The War at the Edge of the World (8 page)

‘I don’t have much of an imagination. Why weren’t they surrendered to justice when the war ended?’

‘Oh, well. The terms of the surrender were… difficult. In fact, you might better call it a truce. Since the few surviving renegades were present at the negotiations, and hold high rank among the Picts, it was difficult to…
apprehend
them, shall we say.’

‘And what about Marcellinus? I’ve never heard his name before now.’ Castus was developing a strong notion about the identity of their mysterious envoy.

But Strabo had got up and was heading for the river. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said. ‘Just now I have a fierce need to wash my feet!’

Back on the road northwards from Isurium, the century passed across an open moorland of brown heather and wild grass. After five miles, Strabo turned aside from the road and led them off along a narrower track, due west into a broad river valley. The late-afternoon sun was warm and golden, and the feet of the marching men raised a low haze of dust over the road.

‘Move up ahead with me a little way,’ Strabo said, slipping down off his pony to walk beside Castus. ‘I’ll tell you more about Marcellinus, although I’m not sure it’s safe for everyone to know, if you follow me.’

The secretary had a tired look now, and his face was dusty. He was developing a persistent cough, and swigged from a small bottle of medicine he kept in his saddlebag. All this way, Castus thought, the secrecy had been wearing away at him. Now he had to let it out.

‘Nobody can hear us,’ he said, glancing back. They forded a shallow rushing stream, the water soaking through their boots and leg wrappings. Strabo nodded, closing his eyes; the relief at being able to unburden himself was obvious. Not for the first time, Castus wondered just how much of the secretary’s reserve had been calculated.

‘I told you that Marcellinus led the treaty negotiations at the end of the last Pictish war,’ Strabo said, quickly and quietly. ‘There’s a little more to it than that. Part of the talks involved an exchange of hostages – it’s common among the native peoples, and Marcellinus understood their ways. As a token of his trust in Vepogenus, he sent his own son, a boy of fourteen, as hostage for our side.’

Castus whistled through his teeth. He had a bad feeling about the way this story was going. The shadow of a cloud fell over the road ahead.

‘He died, the boy,’ Strabo said. ‘Murdered, probably by one of the renegades in an attempt to sabotage the peace talks.’

‘And Marcellinus… forgave them?’

‘He had to. Either that, or renew a destructive war and fight with rage in his heart. The murderer was never identified, needless to say, but I believe he had his suspicions.’

‘Strong man.’

‘Yes. Strong indeed. But the experience broke his spirits. He resigned his command after the peace was agreed, and retired to his estates. Few people have seen or heard from him since.’

But we will, and soon, Castus thought. He was grinding his molars as he marched. Savage barbarians, murderous renegade Romans – and an envoy with a killing grudge against both of them. He glanced back at the men behind him, marching along at an easy pace, spearpoints catching the lowering sunlight. Surely the tribune back at Eboracum had been right: they should have sent a full cohort, with cavalry support.

‘He’s still the most skilled negotiator in the province,’ Strabo said quietly. ‘And he understands the Picts, knows many of them personally.’

And wants to kill them
, Castus thought. But he said nothing.

It was early evening by the time they reached the villa. The tiled roofs showed through the trees, then the white-pillared portico and the vault of the bath-house. Castus ordered his men into military step as they approached the gates with the standard proudly before them. Tenant labourers in dun tunics stood in the fields and watched them as they passed.

Aelius Marcellinus was waiting for them on the steps of the front portico. Castus knew him at once: his cropped greying hair and lined face contrasted with his muscular build and his upright military stance to give him a look of natural  authority.

‘Century – halt!’ he called, and the soldiers behind him stamped as one man and stood in formation in the courtyard.

‘Dominus, Centurion Aurelius Castus and century, Third Cohort, Sixth Legion Victrix, reporting for escort duty.’

‘Welcome,’ Marcellinus said. ‘You may stand your men down, centurion. I’ve prepared billets for them in the stable block, and my people will send out food and beer.’

A fine parade-ground voice he had, Castus thought. Slight edge of the aristocrat, but nothing too refined.

