At dawn Castus assembled his men in formation before the gates of the fort. Fifty-eight blue-black shields emblazoned with the winged Victory emblem. Fifty-eight armoured bodies, fifty-eight upright spears. He drew himself up stiffly before them, throwing his voice to challenge the breeze coming in across the hillside.
‘Men, this is the last outpost of Rome!’ He sounded hoarse, and the wind whined at his back. ‘From now on, whatever you might have heard, we’ll be in enemy country. Remember that, and act accordingly. We might run into some locals along the way, but don’t forget they’re barbarians. Treat them with respect, but keep your distance. And don’t get any ideas about any blue-painted ladies you might happen to meet either – if you want to keep your balls where they’re needed!’
A few smiles, a ragged laugh. Castus had overheard some of the men back in Coria debating the possible wantonness of the native women.
‘We’ve got a hard march still ahead of us,’ he said, raising his voice to reach the men watching from the fort wall. ‘Five days at least. We’ll be camping in the open, so we’ll be making defensive enclosures every night and setting regular watches. You’ve been trained for it, so you know what to do. But keep this in mind, all of you: we’re representing Rome from now on, and the honour of the Sixth Legion. Don’t let your guard down. Don’t get careless. I want you all as smart and tight as you would be on pay parade!’
Pacing before the front-rank men, he scanned their faces as he passed, trying to read their expressions. The optio, Timotheus, stern and alert. Evagrius, with the century standard across his shoulder. Atrectus looking half-asleep. The cornicen Volusius with his big curled horn ready to give the signal. Vincentius and Culchianus frowning beneath their helmets. All of them grey-faced, uncertain behind the mask of duty. Castus glanced away, composing himself. Unconquered Sun, he silently prayed, Bringer of light and life, let me lead these men well. Let me return them all safely when this is done.
‘As I said, this is a peaceful diplomatic mission.’ He smiled, and some of the men smiled with him. He was glad of that. ‘But we’re soldiers, and we’re going into enemy country, so we’re under war discipline from now on. Does everyone understand me?’
A chorus of dull mumbling from the assembled men. Castus slapped his staff into his meaty palm. ‘Speak up!’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to war. Act like it!’
‘Understood!’ the men called back, eagerly now.
A heartbeat’s pause, a glance away at the empty hillsides, the brown heather.
‘Sixth Legion,’ he shouted, ‘are you ready for war?’
‘Ready!’ the traditional cry came back.
‘Are you ready for war?’
‘Ready!’
‘ARE YOU READY FOR WAR?’
‘READY!’
The echo of their voices died over the hillside, into the wind.
‘Optio, form up the men. Cornicen, prepare to sound the advance.’
Behind him, fifty-eight men assembled into marching formation as the slaves drew the pack mules together. The mounted scouts trotted forwards onto the flanks, edging the road. Marcellinus and Strabo nudged their horses into motion.
‘Ad-vance!’
The horn rang out, a sustained double note, and a last cheer went up from the men in the fort as the century swung forward in march step.
They moved off, a small column in the great emptiness of the landscape, dwindling slowly until the sentries on the gatehouse saw them vanish into the far distance and the sound of their marching feet faded to nothing.
5
‘Friends or foes? What do you think?’
‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Castus replied. Timotheus nodded grimly as both of them watched the scouts crossing the stream and galloping back towards them.
All day the conical hill had been visible on the flat horizon, the two blunt peaks to either side giving it the look of a misshapen head rising between massive hunched shoulders. Now they were close enough to make out the scattering of fires on the slopes below the hill, tiny sparks in the dimness of late afternoon, and the figures that moved around the fires.
Marcellinus spurred his horse forward as the scouts approached, riding down to meet them. Castus watched, dubious. Behind him, the men of the century waited on the ridge, shields readied, silent. Marcellinus galloped back.
‘It’s as I’d hoped,’ he called out. ‘Senomaglus, chief of the Votadini, with a party of his men. They’ll escort us up to the Pictish meeting.’
‘We don’t need an escort,’ Castus said. ‘And neither do you, envoy.’
Marcellinus was grinning, leaning from the saddle. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Senomaglus is a friend of Rome, a good man. I knew him well, many years ago. It’s a mark of respect for his men to accompany us.’
‘How many men?’
‘Around a hundred, the scout said.’
Castus whistled between his teeth. ‘Can’t we keep our distance?’
‘Not without giving offence. Form your men up and follow. There’s a good camping ground two miles on beside the river.’
‘Wait…’ Castus called, but the envoy had already wheeled his horse and plunged away towards the stream, his cloak flying out behind him. Castus jutted two fingers at the pair of mounted scouts, then pointed away after Marcellinus. The two men saluted and cantered away again after the envoy.
‘Form up,’ he said to Timotheus. ‘Double pace – let’s go.’
If he had been expecting savages, he was disappointed. Senomaglus of the Votadini resembled a prosperous Gallic wine merchant, or even a retired legionary: clean-shaven, with close-cropped white hair and a tanned vigorous face. His clothes were neat and well cut, and there was a heavy gold torque at his neck, not unlike the one Castus himself wore. His warriors were a little more exotic: long-haired, some bearded, in long tunics knotted between the thighs, but they looked very much like the more rustic Britons of the Roman province. Castus had seen men like that every day in the fields and villages around Eboracum. These carried spears and small square shields, but there was little else to mark them out as barbarians.
The two parties faced each other on the level ground between the hill and the river. Marcellinus and the Votadini chief rode forward, met, and embraced from the saddle, both grinning like long-lost friends.
‘Well, he is an allied ruler, I suppose,’ Castus said. ‘Timotheus, three times long life for the envoy’s friend!’
The optio gave the order, and the legionaries threw up their hands in salute, crying out vivat, vivat, vivat in a martial yell. The effect on the Votadini was almost amusing: they fell back a pace, raising their shields, until they realised they were not about to be attacked. Castus hid his smirk as the barbarians, chastened, gave a ragged cheer in response.
The camping ground was rutted with the marks of old fortifications. Clearly Roman armies had passed through here before. There had once been a fort too; everywhere the turf and long grass was broken by chunks of moss-covered masonry. It wasn’t surprising, Castus thought: it was an excellent location, and for the last two days they had been following the remains of the old road into the north. Strange to think of other men like him, other legionaries like his own, marching across this land generations ago. He wondered where their bones lay now – back home in a funerary urn, or lost somewhere in these dull green hills?