The War at the Edge of the World (12 page)

‘Very astute! Yes, it does. They can’t rule directly, but they have a lot of influence. But it’s a good system, if an odd one. The Picts claim it avoids dynasties – they’re very keen on their freedom, and don’t like monopolies of rule – but more importantly it gives them a large number of mature experienced candidates to choose from. Rome has often suffered from underage emperors succeeding their fathers.’

‘I suppose so.’ Castus winged his shoulders. He remembered the governor, Arpagius, telling him that the barbarians may not understand the abdication of the old Augusti. Might take it as a sign of weakness. Perhaps they were more sophisticated than that after all?

‘So what have you learned from our allies then?’ he asked, poking at the fire with a stick. ‘About what’s going on. Did the old Pictish king die naturally, or what?’

Sparks rose, lighting Marcellinus’s face. Since crossing the border, the envoy seemed to have shed part of himself – part of his Romanness. He looked more like one of the Votadini now than a former Roman military commander.

‘We know nothing certain,’ he said carefully. ‘But there are suspicions. Vepogenus was a strong man, an honourable man. He was my friend and my brother by pact, and the news of his death genuinely pained me. But he had a lot of enemies among the tribes. There are also some others among them who… make it their business to stir old animosities.’

‘The renegades.’ Castus scowled into the glow of the fire.

‘Yes. Strabo must have told you about them. There were three of them, but two killed each other and now only one lives that I know of. A former officer of mine, a Pannonian like you, I think. His name is Julius Decentius.’

‘Was it him that killed your boy?’

Castus saw the envoy visibly flinch as his words registered.

‘I don’t know,’ Marcellinus said quietly. ‘I don’t want to know either. But he could have been connected with the king’s death. Not alone, though – he would need to work through the ambitions of others. Personally, I believe that the news of Diocletian and Maximian’s abdication provided a spur to a plot against the king. This renegade convinced certain others that the empire would be weak, and this would be a good time to strike at us. Only Vepogenus’s loyalty to the treaty stood in their way.’

‘Any idea who the others might be?’

‘Perhaps. A cousin of the king, named Talorcagus. I’ve met him, a very reckless man. He also has a nephew, Drustagnus, who if anything is worse. The king’s own nephew, Vendognus, is a weak and stupid young man, but he has a strong-willed wife, a cousin of his, who may have plans for her own son in the succession. Perhaps all of them are working together. We’ll soon find out.’

The list of unfamiliar and barbarous names clotted in the air, and Castus doubted he would ever tell one from the others. Back at Eboracum, he had made a few attempts to pick up the local speech, but he had no skill with languages. Latin, a bit of Greek: that was all he had ever needed, and the gargling vowels and slippery-sounding consonants of the British tongue meant nothing to him. But he gave an understanding grunt. Treachery and backstabbing deceit took the same form all over the world, after all, in any language.

The next morning Castus put his men through a full weapons drill on the grassy plain before the old fort, both to keep them in shape and to impress the watching barbarians. Formation march, shield wall, testudo and skirmish line, then dart and javelin release and charge in the wedge formation they called the boar’s head. The legionaries responded well, still sharp after twelve days on the road. The Votadini seemed impressed too, whooping and yelling their encouragement at first, then falling quiet when they saw the disciplined force of the Roman  attack.

As he formed up his men in line of march once more, Castus felt an enthusiastic energy charging his body. How many years had it been since this savage shore had witnessed Roman troops in battle order? Then he saw Marcellinus, watching from horseback with an appreciative smile, and remembered that this man too had brought an army into this land.

All that day they marched west along the shore of the estuary. Everywhere the ground rose and knotted into the traces of old fortifications, the marks of Rome. All of it lost in a wilderness now, fallen and forgotten. It was awe-inspiring, and somehow deadening. Castus remembered what Strabo had said in the camp beneath the three peaks: all this great work, all this effort, counting for nothing. By late afternoon they had turned north again, and towards the day’s end they crossed a massive ditch and earth rampart, still clearly visible as it stretched away to the west.

‘Do you know what this is?’ Marcellinus called, sitting on his horse at the rampart’s crest. ‘This is the wall of Antoninus, or what’s left of it. The furthest limit of Roman power, about a century and a half ago. Beyond this we’re into Pictland!’

