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tanaquiljallTitle: Borderland
Fandom: Jericho/fusion with Rosemary Sutcliff’s works, particularly The Eagle of the Ninth series
Rating: Teen
Contains: Canon-level violence/torture, canon character death
Words: 21,600 words
Summary: A historical AU set in Roman Britain in AD63. Tribune Tiberius Matius Buccio (Major Beck) has been posted to the fringes of the Roman empire — Britain — to help keep the peace following the Boudiccan revolt three years earlier. Settling in to his role, he becomes friendly with local chieftain’s son Jago (Jake Green). When an ongoing local feud takes a murderous turn, he finds himself caught between his friendship with Jago and his duty as a Roman officer.![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
subluxate created a wonderful mix to accompany the story called Hinterlands—please listen and enjoy.
Disclaimer: This story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series Jericho and the works of Rosemary Sutcliff. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: This story uses characters and plot elements from Jericho and worldbuilding, tropes and style from Rosemary Sutcliff—see the end notes for more detail on some of the historical background used in the story. It was written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
smallfandombang. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta. Thanks also to subluxate for creating a wonderful mix for the story.
Chapters 1 to 4
Chapters 5 to 8
9. Breaking Point
The air inside the cell was musty as Buccio stepped inside, smelling of old straw and past prisoners. He tried to not to breathe too deeply in the hot air, baked by the afternoon soon beating down outside. Jago had been stripped of his shirt and his hands bound behind his back; the tattooed patterns on his chest and arms were barely visible in the gloom.
He lifted his head as Buccio entered, letting out a faint snort when he saw who his visitor was. “What do you want now? You have me.”
Buccio folded his arms. “The truth would be a start.”
Jago gave him a wary look. After a moment, he said carefully. “I’ve told you. I’m responsible. For everything.”
Now it was Buccio’s turn to sniff derisively. What Jago said might be strictly accurate—as chieftain, he was answerable for the actions of his people—but they both knew that wasn’t what Buccio had meant.
“Maybe you are,” Buccio conceded. “But I know that it was your brother’s arrows that killed Constantius. That it was your brother who was seen at Constantius’ dun, not you. I am quite sure they would not have neglected to tell me if you had been there also.”
Jago was silent again, clearly thinking hard as he kept his gaze fixed on Buccio. At last, he said, “I gave the order.”
Buccio shook his head. “I think not. I think if you had done so, you would also have given the order to use unmarked arrows, to stay out of sight, to make sure that none could prove you had broken your promise to me.” Buccio was quite sure that, even in the heat of the moment, Jago would have given thought to the consequences of his actions. Indeed, he had done so when he had promised to wait until Buccio had looked into the matter. Ennor on the other hand…. “Your brother was too angry, perhaps, to think of such things, or to care overmuch for your promise,” he pointed out.
Jago shifted, struggling to his knees. “They killed my father,” he reminded Buccio, his voice harsh with grief. “At the midsummer gathering.”
Buccio nodded. “I know,” he said softly.
“And that was the end of a long line of troubles.” Jago turned his head away, grimacing. “They deserved to be punished.”
“Perhaps they did.” Buccio took a pace forwards and squatted on his haunches, so his face was level with Jago’s. “But not by you or your brother. We may be on the frontiers of the Empire but we are not beyond them, nor beyond the laws of Rome and the Law of your Tribe. It was not any one man’s place to take justice into his own hands in this matter.” Jago had turned to look at Buccio again. His eyes were dark and Buccio could not read his expression, but he seemed to be at least willing to listen. Buccio reached out and grasped his shoulder gently. “Tell me where I can find Ennor and you have my word that you will go free and your people will face no further punishment.”
Jago looked back at him, his gaze searching Buccio’s face as if trying to decide whether Buccio spoke the truth. Buccio gave him a small nod of encouragement: trust me. At that, Jago wrenched his shoulder from under Buccio’s hand. “I won’t give him up. If that’s what you want, you’ll find yourself waiting until Rome has crumbled to dust and the stars have fallen from the sky.”
Buccio rocked back on his heels, shocked at the venom in Jago’s voice. For the second time that day, he found it hard to draw breath. Jago went on glaring at him.
At last, Buccio drew in a deep breath and pushed to his feet. “I do not think I shall need to wait so long,” he said coldly, looking down at Jago. He could feel the anger rising inside him—why must Jago be such a stubborn fool?—but he kept it in check, for now.
He took a pace back, still holding Jago’s gaze. “Everybody breaks, in time. I shall give you a day to think about it. After that, you will tell me where your brother is, or there will be more houses burned, your fields salted, your cattle slaughtered….”
There was no change in Jago’s expression, but Buccio thought he saw something flicker deep in his eyes. Yes, a day to reflect on his people’s fate and Jago would see the wisdom of handing over one man to save the rest of his people.
Turning to the door, Buccio gave a nod to the guard as he passed. “No food or water until I give the command,” he ordered. Yes, a little time and Jago would surely come to his senses.
oOo
“They said what?” Buccio stared at the auxiliary in disbelief.
“That you’d, uh, broken a truce, sir,” the decurion repeated, shuffling his feet. His bare feet, Buccio reminded himself. “And that you could have the gear, supplies, wagons and horses back—less the cost of repairs to their houses—when you released their chieftain.”
