Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

Castus felt a dull ache in his chest. He had almost entirely forgotten about this girl, or so he had thought. Certainly he had never considered that she might mean anything to him – just a civilian he had saved, a vow he had broken. The memory of her had stayed with him all this time, without his realising it. But it would be safer for her to be far away from Eboracum.

‘I wish you well,’ he said.

For another moment there was silence, broken only by the wild, distant cries of the revellers in the street. Marcellina looked at him, as if she were daring herself to do something, or say something more. As if she were waiting for him to act. A moment passed, and then she gathered her dress beneath her and stood up.

‘I should leave you in peace then,’ she said. ‘I too wish the fortune of the gods upon you and your future life.’

She moved towards the door, and Castus followed after her. At the threshold she paused suddenly, hunching her shoulders and shivering.

‘No,’ she said, and turned. ‘I didn’t mean to leave like this.’

Castus moved a step closer. The lamp was behind him, and darkness fell between them. Marcellina took a long breath.

‘Except for my father, you’re the only man I’ve known who’s ever done anything for me,’ she said. ‘The only man I’ve… respected. And you’re not my father.’

‘No, I’m not.’

She moved, stretching quickly up on her toes and sliding her arms around his heavy shoulders. He felt her body pressing against him, then her lips on his. He did not move.

‘May the gods protect you, Aurelius Castus,’ she said as she dropped back.

‘And you,’ he said.

He waited in the doorway as she went out to the vestibule, then he heard the slave opening the door and both of them leaving. The door closed again.

For a few heartbeats more he waited; then he snatched up his cloak and went outside. Just a girl, he thought. And gone now.

He threw the cloak around his shoulders and stalked away between the barrack blocks. The Blue House would be open late tonight. Afrodisia might be there. It had been a long time, but he needed her company now.

Four months later, the full strength of Legion VI Victrix was drawn up on the drill field. A bright spring day, and the new prefect, Rufinius, climbed the tribunal and stood before the standards of the legion. In front of him, four thousand men waited in rank and file, dressed in parade white with their spearshafts and shields freshly painted, their helmets and corselets of mail and scale polished and gleaming. Castus stood with his men in the ranks of the Third Cohort, all of them listening, expectant.

‘Brothers,’ Rufinius cried into the thin cold breeze. ‘Our lord the Augustus Flavius Valerius Constantius has issued his commands for the forthcoming campaign against the barbarian Picts who invaded our province last summer.’

A shuffle ran through the assembled men, a low stir of whispered words. Castus turned to glare back over his shoulder.

‘In ten days’ time, a selected force will march for the north, to take the war to the territories of the enemy, punish them for their acts and demonstrate the power of Rome. Two cohorts of this legion have been designated to join the expedition.’

Once again the lines of the legion rippled, men muttering, others stretching up to catch the prefect’s words. Only two cohorts. Castus set his jaw, gesturing with his staff for the men behind him to be silent.

‘The First and Third Cohorts are to prepare themselves to depart with the field force,’ the prefect cried, raising his voice to compete with the whining breeze. ‘The others will remain here at Eboracum.’

Castus exhaled between his teeth, feeling the relief tiding through him, then the surge of anticipation. The men behind him fell into a hush. They knew, now, that the war would be theirs.

‘Sixth Legion!’ the prefect cried again, cutting off the groans of protest, the sighs of dismay from the other cohorts. ‘Sixth Legion, remember your oath! I order every man of you to maintain wartime discipline, whether you are staying here or going north. The reputation of this proud legion is in the balance, and the emperor’s eye is upon each of us! We must all be ready to serve, whatever our duty demands of us.’

He paused, letting the silence spread once more.

‘Sixth Legion, are you ready for war?’

‘ Ready ,’ the cry came back. Again he shouted, and again the response. By the third cry, every man of the legion gave full voice.

‘Sixth Legion: dismissed !’

Castus turned on his heel, nodded to Modestus, and ordered the century into march formation. As they passed him, Castus studied the men’s faces. Six or seven months of training he had given them. Some of them looked glad, others fearful. But most just wore the mask of discipline. Castus hoped that would be enough.

And on the battlefield, he would know for sure.

They were burning the third village along the valley when they found the interpreter. Two soldiers brought him: a filthy hunched figure with a rope around his neck.

‘We found him in a pit behind one of the houses, centur shy;ion,’ they said. ‘Tied up like an animal. Looks like a slave or something.’

Castus stood in the muddy central clearing of the village. Smoke swirled around him from the burning huts. He could hear pigs squealing, women crying, an old man pleading desperately. He looked down at the twisted figure kneeling before him.

The man had been mutilated, his hands, ears and nose cut off and the wounds seared with fire. Something done to his tongue as well – Castus did not want to look too closely at the ruined mouth, but the man was trying to speak and finding it difficult.

‘Embr me, you ust,’ he said, his head twitching. The two soldiers were gazing at him with expressions of fascinated disgust. ‘Guo you! You’g centoo.’

‘Caccumattus,’ Castus said. ‘That’s his name. Get him water – run!’

He knelt down in the mud. The man stank – festering wounds, urine and shit. When the soldier came back with the waterskin Castus tipped it, holding the man’s head so he could drink.

‘What happened to you?’ he said, low and urgent. ‘What happened to my men?’

‘In’t trees,’ the man said, gasping. He spoke more clearly now, but his tongue was ruined. ‘Votadini all go. Picti come – make fight. No chance, centoo. All killed – c’d’n form lines. Me alone catched. Torture. Like play for them.’

Castus nodded. All this time and he had barely once thought of Caccumattus. In fact, he had assumed the interpreter had run when the century had been attacked by the Picts, or had joined the rebels. The thought shamed him now.

‘Take him back to the tribune,’ he ordered. ‘Give him food if he’ll take it. Not too much, or it’ll kill him. And treat him gently, you bastards! He was an interpreter for the Roman army – allow him some dignity.’

The soldiers took the broken man away, and Castus glared at the village around him. Soldiers were running between the huts with firebrands, torching the thatch. Chickens scattered around them. Castus breathed in the smell of the burning. A dead man lay in the dirt only a few yards from him: no scarred and painted Pictish noble warrior, just a grey-haired villager. Castus thought back to his days as a fugitive, and the people in the hut settlement who had given him food. The innocent always suffered in war. But, no, he thought, somebody in this place had been holding the interpreter captive, even if they were gone now. Somebody here had been involved in the massacre of his men. He remembered what Caccumattus had said. Torture. Like play to them .