Venator, page 5
‘If it’s any help, I saw your man pass by here just after the seventh hour.’
The centurion halted and turned to salute the camp prefect. ‘Did you happen to catch which way he went, sir?’
Gaius Octavius Corvus nodded his hooked beak indicatively. ‘Same direction as you were going.’
‘Thanks a lot,’ Decimus muttered, turning to resume his hunt.
‘The Cornovii have retreated to Viricio, eh? It’s been a long time since they holed themselves up in there.’
Decimus sighed, resigning himself to listen to the man’s story. Prefect Corvus had been a senior centurion with the Fourteenth when Decimus was still a junior officer, holding the post of primus pilus before being promoted to the semi-retired position of camp prefect. He technically still outranked Decimus, though he was no longer involved in combat or fieldwork; his task was to see to the smooth day-to-day operations of the fort itself. His craggy face had a patrician profile: sloping brow, thick jowls and a crooked, prominent nose that had gifted him his inevitable cognomen. The heavy wrinkles gathered about the white, puckered scars along his face provided Decimus a window into what he would no doubt look like in a decade or so’s time. He bent any ear he could reminiscing about the legion’s adventures following the invasion, regardless of whether his listener had been there himself.
‘The Cornovii were quite wary of us when the cavalry first set up a temporary fort in these quarters. Kept to themselves up in that stronghold. It wasn’t until we relocated up from Manduessedum that their old goat of a chieftain decided to play friendly.’
‘Indeed, sir. I remember it myself.’
Corvus regarded him for a long moment. ‘So you were,’ he said finally. ‘Just promoted to the first cohort. Fifth century. Lot weedier in those days. Got that crown at Camulodunum.’
Decimus nodded curtly.
‘Right then, Maximus. Riddle me this.’ He groaned, shifting his weight and clasping one knee. ‘You know those sheep farmers never had the guts to stand up to us. Why go after Rome now?’
Decimus straightened, drawing himself up. ‘It isn’t our place to question, sir. The natives are in open revolt, and it is our duty to mete retributive action.’
‘Spare me the official twaddle.’ Corvus waved a dismissive hand. ‘Think like a primus pilus. Why would the Cornovii dare to step on our toes harder than the Silures?’
‘I have a feeling you are about to tell me,’ Decimus groused.
‘The mines, man! The same reason the Brigantes are fracturing under Cartimandua! The Cornovii are seeing how much their neighbours to the north and south of them are getting from the silver mines and want in on the racket. Our lot are standing directly between them and the ore-rich hills, so they need to get rid of us.’
Decimus folded his arms. ‘With all due respect, sir, the imperial mint controls most of the mines closest to us, with those belonging to friendly tribes paying a hefty tax to Nero’s coppers. Surely, they’d have better luck getting into the precious metal trade with the army on their side?’
‘Well…’ Corvus drew his cloak about himself, shrugging. ‘Seemed more logical than Druids to me.’
‘Sir, I don’t make a straw of what the Cornovii were thinking. I’ve got my orders and an enemy to face. We’re better off leaving the noggin bashing to the striped togas back in Rome.’
‘Good luck to you. I don’t envy your making that steep climb again.’ Corvus cackled as Decimus began moving away. ‘Don’t forget that the northeast gate’s got the easiest approach, and it’s miles and miles of parapets all the way!’
‘As if I wasn’t looking forward to the march enough,’ Decimus grumbled to himself. He hurriedly put the prefect in his distant rear, resuming his search for the missing slave.
He cut along the side of a timber barracks building and came upon the half-demolished building for the first cohort’s second century. Decimus skirted around the stacked sets of tiles ringing exposed brick walls; the roof seemed finished only so far as the officers’ quarters, which meant that Fortunatus and his staff were now living in suitably upgraded accommodations. Men on scaffolding shouted across the expanse to each other, winching up bricks with rope pulleys and scraping mortar across the growing walls.
‘Watch out, sir!’ A voice rang out overhead as a hammer dropped to the ground just a few feet away from Decimus. The centurion quickly swerved and ducked into a doorway leading to his own century’s barracks building.
‘Sextus, you blockhead! That was the primus pilus you nearly brained!’ A gruff voice rejoined.
