Part I - Chapter VI - 'Betrayal and Reunion'

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

The story so far... It is 51 AD, 6 years after the Roman invasion of Britannia, and Tribune Marcus Vinicius Spatula of the XX Legion has been securing the salt workings at Salinae (Droitwich) and the bridge on the river Sabrina (the Severn) at Vertis (Worcester). Having run into strong resistance from the tribes living west of the Sabrina, Governor Ostorius Scapula has decided to consolidate the Roman advance along the line of the river. Temporarily without his chief engineer Firmus, Spatula has depended on Firmus's deputy, Tignum, to complete the works at Salinae and Vertis and to begin construction of a road linking the legionary forts at Virconium (Wroxeter), to the north, and Glevum (Gloucester), to the south. Despite hit and run attacks from across the river, and by locals loyal to Caratacus and the British resistance, Spatula and his command make swift progress building the road....

Firmus saw but did not see the team of workers--a relief force from Salinae--busy at ditching. He would shake his head, shield his eyes against the unseasonal sun, then shake his head again: 'They'd sell their unborn children, those Brigantes,' he muttered. 'I simply can't believe it.'

Nobody could believe it. For all that the road workers had talked of nothing else for days--and for all that the messages had been a long time coming--it was still hot news. At a critical moment in the Cambrian campaign, Caratacus had played the predicted card, escaping northward to what he doubtless hoped would be the protection and support of the Brigantes. But their Queen, Cartimandua, had obviously decided that being a client of Rome was a sweeter proposition than acting as Caratacus' helpmeet, and she betrayed the fugitive chief to the Empire. For weeks past, messengers had been rushing to the toilers on the ever-lengthening road, adding new details to the story as though it were a Virgilian epic. There was, it seemed, no question of executing Caratacus. Instead, there was talk that he was to be taken to Rome, where his presence, a symbol of recklessness quashed, would add lustre to the triumphal procession of Claudius.

Now Firmus shook himself out of his reverie, reminding himself of his duties (albeit reluctantly: telling folk to dig ditches was as nothing compared to watching the latest roof beam rising in the middle of a new fort--but alas! they were between forts at present). He couldn't help wondering what would happen to Caratacus. He'd been courageous, no doubt of it: a born strategist, too, by all accounts. Rome could have done with someone like that on her side. The centurion found himself hoping that the chief would be treated well in Rome; he was surprised by the fervour of his hopes.

Just then a load of earth spattered over his sandals. He'd practically walked into the ditch without knowing it, and a legionary had slung back a spadeful over his shoulder: 'Thank you for the offering, soldier,' said Firmus, disposed to be pleasant but slightly irked that the man resembled Vectis.

At that moment, the Tribune rode up: 'A new fashion for overseers, Firmus?' he asked, regarding the centurion's spattered sandals.

Firmus harrumphed and shook his feet: 'Something like that, sir,' he muttered, now glowering at his unwitting assailant: 'How are things up ahead?'

'Well,' said Marcus, 'Caratacus's bad luck hasn't exactly destroyed the Cambrian spirit. They're fighting on--we can look forward to more raids, more ambushes, as we get near Viriconium.'

Firmus nodded: 'Last messenger I spoke to said the Silures are still hard at it down south.'

'Indeed they are,' said Marcus. 'I only learned this morning that one of our new forts has had a pasting--close to Glevum at that.' He passed a hand over his brow. At times like this, he wished he were one of these legionaries, ditching away. Such work made simple sense: there was the task, and you did it. As it was, his head was full of calculations: how many to send as a relief force here, how many for foraging there--and now, of course, how many to send back down the road, to help restore the damaged fort.

He was also frustrated at being unable to verify some talk he'd heard. Scapula was fading fast; there were rumours that, in a peculiar way, he'd taken Caratacus's capture badly: it was a hollow gain, a victory by default, engineered by the smooth-faced Brigantes. Apart from that, a dispatch Marcus had recently had from Rome had mentioned one Didius Gallus, a rising man in the Imperial scheme. The references had been hedged about in the usual politician's manner. Marcus couldn't determine whether this was simply an update on who was who in the chain of command, or whether they would shortly have a new Governor in their midst.

