Part III - Chapter XXIV - 'Northward to Glevum'

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

Abandoning their vineyards to Diplomus and his duplicitous kin, Marcus and the others begin their journey back to Vertis, with a view to beginning afresh in the region of Profluenae. They spend Saturnalia with the garrison at Glevum, where snow fills the air--along with happy omens and astonishing news.

I

'Chilly for the time of year'--such had been Vectis's words, the evening he and Marcus had strolled near their Belgic lodgings. If he'd tried, the engineer could never have come up with a sharper prophecy. The autumn of 74 offered no mildness. Ever after, Marcus and the others would maintain that the year had skipped autumn altogether. The weather hardened within a day of their departure. The cold pursued them across country, stinging their eyes. Their plan was to make for Glevum with all haste, sheltering there before pressing on to Vertis through the neighbouring Plain of Profluenae. Two days into their journey, however, the snows broke--no light smattering, either. Their progress slowed, then threatened to halt. The Romans bore the weather's caprices with stoicism and a few throat-clearing curses. After all, they'd had enough experience of hailstones in April, fogs in June. But Prunec, who should have been least surprised of all, took the harsh weather badly--even personally. It added to the fears besetting him on all sides--fears which often compelled him to try and make himself invisible by scuttling along in the thick of the group or huddling deep in the cart. Initially, the others tried joking him out of his strange anxiety. Gradually, however, they came to understand. The journey itself did not trouble them, for all that they found the thickening snows oppressive and even prayed to numerous gods for a benign glimpse of sun. After all, the Empire they'd served was in the business of travel. For Prunec, however, the tramp from the south to the middle regions was like an excursion from Carthage to Gaul. His life had differed vastly from theirs. No-one, he'd assured them, ever travelled more than half a day from his village.

So it was that spectres of terror haunted Prunec's mind, shaping themselves into likely catastrophes. Top of the list came Diplomus, who was almost certain to unfurl a tentacle across the miles, yanking Prunec back to a grisly, protracted fate. Then, too, he heard the others speak of odd-sounding tribes--the Dobunni, the Silures--and convinced himself that, scenting his strangeness, they would pay Marcus handsomely for the pleasure of killing him. Or his fellow-travellers, surrendering to old, Imperial habit, would torture him for a bit of warming sport. Prunec thought of prowling wolves; of baleful spirits hidden in trees; of doddery old men they might encounter, who would unmask themselves as wizards, their sights set on the Belgic gardener. Why, the very snow might turn into the talon of some fabulous bird, as long and curved as a bridge, skewering him, then spinning him towards his doom among the clouds. He was sure that, somehow, he would have to pay for escaping with these Romans.

Vectis spent long, serious hours reasoning with Prunec. Scapha advised keeping him drunk till they reached Glevum. Once, fuddled with drink himself, Firmus made a mock lunge at Prunec, whereupon the gardener shrieked and took off across the icy moorlands. The party lost a whole afternoon searching the snows for him. Finding him, they decided to act on Scapha's advice--apart from Vectis, who denounced Firmus as a poltroon (a newly acquired and now favourite word of his) and claimed that his own soothing counsel had almost won the man round. Centurion and engineer squared up to each other and would have come to blows. But Marcus intervened, reminding them that if they did not instantly press on to Glevum, the snow would do for them all.

More positively, the weather fixed their minds on Saturnalia--which, given their painful progress, was not such a distant prospect now. The party tried sustaining itself with thoughts of festivities at Glevum. 'I hope we shan't be disappointed,' said Currerus, plagued by uncharacteristic gloom: partly because the cold had awoken his old injuries, partly because, for Solatius and himself, the snow had put paid to explorations of wildlife. Marcus did his best to cheer them up. A hearty welcome, he said, surely awaited them at the fort--how could it be otherwise? But aside from such words, and occasional bouts of general chivvying, Marcus remained silent. A strange fascination held him. Here he was, leaving the land of the Belgae further behind with each step. For the second time, he was travelling through this land, unpredictable in its tribes and weather, without the Roman eagle shining over him. He and the others were just figures in a hard white landscape. Really, they were indistinguishable from the other figures they met--tending cattle, hauling wood, repairing walls and implements in the smoky settlements where the party took nightly shelter. Occasionally--then more frequently as they neared Glevum--they would encounter legionaries: sometimes a small detail, sometimes a cohort, doing the Empire's bidding in the teeth of wind and snow. Marcus would hail them--then realise that, without his marks of Imperial power, his greeting meant nothing and might even be taken for mockery. Rapidly he would declare who he was--or had been. Even then, the legionaries' response was lukewarm. After a few gruff pleasantries from the soldiers--and a general, unthinking wish for the Emperor Vespasian's continued health and good fortune--the party would take their leave, Marcus wondering whether he and the others had been silently branded as turncoats. He found himself waiting for Firmus to make more withering comments on civilian life, as he had in that furtive dawn when they'd abandoned their vineyards. But Firmus still felt responsible for slowing the party down when, through his clowning, they'd been forced to search high and low for Prunec. Now, he knew better than to speak or act without thought.

