Hadrian's wall (12 page)

Against the eastern wall was a small training ground enclosed with a low wooden palisade. A turma of new recruits was being drilled by a frog-throated decurion who seemed capable of cursing in three languages. The probatios looked tired, confused, and awkward in their armor, their forearms bearing a fresh red welt.

"What happened to their flesh?" Valeria whispered.

"The military tattoo. Officers don't bear them."

"I saw one on Galba."

"Evidence of his humble birth."

"Does it hurt?"

"I suppose, but pain is a soldier's companion. The tattoo discourages desertion and helps identify pulped remains after battle."

It was sword practice, and the drillmaster picked out one of his recruits. "Brutus!" he barked.

The man jerked, clearly unhappy at being singled out.

"Step forward!"

The new soldier hesitantly complied. He looked uncomfortable in his stiff new armor and walked as if weighted. His superior pointed to one of a score of heavily scarred wooden posts that had been inserted into stone holes in the training courtyard. "There stands your enemy! Attack with your sword!"

The man obediently marched forward with heavy oval shield, lifted a blunt-edged Roman gladius, and began hacking at the wood with vigor, his companions laughing good-naturedly at his effort. His blows echoed from the fortress walls like the ring of an ax.

"Now, for cavalry practice the men ride in the meadows outside," Clodius murmured. "It takes a year to make a good horseman and a lifetime to make a good cavalryman. But basic soldiering skills begin here."

As chips flew, the man began to sweat and his strokes to falter. "His training armor and weapons are twice normal weight," Clodius explained.

"Don't give up now, Brutus!" his companions called. "We need more kindling for the barracks!"

Grimacing, the soldier kept swinging, but his assault had turned to dispirited labor. Finally the decurion raised his arm. "Enough, dull-wit!"

The soldier stopped, arms hanging like ropes.

"Tired?"

There was no need to nod.

"No matter, because you were a dead man twenty strokes ago. First, you let your shield arm drift to your left, making a target of your chest and belly. Second, you were chopping high like a barbarian, inviting a sword point into your armpit." He raised his own arm in demonstration and looked at the other recruits. "Forget the gladiatorial nonsense of fancy arm and footwork. This is war, not the arena!" The decurion crouched, sidling forward. "Now, a barbarian looks fearsome with his long overhead stroke, but in the time he takes to swing, a Roman will kill him three times. Why? Because a Roman doesn't stroke, he stabs-from below, like this." The decurion thrust, and the young man recoiled. "You go for the abdomen. You go for the balls. Stab in… and up! I don't care if your blue-colored Pict is seven feet tall, he'll squeal and go down. You'll be standing on his great gaping face, smelling his blood and shit, while you do the same trick to his brother. Thrust!" He showed the move again. "That's the Roman way!"

The men laughed.

"I get queasy just listening to it," she whispered.

"Decurions like that made us masters of the world. He's the real Hadrian's Wall."

"Men like Galba." She understood some of the hardness of Galba Brassidias then. Understood his dour nature. Most Romans never met anyone like him, and never knew who kept their lives so placid.

They walked back toward the commander's house. An older soldier was standing near the training stockade with his arms stretched out, a centurion's vinestaff balanced on his wrists. "Galba's discipline," Clodius whispered.

"Galba's world," Valeria murmured. "A man's world. So odd to see no other highborn women within these walls."

"Invite Lady Lucinda for company. Or wives from the other forts."

"I will."

"And don't hesitate to ask for me, as a friend."

"I appreciate that, Clodius."

"I almost let you be captured once. I won't again."

"Tribune!"

They looked ahead. Marcus! Valeria's first instinct was to run, but he looked stern, even unhappy. So she stopped to wait for his approach, earning a brief nod of approval at her circumspection.

"A pleasure to see you again, bride. My apologies for not having more time today."

"Clodius has been showing me your fort."

"An assignment he was sly enough to ask for." He turned to his subordinate. "I wish to talk to you in private, Clodius Albinus. Falco is here."

Clodius looked depressed. "Is it about the banquet?"

"The young tribune has already apologized," Valeria spoke up. "The wine made him foolish. Please don't be harsh."

"This isn't your issue, wife."

"I'm sure he'll have more kindness for British beer!"

"This has nothing to do with beer, either."

"But what, then? Why bother him further?"

Marcus was annoyed at her persistence. "It's the slave, Odo."