That evening they camped in the open, and the scouts brought in an ox and a pair of rams they had caught wandering near the old wall. Castus formed the men up at sunset, and they built a rough altar and gave sacrifice to Mars, Jupiter and Sol. Marcellinus took the priestly role, despatching the victim animals with careful dignity, then Castus led the men in the shouted acclamations as the smoke of the altar swirled the smell of fresh blood and cooking meat around them.

Strabo had not been present for the ceremony; Castus saw him shortly afterwards, wandering back into camp with a grave expression. He was angered by the man’s attitude: whatever his private beliefs, surely he could see the need for unity at a time like this? But the ceremony had done what he wanted. They had asked the gods’ permission to proceed, and no ill omens had been detected. The men’s spirits were better, with the end of the road in sight.

‘Roman friends!’ the Votadini chief cried the next morning in his terrible Latin. ‘You come! We go now. We meet Picti! Come – follow!’

With a wide sweeping gesture he turned his horse northwards. It was misty, and the pack mules stamped and shivered as the slaves secured the tents and kit on their backs. To the east the first rays of the sun were breaking the grey line of the horizon.

‘Fall in – prepare to march,’ Castus called. Then the horn sounded and the last stage of their journey began.

For six miles they followed a straight track across level country, water meadows and patches of forest. This was land long uncultivated, a true border. To the north and east the river looped and shone in the low sunlight, while to the west there were hills and high moorlands dark on the horizon. The Romans marched in close formation, weapons ready; even the Votadini had closed ranks, growing less boisterously confident now they had left their own territories and moved into the land of the Picts. Marcellinus was riding on ahead, tall and straight-backed on his black horse, with the Votadini chief riding at his side and his two slaves coming on behind with thick green branches raised over their heads. At Castus’s back, every soldier’s spear was tipped with a sprig of green leaves, the mark of peaceful intent.

‘We’ve got company,’ Timotheus said quietly as they approached a ford across the river.

‘I’ve seen them,’ Castus replied. For the last mile he had been noticing the figures among the trees lining the road: men in short tunics carrying spears, running. One of them dashed out onto the verge; for a moment Castus thought the man’s face was heavily scarred, then he saw that the marks were deliberate, dark lines scored into his cheeks and forehead. The effect was alien, even inhuman. Castus fought down a shiver of superstitious dread.
They’re only men
, he told himself.
Nothing we can’t handle.

The envoy splashed through the ford and rode up onto the track on the far side. A larger group of the tattooed men gathered on the road before him, parting as he approached. Where was Strabo? Castus wanted to look behind him, but feared that his men would notice his anxiety. Already they had begun bunching together, stumbling into each other.

‘Order your ranks!’ he called over his shoulder as they gained the dry ground on the other side of the river. ‘Keep formation back there!’

The ground rose to the north-east, and a line of huge craggy hills sealed the horizon, brown and purple in the afternoon sun. From the woods to one side of the road dashed a small flimsy-looking two-wheeled cart of bent wood and wicker, drawn by a pair of shaggy ponies. A warrior stood upright in the back, brandishing a spear, his face fiercely scarred. There were more and more of these warriors now, lining the road, swirling around the marching column.

‘This is looking bad,’ Timotheus said through tight lips. Up ahead, Marcellinus was still riding forward, apparently unmoved by the Picts on all sides. Castus had assumed, back in Eboracum, that the tribal meeting would be a small gathering, a group of chieftains in a hut, or around some standing stone. Now things were beginning to look very different. The hills and woods to either side thronged with barbarians.

They crested a rise, and a wide valley opened before them, below the craggy hills. A river lined with trees rushed along the valley floor, with open slopes to either side. And the valley was full of men.

‘Jupiter’s cock and balls!’ said Timotheus quietly. ‘There are thousands of them!’

‘Looks that way.’

The column had drawn to a halt on the road, the legionaries shuffling together, muttering and exclaiming. Before them, the encampments of the Pictish chiefs appeared to cover the far side of the valley, knots of warriors everywhere across the hills and waiting beside the road.

‘We’ve got to stop Marcellinus,’ Castus said quickly, ‘before he leads us right into the middle of that lot… Culchianus! Jog on up to the envoy and tell him to wait. I need to speak to him.’

Culchianus saluted and ran down the slope after Marcellinus.

‘Where’s Strabo got to?’ Castus demanded.

