‘Shortly after this Carausius claimed the purple, he appointed one of his own officers, Aelius Marcellinus, to drive back the Pictish marauders. By this time they were under the leadership of a high chieftain, Vepogenus, of the Miathi royal house.’
‘This is the one who’s just died?’
‘Yes – I’ll come to that. Anyway, Marcellinus, a Spaniard by birth but married into the native British aristocracy, conducted a short but very effective campaign along the Wall of Hadrian. He broke the Pictish attack, and concluded a series of treaties with them to ensure peace. He also, ah… entered into what you might call a pact of brotherhood with Vepogenus.’
‘A Roman officer did that? Not a good idea.’
‘Well, it was effective. The Picts respect personal bonds much more than political treaties, you see. However, the following year Carausius was murdered by Allectus, one of his own ministers, who took over power, and soon afterwards seized Marcellinus and charged him with treason. Marcellinus managed to escape, crossed over to Gaul and surrendered to the new Caesar Constantius, giving him vital information about the usurper’s forces. And then, as you surely know, Constantius led his army across the Gallic Strait and reconquered Britain for Rome.’
Castus nodded, trying to take it all in. He was aware that Strabo’s story had strayed some distance from the matter of the Picts. Or had it? He was beginning to suspect that this man Marcellinus would become a lot more prominent very soon.
But Strabo had fallen back now, coughing and rummaging in his saddlebag for a canteen. Castus left him and marched on at the head of his men. Clearly the secretary felt he had said enough, for now.
Fields of young wheat edged the road, and from every copse rose the smoke of a hearth fire. This was rich farming country. Two miles further on, the men let out a ragged cheer as the town of Isurium appeared ahead of them. The walled settlement lay along the bank of a river, its tiled roofs bright in the morning sun. There was even an amphitheatre, the topmost tiers showing white above the trees.
The citizens were used to soldiers passing up and down the road, and few turned to watch as Castus led his century along the muddy main street and out by the far gate to the grassy bank of the river.
‘Timotheus,’ he called, ‘fall the men out. We’ll rest here for four hours. Set a sentry watch of ten men by rotation, and the rest can strip off and bathe in the river, eat and sleep if they can.’
The optio saluted and strutted away, already crying out the orders. Castus dropped down to sit in the grass. His feet were hot and sore in their binding of wool and leather, but he felt invigorated by the morning’s march. The muscles of his legs were hard and strong, and he relished the prospect of another three hours on the road. Glancing over at his men, he was glad to see that they were eager too. They spilled into the river, shouting and kicking up spray.
Strabo was a different matter. The little secretary sat on a flat stone, pulling his boots off and examining his blisters.
‘Better to keep them on,’ Castus told him. ‘They’ll hurt more later, otherwise.’
‘Too late,’ Strabo said, before coming over and sitting beside the centurion. Together they ate cheese and hardtack and drank the watery vinegar wine, as the sound of splashing water and laughter came from the river.
‘They appear so young, your soldiers,’ the secretary said, squinting at the men in the water.
‘Eighteen, the youngest,’ Castus told him. ‘Couple more nineteen.’
‘And yet we train them to fight and to kill, and send them off to die for our empire…’
Castus paused, mid-chew, and stared at the man beside him. What could be wrong with that?
‘How old were you, centurion,’ Strabo asked, ‘when you first killed a man?’
Castus swallowed. ‘Sixteen or so,’ he said. ‘At least, I thought I’d killed him. Hit him over the head with an ironbound bucket and he went down like a sacrificial ox. It was half a year before I found out that he wasn’t dead after all…’
Strabo had a pained expression on his face. He shook his head sadly. Castus just shrugged – he had not mentioned that the man he had hit with the bucket was his own father. He had been in Troesmis, a hundred miles down the Danube, and already signed up with II Herculia before he met a man from his home town who told him that the old man had survived. Good thing too – patricide was a terrible crime before the gods. Even so, he had never made any attempt to seek forgiveness.
The two men sat in silence as they finished their meal. The soldiers were climbing from the river and running on the bank to dry off. Castus wondered if Strabo had taken offence at his remarks – he had no desire to drive the man away from him, and still had much he wanted to learn.
‘You were telling me about the Picts,’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes – I’m sorry…’
‘After this man Marcellinus made his treaties and pacts and so on with them, what happened?’
‘Yes, well. After the murder of Carausius, and the arrest of Marcellinus, the Picts believed that the treaties were invalid. When Constantius regained the province, he found that the Picts were once again raiding along the northern borders. In addition, a number of… shall we say renegades, officers of the former regime whose loyalties placed them beyond pardon, had fled into barbarian country and taken shelter there. These men were now aiding and directing the Picts in their assaults upon our territories.’
Castus sucked breath through his teeth. He had known of deserters from the legions, or criminals, crossing over to the barbarians. But never of Roman officers doing it. ‘Treasonous bastards,’ he said.
‘Absolutely treasonous, yes. But for them, you see, the Picts were their only refuge. They hoped, I suppose, to regain their former lands and wealth with a Pictish army to support them. One can only marvel at their stupidity!’
‘Something like that,’ Castus said grimly. Once, in Persia, they had captured an enemy town and found three men with the garrison, former legionaries taken prisoner who had gone over to the Persians to save their skins. The men had been crucified on the walls that evening, and nobody had grieved for them. Traitors were no better than vermin.
‘Anyway, faced with this threat, the Caesar Constantius in his great wisdom sent his Praetorian Prefect against the barbarians, assisted by Aelius Marcellinus. Between them they managed to repel the attacks and reimpose peace along the border. Marcellinus, by force and persuasion, restored his pact of brotherhood with the Pictish chieftain, Vepogenus. That was eight years ago, and ever since the peace has held.’
‘But now this Vepogenus has died of eating mushrooms?’
‘Died of something. We can only hope that mushrooms were involved, and not something less… natural. Despite the treaties, you see, there are many among the Picts who long to avenge themselves on Rome for their past defeats. Besides, one or two of those renegades I mentioned are still with them, and as you can imagine they still plot and scheme.’
‘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!’