'So how far now, sir?' asked Scapha one biting morning. Marcus turned deferentially to Currerus, who, despite his aches and pains, was still their natural guide:

'About a day to Glevum, by my calculation,' said the scout. 'If we hold to our present pace, that is. We should certainly be there by the time the sun is--well, when tomorrow is as bright as it can get.'

His words lifted all spirits. Seasoned marchers the Romans might have been, but conditions were well beyond a joke. As the days passed, they had focussed purely on riding, trudging, sheltering and taking turns to ply Prunec with wine. Up to now, no-one had dared to ask Scapha's question, for fear that the answer might be as dismal as the skies. Besides, they had spent the previous night in a most forlorn settlement. But while Marcus would formerly have thought of the place's harshness alone, he now remembered the welcome they'd received and the childlike eagerness of the dwellers' questions. Where had they come from? Was it true that the Belgae used demons with long fangs to plough their fields? Had the soil been kind to their vines? As in all other villages along the way, Marcus and the others had not needed to declare their Imperial backgrounds. True, they would not have evaded the topic--but it simply hadn't arisen. Surely this was a crowning benefit of the civilian life they now led. At nightfall, before a merciful fire, dispensing cups of 'Alacer' to your hosts, you were accepted for the person you were.

This notion absorbed Marcus as the party pushed on. Now more than ever, he was aware of his individuality. He didn't regret his fighting days, but he was mightily glad to be something more than a symbol of punitive invasion. Of course, the settlements they'd stayed in thus far might have been wholly untouched by battle and rout. If so, their inhabitants would have no need to invoke the name of Rome, much less spit on it. Marcus smiled now, remembering how Diplomus had tried, slyly and improbably, to claim that the Imperial Eagle had made no lasting difference to his own tribe--as though the soldiers of Rome had been so many ghosts, running harmlessly through the Belgae and melting away. However savage their present journey had been, they'd at least met no-one who practised his purring guile.

As if reading his thoughts, Vectis now drew his horse alongside Marcus's and broached a subject which, like the distance to Glevum, had hitherto been left well alone:

'What d'you think the noble Diplomus will do with the land we worked?'

'Are you asking, Vectis, if he will now employ all our old workers and strive like a dog to produce the choicest wine in Britannia? I'd say that plan is well underway--and was ready before we left. And'--he raised his hand like an orator-- 'will he crown his efforts with gossip about a bunch of inept Romans who couldn't make a phial of vinegar?'

'That,' said Vectis, 'was most likely a staple of his talk from the moment we arrived. Despite our achievements.'

'Oh, because of them, Vectis, because of them. Still, Diplomus's kind can only make themselves truly happy at others' expense. And, of course, his choice wine will mean more revenue for him and his skulking kinfolk--not to mention more self-importance for that snivelling factotum of his.'

'A pity, though, that we couldn't bring all of the equipment with us.'

'Ah, but we have Prunec, Vectis--provided that he doesn't burst from all that 'Alacer' we're pouring into him. And equipment is replaceable.'

Vectis glanced back at the cart and saw, to his happy surprise, that the Belgic gardener was actually sitting up, chatting away with the others, pointing out the capers of a robin in a bush. Someone must have got through to him about Glevum: its proximity, the fact that it was a place of safety. He didn't look as though he'd need much more of his vinous medication. If he still had fears that death lurked in every snowflake, he appeared to be rising above them.

'Yes, he's a good worker, Marcus. An asset to us. Aside from which'--Vectis grinned-- 'I'm glad he let us filch him from under Diplomus's nose.'

Marcus chuckled at this: 'Yes, I second that. And I doubt that anyone will pounce on him where we're going. He'll be happy there. We all shall.' Slowly, he shook his head. 'Strange, you know: I can still remember how my heart sank all those years ago--the first time we rode to Canabac's Crossing?'

'Or Vertis, as we christened it,' said his co-rider in a mock-chiding tone. 'Gods above, Marcus, you're going well and truly native.'

'Well, I'm a civilian,' replied Marcus. 'Have been these three years. Surely I have a right to go as I please?'

'Surely so. As we all do, now. But what's this about your heart sinking?'

Marcus rubbed his brow, as though his memories were so many spots on the skin: 'Oh, at times--I can't really say why now--I found that whole area to the north of Glevum . . . well, too depressing for words.'

