Brigantia

VIII

THE ARCHIVES WERE housed in several buildings in and around an even older fort than the one they had passed on the way into the city. This one had had its walls and most of its buildings demolished, and the rest converted much like the old base at Lindum. The largest building of the archive was obviously two old barrack blocks knocked together, with numbers painted by the door to each room. Inside were rows of shelves, with just enough space to squeeze between them. Greek letters and Latin numbers were painted on the wood so that each slot had its own identity, and held a single folded wooden tablet. On most the original seal was long since broken, and a piece of ribbon fixed, the colour depending on the year it arrived. A notation on the side of the tablet was made each time its content was amended. In theory this meant that it should be straightforward enough to find any document, if you knew what category it should fall into and when it was written. Which was all fine, if only Ferox had had any clear idea of where to start.

The orders from the legate helped a great deal. A gift of an amphora of wine to the speculator responsible for overall supervision of the archives, another slightly smaller one to the beneficiarius who spent most of his days there, and gifts of money to buy a few drinks to the three exacti who actually ran the place had done almost as much to oil the wheels of bureaucracy.

‘Just like being back in Rome,’ Ovidius had said when Ferox suggested that they take this precaution. ‘If only the sun would get warm I could feel right at home! By the way, I had a bright idea during the night. Acco says he is the last of the true druids, does he not?’ In truth that was what others said, and the priest chose not to deny. ‘Well, perhaps I ought to start with the correspondence and especially the reports written by Suetonius Paulinus? After all, he was the fellow who did more than anyone else to crush the cult. Crossed over to destroy their most sacred shrines on Mona – is that how you say it?’

‘Yes, it is. And, yes, that is as good a starting place as any. Agricola went back twenty years later, so you may want to take a look at what he said as well.’

‘Splendid!’ Ovidius seemed genuinely excited by the task. They had decided that the old man would begin searching in the rooms where records on papyrus were kept, since he was more used to such things than the smaller army documents written often on wood and full of the abbreviations and other pieces of obscure military terminology. Ferox suspected that there was slightly more chance of finding something useful among the papyri than in the mundane reports and returns that composed most of the wooden archive. Yet he doubted that they would come across anything. He wished that Ovidius had not mentioned Mona, a dark place even after all these years. A fear had been growing within him that he might have to go there and speaking the name aloud was like hearing the baying of hounds on his trail.

The exactus who guided Ferox was young, but limped and had a scar running across his cheek and onto his mouth, which gave him an odd whistling lisp.

‘My cohort was up north two years ago when the legate defeated that mad priest. You were there too, weren’t you, sir?’

‘I was there.’

The lad was eager and talkative. ‘Thought I’d be discharged from the legion for a while, but thank the gods I was passed fit enough, seeing as how I can read and write a good hand. This is a good posting and there’s a decent chance of promotion. Guess I’ll never do a hard march or cut turf for rampart again, but it’s not a bad life all round.’

Ferox began by asking for routine reports from unit commanders back from Suetonius Paulinus’ day, feeling that he may as well follow Ovidius’ suggestion.

The archive clerk led him to a row of doors. ‘Yes, sir. These rooms along here. Look for red tabs that far back, although we’ve used the colour four times since then. They come around every ten years. Legions in those rooms, by their number. Cohorts and alae in the ones next, in that order and by their numbers and designations. Things a bit confused from those days, though, sir, what with the rebellion and all that. A lot of things were lost.’

‘I can imagine,’ Ferox said, before realising that irony was not something familiar to the exactus. ‘Could you find me all mentions of druids or temples?’

‘Sorry, sir. Only filed by unit and date. Begging your pardon, but no call for anything else, sir. Now, sir, shall I help you start with the legions?’

