Roma Mater (3 page)

Maximus’s voice levelled. ‘I’ve kept your detachment, together with that from the Twentieth and all the sundry oddments, on the Wall to make sure our pacification was
nailed down. The Picti wouldn’t worry me by themselves. Their little quarrelsome packs will never do more alone than snap up some loot, take a drubbing, and scatter back to lick their wounds. But lately the Scoti have been leagued with them, and – the Scoti are a different breed of wolf.’ He scowled. ‘Somebody in Hivernia has been behind the last onslaught, somebody powerful and shrewd. I would not have put it past him to deliver a surprise blow just when we thought we were safely finished.’

Maximus tossed off a laugh and a swallow from his cup. ‘Well, he didn’t. Now he couldn’t possibly before spring, and one may doubt he’ll care to try again that soon. So the vexillations can return to their legions: a cold trek, but not one that I think they’ll mind. On your way, Gratillonius, I want you to guard Cunedag on his. At Deva you and your century will part company not only with the Valeria Victrix troops, but with your fellows of the Augusta. Proceed with Cunedag into Ordovicia, stop where he wants, and do whatever is necessary to establish him.’

‘Would the Duke explain why?’ Gratillonius requested.

‘It won’t likely be a severe task,’ Maximus said. ‘I have had negotiators there, and on the whole, the clans will welcome him. See here. Stationed where you are, you must know how law and order have been breaking down in those parts, leaving people well-nigh helpless before the Scoti, not to mention home-grown brigands. I can’t have that sort of thing at my back when –’ He broke off. ‘Cunedag possesses a fairly sound grasp of both military and political principles. He’ll take charge. Your century shouldn’t have a great deal to do, nor need to linger long, before it can return to Isca Silurum.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Gratillonius said. ‘In part.’

‘Never fear, you’ll know more before you leave. Half a
dozen men, both Roman and tribal, are set to instruct you. Meanwhile,’ and Maximus smiled, ‘you can get to know Cunedag better this evening at supper.’

Gratillonius stiffened. He must summon up as much of himself as he had ever needed in combat in order to say: ‘I regret that I cannot accept the Duke’s invitation.’

Maximus raised his brows. ‘What?’

‘Sir, this day is sacred. I may only take part in the feast of the God.’

‘Oh.’ Maximus was silent for a space. When he spoke, it was like the winter outside. ‘I had forgotten. You are pagan.’

It prickled in Gratillonius’s armpits. ‘Sir, I do not worship Jupiter, if that’s what you mean.’

‘But Mithras. Which is forbidden. For your soul’s good, understand. You’ll burn for ever after you die, unless you take the Faith.’

Gratillonius bridled. ‘The Duke has not yet seen fit to close our temples.’

Maximus sighed. ‘As you will, as you will. For now, at least. After all, Parnesius is obstinate too. But he serves Rome well, like you and, I dare hope, me. Come, let us drink to the well-being of our Mother.’

The wine was excellent, unlike what was issued the troops. Yet its sweetness dimmed on Gratillonius’s tongue as Maximus frowned, lowered his beaker, stared into the shadows that filled a corner, and murmured: ‘Little enough well-being is hers any longer. You’ve never seen Rome, the City, have you? I have. Our Mother is fallen on evil days. There are more ghosts than living folk in her streets, and the Emperor reigns from Mediolanum, Augusta Treverorum, or … anywhere except poor, plundered Rome. The Emperor of the West, that is. No, today the joint Emperors of the West, the first a plaything of his Frankish general, the second of his mother, and the
West divided between them. And even the Augustus of the East feels Constantinople tremble beneath him. It is but four or five years since the Goths rode down the Romans at Adrianople. Have you heard about that, centurion? The Emperor Valens himself died on the field. His successor Theodosius must needs buy the alliance of those barbarians, Arian heretics, those that are not still outright heathen –’ He straightened. His voice clanged forth: ‘By the Great Name of God, Rome shall not suffer this! Mother, your hour of deliverance draws near.’

Then immediately he was again the self-contained man whose patience had forged victory. He raised his cup, sipped, regarded Gratillonius over the rim, and smiled afresh before he said, ‘Be not alarmed, centurion. I’ve no wish to scare off the few trustworthy men left me. Rather, I’ve work in mind for you, more challenging and more glorious than the mere delivery of a leader and his warriors to some ragged hillfolk. Indeed, that assignment is essentially a final test of you. If you carry it off as well as I expect –’

Leaning forward: ‘I’ve made inquiries about you, of course, since Parnesius’s mention of you drew my attention your way. Now I wish to talk freely with you, explore what sort of
person
you are.’

