Ashes Under Uricon
Chapter 18. Sanctus (370)
By Mihangel
Scafae tamen maioribus liburnis exploratoriae sociantur, quae vicenos prope remiges in singulis partibus habeant, quas Britanni pictas uocant. Per has et superventus fieri et commeatus adversariorum navium aliquando intercipi adsolet et speculandi studio adventus earum vel consilium deprehendi. Ne tamen exploratiae naves candore prodantur, colore veneto, qui marinis est fluctibus similis, vela tinguntur et funes, cera etiam, qua ungere solent naves, inficitur. Nautaeque vel milites venetam vestem induunt, ut non solum per noctem sed etiam per diem facilius lateant explorantes.
To the larger warships are attached scouting skiffs with about twenty oarsmen each side, which the Britons call Picts. They are used for raids, and sometimes for intercepting enemy convoys, and for surveillance to detect their approach and intentions. So that the patrol ships are not betrayed by their light colour, the sails and rigging are painted sea-blue like the waves, and the wax used to coat the hulls is dyed. The sailors and marines also wear blue clothes when scouting, the better to remain unseen by night and day.
Vegetius, Epitome of Military Science
In May Bran fell ill. First he became unusually weary. That was hardly surprising because he had been driving himself to his limits. So too, for that matter, had I. But then he fell prey to headaches, vomiting, diarrhoea, a high temperature, and a red rash. Enteric fever, the doctor diagnosed. Bran could even guess where he had picked it up, an ancient and particularly noisome cesspit which his gang of water-workers had broken into while extending the southern pipeline. Enteric fever was not uncommon in the town, and the prognosis was much better than for the galloping tisis which was invariably fatal. At first we were not unduly concerned, and followed the recommended treatment of careful nursing and a liquid diet. But Bran did not improve. He became grossly debilitated, as wasted almost as Lucius had been, and I was worried silly.
The doctors of Viroconium, while adequate for handling modest ailments and treating common injuries, had their limitations. The town did have a temple with a healing role, and the models and plaques of eyes on its walls bore witness to the many eye infections which had been cured there. But Bran's eyes were almost the only part of his anatomy that was not affected. We needed a different god with a different specialism.
"Sulis, do you think?" I asked Tad. "I've got to go to Abonae next week for the lead."
"No. Bran could never ride that far. And Sulis doesn't deal with fevers. She's excellent for joints and muscles and skin, but not for internal things like this. And if Bran drank that repulsive water he'd be vomiting worse than he is now."
I was still pondering as I went down to the wharf to see to the loading of the lead. As luck would have it, the boat to be loaded was the Fortuna, and Bitucus and Lurio, noticing my preoccupation, asked what was up. I explained.
"Nodens," they said at once, "at Nemetobala. That new temple above the Sabrina. Everyone's talking about him down there, and everyone swears by him. And he specialises in fevers. Tell you what. You bring Bran to the boat tomorrow and we'll take you to Nemetobala as gentle as a babe in a cradle. There's a creek just below it, and we hear a chap there's got a litter for carrying patients up to the temple. How about it?"
I put it to Bran who, smiling wanly, agreed. "And Nodens," he added, "is Irish."
I put it to Tad who said, "Go for it."
I suggested we take him too. I was worried. He was more and more breathless these days and complained of pains in his chest. But he argued that we could hardly all be away at the same time.
"If it works with Bran," he allowed, "maybe I'll come down next time."
I fitted out the Fortuna with planks over the pigs of lead, and then a mattress, and then a pile of blankets, all under the awning in the bows. Bran could only keep down liquids, and I brought as much fresh milk as I thought might last, if kept cool in the bilges. At least the weather was not hot. And so we set off. This time I saw little of the scenery, and Bran even less. Day and night I was with him under the awning where he tossed and dozed while I fretted.
"Don't worry, Docco," he said. "I couldn't ask for a smoother journey, and I don't intend to die on you. Just get me to Nemetobala and Nodens will sort me out. I'll look at the scenery on the way back." And he smiled bravely.
Bitucus and Lurio were magnificent. The first night they set a snare and caught a rabbit which, when boiled, gave a broth which I spoon-fed to Bran. They forwent the fleshpots of Vertis and Glevum so that we saved a day. By luck we coincided with neap tides and there was no significant wave. Early one morning, with Bran still no better but at least no worse, they put us ashore at the creek below Nemetobala, where I hired the litter for Bran and a horse for myself. We slowly covered the two miles of steep ascent. And so we came to Nodens.
