The Hadrian Legacy Page 7

  He hit the foaming waters with a splash that winded him, and at once the weight of his clothes and his military belt dragged him down.

  Gasping, he struck out for the side, hoping to get on to the bank and find somewhere to hide. It hadn’t been a well thought out plan; he’d seen no other escape and taken the only one on offer. As he made for the bank near the foot of the bridge, he saw that the horsemen were already riding down through the heather. He trod water.

  The air whistled around him. A rain of stones pockmarked the water. His attackers were trying to shoot him with their slings. He struck out downstream, adding to the impetus provided by the current. Horsemen on either side kept pace with him. They began to fall back, or rather his progress down the river was faster.

  He heard a splash, followed by another. Glancing over his shoulder he saw two or maybe three men had taken to the water and were swimming after him. He swam on, and the torrent took him around a bend in the river.

  A tree drooped low into the river, its branches hanging over him. He reached up and hauled himself out of the water.

  Hiding in the cover of the trunk he saw three bobbing heads float past. The river reached a set of rapids up ahead, beyond which it entered the larger river whose valley the Via Agricola followed. The water rushed joyfully ahead, drawing the three swimming men in its current. Soon they were out of sight.

  But what about the ones who had remained on horseback? Three more men were out there somewhere, all intent on killing Flaminius. They were mounted and he was on foot. If he remained in hiding, they would start looking for him, quite possibly find him. If he broke cover, they might see him and pursue him.

  He’d been riding to meet Drustica. Had she set him up? Why in Mithras’s name would she do that? It was incredible that bagaudae, deserters, whatever they were, could ambush imperial agents with impunity in such a highly militarised area. But no one else had been on the road when the attack was made.

  His clothes were heavy with water, and he felt a head cold coming on. Time he got moving.

  After crawling inland through the undergrowth, he peered out at the moor. Then he froze. He drew his head back into cover.

  Two mounted men sat their horses up the slope, watching the river. Another rider trotted up from the bank and addressed them. They were too far away for Flaminius to make out the words fully, but it sounded like they were speaking a Gaulish dialect. After a brief discussion, they rode downstream, towards the water’s-meet.

  Flaminius squeezed the water from his clothes as best he could, and when everything seemed quiet, he slipped out from cover and hurried across the springy heather towards the Via Agricola. It was a long way—the current had taken him half a mile downstream.

  He was halfway up the slope, and the bridge had just come into sight again when he heard a distant shout from behind him. Looking back, he saw three horsemen at the bottom of the slope accompanied by three unmounted men. And even as he watched, the riders spurred their horses and began riding up the slope towards him, while the men on foot followed as best they could.

  Flaminius ran on. No man could hope to outrun riders on the flat, and he was already tired from the climb. But terror gave him new energy and he leaped and bounded agilely up the heather slope towards the road. Why he ran in that direction he didn’t know. A small still voice inside told him that when they were all on the road, the horsemen would be able to ride him down without any trouble. But the road seemed to represent the security of civilisation in this great bowlful of wilderness.

  Crags towered over him as he sprinted up a dry stream bed. Hoofs drummed behind him, growing closer. His heart pounded, he was exhausted. Before this journey he’d had a pretty easy few months, lounging around in Baiae, followed only by the journey north. The latter had seemed gruelling at the time, but although sitting on horseback was not what he’d prescribe as a rest cure, it beat running across moorland pursued by mounted assassins.

  At last he reached the crest of the ride. Dead ahead lay the road, the bridge a little to the right. He ran straight forwards, then saw something that caused him to change his direction.

  His own horse and those of the attackers stood in a little herd, placidly cropping grass at the side of the road. Flaminius raced up to them, and they lifted their heads to stare at him before returning their attention to the turf.

  After unhitching the attackers’ horses, Flaminius came alongside his own, a stallion, patting him and soothing him. Hearing pounding hoofs from the heather he looked up to see the men riding towards the road. Immediately he jumped into the saddle, shouting and waving his arms at the other horses, which turned and stampeded back across the bridge.