‘A very ordinary soldier, sir,’ Gratillonius replied uneasily.

Maximus laughed, straightened on his stool, crossed shank over knee. Such putting aside of dignity, by the Duke himself, caught at Gratillonius’s heart. Eagerness rekindled in him. ‘Oh, no, you don’t, lad!’ Maximus crowed. ‘You’ll never make that claim stick, not after this summer. And I hear you did well in the South, earlier.’

That was nothing unusual, really, sir. Sometimes Scoti or Saxons came visiting, and we went out to meet them. Otherwise it was plain patrol and camp duty.’

‘Um-m, I’ve heard of a fire in town, and a young legionary who risked his life to rescue the children from a burning house. I’ve also heard how that same fellow gets along well with natives, whether they be his familiar Silures and Belgae or the half-tame dwellers in these parts.’

‘Well, I’m of Britannic blood myself, sir.’

‘Unusual – No, you are a regular, of course, not an auxiliary. Almost a namesake of the Emperor Gratianus.’

The centurion felt his muscles grow tense. Likening his family to that Scythian-loving sluggard! ‘Pure chance, sir,’ he stated. ‘My folk are Belgae, living near Aquae Sulis since before Claudius. Naturally, we’ve long been civilized, and a forebear of mine gave the name a Latin form, but we’ve kept our ties to the land.’

Maximus seemed a trifle amused. ‘Have you no ancestors who were not Belgae? That would be strange.’

‘Of course there were some, sir. Soldiers stationed in Britannia, Italians, a Dacian, a Nervian. And a couple of Gauls, though they were female, brides brought home.’

Maximus nodded, once more grave. ‘Sound stock throughout. You are of the curial class, I understand.’

Gratillonius grimaced. Maximus hastened to bespeak happier matters: ‘Your grandfather had a distinguished military career, did he not? And your father went into trade out of Abonae, and prospered. That took real seamanship – those tides in the estuary – and fighting skill, too, when pirates infest the waters.’

The Duke must have queried Parnesius closely indeed, to dig out things casually related over a span of months. The voice quickened: ‘His main business was with Armorica, true? And he took you along on his voyages.’

‘Well, between the ages of twelve and sixteen, when I joined the army, I used to go with him, sir,’ Gratillonius replied.

‘Tell me about it.’

‘Oh, we’d coast along Britannia, taking on cargo here and there, then cross over to a Gallic port – maybe as far east as Gesoriacum – and work our way west, stopping off to trade. Sometimes we’d leave the ship and travel inland to markets in places like Condate Redonum or Vorgium –’ Gratillonius shook himself. Those joyful years were far behind him and his father both.

Maximus’s tone sharpened. ‘Did you ever visit Ys?’

‘What?’ Gratillonius was startled. ‘Why … why, no. Does anybody any longer?’

‘We shall see. You appear to have an ear for language. Did you acquire fluency in any Gallic tongues? I’m interested especially in whatever they use on the western end of Armorica.’

‘I got along, sir. That was quite a while ago, and I haven’t returned since.’ Gratillonius began to realize what Maximus was driving at. The hair stirred on his neck and arms. ‘But I ought to regain it pretty quickly. Those dialects aren’t too different from the southern Britannic, and I had a Dumnonic nurse when I was small.’ Awkwardly: ‘She stayed on in the house for my younger siblings, and we used to talk in her speech, she and I, till I enlisted – and afterwards, when I was home on leave. I do hope old Docca is still alive.’

The wistfulness flickered out, for Maximus was saying low, while he stared before him as if his vision could pierce the wall and fly away over Europe: ‘Excellent. The Lord is gracious to me, a sinner. It may actually be Providence that you are an infidel; for there could be things yonder that are not for a Christian man to deal with.’

A fire leapt up in the breast of Gratillonius.

3

Once the temple had not been as far as it now was from a vicus of several hundred veterans, artisans, merchants, innkeepers, harlots, wives, children, hangers-on, a settlement akin to the rest that clustered south of the Wall, from sea to sea, within a mile or a few of each other. But nearly two hundred years had passed since Caledonic invaders laid the Borcovicium region waste while Rome writhed at war with itself. After Severus restored things, rebuilding was done farther uphill, next to the military base. Perhaps in awe, the reavers had spared the Mithraeum. Thus it stood alone on a knoll near the ditch, only brush surrounding its temenos. Northward, darkness rose like a tide towards the battlemented horizon the Wall made; southward, the ground rolled off in ridges which the setting sun reddened. Frost creaked underfoot, voices mumbled through smoke signals of breath, silence everywhere else deepened with cold.