His precinct was more compact than Maponus'. A large temple with the unusual layout of nave and aisles, a courtyarded hostel, a range of small rooms used as a sanatorium, and a bath suite all jostled for space on a hilltop with spectacular views. We were met by a priest who led us to the temple, where we laid Bran on a bed in a curtained alcove. The priest put a hand on his forehead and chest, felt his pulse, and smelt his breath.
"Enteric fever," he said matter-of-factly. "But he is strong at heart. I think he will do well."
He went away and came back with a cup of black liquid which he held to Bran's lips. Bran sipped, belched, and drank greedily. Some herbal concoction, I guessed, including, from the smell, poppy. The priest confirmed it.
"It will induce the holy sleep. It will palliate the fever which is in him. And he will dream, which may palliate the fitful fever of his life."
He whistled, and a dog came padding up, a large Irish wolfhound, which licked Bran's face and lay down beside the bed, its head on his lap.
I looked my surprise.
"Dogs have healing powers too."
Bran was already dropping off, and the priest showed me round the temple. It was more ornate than Maponus', with murals on the walls and mosaics on the floor. The pavement at the inner end of the nave was of intertwined dolphins below two lines of writing. 'To the god Mars Nodens,' it said, 'Titus Flavius Senilis, officer in command of the naval supply depot, had this mosaic laid out of the offerings, with the help of Victorinus the interpreter.'
"Interpreter?" I asked.
"From Irish. On the governor's staff. This temple is not just British. It belongs to the Attacotti too."
Of course.
Near the mosaic was a curse written on lead, not rolled up as at Aquae Sulis but nailed to the wall for all to see. 'To the god Nodens,' it read. 'Silvianus has lost his ring and given half its value to Nodens. Among those who are called Senicianus do not allow health until he returns it to the temple of Nodens.'
A shiver went down my spine.
"My father is called Senicianus. He is not well. Can that be why?"
"Only if he is guilty. Where does he live?"
"Viroconium."
"And has he ever been in these parts?"
"No nearer than Abonae."
"That ring was stolen on this side of Sabrina. Therefore your father is innocent. Therefore he is not afflicted by the god. Nodens is not naïve."
That was a relief.
"What are your father's symptoms?"
I described the breathlessness and pains. The priest looked grave.
"That does not bode well. It sounds like his heart. Bring him here by all means, but I can promise nothing. There are some diseases which not even Nodens can cure."
My worry increased. I should have brought Tad as well. We looked at Bran, who was now deep in sleep, and the priest felt his forehead again.
"It will be a while before he is fit to ride. You came by boat, I believe?"
"Yes, and we're going back by boat, to Viroconium."
"Good. In that case, leave him with us for four nights. Or stay here yourself, if you wish. It would not go amiss" -- he looked at me clinically -- "if you spent a night sleeping the holy sleep. Even young bodies can be overtaxed."
He had a point. I was worn out not only physically but mentally, and before Bran fell ill I had sometimes, to my shame, caught myself snapping at him. I did not want to leave him alone. But I did have business to do. I hardened my heart, kissed him on the lips, and rode down the estuary and crossed it on the ferry which landed me near Abonae. There I dealt with the shipment of the lead and arranged with Bitucus to pick us up below the temple on the afternoon tide in four days' time. After a night in a hotel I rode north to Corinium to deliver my batch of silver, pick up cash from the bank, and hobnob with the Count of the Mines.
I had written in advance to the governor to tell him I was coming, but had heard nothing back. The Count explained why. Sanctus was on a month-long tour of Demetia talking to the Attacotti, but had left word that if I turned up I was to be asked to go west and meet him on his return journey. I would probably find him at Tamium. That suited my plans, and next morning I left early and rode hard by way of Glevum to Nemetobala, where I looked in on Bran. He was already out of bed and sitting in the sunlit garden with a cup of milk and a bird's-eye view across the Sabrina, still weak but feeling and looking very much better. The dog was beside him. I promised to return the next day. If I failed to find the governor, too bad. Bran was more important.
After an hour I was off again, paralleling the Sabrina as it grew from river to estuary to sea. I crossed the great Vogius by ferry and spent the night in the state hotel at Venta Silurum, for which the Count had given me a voucher. Although the capital of the civitas of the Silures, Venta was a small town, newly-walled and neat. It had survived the troubles, but here too the countryside had suffered. Another start at the crack of dawn, and I passed the great ramparts of Isca, once the proud headquarters of a legion but now a scruffy shanty town, home only to down-and-out civilians who had lost the economic basis of their life.
