restored his pact of brotherhood with the Pictish chieftain, Vepogenus. That was eight years ago, and ever since the peace has held.’
‘But now this Vepogenus has died of eating mushrooms?’
‘Died of something. We can only hope that mushrooms were involved, and not something less… natural. Despite the treaties, you see, there are many among the Picts who long to avenge themselves on Rome for their past defeats. Besides, one or two of those renegades I mentioned are still with them, and as you can imagine they still plot and scheme.’
‘I don’t have much of an imagination. Why weren’t they surrendered to justice when the war ended?’
‘Oh, well. The terms of the surrender were… difficult. In fact, you might better call it a truce. Since the few surviving renegades were present at the negotiations, and hold high rank among the Picts, it was difficult to… apprehend them, shall we say.’
‘And what about Marcellinus? I’ve never heard his name before now.’ Castus was developing a strong notion about the identity of their mysterious envoy.
But Strabo had got up and was heading for the river. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said. ‘Just now I have a fierce need to wash my feet!’
Back on the road northwards from Isurium, the century passed across an open moorland of brown heather and wild grass. After five miles, Strabo turned aside from the road and led them off along a narrower track, due west into a broad river valley. The late-afternoon sun was warm and golden, and the feet of the marching men raised a low haze of dust over the road.
‘Move up ahead with me a little way,’ Strabo said, slipping down off his pony to walk beside Castus. ‘I’ll tell you more about Marcellinus, although I’m not sure it’s safe for everyone to know, if you follow me.’
The secretary had a tired look now, and his face was dusty. He was developing a persistent cough, and swigged from a small bottle of medicine he kept in his saddlebag. All this way, Castus thought, the secrecy had been wearing away at him. Now he had to let it out.
‘Nobody can hear us,’ he said, glancing back. They forded a shallow rushing stream, the water soaking through their boots and leg wrappings. Strabo nodded, closing his eyes; the relief at being able to unburden himself was obvious. Not for the first time, Castus wondered just how much of the secretary’s reserve had been calculated.
‘I told you that Marcellinus led the treaty negotiations at the end of the last Pictish war,’ Strabo said, quickly and quietly. ‘There’s a little more to it than that. Part of the talks involved an exchange of hostages – it’s common among the native peoples, and Marcellinus understood their ways. As a token of his trust in Vepogenus, he sent his own son, a boy of fourteen, as hostage for our side.’
Castus whistled through his teeth. He had a bad feeling about the way this story was going. The shadow of a cloud fell over the road ahead.
‘He died, the boy,’ Strabo said. ‘Murdered, probably by one of the renegades in an attempt to sabotage the peace talks.’
‘And Marcellinus… forgave them?’
‘He had to. Either that, or renew a destructive war and fight with rage in his heart. The murderer was never identified, needless to say, but I believe he had his suspicions.’
‘Strong man.’
‘Yes. Strong indeed. But the experience broke his spirits. He resigned his command after the peace was agreed, and retired to his estates. Few people have seen or heard from him since.’
But we will, and soon, Castus thought. He was grinding his molars as he marched. Savage barbarians, murderous renegade Romans – and an envoy with a killing grudge against both of them. He glanced back at the men behind him, marching along at an easy pace, spearpoints catching the lowering sunlight. Surely the tribune back at Eboracum had been right: they should have sent a full cohort, with cavalry support.
‘He’s still the most skilled negotiator in
‘But now this Vepogenus has died of eating mushrooms?’
‘Died of something. We can only hope that mushrooms were involved, and not something less… natural. Despite the treaties, you see, there are many among the Picts who long to avenge themselves on Rome for their past defeats. Besides, one or two of those renegades I mentioned are still with them, and as you can imagine they still plot and scheme.’
‘I don’t have much of an imagination. Why weren’t they surrendered to justice when the war ended?’
‘Oh, well. The terms of the surrender were… difficult. In fact, you might better call it a truce. Since the few surviving renegades were present at the negotiations, and hold high rank among the Picts, it was difficult to… apprehend them, shall we say.’
‘And what about Marcellinus? I’ve never heard his name before now.’ Castus was developing a strong notion about the identity of their mysterious envoy.
But Strabo had got up and was heading for the river. ‘Perhaps later,’ he said. ‘Just now I have a fierce need to wash my feet!’
Back on the road northwards from Isurium, the century passed across an open moorland of brown heather and wild grass. After five miles, Strabo turned aside from the road and led them off along a narrower track, due west into a broad river valley. The late-afternoon sun was warm and golden, and the feet of the marching men raised a low haze of dust over the road.
‘Move up ahead with me a little way,’ Strabo said, slipping down off his pony to walk beside Castus. ‘I’ll tell you more about Marcellinus, although I’m not sure it’s safe for everyone to know, if you follow me.’
The secretary had a tired look now, and his face was dusty. He was developing a persistent cough, and swigged from a small bottle of medicine he kept in his saddlebag. All this way, Castus thought, the secrecy had been wearing away at him. Now he had to let it out.
‘Nobody can hear us,’ he said, glancing back. They forded a shallow rushing stream, the water soaking through their boots and leg wrappings. Strabo nodded, closing his eyes; the relief at being able to unburden himself was obvious. Not for the first time, Castus wondered just how much of the secretary’s reserve had been calculated.
‘I told you that Marcellinus led the treaty negotiations at the end of the last Pictish war,’ Strabo said, quickly and quietly. ‘There’s a little more to it than that. Part of the talks involved an exchange of hostages – it’s common among the native peoples, and Marcellinus understood their ways. As a token of his trust in Vepogenus, he sent his own son, a boy of fourteen, as hostage for our side.’
Castus whistled through his teeth. He had a bad feeling about the way this story was going. The shadow of a cloud fell over the road ahead.
‘He died, the boy,’ Strabo said. ‘Murdered, probably by one of the renegades in an attempt to sabotage the peace talks.’
‘And Marcellinus… forgave them?’
‘He had to. Either that, or renew a destructive war and fight with rage in his heart. The murderer was never identified, needless to say, but I believe he had his suspicions.’
‘Strong man.’
‘Yes. Strong indeed. But the experience broke his spirits. He resigned his command after the peace was agreed, and retired to his estates. Few people have seen or heard from him since.’
But we will, and soon, Castus thought. He was grinding his molars as he marched. Savage barbarians, murderous renegade Romans – and an envoy with a killing grudge against both of them. He glanced back at the men behind him, marching along at an easy pace, spearpoints catching the lowering sunlight. Surely the tribune back at Eboracum had been right: they should have sent a full cohort, with cavalry support.
‘He’s still the most skilled negotiator in
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