The legionary’s meek apology was silenced by the centurion slamming his building’s heavy wooden door.
The raucous clang of steel and a heavy stench of sweat assaulted Decimus’s nostrils. He made his way through the narrow antechamber he’d entered that contained a single eight-man contubernium’s gear. Most of the pickaxes, entrenching tools, pila, and gladii lay strewn about the floor and benches in varying states of preparation for tomorrow’s march. The bare limewashed walls gave way to a similarly sparse room, consisting primarily of four bunk beds housing the men.
One hunched red form on a top bunk stretched out an arm in the direction of a thin man seated on a camp stool beside a roughly hewn end table. ‘Hey Vulso, pass me that pot, will ya?’
‘Get it yourself, you lazy louse. I’m trying to get this mended before the centurion puts his boot up my arse for faulty gear.’ As Decimus’s shadow fell across the legionary, he looked up from attempting to tie his helmet strap and paled. ‘Commanding officer present!’ He cried, sending the rest of the room scrambling to attention.
Decimus grimaced. ‘At ease, men. Looks like you’ve got considerable work to do before first light.’ He frowned at the entry to the next contubernium’s gear chamber and the identical set of bunks beyond. ‘None of you would have happened to see my slave around here, have you?’
A red-faced legionary named Valerius cleared his throat. ‘I believe I saw him talking to the tesserarius a short while ago, sir.’
‘Right.’ Decimus nodded his thanks. ‘I need to check in with the aquilifer, anyway. Carry on, lads.’ He stepped through to the next antechamber and exited out the opposite side from which he’d entered.
Seeing nothing but intervallum between the building and the north gate drew a sigh of relief from deep within Decimus’s chest. Though he could still hear the chaos of the worksite behind the building, a visual break from the activity provided a welcome distraction. The centurion lifted his face to the hovering bleak clouds and closed his eyes. For one solitary moment, he indulged himself in the fantasy of feeling Rome’s bright May sunshine upon his face.
A muffled marching tune hummed by a legionary patrolling the palisade brought him crashing back to reality. Decimus shook his head and strode down the barracks block to the larger section of rooms at the end of its contubernia. He pulled open the door to the officer’s billet and was greeted with a cloud of smoke.
‘Sorry, sir!’ The dark head of Titus Flaminius slowly became visible through the haze, frantically trying to disperse the smoke from a singed avian carcass sitting atop his brick cookstove. ‘Left it a bit long, I’m afraid!’
‘Flaminius! You better not have burned that pigeon!’ A voice called from the adjoining room.
The aquilifer’s lean form bent over the charred corpse, coughing. ‘Depends on what you mean by “burned.”’
‘Aw, Juno Matrona! I wanted you to cook it, not light its fucking funeral pyre! Now what are we gonna do?!’
‘Plancus, the primus pilus is here!’
The grumbled curses in the next room promised a violent undertone.
Flaminius straightened, wincing apologetically. He looked a far cry from his impeccably groomed self; a dingy apron spattered with blood and olive oil hung crookedly over his off-white tunic. His neatly trimmed black ringlets looked as if they hadn’t felt a comb’s touch in days. His precisely trimmed beard had sprouted patches of unruly stubble and his round, gentle dark eyes had developed dark hollows underneath them. His long, jutting chin trembled fretfully.
Decimus frowned. ‘What’s happened? You look like you’ve just returned from the mouth of Hades!’
Flaminius fretfully shook his head. ‘I’m all right, sir. I spent a bit too long polishing the eagle and now I’m running a bit behind, that’s all.’
‘If you’d started last week, you’d still be running behind,’ Bellius Plancus muttered as he stormed into the men’s kitchen and dining nook. He adjusted his belt and made for the door just behind Decimus. The centurion barely registered his signifer’s doleful dark gaze as he nodded and brushed past, a blur of red cotton and nut-brown limbs.
‘Just where are you going?’
‘The Aurochs.’ Plancus paused and turned his black-stubbled head, one hand poised over the door latch. ‘It’s obvious we aren’t eating anything here tonight.’
He stepped out and slammed the door. Decimus pulled a thin smile and shook his head.