  He was tempted to ride back in the same direction, but he wanted to find Drustica, wherever she was. And wherever she was was likely to be in the opposite direction. Even as the three horsemen reached the road, Flaminius heard the tramping of military boots and a patrol of legionaries marched over the hill towards the bridge. The mounted men were between him and them, but on seeing the armoured figures, the riders turned and galloped back down the slope.

  Grateful, Flaminius rode up to meet the patrol. Its leader, a nervous looking optio, saluted him. Flaminius showed the man his lance-head brooch and dismounted.

  Impressed, the optio gulped. ‘Can we help you, sir?’ He noticed Flaminius’ wound, and directed one of his men to bandage him.

  ‘Those horsemen,’ Flaminius panted, ‘they’re bagaudae. They tried to kill me. Get after them! There’s three on foot, too.

  ‘Report to me in Coria,’ he added. ‘Ask for Tribune Flaminius. If possible, bring those men back alive.’

  The optio looked as if he didn’t rate his chances very highly, but he saluted again and led his men across the heather. By now there was no sign of the horsemen.

  Flaminius sighed, mopped his brow, and rode onwards.

  The road grew busier the closer they came to the timber walls of Vindolanda, a fort about a third of the way between Coria and Luguvalium. He saw no sign of Drustica as he approached the east gate. He made inquiries in the fort, but although she was known to the commander, he had not seen her since the previous day when she had passed on her way to her settlement. Puzzled, and a little perturbed, but riding a fresh horse from the waystation, Flaminius took to the road again the following morning.

  —12—

  Luguvalium, Hadrian’s Wall, 8 June

  It was getting dark when Luguvalium appeared on the horizon, and Flaminius left the military road for the dirt track leading to Drustica’s village. It was much as he remembered it, beehive huts surrounded by a wooden palisade, but outside the palisade was a building plot where a Roman-style house stood half built.

  Stiffly Flaminius got down from his horse as a man came out to meet him, a man in traditional Carvettian plaid, carrying spear and shield.

  ‘I’m looking for your mistress,’ he said. ‘Drustica.’

  ‘Publia Aelia is within,’ the Carvettian warrior said. He led Flaminius across the muddy courtyard to the main hall.

  Publia Aelia Drustica sat on a wooden chair, looking gloomily down at her household warriors as they lounged in the rushes. A fire blazed at the centre of the hut, its smoke escaping through a hole in the roof. It was dark in there, with little light except that of the fire. A smell of cooking met Flaminius’ nostrils as he entered. Joints of meat and freshly killed game animals hung from the beams and a stout woman was tending to a cauldron. Drustica wore her toga, but all else in the hut were clad in British clothes.

  She looked up in surprise as the warrior announced the Roman tribune. Rising hastily, she brushed at the linen folds of her toga, her eyes wide.

  ‘Gaius!’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  Flaminius frowned. ‘Your message!’ he said. ‘You told me to meet you on the Vindolanda road. What kept you?’ He was saddle-sore and weary, his fresh wound was playing up, and he was not in the mood for excuses.

  ‘Message?’ Drustica rose and cli
cked her finger at a youth who came forward with a stool for Flaminius to sit on. A girl scurried forwards with a horn of mead, the stout woman fished in the cauldron for a boiled ham. ‘I sent you no message.’

  ‘Don’t lie to me!’ Flaminius said. He gritted his teeth and waved away the girl and the youth. Tugging his cloak around him he looked in distaste at Drustica’s surroundings. ‘You sent a messenger. He had a tablet.’

  He produced it from his satchel and thrust it at her. Drustica accepted it and opened it, staring in bewilderment at its contents. Flaminius was about to curse her for a bad actress when he saw that she was holding it upside down.

  ‘What does this say?’ she asked.

  Flaminius frowned. ‘You can’t read?’

  She flushed and shook her head. ‘I am learning,’ she insisted, ‘but I can’t find the time. I’m building a new farm, in the Roman style. If it wasn’t so dark I would show you. Will you stay the night? Then you could see it in the morning.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I sent you no messenger and no message.’

