CHAPTER 6

“I don’t care if you have to sink the foundations past the floor of the ocean and ship every godforsaken stone one at a time from Iberia, you will build the baths here and they will not slide into the sea at the first kiss of a winter storm. Do I make myself clear?”

It was shortly after noon and the sky above the fortress of the IXth legion was as grey as if it were dusk. The easterly wind knifing in from the sea was sharp with salt and it scoured equally the faces of Petillius Cerialis, legate of the Legio IX Hispana, the blue-lipped, shivering Iberian master mason who stood up to his ankles in seepage in the trench at his feet, and the five legionaries who stood behind, armed and ready to defend their general against everything except weather, leaking foundations and the intransigence—or stubborn common sense—of the province’s only master stone mason.

To Cerialis’ left, the winter fortress of the first three cohorts of the IXth legion, strategically placed at the northern end of the ancient trading route known to the local tribes as the ancestors’ way, took command of what height existed in the flat lands north of the wash, spreading up and over the low crest of the hill. Thus advantaged, the watchtowers were given an easy view of the sea, and, regrettably, an equally easy exposure to whatever storms the gods might choose to visit upon the shores.

There were no storms on the day Cerialis elected to order the building of the baths for his men, only the knife-wind, and the beginnings of trade on the drove road below, and of work in the salt pans to the north, and a fishing boat newly set into harbour, mobbed by a havoc of screaming gulls.

The wind clearly carried the sound of the birds’ hunger; they drowned out the master mason’s answer entirely. By those watching, the man could be seen to open and close his mouth. He quite clearly shook his head. He spread his palms and raised his brows and began, soundlessly, to explain the details of engineering and bath house foundations to the legate—and then abandoned all effort, not for the gulls or the wind or the growing frustration on Cerialis’ face, but for the hammer of hooves on the stone of the drove road, that became, even as he lowered his palms and turned south with the others to look, the stumble of cavalry horses driven past all endurance on rising turf, and then the shatter of chain mail such as a man might make who has ridden himself beyond exhaustion and whose legs will not hold him upright when he dismounts, so that he falls to his face at the feet of his legate.

Or, not his legate: the prostrate man was not of the IXth legion. The mason, climbing out of his waterlogged trench, recognized the goat-headed fish of the XXth on the bridle and saddle cloth of the spent horse that stood with heaving flanks ahead of him. Then, late, he recognized the encircled elephant that was the personal imprint of the governor of Britannia on the satchel that lay now on the rank grass of the hillside, its seal cracked open by the force of the messenger’s fall.

The gulls were quieter now; a new boat had set out to sea and they followed it, spreading their noise elsewhere. The messenger’s companion, a russet-haired cavalryman, dismounted more neatly into relative silence and stood behind his fallen comrade.

Petillius Cerialis, legate of the IXth legion, drew in a breath of brine-laden air and directing his voice downwards said, “If you are not dead, perhaps you would care to stand and deliver your message?”

Valerius lay with his face pressed to the wet grass, and realized that he was genuinely winded so that rising was, for the moment, impossible. Through the tunnel of black that sucked at his diaphragm, he heard Longinus say, in thoughtful Thracian, “You’ve ruined that horse.”

He had not intended to bring Longinus; very specifically, he had given the former cavalryman tasks that would keep him at the steading watching over the routes from Camulodunum by which a desperate cohort of veterans might march. The Thracian’s name was not the first that had come to mind, therefore, when he heard the horse openly following him on the track north to the IXth legion.

Pulling the messenger’s strawberry roan off the track, he had waited, and continued to wait while a riderless horse galloped past him. Then, understanding, had said aloud, “Longinus Sdapeze. It’s less than six months since you were half dead with a broken skull and that was my fault. I am oath-sworn to keep you from further harm. You are not coming with me to the fortress of the Ninth.”

“I would like you to explain how you can stop me,” Longinus had said, from behind his left shoulder. “And you told your sister there was no risk. If they don’t remember one decurion of the Thracian cavalry, I don’t see why they should remember his successor any better.”

A little desperately, Valerius had said, “They think you’re dead. The veterans of the Twentieth held collections for your memorial stone. That kind of word passes.”

“Then we’ll raise a wine jug to the incompetence of scribes throughout the empire and celebrate the fact that I am very much alive. I haven’t been indicted for treason. If you’re safe, I’m in no greater danger.”