Flaminius coughed. ‘Apologies, sir. Plancus is fiercer than his pelt when he’s hungry.’
Decimus’s hazel eyes lit up. ‘That reminds me – can my optio and I borrow your lion pelts tonight? There’s a brotherhood meeting right after first watch.’
‘I’m hardly going to refuse you, am I?’ The aquilifer shook his head and gestured to the two lionskins, replete with claws and stuffed heads, which perched on racks in their adjoining anteroom. ‘Please make sure you bring them back when you’ve finished. We’re marching at first light.’
‘Of course.’ Decimus ducked into the anteroom and carefully picked up the skins. His arm grazed one of the snarling fangs of Plancus’s bear pelt, causing him to hiss.
‘I can’t see why your Persian god requires you to dress as animals for your rituals,’ Flaminius sniffed.
‘How did you hear that? Plancus talk in his sleep?’ Decimus cocked a quizzical brow.
The aquilifer shook his head, drawing his mouth into a tight-lipped smile.
‘You know you’d actually learn the answers if you became an initiate.’
‘No, no.’ Flaminius held up his hands. ‘My courage extends as far as carrying the eagle into battle and protecting her from harm. Your warrior cult seems a bit too…punishing for my tastes.’
Decimus grinned. ‘Well, it’s your loss.’
‘Is that all you came for, then?’ Flaminius ran a hand through his tousled ringlets.
‘No, I was hoping to find Isidorus.’ Decimus frowned, looking through the room for the distinctive sandy curls, wheezy breath, and diminutive frame of the century’s tesserarius. All he could make out in the dim sleeping quarters, however, was the form of a dozing bucinator splayed across a mattress.
‘I’m afraid he’s not here, sir.’
Decimus whipped his head back towards the aquilifer. ‘What?’
‘He stepped out right as I got here. Said he was going to the legionary hospital to pick up something for his cough.’
Decimus suppressed a groan, rolling his eyes to the tiled ceiling. ‘I just came from there.’
‘Sorry, sir. Wish I could be of more help.’ Flaminius wrung his spindly hands in his apron, looking only half as sorry as his voice implied.
‘Never matter. I was just wondering if he knew the whereabouts of my blighted slave.’ His expression softened hopefully. ‘You wouldn’t happen to…?’
‘No.’ Flaminius adamantly shook his head.
Decimus’s shoulders slumped. ‘Well, it was worth a try. See you at the praetorium this evening.’
He stepped outside and pulled the door to. Growling in frustration, he tucked the lion pelts under his arm and headed around the corner to his own quarters.
At the end of the barracks block, sharing adjoining walls but inaccessible to the rest of the men, sat the private living accommodations for Decimus and Tullius. Most of the junior centurions had to share their private rooms with their optio, an arrangement that the two men had themselves enjoyed in their younger days. But as the primus pilus, Decimus had acquired a series of rooms all to himself, with Tullius occupying his own quarters directly next door. The degree of separation from the rest of the men, looking out onto the normally quiet expanse of the intervallum, suited Decimus just fine.
Outside Tullius’s door, the optio’s teenage Greek slave swept a broom across his stoop.
‘Nicomedes.’
The slave glanced up briefly at his name.
‘Let Optio Servius know there’s to be a brotherhood meeting tonight. I’ll pass on the particulars at evening temple.’
The lad mutely nodded and resumed his chore.
Decimus sighed and unlatched the door to his own quarters. He stepped inside the stunted corridor and gasped when he saw a blue form huddled within the second room to his left.
Cato glanced up from his pallet, where he’d been folding tunics up into a bundle. ‘It’s about time you showed up, sir. I’ve been looking all over for you.’
IV
‘
May the gods go with you.’
Gwenfrewi clasped Timoteo’s hand with both her own and squeezed it fervently. Her son pulled a grim smile from his place atop a shaggy bay pony.
Behind her mother, Luciana rolled her eyes and kicked a stone in the dirt. Her father set a firm hand upon her shoulder, squeezing it in gentle rebuke. At their backs rose the tumulus housing the ancient kings who had first called this land home. The dim rising sun cast its weak beams just over the mound’s grassy bank. The sounds of people unpacking waggons and herding livestock could be heard from the collection of roundhouses within the hill fort’s complex.