Buccio again swept his gaze over the decurion, who was wearing nothing but his undertunic. Mail, helmet, sword, shield, even his boots were gone. Behind him, the rest of his troop stood in an equal state of undress. They had trailed in to the fort in the late morning, footsore and weary, to report that a group of natives had jumped the sentries in the dead of night while they were camped on the road up from Calleva, overpowered the rest of the men, who were asleep, stripped them of their gear, and melted away, taking with them the entire supply train the troops had been escorting.
Dismissing the men, Buccio made his way slowly back into the praetorium. The auxiliaries would need to be disciplined, of course, for allowing themselves to be caught off guard. Buccio wondered briefly what fate would await him when he made his own report to legionionary headquarters. The slaughter of the patrol by Constantius and his men had been awkward enough, especially after he had assured his superiors just a few weeks earlier that the area was now calm, but such incidents did happen from time to time when the natives took it into their heads to make trouble. This, though, was quite another matter.
Ordering the duty officer to send messengers to the temporary camps guarding the roads to be on the alert for further attacks, Buccio took himself to his office. He found himself a tablet and stylus, but he had not got beyond the salutation to the legate before he sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, pondering how he should proceed.
He could carry out his threat to destroy the rest of Jago’s dun, of course, but he suspected that such a step alone would not end the attacks. Without his brother’s restraining hand, Ennor would surely grow more wild and foolish. No, Buccio must persuade Jago to renounce his brother’s actions publicly. He had been willing to give up his own freedom, perhaps his own life, to secure the future of his people. He would not wish to see his brother throw that away, over this foolish notion—Buccio clenched his jaw at the thought—that Buccio had broken truce by arresting him when he had come bearing an ambassador’s green branch, that Buccio was the one who was at fault here.
Buccio beat his fists gently on the table. It was Jago who had broken faith first. Jago who had let his brother take revenge on Constantius, despite his agreement with Buccio to leave the matter alone. Whatever status Jago might have claimed as an ambassador was surely made void by that, and Jago must make his brother see the truth of it.
Satisfied he had determined the right course of action, Buccio lost no time in heading for the cells. This time, when he stepped inside, the small space seemed even closer than before, and Jago merely gave him a brief glance before wearily turning his head away.
“Listen to me!” At the sharply spoken words, Jago looked up again. “Your brother and his companions are putting the lives of all your people, and their homes, in danger. I want you to tell them to stop.”
Jago moved his mouth as if to speak, but only a hoarse croak came out. Buccio recalled that he had ordered him to be kept without food and drink. He turned and called through the open cell door, “Guard! Water!”
A waterskin was brought and Jago drank. Licking his lips, he tried again. “What—what would you have me say?”
“That Rome cannot and will not tolerate such hostile acts.” Buccio spoke slowly and carefully, measuring out his words and choosing to ignore the occasional snort from Jago as he went on, “That it is they who have violated the peace with these attacks, and not Rome that has broken truce by refusing to treat with lawbreakers who would shelter their wrongdoing behind an ambassador’s green branch.That you reject what they have done, and would have them put an end to it. Perhaps, then, I can ensure their punishment is not so harsh.”
Jago gave him a wry look. “You will return me to my people to tell them this?”
Buccio shook his head. “No. You will announce it before the praetorium. That should suffice.” He was well aware that no one could so much as sneeze in the fort without the natives hearing of it: news of the previous day’s events on the parade ground had clearly reached Ennor somehow—and speedily.
“And you would have me say that it was my people broke truce? That is we who have turned from the Law?” Jago spoke slowly, as if testing out the words.
“I would.” Buccio squatted down in front of Jago, capturing his gaze and holding it. “Help me bring peace, Jago, for your people and mine,” he urged.
Jago returned his look, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dipped his head and spat on the ground between Buccio’s feet. “It is not we who have turned from the Law.”
Buccio remained crouched, frozen with surprise and anger, looking at the gobbet of spittle on the bare earth for a long moment. Then he pushed back to his feet. “So be it. Your people will discover what it means to turn from the Law—the Law of Rome.”
Jago was shaking his head. “The Tribe will not allow such a thing to happen.”
Buccio shrugged. “Then the Tribe will learn how heavy Rome’s hand can be.”
oOo
10. The Business of the Tribes
For the next three days, Buccio’s patrols hunted for Ennor and his men—and Ennor and his men began to hunt them back. A feathered shaft would fly out from the shadows among the trees; a stone would be cast from further up the hillside. Yet when the patrols pushed into the woods, or panted up the slopes, they would find nothing, barely even a bent twig or bruised leaf to show someone had been there. Few of the wounds were serious, but Buccio saw the constant fear of ambush was starting to weigh on the men.
After the first day, they began to meet many parties from the other duns making their way about the countryside. The tribesmen put up no resistance to being challenged or having their gear searched, though they were sullen and gave only terse answers when the patrols demanded their business. Such visits between duns were hardly unknown, but Buccio wondered at the number of them, now of all times. On the evening of the third day, he sent some of his decurions out into the wine shops in the settlement clustered outside the fort.
“Ennor has put out the Call to the Tribe,” Decurion Paulinus reported back, late that night. “He is saying we have broken truce by disregarding the green branch their chieftain carried, denied them the Law, insulted the Tribe. That they must take back the land we have stolen and thrust us out and bring Jago back to his rightful place.”
Buccio drew in a sharp breath. “And what does the Tribe say?”
“They’ve haven’t decided yet. Or, at least, that’s what they’re saying in the settlement.” Paulinus shrugged. “The word is that they are inclined to agree with Ennor about the insults, but there is still much debate over how they should respond.”