Strabo had dismounted and stood to one side watching, unobtrusive. Now, as Castus relayed his orders to his optio, he saw the secretary approach Marcellinus and speak quickly and quietly. A look of sober consideration crossed the old soldier’s face.

‘Centurion,’ Marcellinus said, coming over and placing a hand on his shoulder. The two men were almost the same height. ‘I’ve ordered the baths heated for you and the secretary here. I hope you can join us for dinner this evening.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me, dominus. Splash of well water and a bite of cheese is all I need. I’ll stay with my men.’

‘Brother,’ the man said, smiling and showing his teeth, ‘you’re my guest. I get to hear so little from the wider world, and if we’re to travel together for so long we should talk, I think.’

Castus shrugged, baffled. It felt strange and uncomfortable to be singled out for special treatment like this – it had never happened to him before. Then again, he had no real idea what the proper manner might be in these situations.

‘I can see to the men, centurion,’ said Timotheus, standing at parade rest just within earshot. ‘You’d better find out all you need to know.’

‘Right,’ Castus replied, nodding. For a moment he suspected that Timotheus was winking at him. ‘Right – get the men watered and foddered and see to their billets. I’ll be back to check them over before they turn in. The watchword is
Sol Invictus
.’

The optio saluted, turned on his heel and marched away after the men.

In fact, Castus learned little over dinner. Washed of the road’s dust and freshly dressed in his spare tunic and breeches, he reclined awkwardly on a couch in the gloomy dining room, listening to the two men talk. They were being scrupulously polite, even formal, discussing matters in Eboracum and the imperial city of Treveris in Gaul, where it appeared that Strabo had been living until recently. Nothing about the task ahead of them – Castus felt as though he was watching a strange ritualistic dance, the two men circling but never quite meeting. The meal was a simple feast but he ate little, and drank too much wine to hide his discomfort. His intuition told him that neither man trusted the other, and both had misgivings about the nature of their mission.

Towards the end of the meal a shadow fell across the mosaic floor, and Castus noticed figures in the hallway beyond the doors. He stood up quickly, swaying slightly with the effects of the wine.

‘Relax, brother,’ Marcellinus said. ‘My family.’ He gestured to the group in the hall. ‘Please, come in and meet our guests.’

Two women entered, eyes downcast, with a pair of slaves trailing behind them. The older woman wore a dark, patterned tunic and shawl; her hair was almost white, and she had an expression of pained dignity. Marcellinus’s wife, clearly. The other was maybe seventeen, with dark hair brushed into a circling plait. Her face was a pale oval, with deeply lidded eyes. When she glanced up, Castus saw the faint gleam of tears.

‘My wife Claudia Secunda, and my daughter Aelia Marcellina,’ Marcellinus said.

Castus, still standing, bowed his head to each lady in turn. He noticed Strabo doing the same from the dining couch.

‘Husband,’ the older woman said, ‘we will retire soon. Please join us for a moment if you can.’

‘Excuse me,’ Marcellinus said, and swung himself upright. He left the room with the ladies following after him.

Strabo lay back on the couch, patting his stomach. He raised his eyebrows at Castus. ‘So,’ he said. ‘That’s our envoy!’

Castus drained his cup, and upended it by habit on the tabletop. ‘I need to go and check on my men,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll be back later.’

Outside the dining room, he crossed the hall, conscious of the noise of his hobnailed boots on the mosaic floor. A corridor extended to his right, following the line of the front portico. As he moved along it, shuffling his feet, he saw lamplight from an open doorway.

He glanced quickly through the door as he passed: Marcellinus, with the women to either side of him, kneeling before an altar in a puddle of wavering light. A thin stream of incense smoke rose between them. Castus noticed the figure of the goddess in the niche of the altar: Fortuna the Homebringer.

Reaching the end of the corridor, he stepped out into the portico and then down into the courtyard. No sound from the stable block. He crossed the gravel, gratefully breathing the cool night air.

A sentry stood at the stable door, straightening up suddenly as he approached.

‘Halt! What’s the watchword!’

‘
Sol Invictus
. It’s me, Vincentius.’

‘Sorry, centurion, all I saw was a shadow. So quiet out here.’

‘Stay awake.’