Four hours later and Ferox had learned nothing of value. It was easy to get sucked into following a story. There were several references to his own people, the Silures, and even a mention of his grandfather, the Lord of the Hills being labelled an ‘old villain’ by the legate of II Augusta. With effort, he did not let himself be distracted, and went back to scanning reports, often handing them back to the clerk for re-shelving within moments as it became obvious that there was nothing worthwhile there. Like the barracks they had once been, the rooms were gloomy, and they needed to refill the pair of lamps they were using a couple of times. At last Ferox gave up, and telling the exactus and the rest of the staff that he would be back tomorrow morning, he set out for the Temple of the Divine Vespasian and a meeting with one of the priests.

It was a grey day, spotting with rain, but that did nothing to deter the crowds thronging the street. Wherever there was space, even on the sides of the little alleys between the blocks of houses, someone set up stall and was trying to sell something. Ferox had to push away two persistent whores who plied their trade in a poorly curtained alcove just around the corner from the archives. As he came onto the major streets things looked both more respectable and more expensive. Ferox was wearing tunic and breeches, boots and a heavy cloak whose hood provided some protection from the rain. He carried his vitis to show that he was a centurion, and if necessary a flick of the cloak would reveal his military belt with gladius and pugio.

Even in the crowd, Gannascus stood out, a head or more taller than those around him, and when he spotted the centurion he let out a deep below of delight. People moved out of the way of his determined progress, and soon Vindex and the others appeared, along with several more big men wearing military cloaks. They were Batavians, led by Longinus, now sporting a thick grey beard.

‘We found some friends,’ Vindex explained. ‘So perhaps you could help me out with some money.’

‘What happened to the coins I gave you yesterday? There was enough for ten days.’

‘The dice was loaded,’ Gannascus boomed.

‘And the women were expensive,’ Vindex added. ‘Everything costs a lot here.’ In spite of his recent marriage, the scout’s enthusiasm for other women had not slackened.

Ferox dipped into the purse on his belt. ‘Try to keep them out of too much trouble,’ he asked Longinus. The veteran nodded. ‘I’ll see if I can join you later on. Where will you be?’

‘By the river.’ Vindex nodded at the huge German. ‘He likes watching the ships.’

Ferox hurried on, crossing the wooden planked bridge over the stream that flowed down into the main river. The press was thicker there, until some burly slaves used threats and some blows of their sticks to clear a path for a pair of litters. His size, as much as the centurion’s cane he carried, prevented them from trying to force him out of the way. As the first litter passed he received a far softer greeting.

Claudia Severa peeked out of the gap between the curtains, then turned and said something. A moment later Sulpicia Lepidina’s face appeared beside her. There were smiles and greetings, and an invitation to visit them on the next day around noon. ‘The House of Verus in the third quarter. You must come,’ Claudia Severa urged him. ‘The children always love to see you.’ Ferox could read nothing in the other woman’s face to explain her note, but that did not surprise him.

‘I shall surely come,’ he said, hoping to reassure Sulpicia Lepidina that he was at her command.

The slaves clearing a path were facing pressure from an impatient crowd. One of the women called out and the litter bearers began carrying it forward again. As the second one passed it too stopped, and another head appeared, this one small, dark skinned and with a mop of blond hair that must be a wig.

‘Ugly man,’ the little man said in a piercing squeak. ‘My mistress has something to say to you.’

‘Who is your mistress?’ he asked.

‘What do you care? By the look of you, you should be grateful for anything. She’s easy and already on her back. What more do you want?’

There was the sound of a slap and the dwarf shot back inside. Another slap followed. Ferox turned away.

‘Hoy!’ The dwarf had reappeared, wig precariously hanging over one eye. ‘Please come over or she’ll have me beaten again.’

Ferox gave in and went to the curtained compartment. The little man had vanished again, and he opened the curtains enough to see inside. Claudia Enica was stretched out on cushions, her arms back behind her head, showing off a figure swathed again in shimmering silk. Jewels glittered at her throat, at her wrists and in her ornately arranged hair. Her face was heavily made up, managing just to stay on the right side of good taste and fashion.

‘You are not easily intrigued,’ she said, treating him to a languid smile.

‘I am a plain man, and a mere soldier. The ways of princesses are new to me.’