"Odo?" Clodius didn't understand.

"The one you poured beer on."

"What about him?"

"He's been murdered."

This man-boy Clodius has not impressed me, from every description I've had of him. "You seriously suspected him of murder?"

I put the question to the centurion Falco, owner of the dead slave, unsure if this bizarre detour has anything at all to do with the real mystery I'm trying to unravel.

"Clodius had impressed no one-except, perhaps, Valeria. They were close to the same age and both newcomers. She bewitched him, I think, which made the other men think him an even greater fool. So yes, the rest of us suspected him."

"Tell me how this came about."

"My slave, Odo, was found dead the morning after the wedding, killed by a table knife thrust to the heart. His head was still sticky with the beer that the buffoon had poured on it, and we all knew Clodius was angry at the Celts for marring his throat. Odo was Scotti, a recent capture, and fighter enough that he hadn't entirely learned a slave's humility. The young tribune was drunk, unhappy, and unable to avenge himself. We thought he might have killed in frustration."

"What did Clodius say in his own defense?"

"He said that he was ashamed of what he'd done to the slave at the banquet and had no reason to harm him further. If anything, he argued, Odo should have more resentment toward Clodius than Clodius toward him. Which of course made us think that perhaps Odo had attacked Clodius. The boy had no alibi. He'd left the wedding in disgrace and hadn't been seen the rest of the evening."

I study Falco. He seems a fair but practical man. His decency has a foundation of iron. "You cared for this slave?"

"I valued him at three hundred siliqua."

"So you wanted the culprit punished?"

"I wanted the culprit to pay me for my loss."

"What did Marcus decide?"

"Nothing, as usual." Falco stops, realizing he has finally betrayed something useful. His glance shifts away as he remembers unhappy times.

"The praefectus was an indecisive man," I clarify.

The centurion hesitates, weighing his loyalties, and then remembers how many are dead. "The praefectus was… careful. We learned eventually that he'd made an early blunder as a junior tribune in campaign against brigands in Galatia. Later, he'd been unfairly caught up in the stink from the sexual scandal of a superior. He'd mismanaged a business of his father's. He'd learned caution, and it's but a short step from caution to fear."

"I'm told he was bookish."

"His library filled two carts. Not at all what we were accustomed to."

"Galba, you mean."

"The senior tribune could be rash, but decisive. The two had different styles."

Different styles. A unit responds to a commander like a team to the rein, and so his personality becomes the personality of his men. Accordingly, it troubles soldiers whenever there's a switch, and it takes them a while to settle under the new hand. If they ever do. "How well did they work together?"

"Awkwardly. The first time I saw Galba in the baths I counted twenty-one scars on the front of his body and none on his back. He had a chain or belt of rings-"

"I've heard of this chain."

"Marcus, in contrast, had never seen real battle. It was even more uncomfortable after our commander's marriage to his inquisitive bride."

"The men did not like Valeria, either?"

"They appreciated her beauty, even when it made the garrison restless with longing. But yes, she made us uneasy as well-even Lucinda was taken aback. Valeria roamed the fort like a decurion. She was curious about the natives and demanded that a kitchen maid teach her and the Roman slave woman the Celtic tongue. She absorbed it like a child, and asked about things that are no business of women."

"What things?"

"Warfare. The mood of the men. The organization of the Petriana. Firing‹ a forge, straightening an arrow shaft, the sicknesses of soldiers. Her curiosity was boundless. Marcus couldn't silence her. He was embarrassed but confused by her, I think, and the men didn't like it. It was no secret that she was the reason for Marcus's command."

"And Galba?"

"The quieter he was about his resentment, the plainer his frustration. He was the one man who knew how the fort worked, and everyone looked to him for instruction and direction. Even Marcus. Yet the Roman made a point of countermanding the Thracian to establish his own authority. We were a cavalry with two heads."

I frown, recognizing the situation from problems I have investigated before. There is nothing more fatal than disunity of command. "The duke did nothing?"

"He was stationed at Eburacum, and it took time for the situation to reach his ears. Then he was distracted by events on the Continent."

He means the succession, which I will get to in my own good time. I want to get to the heart of matters before it. "Did these difficulties affect the Petriana as a whole?"

Falco ponders. I am asking him not about individuals but about the performance of his unit, of the eagle standard to which all good soldiers give their ultimate loyalty.

