The Boat of Fate (34 page)

Rutupiae itself was congested with traffic, craft of all types tied up at the long stone jetties. We nosed our way eventually to a vacant berth; ropes were thrown and secured, gangplanks slung ashore. The sickness had passed, but I was still glad to set foot on firm ground again. I found the port in even worse turmoil than Gesoriacum. The narrow quay, backed by a line of dilapidated warehouses, was piled with produce, kegs and wine-jars, crates and boxes, barrels of oysters, balks of timber; even a cage containing a live bear. Everywhere the place was crowded with people. Some milled aimlessly; others, new arrivals it seemed, staggered along bent double under the weight of enormous packs. There were carts filled with children, women, poultry, geese, goats; all cackled, brayed, honked or yelped according to their natures, while underfoot were the inevitable scores of dogs. Port officials, bellowing themselves hoarse in attempts to instil some sort of order, merely succeeded in adding to the uproar. It was as if an entire town had uprooted itself and migrated for no apparent reason to the docks. I stared round confusedly. The Province, quite certainly, had gone raving mad overnight.

A tug at my sleeve made me turn. The lad who had elbowed his way through the crush was tall and well made. Brown curling hair framed a handsome, straight-nosed face; he was dressed, smartly enough, in the uniform of a military Tribune. He saluted, clicking his heels and grinning broadly. ‘Sextus Valerius Nuadarius,’ he shouted over the din. ‘Office of the Vicarius. Welcome to Britannia, sir. . . .’

My arrival had been anticipated, then; though how the news had reached ahead of me I had no idea. I introduced myself, formally. ‘Who’s the senior officer here, Tribune?’ I asked him. ‘I need remounts urgently; I have despatches for the Dux Britanniarum, the Comes and your own office.’

‘That’ll be the harbourmaster,’ he said. ‘He’s expecting you too, sir. If you’ll follow me . . .’

I glanced behind me. Riconus and his men had succeeded, by main force, in clearing a space for themselves; the first dozen horses were already ashore. I could be of no help there; I followed Valerius, already shouldering a path back through the mob.

The office of the Port Praefect occupied the upper floor of a dingy building overlooking the wharves. A narrow stairway led to it; the Tribune tapped at a door, opened it and ushered me ahead. ‘The Praefect Julius Constantius,’ he said, rapping the words out like a German on parade. ‘The Palatine Praefect Caius Sergius Paullus ...
sir!
’ He left the room with another rattling of heels, closing the door behind him.

The man who rose from the desk was middle-aged and prematurely lined, with grizzled iron-grey hair cropped close to the skull. ‘Welcome, Praefect,’ he said tiredly. ‘Welcome to Britannia, come and take a seat. Had a good crossing?’

I told him the trip had been excellent apart from the storm. He laughed at that. ‘Young Valerius was at Dubris,’ he said. ‘He nearly broke his neck getting here ahead of you. Baienius’--raising his voice--‘bring me in some wine. Man in here with a raging thirst.’

He looked, and sounded, half drunk already.

‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said. ‘Bloody thing to come in to. Been at the office since yesterday morning. Tried to sort some sense out of it. What’s it looking like in Gaul?’

I didn’t feel like wasting half the morning in talk. I told him briefly that troop movements were taking place eastward and added a request for remounts, as I had to be in Augusta without delay.

‘Yes, those despatches,’ he said. ‘What’s in ’em that needs so much hurry?’ A stout, unkempt-looking man waddled from an inner room, carrying a bowl and wine-cups. Constantius filled one, shoved it across to me. I told him, stiffly, that I had no idea what orders I was carrying, but he merely shrugged. ‘Have it your own way,’ he said. ‘I can guess, anyway. If they’re what I think you’ve had a wasted trip. Legio II has already marched.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Augusta? What’s going on, has there been a rebellion? Who are those folk on the quay, refugees?’

He shook his head slowly, no expression on his face. Then he rose to stand staring down through the one small window of the place. The noise of the mob reached up faintly to the room. ‘Where are your eyes, Praefect?’ he asked eventually.
‘That is Augusta . . .’

The road to Londinium was straight, featureless and dull. The first day’s stage took us as far as Durovernum; there we met another fragment of the errant Legion, and turned aside for the night. Next morning brought a soaking, penetrating drizzle. Grey clouds rolled low overhead; flat saltings lay to our right, on our left was higher ground set with chequer patterns of square green fields. A chilling wind droned in from the marshes. The Celts rode for the most part in dejected silence; only Riconus remained enthusiastic. ‘This is good land,’ he said, time and again. ‘Good soil. A man could raise good crops here. . . .’

