Read In the Shadow of the Wall Online
Authors: Gordon Anthony
“I’m just playing the part,” chuckled Brude. “And you should call me Master. There will be plenty of people around here who speak a language close to ours.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. “Yes, Master.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Fothair muttered.
Despite the pouring rain and having to carry a heavy load, Mairead was almost enjoying herself. She looked at the brick and plaster buildings with their red tiled roofs, pointing out different things as they passed. She walked along the paved road, splashing in the puddles and saying, “This is wonderful. It’s raining and there’s no mud.” Brude remembered how he had felt when he first walked through the streets of
Rome
. Despite the rain, he enjoyed telling her what the various signs outside the shops signified.
They found the place the ostler had told them about. It was a four-storey building, the upper two floors with wooden walls because the structure would not support the weight of brick any higher than two storeys. Brude had seen many similar buildings in
Rome
and knew they were notorious for collapsing, or for catching fire as the occupants tried to cook on open fires in rooms built of wood. Still, they needed shelter so they went inside to find the landlord.
The man was a former soldier, named
Niger
, which Brude assumed was a soldier’s joke since his hair was as white as any he had ever seen rather than the black that his name suggested. From behind the small counter where he was sitting, he gave them a sour look as they entered his tiny front office, apparently annoyed that they had interrupted him, even though he was doing nothing more onerous than cleaning a pair of old boots. “What is it?” he asked in a surly tone.
“You have rooms to rent,” Brude replied in an equally gruff voice, deciding he could play the hard man as well.
Niger
eyed Mairead and Fothair with disdain. “That depends.”
“On what?”
“On who wants them and why.”
Brude decided to put the man in his place. He stepped forwards, lowering his head to put his face close to the old soldier. “I am Marcus Septimius Brutus. I was a gladiator, freed by the emperor himself. I have served under Quintus Aemilius Tertius, legate of the legions of
Germania
, and I have just come from campaign under the emperor’s son himself. These two are my slaves. I have silver to pay for rooms and no more questions. Is that good enough?”
Niger
, taken aback by Brude’s refusal to be intimidated and by the knowledge that, as a former gladiator, Brude could easily overpower him if the fancy took him, licked his lips. He said softly, “I’ve got two rooms on the first floor. Ten sesterces a week, per room. You provide your own fuel for heating.”
The price was outrageous and they both knew it. Brude opened a small money pouch, counting out four silver denarii, equivalent to sixteen sesterces. He placed two of them on the counter then put the others back in the pouch. “We’ll take the biggest room. You provide the fuel and get some clean bedding and blankets for us. You’ll get the other two denarii at the end of the week.”
Niger
did not take long to think about it. “Deal!”
They climbed the wooden stairs to find that the room was actually quite good. There were four small beds and a stone fireplace for heating and cooking. There was a small wooden table with four stools, an oil lamp, a tin bowl for washing and a small selection of clay dishes and plates. The solitary window had no glass but two sets of wooden shutters; a solid pair on the inside edge, which could be closed at night, with a slatted outer pair to let light in. The wooden floor was strong enough and the brick walls had been recently plastered so the room had a fresh, airy feel to it. Even the bedding was not too bad though Brude insisted on it being replaced.
Niger
, persuaded by the silver, had some fresh mattresses and blankets brought in by two slaves.
Fothair lit the fire and they all changed out of their wet clothes. The room soon began to fill with the smell of damp wool and linen drying out as they huddled near the fire for warmth. After an hour or so the rain stopped drumming against the shutters. Brude looked outside. The sky was clearing and there were still a few hours of daylight. “Let’s go and see if we can find some food,” he said, “and some information about where the Romans are keeping the prisoners.”
In exchange for another denarius,
Niger
gave them the locations of a few tavernas where they could buy hot food. He also told them that the captives were usually held in slave pens at the outskirts of the city. “But I hear they’re using the amphitheatre to hold them now, seeing as they have so many,” he said.
The city was alive with people now that the rain had stopped. In addition to Latin, many of them were speaking a Brythonic language, which was similar to the Boresti tongue. Mairead and Fothair found it hard to move through the crowded streets without staring at everything and everyone they passed. They, in turn, received some curious looks thanks to their rather wild dress and hair.
Brude found a small taverna where the owner kept hot food in great pots that were held in circular holes in his shop front counter. The pots were lowered into the holes where a small fire burned beneath them to keep the contents warm.
After their meal they went to the slave pens. They found them crowded and well guarded, with soldiers constantly patrolling the perimeter. Brude tried to bribe his way in, claiming he was interested in buying some slaves but he got short shrift and was sent packing. The slaves, it seemed, were not for sale because they were all to be taken to
Rome
. “No exceptions,” the centurion in charge told him, “so you might as well be off.” He would not even change his mind when Brude showed him the letter from Caracalla telling all soldiers to allow Brude to pass freely. “That doesn’t apply here,” the centurion growled impatiently. “Geta Caesar is in charge here. My orders are that all the slaves will be sent to
Rome
as soon as we get enough ships together. No exceptions.”
