘Your father died by his own hand,’ he said slowly, feeling the clumsiness of his words, ‘and by his own will. If I could have saved him, I would have done it. I would have given my life for his if I’d had the chance. But we were betrayed, and your father chose the honourable way out. He charged me to bring word of his fate to you… and to return this.’

He reached into his belt pouch, fingers fumbling, and found the heavy gold signet ring. Leaning, he placed it on a side table.

‘Thank you,’ the boy said coldly.

‘Your father was a good man. A good soldier. He was think­ing of you, at the end. His last words to me were to convey his love to you, and to your sister.’

The boy closed his eyes, and Castus saw his jaw tremble. He was close to tears now. Castus stood up.

‘I will give sacrifice to the gods for your health and the good fortune of your family,’ he said. ‘And please greet your sister for me.’

He caught the tutor’s wry nod as he left the room.

Outside in the cool light of the portico, Castus winged his shoulders and felt a cold shudder running up his spine. He exhaled, letting his anger subside. His shame was harder to be rid of. Surely there was more he could have said? Something noble, or meaningful? But he was a soldier, not a diplomat. He shook his head. There was nothing more he could do for this family now.

As the slave went to fetch his cloak, Castus glanced back across the garden. There was a window high in the far wall, giving light to one of the inner rooms, and Castus saw a move­ment there. Marcellina, gazing back at him from the darkened chamber. He held her eye for just a moment, and then she was gone.

‘Name?’

‘Julius Stipo, centurion.’

‘What was your profession?’

‘Fullery assistant, centurion.’

Stipo was a short lad, little more than a boy, but his shoulders were broad and he had an open, unintelligent face. Castus grunted and tapped him on the shoulder with his cane.

‘You’re in with Remigius. Cell six. Go.’

The laundry boy picked up his bag of possessions and crossed to the barrack portico, where his future comrades were already waiting. Remigius, an experienced soldier whom Castus had appointed leader of the eight-man section, looked coolly unimpressed with the newcomer.

Standing in the lane between the barrack blocks, this last batch of new recruits were still dressed in civilian clothes, although each already wore the lead disc at his neck that sig­nified enlistment to the legion. Castus glanced down the line: a sorry set, the last scrapings of Eboracum’s conscriptable civilian population. But they would bring his century up to something near its old strength, at least.

‘Name?’ he said to the next man.

‘Claudius Acranius, centurion.’

Acranius was a former scenery-painter at the theatre, or so he claimed. Actually, he looked like a drunk, and had a nasty inflammation around one eye. Castus looked over at the barrack portico, crowded with idling men. After only a month, the new soldiers had formed their tight bonds, their networks of allegiance and distrust. He struggled to remember all their names. The pressure of keeping control of them all, keeping them knitted into a unit and not letting the bigger mouths and the fiercer tempers dominate the rest, was a burden.

‘You’re with Placidus. Cell eight. Go.’

Placidus was badly named. A squat and thickly muscled Gaul from a disbanded cohort of the Wall garrison, he had already stamped his mark on the men in his section. They were his gang now, and poor Acranius would have a hard time of it for the next few days, until he buckled under. It was not, Castus told himself, his concern. Anyone joining the legion would have to fight his space, until he had won some respect. It wasn’t pretty, but it was the way of things.

‘Name?’

‘Musius Diogenes.’

Castus cleared his throat, and leaned forward from the waist until the man flinched. ‘You address me as
centurion
,’ he said.

‘Sorry…
centurion
. No offence intended!’

‘What was your profession?’

‘Elementary schoolteacher…
centurion
.’

Castus drew back, staring down his nose. Diogenes was probably his own age, but looked older. His hair was fuzzy and receding from a domed forehead, and his bulging eyes and weak chin gave him a startled look.

‘You make good money as a schoolteacher?’ he asked roughly.

‘Oh, yes, centurion! Fifty denarii a month for every pupil.’

‘So what happened?’ Anyone earning that amount could surely have bought his way out of the draft – many others had done just that.

‘I… have no pupils… centurion!’ the man said, shrugging.

