The rider was almost at the rubble piled outside the breach in the wall where the gate and its towers had once stood. He had a yellow crest on his bronze helmet and that was the mark of a junior officer. Still there was no sign of anyone else. If they were not alone, then these men were taking a great risk.
‘We are friends!’ The man shouted in Latin. He had a strong accent, which Brasus did not recognise, and then he switched to a dialect of the Keltoi, so perhaps he was from one of the tribes of Gaul. ‘Friends!’ he tried in guttural Greek. The man held his sword high and then dropped it into the snow. ‘Friends!’
Brasus could see no sign of a trap, and revealing his own presence did not betray his men. He leaned forward out of the window and shouted down. ‘Friend!’
The cavalryman started at the reply, having probably decided that the tower was empty. Brasus gestured to him. ‘Dismount and come in! Slowly!’ Whether or not he understood the words the Gaul or whoever he was saw the beckoning arm. He swung down from his horse, dropped his shield to lie by the sword and walked up the rubble, arms spread wide to show that they were empty and that he was no threat.
‘Call the other!’ Brasus pointed at the distant rider and beckoned again. The man nodded, and shouted something back at his comrade, who came on. Then he gasped as warriors appeared on either side of him.
‘Just watch him!’ Brasus shouted to his men. ‘And wait for me.’
By the time he had come down the second cavalryman had come in. One of the warriors held their horses while the rest watched the prisoners.
‘Says his name is Ivonercus and this is his servant,’ the oldest of the warriors told him. He spoke the Celtic language and they had managed to communicate a little. ‘They’re both Britons and have run from the Roman army.’
‘Why have you come?’ Brasus asked in Latin.
‘To serve Decebalus,’ Ivonercus told him. ‘And to fight for him.’
The king always welcomed deserters. If their story was true then they would be taken into his service, but that was for another day. For the moment he explained that they were prisoners and would be guarded until they crossed back through the pass and reached safety. Only then – if they answered all questions satisfactorily – would they be given back their weapons.
‘I understand,’ Ivonercus assured him. The man seemed desperate to please.
‘Take them there,’ Brasus ordered, pointing at one of the out-buildings that still had most of its roof, ‘and guard them. Bring their horses inside so that they cannot be seen.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The older warrior did not say anymore, but the question was obvious from his expression.
‘We will wait another day for the messenger. Perhaps two if nothing else seems wrong.’ Brasus smiled. ‘One man watches the prisoners and another on guard – in the tower during daylight. There won’t be a lot of sleep.’
‘Two awake, two resting,’ the old warrior said. ‘It could be worse.’
‘There are five of us, and I shall take my turn like everyone else.’
‘My lord.’
V
‘PLEASE, MY LORD, read this!’ The old woman thrust a writing tablet out in her right hand, while her left elbow jabbed into a man trying to push her out of the way to present his own petition. For all her grey hairs, she was plump and powerful, and the victim dropped his rolled papyrus as he doubled over. One of the toga-clad praetorians scooped to pick the scroll up and then took the woman’s tablet as well. Other guardsmen in cloaks and tunics, but carrying big oval shields and pila, formed a cordon to mark the line beyond which the crowd was not permitted. A good princeps ought to be accessible, so like the divine Augustus, Trajan walked whenever possible, even on occasions like this when he was to dine at a friend’s house, itself another mark that he was servant of the res publica and not a tyrant. The journey was unannounced, a social call rather than for some ceremony or to attend a session of the Senate, so the crowd was not as big as on other days. These petitioners were only the ones who had waited hour after hour and sometimes day after day outside the main doors of the Domus Tiberiana, the house of the princeps, on the off-chance that he would appear.
The procession did not stop, everyone taking their cue from Trajan, who whenever he went into the city took pride in maintaining the steady, regulation drill pace of the army. Hadrian could almost hear the instructor calling out the time and tapping his stick or the butt of a spear onto the parade ground as he did so. It had amused him in Dacia to note how often all the comites, the senators like himself who accompanied Trajan to war to advise and serve him, unconsciously fell into step alongside their leader. The emperor had his toga carefully draped over his left arm, his back was as straight as a spear shaft, and you could see the effort as he forced himself to glance around him now and then rather than striding on, concentrating only on the task in hand.
Hadrian wondered whether the divine Augustus had been more affable, at least until his great age and poor health meant that he had to be carried in a litter on all save the shortest journeys. Trajan often invoked Augustus, and even when he did not acknowledge the fact tended to make the first princeps his model for his decisions and behaviour. Yet his love was for the camp rather than the city, militiae rather than domi – and deep down he wanted everyone to see this. In his youth, long before anyone could have guessed that he would be raised to the purple, Trajan had served more than the usual spell with the army, much more, but Hadrian guessed that his former guardian felt that this was not enough and still needed to prove to himself that at heart he was a soldier. Hence the steady pace, and acting always as the bluff, no nonsense military man, who demanded even greater discipline from himself than his subordinates, and pretended to less education than he possessed. Perhaps after all these years the act was all there was, and that made Hadrian wonder about the nature of a person or thing, and whether it could be changed by circumstance or desire. The deepest joy of philosophy for him was that there would never be a final answer, only further speculation. Still, one thing that was certain was that there would be another great war, and the only question now was when. Hadrian believed that he already knew where, and hoped that his own appointment had this in mind.
A slave walking behind the emperor took the petitions from the guardsman, scanning through them quickly. He whispered something to Trajan, who nodded, and a boy doubled back with a coin for one man and a little purse for the old woman. This slave was about thirteen or fourteen, with a dark complexion and smooth unblemished skin. He was also quick, moving well, if without the polish provided by training in the gymnasium. A lot of the imperial slaves were good looking like this one, and a fair few encouraged to preen and think highly of themselves.