‘Back with the mules, centurion, walking beside his horse. Reckon he wants to keep his head down!’

Up ahead, Castus saw the soldier catch up with Marcellinus. The envoy reined in his horse and looked back up the road.

‘Vincentius, run back to Strabo and request his pony off him. If he won’t ride, I will.’ Castus called over the two nearest mounted scouts. He remembered their names now, Buccus and Brigonius. ‘You two, stay with me. We’re going down to survey that valley. Timotheus, keep the men moving, but slowly as you can.’

Vincentius came back with Strabo’s pony, and Castus swung himself up into the saddle. Like all legionaries, he had been trained to ride, but had never been much good at it. Heavy and clumsy, his toes dangling, he jogged the animal into motion. It was an effort to stay upright in the saddle – don’t slip now, he told himself, clinging grimly to the reins. Falling off his horse in full view of hundreds of barbarians would not be a good start.

‘Centurion, why have you halted your men?’ Marcellinus looked annoyed – Castus guessed that the delay did not suit his notion of diplomatic dignity.

‘We need to find a secure defensive position on this side of the Pictish camp.’ He was sweating heavily, struggling to stay on the pony as the animal tossed its head and tugged at the reins.

‘The Picts have already assigned us a camping ground, over there on the far slope. We risk giving offence if we refuse it. Order your men on.’

Castus gritted his teeth, tried to keep his voice level. ‘Dominus, with respect, that isn’t a good idea. My responsibility is to the safety of my men. We need to keep them clear of the Picts and make sure we can hold our line of retreat.’

Marcellinus gazed down at him from his high horse, his expression darkening. Clearly he was not used to taking directions from his subordinates. The Votadini chief was watching with a look of veiled amusement.

‘Very well,’ the envoy said. ‘You see to your men, and I will proceed into the camp and present myself to the chiefs of the assembly. I will rejoin you at your selected position before sundown.’

He jerked the reins and kicked his horse forward into a trot. Castus motioned for one of the scouts to go with him, then jogged the pony after them, cursing under his breath.

The track descended the flank of the hill and crossed the level ground before dipping again to a ford over the stream. Between the ford and the track there was a low steep-sided hillock, and Castus could make out what appeared to be a stone wall along the crest. Swinging his arm to the scout behind him, he urged his unwilling mount up the slope. At the top he slipped from the saddle and dropped heavily onto the springy turf.

‘This looks like it,’ he said as the scout cantered easily up behind him. The top of the hillock was dry and level, ringed with a knee-high oval of piled stones enclosing an area of about sixty paces by forty. A sheepfold, Castus guessed, but it had not been used for a long time. The wall had collapsed in places, and the ground inside the circuit was littered with stray stones and lumps of dried sheep droppings. He scanned the surroundings, assessing: level ground to the west and south, and a steep drop down to the bend of the stream and the ford to the north and east. No trees along the stream to provide cover for an attacking enemy. The ground on the far side of the valley rose higher, but it was well out of range of the longest bowshot.

Castus wiped his brow. He could make out the column of legionaries coming slowly down the flank of the hill to the south-west, the leaves on their spears giving them the look of a small copse on the move, and ordered the scout to ride back and tell Timotheus where to lead them. Then he stood in the centre of the stone enclosure, gazing at the surrounding land. From the top of the hillock he could clearly see the main Pictish camp on the far side of the stream, a few large huts surrounded by a mass of crude temporary shelters, fogged by the smoke of cooking fires. The little carts – chariots, he guessed – dashed out and back.

Now he had the chance, he was able to study the appearance of the Picts more closely. Many of them resembled their Votadini brethren, or the Britons from further south. But there were some among them who were clearly the elite warriors, the nobles and their retinues, and they looked quite different. They wore the same short tunics and heavy cloaks as the commoners, leaving their arms and legs bare, and carried small square shields, short swords and leaf-bladed spears with a round brass ball instead of a butt-spike. But their faces, and the exposed flesh of their bodies, were covered in scar-pictures, curling shapes and animal patterns, some picked out in bright colours dyed onto the skin. The older men wore spade-shaped beards and thick moustaches, and with their cheeks shaved they had the look of goats. The sides of their heads were shaved too, and the long hair at the top matted together with greyish clay into a stiff comb, which hung down at the nape of the neck.