There was no point in arguing. Geta, younger son of the emperor Septimius Severus, gave the orders in Eboracum. The three Boresti went back to their room where Brude stared hopelessly into the fire, not knowing what to do.
Eboracum A.D. 210
The following morning they went to the amphitheatre but met with no success there either. The answer was the same:
no exceptions
.
Brude was aware that the three of them were arousing some suspicions. Although the bulk of the army was north of the Wall, Eboracum was a legionary base and Geta Caesar had made it his headquarters so there were still plenty of soldiers in evidence. Brude reckoned there was at least one cohort of Praetorian Guards plus several hundred auxiliary troops. In a remote province, with a member of the imperial family in residence, the guards were naturally cautious and Brude was asking unusual questions. With his broad shoulders and stoy build, he was hardly inconspicuous but Mairead and Fothair were drawing attention too. Mairead’s striking looks and Fothair’s height were enough to mark them out in any company but their clothes and language were also distinctive. To help them blend in, Brude bought some more suitably Roman-style tunics and leggings for himself and Fothair, and purchased a long Roman-style dress for Mairead. Because the weather was still poor, he also bought a hooded cloak for each of them, hoping this would help hide their features a little.
By early afternoon they had run out of ideas. “We don’t even know if they are in there,” said Mairead, her tone betraying her concern. “What are we going to do?”
“We can’t fight our way in, that’s for sure,” Fothair said.
“Trying to break in is too dangerous,” said Brude. “There are too many guards.”
Mairead looked at him imploringly. “There must be something we can do.”
Brude had only one option left. Another desperate idea in the succession of desperate ideas that had somehow got them this far. The appeal in Mairead’s eyes, her need for a solution, was too strong for him not to try. “We can appeal to Caesar again.”
“To the emperor?” Fothair was alarmed at the prospect.
“To his son. Geta is in charge here. As a citizen, I have the right to make an appeal to him.”
“If this Geta is like his brother, that could be dangerous.”
“Perhaps not dangerous, but very difficult. It’s getting past all the courtiers, guards and freedmen that is the problem. From what little I have heard about him, Geta is not like his brother at all, but I have to get to him somehow.”
“Couldn’t you use that letter you got from Caracalla?” Mairead asked.
“That’s what I was thinking, but there is no guarantee it would do any good. The two brothers hate each other. The centurion at the slave pens wasn’t interested in anything except orders from Geta. The letter might create more problems than it solves.”
But there were no other options available to them, so Brude set off on his own, leaving the other two to watch the slave pens and the amphitheatre as discreetly as they could, in the hope that they could catch a glimpse of Castatin or Barabal either inside or arriving with a new batch of captives. Even if they did see them, he knew that they would not be able to do anything, but if they could find out where the two young villagers were, it would be a start. At least it gave Mairead and Fothair something to do.
Brude made his way to the legionary fortress where Geta had his headquarters. Eboracum had grown up around this fortified camp, which the Romans had built over a hundred years before, on the fringes of the territory of the troublesome Brigantes. Originally built of wood, the fort had turned into a permanent legionary base and was now an impressive stone-built fortress with the Principia serving as a Governor’s palace as much as a military headquarters. The emperor had used this building as his base before moving northwards. He had even named Eboracum as the capital of Britannia Inferior, the northern part of the province. It was not the sort of place anyone could simply stroll into unchallenged.
Brude was stopped at the main gate, searched, then directed to the Principia, to which he followed the main central road. Where the Principia was usually a tent in marching camps, as he had seen when with Caracalla, or perhaps a wooden upper structure on a stone or brick foundation as he had seen in Germania, this one was built entirely of stone. It even had its own column-fronted basilica. Outside the basilica was a queue of civilians who were waiting to see an official who would decide whether their case warranted referral to higher authority. Pulling his hood over his head against another shower of rain, Brude ducked into the sparse cover of the colonnaded portico outside the basilica. He joined the queue, waiting patiently for his turn. He saw some of the people turned away, while others stayed inside, presumably having been allowed to move on to the next stage.
After about an hour, he was admitted to a small antechamber where he found a stern looking clerk dressed in a toga and seated behind a table covered with parchment, quills and ink. Two guards, looking appropriately bored, stood by the back wall where a door led through to another room. The office was warm and dry and Brude was thankful to be inside after standing in the drizzle for so long. There was nowhere for him to sit so he stood in front of the desk, rain water slowly dripping off his cloak to the stone floor. The clerk gave him a weary look. “What is it you are here for?” the man asked, managing to convey the impression that he really didn’t care very much what Brude wanted.
Brude pulled out the letter Caracalla had given him and began his rehearsed story. “My son was captured two weeks ago, mistaken for a war slave. I am trying to find him and get him back, along with the daughter of a friend of mine.”
The clerk read Caracalla’s letter carefully, studied the seal closely, then read the letter again. He glanced up and said, “You are a Roman citizen?”
“I am.” Brude handed over his crumpled manumission papers. The clerk pored over these carefully. When he had satisfied himself they were genuine he handed them back and asked, “How did your son come to be captured?”