The War at the Edge of the World (6 page)

Crunching over the cobbles, the two men descended towards the bridge. Just before it, they turned off to the right along another road that traced the strip of sloping ground between the ditch and wall of the fortress and the river. Along the riverbank there were low buildings: warehouses and shacks, crude taverns and brothels. Valens shoved a couple of staggering soldiers out of his path, while Castus paced along behind him, rolling his shoulders.

The Blue House stood at the far end of the row of buildings. Narrow and two-storeyed, with a rickety balcony overhanging the street, it was painted all over with a sky-blue wash. A side gate gave access to the yard, and a miserable-looking sentry was posted there to deny entry to anyone except centurions and tribunes. The Blue House was what passed for a high-class establishment in Eboracum.

An elderly eunuch in a blue chiton met them as they stepped through into the yard. Valens passed over his two tokens, and the eunuch held the leather discs up to the light of a lamp.

‘Don’t worry, they’re genuine,’ Valens said, and smiled over his shoulder to Castus. The eunuch made a weary bow and gestured them into the house.

‘Welcome, welcome, brave and handsome centurions!’ Dionysia, the madam of the house, was a woman in her fifties, wearing garish cosmetics and heavy earrings that chimed. ‘Come in and be seated – you’re our only visitors tonight! Sit down and I’ll send for wine!’

In the blue-walled sitting room, Castus eased himself down onto a shabby divan and spread his knees. He always felt uncomfortable in brothels, even if Valens appeared entirely relaxed. A boy brought cups and a bronze pitcher of earthy brown wine. There was a thick smell in the air, like burnt flowers.

‘The only visitors?’ Valens said dubiously. He glanced up at the ceiling, as if he expected to see it shuddering.

A bell sounded, the beaded curtain across the inner doorway opened, and a group of girls filed into the room. Castus gazed at them: a couple were familiar from his previous visits, but the face he was looking for was not there. One of the girls, a skinny redhead who looked about fifteen, was trying to stifle a cough.

‘Cleopatra!’ Valens cried, getting up and seizing the hand of a tall dark-skinned girl. ‘You’re for me. Castus, which do you fancy?’

‘Is Afrodisia not here tonight?’ Castus asked, turning to the woman lingering by the door.

‘Ah, Afrodisia,’ Dionysia replied, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Yes, but she’s… she’s
bathing
at the moment. Perhaps you’d like to wait?’

Castus nodded and settled back on the divan.

‘Bathing!’ Valens grinned. ‘She’s bathing in something, but I’ll bet it’s not mare’s milk. Choose another one…’ He gave the dark girl a slap on the buttocks and herded her out through the bead curtain, and the other girls followed behind him.

Afrodisia was really called Claudia Galla, but clients were supposed to use only trade names. Castus had met her only a month after arriving in Britain: a blonde woman, a few years younger than himself, with a soft womanly body and a tired ease about her that he found deeply attractive. Sometimes he had fantasised about marrying her, but the idea was absurd, the sort of misty notion that bored soldiers concocted when they spent too long in barracks. Even so, he wanted her now – wanted to see her and talk with her more than anything. The wine was stripping away whatever vague ardour he might previously have possessed.

Settling himself heavily on the narrow divan, he wondered at the gathering frustration he had felt these last months, the sense of barely tethered anger. Was it something he had inherited from his father? His promotion to centurion had seemed like a reward once, but now the fortress was coming to feel like a snare. He could lose himself here. All day he had been baited: by Ursicinus on the drill field; by Balbinus and Galleo in the messroom; by all the head-scratching routines of unit administration and hospital visits. He felt a raging violence inside him, a need for release. The disappointment at not seeing Afrodisia was just the latest of his vexations.

From somewhere upstairs he heard a man shout. Not Valens. A woman screamed – it was her, he was sure – and at once he was crossing the room: three long strides to the curtain with his centurion’s staff gripped in his fist. Swiping aside the beaded curtain, he stared down the wooden passageway to the stairs: the big Frankish slave rising to his feet, Dionysia’s startled expression through a doorway to the right.

‘Centurion?’ the madam said. ‘Please, be calm… nothing is wrong!’

