Gods in Londinium, page 14
… Daga the father, Danu the mother, Cernunnos the child …
… all the women believe; all have the three marks …
… the marks were made by a holy man …
… a man with tattoos …
… in the villages …
… everywhere …”
The other three auxiliaries said much the same, though I could speak Latin with them. Then, after some hours, when we were done with them, I asked for wine and cakes, but the optio brought beer and cold meat pies, which is all they had with the camp on high alert. So we made do – at least, the bodyguards did, and sat cheerfully munching and drinking, but politely separate from Morganus and myself.
“It is as we thought,” I said. “It comes from their women.”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s in the villages, everywhere. It must be widespread.”
“I don’t like the sound of holy men,” he said. “Tattooed men?”
“Druids!” I said. “So what will you do with these auxiliaries?”
“Well,” he said, “archers are scarce, they’ve done nothing that was forbidden, and we Romans think that honouring the gods is a private matter – apart from following druids, of course. But from now on, anyone found with the three dots will be flogged and expelled from the army in disgrace. And those four with dots can go to the surgeons and have them removed, and serve ’em right!”
Finally I spoke to the boy, or rather Morganus did, because the boy spoke only a Gaulish Celtic dialect which was difficult even for Morganus. The boy looked about ten or twelve, his name was Garos, he was barefoot, scrawny, exceedingly dirty, and his eyes flicked from one to another of us. He gaped in awe at the gleaming armour of the bodyguards and Morganus, and he picked his nose and ate the fruit, most disgustingly, until Morganus shouted at him to stop.
“The shipmaster was his uncle,” said Morganus, after the boy had chattered at him in Celtic. “He was taken to sea after he’d begged his father, and the father asked the uncle.”
The boy chattered again, whining and pleading. “And now he wants to be set free,” said Morganus, “so he can go to sea again.” Morganus looked at me. “I think he’s younger that he looks. He’s childish, and he doesn’t properly understand what’s happened.”
But then the boy surprised us, as I took his left hand to search for spots under the dirt, dipping a corner of my cloak into a beer pot, then wiping hard, but finding nothing. He realised what I was doing and let out another long chatter.
“Oh?” said Morganus, “That’s interesting! He says he’ll get the sacred marks as soon as he is back home, because he’ll soon be thirteen and a man. And …” Morganus struggled with translation, “he says the fort? Camp? Town? I don’t quite know the word. He says it’s in Gaul, and it is the birth mother? Womb? Something female.”
He leaned forward and shook the boy by the shoulder and asked more questions. Then he turned to me. “This could be important, Greek,” he said. “I think he’s saying that the headquarters of this new faith, the place where it started, with the hooded figures and the three gods, it’s in Gaul, and he knows where it is.”
That was the beginning of a long series of questions, asked by me of the boy Garos, with Morganus translating as best he could, and both of us straining to keep Garos’s mind on the subject in hand, from which he constantly wandered. We persevered until Garos got tired, and either could not, or would not, answer any more – not even when Morganus waved his vine-staff as a threat. Eventually, my judgement was that he had only a small memory, and that memory was now empty. So we gave up. But we took him out of the lock-up and gave him to the bodyguards to look after.
“Get him cleaned up,” said Morganus, “and don’t let him run. We’re going to need him.”
*
Later, in Morganus’s house, we sat in the lamplight with some wine and discussed what we had learned from Garos.
“He’s a Gaul, and he comes from Ambianum on the river Somme,” said Morganus. “That’s about ninety miles south of our Gaulish naval base at Gesoriacum.”
“Can we get there?” I asked.
“To Gesoriacum, yes,” he said. “Ships go there all the time, from Britannia’s naval base at Dubris.” He took a sip of wine. “What do you think of the rest of it? Did he make sense?”
“Yes,” I said, “within his limits. He says it is a women’s religion that they pass to the men. He says that holy men make the three marks, and they bless the triple images. He says everyone knows where the holy men come from, and he says he can find it: this fort, house, place? Whatever it is.”
