Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

‘Centurion?’ the madam said. ‘Please, be calm… nothing is wrong!’

A woman’s laughter came from upstairs. Castus lowered his staff and the beads dropped back into place, swinging and clattering. Embarrassment creased through him. A stupid mistake, that was all.

Another voice now, from out in the yard. Hurried words. Castus turned as the eunuch appeared through the doorway, stooping a bow.

‘Would the dominus be Centurion Aurelius Castus?’ he asked.

Castus glared at him, and the eunuch swallowed thickly.

‘There is messenger for you, dominus. From the prefect. He claims it’s an urgent matter.’

He stepped away from the curtain. Dionysia was still peering at him through the swinging beads, her earrings chiming.

Now what? ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m coming.’

The praetorium was in darkness, only a few lamps burning in the upper rooms and the sentries at the door almost asleep against their spears. Two months had passed since Castus had last entered here, for his strange interview with Arpagius and the notary Nigrinus. This time things were different – the messenger had told him nothing, but had led him through the streets of the fortress at a rapid pace.

Up the stairs, he followed the corridor along to the same room he had entered before. The doors opened to orange lamplight and a huddle of figures around the central table. Castus took three strides across the floor, stamped to a halt and saluted.

‘Dominus!’

‘Yes, yes, quietly, please, centurion. Stand at ease.’

Arpagius had a creased look, as if he had been woken recently. A quick glance took in the other men in the room: two tribunes, Rufinius and Callistus; a long-haired man in a native cloak whom Castus recognised as the rider he had seen outside earlier; and a bearded balding man with a round face and startled eyes.

‘What’s the current duty strength of your century?’ the prefect asked.

‘Dominus! Four men still absent on supply escort duty, three men in the hospital, two men on leave, one detached to the river patrol, one absent without leave. Fifty-eight men present for duty, dominus.’

Arpagius raised an eyebrow. ‘Impressively detailed,’ he said. Castus suppressed a smile, and gave silent thanks to his standard-bearer.

‘I want you to prepare those men you have available for immediate departure,’ the prefect went on. Castus said nothing.

‘You may want to sit down, centurion,’ one of the tribunes said, pointing to a stool. Castus winged his shoulders, then he sat down stiffly on the stool with his back straight.

‘One of our frontier scouts,’ Arpagius said, gesturing to the man in the native cloak, ‘has just brought some potentially troubling information from north of the border. It appears that Vepogenus, who you may know is High Chieftain of the Pictish confederation, has died. Apparently a case of accidental food poisoning – he was feasting on mushrooms – but there are necessarily doubts about what’s happened.’

Castus nodded, staying silent. He had never heard of Vepogenus, or the Pictish confederation. The Picts were a savage people who lived far north of the frontier, past the wall of Hadrian and the settled lands beyond, but he knew no more about them than that.

‘Since the death is in dispute,’ Arpagius went on, ‘Vepogenus’s military commander has declared himself regent until the tribal leaders can be gathered to select a new high chieftain.’

‘The Picts have a multitude of leaders,’ said the second tribune, Callistus, a solid military-looking man with hard eyes. ‘But they’ve taken to… electing a chieftain to stand above the others. It’s a new thing – easier for us when they just fought among themselves!’

‘Vepogenus fought against us in the past,’ Arpagius said, ‘but he agreed to a treaty several years ago. He swore to keep the peace and not to attack the settled tribes to the south who are clients of Rome, and he’s stuck to it. With him gone, there’s potential for troublemakers to step in – the Picts are a very backward people, and believe treaties are made between individuals, not states. Therefore we must send an envoy, with a diplomatic party, to the tribal gathering and ensure that the old treaties are honoured by the newly elected chieftain, whoever he may be. I want your men to act as a bodyguard.’

‘Prefect, with respect,’ the tribune Callistus broke in, ‘will a single reduced century be enough? Less than sixty men? We should send a cohort, surely…’

‘No. This is an honour guard, nothing more. If we sent a whole cohort the tribes would suspect we were invading their land. Which we have no intention of doing.’

Watching the exchange, Castus was surprised by the change in Arpagius. On his last meeting the prefect had seemed worried, irresolute. Now he was much firmer, with a decisive note in his voice. Even so, the plan lacked appeal. Castus knew nothing of Picts or any other savages, and the notion of standing around acting as a ceremonial guard surrounded by howling barbarians tightened his stomach. He thought enviously of Valens, still at the Blue House with his dark-skinned Cleopatra…

‘Would a mounted escort not be faster?’ asked the bearded man. Castus had ignored him until now.

‘Over that distance, no,’ Arpagius replied. ‘There’s limited horse fodder north of the wall – the stunted little ponies the natives ride seem to live on air – and a cavalry force of that size would have to carry its own provisions or spend half their time foraging. Our soldiers can cover twenty miles a day on foot. Besides, I want legionaries there – the savages respect our legions; they fear them. They’re Rome, to the natives’ understanding. Centurion, you have a question?’

Castus paused, unaware that he had been staring quizzically. ‘Dominus,’ he said, ‘I just thought… why choose my men for this?’

Arpagius gave him a thin smile. ‘Because I warmed to you on our last meeting, centurion! You’re the sort of plain, honest soldier I like. And because you’ve turned an unpromising crop of men into the smartest century in the legion. They look good and they march hard, and that’s what I need at this moment. Besides, I suspect you’ll impress the natives. They’re quite puny, on the whole.’

Nothing more to be said then, Castus thought. He recognised a foregone conclusion when he heard one. Standing up, he clasped his hands at his back, raised his head and stuck out his chest. ‘Dominus! What are your orders?’

Arpagius nodded slightly, pleased. ‘The decision of the tribes,’ he said, ‘is scheduled for the first light of the new moon, which is in fifteen days’ time. The party will consist of one of my secretaries, Flavius Strabo’ – he gestured to the bearded man, who bowed his head – ‘and our envoy, to be collected from his villa a day’s march north of here.’

‘I’m not sure about that plan either,’ the tribune said quietly, but Arpagius ignored him.

‘Prepare your men to leave before dawn. I’ll supply a docket to draw all necessary supplies from the commissariat, and eight mules to carry the baggage together with slaves to handle them. I’ll also write an order to the commander of Bremenium fort to detach some mounted scouts to accompany you north of the Wall. I must remind you, centurion, that your force will not be expected to fight – they are an honour guard alone. Your first responsibility will be the protection of the envoy himself, then the security of your own men. You will have no say in any diplomatic negotiations, and should keep yourself and your men separate from the natives at all times. Do you understand?’

‘I understand, dominus. We will do what we are ordered…’

‘… and at every command we will be ready ,’ Arpagius said with a smile, finishing the customary soldier’s pledge. ‘Dismissed, centurion.’