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A Roman Story - Marcus Vinicius
Spatula - Chapter II
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Marcus's decision about Salinae had indeed been wise. Next day, before dawn, the men were as busy as they had been with the bridge, their energy attesting to the magic of a good rest. Moving among them, conferring with Currerus and Firmus - and, yet again, admiring the bridge at Vectis's behest - he found his thoughts turning to his Governor, Ostorius Scapula. Under his command, the main force of the XX Legion were fighting deep in Cambria. On his arrival in Britannia, Marcus had himself spent time there, in the campaign against the North Cambrian Deceangli. A hard and exhausting campaign it had been, too. Indeed, it would have gone swiftly and decisively in Rome's favour. But another tribe - the Brigantes, in North Anglia - decided, through revolt, to show an errant disregard for the Empire. Their decision was sheer treachery: the Brigantes were among the first of Rome's client tribes in Britannia. By this time Scapula was a few paltry leagues from the Hibernian Sea, with Marcus not far behind him. But what could the Governor do now, except wheel to the north and settle the hash of the ungrateful Brigantes? Marcus was all set to follow him into the plains beyond Cambria; but Scapula had ordered him to Glevum, to help oversee the build-up of Roman troops in the border region. Since then, of course, Scapula had returned to Cambria, leaving the Brigantes suitably chastened behind him. Now, through a series of major campaigns, he was looking to draw Chief Caratacus into a direct confrontation. Marcus knew that it was his retreat to Glevum (as he termed it) which had given his thoughts their unusually melancholy shade. He had felt sidelined. He would have loved more than anything to wade into the Brigantes - either that or finish off the Deceangli. But he had made the most of Glevum, finally convincing himself that what he was doing there was every bit as important (and dangerous) as the Cambrian campaign. Then this business of Vertis and Salinae had come up, and he had felt sidelined all over again. Credit where it was due, though: a runner had brought a message from Scapula on their first day by the river: 'Never forget the details, Tribune,' it had read. 'The bridge and Salinae may seem like small fish to you. But these are still early days in Britannia. How do we know which parts of the land will be the big fish, ultimately? One of them may be the place where you ford that river. Remember, Marcus, it's the small triumphs that usher in the grand ones. And we must control the salt in these islands, wherever it may be.' Marcus had read the message several times. It didn't sound like flannel: he knew that Ostorius was well disposed towards him. Still, if his father wanted a good politician to come back and shake up the Senate, Ostorius was the man. Eloquence itself, he was; if the worst came to the worst in Cambria, he'd no doubt sit Caratacus down and talk him to death. He was a fine leader, though. And, in one important sense, he and Marcus were on the same kind of adventure. They both had their eye to the mineral riches of the land. There was more than a rumour that Wales had gold seams, at Dolauchothi and perhaps elsewhere. Ostorius was not one for dismissing rumours out of hand. In fact, he seemed to have a cohort's worth of engineers with him. With Caratacus disposed of, they could start mining. Marcus smiled wryly; that was one signal difference, he supposed, between a Governor and a callow Tribune: Scapula was allowed to tease out the luxuries of the earth; he himself had to provide muscle at a salt-mine. But he was only twenty-six, years younger than the Governor. His gold-prospecting days would surely come. And Ostorius surely deserved any good fortune that came his way (alongside the conquest of Caratacus): the messenger had also implied that the Governor's present health was not of the best. 'Ready when you are, Tribune.' Marcus was startled for a second to find Firmus at his side. Offering a brief prayer to the gods for the Governor's well-being, he turned again to the business in hand. 'I've picked a goodly team to guard the shop here,' the centurion continued. 'They've got enough supplies, and they don't mind roughing it.' 'How much roughing will they take?' asked Marcus. 'Well, sir, they've got tents, of course. But Currerus has been looking about; he tells me there are defensive circuits here and there. Iron Age efforts. One of Vectis's main sappers is in the crew. They could find a strategic section, dig in, make themselves--well, not snug, exactly . . . .' 