What villages we passed looked ramshackle and untidy, collections of circular, conical-roofed huts surrounded by more or less strongly built palisades of pointed stakes. Valerius, riding at my elbow, indicated one such settlement scornfully. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Degenerates, all of them. They’ll be scratching the ground with pointed sticks next. Name of the Gods . . .’

I glanced at him curiously. His dark hair was plastered to his skull, his cloak and leggings soaked, but like Riconus his spirits seemed unaffected by the downpour. I said, ‘You’re not a Christian, Tribune?’

‘What, me?’ he said scornfully. ‘No fear, sir. My parents worshipped Jupiter and Fortune, like honest Romans. I follow Nodens, the Great Hunter.’

I hadn’t heard of his godling. I forbore to say so; and he prattled on unconcerned. ‘It’s high time we had a real soldier to sort things out,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so. Have you ever met the Emperor, sir?’

‘No,’ I said drily. ‘I haven’t had that pleasure.’

‘But you know Stilicho, of course. I think he’s a great man. He did a lot for the country while he was here. I expect you’ve been to Rome, sir?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’ve been to Rome.’

‘I shall make the trip one day,’ he said. ‘It’s my greatest ambition. But I feel my first duty’s to Britannia. The Province is in a mess, and it’s going to get worse. There isn’t a decent officer between here and the Wall, except yourself, sir. . . .’

‘Tribune,’ I said, ‘if you intend to become a good officer yourself, there’s one lesson you’ll take to heart right now. To keep a still tongue, particularly when it comes to your superiors.’

His face fell. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Very sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.’ He reined back, riding a pace or so behind me; but he looked so woebegone I soon called him forward once more. ‘Tell me about these officers,’ I said. ‘But carefully. Carefully . . .’

He swallowed, and considered. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘the Count is a bar--a German, sir. Burgundian. He disposes infantry and cavalry, German and Hispanian, and some foederati. Forts at Portus Adurni, Dubris, Regulbium ....’ He reeled off a string of names, stretching as far as I could make out from the Sea of Vectis halfway to the Wall. ‘He’s a . . . competent soldier by all reports sir,’ he said. ‘But his men are thin on the ground already. What’s going to happen if . . .?’ He stopped, hastily; and I raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Carry on, Tribune,’ I said. ‘The entire Province already seems to have made up its mind what despatches we’re carrying. You’re not alone.’

‘No, sir,’ he said. ‘Thank you, sir. Well, if... troops were to be withdrawn it would make things almost impossible. We’d be relying on the Fleet, which is stationed at Bononia. It can’t be everywhere.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose it can.’ I tried to draw my cloak tighter, to check the water trickling down inside my tunic. ‘What about your Dux Britanniarum?’ I asked. ‘What sort of man is he?’

He hesitated again. ‘He’s a Tammonius, sir, from Calleva. They’re a very old British family. He’s--they say he’s a good administrator, sir. Very popular with his men. They even call him Duke Marcus.’

I said curtly, ‘But you don’t think much of him as a soldier.’

He said, ‘That’s what’s said about him, sir.’

‘I see. And what is his exact command?’

‘Oh, the north. Britannia Secunda and Valentia. Main forts at Eburacum, Luguvalium. And the Wall Forts of course ....’ He treated me to another demonstration of his retentive memory. Loquacious he might be, but extremely well informed. Privately, I was pleased; what he had told me corresponded almost exactly with what I had learned from Stilicho. ‘I see,’ I said when he had finished. ‘Well, you make Britannia sound as hollow as a nut. How do the towns of the south and west get by? What forces do they have?’

‘They do the best they can,’ he said slowly. ‘They can most of them raise limitanei, of course, at a pinch. You get a few detachments of regulars at Imperial posting stations, places like that. But most of them spend more time on their allotments than drilling, sir. You’ll see that for yourself soon enough.’ He glanced at me sidelong, pulling at his lip with his teeth. ‘I’d like to transfer to your command, sir,’ he said. ‘If you’d . . . would you consider it?’

I stared at him. ‘I have no command, Tribune,’ I said. ‘I have the men you see behind us, that is all. I’m merely a messenger.’

He drew himself up in the saddle. ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said stiffly. ‘You’re a Palatine officer. I’d like you to consider my request as formal, if you’ll have me. I’ll submit it in writing next time we stop. You’ll need somebody who knows the country, sir. . . .’