Timoteo gulped nervously, glancing at the collection of young men flanking him on their own mounts. All, like the chieftain’s son, were clad in brightly dyed plaid trousers beneath their plainer tunics. The sea of red, blue, green, and yellow legs had nothing but sheepskin blankets to cushion the long ride that awaited them. Tanned leather saddlebags draped behind the riders held all the possessions they decided to take with them, which didn’t amount to much. Burnished bronze oblong shields, replete with flowing leaves and interlocking eddies in their design, had been slung across the warriors’ backs along with their sheathed longswords. Beyond these few possessions and their weapons, they carried nothing. They needed to make good time if they were to avoid the Roman army.
Gwenfrewi moved towards one of Timoteo’s saddlebags and lifted the flap. She produced a large, silver bowl festooned with intricate, swirling patterns and tucked it in with his belongings.
Timoteo frowned. ‘Mother, what are you doing? We’re supposed to travel light!’
‘I don’t want the Romans getting their hands on this.’ She lowered the flap over the pannier and patted it gently. ‘This vessel has served our family well; it’s received every single drop of blood sacrificed in this household. I shouldn’t have to tell you how much power it holds. It was a gift from the gods and it should return to the gods. You’re to give this bowl as a votive offering upon your safe arrival at Mona.’
Luciana smirked as she saw her brother’s complexion whiten. The thought of being taken into the stronghold of the men and women who possessed their race’s entire wisdom no doubt intimidated her easily cowed brother. How her father ever expected Timoteo to inherit the chieftainship was beyond her grasp.
‘Will…will the Druids receive us gladly?’ Timoteo’s casual attempt to word the question was undermined by the break in his voice.
‘Tell them the daughter of Brida has sent you.’ Gwenfrewi smiled. She patted her son’s knee. ‘Their hearts will be welcoming.’
‘Best leave while the day’s still young.’ Gruffydd nodded solemnly at his son.
Timoteo returned his nod and sighed, gathering up his reins. ‘Goodbye, father.’
Gwenfrewi stepped back, a hand to her mouth. Gruffydd reached out and wound his arm protectively about her waist. Luciana frowned, watching her mother’s sky-blue eyes mist up with tears.
Timoteo gently prodded the pony with his heels and began his journey towards the fort’s yawning southwest gate. The other warriors solemnly fell in behind him.
Luciana’s reduced family followed in behind the Gaesatae as far as the mouth of the gate. There, they stopped to watch the procession of hardy ponies pick their way down the steep trail towards the valley floor.
Gwenfrewi reached out and clasped the gate’s simple timber post. When the surrounding forest climbing up the path had swallowed the last of Timoteo’s party, she drew in a sharp gasp and softly began to cry.
Gruffydd enveloped her shuddering frame and drew her away from the gate. Luciana glanced between her parents and the path. Part of her wished she could have accompanied Timoteo and the other warriors to Mona; she didn’t know what to do or how to feel at the moment and seeing her mother so vulnerable unnerved her.
Her parents ambled back towards the chieftain’s roundhouse, located at the base of the tumulus. Reluctantly, Luciana fell into step behind them.
The sinuous footpath they trod, overgrown with patchy grass from years of disuse, snaked its way through the centre of the hillfort. They had found the place much as Luciana remembered it from childhood. A collection of identical round huts, smaller and simpler in construction from their homesteads in the valley, stretched the barren expanse of the hilltop. Two sharp, gradually curving ridges rose in parallel lines from the earth, creating a rather steeply sloping plain. The man-made tumulus sat just inside the southwest gate, casting the chieftain’s larger quarters in shadow. Pens housing a choice handful of the family’s goats and sheep had been repaired and restored to their prior location on the sloping ground opposite the tumulus. A squat storehouse for Gruffydd’s personal foodstuffs stood just outside the entrance to their house. An identical building sat on the opposite side of the parallel ridge, accessible to the remaining tribesmen and women. Smoke from cookfires were already beginning to rise from the abandoned village’s conical chimneys. A cow lowed from the direction of a larger pen located on the fort’s northern side. A horse snorted in response.