"The strain made us too eager," he suggests. "None of us were happy with the situation, and all thirsted for change. There's opportunity in conflict. Some men fall in battle, but others rise. Careers demand a certain amount of chaos."

Chaos. I've spent my own career trying to prevent what ambitious men long for. Men seed their own disasters. "All this was in the background when you discussed the murder of Odo?"

"Yes. For Galba the murder was an opportunity."

"To use against Clodius?"

He smiles thinly. "Brassidias thought further ahead than that. He'd recovered the cattle of Braxus and, as a reward, took information from a Celtic spy-a man named Caratacus."

"Caratacus!" That is the name of a Briton rebel from the earliest days of the Roman occupation. He was betrayed by his own people, taken to Rome in chains, and glibly talked his way out of his own execution.

"Your reaction was Marcus's own. The name has undoubted power, which is probably why the rogue chose it. It was an alias for a rather mysterious figure with experience in the empire. A deserter, a disowned aristocrat, an escaped felon-we weren't sure which. He'd set himself up as a chief in the north and sat in the highest councils of the Picts and Attacotti. It was he who told us the druids were rising again."

"The druids?"

"Wise men and magicians of the Celts. They've always urged resistance to Roman occupation. We annihilated them in the initial conquest, but never entirely suppressed them in the north. We feared their reappearance."

"Reappearance where?"

"The oak is their sacred tree. There was a grove well north of the Wall where they were supposed to be secretly gathering."

"So Galba urged the attack on the grove that started all this trouble?"

"Galba was too clever to urge anything. He set the bait for Marcus and Clodius."

"How?"

"This Caratacus said the druids were behind the attempted abduction of Valeria. When Marcus asked why, Galba explained that the priests might be bringing back human sacrifice. In olden days they'd put victims into gigantic figures made of wicker and set fire to the effigies, forecasting the fortune of battle by the writhing of the victims."

I grimace. "By the gods!"

"Galba told this, waited, and let young Clodius propose the attack."

"But how could he know Clodius would do that?"

"It all went back to the murder of Odo. Galba had already argued that if we couldn't solve this mystery, we'd simply eliminate it by ridding ourselves of Clodius. He proposed we place the young tribune with another legion. While pretending this was an act of charity, he knew it would cripple the boy's career. No one cares about a dead slave, of course, but they do care about a Roman who can't hold his emotions in check. Who can't hold his wine, or keep from spilling beer. Clodius would have left the Petriana not so much with the stain of failure, from which any good Roman can recover, but with the stain of losing self control, from which recovery is impossible. Marcus wouldn't agree."

"He was fond of the young tribune?"

"Hardly. The boy was a boob, in Britannia for a year's seasoning. The rumor was that his new wife interceded on Clodius's behalf."

"You believe that?"

"Who knows? Certainly the whelp hung around her like a puppy."

"A puppy, or a tomcat?"

Falco laughs at my joke, which is not meant as a joke.

"So Galba proposed Clodius be transferred. What did Clodius say?"

"He was furious, of course. He disliked the Petriana cavalry until faced with the possibility of leaving it. Yet Galba wasn't so much making an enemy as setting Clodius up to make the suggestion."

"Of attacking the grove. Of avenging Valeria's ambush."

"You have to understand that Clodius represented everything that Galba resented: birth rank, preferment, arrogance, snobbery, incompetence, and even a measure of charm. The young tribune was actually somewhat likable in his eagerness, and when he wasn't drunk, he had manners. Even wit. Galba was forever serious because he couldn't forget his own humble beginnings, and he hated himself for it."

"He wanted to pick a fight?"

"They both knew that Galba would win such a fight so easily that it was almost meaningless. Galba didn't want Clodius's life, he wanted his pride. He wanted to push Clodius, and through him Marcus, into failure. Make Galba the rescuer of success."

"By getting Clodius to propose the attack. An attack that was dangerous."

"Risky. Action that might stamp out rebellion can also ignite it. We were trusting the word of one rogue, Caratacus. Galba said he was willing to lead the attack, but he wanted the order in writing. This irritated Marcus, who felt the senior tribune was failing to support him. So he decided to lead the strike himself, with Clodius."

"Which Galba intended all along."

"He'd gotten the result he wanted."

"To force a battle?"

Falco smiles thinly. "To be alone with the bride of Marcus Flavius."