Enemies of the Empire

Chapter Thirteen

It is an eerie feeling travelling through empty countryside, escorted by half a century of soldiers on the march — eight rows of five abreast. (There are eighty soldiers in a century, of course, despite the name!) There were a dozen mounted outriders as well, hastily co-opted from the nearest marching-camp in case we encountered trouble on the way. The optio, still anxious to give a good impression, took care with posting them: six of them well out in front as scouts, and the other six just as far behind to guard the rear. The cavalrymen from Isca might have helped with the task but following what Marcus had ordained they were simply re-equipped with spears and thus obliged to march.

It was a military operation and an air of businesslike precision reigned. Marcus’s private mounted bodyguard, which had accompanied us all the way from Glevum, was not now deemed sufficient to protect us, so instead of cantering up and down alongside our carriage they were obliged to fall in behind the two domestic carts which carried all Marcus’s serving retinue and other equipment for the trip. There was none of the cheerful jingle of their harness and shouted banter now, and the whole atmosphere was much more tense.

There was only the measured ring of hobnailed sandals on the road, the creak of armour and the groan of carts and an occasional snort from one of the horses. The lack of any human voice was almost sinister: the rhythmic pounding of the feet so perfectly in time that it seemed that the whole column was a single animal. And quite a swiftly moving animal. If you have ever seen a phalanx of advancing Roman troops, you will know that they can move with startling speed. It is said that a legionary can march twenty miles a day fully armed, and with his entire equipment on his back. Our escort were not carrying their packs today, only their fighting weapons and their shields, and although obviously our progress was not as quick as it had been when we were unaccompanied by men on foot, we were still jolting through the countryside at surprising speed.

We passed through the cultivated area which surrounds the town, where a few Roman-style villas could be seen, each with its contributory farm and all much like similar homesteads I was used to further east — except that here the houses were built, not in sheltered places, but on the tops of hills where they were exposed to wind and weather but had commanding views of the countryside about. They were surrounded by high protective walls, and there were similar defensive enclosures round many of the fields. We even saw a small party of slaves, armed with pointed staves and clubs, patrolling the borders of one villa-farm.

As we moved further from the town the substantial dwellings gave way to humbler ones: first Silurian roundhouses in cosy villages and then — as we travelled increasingly through woods — more isolated huts. In one dank clearing by the road we saw a wretched cluster of miserable shacks, where scrawny chickens mixed with scraggy goats and naked children ran about unchecked, while skinny women with suspicious eyes stopped their work and put down their querns and hoes to watch us pass. I thought about the butcher peddling bones and scraps of fly-blown meat — these people were among his customers, no doubt.

The road got hillier and more wooded as we went along, until we reached the outskirts of unbroken forest, stretching in all directions as far as we could see. There we found a wretched hovel, masquerading as a civilian inn. It was little more than a filthy staging-post, where a few flea-bitten horses could be had for hire, but at the sight of Marcus’s insignia on the coach the landlord came bustling out with gifts of cheese and some of the foulest wine I had ever tasted. Nothing would have persuaded me to go inside, but we did consent to water our own animals at his trough and listen to his whining voice complain of how even his mangy steeds had been attacked, and how he kept a dagger ready, just in case.

The forest looked forbidding but the front outriders had scouted on ahead and, having found nothing untoward, had galloped back and were waiting for us at the inn. The optio came back to tell us that — to all appearances at least — the way was clear, and asked for permission to proceed. Marcus gave it with a silent nod and our procession jolted off again, with the riders now formed up close in front of us to afford us extra protection from surprise attack.

Then we were in the forest. It was far more disturbing than the open road. Here the feeble sunshine could not penetrate the trees, and after the heavy rainfall of a day or two before even the military road was dank and treacherous with mud and fallen leaves. We jolted forward into shadowed gloom where grey light filtered only patchily through the tangle of naked branches overhead, and then through a dense, forbidding stand of evergreen, which created a dim green half-light that was even worse. The clanking of our marching passage stilled the winter birds, but there was a wind and the woods were full of rustling movement. It was easy to imagine that each falling leaf or stirring branch was set in motion, not by a freak of breeze, but by some hiding enemy. And there were always wolves and bears to think about.

I was glad of our elaborate escort now. The thought of travelling through these threatening woods without our armed protection was an alarming one. As it was my heart was thumping uncomfortably in my chest, and beside me Marcus began to fidget too, though he did not say anything to me. The purposeful silence of the marching men outside had somehow communicated itself to him, and he had not addressed a word to me for miles.