Castus tightened his lips to hide his smile. The man was completely unsuited to the army, but at least he was amusing.

‘You can read and write then, and do arithmetic?’

‘Oh, most certainly, centurion! With a high degree of aptitude!’

Castus frowned heavily, alert for any sign of humour. But the man appeared earnest. He tapped him on the shoulder with his staff.

‘Cell six. Remigius. Go.’

He could already see Remigius shaking his head with a disgusted expression. The schoolteacher too would have a hard time ahead of him. But, well –
sink or swim
.

Standing braced, staff clasped behind his back, Castus watched the men filing back into the barrack cells. At the end of the portico was a small group of women sitting with their bags and bundles, a few with small children. Nearly half of the new recruits had brought wives with them – more trouble for the future, no doubt. No matter, Castus decided. He would let them jostle and squabble for now, and bawl them out later.

‘Modestus,’ he called. ‘Take over here.’

The optio nodded smartly and marched across to the portico, already shouldering his staff.

Six months, Castus thought, before the emperor would be ready to take the field. Would that be long enough to beat and bully these men into a soldierly shape? It seemed impossible. He stifled a long yawn, turned on his heel and marched towards the centurions’ messroom.

‘Brother,’ said Valens, coming up behind him. ‘Walk with me over to the drill field, will you?’ With all the confusion in the fortress, Castus had not seen his friend in days. The other centurion fell into step beside him and they strolled together down to the main street and turned right towards the gate leading to the drill field.

‘Have you heard the latest?’ Valens said, speaking from the corner of his mouth. Castus turned his head and pressed his chin into his shoulder – he had never been able to speak sideways.

‘What?’

‘Arpagius is gone. Sent off back to Numidia to add up his sums! Apparently the city council wanted to prosecute him for failing to protect their property adequately. And after the fiasco at Isurium he didn’t smell good to the bigger chiefs either. Tribune Rufinius has been promoted to prefect of the legion.’

Castus nodded. He was not sorry that he would never be seeing Arpagius again, and Rufinius seemed a competent officer at least. But that was not what Valens had wanted to discuss.

‘What else?’ he said.

‘There’s talk going round the centurions’ messes,’ Valens mumbled. ‘You saw the Augustus – up close, I mean. How did he look to you?’

‘I only really saw his shoes.’

‘But did he look… healthy?’ Valens was barely even moving his lips now, and Castus had to stoop towards the smaller man to catch his words.

‘Healthy?’ he said, and glanced around quickly. They were walking in the centre of the street. From their left came the thun­der­ous clatter of the armoury workshop, working to produce weapons, shields and body armour for the new recruits. The air reeked of hot iron and forge smoke, and nobody could possibly hear them over the din of hammers and anvils. But still Castus felt a cold stir at the back of his neck. Discussing the health of emperors was treason. ‘Be careful what you’re suggesting,’ he said in a low rumble.

‘Don’t worry, brother! I’m just concerned. A sense of loyal regard for our domini.’

They fell silent for a few moments as they passed the tall portals of the headquarters building.

‘You saw his son, too? Constantine?’

‘I saw him,’ Castus said. His discomfort had not eased, and he wanted to step away from Valens, as if the mere suggestion of treasonous talk might be contagious.

‘There were a couple of Protectores down at the Blue House the other night. The new one, I mean, in the old Tenth Cohort barrack… They told me that Constantine had only joined them at Bononia on the Gallic coast, just before the crossing to Britain.’

‘What of it?’

‘Well – do you know where he’d been? Apparently the son of the Augustus has been in Nicomedia these last eight years, at the court of the
other
Augustus, the senior one, Galerius. In a sort of gilded captivity, so they implied. When the news arrived of the uprising here – by express messenger, as you’d imagine – Constantine petitioned Galerius for permission to go and join his father on the expedition. Galerius could hardly refuse, but he’d barely given his nod – while he was drinking over dinner, so they say – before our Constantine was off. He rode all the way from Nicomedia to Bononia by post relays in just over ten days, mutilating the horses as he went so he couldn’t be followed by a countermanding order!’