“Gods!” Buccio smacked a fist into the palm of the other hand. “They’ll bring the whole legion down on them.” The legate had already offered to send reinforcements and suggested Buccio simply raze the duns, one by one, until the Tribe gave up Ennor in self-defence. Buccio had been less sure it would work—now he was convinced it would not have helped—and had managed to convince the legate that, for the present, it wasn’t necessary. He had wanted to avoid provoking a worse confrontation. Yet it seemed he had failed. And if the Tribe was planning an attack, he would have to call for aid.
He had no doubt that Rome would prevail—but the cost would be high. Not just in lives of Roman soldiers but in the young men of the Tribe cut down in the prime of life, in the women and children left without shelter when their houses were burned, in the pens empty of herds of cattle and horses that would take half a lifetime to rebuild. They had defied Rome, and he should not care what fate they met—and yet he found he cared. And there might still be a way to prevent the Tribe from destroying itself.
Dismissing Decurion Paulinus, Buccio made his way to the cell block. After the first day, when Buccio had denied him food, Jago had been given water and fed a little broth each day. He still looked sick and haggard in the flickering light of the torch Buccio carried when he stepped inside the cell.
“What do you want now?” Jago’s voice was rough, the words forced out past cracked lips.
“To try and help you save your people.” Ignoring Jago’s disbelieving snort, Buccio set the torch in a bracket and squatted down in front of him. “Your brother has called on the Tribe to join him and rise up and drive us out. Rome cannot—will not allow that to happen. The legion will send another vexillation, and they will be destroyed. Help me to help you save them.”
Jago, his arms still tied behind his back, had struggled into a sitting position as Buccio spoke. “How?”
“Speak to them. Tell them you do not want this. Tell them all Rome wants is the men responsible for Constantius’ death. If they give me that, then all this will be ended.”
“And if I will not?” Jago’s gaze was fixed on Buccio’s face.
“Then perhaps your execution on the parade ground will make them see sense.” Buccio’s mouth twisted at the bitter words. He did not wish Jago’s death. By all the gods, he did not wish for that at all. Yet he had no choice. “Once you are dead, they will have no cause to fight for.”
Jago went on looking at Buccio, clearly pondering his words. Then he laughed harshly. “Once I am dead, they will have all the cause they need. If you would strike the spark that will set the land aflame, then you could find no better way than with my execution.” He struggled to get his legs underneath him, so he could lean forwards and bring his face closer to Buccio’s. “Do you not understand what I told you many months ago? That there are things that are the business of the Tribes and no business of Rome? My father’s death at the gathering ground, my brother’s justice for his murder—Rome has no part in these things.”
“And the men of my patrol who died?” Buccio asked, his voice dangerously quiet, remembering the bloodied bodies and the stench of death.
Jago’s gaze slid away. “That is your business, Rome’s business. I do not deny that.” He looked back up at Buccio. “Nor would the Tribe deny it: Constantius’ men broke the Peace between Rome and the Tribe. And in such a matter, we would have given Rome the satisfaction she craves—if you had not broken faith with us.”
“I break faith?” Buccio glared at Jago, feeling again the same sharp pain he had felt when he had confirmed Ennor’s hand in Constantius’ death. “You promised me. I trusted you.”
Jago gave a slight shake of his head. “I did not break my promise. I—” His voice hitched for a moment, as if he was choking back a bitter laugh. “—I did not make sure enough my brother did not break my promise, that is true enough.”
With a weary sigh, he slumped back against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Buccio stayed where he was, looking at him, suddenly seeing the pattern of the days since midsummer with fresh eyes.
He had been thinking that Jago had given him his promise as the leader of his people and that he had accepted it as the leader of his own, as Rome’s administrator. And that had been the way of it, on the surface of things. Yet, Buccio saw with a start, he had also thought of the promise as being of another kind: as between shield-brethren who had hunted together and eaten together and shared stories around the hearth fire while the Guest Cup passed from hand to hand.
Was that why he had been so angry when he had discovered Constantius dead? So unwilling to listen when Jago had come with the green branch in his hand to make good his people’s debt? That was a part of it, Buccio saw, but not all. He had been angry, too, that he had been robbed of his own chance to deliver justice to Constantius, both for his patrol and for Jowan, whom he had also counted a friend. And anger had fed anger, just as the wind will drive a surging tide higher and higher until it overtops a sea wall and rushes on to cover all the fields beyond with bitter saltwater.
Yet Jago, at least, walking the hard, narrow path between his people’s Law and Rome’s demands, had not broken faith.
Rubbing his temples with his fingers, Buccio quietly confessed, “I was wrong. About everything.”
Jago opened his eyes and squinted at Buccio. “Perhaps not everything,” he said just as quietly, only a little mockery in his tone.
“If you had come to me when you discovered what your brother had done, explained….”
Buccio knew he was trying to persuade himself, as much as Jago, that he did not bear all the blame himself. Yet he knew the fault was his alone, and he was not much surprised when Jago said gently, “You would not have listened. Not then. I thought that if you had a day or two for your anger to cool….”
Buccio nodded, understanding now why Jago and his hearth companions had taken themselves out of his reach—until it became clear his temper would not cool with time. And now that it was cooled, it was perhaps too late to mend the damage he had done.
“How do I make this right?” Buccio shifted so he was kneeling, his hands resting on his knees. “I have roused the Tribe, and they are right to be roused, for I have been a fool.”
“You wish for peace?” Jago raised his eyebrows, apparently not quite believing Buccio’s change of heart.