'Ah,' said Vectis, 'the Plain of Profluenae. Yes, I understand you: a mellifluous name but hardly a striking place. Certainly not majestic, as plains go. Hardly big enough to manage a proper roll.'

Marcus nodded: 'Still, after all we've been through, something tells me that we'll more at home around there than anywhere else in these islands.'

'And as I hinted during our stroll by those noble Belgic woods,' replied Vectis, 'something tells me that it'll yield just the right spot for us to resume our labours. I'll say it again--the climate's better than anything Diplomus could offer, even with all his influence.' Now he gave a rueful laugh. 'Would that it were by the sea, though. That's one thing I miss about Mona.'

'What? Not the copper?'

'Ah,' said Vectis slowly, and a dreamy look came into his eyes as he reviewed his days of planning and prospecting among the Druids.

'But there'll be rivers, Vectis,' said Marcus. 'We bridged one, don't forget. Plenty of them in the land of the Dobunni. Think of them as one sea all broken up. In fact, when we prosper, I shall engage Scapha to build me a handsome barge, so I can inspect our lands without tiring my horse or legs.'

Vectis laughed. The whole party laughed--at each other's jokes and yarns, however threadbare; at the prospect of a blazing fire at the fort; even at the ice and snow. So the final miles to Glevum disappeared.

Their sojourn at Glevum was everything they'd prayed for. Salvius, the new commander there, came rushing through the archway of the fort to greet them. Almost immediately, he rebuffed the slightest talk of journeying on, however vaguely expressed. They must stay, he told Marcus, as long as they desired. There was no question of outwearing their welcome.

'I was a naive scribe at Viroconium, Marcus,' he said, 'when you were building that marvellous road. It stretched itself out through your team's labours, I know, but we still called it a godsend. I've often said that your efforts enabled me to reach this fort safely.' He clapped a hand on Marcus's shoulder. 'And do not fear: you'll hear nothing mealy-mouthed in this fort about your civilian projects. You, Vectis and the others are known as men of honour here.' He paused, chuckling. 'And, by the power vested in me, I happily include Prunec in my estimation.'

Marcus thanked him heartily.

'Ah, well,' continued Salvius, 'a man does not lose his reputation when he puts his sword to rest. We all wish you good fortune--and grapes the size of apples. Which, in due course, we must sample.'

Marcus assured him that Glevum would be well supplied, season after season. He sensed, however, that Salvius's mind was occupied with something else, beyond salutations and praise. But at that moment, a shout from Firmus interrupted them:

'Trib--Marcus--look!'

Marcus, Salvius and the others turned to regard him. Firmus was walking up and down the main street of the fort. Clearly, he was inviting Marcus and the others to marvel at the changes wrought upon Glevum since their previous stay. Prunec, who had never seen the like, took up the invitation at once. Moments later, he was by Firmus's side, goggling at everything about him.

'You must pardon good Firmus,' said Marcus. 'As the saying goes, once a centurion-- and, though I can't fault the hospitality we've received along our way, we've seen some cold, desperate places.'

'In that case,' replied Salvius, 'you must bathe all desperation away--and prepare for refreshment.' Once more, he sounded a little distracted. 'We have more to speak of,' he added.

Before they could, however, other demands asserted themselves. Saturnalia was looming, and Marcus noted that, like all else at the fort, the celebrations were tightly scheduled. At any one time, a generous detail of soldiers would be on patrol.

'Makes the same sense that it always did,' said Vectis, as he and Marcus strolled about Glevum on their second day. 'After all, we're only a sling's shot from troublesome Cambria.' 'What I'm hoping to discover,' replied Marcus, 'is a full Saturnalian rota: Detail X, inebriation from the sixth to the ninth hour; collapse from the tenth to the twelfth.'

'Oh, I'm sure we'll find one, Marcus. Salvius was a scribe, after all. Doubtless it's all planned to a hair's breadth.'

The travellers were under strict instructions to disregard all rotas and phases of time. Quite simply, they were to take their ease. But that did not stop Firmus from volunteering for duty: 'To keep my hand in,' he explained to Scapha and Currerus. A grave and proper centurion applied to Marcus in the matter, and he acquiesced: 'Just don't lose yourself in the snow,' he warned Firmus.

Marcus and Vectis took to tramping in the locality of the fort--reacquainting themselves with the terrain as far as the snow would allow. Currerus and Solatius became engrossed in herbal beds which were being nurtured, under special conditions, in a far corner of the fort. Prunec continued to wander about, open-mouthed. To begin with, he ducked into doorways whenever a group of soldiers marched by. But his actions arose from feeling overwhelmed, not fearful. The terrors of the journey were behind him. No legionary would suddenly hoist him on a spear. Diplomus would not rise from the baths like one of the undead. He soon convinced himself that, when the others left, he would leave with them. The wines of Saturnalia helped not a little to keep his conviction sound.

