was not sure how to address the secretary – dominus would surely be too deferential. As far as he knew, the secretary was only a minor functionary.
‘Oh, quite a bit further. Three hours’ march beyond Isurium, I’d say.’
Castus nodded. More or less as he had expected. They could break the march for a few hours at Isurium and make it to the villa before evening.
‘And what about this envoy we’re meeting?’
The secretary turned in his saddle and glanced down with a wry smile. ‘The less you know about him the better, I’d say!’
‘Fair enough.’
They moved on in silence, Castus falling in with his men again. He was sure now that Strabo knew something important about the mission ahead. Either he wanted to talk, but had been ordered not to, or he had been ordered to communicate something but was playing a waiting game. Either way, if the fat man wanted to be mysterious, he would let him. Castus could happily march twenty or more miles a day in complete silence with barely a conscious thought in his head, but the secretary appeared to be the kind of man who disliked silence. Give him a few more miles, Castus thought, and we’ll see how well he fares with his attempt at secrecy.
He did not have long to wait. As they passed the eleventh milestone and trees closed around the road the secretary eased himself off his pony, wincing, and walked along with the reins in his hand.
‘Do you think we might take a short rest, centurion? It’s getting rather hot!’
‘Don’t worry about that. My lot can march five hours a day like this. They haven’t even broken sweat yet. We’ll rest when we get to Isurium, but if you want a lie down you can catch us up later.’
‘Oh no, oh no…’ the secretary said. He was kicking up dust as he walked along beside his horse. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little short with you earlier. You must understand there are some things I can’t openly discuss – or not yet, anyway.’
‘That’s fine. We’ve all got our orders.’
They walked on a little further in silence. The trees opened out, and the sun shone hot on their backs. Castus had been exaggerating about his men not sweating. He glanced at Strabo: the desire to talk, whatever prohibition might be on the man, was almost palpable. Fine then; he would draw him out gradually.
‘Tell me about these Picts,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes, the Picts,’ said Strabo, widening his eyes. They had drawn ahead of the marching men a little – Castus had not noticed. He reminded himself not to become complacent about this man.
‘They live in the mountains and valleys, beyond the settled peoples to the north of the Wall of Hadrian,’ the secretary said. ‘Originally they were a collection of feuding tribes – Caledones, Miathi, Venicones and others. They fought many wars against Rome over the years, whenever they banded together and tried to resist us. Then the emperor Severus marched into the north with a huge army. You’ll have read about Severus in the histories, I expect?’
Castus, of course, had read nothing at all, but he had heard of Severus. The emperor who had built the current walls of Eboracum fortress. He nodded.
‘Severus campaigned against the tribes for three years, but failed to completely subdue them. His army burned and destroyed their homes and killed anyone they could find.’
Castus gave an appreciative grunt. He had always liked the sound of the emperor Severus: clearly a commander who knew the best way to treat savages.
‘However, Severus died before he could finish the campaign. The tribes, though, had been driven back into the deepest and most inaccessible valleys of their homeland, and there they remained for most of the last hundred years, fighting among themselves, giving us no trouble.’
‘Good result,’ said Castus. As he had expected, the secretary had shrugged off his fatigue in his enthusiasm to talk. ‘So then what?’
‘Around twenty years ago,’ Strabo said, ‘there were reports
‘Oh, quite a bit further. Three hours’ march beyond Isurium, I’d say.’
Castus nodded. More or less as he had expected. They could break the march for a few hours at Isurium and make it to the villa before evening.
‘And what about this envoy we’re meeting?’
The secretary turned in his saddle and glanced down with a wry smile. ‘The less you know about him the better, I’d say!’
‘Fair enough.’
They moved on in silence, Castus falling in with his men again. He was sure now that Strabo knew something important about the mission ahead. Either he wanted to talk, but had been ordered not to, or he had been ordered to communicate something but was playing a waiting game. Either way, if the fat man wanted to be mysterious, he would let him. Castus could happily march twenty or more miles a day in complete silence with barely a conscious thought in his head, but the secretary appeared to be the kind of man who disliked silence. Give him a few more miles, Castus thought, and we’ll see how well he fares with his attempt at secrecy.
He did not have long to wait. As they passed the eleventh milestone and trees closed around the road the secretary eased himself off his pony, wincing, and walked along with the reins in his hand.
‘Do you think we might take a short rest, centurion? It’s getting rather hot!’
‘Don’t worry about that. My lot can march five hours a day like this. They haven’t even broken sweat yet. We’ll rest when we get to Isurium, but if you want a lie down you can catch us up later.’
‘Oh no, oh no…’ the secretary said. He was kicking up dust as he walked along beside his horse. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little short with you earlier. You must understand there are some things I can’t openly discuss – or not yet, anyway.’
‘That’s fine. We’ve all got our orders.’
They walked on a little further in silence. The trees opened out, and the sun shone hot on their backs. Castus had been exaggerating about his men not sweating. He glanced at Strabo: the desire to talk, whatever prohibition might be on the man, was almost palpable. Fine then; he would draw him out gradually.
‘Tell me about these Picts,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes, the Picts,’ said Strabo, widening his eyes. They had drawn ahead of the marching men a little – Castus had not noticed. He reminded himself not to become complacent about this man.
‘They live in the mountains and valleys, beyond the settled peoples to the north of the Wall of Hadrian,’ the secretary said. ‘Originally they were a collection of feuding tribes – Caledones, Miathi, Venicones and others. They fought many wars against Rome over the years, whenever they banded together and tried to resist us. Then the emperor Severus marched into the north with a huge army. You’ll have read about Severus in the histories, I expect?’
Castus, of course, had read nothing at all, but he had heard of Severus. The emperor who had built the current walls of Eboracum fortress. He nodded.
‘Severus campaigned against the tribes for three years, but failed to completely subdue them. His army burned and destroyed their homes and killed anyone they could find.’
Castus gave an appreciative grunt. He had always liked the sound of the emperor Severus: clearly a commander who knew the best way to treat savages.
‘However, Severus died before he could finish the campaign. The tribes, though, had been driven back into the deepest and most inaccessible valleys of their homeland, and there they remained for most of the last hundred years, fighting among themselves, giving us no trouble.’
‘Good result,’ said Castus. As he had expected, the secretary had shrugged off his fatigue in his enthusiasm to talk. ‘So then what?’
‘Around twenty years ago,’ Strabo said, ‘there were reports
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