A woman’s laughter came from upstairs. Castus lowered his staff and the beads dropped back into place, swinging and clattering. Embarrassment creased through him. A stupid mistake, that was all.

Another voice now, from out in the yard. Hurried words. Castus turned as the eunuch appeared through the doorway, stooping a bow.

‘Would the dominus be Centurion Aurelius Castus?’ he asked.

Castus glared at him, and the eunuch swallowed thickly.

‘There is messenger for you, dominus. From the prefect. He claims it’s an urgent matter.’

He stepped away from the curtain. Dionysia was still peering at him through the swinging beads, her earrings chiming.

Now what?
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m coming.’

The praetorium was in darkness, only a few lamps burning in the upper rooms and the sentries at the door almost asleep against their spears. Two months had passed since Castus had last entered here, for his strange interview with Arpagius and the notary Nigrinus. This time things were different – the messenger had told him nothing, but had led him through the streets of the fortress at a rapid pace.

Up the stairs, he followed the corridor along to the same room he had entered before. The doors opened to orange lamplight and a huddle of figures around the central table. Castus took three strides across the floor, stamped to a halt and saluted.

‘Dominus!’

‘Yes, yes, quietly, please, centurion. Stand at ease.’

Arpagius had a creased look, as if he had been woken recently. A quick glance took in the other men in the room: two tribunes, Rufinius and Callistus; a long-haired man in a native cloak whom Castus recognised as the rider he had seen outside earlier; and a bearded balding man with a round face and startled eyes.

‘What’s the current duty strength of your century?’ the prefect asked.

‘Dominus! Four men still absent on supply escort duty, three men in the hospital, two men on leave, one detached to the river patrol, one absent without leave. Fifty-eight men present for duty, dominus.’

Arpagius raised an eyebrow. ‘Impressively detailed,’ he said. Castus suppressed a smile, and gave silent thanks to his standard-bearer.

‘I want you to prepare those men you have available for immediate departure,’ the prefect went on. Castus said nothing.

‘You may want to sit down, centurion,’ one of the tribunes said, pointing to a stool. Castus winged his shoulders, then he sat down stiffly on the stool with his back straight.

‘One of our frontier scouts,’ Arpagius said, gesturing to the man in the native cloak, ‘has just brought some potentially troubling information from north of the border. It appears that Vepogenus, who you may know is High Chieftain of the Pictish confederation, has died. Apparently a case of accidental food poisoning – he was feasting on mushrooms – but there are necessarily doubts about what’s happened.’

Castus nodded, staying silent. He had never heard of Vepogenus, or the Pictish confederation. The Picts were a savage people who lived far north of the frontier, past the wall of Hadrian and the settled lands beyond, but he knew no more about them than that.

‘Since the death is in dispute,’ Arpagius went on, ‘Vepogenus’s military commander has declared himself regent until the tribal leaders can be gathered to select a new high chieftain.’

‘The Picts have a multitude of leaders,’ said the second tribune, Callistus, a solid military-looking man with hard eyes. ‘But they’ve taken to…
electing
a chieftain to stand above the others. It’s a new thing – easier for us when they just fought among themselves!’

‘Vepogenus fought against us in the past,’ Arpagius said, ‘but he agreed to a treaty several years ago. He swore to keep the peace and not to attack the settled tribes to the south who are clients of Rome, and he’s stuck to it. With him gone, there’s potential for troublemakers to step in – the Picts are a very backward people, and believe treaties are made between individuals, not states. Therefore we must send an envoy, with a diplomatic party, to the tribal gathering and ensure that the old treaties are honoured by the newly elected chieftain, whoever he may be. I want your men to act as a bodyguard.’

‘Prefect, with respect,’ the tribune Callistus broke in, ‘will a single reduced century be enough? Less than sixty men? We should send a cohort, surely…’

‘No. This is an honour guard, nothing more. If we sent a whole cohort the tribes would suspect we were invading their land. Which we have no intention of doing.’

