Robert Fabbri
Masters of Rome
PROLOGUE
The fog thickened, forcing the turma of thirty-two legionary cavalry to slow their mounts to a walk. The snorts of the horses and jangle of harnesses were deadened, swallowed up by the thick atmosphere enshrouding the small detachment.
Titus Flavius Sabinus pulled his damp cloak tighter around his shoulders, inwardly cursing the foul northern climate and his direct superior, General Aulus Plautius, commander of the Roman invasion force in Britannia, for summoning him to a briefing in such conditions.
Sabinus had been surprised by the summons. When the messenger, a tribune on Plautius’ staff, arrived with a native guide the previous evening at the XIIII Gemina’s winter camp on the middle reaches of the Tamesis River, Sabinus had expected him to be bringing his final orders for the coming season’s campaign. Why Plautius should order him to travel almost eighty miles south to meet him at the winter quarters of the II Augusta, his brother Vespasian’s legion, seemed strange just a month after the legates of all four legions in the new province had met with their general at his headquarters at Camulodunum.
Unsurprisingly, the tribune, a young man in his late teens whom Sabinus had known by sight for the last two years since the invasion, had been unable to enlighten him as to the reason for this unexpected extra meeting. Sabinus remembered that during his four years serving in the same rank, in Pannonia and Africa, he was very rarely favoured with any detail by his commanding officers; a thin-stripe military tribune from the equestrian class was the lowest of the officer ranks, there to learn and obey without question. However, the scroll the young man bore was sealed with Plautius’ personal seal, giving Sabinus no choice but to curse and comply; Plautius was not a man to tolerate insubordination or tardiness.
Reluctantly leaving his newly arrived senior tribune, Gaius Petronius Arbiter, in command of the XIIII Gemina, Sabinus had ridden south that morning with an escort, the tribune and his guide, into a clear dawn that promised a chill but bright day. It had not been until they had started to climb, in the early afternoon, up onto the plain that they were now traversing that the fog had started to descend.
Sabinus glanced at the native guide, a middle-aged, ruddy-faced man riding to his right on a stocky pony; he seemed unperturbed by the conditions. ‘Can you still find your way in this?’
The guide nodded; his long, drooping moustache swayed beneath his chin. ‘This is Dobunni land, my tribe; I’ve hunted up here since I could first ride. The plain is reasonably flat and featureless; we only have to keep our course just west of south and we will come down into the Durotriges’ territory, behind the Roman line of advance. Then tomorrow we have a half-day’s ride to the legion’s camp on the coast.’
Ignoring the fact that the man had not addressed him as ‘sir’ or indeed shown any respect for his rank whatsoever, Sabinus turned to the young tribune riding on his left. ‘Do you trust his ability, Alienus?’
Alienus’ youthful face creased into a frown of respect. ‘Absolutely, sir; he got me to your camp without once changing direction. I don’t know how he does it.’
Sabinus stared at the young man for a few moments and decided that his opinion was worthless. ‘We’ll camp here for the night.’
The guide turned towards Sabinus in alarm. ‘We mustn’t sleep out on the plain at night.’
‘Why not? One damp hollow is as good as another.’
‘Not here; there’re spirits of the Lost Dead roaming the plain throughout the night, searching for a body to bring them back to this world.’
‘Bollocks!’ Sabinus’ bravado was tinged slightly by his realisation that he had neglected to make the appropriate sacrifice to his guardian god, Mithras, upon departure that morning, owing to the lack of a suitable bull in the XIIII Gemina’s camp; he had substituted a ram but had ridden through the gates feeling less than happy with his offering.
The guide pressed his point. ‘We can be off the plain in an hour or two and then we’ll cross a river. The dead won’t follow us after that — they can’t cross water.’
‘Besides, General Plautius was adamant that we should be with him soon after midday tomorrow,’ Alienus reminded him. ‘We need to carry on for as long as we can, sir.’
‘You don’t like the sound of the Lost Dead, tribune?’
Alienus hung his head. ‘Not overmuch, sir.’
‘Perhaps an encounter with them would toughen you up.’
Alienus made no reply.
Sabinus glanced over his shoulder; he could, again, just see the end of their short column, as the fog seemed to be thinning somewhat. ‘Very well, we’ll press on, but not because of any fear of the dead but rather so as not to be late for the general.’ The truth was that the superstitious part of Sabinus’ mind feared the supernatural as much as the practical part feared the wrath of Plautius should he be kept waiting too long, so he was relieved that he had been able to retract his order in a face-saving manner. It would not do to have people think that he gave any credence to the many stories of the spirits and ghosts that were said to inhabit this strange island; but he did not like the sound of the Lost Dead and, even less, the thought of spending the night in their dominion. During his time on this northern isle he had heard many such stories, enough to believe there to be a grain of truth in at least some of them.
Since the fall of Camulodunum and the surrender of the tribes in the southeast of Britannia, eighteen months previously, Sabinus had led the XIIII Gemina and its auxiliary cohorts steadily east and north. Plautius had ordered him to secure the central lowlands of the island whilst the VIIII Hispana headed up the east coast and Vespasian’s II Augusta fought its way west between the Tamesis and the sea. The XX Legion had been kept in reserve to consolidate the ground already won and ready to support any legion that found itself in trouble.
It had been slow work as the tribes had learnt from the mistakes of Caratacus and his brother, Togodumnus, who had tried to take the legions head-on, soon after the initial invasion, and throw them back using their superior numbers; this tactic had failed disastrously. In two days, as they tried to halt the Roman advance at a river, the Afon Cantiacii, they had lost over forty thousand warriors including Togodumnus. This had crushed the Britons’ resolve in the southeastern corner of the island and most had capitulated soon after. Caratacus, however, had not. He had fled west with over twenty thousand warriors and had become a rallying point for all those who refused to accept Roman domination.
A light breeze picked up, gusting east to west across their line of travel, swirling the mist and clearing a swathe off to Sabinus’ right. He pulled himself up in his saddle, feeling a relief that visibility had cleared, if only by a few score paces in one direction. He began to mutter a prayer to Mithras to shine his light through the gloom of this fog-bound island and help him to … he caught a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of his eye, he turned to look but it was gone, the wind sucked the mist back in and doubt clouded his mind as to whether it was a movement he had seen or it was just his imagination feeding off the tales of horror that were hard to banish from his head. The stories could never be unheard.
During the two months that Plautius had been forced, for political reasons, to pause north of the Tamesis, waiting for the Emperor Claudius to arrive and take the credit and glory for the fall of Camulodunum, the XIIII Gemina had probed west along the river. It was at this time that Sabinus first began to hear reports from his officers of strange apparitions and unnatural occurrences: a legionary had been found, barely alive, flayed and yet still in uniform; his dying words had been of daemons that sucked the flesh from his limbs. Another had been found dead, drained of blood, and yet with no wound on his body or trace of the life-giving fluid seeping into the ground close by. Spectral figures in long, luminous robes that glowed with an unnatural fluorescence were sighted regularly, especially near to the mounds covering the tombs of the ancients and the many henges of both stone and wood that seemed to be, along with the sacred groves, centres for the Britons’ barbarous religion.