Of course I could not start to talk to him, unasked, so I turned my attention to the last few days — anything to take my mind off bears and bandits. In any case, something was obscurely troubling me.

I had not killed Lupus, but somebody had done. Up until this morning I had more or less concluded that it was Plautus, however unlikely that appeared. Paulinus, whom I had taken for his spy, had followed me almost to the door, and it had seemed logical that — since I’d clearly recognised his face — Plautus might have wanted to silence me, and anyone I might have spoken to. But now I was wondering if I was right.

If the swineherd with the scarred face was really Plautus in disguise, as seemed highly probable, then — according to what Regulus had said — he had been in this forest all night with his pigs. In that case he could hardly have killed Lupus after dark, much less followed me around the town. The civitas was simply much too far away. Nor could he have done it and walked here overnight. Apart from all the normal dangers of night-time travel, the town gates were always closed at dusk and anyone going through them after that would be noted by the guard, yet we knew that no one of Plautus’s description had been seen to leave — the optio had made particular enquiries on the point.

But if Plautus had not killed Lupus, who could it have been? Not Paulinus — the child would have been far too terrified to be entrusted with such a task — and not his brother either, since he was intercepting Promptillius at the time. Was there some other explanation, unconnected with my visit to the thermopolium? Had Lupus simply failed to pay the protection fee, or in some other way aggrieved the rival gangs? I shook my head. It was too much of a coincidence. Unless. . I sat up with a sudden start. Was I looking at all this back to front?

Plautus was after all a Roman citizen. What was he doing in the bath-house part of town? What was he doing in the civitas at all? Obviously he was somehow on the run, but I had just assumed that he was fleeing me. Suppose that by calling out his name, far from his being any threat to me, I was in danger of betraying him? That might explain why he had hurried so furtively away, and perhaps also why Lyra and her boys had shown such interest in me when I followed him. I had supposed that they were friends of his, but I had no proof of that. They didn’t even seem to know his name.

I was just deciding that I ought to voice these thoughts to Marcus, and run the risk of a rebuke, when the whole marching column came briskly to a halt. Regulus, who had been marching in the van, came hurrying down between the ranks to speak to us. He was streaked with sweat and breathing heavily and limping very badly — the pace maintained by the trained infantry was clearly making great demands on him, though his pride had somehow forced him to keep up. The optio, who had accompanied him, looked as fresh and unconcerned as if he had merely been out for a stroll.

‘In the name of His Most Imperial Divinity, Commodus Fortunatus Britannicus, the Earthly Manifestation of Great Hercules, Emperor of Rome and all the provinces. .’ the optio began, approaching our official carriage, and presenting his baton with a bow.

Marcus leaned forward and touched it graciously, thus cutting short the lengthy formula. ‘You have my permission to report. I presume we are getting near the spot where the ambush happened yesterday?’ He looked at Regulus.

‘Just. . bottom. . of. . the valley. .’ the cavalryman managed to pant out. He waved a hand in the direction he had mentioned. ‘Very. . steep.’

The optio took over. ‘I have sent a pair of mounted soldiers on ahead, to check that it is safe for us to proceed. All the same, with your permission, Excellence, we will deploy your mounted bodyguard as extra scouts, and move up in close formation around the carriage as we go, to give you as much protection as we can. The rebels have struck in this valley several times so far. It’s possible they have a base nearby. There’s still a risk of ambush in the area.’

This was not a comfortable thought. Marcus nodded. ‘Very well. As you suggest.’ Another barked command and the convoy surged forward, though more slowly now.

The road seemed a good deal narrower here, hemmed in as it was by tall trees on either side, and the marching troops closed ranks and pressed in around us, so that we found ourselves the centre of a moving box. When I looked out through the leather curtains of the swaying vehicle, I could see that the men had drawn their swords and raised their shields and so were forming a sort of defensive outer wall. I craned out to see behind us, and realised that the last two rows had fallen back, and were marching in diamond formation, still perfectly in time, so as to protect us from the rear. Further behind them still, the mounted horsemen rode with daggers drawn.

It was an impressive display of discipline, and it occurred to me what an awesome sight the Roman army must present to any enemy confronting it. If I had been a Silurian rebel hiding in the trees, I would have been thoroughly intimidated by this time, especially when the men began a rhythmic beating of their swords against their shields. It was a tactic that I’d heard about, intended to strike terror into the enemy.

