In the Shadow of the Wall

A.D. 209

Brude stopped when he saw the Wall. He had half expected that it would disappoint him, seeing it again for the first time in more than twelve years. Back then he had been young, hurt and frightened and to his inexperienced eyes it had seemed a wonder of construction, immense and strong. Now, he was older and, having seen the marvels of
Rome
, he had thought the Wall would not match his memories of it.

It did. He saw now that it was just as impressive as he remembered it. From the hilltop he looked across the valley, down at the fort, laid out in the familiar rectangular pattern, teeming with soldiers, travellers and traders. Outside the fort was the long, straight road, which ran parallel to the Wall, and the great ditch with its high banks of turf. Clustered along the south side of the ditch were the scattered and rather bedraggled dwellings of the local inhabitants, those who depended on the fort for their livelihood. No doubt some huts were the homes of the soldiers’ unofficial families.

His gaze travelled upwards, to the top of the opposite slope. There he saw the Wall itself. He could make out the small figures of the patrolling sentries, idly walking up and down on the wide pathway at the top of the Wall. And he saw the gateway with its square towers dominating even the vast fort.

Beyond the gate was home.

To get there he had to go down the hill, through the fort and talk his way past the gate. He tugged on the halter rope he at tholding, clicking his tongue to encourage the mule to follow him. Laden with his personal belongings and a variety of trade goods, the mule picked its way carefully down the slope after him.

His feet sank into the spongy grass and bracken of the hillside as he made his way down to the road. He made no effort to conceal himself but walked slowly and casually, just another itinerant trader. There was no point in concealment anyway, he knew. The gaps where the mighty ditch was bridged were few, and each one led directly to a fort. The only way to cross through the Wall was with the permission of the Romans.

There was a small queue at the fort’s south gate. Some locals were hassling the guards, trying to gain an audience with the garrison commander about a grievance, which seemed to involve the actions of some off-duty soldiers. Brude stayed back a little, standing behind a large wagon laden with sacks of grain, waiting patiently while the centurion who had been summoned by the guards took some notes and eventually persuaded the aggrieved locals to leave the matter with him. He told them to come back the following day. They departed reluctantly, still muttering about the injustice done them, but in their own language, not in the broken dog Latin they had been speaking to the centurion. Brude could make out a fair bit of what they were saying. He had no interest in their problems but even having walked the length of the province he still enjoyed being able to listen to the British tongues after so many years of hearing little except Latin and Greek.

He watched the next man, the owner of the wagon, being waved through with the guards taking little more than a cursory interest in the contents of his wagon. They exchanged some friendly banter with the man who was obviously a regular visitor.

Then it was Brude’s turn. He smiled as he walked up to the guards, hoping a friendly approach would ease his passage but the soldiers dropped the amicable faces they had worn for the wagon owner and eyed him with suspicion.

There were four of them, though Brude knew that the fort was probably home to at least one cohort of around five hundred men. One of the sentries barred his way now, his large, oval shield held ready and his javelin held at an angle, which, while not overtly threatening, indicated that it could quite easily become so.

“What’s your purpose?” he demanded brusquely. His accent was quite harsh, one that Brude vaguely recognised as being from the eastern parts of the empire.

“I wish to go north,” Brude replied calmly, making sure that the man could see he was holding no weapon, but also that he had a sword at his right hip.

“North? Across the Wall?”

“That’s ”

“You need special permission for that,” the guard told him. The man studied Brude carefully. Brude was dressed in long woollen trousers and a linen shirt with a woollen topcoat and cloak. The clothes looked more British than Roman but were of good quality, if slightly worn. On his feet he had soft leather undershoes and old army sandals with thick soles and hobnails. His hair was straggly, in need of cutting, but was styled in the Roman fashion, not the long hair of a native Briton. The gladius slung at his right hip suggested he was an ex-soldier while the heavily laden mule was typical of a trader.

To Brude’s amusement, the guard showed some confusion at the mixed messages of his appearance. Keeping his voice even, he asked, “So who do I need to see to get permission?”

