world.
AD 391
‘All hail!’ It was two months into the New Year. Saturnalia
was all but a memory, and today Marcus had commanded the auxiliaries in his
troops to stand to attention and welcome the Praefectus castrorum; the new
Commandant. As a prefect himself, Marcus was in charge of a group of men but
had no imperium- no immense power, such as this man had. Marcus stood at the
head of his troops staring straight ahead of him. Janus was opposite him, in
front of his group of men. And so it continued throughout the centre of the
fort. The gates of Carrawburgh swung open and the horse which carried the new
Commandant to his posting at the edge of the empire paraded through the entrance.
A stocky, middle aged man sat in the saddle. His hair was shorn close to his
head and peppered with silver. His eyes scanned the troops, seemingly noticing
anything and anyone that might be out of place. Titus Perpetuus had been warned
that this might be a challenging position, yet he was ready and willing to meet
it. He had not risen through the ranks by shying away from difficulty. He
followed Emperor Theodosius diligently; it was the only way. Christianity had
started to bleed into the empire a while ago, strange beliefs creeping in and
being met with suspicion from the Pagan Romans. Thanks to Emperor Constantine
and his Edict of Milan, Christianity had been tolerated in the empire since
313. Theodosius was gradually stamping out the Pagan beliefs, and this was one
of the reasons Titus had been sent here. Information had come through that
worried him – the cult of Mithras was growing in these Northern territories,
they still worshipped at the bog-spring which had been dedicated to Coventina
the water nymph; they still had a shrine to some more water nymphs by this
heathen temple. It was all wrong. Things would have to change.
In the cart behind the Commandant a small, sharp-featured
woman looked out over the men; the Commandant’s wife. Her eyes darted back and
forth across the troops, noticing a lot of the men were lighter skinned and
fairer haired than she was used to. The Batavians. Of course; they were a
Germanic people. One or two were dark haired like herself and her daughter.
Aemelia sat by her mother, warmly encased in animal skins and
looking around her curiously. Carrawburgh was the same as any other fort,
really. Aemelia knew her family would have a villa on the site, she knew mostly
what the days would consist of. It was always interesting coming to a new
posting with her family, though. She had spent her whole life travelling from
one fort to another with them. Things had changed a little over those eighteen
years; but not too much. But she had never been to anywhere as remote as this place.
The fields stretched out endlessly beyond Carrawburgh. Somewhere to the North
were the wild Pictish people. Aemelia had heard tales about these tribes. They
covered themselves in blue woad, believing it would defend them from the Roman
attacks; and what they lacked in battle strategy, or even weapons, they made up
for in bravery. Or stupidity, depending on how you viewed it. She put her head
down and smiled to herself, imagining the Picts running up to this fort, ready
to attack the wall. She imagined them stopping dead at the vallum, wondering
what they could do next to negotiate the great ditch which was hollowed out
before the wall. She guessed they would shout a lot and jump around a lot. They
would stand no chance against these soldiers.
Aemelia raised her deep brown eyes and stared around at the
men as the cart rumbled past them. Her gaze alighted on one of the Prefects, a
tall, fair man, standing to attention. For a moment, his expression wavered as
he caught her eye.
Marcus was a trained soldier, a professional man. But even he
couldn’t control the little flip his stomach made when the girl drove past him.
Titus Perpetuus missed nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly
and he mentally noted the tall, fair
AD 391
‘All hail!’ It was two months into the New Year. Saturnalia
was all but a memory, and today Marcus had commanded the auxiliaries in his
troops to stand to attention and welcome the Praefectus castrorum; the new
Commandant. As a prefect himself, Marcus was in charge of a group of men but
had no imperium- no immense power, such as this man had. Marcus stood at the
head of his troops staring straight ahead of him. Janus was opposite him, in
front of his group of men. And so it continued throughout the centre of the
fort. The gates of Carrawburgh swung open and the horse which carried the new
Commandant to his posting at the edge of the empire paraded through the entrance.
A stocky, middle aged man sat in the saddle. His hair was shorn close to his
head and peppered with silver. His eyes scanned the troops, seemingly noticing
anything and anyone that might be out of place. Titus Perpetuus had been warned
that this might be a challenging position, yet he was ready and willing to meet
it. He had not risen through the ranks by shying away from difficulty. He
followed Emperor Theodosius diligently; it was the only way. Christianity had
started to bleed into the empire a while ago, strange beliefs creeping in and
being met with suspicion from the Pagan Romans. Thanks to Emperor Constantine
and his Edict of Milan, Christianity had been tolerated in the empire since
313. Theodosius was gradually stamping out the Pagan beliefs, and this was one
of the reasons Titus had been sent here. Information had come through that
worried him – the cult of Mithras was growing in these Northern territories,
they still worshipped at the bog-spring which had been dedicated to Coventina
the water nymph; they still had a shrine to some more water nymphs by this
heathen temple. It was all wrong. Things would have to change.
In the cart behind the Commandant a small, sharp-featured
woman looked out over the men; the Commandant’s wife. Her eyes darted back and
forth across the troops, noticing a lot of the men were lighter skinned and
fairer haired than she was used to. The Batavians. Of course; they were a
Germanic people. One or two were dark haired like herself and her daughter.
Aemelia sat by her mother, warmly encased in animal skins and
looking around her curiously. Carrawburgh was the same as any other fort,
really. Aemelia knew her family would have a villa on the site, she knew mostly
what the days would consist of. It was always interesting coming to a new
posting with her family, though. She had spent her whole life travelling from
one fort to another with them. Things had changed a little over those eighteen
years; but not too much. But she had never been to anywhere as remote as this place.
The fields stretched out endlessly beyond Carrawburgh. Somewhere to the North
were the wild Pictish people. Aemelia had heard tales about these tribes. They
covered themselves in blue woad, believing it would defend them from the Roman
attacks; and what they lacked in battle strategy, or even weapons, they made up
for in bravery. Or stupidity, depending on how you viewed it. She put her head
down and smiled to herself, imagining the Picts running up to this fort, ready
to attack the wall. She imagined them stopping dead at the vallum, wondering
what they could do next to negotiate the great ditch which was hollowed out
before the wall. She guessed they would shout a lot and jump around a lot. They
would stand no chance against these soldiers.
Aemelia raised her deep brown eyes and stared around at the
men as the cart rumbled past them. Her gaze alighted on one of the Prefects, a
tall, fair man, standing to attention. For a moment, his expression wavered as
he caught her eye.
Marcus was a trained soldier, a professional man. But even he
couldn’t control the little flip his stomach made when the girl drove past him.
Titus Perpetuus missed nothing. His eyes narrowed slightly
and he mentally noted the tall, fair
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