of a new power in the north. The scattered tribes had banded together, to threaten the more peaceable tribes allied to Rome. They were led by the Miathi people, but their neighbours called them the Picts. A name to instil terror, it seems.’
‘Doesn’t sound very terrible,’ Castus said. A thought struck him. ‘Do they really paint themselves blue, these Picts, and ride around in chariots? That’s what somebody told me…’
Strabo chuckled dryly. ‘Oh, they do that on occasion, yes. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the Picts soon overran the settled tribal lands and threatened the northern frontier of the empire. At the same time, the Franks were raiding the coasts of Gaul and Britain too. So, as perhaps you recall, when Maximian was appointed co-emperor he sent a man called Carausius to deal with the situation.’
‘Carausius,’ Castus said. He recognised that name at least. The usurper who had seized control of Britain and the Gallic coast and declared himself emperor of the west. Even now, more then a decade after Carausius had fallen, the legions of Britain were still held in suspicion for their support of him. That, Castus had often thought, explained the poor condition of the province, the dilapidated fortresses, the demoralised troops.
‘Shortly after this Carausius claimed the purple, he appointed one of his own officers, Aelius Marcellinus, to drive back the Pictish marauders. By this time they were under the leadership of a high chieftain, Vepogenus, of the Miathi royal house.’
‘This is the one who’s just died?’
‘Yes – I’ll come to that. Anyway, Marcellinus, a Spaniard by birth but married into the native British aristocracy, conducted a short but very effective campaign along the Wall of Hadrian. He broke the Pictish attack, and concluded a series of treaties with them to ensure peace. He also, ah… entered into what you might call a pact of brotherhood with Vepogenus.’
‘A Roman officer did that? Not a good idea.’
‘Well, it was effective. The Picts respect personal bonds much more than political treaties, you see. However, the following year Carausius was murdered by Allectus, one of his own ministers, who took over power, and soon afterwards seized Marcellinus and charged him with treason. Marcellinus managed to escape, crossed over to Gaul and surrendered to the new Caesar Constantius, giving him vital information about the usurper’s forces. And then, as you surely know, Constantius led his army across the Gallic Strait and reconquered Britain for Rome.’
Castus nodded, trying to take it all in. He was aware that Strabo’s story had strayed some distance from the matter of the Picts. Or had it? He was beginning to suspect that this man Marcellinus would become a lot more prominent very soon.
But Strabo had fallen back now, coughing and rummaging in his saddlebag for a canteen. Castus left him and marched on at the head of his men. Clearly the secretary felt he had said enough, for now.
Fields of young wheat edged the road, and from every copse rose the smoke of a hearth fire. This was rich farming country. Two miles further on, the men let out a ragged cheer as the town of Isurium appeared ahead of them. The walled settlement lay along the bank of a river, its tiled roofs bright in the morning sun. There was even an amphitheatre, the topmost tiers showing white above the trees.
The citizens were used to soldiers passing up and down the road, and few turned to watch as Castus led his century along the muddy main street and out by the far gate to the grassy bank of the river.
‘Timotheus,’ he called, ‘fall the men out. We’ll rest here for four hours. Set a sentry watch of ten men by rotation, and the rest can strip off and bathe in the river, eat and sleep if they can.’
The optio saluted and strutted away, already crying out the orders. Castus dropped down to sit in the grass. His feet were hot and sore in their binding of
‘Doesn’t sound very terrible,’ Castus said. A thought struck him. ‘Do they really paint themselves blue, these Picts, and ride around in chariots? That’s what somebody told me…’
Strabo chuckled dryly. ‘Oh, they do that on occasion, yes. You’ll see for yourself soon enough. Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the Picts soon overran the settled tribal lands and threatened the northern frontier of the empire. At the same time, the Franks were raiding the coasts of Gaul and Britain too. So, as perhaps you recall, when Maximian was appointed co-emperor he sent a man called Carausius to deal with the situation.’
‘Carausius,’ Castus said. He recognised that name at least. The usurper who had seized control of Britain and the Gallic coast and declared himself emperor of the west. Even now, more then a decade after Carausius had fallen, the legions of Britain were still held in suspicion for their support of him. That, Castus had often thought, explained the poor condition of the province, the dilapidated fortresses, the demoralised troops.
‘Shortly after this Carausius claimed the purple, he appointed one of his own officers, Aelius Marcellinus, to drive back the Pictish marauders. By this time they were under the leadership of a high chieftain, Vepogenus, of the Miathi royal house.’
‘This is the one who’s just died?’
‘Yes – I’ll come to that. Anyway, Marcellinus, a Spaniard by birth but married into the native British aristocracy, conducted a short but very effective campaign along the Wall of Hadrian. He broke the Pictish attack, and concluded a series of treaties with them to ensure peace. He also, ah… entered into what you might call a pact of brotherhood with Vepogenus.’
‘A Roman officer did that? Not a good idea.’
‘Well, it was effective. The Picts respect personal bonds much more than political treaties, you see. However, the following year Carausius was murdered by Allectus, one of his own ministers, who took over power, and soon afterwards seized Marcellinus and charged him with treason. Marcellinus managed to escape, crossed over to Gaul and surrendered to the new Caesar Constantius, giving him vital information about the usurper’s forces. And then, as you surely know, Constantius led his army across the Gallic Strait and reconquered Britain for Rome.’
Castus nodded, trying to take it all in. He was aware that Strabo’s story had strayed some distance from the matter of the Picts. Or had it? He was beginning to suspect that this man Marcellinus would become a lot more prominent very soon.
But Strabo had fallen back now, coughing and rummaging in his saddlebag for a canteen. Castus left him and marched on at the head of his men. Clearly the secretary felt he had said enough, for now.
Fields of young wheat edged the road, and from every copse rose the smoke of a hearth fire. This was rich farming country. Two miles further on, the men let out a ragged cheer as the town of Isurium appeared ahead of them. The walled settlement lay along the bank of a river, its tiled roofs bright in the morning sun. There was even an amphitheatre, the topmost tiers showing white above the trees.
The citizens were used to soldiers passing up and down the road, and few turned to watch as Castus led his century along the muddy main street and out by the far gate to the grassy bank of the river.
‘Timotheus,’ he called, ‘fall the men out. We’ll rest here for four hours. Set a sentry watch of ten men by rotation, and the rest can strip off and bathe in the river, eat and sleep if they can.’
The optio saluted and strutted away, already crying out the orders. Castus dropped down to sit in the grass. His feet were hot and sore in their binding of
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