The guard turned, walking back through the gate to have a brief discussion with the centurion who shot Brude a dark look. The two of them came back, watched by the other guards who looked as though they were anticipating some fun at Brude’s expense.

The centurion was a grizzled veteran in his forties. He carried the vine staff indicating his rank with the easy nonchalance of many years’ service. When he spoke he did not have the same accent as the guard. Brude reckoned the man was probably a time-served legionary ranker who had been promoted to a command in the auxiliaries. The centurions were the backbone of the Roman army and Brude knew nobody attained that rank without being a very competent, and very tough, soldier. “You want to go north?” the centurion asked.

“That’s right, Centurion.” Brude let him know he knew his status.

“Not many people are allowed to pass through the Wall these days,” the centurion said in his gravelly voice. Brude recognised the tone of someone sensing an opportunity for a bribe. “What’s your name and what’s your purpose?” the centurion wanted to know.

“Marcus Septimius Brutus, freedman in the service of Gnaeus Vipsanius Aquila. I have goods to trade and my employer wants some examples of native art for his collection.” It was a poor lie, and Brude knew it, but it was better than telling the truth.

The centurion eyed him warily. Brude had announced he was a freedman, an ex-slave. Using the
nomen
Septimius meant that he had probably been given his freedom by decree of the emperor, whose family name that was. Brude could practically see the thoughts going through the centurion’s mind. He also recognised that the centurion was canny enough to know that Brude could have traded his goods for trinkets and artefacts from any number of British tribes south of the Wall and passed them off as pieces from beyond the borders of the empire. The centurion decided to try another tack. “Do you know why this Wall is here?” he asked, giving a slight backward jerk of his head to indicate the great barrier behind him.

Brude decided to let the centurion have his say. “To guard the frontier?”

The centurion barked what obviously passed for a laugh. “To guard the frontier? Oh no, my lad! We don’t have enough men to stop an army crossing it if they want to, and anyone in a boat can sail or row round the ends of the Wall any time they like. The imperial fleet’s supposed to stop them doing that of course, but they’re usually as much use as a eunuch in a brothel, if you take my meaning.” He shook his head as if exasperated at Brude’s ignorance. Brude grinned at the weak joke. “No, the Wall is here to stop people going north in case they are supplying weapons or money to the enemies of
Rome
, or planning some sort of rebellion.” He held Brude’s gaze. “You’re not planning some sort of rebellion, are you, laddie?”

“I’m a Roman citizen,” answered Brude, holding the centurion’s gaze firmly.

Brude’s expression let the centurion know that he would not be intimidated easily. The centurion nodded thoughtfully. “Search the baggage!” he snapped to the guards. He watched as two of the soldiers laid down their shields and javelins then began unstrapping the bags and packs from the mule. Brude made no protest but watched as they laid out the assortment of pots, cooking utensils, cloths, brooches, beads and rings that made up his stock, scattering them across the roadway while the centurion studied him as much as the baggage. One of the men found the small pouch of copper and silver coins that Brude had carefully stashed at the bottom of one of the sacks. The soldier tossed it to the centurion who caught it deftly, untied the drawstring and tipped out some of the coins into his palm. He raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“My emergency stash,” explained Brude.

“That all you’ve got?”

“If you can find any more, you can keep it,” Brude told him in a tone which he hoped conveyed that the small bag contained all his wealth. He was about to suggest that the centurion might want to keep the money in exchange for letting him pass but one of the soldiers unpacking his bedroll gave an exclamation of surprise.

“What is it?” the centurion demanded.

The man pulled out a short, wooden sword that had been wrapped in Brude’s blanket, together with a small leather package. He handed them over to the centurion.

The centurion hefted the wooden sword, feeling its weight. When he looked at Brude there was some respect in his eyes. “Is this what I think it is?”

Brude nodded. “Given to me by the emperor himself.”

“And this?” He indicated the small leather case.