The Encircling Sea

VIII

NERATIUS MARCELLUS, legatus augusti pro praetore of the province of Britannia, sat on a folding chair on the raised platform and waited for the blaring trumpets to cease. There were a dozen cornicines on either side of the dais, eight from each of the three legions represented at this parade, and as they repeated the rising scale the blare was enormous, drowning the warbling sound of the high Hibernian horns, shaped liked the letter S. One of the chieftains covered his ears.

The last hanging note of the fanfare ceased, and there was silence, apart from the gentle rippling of flags and cloaks in the breeze. Three officers stood behind the legate, and next to them was the aquilifer of II Augusta, holding aloft the precious standard of the legion, the gilded bird with wings upraised and clutching a thunderbolt in its claws. The eagle did not normally leave a legion’s base unless most of the unit took the field, but the legate had wanted one of Rome’s eagles to witness the scene, so had given specific orders. To guard it II Augusta had sent their first cohort, twice the size of the other nine cohorts in the legion, and drawn from the biggest and most experienced soldiers, who stood in eight ranks behind the podium. The other two legions stationed in Britannia had each sent two cohorts, with VIIII Hispana parading on the right of the legate and XX Valeria Victrix on the left. Altogether there were almost two and a half thousand legionaries, and over three thousand auxiliaries, a third of them cavalrymen, standing at an angle to the legionaries to form three sides of a square. The standards of all the units, more than seventy of them, were divided into two parties formed beside the trumpeters. This was the field force that the legate had assembled for the summer’s manoeuvres, but it was also a grand show of strength for receiving the Hibernian rulers.

Ferox stood in front of the platform to act as interpreter. It took a while for the ringing in his ears to stop after the fanfares. The chieftain who had covered his ears shook his head a few times after the noise stopped. Otherwise, neither the kings nor their nobles and escorting warriors showed any reaction at all. They would see an army parading, shields uncovered to show their elaborate insignia, metal of armour, weapons, and fittings polished to a high sheen, leather brushed and wooden shafts oiled. Ferox would make sure that in the days to come the visitors were told that this was but a fraction of the army of the province, and that Britannia’s garrison was an even smaller part of the mighty army of the emperor. It was possible that they would believe him.

Neratius Marcellus began his oration, and Ferox was relieved that the legate spoke in short, direct sentences, giving him plenty of time to translate. The Hibernians had brought a man with them who whispered an explanation to the kings, but there was no harm in making the meaning clear to all. It was bland enough stuff. Neratius Marcellus welcomed them in the name of Trajan, spoke of the great majesty, power and kindness of the emperor who ruled the world, and of his desire for friendship with all those who showed suitable respect.

Epotsorovidus, king of the Darinoi, made answer on behalf of them all, speaking of the great fame of the emperor and their desire to be good friends and allies of Rome. The king was happy for Ferox to convey his words to the legate. He spoke of the fame of his own people, their courage and faithfulness to friends, and their great desire for peace. The king was tall and very thin, his neck long with a protruding Adam’s apple, and he slurred his words as he spoke. He must have been forty and looked far older, his moustache and long pigtails dyed red, but even so showing flecks of grey. His right hand waved in the air whenever he spoke, looking weak rather than emphatic, and his voice lacked spirit. He wore armour of gilded scale, a long sword on his right hip and carried a high pointed bronze helmet under his left arm. His tunic reached to just below the knees, and beneath it his legs were thin and bony.

His queen was half his age, and just as tall, and with her raven-black hair bound in a long tress and coiled on top of her head like a tower she loomed over him. Her dress was a bright scarlet, and must have been new, for no dye would last in so bright a shade for very long, but she had covered it in a checked cloak so that only a little showed through. It was also enough to reveal the hilt of a sword, much like the one her husband wore. Her face was slim, her eyes as grey as his yet filled with a force that her husband utterly lacked. There was a hardness there, a cruelty even, at least if she felt it necessary, that almost took the edge off her beauty. Ferox had struggled not to smile when he was told that her name was Brigita. The chase to the north and rescue of the little girl seemed an age ago now, and he hoped that she was getting over the terror of capture, and going back to terrorising her family into looking after their animals and crops properly.

King Brennus of the Rhobogdioi was far shorter, with a great round belly, made all the bigger by the loose-fitting mail that hung around him like a tent lifted in the wind. He had a thick beard, and if he had a wife or wives he had not brought them along. There was cunning in his eyes, the cleverness of a child who thought only of himself and how to get what he wanted. He said nothing, content to let others speak on his behalf, and his gaze flicked around. Often he stared at the queen, and his desire was obvious, and no doubt shared by most of the soldiers who could see this tall woman.

Afterwards, the legate withdrew, and Crispinus led the Hibernians to a meal prepared for them in a large tent, big enough to accommodate a hundred people. An officer was detailed to accompany each of the chiefs and other leaders, while soldiers from the legate’s singulares, a bodyguard picked from all the auxiliary units in the province, matched the number of their warriors. There was no woman to accompany the queen, for this was a day for the army and the rules of the camp applied. Brigita did not appear to mind, but she said nothing, letting the men do all the talking. It was not a great feast, but slaves brought in delicacies and the first gifts of many. There were Roman swords and finely engraved helmets for the kings, a yellow silk dress for the queen, who barely looked at it, and made Ferox wonder whether a sword might have been a better choice.