So saying, Longinus had pushed out through the spring undergrowth. He whistled and the horse, which had stopped, came back to him. Mounted again, he had grinned, and then stopped, and said, “Do your gods see danger in this for you?”

“No. Not as long as I hold courage.”

“Do I lessen that courage?”

“Never.”

“Good.” Longinus’ smile had been real for a moment, shorn of the dangerous hilarity with which he faced danger. “Then we have a time to be together, before the real fighting starts. I, too, have things to prove before your sister’s war host before they will believe I have joined their cause.”

He had swung his horse, and his mood had lightened. “In any case, these horses are too good to waste. If I left you with that roan, you’d give it to the barbarian Batavians and they’d ruin its tendons in a month of bad riding. You need me there to keep it safe for you so you have something decent to ride back down on.”

It had been better riding north with company, particularly this company. Not for the first time, lying prone on the grass at the legate’s feet, it came to Valerius that, alone of his sister’s close circle, he had no honour guard that might surround him in battle, and nor did he want one; but that this one, solid, unwavering friendship, and the steady humour it offered, was a gift to be treasured.

It was a pity about the horse.

He could breathe again, which was good. He counted a few heartbeats longer, then pressed his palms to the turf and levered himself to standing. He swayed a little, and it was not all for show. His hand had a welt across the knuckles, as of a sword cut gone awry. His face, too, was bruised, as if he had fallen from his horse onto rough ground, or been hit a glancing blow by a club. Cygfa had done that, not unkindly, but perhaps with more enthusiasm than might have been necessary.

None of these was remarked upon by the legate and Valerius did not mention them, but retrieved from the wet grass the message-pouch that bore the governor’s broken seal and was about to open it and read aloud the message when he noticed the mason for the first time, and the slowly leaking foundations beside which he stood.

Beset by a new idea, Valerius knelt and dug his fingers into the turf, testing the quality of the earth between his fingertips. Rising, he said, “This ground will never hold a baths; there’s too much sand to support the foundations. There may be chalk under some of the other hills here, or clay on the higher ground inland. The mason might find it useful to know that.”

The legate gazed at him, flatly. “You have been here before?”

“No. But I was present when the baths were built in Camulodunum in the year just after the invasion. The land is similar in some respects.”

“I see. Then you have been in the province as long as any man living, while I have been here a bare three years. How clumsy of me not to appreciate that. And now you are a messenger. What were you before this, a centurion?”

“Almost.” Valerius allowed himself to smile. “A decurion. I have only ever ridden for the cavalry. I served in the Fifth Gauls under the prefect Quintus Valerius Corvus.”

“Indeed? I have heard of him. He has a reputation for extraordinary valour.” There was a rim of yellow round the whites of the legate’s eyes, as if his liver had rebelled for many years against the sharpness of his intellect. Tapping his forefinger to his teeth, he said, “You stoop low, for one who has risen so high. Are there not others of lesser rank who could bear a message from one commanding officer to another in a province at peace?”

Valerius retrieved his message satchel from the ground. His fingers traced the outline of the beast that been the symbol of Britannia’s governor since Claudius first rode his elephant in through the opened gates of Camulodunum. When he looked up, even the legate was shocked by the haggard weariness in his eyes. “None that are alive,” he said. “Five other messengers were sent ahead of me. None have got through—unless you know already that the Eceni lands are ablaze with the beginnings of insurrection?”

The Iberian mason knew himself out of his depth. He bit back an oath and cursed inwardly the ill-luck that had brought him away from the safety and warm winds of Rome to a land where the natives still resisted civilization and the generals in the army still believed there was glory to be won in war.

It was no secret that Petillius Cerialis, legate of the IXth, craved battle, and was sick to the back teeth of guarding a trade harbour and a drove road and the salt pans of eastern Britannia against a group of pacified client tribes who ventured no more than the occasional sheep-stealing from their neighbours.

Cerialis’ gaze, resting on Valerius, became curiously fixed. “And yet you are alive,” he said, slowly. “Which is, in itself, an achievement.”

The wind blew straight from the sea, cold and damp and laden with salted mist. On the drove road, a wagoner paused to speak to the fisherman and then clucked his horses forward, heading south.

The legate watched the wagon begin to roll, then said, “My armourer buys iron from that man. Perhaps it would be of benefit to tell him that the Eceni are no longer at peace.” He turned to the russet-haired cavalryman. “You are?”