'But safe? Good scheme, centurion. But I don't want them exhausting themselves altogether. And they'll be relieved soon enough.' Firmus saluted and went to pass on Marcus's words to the contingent. A short while later, the rest of the cohort, flanked by the cavalry, were on the road to Salinae. Marcus couldn't help turning again and again to view the hills, which were just retrieving their colour and form from the night: 'You'll see them again, sir,' said Vectis, who had ridden up beside him. 'We can probably see them from Salinae.' The thought cheered the Tribune; and it seemed to him, as they rode on, that the warmth and light of Cremona were gathering around them. To their relief, the men found that conditions at the salt-mines were no worse than the scouts had reported. Evidence of marauding activity was clear enough. The small Roman force stationed there had been surprised by the Silurian visitors--but not injured. As for the theft of the salt--well, thought Marcus, they would have to live with that. 'They've taken implements, too, sir,' said Currerus, joining Marcus and Vectis as they inspected the mine. 'Brine pans and such. The gods alone know how they managed that.' Vectis stroked his chin: 'Don't tell me there's a secret saltworks in their neck of the woods.' 'Don't tell me,' said Currerus, 'that they're planning on taking over Salinae.' 'We can't let them,' responded Marcus abruptly. More and more it was dawning on him how crucial this commission was. 'Control of the salt-mines is an imperial priority. I should give the soldiers already here a dressing-down. But it's hardly their fault that they were left as a weak link.' Vectis licked his lips: already plans for a state-of-the-Empire fort were taking shape in his mind. Nothing flashy, of course, but compact, solid, impregnable. His rich imagination saw his hand being warmly shaken by the Emperor himself, on a special visit to Britannia to inspect the Vectis fort and garrison range, the toast of imperial engineers worldwide. Marcus watched him closely; he knew the engineer of old. 'We must talk tonight, Vectis,' he said, knowing even then that he himself would doubtless do little of the talking. Then he hailed Firmus and ordered him to make camp. By the time the Marcus and Vectis met that evening, the engineer's plans were well advanced--impressive, too, despite his own tentative descriptions: 'Well, they don't look provisional to me,' said Marcus, surveying the sheets. 'Classic design, sensible access and link routes--I'd say its occupants would have little to complain of.' 'Most appreciated, Tribune,' said Vectis; Marcus returned his smile: 'Perhaps I should turn engineer myself,' he added. 'You could do worse, sir. The sapper, the engineer, the builder--they're the ones who've put Rome's mark on other lands. In fact, it's always struck me--' But Marcus, sensing one of Vectis's enthusiastic digressions on the horizon, tapped a corner of one sheet: 'Garrison numbers. That's the next thing to address. Determinant of fort size.' 'Indeed, sir--that's what I meant when I said the plans were provisional.' 'Of course, Vectis. I'll have to consult with Firmus about all that.' Vectis pressed the tips of his fingers together, making a sloped roof of his hands: a familiar gesture, indicating that he was about to seek pardon for overstepping some mark: 'I took the liberty, Tribune, of speaking with him earlier,' he began. I'll bet he loved that, thought Marcus; but he assumed his best tribunal air--mixed with a little amusement--and said, 'What was our good centurion's response?' But it was some time before he was able learn it. First, the engineer had to expound at exhaustive length on all the factors requiring consideration. Marcus knew when he was beaten. He let the engineer have his head, while silently acknowledging that he couldn't have bettered the list himself. Outside the tent, darkness erased all colour, while throwing the moonscape of the mines into eerie relief. Over the following months, the detachment based themselves at Salinae. And Marcus did become an engineer, after a fashion. He pored over Vectis's plans for the Salinae fort, as well as his sketches for smaller-scale building work back at Vertis. Occasionally, he would proffer some advice about dimensions or the location of specific facilities. Vectis would listen, but insisted that Marcus sketch them out before he mulled them over. His insistence was, at heart, good-natured; even so, the craftsman in him felt thwarted by the Tribune's decision not to build a fort at Vertis. 'Vectis, Salinae is our main focus,' Marcus pointed out. 'We'll keep a presence in Vertis, of course. I didn't watch that bridge being built--that fine bridge--just to let it go warped and splintered. There'll be military traffic between here and Glevum--supplies coming in to us, salt going out for whoever orders it, this and that in each direction. And anyway'--he sought in his mind for Ostorius's words-- 'these are still early days in Britannia. How do we know which parts of the land will be the big fish, ultimately?' The engineer raised his head from the designs and stared ahead, brow furrowed, the image of bewilderment. 