‘A princess is still a woman, and you cannot tell me that a rough soldier has no desires. You have such a big sword.’ As Ferox leaned in his cloak had parted and the pommel and hilt of his gladius poked out. Before he could answer she went on. ‘Do you like my whisperer?’ The dwarf was crouched in the far corner of the compartment. ‘His name is Achilles and I shall most probably order him beaten tonight to make sure that he is not spoiled. They say that Livia, wife of the divine Augustus, doted on such creatures and she was a Claudian. Her husband hated them, though.’ Achilles darted around and stuck out his tongue. ‘I must say that I am coming to the same opinion.’ Enica lifted a foot and kicked the dwarf with as much force as she could muster, so that her slipper came loose. Then she stuck out her own tongue. ‘Little beast.’

Ferox coughed. ‘Forgive me, my lady, but I am late for an appointment and must hurry.’

She grabbed his wrist, surprising him with her speed. ‘Now that is not courteous from a Roman officer or a prince of the Silures. Or would the Silure in you just slaughter Achilles here and bear me off over your shoulder? Come now, do not be a disappointment. I believe that we shall be friends and good ones at that. What is it they say about the Brigantes?’ This time the smile was genuine and less of a pout.

‘That they talk too much.’ He did not add, much like the Romans.

‘We do. But some of what we say is worth hearing, and much of the rest is amusing, and I am also good at listening. I must go now – for you see the lady must end any meeting of this sort. I heard the others extend an invitation. Do come and see us, for I have rented the house and they and their families are my guests. Come at any time, whether they are there or not. I must speak to you about the robbery at my grandmother’s house. You were there, were you not? Yes, I thought so. So come. If you like you can always kick Achilles around the floor for amusement. Walk on, you dolts!’ The last command was loud and aimed at the bearers.

Ferox walked on, slightly resentful as it half felt he had been given an order along with the slaves, and it was almost a relief not to run into anyone else he knew. A group of urchins surrounded him at one point, one trying to open his purse while another lifted the pugio from its scabbard. He smacked the largest with his palm and waved his cane at the others to drive them off.

The Temple of the Divine Vespasian stood at the corner of two wide streets, behind the high plastered and whitewashed walls of its precinct. A doorman sat cross-legged by the open gate, and simply nodded when Ferox explained who he was. In the courtyard were statues of Vespasian and Titus either side of the steps leading up to the high-roofed temple with its pillared front. On the right were Augustus and Claudius, and on the left Nerva stood alone. Ferox wondered whether the plinth, perhaps even the body of the statue itself, had originally been planned to hold the image of Domitian. That emperor’s images had never much resembled the real man, disguising that restless energy and the burning rage that led equally to cold cruelty or outbursts of appalling anger. The face of Augustus here was of a handsome, eager youth, not the old man he had become. It was hard to imagine so serene a face being disturbed by the antics of his wife’s dwarfs and other freaks kept for entertainment by the fashionable. Pretending that their best rulers became gods was one of the odder affectations of the Romans. Even after all these years, Ferox could not tell whether they were serious about it, or if it was yet another piece of flattery that everyone was too polite to question.

Slaves were scrubbing the flagstones near the altar as he passed, and a man was waiting to take him to the priest, who proved to be surprisingly young, with the even more surprising name of Julius Kopros.

‘Grandfather was a foundling in Alexandria,’ he explained, evidently used to explaining, at least to anyone he judged able to understand Greek. ‘He was left on a dunghill, so someone took him as a slave and named him Kopros. Years later he bought his freedom from the profits of making and selling shoes and somehow ended up in Gaul. He got a contract to supply boots for the army as long as he was willing to set up here in Britannia within weeks of Claudius’ legions invading. And so we have been here ever since.’ The priest had a thin, angular face, a neatly trimmed beard, curly black hair and thick eyebrows over clever brown eyes. ‘Grandfather and father are both long gone, but they felt it important to carry on the name. Why hide your past when you have worked to make your own fortune, they would say. Which leaves me running the business, serving the town as priest here in this temple – and putting plenty of my own money into the day-to-day running of the place – and with a name that ought to be swept down a drain and into the river.’ He grinned. ‘So, how can I be of help?’