“What about druids?” said Morganus, “Was he hiding anything? What did you see inside his mind? I was too tired to argue what I could, and could not see. So I merely answered.
“He knows nothing about druids,” I said, “not as such. But he was frightened of the man with tattoos.”
“The one who killed Aethius?”
“Yes. Garos was frightened of him. He said that he was old power.”
“Old power?” said Morganus, “Blephyrix talked about old power!”
“I know,” I said. “It’s very confusing. All mixed up. But I’m tired and it’s late.”
“We’ll have to tell all this to Petros and the legate,” he said. “In the morning.”
So we did.
CHAPTER 15
The headquarters of the Twentieth Legion’s fort was its principia. It was strongly built in heavy Roman architecture, because Romans lack imagination to build any other way. So the principia stood within high walls, centred on a massive, multi-storey block, and was approached through a fortified gatehouse, beneath a statue of the emperor with the letters LEG XX picked out in gold leaf beneath his imperial majesty’s feet.
On the evening of the day when Morganus and I interrogated Blephyrix, we were standing in the principia’s assembly hall, with the legate Africanus and his legionary officers, plus officers of cavalry and auxiliaries, each unit with its note-takers. Also there were liaison officers from the other Britannic legions, and every soldier present was in battlefield kit, not parade armour.
At sunset large, multi-flame lamps were lit by orderlies, then hoisted up on lines to enable work to continue into the night. Such was the urgency of the occasion, such was Roman efficiency in the face of a vital need for late work, that all present had already listened to a report from Morganus of our investigations.
“I thank you, Leonius Morganus Fortis Victrix,” said the legate Africanus, when Morganus was done. “The army is grateful to you, for all that you, in your diligence, have learned.”
He did not even mention me.
Then he went to a huge map of Britannia, which hung from hooks. The map showed towns and cities, roads and rivers, mountains and tribal areas, and icons representing formations of Roman troops. The icons were pinned to the map, so they could be moved as the troops moved. Also, the map showed the boundaries and capitals of the Celtic client kingdoms.
There were seven of these: semi-autonomous tribal states, ruled by their own laws under their own monarchs, each monarch living in a palace built to Roman standards of luxury. These kingdoms were encouraged by Rome, as a demonstration to the Celtic aristocracy of the excellent rewards for good behaviour, as opposed to the slaughter that would fall upon them if they rebelled. So the client kingdoms flourished, as long as they kept within strict borders and raised no armies. That was Rome’s policy for the tribes, and it had worked since Boudicca. But now things were changing. So Africanus took up a long white rod, and pointed to the map.
“We are here,” he said, “the Twentieth Legion, at Londinium with auxiliaries and cavalry.” The pointer moved high up the map. “The Fourteenth Legion, with cavalry and auxiliaries, is here by the city of Deva on the river Dee, which is ten days’ march from Londinium.” The pointer moved on. “Further north, the Second Legion is at Eboracum, six days’ march from Deva.”
He paused and looked around. “And so to Maligoterix,” he said, and there was angry murmuring. “Maligoterix,” said Africanus, “high druid of all Britannia, safely hidden for many years … here!” The white rod tapped the tribal kingdom of the Regni, forty miles south of Londinium. “We are informed,” he said, “credibly informed,” and he gave me the ghost of a glance, “that Maligoterix is at the centre of a new rebellion, based on new gods, and which represents deadly peril, since it could unite all the tribes against us.” He paused and looked around at us all. “I have, therefore,” he said, “with the approval of his grace the governor …”
“Gods bless his grace!” cried everyone.
“Gods bless him!” said Africanus. “With his grace’s approval I have applied direct to Rome for permission to enter the tribal kingdom of the Regni, to arrest Maligoterix.”
This brought a great thundering stamping of feet, and a bellow of cheers. Africanus raised his hand for silence. “Blessings upon your enthusiasm,” he said, “but be aware of the massive deployment of horse and foot, that shall be necessary to ensure Maligoterix does not escape, and be aware of the profound secrecy that will be needed in the deployment.”