We halted for the night at Durobrivae, stabling the horses alongside those of the small standing garrison. The room Valerius found for me was comfortable, but I lay and tossed restlessly, unable to sleep. Mine of military intelligence though he was, there was one thing the Tribune hadn’t been able to tell me: exactly what was happening at Rutupiae. I was over the initial shock of seeing British troops; Stilicho had, after all, warned me the Legions of the Province had been down-graded, I might have expected what I found. But with Londinium barely over the horizon the problem still remained; what were the remnants of the Second doing at the port? A military detachment had been posted to the coast as part of the overall scheme for strengthening the eastern seaboard, that much I already knew. Why had they moved? On whose orders had they marched? Certainly not the orders of the Magister Militum, the sealed packages still lay beside my couch. I turned over irritably. There was one conclusion left, and that as plain as day: it was just that I didn’t want to face it.

I’d left a lamp burning. I rose and mixed myself some wine. At least I’d avoided major involvement; I’d shown Rutupiae a clean pair of heels. My duty seemed plain: to deliver the despatches, and wait developments. For the present, I could do no more.

A faint sound at the door made me turn. I frowned, then walked silently to where I had left my swordbelt. I crossed to the door, gripped the catch and pulled. Valerius tumbled backwards across the threshold, sat up looking alarmed. He’d been keeping vigil outside the room, a drawn sword on his knees. ‘Well, Tribune,’ I said when he had risen to his feet. ‘It seems neither of us can sleep tonight. So you’d better join me with a glass of wine.’ I lit another lamp, picked up my tunic from where I had hung it across a chair. ‘Valerius,’ I said, when he was seated, ‘tell me one thing. Who runs this Province?’

He licked his lips. ‘Marcus Tammonius Vitalis,’ he said finally.

‘And?’

‘Sir?’

‘You were going to say something else. Out with it, man …’

‘He’s a merchant,’ he said unwillingly. And that, for the moment, was all I could get out of him.

Dawn brought at least one reprieve. The rain had stopped. We were on the road early. It descended steadily now, dropping into the great valley of the Tamesis. Marshes still stretched to our right; in the distance was the steely glint of the estuary. The wind blew keen from the sea, lifting our cloaks and the manes of the horses. We made good progress; it was mid-morning before Valerius, riding as usual on my left, stiffened and stared ahead, checking his horse. A moment later I saw the riders too; the vanguard, it seemed, of a considerable column, heading towards us down the long straight way. We cantered to meet it; before long we were close enough to make out the insignia carried at its head. ‘German horse,’ said Valerius excitedly. ‘Hispanian horse and foot. . . .’ Then, suddenly, ‘Legionary Standards ... Sir! Sir I It’s the whole Army of the North!

‘Riconus,’ I shouted. ‘Get your men off the road. Tribune, find their commanding officer. If it’s Tammonius, tell him we’re carrying urgent despatches from the Magister Militum. Look lively, man …’

The ponderous column, its tail still a mile away in Vagniacae, was halted. All along the high-shouldered road the clusters of legionaries and cavalry, the drivers of the carts and baggage waggons, lounged or squatted at ease. A pavilion had been hastily erected, on level ground at the foot of the mound; a gaudy, fragile thing replete with banners of silk. Outside it, grounded in the turf, were the Standards of the Commander-in-Chief. Inside, Tammonius Vitalis faced me across a trestle table, Stilicho’s despatches in his hand.

He was a slightly built, dark-haired man with dark, worried-looking eyes. He wore the uniform of a Legionary commander. His helmet he had placed beside him on the table; his cloak had been slung carelessly to one side. He read swiftly, scanning the lines to the signature; I watched the furrows forming over the bridge of his nose. Finally he flung the thing down. He said, ‘I can’t do it. He can’t ask this of us. Not this as well.’

I stood silently to attention. He hadn’t asked me to sit.

He said, ‘I can’t do it, I tell you. I can’t.’

I said, ‘I’m merely a courier, sir. I’m sorry to bring bad news.’

He said, ‘Damn it, will you listen?’ He had a smooth, nearly boyish face; at first I’d thought him younger than myself, till I saw the peppering of white at his temples. Now he looked hunted. ‘There are ten thousand blood-drinking savages beyond the Wall,’ he said, ‘poised to sweep through the Province with fire and sword. In the west, Hivemia is armed from one end to the other. Niall of the Nine Hostages has ravaged the coasts nearly to Vectis, there are Scoti on the mainland beyond the Sabrina. The Eastern Sea is thick with Saxon war boats. Now we are to give our troops to Rome.’ He reached shakily for a goblet, scooped himself up some wine. ‘This Magister Militum, this Stilicho,’ he said. ‘Who is he but a barbarian? Why did he come to Britannia? He spied on us. He sounded us, and found us rich. Now he’s sold us. To his friends across the Rhine.’