“Longinus Sdapeze, decurion, the First Thracian cavalry.”

Cerialis nodded, curtly. “Good. You will ride down and tell the iron trader not to leave until we can give him an escort. When you are done, see to your horses and then make yourself ready to ride. We set out today, to restore the emperor’s justice in the lands of the east.”

Longinus turned his horse back down towards the trade route. He leaned down to smooth a hand down the lathered neck and, in the lifting tone a man might use to encourage one more effort from his mount, said in Thracian, “There is a man riding up towards us now on a flashy bay cavalry horse with too much silver on its bridle. He seems to know you. If you’re in trouble, shout. I’ll hear it.”

Longinus had never been afraid of combat. He turned to salute Valerius. His yellow hawk’s eyes held all the light of battle and only a little of warning. Grinning, he set his horse down towards the trackway before Valerius had time to reply.

I don’t intend to die, I swear it…

Valerius had said it to Breaca, truthfully. In his analysis of the possible dangers, he had not included the Batavian cavalrymen who were stationed with the IXth legion, for the simple reason that he did not think any would be still alive who might recognize him.

It was over twenty years since he had trained with the native tribes on the banks of the Rhine, and the Batavians, of all those who fought for Rome, threw themselves hardest into the most dangerous conflicts, vying with each other to perform the most outstanding acts of bravery and self-sacrifice and so win a place—posthumously for preference—in their winter sagas. To die of old age was anathema to a Batavian and the overwhelming majority avoided it with a good two decades to spare.

Riding north into country policed by a wing he had once known was the kind of easy risk against which Longinus would have offered long odds and Valerius would have accepted with a light heart and the certainty of winning.

He would have lost. Julius Civilis, by order of the emperor Caligula citizen of the Roman empire, had survived every battle and was enduring the curse of old age with commendable dignity. Buffeted by a wind that had no care for rank or honour, he rode straight-backed up the hill towards his legate and the new visitor and it was impossible not to recognize him, however much the sun had leached the colour from his hair and the wind chiselled cracks on his skin.

Valerius was not as exhausted as he had made out, but nor was he as battle-fresh as he would have liked. He stood by his swaying horse and watched the slow approach of the man who had once named him soul-son and brother.

It was a moment’s work to assess the sources of danger and put them in order: Longinus was his first concern. The Thracian was nearly at the bottom of the slope and had hailed the iron trader; he was thus beyond reach of the men on the hill and his horse had enough fire left to carry him into the forest and the safety of the trees if the need arose.

Of those who might have posed a danger to Valerius, and so, indirectly, to his sister’s cause, the legionaries who formed the legate’s guard were young and bored and more concerned by the blustering wind and the unexpected prospect of a long march down the ancestors’ Stone Way with battle at the end of it than they were by any possibility of attack from the messenger who had just ridden in. They stood hunched against the wind, their bare forearms blue with cold and their noses dripping freely.

The mason posed no danger at all, which only left the legate. Cerialis was close enough to kill, and he had made of himself a gift; his sword was clipped into his sheath so that he might mount his horse smoothly without the risk of dropping it and his mind, unlike those of his legionaries, was reaching forward to the glories of combat and the planning required to bring it about.

What was left of the legate’s attention was all for Civilis; his features had softened, as if the approaching rider were a distant grandfather, still remembered fondly from childhood.

Almost forgotten, Valerius tested the spring of the turf beneath his feet. The salt on the wind tasted sharper than before and the scudding clouds seemed more richly textured. The irony of that was not lost on him; the world always became most beautiful when death was closest. For so much of his life, the Boudica’s younger brother had wanted to die. As the Batavians did, he had thrown himself into the hearts of uncounted battles and had killed and killed and mourned the fact that he emerged alive. Only recently had he discovered how badly he wanted to live, and only in the short time since his return to the Eceni had he come to understand how much he was needed, and that he had an obligation to live that went far beyond his own needs and wants.

The man who wishes most to live must abandon all fear of death. He had learned that long ago, in the days when Civilis’ hair had been the colour of washed gold and the sun had blessed his face with freckles, not lines.