“I do. Though I do not see the way of it. Not after all that has been said and done.” Buccio shook his head, remembering the burned villages and the manner of Jago’s arrest. Remembering, too, the theft of the supply wagons and the harrying of the patrols. If Jago’s people would not easily forgive what Rome had done to them, neither would Rome easily forgive the flouting of its authority.
Jago straighted, pulling himself more upright. “Perhaps there is a way.” When Buccio looked up, hope springing up in him, he quirked his mouth in wry smile. “Do you still trust me?”
“Yes!” Buccio did not hesitate to answer. Though he was not sure why Jago should still trust him. He supposed, whether he trusted Buccio or not, he did not want to see more harm come to his people if peace could be had with honor.
“Sa. That is good to hear.” Jago gave him a brief smile, before his expression turned more serious. “First, you must accept that my father’s murder and my brother’s actions are no business of Rome’s. They are the business of the Tribe, and the Tribe is done with them.”
Buccio nodded. “What else?”
“The killing of your patrol is Rome’s business. If the Tribe gives up the men responsible, or those who remain, at least—say a life for a life—will that satisfy Rome?”
Again, Buccio nodded. He could not bring Constantius himself to justice, but he could mete out punishment to those who had aided him. If Jago could deliver the men, it would even send a message that the Tribe would not permit such actions against Rome.
Again, Jago’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps your commanders could be persuaded also that these same men were responsible for all the troubles since midsummer.”
Buccio raised his eyebrows. “And that your brother was blameless in all of this?”
Jago gave a slight shrug. “If you would have peace, I think it would be politic to believe it so.”
“Hmm.” Buccio pressed his lips together for a moment. “If the Tribe delivers up also my supply train and aught else that was taken, it would help me make the argument.”
“Your supply train?” Now it was Jago’s turn to press his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “I see my brother has been busy. But that I think is possible also. Would all this satisfy Rome?”
Buccio nodded. “If there is peace.”
“So.” Jago leaned forwards a little, wriggling his shoulders as if to ease them. “The negotiations are concluded, and the ambassador thanks the Tribune for his hospitality, and will take his leave and carry the Tribune’s terms to his people.”
It took a moment for Buccio to understand. “You want me to let you go?”
“If you want peace.” Again, Jago shrugged. “If the Tribe is as angry as you say, then even I may not be able to persuade them to relinquish the fight. But you will not persuade them otherwise.” Again, he quirked an eyebrow. “Do you not trust me? I give you my word….”
His gaze sought Buccio’s and held it. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, all that lay between them, past and present, hanging in the air. Perhaps Jago would not be able to calm the Tribe, after the way Buccio had stirred them up, but—.
Buccio dipped his head. “I trust you.”
oOo
11. Leavetaking
The day was sultry, the heat cloying even though it was only mid-morning, as Buccio rode out through the Sinister Gate. He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had formed there in the short time since he had left the praetorium. It was hard to believe this was the same country in which he’d shivered against the biting wind and driving rain just a few months ago. A glance over his shoulder showed the small escort accompanying him were suffering just as much in the heat.
Turning his face forwards again, letting his gaze wander over the familiar lift of the hills ahead, he found his mind going back to the letter he had left on his desk back in the praetorium. It had arrived the previous day. Though he had read it a half dozen times, he had not grown to like its contents much better than when he had first broken the seal.
To Tribune Tiberius Matius Buccio, from Septimius Cornelius Rufinius, Legate, greetings. Our thanks for the prisoners you have sent us and our commendation on the suppression of the unrest in your locality. We—.
Buccio shooks his head at the memory. He did not feel he deserved his legate’s congratulations. That the crisis was over was scarcely his doing. No: it had been Jago who had calmed the growing anger of the Tribe, and Jago who had persuaded his brother to end the attacks on the Buccio’s men. Or, at least, Buccio assumed Jago had been responsible for the change in temper following his release.
What Buccio did know was that there had been no more clashes between his men and the Tribe after Jago had walked out of the fort eight days previously. He, for his own part, had disbanded the encampments on the roads and returned his patrols to their normal patterns. The native population had, in turn, gone back to their own duns and busied themselves again with the usual summer tasks of haying and harvesting and horsebreaking.
The only notable event in all that time had happened two days after Jago had left. A message had come up from the settlement that a number of men had been left tied up in a street in front of one of the wine shops, alongside the still-loaded wagons that had formed Buccio’s captured supply train. “Some time in the middle of the night,” claimed the wine-shop owner. “Didn’t hear a thing myself. A little deaf, you know.” Buccio wasn’t entirely sure he believed the man, but he didn’t bother to question him too closely. It was the business of the Tribe exactly how they got there, and the business of the Tribe whom they sent. What mattered to Buccio was that the prisoners included Priscus and several others who had been Constantius’ hearth companions. Though the handful of men might not encompass all those who had killed the patrol at Midsummer, it was enough for Buccio.
He had kept them in the cell block for a further two days, while he made certain the peace would hold, before forwarding them on to legionary headquarters, along with his report. It would, he had decided, be prudent to hold their execution elsewhere.
The legate’s letter confirmed they had been dealt with—and also contained other news that Buccio hoped would not disturb the delicate and still uneasy balance that had been forged in the past few days. Though, Buccio mused, as his small troop rounded the shoulder of the hill and he caught sight of Jago’s dun, set above the horse-runs and cattle pens and the apple-garth where small green fruit were now budding, perhaps the news was for the best, after all.