He shook himself back into the present: 'It's all looking splendid,' he said, surveying the ditches. Then he smiled at Firmus and the men. 'Well, let's not worry about raids that haven't happened. The present moment is the best place to be.'

'They're working well, sir,' said Firmus, eyeing the legionaries' spades in case he was doused in muck again.

'Well, with any luck, these gentlemen can return to Salinae before much longer. Then we can start bracing ourselves for the Cornovii and their style of welcome.' He bade farewell to Firmus and started back to the head of the road, where he knew he'd find a troubled Tignum: his ditchers had uncovered an impenetrable system of roots, and Marcus had promised to make his own brain available for racking over a solution.

After a few yards, however, he reined in his horse: 'Oh, by the way, centurion, I've had some good news.'

Firmus read the twinkle in the Tribune's eye: 'Wouldn't be anything to do with a certain person, would it sir? Making his way back from Cambria? Full of it, as usual?'

Marcus laughed: 'We shall talk again soon, Firmus.' And he wheeled about.

'I hope he's got bags of gold hanging off him,' called Firmus. 'That's the least he can do.'

The Salinae auxiliaries returned to their fort. The road moved smooth as a snake towards Viriconium and the land of the Cornovii. For Marcus, Tignum and all the ditchers, quarriers and graders, the rhythms of time, progress and setback were interwoven. The Romans knew that they were moving into a new tribe's domain: the style of conflict changed. There were no daytime attacks on the workforce, and precious few night-raids. Instead, foraging parties found themselves the sole targets of hostility, especially those ranging to the west of the road.

On one occasion in early summer, a party lost its bearings north of Brannogenium. There was some nervous joking about how they would probably come across Scapula himself--but this barely masked uncertainty about how deep into Cambria they were straying. Suddenly, with that protean quality on which Marcus had pondered, the trees had turned into men: Cornovii for the most part, the party's survivors reckoned, although it had become hard to predict which tribesmen were where in Cambria. Like their Silurian neighbours, these warriors used surprise as though it were an axe. The legionaries were slaughtered or, at the least, severely bloodied. Their ordeal provided proof--if it were needed--that a bellicose spirit was still alive and abroad in Cambria. Caratacus might have gone, but the Cambrian will to triumph had not.

Summer wore on; the miles diminished between Viriconium and the road's head. Marcus himself led foraging parties--or 'supply offensives' as they became known. He found that remaining alert and suspicious was as demanding as armed conflict; part of him was always relieved--even glad--when the enemy declared themselves. He sustained broken bones, which soon mended, and wounds to the face, which made him look old before his time. He pondered the restriction of foraging operations to the eastern side of the road: 'Salinae territory,' he took to calling it--geographically inaccurate, but psychologically a good way of maintaining morale.

Salinae had been a triumph, albeit modest, and the salt workings were running smoothly. Firmus saw the apparent sense of his plan for foraging, but also teased out its futility--something that Marcus would have doubtless realized himself, sooner or later. One evening, they debated the matter in detail. 'If we use the road as our boundary,' said the centurion, 'they'll move in on it--then we'll have the same raids and sabotage we had in the south.'

'Yes, but we'll be flushing them out. And they'll be using valuable energy to get to us, rather than the other way round.'

Firmus stared for a second at Marcus, giving the latter the uncomfortable feeling that he'd reverted to his five year-old self: 'Worrying about energy didn't stop the Silures making off with our stuff, sir. And it wouldn't stop this lot, if they'd a mind to change tactics. No, if we don't venture in their direction it puts everything at risk--road, forts, our integrity. Ground regained, sir: that's how they'll see it.'

Marcus turned to regard the west--or rather, at the dense and unavoidable woodland running along the road at this point. Firmus followed his gaze: 'Stubborn as the natives, those trees. We've done our best to push them back. See what I mean, sir? If we don't keep those Cornovii at bay they'll be hanging from the branches day and night.'