  Red streaks had appeared in his bandage as the wound broke out afresh. ‘You’re wounded!’ she added in dismay. ‘What has happened to you?’

  Flaminius sat down abruptly on the stool. ‘But… Junius Italicus…’

  He looked up, his face softening. ‘Sorry I’ve been so…’ He gave her what he hoped was a charming smile. ‘I’ll have that mead now, if you don’t mind.’

  The golden liquid restored him, aided by the boiled ham. Drustica sat down again and waited patiently to hear his story. The warriors watched silently from the floor. Flaminius told them everything that had happened to him.

  Telling his story made him feel better somehow, unburdened. But seeing the look in Drustica’s eyes, he realised that all was not well. ‘And you say the governor was making things difficult for you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Your investigations?’

  Flaminius shrugged. ‘That’s just bureaucracy,’ he said. ‘All part of civilisation. These men attacked me. They would have killed me. And yet your messenger said you would be on the road.’

  ‘My messenger,’ said Drustica.

  ‘Yes, a man in native garb, said my centurion.’

  ‘You didn’t see this messenger,’ Drustica suggested.

  ‘No, but here’s the message,’ Flaminius replied, showing the wax tablet.

  ‘Which I didn’t write,’ she said. ‘Which I couldn’t write.’

  After a silence, Flaminius said, ‘So who was he? This messenger. Was he a Caledonian? An agent of the druids?’

  Drustica tapped her lips with her long slim fingers. ‘Gaius, we don’t even know that he existed.’

  Flaminius laughed. ‘What are you talking about? Here’s the message he brought me.’

  ‘You never saw him,’ she pointed out. ‘You got the message from your centurion. That’s all we know for certain. He said it was from a trustworthy man, but who? And the governor has been obstructive.’

  Flaminius felt a cold wave rush over him. He stared wide eyed at Drustica. He tried to laugh again, but even in his own ears it sounded like the raucous cry of a crow.

  ‘Junius Italicus?’ he said. ‘You’re saying Junius Italicus is at the back of it?’

  ‘He could be working for them.’

  ‘He works for the Commissary,’ Flaminius objected.

  ‘He’s also part of this mysterious cult,’ she said. ‘And the procurator was murdered by legionaries—oh, no, not citizens, were they? They were auxiliaries. But everything points at an enemy within. And when you were sent to investigate, your own centurion gave you a bogus message from me that put you in a position to be attacked by bagaudae.’

  ‘…and the bagaudae looked like deserters,’ Flaminius said. ‘They were Gauls, I’m sure of it.’ He shook his head wretchedly. ‘But I can’t believe that Junius Italicus is involved. He’s always been so loyal.’

  ‘Now he has other loyalties,’ she said. ‘You said yourself that mystery cults can often be a front for political movements.’

  Flaminius shuddered at a vision of the entire Roman army riddled with traitors. ‘But,’ he protested, ‘I’ve joined this cult myself. I really shouldn’t speak about it, but… Look, they preach loyalty to the emperor.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Drustica, ‘but which emperor?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Flaminius demanded.

  ‘You remember last time,’ she said. ‘The governor wanted to make himself emperor. Maybe it’s happened again.’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘How do you explain the murder of Appius Pulcher? How’s killing a procurator going to help Platorius Nepos become emperor?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he found something out, became inconvenient. All I know is that you can trust no one. You can’t put your faith in anyone, least of all this alien god.’

  ‘Those legionaries. They may have caught some of the men who attacked me. If I could question even one of the bagaudae, it would help. They’re clearly involved. And I’m sure the druids are at the back of it… whatever it is.’

  ‘You came here openly,’ she said, ‘and already people have tried to have you killed. You will get nowhere like that.’

  Flaminius looked searchingly at her. She seemed to have a clearer idea of the situation then he did, and frankly he was baffled. He could trust her, he was sure. Then again, he had been sure that he could trust Junius Italicus, and look where that had got him.

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  She looked him in the eye. ‘I think it’s time you joined the other side.’

  —13—

  Flaminius stared blankly at her. ‘Joined the other side?’