The fields and pens were once more busy with beasts and people as the troop passed, but Buccio noticed, as he rode in through the gateway and up towards the whale-backed Chieftain’s Hall, that the people fell quiet when they saw him and did not meet his gaze. He could not much blame them: he could see, to his right, that workers were busy rebuilding one of the huts he had ordered burned a fortnight earlier.
Jago appeared from the direction of the building work as Buccio was dismounting outside the Hall. He was stripped to the waist and smears of dirt obscuring the tattoos on his arms as he wiped his hands on a cloth showed he had been busy among his people. He gave Buccio a cautious nod. “Tribune. Good fortune go with you.”
Buccio dipped his head, knowing he fully deserved the rebuke of the formal greeting. “And with you, Lord Jago.” He nodded towards the hut that was being repaired. “The building goes well?”
“The building goes well,” Jago agreed. Though his words were courteous, there was none of the easy warmth in him that Buccio had seen and liked so much at their first meeting.
“Then I shall not keep you long from it.” Pushing down the disappointment that welled up in him—yet had he really expected any other response from Jago?—Buccio hurried on to the reason for his visit. “I am come to thank the Tribe for giving over the men who killed my patrol. Also to let the Tribe know that the matter of those deaths is now considered closed; Rome has her satisfaction and hopes the peace we have enjoyed these past few days will long continue.”
Jago gave a wordless nod, still watching Buccio closely. Though Buccio could have reached out and touched him, he felt as if all the length of the Empire lay between them, from Cappadocia to these rolling hills.
Taking a deep breath, Buccio went on, “Also to inform the Lord Jago and his people that there will be another new Commander soon. I hope he will…. will prove less ignorant of the ways of the Tribe and the business of the Tribe.”
Buccio stumbled over the words as Jago went on looking at him, an odd expression settling on his face. “They are punishing you by sending you away?” he asked at last.
Buccio pressed his lips together for a moment to stop a bitter laugh from escaping him. “No. They are rewarding me. Apparently they have great need elsewhere of my skills at making peace among the tribes, in the lands north of Viroconium.”
Jago was silent for a few moments, his dark-eyed gaze holding Buccio’s. Then his expression softened a little. “I shall be sorry to see the Tribune leave.”
Buccio raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought you would be sorry to see me stay, Lord Jago.”
A corner of Jago’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “But now I must train a new Commander,” he pointed out, his tone only a little mocking. “And I may not find him so easy to my hand—nor so pleasant a companion on the hunting trail.” The smile turned into something warmer. “Besides, I have had no chance to take the Tribune hunting to the west, as I promised.”
Buccio swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat and said hoarsely, “I am sorry that we shall not hunt there also. But I release you from your promise.”
“Nay.” Now Jago was definitely smiling at him. “When the tribes north of Viroconium are at peace and you return to us, we shall hunt there still.”
Buccio cast a glance over his shoulder at the rest of his escort waiting several yards away behind him. Turning back to Jago, he said softly, speaking so that only he might hear, “I fear that there will be no peace. That I shall choose poorly again and let my Roman anger blind me to greater wisdom. I do not think that I am suited to… to understanding the business of the frontier tribes.”
“Perhaps.” Jago tilted his head a little. “But I think you have more understanding than you did or credit yourself with.” His tone turned more serious. “And you have done none so ill in the end. Constantius and his hearth companions were always a thorn in the side of my people, and you have helped us pluck it from our flank. For that alone, I think the gods have been kind to us in sending you to this place, even if they have tested us also.”
As Buccio gaped at him, startled by his words, Jago reached out and grasped Buccio’s shoulder. Instinctively, Buccio brought his hand up to grip Jago’s as the other man said, with the dancing smile and the old warmth back in his voice, “If Rome sends us no worse, I shall not be grieved. And if you return soon for our hunting to the west, I shall surely not be grieved either.”
Riding away a few minutes later, Buccio promised himself that, when the Legion allowed, he would return.
oOo
12. Return
Buccio’s heart started to beat a little faster as the countryside around him became increasingly familiar. Though it was more than five years since he had last ridden this road, the lift of the approaching hills, the clumps of woodland that clustered here and there, the thickets of reeds that marked the course of the river that meandered now nearer, now further from the arrow-straight road: all was much as it had been.
The change was greater as he neared Corinium itself. The fort was a year gone, of course, following the decision—now the lands of the Dobunni were no longer on the frontier—to replace it with a new territorial capital built in the Roman style. The palisades and barrack blocks and the praetorium and other buildings in the principia had all been carefully removed, and the high earthen bank levelled and used to fill the deep ditch that once ran around it. Yet the roads still ran straight and true, so that Buccio could tell where his office and sleeping cell must once have been. Now, a new building was taking shape, the first layer of foundation stones almost complete: a basilica and forum for the new tribal capital.
Other buildings were rising here and there, among a dozen or so large plots marked out with pegs and string: one might be the public baths, Buccio decided, but the others seemed to be private houses. A gang of men were at work metalling a road that ran at right angles from the former Via Principia of the fort close to where the dexter gate had once stood.
Nearing the line of the infilled ditch, Buccio directed the junior official riding at his side to set up camp in the agreed spot, while he rode on towards the forum alone. A number of men were gathered there, deep in a discussion of some matter that required much waving of arms and pointing in various directions at the construction around them. They were dressed in Roman-style tunics, though most still wore native chequered trousers underneath against the spring chill. Several of them turned at his approach and Buccio’s breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of the face of one of them.