There was even more stamping and cheering, but I could see that Africanus was less enthusiastic than his officers. He was an old soldier, aware of the risks, and he would bear responsibility of any failure.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “we are informed, that upstream of the machinations of Maligoterix, the home of the new gods is across the ocean in Gaul. We shall therefore send,” and this time he looked straight at me, “an investigator, to deal with that phenomenon: a person whose cunning mind, swims in the ocean of strange gods.”
I suppose that was praise, but it did not sound like it.
Africanus went on to give full details of his planned troop movements, then Morganus and I had a day and a night to prepare for a journey to Gaul. At dawn on the day of departure, the lady Morgana and her daughters brought out our luggage and food for the journey, and laid the bundles on the ground. Once again I was amazed to see Roman ladies do such servile work. But they did, in full view of the bodyguards, and a lightning carriage and driver waiting outside.
I noticed that the ship’s boy Garos, from Good Wife Carata, was sitting in the carriage. He was clean, in a new tunic and cloak, and seemed awe-struck by everything around him.
The first century, first cohort were paraded in Morganus’s honour, and they stamped to attention in a crash of arms as he and I emerged from the house. It was like everything Roman: it was formal, it was ceremonial, it was a parade, and the lady Morgana’s farewell to her husband was in accordance with Roman gravitas and dignitas.
“Gods be with you, O lord-my-husband,” she said, in a high clear voice. “Gods be with you as you go forth on your duties to Rome.” She bowed, her daughters bowed, and all of them stone-faced, because Romans absolutely do not show emotion in public.
“Gods be with you, O lady-my-wife,” said Morganus. “Gods be with this house, and with you and the children of our marriage.” He bowed in return, equally un-smiling.
Then, the Roman-ness of the occasion was spoiled, and it was Morgana’s fault as much as mine. She looked at me and, and once again I was her wayward son, and I could see her hands twitching to ensure my cloak was properly pinned. At least she did not do that. But she looked up at me, and blinked.
“You will take care,” she said, “won’t you? And you won’t act alone?” She looked to Morganus. “He will take care, won’t he?”
Then … I should not have said what I did. But I could not help myself, because I had been so lonely before I entered her house.
“I will take care,” I said, “O mother-of-my-sisters.” The result was floods of tears from Morgana and the girls, and enormous embarrassment for the onlookers.
So, later, as the high-speed carriage crossed a fort drawbridge, heading for the Great South Road, Morganus spoke to me. In fact he shouted at me, and the driver in front, the bodyguards behind us, had to pretend not to hear. At least the boy Garos could not understand.
“Well, that was a new one!” Morganus said, “I know you can’t guard your tongue in other ways, but that was new. What will everyone think? My lady weeping and wailing in front of the men? Can’t you act like a Roman? Just for once?”
“I’m not a gods-damned Roman,” I said, “I’m a gods-damned Greek.”
There would have been a considerable argument, but we heard a trumpet behind us. It blew in a distinct pattern.
“That’s the recall,” said Morganus, and he reached forward to clap the driver on the shoulder, but the driver was already reigning in and the lightning slid to a halt as a formation of richly-equipped cavalry galloped up, coming from the direction of Londinium.
“Governor’s guard horsemen,” said Morganus, “escorting Petros of Athens.”
The horsemen rode up, stopped and saluted Morganus, while Petros came alongside the carriage. He looked very worried. He had trouble controlling his horse, because horses feel the sentiments of their riders, and are disturbed by them.
“I have caught you,” he said – to me – then nodded to Morganus. “We must talk,” he said, beckoned one of the mounted guardsman, handed him his reins, and dismounted. I could not help but notice that did so very neatly: he swung out of the saddle like a horseman.
Then he beckoned again, this time to both me and Morganus. “Come! Come! Come!” he said and walked along the road, until our conversation could be heard by nobody else.