'No, what I mean is,' said Marcus, 'we need the Salinae fort now. But who knows what we'll need at Vertis . . . .' His voice trailed off: Ostorius's words obviously lent themselves to all situations; his own ineptitude was the problem. Where on earth had his father got the idea that he could be a Senate orator? 'What we'll need at Vertis then?' completed Vectis, gamely willing to make sense of what he was hearing. 'Yes, then--whenever then is. Meantime, of course, we can't have the men down there loafing about in tents or ad hoc redoubts, can we? So these'--and Marcus tapped the sketches for the Vertis buildings-- 'can become your river fort, if you like. For now.' Vectis eyed him steadily: 'Small fish waiting for the big fish, you mean.' Marcus clouted him with a sheet of plans for the Salinae toilet block. Whatever the engineer truly felt about Marcus's decision--and the lost chance to turn Vertis into a military marvel--no resentment coloured his work on the fort at Salinae. It was agreed that it should be cohort-sized, with an extension on the sleeping quarters to accommodate forces passing through between larger forts. As it took shape, it did indeed prove to be all that Marcus had detected in Vectis's drawings. But though it was compact, it bore the Vectis hallmark: walking round the site as it acquired buildings, short streets and a snug villa, Marcus sensed that it was pretending to be twice its size. He and Currerus also accompanied the engineer back to Vertis, where plans for a small military enclave went similarly forward. Vectis inspected a number of sites near the new bridge, under the watchful--and grateful--eyes of the latest contingent to be posted there. He was drawn in particular to an small, abandoned Dobunnic settlement, about third of a league from the soldiers' temporary dug-out and rather woebegone tent: 'Well, we can put something here,' he said. 'Makes strategic sense . . . .' Marcus could tell that something else was pressing on his mind. 'Honestly!' he exploded all of a sudden. 'Look at the state of it!' And he gestured at the flimsy, ruinous buildings around him. 'How can these folk expect us to take them seriously?' Currerus frowned: 'Nobody lives here, Vectis. Did you think some vagrant household gods were going to keep them in shape?' 'Not the point, not the point,' muttered Vectis, striding about and batting his hand at tufts of thatch. 'How d'you think a deserted fort would look when it had been empty for a year?' enquired Marcus with mock sobriety. Vectis wheeled round and faced him squarely: 'A deserted fort?' He drew the words out slowly, as if to point up the insanity of yoking them together. 'Do you like dallying with treason, Tribune?' 'Well,' Currerus cut in quickly, rising to the jokery in the air, 'Canabac takes us seriously--' 'Canabacus, Scout. Let's keep it Roman,' said Vectis, drawing himself up in a manner which made the other two burst out laughing. 'Whatever name you wish to give him,' continued Currerus, wiping his eyes, 'he deals fairly with us, and this is his birthplace.' 'Indeed he does,' said Marcus; against his native inclinations, he was developing respect for the tribal chief. 'It can't be easy for him being leader in some eyes, traitor in others.' 'I'm sure I agree, Tribune. But if the noble Canabacus had insisted on half decent constructions around and about him . . . .' He broke off and waved a hand at the sorry huddle of roofs. 'I mean, we could have done something with these if they'd got anything to offer. What the feckless builder never realizes--and mark me! this is the whole world over!--is that in order . . . .' 'Actually, they look fine to me,' Currerus broke in cheerily. Vectis made as if to faint: 'Amateurs! My life is plagued with amateurs! Now, listen--your sub-average builder never realises that the character of any house, humble or grand, lies in the unique---'. Unlike at Salinae, Marcus was relieved of the need to silence his digressing engineer. A cavalryman from Salinae came crashing into their midst. News from Ostorius Scapula and the Cambrian Front. End of Chapter II |
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| Part I | ||||||||||||
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| Part II | ||||||||||||
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| Part III | ||||||||||||
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For
more information on Roman Worcester..
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Archaeology in Worcester
1997/99 |
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Archaeology in Worcester
2000/01 |
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