The man said something to the rest and the group split up. Several of the men seemed in no great hurry to make their way to wherever they were going, and Buccio was aware of many eyes on him as he reined his horse in next to the man who had given the order to disperse.
He looked up at Buccio, his dark brown eyes warm with amusement. “They told us we were to expect a new procurator to oversee the building work—but they did not tell us who it would be.” His hair had been clipped in the Roman fashion, but the flyaway brows and wry smile were the same; and even as he spoke, he unconsciously reached out and gentled the neck of Buccio’s mare.
For a moment, Buccio did not move, still not quite believing his eyes, though he had expected—hoped—for this moment. Still uncertain, too, of whether he would be welcome or not. But when the man went on grinning up at him, apparently quite as pleased with this reunion as Buccio was, Buccio slipped from his horse and embraced him. “Jago!”
After a moment, Buccio pushed back, holding Jago by the shoulders. “You look well.”
“So do you.” Jago huffed a laugh and rolled a shoulder before adding with a mixture of pride and embarrassment, “They made me a magistrate.”
“No toga?” Buccio took another look at the tunic, noting the purple stripe.
Jago laughed. “I’m working up to it. But come you to my home—” He caught the reins of Buccio’s patient mount and began to turn her. “—and let us discuss how you will help me build this new town of mine. And then—” He threw a grin back over his shoulder in Buccio’s direction. “—we shall plan how to steal the time for that day’s hunting to the west I once promised you.”
Following after Jago, Buccio made a mental note to pay a visit to the temple complex to be built behind the basilica once it was completed and raise an altar: "To the gods, that they have been kind."
oOo
End notes
This story is set in and around Cirencester (Roman Corinium), which was the base for a number of auxiliary cavalry units, including the First Thracian, in the years between the Roman conquest of Britain in AD43 and the creation of a new tribal capital on the site shortly after AD 70.
The local tribe were the Dobunni, who were generally friendly towards their Roman conquerors. I have used the Iron Age oppidum (or town) at Bagendon, around four miles from Cirencester, as the site of Jowan and Jago’s dun, while I have based Constantius’ people at another oppidum that has been identified at Salmonsbury near Bourton-on-the-Water. This lies a dozen miles to the north of Cirencester on the Fosse Way, the Roman road from Exeter to Lincoln which runs through Cirencester.
The cursus where the midsummer gathering takes place and Jowan is murdered is intended to be the neolithic one at Lechlade that (in the tradition of many scenes in Rosemary Sutcliff’s works) my Iron Age tribe has re-purposed as the site of a midsummer fair. The valley where Beck’s troops break up the fight over the stolen cattle is meant to be the one that now contains the magnificent Roman villa complex of Chedworth.
The personal names in the area in the early Roman period would belong to a dialect of the Brythonic language, most likely a precursor of Welsh. However, the Cotswolds are most definitely “West Country” rather than “Welsh” and I have therefore chosen to use personal names from the only surviving "West Country" Brythonic language, modern Cornish. (To aid readers familiar with Jericho, I have tried to use names reminiscent of the names of the canon characters.) The Roman version of Beck has, of course, a full set of praenomen, nomen and cognomen.
In looking for a military rank for Buccio/Beck that would provide a good counterpart to his rank as a US Army major in canon, I settled on making him one of the five Tribuni Angusticlavii or narrow-stripe tribunes in his legion. These tribunes were career officers, typically from an equestrian background, on a standardised career path which took them from roles as local administrators through mid-ranking military command positions to senior military or administrative posts.
Fandom: Jericho/fusion with Rosemary Sutcliff’s works, particularly The Eagle of the Ninth series
Rating: Teen
Contains: Canon-level violence/torture, canon character death
Words: 21,600 words
Summary: A historical AU set in Roman Britain in AD63. Tribune Tiberius Matius Buccio (Major Beck) has been posted to the fringes of the Roman empire — Britain — to help keep the peace following the Boudiccan revolt three years earlier. Settling in to his role, he becomes friendly with local chieftain’s son Jago (Jake Green). When an ongoing local feud takes a murderous turn, he finds himself caught between his friendship with Jago and his duty as a Roman officer.
subluxate created a wonderful mix to accompany the story called Hinterlands—please listen and enjoy. Disclaimer: This story is based on the Junction Entertainment/Fixed Mark Productions/CBS Paramount Television series Jericho and the works of Rosemary Sutcliff. It was written for entertainment only; the author does not profit from it nor was any infringement of copyright intended.
Author's Note: This story uses characters and plot elements from Jericho and worldbuilding, tropes and style from Rosemary Sutcliff—see the end notes for more detail on some of the historical background used in the story. It was written for
smallfandombang. Thanks to Scribbler (scribblesinink) for the beta. Thanks also to subluxate for creating a wonderful mix for the story.Chapters 1 to 4
Chapters 5 to 8
The air inside the cell was musty as Buccio stepped inside, smelling of old straw and past prisoners. He tried to not to breathe too deeply in the hot air, baked by the afternoon soon beating down outside. Jago had been stripped of his shirt and his hands bound behind his back; the tattooed patterns on his chest and arms were barely visible in the gloom.
He lifted his head as Buccio entered, letting out a faint snort when he saw who his visitor was. “What do you want now? You have me.”
Buccio folded his arms. “The truth would be a start.”
Jago gave him a wary look. After a moment, he said carefully. “I’ve told you. I’m responsible. For everything.”
Now it was Buccio’s turn to sniff derisively. What Jago said might be strictly accurate—as chieftain, he was answerable for the actions of his people—but they both knew that wasn’t what Buccio had meant.