There was a definite feeling of expectancy and threat. I held my breath, half waiting for an ambush to leap out at any time, but we reached the bottom of the valley without incident. There, where a little path led off into a clearing on the right, we stopped a second time. This was our destination, it seemed. The optio appeared to help us from the carriage and we dismounted on the verge beside the road, to find ourselves ankle deep in fallen leaves, among a little stand of ancient oaks. The troops were drawn up silently on either side, so that we were still the centre of a protective square. There was no wind now, but there was a chill damp in the air, and despite myself I shivered.

The officer gave a stiff bow of salute. ‘Permission to report? The lookouts have made an examination of the site and found no intruders in the area, though there is lots of evidence of recent tracks. We therefore await your orders, Excellence.’

There was a pause, then Marcus turned to me. ‘Well, Libertus? This trip was your suggestion, I believe? What do you propose we do now?’ As he spoke he tapped his baton on his palm — a sure sign of stress and irritation, as I knew.

I was just as anxious. The forest was a menacing place, but I tried to sound as confident as I could. ‘I think I should inspect the site with Regulus,’ I said. And then, fearing that he might feel overlooked, I added, ‘With you two gentlemen as well, of course, if you would condescend to help our humble search. Your intelligence and experience would be invaluable.’

I saw my patron preen at this, so I turned my attention to the optio. ‘I’m sure you will agree that a small group searching the area on foot may find more than a larger number would.’ I did not want forty men trampling on the evidence, I meant, but I did not have to say the words. The optio understood.

He sniffed. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right. But if His Excellence is to participate, I insist that he shall have a bodyguard. I am charged with his safety and, with due respect, cannot consent to let him wander around the forest without armed men at his side. Not after what happened yesterday. There have been too many other incidents on this road of late. It’s almost as if the wretches know where we’re going to be.’

I was afraid that Marcus was going to protest — he prides himself on Roman nonchalance in facing dangerous situations of this kind. But to my relief and amazement he was already saying, ‘As you wish. But if we are to do anything at all, let us do it quickly. This forest is most unpleasantly cold and dark.’

It is not like Marcus to complain of physical discomfort in this way, so I knew that he too was feeling seriously alarmed. The presence of an extra pair of guards was just as likely to obliterate what I was looking for as any other set of marching legs, but I held my tongue and our little party soon set off — myself, my patron and the optio, together with Regulus and two mounted guards and a couple of extra foot soldiers to guard our rear.

I thought our task was likely to be a fairly hopeless one — the scouts had already ridden up and down the military road, so there was no hope of following any tracks imprinted in the mud, and according to what Regulus had said himself, the rebels yesterday had disappeared in all directions through the undergrowth with the unhorsed cavalrymen plunging after them. There was little chance, at this distance, of learning anything. However, Regulus led us down the forest path, leaving the other men to search beside the military road.

‘This is the branch where he was hanging,’ Regulus said, pointing to a massive overhanging tree. ‘And over there, look, in the ditch — under that pile of earth and leaves — that’s where we buried him. It looks as if the grave has been disturbed.’

Marcus shot a look at me and nodded to one of the foot guards at the rear. The man stepped forward, gulped, and — using his dagger as a spade — began to move aside the loosened earth. There was something lying only an inch or two below the surface, and it was soon revealed: first, something that had once been my toga, and then, when that sorry wrapping was removed, something that used to be Promptillius. Enough of him remained for me to have no doubt of that, although something — rats or bears, perhaps — had already been gnawing at the bones.

The man who had been doing the digging-up looked pale. Death is a routine matter to a legionary, perhaps, but there is something particularly unpleasant about uncovering a corpse. Marcus nodded brusquely at him.

‘Wrap that up and have it taken to the cart. I’ll see that he has a proper burial later on. Nothing elaborate — he was just a slave — but he was a member of my household, after all.’

The man nodded, and bent to wrap the figure up again, using my ruined toga for the task. That would benefit from burial too, I thought — the rats, or whatever they were, had damaged it as well, and it was no longer fit for any other use. Secretly, I was rather glad; otherwise Marcus might have suggested that it be returned to me.