In truth there was little more to add to the story, except for a story about the cloak.

‘I can tell you that it is old, perhaps very old,’ the young priest explained. ‘It was originally sent by Claudius himself as a gift to his new colony. Grandfather brought it from the Temple of the Divine Claudius in Camulodunum just days before the colonia was surrounded by Boudicca. He was not a priest, but was asked to bring it out, along with a couple of other pieces, by an old friend who was. Afterwards it took a few years before everything started again, and Londinium dedicated a temple to the cult of the emperors before Camulodunum so he presented them to the priests here. That was the old temple, now gone, but everything in it was moved to this one when they opened it twelve years ago.’

The other pieces he had rescued were a mould for baking sacrificial cakes and an incense burner, and Kopros happily showed them to Ferox. ‘They were in a box that the robbers opened, and they must have seen them and not wanted them.’

‘Even so I should keep on your guard,’ the centurion advised as he left. ‘They may not know the legate has the cloak and might try again here.’

‘We’ll be ready.’

As Ferox left, a spare, elderly man in expensive but sober clothes was asking the doorkeeper to send word to the priest. ‘Tell him that Cnaeus Domitius Tullus is here. He will know why.’

There was something about the voice, a hint of the rich inflexion of a well-educated Gaul, that made him turn because it seemed familiar.

‘Excuse me, sir, are you from Lugdunum?’ he asked. Ferox had spent years in the city being educated as a Roman, but it was more than just the accent that struck a chord. He did not recognise the man, and even though Flora had spoken of a merchant named Domitius it was a common enough name.

The eyes that glared back at him were cold. ‘What business is that of yours, soldier? You look more than half a barbarian. Good day to you, sir.’ He stalked off towards the temple, his cloak an unusually bright tartan.

‘Miserable git,’ the doorkeeper muttered. ‘Been here three times now and never given a tip for good luck.’

Ferox smiled. ‘Sorry, it slipped my mind,’ and handed the man a sestercius, suspecting immediately that this was too much. ‘Know much about him?’

The doorman glanced about to see that no one was paying them any attention. ‘Turned up a few weeks ago. Rumour is he will donate a fair bit of money to the temple, and others here in Londinium. There’s always folk like him arriving and trying to buy the connections to do the really big deals.’ He spat in contempt. ‘Usually they try to be a lot more friendly, though. This one acts as if everyone else is doing him a favour.’

Ferox was hungry, so he stopped at one of the many small bars opening onto a street and ordered posca, some bread and soup. It was simple but filling, and had the owner not kept on trying to sell him oysters he might have stayed longer. For a while he considered searching for Vindex and the others. It would be good to talk to Longinus, if he could get the veteran alone. In the end he decided that he did not have the energy and toyed with the idea of visiting one of the bath-houses. Then in the passing crowd he saw two hooded figures walking with purpose and deep in conversation. He recognised Domitius from his cloak. On a whim, he left coins to settle the bill on the table, waited for a little while and then followed. He had his own hood up, and kept his vitis low, so that it should not be obvious who he was unless someone was paying particular care.

Almost as soon as he started to follow the pair stopped, threw back their hoods and went into the precinct of another temple. Domitius’ companion was Julius Kopros. Ferox waited, staying where he was a good seventy paces down the street. A juggler was performing and he joined the half-dozen or so watching the man, while making sure he could see past him to the entrance to the temple. After perhaps half an hour, and another coin to make his interest in the entertainer convincing, he saw them leave. Ferox let them have a head start and then followed. The pair visited more temples, to Minerva, Silvanus and Liber Pater, and the brightly painted shrine to Isis and Serapis where, even outside, the air smelled heavily of rich incense and he could hear the rattles shake as the priests performed one of their rituals. Finally they crossed the long bridge to the smaller section of town south of the river and went to the Temple of Mars Camulos.