“Maybe you are,” Buccio conceded. “But I know that it was your brother’s arrows that killed Constantius. That it was your brother who was seen at Constantius’ dun, not you. I am quite sure they would not have neglected to tell me if you had been there also.”
Jago was silent again, clearly thinking hard as he kept his gaze fixed on Buccio. At last, he said, “I gave the order.”
Buccio shook his head. “I think not. I think if you had done so, you would also have given the order to use unmarked arrows, to stay out of sight, to make sure that none could prove you had broken your promise to me.” Buccio was quite sure that, even in the heat of the moment, Jago would have given thought to the consequences of his actions. Indeed, he had done so when he had promised to wait until Buccio had looked into the matter. Ennor on the other hand…. “Your brother was too angry, perhaps, to think of such things, or to care overmuch for your promise,” he pointed out.
Jago shifted, struggling to his knees. “They killed my father,” he reminded Buccio, his voice harsh with grief. “At the midsummer gathering.”
Buccio nodded. “I know,” he said softly.
“And that was the end of a long line of troubles.” Jago turned his head away, grimacing. “They deserved to be punished.”
“Perhaps they did.” Buccio took a pace forwards and squatted on his haunches, so his face was level with Jago’s. “But not by you or your brother. We may be on the frontiers of the Empire but we are not beyond them, nor beyond the laws of Rome and the Law of your Tribe. It was not any one man’s place to take justice into his own hands in this matter.” Jago had turned to look at Buccio again. His eyes were dark and Buccio could not read his expression, but he seemed to be at least willing to listen. Buccio reached out and grasped his shoulder gently. “Tell me where I can find Ennor and you have my word that you will go free and your people will face no further punishment.”
Jago looked back at him, his gaze searching Buccio’s face as if trying to decide whether Buccio spoke the truth. Buccio gave him a small nod of encouragement: trust me. At that, Jago wrenched his shoulder from under Buccio’s hand. “I won’t give him up. If that’s what you want, you’ll find yourself waiting until Rome has crumbled to dust and the stars have fallen from the sky.”
Buccio rocked back on his heels, shocked at the venom in Jago’s voice. For the second time that day, he found it hard to draw breath. Jago went on glaring at him.
At last, Buccio drew in a deep breath and pushed to his feet. “I do not think I shall need to wait so long,” he said coldly, looking down at Jago. He could feel the anger rising inside him—why must Jago be such a stubborn fool?—but he kept it in check, for now.
He took a pace back, still holding Jago’s gaze. “Everybody breaks, in time. I shall give you a day to think about it. After that, you will tell me where your brother is, or there will be more houses burned, your fields salted, your cattle slaughtered….”
There was no change in Jago’s expression, but Buccio thought he saw something flicker deep in his eyes. Yes, a day to reflect on his people’s fate and Jago would see the wisdom of handing over one man to save the rest of his people.
Turning to the door, Buccio gave a nod to the guard as he passed. “No food or water until I give the command,” he ordered. Yes, a little time and Jago would surely come to his senses.
“They said what?” Buccio stared at the auxiliary in disbelief.
“That you’d, uh, broken a truce, sir,” the decurion repeated, shuffling his feet. His bare feet, Buccio reminded himself. “And that you could have the gear, supplies, wagons and horses back—less the cost of repairs to their houses—when you released their chieftain.”
Buccio again swept his gaze over the decurion, who was wearing nothing but his undertunic. Mail, helmet, sword, shield, even his boots were gone. Behind him, the rest of his troop stood in an equal state of undress. They had trailed in to the fort in the late morning, footsore and weary, to report that a group of natives had jumped the sentries in the dead of night while they were camped on the road up from Calleva, overpowered the rest of the men, who were asleep, stripped them of their gear, and melted away, taking with them the entire supply train the troops had been escorting.
Dismissing the men, Buccio made his way slowly back into the praetorium. The auxiliaries would need to be disciplined, of course, for allowing themselves to be caught off guard. Buccio wondered briefly what fate would await him when he made his own report to legionionary headquarters. The slaughter of the patrol by Constantius and his men had been awkward enough, especially after he had assured his superiors just a few weeks earlier that the area was now calm, but such incidents did happen from time to time when the natives took it into their heads to make trouble. This, though, was quite another matter.
Ordering the duty officer to send messengers to the temporary camps guarding the roads to be on the alert for further attacks, Buccio took himself to his office. He found himself a tablet and stylus, but he had not got beyond the salutation to the legate before he sat back in his chair, fingers steepled, pondering how he should proceed.
He could carry out his threat to destroy the rest of Jago’s dun, of course, but he suspected that such a step alone would not end the attacks. Without his brother’s restraining hand, Ennor would surely grow more wild and foolish. No, Buccio must persuade Jago to renounce his brother’s actions publicly. He had been willing to give up his own freedom, perhaps his own life, to secure the future of his people. He would not wish to see his brother throw that away, over this foolish notion—Buccio clenched his jaw at the thought—that Buccio had broken truce by arresting him when he had come bearing an ambassador’s green branch, that Buccio was the one who was at fault here.
Buccio beat his fists gently on the table. It was Jago who had broken faith first. Jago who had let his brother take revenge on Constantius, despite his agreement with Buccio to leave the matter alone. Whatever status Jago might have claimed as an ambassador was surely made void by that, and Jago must make his brother see the truth of it.
Satisfied he had determined the right course of action, Buccio lost no time in heading for the cells. This time, when he stepped inside, the small space seemed even closer than before, and Jago merely gave him a brief glance before wearily turning his head away.