Further on, an upright stone standing by the roadside made me rein briefly in. Along one angle of it were carved notches of which I could not make head or tail, but its Latin inscription read MAGLOCVNI FILI CLVTORI, the grave of Maglocunus son of Clutorius. A strange coincidence, for Maglocunus was not a common name. Just beyond the stone lay a small settlement of round huts which brought back vivid memories. Irish, surely. As I trotted through, I flung an Irish Good morning! to a woman at the door of a hut and, astonished, she replied in Irish. Why, I wondered, a Latin tombstone with British names outside an Irish village? But I had no time to ask.
By the third hour I was in sight of the massive bastions of Tamium, very much a working fort, and as I approached the north gate a regular procession came out: Sanctus himself, an entourage of officials and servants, a long string of pack animals, and a military escort. I had timed it, by chance, to perfection. Pretending to a confidence I did not have, I waited by the roadside; and to my surprise, for we had met only once and briefly, Sanctus recognised me and waved me to him.
"Well met, Docco." He shook my hand. "And thank you for coming so far out of your way. Is Bran not with you?"
I explained, and said that I hoped to be back with him that night.
"My sympathies. And I understand your concern. Enteric fever is no trifle. Is he, if I may ask, your, ah, partner?" I nodded. "I rather thought so. Then it is all the kinder of you to give me your time. But he could be in no better hands than Nodens'. And I would be grateful for your company as far as Venta, where I'm staying tonight."
As we rode side by side, his aides having withdrawn to give us privacy, he asked many questions, and penetrating ones, about Viroconium, its economy, its defences, its local politics and its morale. He asked about the lead and copper mines. He asked about my time in slavery and about Maqqos-colini and conditions in Ireland.
At one point, as my eyes roamed casually across the empty blue-green Sabrina Sea, I saw a sudden flash as if from a reflection and did a double-take. Sanctus noticed, and laughed.
"Look at it hard. What do you see?"
I looked hard, and gasped. "It's a boat!"
"That's right. A painted boat. We call them Picts. A rather feeble pun. There are twelve of them based at Tamium, for scouting. Our eyes in the Sabrina Sea, where the Attacotti are our ears, or we hope they are."
"I wish we had those in the Deva Sea."
"So do I. I've been pushing hard for it. Why shouldn't Viroconium enjoy the same long-range defences as Corinium? But my powers are only civil ones, and so far I haven't managed to persuade the godheads in the military."
"Do they have a down on Viroconium?" I asked daringly. "Tantaene animis caelestibus irae? Why such great rancour in those heavenly minds?"
Sanctus laughed hugely. "So you're a devotee of Vergil too? I might have guessed it. Proof, if it's needed, that Corinium isn't the only civilised town in the province! And is Bran another devotee?"
"Oh yes. We grew up on Vergil together."
"Ah. Well, as we were saying, the heavenly minds of the military are fixed on the perennial questions of cost and manpower. It isn't rancour. They put their troops and money where they see the best returns. In Britannia Prima, Corinium and the south have a larger population and a greater wealth than Viroconium and the north. End of argument, as they see it. But, without wishing the Irish on you, I wouldn't mind this sort of thing up your way, as a sort of buffer between you and them."
'This sort of thing' was the Irish village through which we were now passing. "There are plenty of settlements like this all the way from here to Octapitarum, and inland too. Essentially Irish, but the Attacotti intermarry with the locals, so they're partly British. With a foot in both camps."
"Oh, I see. Hence the British names on that gravestone."
I pointed to it.
He stopped to read it, and the whole convoy stopped behind us. "That's right. And it's in Ogam as well."
"Ogam?"
"The Irish script. Those notches."
I was astonished. "I'd no idea the Irish had writing. How does it work?"
"I haven't a clue. Let's ask Victorinus. He knows far more than I do about things Irish. He's my interpreter."
"The man whose name is on the mosaic at Nemetobala?"
"That's him. And the Senilis whose name is also on it maintains the painted boats at Tamium."
He beckoned to an official in his entourage and asked him to explain about the alphabet. It had been invented quite recently, Victorinus told me, by some Attacotti who had learnt Latin at a British school in Moridunum. They wanted to imitate our tomb markers, but reckoned Roman letters were too complicated. Hence the notches, easily cut on the angle of a plank or a stone. They came in groups of one to five, each group representing a letter. Straight across the angle, they were vowels -- one stroke for A, two for O, and so forth. Notches diagonally across, or only on one side or other of the angle, gave fifteen consonants. The script was called Ogam after Ogma, the Irish god of eloquence, but it was far too cumbrous for writing anything like literature. Yet it was handy for this limited purpose. Victorinus put his head on one side to read the inscription.
"MAGLICUNAS MAQI CLUTARI," he said.