The sentry moved aside and he entered the stable. His men lay stretched on the straw, many of them snoring deeply: the usual barrack-room chorus. The standard-bearer, Evagrius, stepped from the darkness and saluted.

‘All well, centurion. Timotheus let them turn in early.’

‘Good. They’ve given me quarters in the house, but I’ll be up well before dawn. Make sure everybody is ready to move at sunrise.’

Another salute, and Castus went back out to the yard. The stars overhead were very bright and clear. He thought of Marcellinus and his family, praying for a safe return. The tears in his daughter’s eyes… What did they think would happen? The wife had lost a son to the Picts already. Not surprising they were worried. Even so, he thought, perhaps they knew something he did not. In that case, better he never found out.

At the steps to the front portico he paused and breathed deeply, until his chest was full and he could feel the heavy beat of blood in his neck.
Your first responsibility will be the protection of the envoy… then the security of your own men
. So the governor had said. Marcellinus appeared to be able to look after himself, but those men snoring in the stable straw depended on him to lead them.

Castus exhaled slowly, but the burden remained upon him, the weight of command. He remembered something he had been told long ago by his first centurion, Priscus, who had died in the dust at Oxsa when the cataphracts had broken through the line. A stern man, hard and taciturn, but he had been drinking that day and he had grown strange, maudlin.
When they make you a centurion, they don’t just give you a stick and a pay rise, boy
, Priscus had told him.
They give you a new face too. A mask of bronze, riveted to the front of your skull
.
That mask is your duty, and you wear it always
.

Castus had not understood at the time; he had just nodded, frowned and tried to hide his dismay.
Because when you’re up there in front of half a hundred frightened conscripts
, Priscus went on,
and the barbarians come screaming to cut them up, they’ll be looking to you for strength. But it’s not your face they want to see. Not a man’s face. They want to see the mask, that bronze mask of command, hard and inflexible, without fear
.

Was that how Priscus had appeared at Oxsa as he had led them towards his own death? Castus could not remember now. But he remembered the trust he’d had for his centurion then, the belief in his strength. Would he be able to show that same conviction, when it came to it? All his life he had wanted to live up to that duty, to lead men in battle and take the challenge of command, but now he muttered a silent prayer that he would not be so tested, not this time at least.

Back in the corridor of the villa, he crept as quietly as he could towards his room. The lamps had all been extinguished now; everyone was preparing for an early departure. He was feeling his way along the wall when he noticed a movement from an open door and poised, muscles locked.

‘Centurion,’ a voice said. He could see her now, standing just inside the doorway. Her face was a pale smudge in the shadows, but he could see her large dark eyes, the intensity of her gaze. He stepped closer.

‘My father trusts you,’ the girl said, her voice little more than a whisper. She advanced into the corridor and stood before him – her head only reached his chest. ‘He told me that, and he’s a good judge of men.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Promise me,’ the girl said, eyes wide. ‘Promise me you’ll protect him and bring him home safely.’

‘He’ll be safe, domina. There’s nearly sixty armed soldiers going with him, after all.’

‘I need you to
promise
!’ the girl cried in a hoarse whisper. She reached out and seized the neck of Castus’s tunic. He felt her fingers, thin and hard against his skin. ‘Swear to me that you’ll look after him and watch over him at all times.’

‘All right,’ Castus said. He was not used to taking orders from women, but he could hear the desperation in her voice. ‘I swear by the Unconquered Sun and all the gods of Rome that I’ll watch out for your father, keep him safe and bring him home.’

She dropped her head, still clinging to his tunic. A moment passed. His arms hung by his sides, big and useless. He had no idea how to comfort her now.

Then, quickly, she raised her head, stretched on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, then she turned and went back into the consuming darkness.

We’re going into Pictland? Just us –
on
our own
?’

‘We pick up some mounted scouts at Bremenium, but otherwise, yes, just us.’

‘They’ll cut us to pieces and boil our bones…!’

It was mid-morning, four hours of marching behind them already, and now the men of the century were assembled at the side of the road in the shade of the trees. Castus stood facing them, his staff gripped level in both fists. He had not been looking forward to this little address.