  ‘You need to drop out of view for a while,’ she told him, ‘while you continue your investigations. Like last time. The Chief told you to drop out of sight, remember? You went on the run, and came to find me, and we went to warn the emperor about the plot.’

  ‘I remember very clearly,’ said Flaminius, ‘but this is different. This time the traitor’s not the governor, but my own right hand man. What are you suggesting?’

  Drustica looked pensive. ‘You said that the auxiliary troop at the fort where Pulcher was murdered is looking for recruits. They’re willing to take on locals. Who better to become a decurion than you? I’m sure they’ll recruit you.’

  ‘Me, pose as a Briton?’ Flaminius shook his head. ‘I don’t even look like a Briton. Very well, I speak the British tongue, several dialects. I can ride a horse and fight. I’ve been a leader of men…’ He paused. Maybe her idea had some merit… Then he shook his head. ‘But look at me! I’m a Roman, if ever there was one.’

  Drustica ran her fingers through his hair. ‘This is too short,’ she agreed, ‘and the wrong hue. But the colour we can change with a lime wash. As for the face… tattoos. You need to cover that scar.’

  ‘I can’t have my face tattooed,’ he insisted. ‘By all the gods, I’m a secret agent. I can’t be conspicuous. Bad enough this brand, but tattoos…!’

  She traced a finger over his shaven upper lip. ‘You should stop shaving this, too. Most Carvettians have moustaches; most auxiliaries have them too, beards as well. I’d grow one myself, but that’s not going to work!’

  He gave a forced laugh. ‘I don’t know enough about local ways,’ he objected. ‘They’ll see I’m not from Britain.’

  She shook her head. ‘They’re Gauls. What do they know? Besides…’ She smiled quietly. ‘I’ll be coming with you.’

  Flaminius shook his head. ‘Your duty to your tribe…’

  ‘Can wait,’ she said. ‘This is more important—my duty to my city—to Rome. Besides, I am obliged to help you if things go wrong.’

  Flaminius felt a chill, but not one of fear. ‘Probus told me he had agents in these parts,’ he said slowly. ‘… And you called him the Chief. Only agents call him that.’

  Drustica nodded. ‘Who better than I?’ she said. ‘Both a Briton and a Roman, who has proved her loyalty to the emperor already. When Centuri
on Probus became the Chief, his agents approached me. I’ve been sending reports ever since.’

  Flaminius leant forward, glancing sideways at her retainers. ‘Can they be trusted?’ he hissed. ‘I don’t want to discuss any more while ears are listening.’

  Drustica looked offended. ‘They are loyal members of my household,’ she declared. ‘You may trust them—just as you may trust me.’

  Flaminius apologised. ‘I’ve been betrayed too often. But you send reports to Rome? To the Chief?’

  She nodded. ‘In cipher, aye, by imperial courier. Everything that happens in my district. Very dull reading it must make for someone in Rome, most of the time.’

  Flaminius nodded drily. ‘I’ve read the same kind of reports. They take quite some sifting… now, before you start changing me into a Briton, I’d like a chance to write to Probus myself. It won’t reach him for a month, but at least he’ll know what’s happened. I was worried that he would be writing me off as another lost agent.’

  Drustica rose. ‘I have writing tablets and styluses in my library.’

  Flaminius looked askance, but Drustica affected not to have noticed. She led him out of the hut and into another one. In the middle of it was a writing desk, and to one side was a bookcase with serried ranks of compartments containing several scrolls. Writing tablets were piled up on the desk. The modern Roman furnishings seemed strange in the barbaric setting. No doubt Drustica would have them moved to her villa when it was built.

  Flaminius thanked Drustica, sat down on a stool, took up a stylus, and began composing a suitably heartfelt report for Probus.

  Later that evening, after Flaminius’ message had been placed securely with Drustica’s own report in a coffer for delivery to a courier the following morning, he was taken into the main hall. The floor had been cleared and the retainers were now waiting. Flaminius took his place on the guest seat and a woman approached carrying a leather bucket filled with a clear liquid that had a slightly earthy smell to it.