'I know,' said the Tribune at last, quietly. 'It's the thought of losing valuable men out of battle.'

'In battle, sir. It's all warfare. That's how the tribes see it--including the ones who say they're on our side, I'll wager. Even building this road. Act of aggression.'

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck: 'It's tricky.'

'Setting foot outside your own house is tricky, sir.' The centurion's words brought Cremona back into Marcus's mind. He missed those hills near Vertis. There was no reminder of home around him now. And he hadn't had a message from the family for ages. He wondered how they were--and whether Christianity was now well and truly within their portals.

'Right, then,' he said at last. 'The westward foraging continues. Tignum tells me there's open land coming up. At least that gives us more chance of fighting on our own terms. Let the men know straight away, Firmus. Firmus? '

But the centurion's attention was on the woodland. He could swear he saw two figures--no, more--edging about far back in the trees. 'See what I mean about regaining ground?' he muttered. He rubbed his eyes: maybe it was a trick of the failing light. No, they were men. Or were they unknown animals up on their hind legs? Or some bewitching folderol conjured by an itinerant druid? '

Firmus, I shall confiscate all flagons and amphorae if they have this kind of delayed effect on--' began Marcus, but then he saw too. There were other forms moving behind the figures; they looked like bears from that distance.

'Speak of Diabolus,' whispered Firmus, 'and he shall appear.' A voice called out--cheery, somehow familiar. The centurion started: 'I'll swear I counted in every man-jack from the last forage.' He flexed his shoulders to prevent the Tribune noticing his shiver: Diabolus with a Roman brogue--mischief was afoot:

'Don't rush at once, will you,' said the speaking figure, now at the edge of the trees.

'Vectis!' called the Tribune, running forward. He and his compatriot saluted, then embraced. Firmus stayed put, calling out a salutation and thinking that his fancy about Diabolus wasn't so far off the mark after all.

'We thought you might be the Cornovii,' said Marcus, then stepped back to view Vectis's grubby, rather singular tunic.

'Funny, that,' said Vectis. 'I think the Cornovii thought the same. And the Silures, and the Ordovices. That's the benefit of wearing tat like this.' The other three figures now came forward, and Firmus saw that the bears were actually fine-looking but docile horses, effortlessly led on loose reins. He wondered at his own imagination, not to mention his eyesight: 'My companions,' said Vectis, introducing the Tribune and centurion. 'Fine scouts all. They'll be sterling workers for Currerus--if he's still about.'

'Indeed he is,' said Marcus. 'And Tignum, speaking of sterling workers. Firmus, forget what I said about the flagons and amphorae. We'll drink deep tonight, yourself included.'

Firmus had no idea what he was on about. Sometime in the last few minutes, the Tribune had given an order and was now revoking it. The centurion felt his brow: sunstroke from a Britannic evening? Impossible, surely. The group walked towards the encampment, Vectis filling the air with names of places in which he'd campaigned, helped to hold Roman lines or break Caratacus's--and built, built, built.

'Moridunum,' he said. 'Now that was a real barney. And Deva! I never thought I'd get one stone fixed on another there, with everything that was going on . . .'

'Any gold?' demanded Firmus, tapping him on the shoulder.

The engineer turned and bowed: 'Thank you, good Firmus--my journey was astonishingly free from danger. Your concern for my person touches me to my heart of hearts.'

Marcus interposed himself. Clearly these two would pick up where they'd left off. 'More to the point, Vectis,' he said, 'any news of Scapula?'

'Ah, now, that,' said Vectis, his tone suddenly sombre. As he responded, the group drew close to the camp. In the woods behind them, eyes watched. Minutes later, their owners dissolved into the deepening night. They hadn't bothered with that self-important parrot and his fellow travellers, though they'd watched them every step of the way through the woods. The horses would have been useful, but that wasn't part of the plan. No, they'd heard all they needed to, courtesy of that barbaric Roman tongue. So: the foraging parties were set to continue, were they? The spies would see about that.

End of Chapter VI

© Worcester City Museums