The optio briskly sent a rider back with orders to conscript four men to come and lift the corpse. He supervised them as they carried it across and laid it in the second cart, which held our belongings and two of Marcus’s remaining slaves who were travelling as guards. I hoped they were not superstitious lads. They would have to share the cart with that grisly burden from now on, and it was already none too fresh. However, no one spared a second thought for them. Regulus was already striding on.

‘That’s where the helmet and the cloak were hanging,’ he explained, pointing to the overhanging branch, ‘and this is where we found the heel-tracks — see? You can just make out the marks, although of course they’re fainter now. We followed them right over to that copse of elms, but then we lost them in the leaves and mud.’

‘You’d better show us, now we’re here,’ Marcus said ungraciously, and Regulus led the way again.

‘There you are, you see?’ he said, stopping to indicate faint marks on the ground and a trail of broken branches through the undergrowth. He led us on, following the trail through fallen leaves and over jagged roots until we came to another faint pathway winding through the trees. ‘This is where the heel-marks stopped. It may be that the rebels have some secret base nearby. They must have done something with the messenger’s body when they dragged it off. They didn’t come this way by accident. But after that the trail is too confused.’

Marcus was looking, frowning, at the ground. ‘But there has been someone this way recently. There is the print of hobnails in the ground.’

Regulus went over to the spot. He seemed to brighten, but a moment later I saw him colour ruefully and shake his head. ‘Those are my sandal-prints from yesterday, I fear. See where I’ve just trodden in the mud? The pattern of the studs is just the same — including the one missing on the edge.’

I peered down at the path. The man was right. ‘But what are these other little tracks?’ I gestured to dozens of faint pointed marks. ‘They look like animals’.’

‘The pigs, perhaps?’ the cavalryman said. ‘They might have come this way. They had escaped from their enclosure — just down in the valley over there — and were swarming everywhere.’

‘Is this where you met the swineherd?’ I enquired.

He shook his head.’ That was further on. We were searching up and down the path, in case there was any sign of anyone, but he was the only person we met. We questioned him for quite a time — and not too gently either, once or twice — but in the end we had to let him go. He was clearly sympathetic to our cause. After all, he was a victim of the rebels, too. He helped us search.’

Marcus said loftily, ‘All the same, we want to interview the man again. Can you take us down to where this pig enclosure was?’

The optio looked concerned at this. ‘But, Excellence, we are moving a long way from the troops. .’

Marcus quelled him with a look. ‘You heard my instructions, I believe.’ He turned to Regulus. ‘Lead on.’

The optio was right to be doubtful, I thought privately. The path was a narrow, winding one and the trees around us were extremely dense. Every step took us further from the safety of the legionary force, and although we had an escort with us, it was small. I began to wonder how effective it would be against a band of armed attackers. But one cannot argue with a man of Marcus’s standing. As the governor’s representative he outranked the optio, and we found ourselves moving down the little track, reluctant as a troop of conscript slaves going into battle for their overlord.

There was a lot of rustling in the undergrowth, and I held my breath. Nothing happened. That was almost worse.

It was almost an anticlimax when we reached the spot and found the small enclosure, constructed in the ancient Celtic way: a stout little fence of woven hazel wands supported by scores of pointed stakes, so that when the acorns in this part of the forest were all gone it could easily be dismantled and removed to somewhere else. There was a little makeshift shelter in the midst of it, and a wisp of smoke emerging from the hole in the centre of the roof suggested that the owner was at home.

The optio looked at Regulus and gave a nod. The cavalryman stepped forward and raised his voice. ‘Pigman, come out here. In the name of the Emperor Commodus and the Empire, we wish to speak to you.’

There was a rustling in the area behind the hut, and a figure came towards us through the trees — a greying redhead, carrying a pail. A half-dozen largish pigs came snuffling after him, but I saw that they were each tethered by a hind leg to a tree, so that they could not escape again, though they were straining at their leashes and the ropes were long. The pigman paused and emptied water into a sort of makeshift trough formed by a fallen hollow tree and for the first time I got a proper look at him.

He was wearing my green tunic: I recognised its distinctive braided edge. I was startled to see it already sadly torn and grimed with mire, but the greatest shock was when I saw his face.

This wasn’t Plautus. It was a man I had never seen before — slow, grimy, weather-beaten, and with a vacant expression on his eager countenance. He was a simpleton, by the look of it. Dirt streaked his cheeks and he wore a straggling beard, but it was still possible to see that there was not the slightest sign of any scar.