Arriving early for the service, Gratillonius found Parnesius among those who waited outside. His friend was wrapped in a cloak but had not drawn the hood over his black hair. It curled back from his forehead to show the tiny brand of initiation which Gratillonius also bore, both now faint; hot iron had made larger and deeper marks on their bodies when they first entered the army. Beneath the religious sign, Parnesius’s eyebrows formed a single bar over his jutting nose. ‘Hail,’ he said, more cheerfully than might be suitable at this hour. ‘How went it with the Old Man today?’

They clasped forearms in the Roman manner. ‘Lad, you’re all aquiver,’ Parnesius exclaimed.

‘How I wish I could tell you,’ Gratillonius replied. ‘It’s –oh, wonderful – but he made me vow secrecy for the time being. When I can talk, when actual operations are in train, then I’ll be far from here.’

‘Well, I’m glad to see you’re glad. Although – Come.’ Parnesius plucked at the other’s mantle. ‘Step aside for a bit, shall we?’

More men were climbing the trail hither. While they numbered under a score, they were of many sorts, not only soldiers but workmen, serfs, slaves. Rank on earth counted for nothing before Ahura-Mazda.

As it did not before the Lord of the Christians … but they welcomed women to their services, passed fleetingly through Gratillonius. His father, his brother, himself followed Mithras; but his mother had been Christian and so, by amicable agreement, were his sisters raised. Could that alone be the reason why Christ was triumphing?

He thrust the thought away and followed Parnesius off as he had followed this comrade in arms, and the still more experienced Pertinax, on days when they could ‘take the heather’ – fare off with a native guide to hunt, fish, be at ease in clean and lonesome country. ‘What have you to say?’ he asked. ‘Time’s short.’ Because the service was conducted on sufferance, military members had better be in their quarters by curfew.

Parnesius looked off and beat fist in palm. ‘I’m not sure,’ he answered roughly. ‘Except … I couldn’t help getting hints when he quizzed me about you. And … Pertinax and I have had an offer … but we’ll stay on the Wall, we two. You’re going south, aren’t you? Not just back to Isca, but on to Gallia.’

Gratillonius swallowed. ‘I’m not supposed to say.’

‘Nevertheless –’ Parnesius swung about and seized him by the shoulders. His gaze probed and pleaded. ‘He wouldn’t have told you outright, but you must have a fair
idea of what he intends. You must be aware you’re to guard his back while – Well, what do you think about it? The next war will mean a great deal more than this last one, you know. Don’t you?’

‘I am … a soldier,’ Gratillonius answered most carefully. ‘I follow my orders. But … an Emperor who is a soldier too might be what we all need.’

‘Good!’ cried Parnesius, and pummelled him lightly on the back. ‘And here in the North, Pertinax and I’ll hold fast. Ho, I see him coming. Hail, Pertinax!’

But then the Father appeared, and men ranked themselves for the ceremony.

The Mithraeum was plain and low. It could not hold even as many as the remnant who were gathered. However, it was not meant to. The junior initiates, Ravens, Occults, Soldiers, did not attend the holiest of the rites. They joined their seniors in hymning the sun as it departed.

Flame glimmered across a green southwestern heaven, and went out. More and more stars gleamed forth, and lights along the blackness of Wall and fortress. Elsewhere the world sheened phantom grey. The song ended. The three underling ranks formed their squad and saluted while Lions, Persians, the Runner of the Sun, and the Father whom he attended went inside.

There was no space for a pronaos. There was, though, a vestibule, where Gratillonius and his fellows changed into their sacred garb. For him it was robe, mask, and Phrygian cap, because in the past year the elders had promoted him to Persian. Solemnly, they entered the sanctuary.

Lamplight amidst restless shadows picked out the altars that jutted into the narrow nave. At the end of the chamber, reliefs depicted Mithras slaying the Bull and His cosmic birth with the signs of the zodiac around. The
stone was pierced so that illumination behind created the halo about his head. Flanking were the graven Dadophori, the brother figures, one with torch held high, one with torch down and guttering out. It was very quiet. After the chill outside, air felt merely cool. The sweet smoke of pine cones breathed through it.