Watching the exchange, Castus was surprised by the change in Arpagius. On his last meeting the prefect had seemed worried, irresolute. Now he was much firmer, with a decisive note in his voice. Even so, the plan lacked appeal. Castus knew nothing of Picts or any other savages, and the notion of standing around acting as a ceremonial guard surrounded by howling barbarians tightened his stomach. He thought enviously of Valens, still at the Blue House with his dark-skinned Cleopatra…

‘Would a mounted escort not be faster?’ asked the bearded man. Castus had ignored him until now.

‘Over that distance, no,’ Arpagius replied. ‘There’s limited horse fodder north of the wall – the stunted little ponies the natives ride seem to live on air – and a cavalry force of that size would have to carry its own provisions or spend half their time foraging. Our soldiers can cover twenty miles a day on foot. Besides, I want legionaries there – the savages respect our legions; they fear them. They’re Rome, to the natives’ understanding. Centurion, you have a question?’

Castus paused, unaware that he had been staring quizzically. ‘Dominus,’ he said, ‘I just thought… why choose my men for this?’

Arpagius gave him a thin smile. ‘Because I warmed to you on our last meeting, centurion! You’re the sort of plain, honest soldier I like. And because you’ve turned an unpromising crop of men into the smartest century in the legion. They look good and they march hard, and that’s what I need at this moment. Besides, I suspect you’ll impress the natives. They’re quite puny, on the whole.’

Nothing more to be said then, Castus thought. He recognised a foregone conclusion when he heard one. Standing up, he clasped his hands at his back, raised his head and stuck out his chest. ‘Dominus! What are your orders?’

Arpagius nodded slightly, pleased. ‘The decision of the tribes,’ he said, ‘is scheduled for the first light of the new moon, which is in fifteen days’ time. The party will consist of one of my secretaries, Flavius Strabo’ – he gestured to the bearded man, who bowed his head – ‘and our envoy, to be collected from his villa a day’s march north of here.’

‘I’m not sure about that plan either,’ the tribune said quietly, but Arpagius ignored him.

‘Prepare your men to leave before dawn. I’ll supply a docket to draw all necessary supplies from the commissariat, and eight mules to carry the baggage together with slaves to handle them. I’ll also write an order to the commander of Bremenium fort to detach some mounted scouts to accompany you north of the Wall. I must remind you, centurion, that your force will
not
be expected to fight – they are an honour guard alone. Your first responsibility will be the protection of the envoy himself, then the security of your own men. You will have no say in any diplomatic negotiations, and should keep yourself and your men separate from the natives at all times. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, dominus. We will do what we are ordered…’

‘…
and at every command we will be ready
,’ Arpagius said with a smile, finishing the customary soldier’s pledge. ‘Dismissed, centurion.’

Mile after mile, the road ran on across the open landscape, straight and true as a line scored on a surveyor’s plan. The soldiers marched in open order, spread out along the road with the pack mules at the centre. As they passed the fourth milestone from Eboracum the sun rose, lighting the brown moors to either side and throwing their long shadows out over the gravel ahead of them.

Castus marched at the head of the column. Behind him came Evagrius, carrying a banner with the winged Victory emblem of the Sixth Legion, and after him the remaining fifty-seven men of the century. Each carried a full load – mail armour and helmet, shield and spear, sword, two light javelins and a sheaf of darts, plus a full canteen and hard rations for five days. Another twelve days’ food per man was carried on the pack mules, together with the tents, cooking utensils, entrenching tools and fodder, and a sealed package of diplomatic gifts to present to the Picts. It was a heavy burden, but men and animals moved easily now, falling into the rhythm of the march. Castus had done his planning well.

It had been a different picture two hours before, when he had mustered his men in the pre-dawn twilight, just inside the river gate of the fortress. All of them bone-tired and aching from broken sleep, unwashed and unfed, none knowing where they were going or why. They had marched out in a ragged column, across the bridge and through the silent civilian settlement with their boots crunching loud on the cobbles. Castus had decided not to tell his men of the nature of the mission until they had a day’s march behind them. He knew so little himself about what lay ahead.

But a winter of route marches had toughened the men up, and with the sun on their backs they soon picked up a good pace. The country to either side was open moorland, then at the seventh milestone they crossed a brook and moved into rolling cultivated hills. It was familiar territory to them all. Castus hung back every few miles and let the men pass him, swatting at his thigh with his staff as he checked them off.