I was cold. As ever, the Britannic wind despised me and plucked at my garments.
“Well?” said Morganus. “What is it? It must be urgent if you’ve chased after us.”
But Petros looked at me. “I shall never know how you do it,” he said, “but this time – please do not do it!”
“Do what?” said Morganus, then realised. “Oh,” he said, “you mean …”
“Get inside my head!” said Petros. “Now listen, because I am going to trust you with a secret that could see all three of us on a charge of high treason. Do you understand?”
“It’s the druids,” I said. “You talk to them, don’t you?”
Morganus gasped. “Holy Mithras!” he said, and made the bull sign.
“You talk by pigeons,” I said, and Morganus shook his head in amazement. So I suppose it seems clever of me. But it was not. The matter was so secret that Petros would not speak in front of others, for fear of high treason – which could only mean being found out in the crime of talking to the druids, which was a capital offence. It could only be that because Petros fiercely respected Roman law in all other matters, while this particular matter revolved around the druids. As for pigeons, the druids had used them since ancient times to carry messages, and Petros had obviously received some message that was urgent and secret. So I made my guess – which is all that it was – and if perhaps I perhaps I makes such guesses instantly and without conscious thought, then I leave it to others to define the nature of my guessing.
So Morganus thought of magic. But Petros merely sighed.
“How stupid of me!” he said. “You can’t stop doing it, can you?”
“No,” I said, “I can’t.”
“Then to save you the effort of looking,” said Petros, “will you please concentrate on what I know, and now how I know it? Will you at least try to do that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“So,” he said, “Maligoterix is not necessarily our enemy.”
“What?” said Morganus. “He’s the high druid! Worst enemy of them all!”
“Please listen,” said Petros. “He opposes this new religion of the trinity.” He tapped his left hand with his right. “The three spots?” He raised a hand to his neck. “The three little figures in the pouch? Maligoterix hates all this. It is a rival to his power because it offers personal salvation without him and his druids.”
“So what?” said Morganus. “Let ’em fight it out, and bad luck on all of them!”
“No!” said Petros. “We cannot stand back. The legate Africanus is convinced Maligoterix must be arrested and executed. He has written to Rome seeking permission to break the treaty with the Regni kingdom, and he has persuaded everyone who matters in Britannia to counter-sign the letter: the lord justice, the procurator, the consuls of the provincial council.” He sighed. “And his grace the governor. Even I could not stop his grace from signing!”
“And so?” I said.
“Africanus will not move without approval from Rome,” said Petros, “so his letter will go by imperial post. It will take about a week to reach Rome, it will be addressed to the emperor but it will be opened by the bureaucracy, and it will take another week for them to make a decision.”
“A week?” I said. “As long as that?”
“Oh yes,” said Morganus. “You don’t know what they’re like.”
“Indeed,” said Petros. “An entire host of precious and political persons must be protected before taking such a decision. It will take at least a week.”
“At least,” said Morganus.
“Then another week,” said Petros, “for the reply to reach Africanus, then another week for Africanus to get his men in place.” Petros looked at me. “You therefore have about a month, to prove to Africanus that he must not arrest Maligoterix.”
“But why should we help Maligoterix?” said Morganus.
“So that he will defeat the trinity,” said Petros, “and restore the status quo, which was at least stable. Remember that Maligoterix could never raise all the tribes in simultaneous rebellion, but this new religion may do precisely that, to our very great peril indeed!”
“Wait, wait,” I said. “Petros? You said that I have a month to convince Africanus?”
“Yes.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“But how can I convince Africanus?” I said.
“Do you not know?” said Petros, genuinely puzzled.
“Know what?”
“That Africanus has the utmost respect for you. He believes that you have a gift of the gods: a gift of the very greatest value to Rome and the empire. He has the most profound respect for your opinions.” Petros made a small depreciative gesture. “Though of course he could not show it. That would be beneath his dignity.”