I was delighted. "Exactly the same as the Latin, but in Irish."
"That's right. And the Attacotti sent the idea across to their relatives in southern Ireland. They've stayed in close touch with them. And I've heard that it's already in use on gravestones there. Without the Latin, of course."
"There's nothing like that in Laigin."
"Well, Laigin's halfway up Ireland, and no doubt it hasn't spread that far yet. Does that mean you've been there? And speak Irish?"
Victorinus was eager for a professional chat. Sanctus surrendered me for a while, but when a milestone told us we were two miles from Venta he reclaimed me.
"A final word, Docco, before our ways part. You've told me a great deal for which I'm immensely grateful. Let me tell you a little in return. Already we rely heavily on barbarians to fill our armies, Germans especially, as you very well know. Equally we rely on federates to keep our frontiers, and we'll come to rely more. True, they're not popular. People grudgingly agree there's no alternative, but have as little to do with them as possible and fleece them wickedly. Federates are all very well if they're treated properly. But the Attacotti haven't been -- hence the recent troubles. I hope they are now. For some years they've been intermarrying with Britons, and in time they'll be assimilated and become part of the landscape. And if there's to be real trust at the official level, it's all-important to get to know their leaders personally. That's what I've been doing these past few weeks. It's hard work, mind you. Labor omnia vicit improbus et duris urgens in rebus egestas. Never-flinching labour is the answer, and the stress of need in a life of struggles. But you know all about that too, you and Bran.
"I hope that we're past the worst, here in the south. Our weakness now is in the north, up your way. If you two with your Irish connections can devise some equivalent relationship there, may I ask you to pursue it as hard as you can? Without some such defence all round, Britain will go under."
I nodded. I had for a while been coming to the same view.
"You know, Docco, I sometimes think the empire is like a piece of furniture. Elaborate. Beautifully made. Eminently useful. But it's held together with glue and it's standing in the open air. So long as the weather stays dry, no problem. But now it's starting to rain. The empire can survive a few showers, but once it gets too wet the glue will dissolve and the whole thing will fall apart."
It was an extraordinary admission, and he knew it. He looked at me sideways.
"There aren't many I'd say that to. It smacks of treason. You may pass it on to Bran, but no further. "
That demanded a formal reply. "Yes sir. Of course." I knew that 'Your Perfection' was the proper way to address a governor, but with Sanctus it sounded like an insult. 'Sir' seemed more respectful.
"But why are you telling this to me? I'm just a youngster, a nobody, from the middle of nowhere."
"A youngster, yes, but the youngsters of today are the leaders of tomorrow. From the middle of nowhere, no, because Viroconium is important. After all, you don't have a Guardian of the civitas, do you?"
"A what?"
"There you are. A Guardian is an imperial agent accountable to the governor. He's appointed to keep an eye on local administration and finances. The Cornovii are the only civitas in Britain not to have one, because they don't need one, or haven't so far. I'm sure your councillors don't like their duties -- who does? -- but they carry them out quietly and considerately and efficiently, compared with other civitates where they evade or abuse them wholesale and have to be chivvied and supervised. Viroconium's a shining example of Britons running their own affairs. And if -- or when -- there's no Roman future, there will still be a British future.
"And that, Docco, is where you and Bran come in. You're far from nobodies. When the Roman furniture falls apart, the fate of this island will rest in the hands of such as you. To some extent it does already. We keep our eyes open for promising leaders of the community. I belong to the past, myself. My tour of duty finishes in a few months. They move us on ridiculously fast these days -- a couple of years is far too short to get to know a province. But people like you and Bran are permanencies. You are the future. I'll make sure my successor knows about you. Don't hesitate to consult him. And Civilis the Deputy Prefect knows about you, and he'll tell his successor."
I could find no answer to that. The west gate of Venta was in front of us, with a clutch of councillors waiting to greet Sanctus. He reined in and dismounted, and I followed suit.
"Docco, I have something with me which I brought to while away the evening hours. It's served its purpose now, and I've had it dug out of the baggage. I hope you'll accept it as a token of esteem to yourself and Bran."
He snapped his fingers to an attendant, who handed him a large bundle wrapped in cloth, and Sanctus passed it on to me.
"Don't bother with it now. No time to waste if you're to reach Nemetobala by nightfall."
As I stowed it in my saddlebag, which it only just fitted, he remounted.
"Goodbye, Docco." He leant down to shake my hand once more. "We probably won't meet again. But good luck, and my best wishes to Bran."
Followed by his entourage, Sanctus rode into Venta, leaving me staring after him. If all the servants of the empire were like him, we would have fewer problems.
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