Scapha alone honoured Salvius's words. He did nothing whatsoever: 'Well,' he advised his goblet of wine, 'not much call for ships of the line round here.'

By the fourth day, with Saturnalia in full, rota-marked swing, the snow had begun to abate, so that, when Salvius suggested a quiet walk, Marcus did not instinctively shiver. They strolled along the fort approach: two tiny figures regarded by tall, spidery trees. When they were out of earshot, Salvius turned to his chief guest:

'I'm sorry, Marcus. I've been meaning to chat for an age now but--well, you know the demands of fort life.'

Marcus spread out his hands, signalling that he'd felt no slight.

'Alacer,' said Salvius then.

Initially, Marcus took this as an invitation to recount in detail their experiences among the Belgae.

'Thing is, Salvius, we had high hopes of--'

'Your brother,' added Salvius and paused, waiting for Marcus's reaction. Marcus bowed his head. For a moment, he looked as though he'd drop to his knees in prayer.

'Brother,' he repeated, his tone desolate.

'Marcus, he's alive.'

Eyes wide, Marcus sprang to attention like the young Tribune he'd once been. Having delivered such momentous news, Salvius felt suddenly helpless. 'I was going to tell you when you arrived--but then your Firmus commanded you to marvel at our improvements. I'm sorry, Marcus, my silence since must strike you as the most subtle torture. But there hasn't been a single moment for really private talk.'

Though clueless about what he'd say, Marcus still made to speak. Salvius raised a silencing hand.

'Alas, I have no details. Just word from a centurion who passed through here--oh, must be a month ago. Part of a cohort bound for Viroconium. Motley crew, they were, too: some Rhine lads--even a few broken-looking Gauls. Sometimes I wonder at my superiors' criteria for allowing--'

Suddenly he winced. Marcus, his face whiter than the snow at their feet, was squeezing his arm as if it were a roll of dough.

'Oh, Marcus, my apologies for disgressing.'

'My apologies, too, Commander.' Marcus released his arm, praying that he hadn't brought the man's career to a premature end. Salvius rubbed the arm lightly and shook his head:

'All in one piece,' he assured Marcus. 'Now, this centurion--well, he was actually from our home turf. One of the Alpine towns, I forget which. Talk got round to the border road here--your road. The Glevum lads told the cohort how good it was, how they'd reach Viroconium in the wink of an eye. Then one of our older hands brought your name up. Turned out that this centurion knew Cremona . . . where . . . I understand--'

Salvius paused, not knowing how to continue. Marcus nodded that he must, at which the Commander took a deep breath:

'Well, Marcus, he'd heard of your tragedy--and that your brother had escaped to Gaul. Of course, I had no idea that you'd be coming this way, or I'd have pressed him for every last detail. But'--swallowing hard, Salvius plunged on-- 'if Alacer is in Gaul . . . I mean . . . perhaps somehow he knows of your . . . what you've been doing . . . and intends to join you when he . . . if he . . . I mean, he'd have to be careful . . . .' Silently cursing his ham-fisted manner, Salvius broke off.

But it struck Marcus as nothing of the sort: 'Salvius, our arrival has indeed been a joyous coincidence,' he shouted. 'All of a sudden, Saturnalia means more to me than it has these seven years. Thank you! Thank you!' Marcus stopped and turned away. It was clear to his host that he was fighting to control emotions of great power. When he spoke again, it was to himself:

'In Gaul . . . Gaul . . . he must be biding his time.' He punched his palm: 'Alacer slipped through Nero's fingers!' he announced in a whoop to the barren trees. Then he fell thoughtful again: 'Long time to bide, though,' he whispered. 'Someone else might be itching for his neck, Nero or no Nero. Forcing him to stay in hiding. Gods above, if that centurion knew, who else does? And why Gaul?'

Salvius just caught his final question: 'Gaul is a vast place, Marcus,' he said, gently. 'Plenty of brakes and thickets to shelter a good soul.' Pressing his hands together, he added, 'I pray for your safe reunion. Be assured, Marcus, if he arrives here, we shall treat him as we've treated you. And then we'll speed him to you with our swiftest horsemen.'

Speechless now, Marcus could only salute his host. Then, heart bursting, he allowed Salvius to take his arm, and they walked back for yet another splendid meal.

Click here to go to Part 2 of Chapter XXIV

The Plain of Profluenae: a ficitional name for the area around Upton-upon-Severn in Worcestershire.

© Worcester City Museums