Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

‘Anyway, faced with this threat, the Caesar Constantius in his great wisdom sent his Praetorian Prefect against the barbarians, assisted by Aelius Marcellinus. Between them they managed to repel the attacks and reimpose peace along the border. Marcellinus, by force and persuasion, restored his pact of brotherhood with the Pictish chieftain, Vepogenus. That was eight years ago, and ever since the peace has held.’

‘But now this Vepogenus has died of eating mushrooms?’

‘Died of something. We can only hope that mushrooms were involved, and not something less… natural. Despite the treaties, you see, there are many among the Picts who long to avenge themselves on Rome for their past defeats. Besides, one or two of those renegades I mentioned are still with them, and as you can imagine they still plot and scheme.’

‘I don’t have much of an imagination. Why weren’t they surrendered to justice when the war ended?’

‘Oh, well. The terms of the surrender were… difficult. In fact, you might better call it a truce. Since the few surviving renegades were present at the negotiations, and hold high rank among the Picts, it was difficult to… apprehend them, shall we say.’

‘And what about Marcellinus? I’ve never heard his name before now.’ Castus was developing a strong notion about the identity of their mysterious envoy.

But Strabo had got up and was heading for the river. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said. ‘Just now I have a fierce need to wash my feet!’

Back on the road northwards from Isurium, the century passed across an open moorland of brown heather and wild grass. After five miles, Strabo turned aside from the road and led them off along a narrower track, due west into a broad river valley. The late-afternoon sun was warm and golden, and the feet of the marching men raised a low haze of dust over the road.

‘Move up ahead with me a little way,’ Strabo said, slipping down off his pony to walk beside Castus. ‘I’ll tell you more about Marcellinus, although I’m not sure it’s safe for everyone to know, if you follow me.’

The secretary had a tired look now, and his face was dusty. He was developing a persistent cough, and swigged from a small bottle of medicine he kept in his saddlebag. All this way, Castus thought, the secrecy had been wearing away at him. Now he had to let it out.

‘Nobody can hear us,’ he said, glancing back. They forded a shallow rushing stream, the water soaking through their boots and leg wrappings. Strabo nodded, closing his eyes; the relief at being able to unburden himself was obvious. Not for the first time, Castus wondered just how much of the secretary’s reserve had been calculated.

‘I told you that Marcellinus led the treaty negotiations at the end of the last Pictish war,’ Strabo said, quickly and quietly. ‘There’s a little more to it than that. Part of the talks involved an exchange of hostages – it’s common among the native peoples, and Marcellinus understood their ways. As a token of his trust in Vepogenus, he sent his own son, a boy of fourteen, as hostage for our side.’

Castus whistled through his teeth. He had a bad feeling about the way this story was going. The shadow of a cloud fell over the road ahead.

‘He died, the boy,’ Strabo said. ‘Murdered, probably by one of the renegades in an attempt to sabotage the peace talks.’

‘And Marcellinus… forgave them?’

‘He had to. Either that, or renew a destructive war and fight with rage in his heart. The murderer was never identified, needless to say, but I believe he had his suspicions.’

‘Strong man.’

‘Yes. Strong indeed. But the experience broke his spirits. He resigned his command after the peace was agreed, and retired to his estates. Few people have seen or heard from him since.’

But we will, and soon, Castus thought. He was grinding his molars as he marched. Savage barbarians, murderous renegade Romans – and an envoy with a killing grudge against both of them. He glanced back at the men behind him, marching along at an easy pace, spearpoints catching the lowering sunlight. Surely the tribune back at Eboracum had been right: they should have sent a full cohort, with cavalry support.

‘He’s still the most skilled negotiator in the province,’ Strabo said quietly. ‘And he understands the Picts, knows many of them personally.’

And wants to kill them , Castus thought. But he said nothing.

It was early evening by the time they reached the villa. The tiled roofs showed through the trees, then the white-pillared portico and the vault of the bath-house. Castus ordered his men into military step as they approached the gates with the standard proudly before them. Tenant labourers in dun tunics stood in the fields and watched them as they passed.

Aelius Marcellinus was waiting for them on the steps of the front portico. Castus knew him at once: his cropped greying hair and lined face contrasted with his muscular build and his upright military stance to give him a look of natural authority.

‘Century – halt!’ he called, and the soldiers behind him stamped as one man and stood in formation in the courtyard.

‘Dominus, Centurion Aurelius Castus and century, Third Cohort, Sixth Legion Victrix, reporting for escort duty.’

‘Welcome,’ Marcellinus said. ‘You may stand your men down, centurion. I’ve prepared billets for them in the stable block, and my people will send out food and beer.’

A fine parade-ground voice he had, Castus thought. Slight edge of the aristocrat, but nothing too refined.

Strabo had dismounted and stood to one side watching, unobtrusive. Now, as Castus relayed his orders to his optio, he saw the secretary approach Marcellinus and speak quickly and quietly. A look of sober consideration crossed the old soldier’s face.

‘Centurion,’ Marcellinus said, coming over and placing a hand on his shoulder. The two men were almost the same height. ‘I’ve ordered the baths heated for you and the secretary here. I hope you can join us for dinner this evening.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about me, dominus. Splash of well water and a bite of cheese is all I need. I’ll stay with my men.’

‘Brother,’ the man said, smiling and showing his teeth, ‘you’re my guest. I get to hear so little from the wider world, and if we’re to travel together for so long we should talk, I think.’

Castus shrugged, baffled. It felt strange and uncomfortable to be singled out for special treatment like this – it had never happened to him before. Then again, he had no real idea what the proper manner might be in these situations.

‘I can see to the men, centurion,’ said Timotheus, standing at parade rest just within earshot. ‘You’d better find out all you need to know.’

‘Right,’ Castus replied, nodding. For a moment he suspected that Timotheus was winking at him. ‘Right – get the men watered and foddered and see to their billets. I’ll be back to check them over before they turn in. The watchword is Sol Invictus .’

The optio saluted, turned on his heel and marched away after the men.

In fact, Castus learned little over dinner. Washed of the road’s dust and freshly dressed in his spare tunic and breeches, he reclined awkwardly on a couch in the gloomy dining room, listening to the two men talk. They were being scrupulously polite, even formal, discussing matters in Eboracum and the imperial city of Treveris in Gaul, where it appeared that Strabo had been living until recently. Nothing about the task ahead of them – Castus felt as though he was watching a strange ritualistic dance, the two men circling but never quite meeting. The meal was a simple feast but he ate little, and drank too much wine to hide his discomfort. His intuition told him that neither man trusted the other, and both had misgivings about the nature of their mission.