Ferox was not sure why he followed at all, other than a sense that something was wrong and the vague familiarity of a voice. On the way back over the bridge he kept his distance, and managed to lose them in the crowd. Then he heard whoops and the big German’s bellow as Vindex and the others appeared and dragged him into a bar. The noise in the rest of the tavern was oppressively loud, so that his merry friends had to shout to be heard. Longinus was not there, but three of the Batavians were, and they were just as raucous. Gannascus was playing dice with anyone who was willing. He won a few times, but lost more often, betting wildly. A Roman would no doubt have thought that this was typical of a barbarian. Ferox was still enough of a Silure to understand that a warrior would always be bold. When the huge man came over and said, ‘I need more money,’ he handed him most of what was left in his purse.

‘His luck’s bound to change,’ Vindex said with approval. There was no sign of it for the next few throws. As a centurion Ferox was well paid and his life at Syracuse rarely cost him much. Still, he wondered how long the coins he had brought would last if they stayed many days in Londinium. Gannascus split the room with a great bellow of triumph as he won.

In one of the rare lulls, Ferox had a quick word with Vindex, explaining that he might suddenly disappear. ‘Follow if you can, just in case. But only join me if it looks like real trouble.’

Soon afterwards he left them, needing air, and not wishing to drink too much lest it ease him back into his old ways. The sun was setting, the clouds pink edged with dazzling yellow as he looked down west along the river. He got lost on the way back to their billet, for one street looked so much like another, especially now that many of the stalls and peddlers had packed up for the day. More than once he suspected that he was being followed. Perhaps he was just nervous. After just a few days he was remembering why he did not care much for city life.

Philo had two messages for him. The first had been brought by one of Ovidius’ slaves, and said that he thought that he had found something and would explain tomorrow. The second was from another slave, who had said simply that someone would come for him later tonight from S, and he was to go with the guide if he would. The man sounded as if he was a Briton, and there were scars on his face and arms, suggesting he had done a lot of fighting in the past.

Hours passed, and the drinkers did not return. Ferox wondered whether Gannascus had had a run of luck. Either that, or his luck had been bad and he had gambled away their freedom or started a fight. By the third hour of the night there was no sign of them and he started to worry a little as he ate the supper Philo had prepared. A burst of singing in the street outside proved to be another group of drunks and not his friends.

The guide came just as he finished his meal. He had a round, pockmarked face and a head of closely cropped dark hair. Ferox did not recognise him, but followed anyway, leaving his cane behind, but keeping sword and dagger on the belt concealed by his cloak. The guide took him west and then up one of the gentle slopes. Turning a corner he saw the shacks and old fort with the amphitheatre looming behind them. He placed his hand on the guide’s arm.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You follow. I take you to her.’ The man’s Latin was slow and clumsy, and he did not look like a Briton.

Ferox followed. There were fires among the shacks, and low voices of the people who lived there. As they passed, a voice called out asking whether they wanted a ‘clean woman or a nice boy’, but the weary tone suggested habit more than any expectation of a reply.

‘This way.’ The guide took him past the locked sheds outside the arena, past the walls plastered with announcements of old and future games, to one of the small doors of the amphitheatre itself.

‘Wait.’ Ferox was tired, had drunk more that he should, but none of this felt right.

‘She is waiting for you,’ the guide said. He licked his lips nervously. ‘Ready and eager.’

Ferox grabbed the man by the arms. The guide started, eyes wide in panic, and whether it was chance or he heard or saw a movement, the centurion twisted the man savagely around as he turned to put his own back against the doorway. He felt the force of a blow as the man’s body shook once, then a second time and the tip of an arrow burst through the guide’s throat. He was choking, spitting blood, and Ferox backed into the doorway. He heard the thrum clearly as another arrow came at him and whisked past his head. The dying man shook again as a fourth missile slammed into his back.

Ferox threw the man aside and fled down the corridor. It was a low arched passageway ending in darkness. Steps led off to the right, climbing and then making a sharp turn, but it was lighter up there, perhaps a glimmer of moonlight. A long scream split the night air and then sank into a bubbling sob. The door behind him slammed closed.