By this time, the parade had reformed and each unit was ready to march past in all their finery. Crispinus bade his guests walk out and stand in front of the pavilion. Legio II Augusta led, eagle at its head. The Hibernians said nothing, and simply watched the soldiers marching past. Ferox noticed one or two of the warriors thought it funny to see so many men in neat rows, marching in step. The other legions followed, then the auxiliary infantry. Several of their prefects were with the guests and he sensed each man become more alert as his own unit approached, nerves and pride mingling, since they did not want the slightest blemish to appear among their own soldiers.

‘They must be marching round in a circle,’ Brennus said before the parade was even half way through.

The cavalry brought up the rear, always a wise precaution on a day like this, for they left behind them a field dotted with piles of manure. Ferox thought of Bran, who was in the army’s tented camp under Philo’s supervision and tasked with caring for Frost and the new horse he had bought to replace the stolen Snow.

‘No chariots,’ Brennus muttered when the last horsemen had passed. His tone suggested a degree of pity for the Romans as well as satisfaction in his own might.

An escort took the guests to some roundhouses hastily constructed for them in an annex of the main camp, and Ferox breathed a sigh of relief that his task was over for the day. Tomorrow, Crispinus would take the Hibernians to a farm near Alauna. It was owned by Probus, and said to be large and comfortable, and would house the visitors during the negotiations to come. The merchant had offered it to the legate and tribune, presumably in the hope of general or specific favours. Cerialis and Sulpicia Lepidina were to join them, as was Aelius Brocchus and his wife.

Ferox walked away from the camp to be alone and to think. Neratius Marcellus had his main force in a low ramparted marching camp near the foot of the hill of Aballava, and after a while Ferox turned to look back at the smoke of cooking rising from the tent-lines. A more permanent fort was to be built a little further away, to house a reinforced cohort, but work had not yet begun on its construction. Up on the hill, the silhouette of the watchtower was dark against the skyline. The legate also planned to demolish the outpost and replace it with a proper fort. During the coming months, the army would train and build, and build and train, as the army always seemed to do whenever senior officers were worried that the soldiers might become idle. In the meantime, he was bound to meet Sulpicia Lepidina, and he did not know what to say to her, or what he should not say.

A horseman trotted towards him. It was Claudius Super, still bandaged around the arm and head but riding well, and in these open plains Ferox could not vanish or pretend that he had not seen the man.

‘Ferox, my dear fellow, I have been looking for you.’

‘Just stretching my legs, sir.’

‘Don’t blame you.’ The senior regionarius jumped down, wincing a little when he struck the ground. ‘Being here, and seeing that tower, does take me back to our battle.’

It had scarcely been a battle, which did not mean that those who fell were any less dead than the men at Cannae or Arausio.

‘I am glad to see that you are recovering,’ Ferox said, because it was what he ought to say. In truth, since the skirmish Claudius Super had been openly grateful, praising his courage and skill. It was a change from the contempt he had so often shown in the past.

‘For that I owe you my thanks. In fact, that is why I have sought you out. You saved my life.’

‘There were others there.’

‘There were, and your modesty becomes you, but it does not change the truth. If you and your scout had not come when you did then I doubt that I would have made it into the tower.’ He had a bag hanging from one of the horns of his saddle and reached into it. ‘I’m not much of a craftsman, but it is my duty to give you this, as one citizen to another.’ It was a wreath of oak leaves, woven clumsily, so that a lot of twine was needed to hold it together. ‘The legate is agreeable, and the report will go to the emperor and a proper crown be made when it is awarded formally.’

‘You do not need to do this, sir.’ The corona civica was one of the oldest awards, given for saving the life of a fellow citizen.

‘Oh, I do. Traditions are important, don’t you think? They are what makes us Romans.’ The tradition was that the saved man make a wreath and give it to his rescuer, although it was a rare custom these days. Claudius Super took the old ways seriously, perhaps because he was so desperately proud of his family name and worried by their lack of great wealth.

‘If the noble Crispinus had not come out through the gap in the barricade then I am not sure any of us would have made it. Grateful though I am for you acclaim, is it not fitter that you give this to him? I am sure the legate would acknowledge his claim to the award. He is a brave young man in his first post.’ Ferox did not bother to add that this meant he was likely to rise high, that the corona civica would do his career no end of good, and that such a man was likely to prove a more useful friend in the future than a mere centurion. He could see the other man coming to the same conclusion, a little slowly, for his was not a quick mind.

‘I still believe you should have this.’ To his credit, Claudius Super was reluctant to give up his first idea.

‘Many years ago, another citizen presented me with a crown. He was killed sixth months later. I would rather not wish such ill fortune on you.’

‘Would you not?’ Claudius Super grinned. ‘I have scarcely been a friend to you in the last few years. If it is any consolation, I apologise for my behaviour. You are a fine officer and a good Roman, and I should probably have listened to your advice more often in the past.’

‘Then take it now. Give the wreath to the tribune. It will mean so much to him and he is a brave man, worthy of honour.’

‘Very well.’ Claudius Super offered his hand and Ferox shook it. ‘At least you have taken that from me. Good fortune as you help the tribune with these Hibernian rascals. Dare say they want gold and weapons from us and will only give us a couple of glass beads. That queen looks a bit of an amazon, though. Did you see her sword? Pretty enough, but not sure I’d fancy meeting her on a dark night. Oh, I don’t know, though.’ He leered at Ferox.

‘Good luck, sir,’ Ferox called as Claudius Super rode off, still thinking that he had rarely met a bigger fool.