The old cavalryman was close now and the weight of his age showed more clearly, and the effort he was making to hide it. His hair was no longer flowing gold, but ice-white. Against all Roman law, it was bound up at the right temple in a warrior’s knot, with the many teeth of his enemies plated in silver and left to dangle to his chin. His hands were cramped and rested on the pommel of his saddle; cold and sixty-five winters spent on horseback had cracked and swollen the joints so that holding the reins clearly pained him, and it was the hours of training that had gone into his horse that enabled him to ride it so safely, not the strength of his grip.

The passing years had changed Civilis almost beyond recognition. There was the hope, always, that Valerius, too, might have altered; Breaca had once failed to recognize him, leaving room to believe that others might do the same.

Remembering late the role he had assigned himself and the lie within it, Valerius opened the messenger’s satchel he held in his hand. Addressing the legate a little louder than was necessary, he said, “The message from Camulodunum is written here in full. Would you have me read it?”

“Later.” Petillius Cerialis flicked a dismissing hand and gestured towards the advancing cavalryman. With uncharacteristic delicacy, he said, “Julius Civilis has retired from service to the emperor, but he is still our best horseman and retains the respect and war oaths of his tribesmen. If he advises herbs or a hot mash for your mounts, do not refuse them.”

Valerius bowed. “His name is known throughout the legions and your care for him honours you both. I would not dream of refusing him.”

He turned and saluted the oncoming rider. The beginnings of battle fever burned like old blood on his tongue, a welcome friend. His body prickled to the promise of violence in a way it had not done when Breaca had killed the messenger.

A lifetime of war had taught him that danger was better faced head-on. True to that training, he stepped forward, saying, “Julius Civilis, prefect of the Batavians, greetings. Your name is known from one coast to the other as the officer who led his men to swim the Great River and destroyed the Eceni horses in their lines.”

The horse picking its way with such delicate care up the tussocked slope stopped at the sound of the river’s name. Civilis, once prefect of the First Batavian cavalry, tilted his face towards the man who had spoken to him. A chaos of memories swept his face. Tears sprang fresh to his eyes.

“There are not many who still choose to remember that. Were you there at the first battles?”

Civilis’ voice wavered. His gaze focused only briefly on Valerius and then wandered uncertainly to the legate. There was no hint of recognition. Offering a prayer to the gods of poor memory, Valerius said, “Not as closely as you were. I fought with the Quinta Gallorum, but not all of us were in the front lines.”

That much was true. Valerius stood very still, waiting. The Civilis of old would have known that a certain member of the Fifth Gaulish cavalry had not only fought in its foremost ranks, but had swum the river into the blazing core of battle with Civilis’ Batavians. A heartbeat passed, and a second. At the foot of the hill, Longinus had reached the iron trader and talked the man into turning his wagon round. The legate had stepped away, but was still close enough for Valerius’ blade to reach. Civilis stood two paces away. He was neither armed nor armoured. His life could be measured in parts of a breath.

“The Quinta Gallorum? That was Corvus’ wing. I served under him before they gave me my own command.” The old man’s head lifted a little, as an old hound might at a distant hunt. He frowned and the crags of his face deepened. “Then I should know you. There are too few of us left who fought in that battle to forget each other.” Rheumy eyes searched Valerius’ face and slid away, finding more of interest in his horse. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Tiberius. I was named for the man who was emperor when I was born.” The deceit was slick, and hateful. The gods did not honour the makers of lies.

“Ah, yes…” The old man’s larynx bobbed in his throat. “I remember now. You served under Rufus on the Rhine. A good man, before the natives cut his throat. They carved their witch signs, too, on his chest. And cut off his…”

Civilis abandoned all attempt to remain in the present. His gaze drifted past all the men to a past horizon none of them could see. The waxen contours of his face melted. Spit gathered creamily at the corners of his mouth. It seemed possible he might weep there, before them all.

The legate stepped forward to hold the horse’s bridle before the old man let fall the reins and the beast became unruly. He said, “Old friend, war is upon us. The legion must march south to Camulodunum to stem the rot of revolt. Your Batavians will accompany us as honoured escort. This messenger and his companion will ride as our guides. If your horse boys could take care of their mounts, it would speed our progress.”

“Their horses?” Civilis’ gaze became noticeably sharper. He studied Valerius’ strawberry roan and then looked down the hill to the place where Longinus was escorting the iron trader back towards the fortress. “Oh, yes.” He nodded, thoughtfully. “I expect we could take care of their horses.”