“Listen to me!” At the sharply spoken words, Jago looked up again. “Your brother and his companions are putting the lives of all your people, and their homes, in danger. I want you to tell them to stop.”
Jago moved his mouth as if to speak, but only a hoarse croak came out. Buccio recalled that he had ordered him to be kept without food and drink. He turned and called through the open cell door, “Guard! Water!”
A waterskin was brought and Jago drank. Licking his lips, he tried again. “What—what would you have me say?”
“That Rome cannot and will not tolerate such hostile acts.” Buccio spoke slowly and carefully, measuring out his words and choosing to ignore the occasional snort from Jago as he went on, “That it is they who have violated the peace with these attacks, and not Rome that has broken truce by refusing to treat with lawbreakers who would shelter their wrongdoing behind an ambassador’s green branch.That you reject what they have done, and would have them put an end to it. Perhaps, then, I can ensure their punishment is not so harsh.”
Jago gave him a wry look. “You will return me to my people to tell them this?”
Buccio shook his head. “No. You will announce it before the praetorium. That should suffice.” He was well aware that no one could so much as sneeze in the fort without the natives hearing of it: news of the previous day’s events on the parade ground had clearly reached Ennor somehow—and speedily.
“And you would have me say that it was my people broke truce? That is we who have turned from the Law?” Jago spoke slowly, as if testing out the words.
“I would.” Buccio squatted down in front of Jago, capturing his gaze and holding it. “Help me bring peace, Jago, for your people and mine,” he urged.
Jago returned his look, his eyes dark and unreadable. Then he dipped his head and spat on the ground between Buccio’s feet. “It is not we who have turned from the Law.”
Buccio remained crouched, frozen with surprise and anger, looking at the gobbet of spittle on the bare earth for a long moment. Then he pushed back to his feet. “So be it. Your people will discover what it means to turn from the Law—the Law of Rome.”
Jago was shaking his head. “The Tribe will not allow such a thing to happen.”
Buccio shrugged. “Then the Tribe will learn how heavy Rome’s hand can be.”
For the next three days, Buccio’s patrols hunted for Ennor and his men—and Ennor and his men began to hunt them back. A feathered shaft would fly out from the shadows among the trees; a stone would be cast from further up the hillside. Yet when the patrols pushed into the woods, or panted up the slopes, they would find nothing, barely even a bent twig or bruised leaf to show someone had been there. Few of the wounds were serious, but Buccio saw the constant fear of ambush was starting to weigh on the men.
After the first day, they began to meet many parties from the other duns making their way about the countryside. The tribesmen put up no resistance to being challenged or having their gear searched, though they were sullen and gave only terse answers when the patrols demanded their business. Such visits between duns were hardly unknown, but Buccio wondered at the number of them, now of all times. On the evening of the third day, he sent some of his decurions out into the wine shops in the settlement clustered outside the fort.
“Ennor has put out the Call to the Tribe,” Decurion Paulinus reported back, late that night. “He is saying we have broken truce by disregarding the green branch their chieftain carried, denied them the Law, insulted the Tribe. That they must take back the land we have stolen and thrust us out and bring Jago back to his rightful place.”
Buccio drew in a sharp breath. “And what does the Tribe say?”
“They’ve haven’t decided yet. Or, at least, that’s what they’re saying in the settlement.” Paulinus shrugged. “The word is that they are inclined to agree with Ennor about the insults, but there is still much debate over how they should respond.”
“Gods!” Buccio smacked a fist into the palm of the other hand. “They’ll bring the whole legion down on them.” The legate had already offered to send reinforcements and suggested Buccio simply raze the duns, one by one, until the Tribe gave up Ennor in self-defence. Buccio had been less sure it would work—now he was convinced it would not have helped—and had managed to convince the legate that, for the present, it wasn’t necessary. He had wanted to avoid provoking a worse confrontation. Yet it seemed he had failed. And if the Tribe was planning an attack, he would have to call for aid.
He had no doubt that Rome would prevail—but the cost would be high. Not just in lives of Roman soldiers but in the young men of the Tribe cut down in the prime of life, in the women and children left without shelter when their houses were burned, in the pens empty of herds of cattle and horses that would take half a lifetime to rebuild. They had defied Rome, and he should not care what fate they met—and yet he found he cared. And there might still be a way to prevent the Tribe from destroying itself.
Dismissing Decurion Paulinus, Buccio made his way to the cell block. After the first day, when Buccio had denied him food, Jago had been given water and fed a little broth each day. He still looked sick and haggard in the flickering light of the torch Buccio carried when he stepped inside the cell.
“What do you want now?” Jago’s voice was rough, the words forced out past cracked lips.
“To try and help you save your people.” Ignoring Jago’s disbelieving snort, Buccio set the torch in a bracket and squatted down in front of him. “Your brother has called on the Tribe to join him and rise up and drive us out. Rome cannot—will not allow that to happen. The legion will send another vexillation, and they will be destroyed. Help me to help you save them.”
Jago, his arms still tied behind his back, had struggled into a sitting position as Buccio spoke. “How?”
“Speak to them. Tell them you do not want this. Tell them all Rome wants is the men responsible for Constantius’ death. If they give me that, then all this will be ended.”
“And if I will not?” Jago’s gaze was fixed on Buccio’s face.
“Then perhaps your execution on the parade ground will make them see sense.” Buccio’s mouth twisted at the bitter words. He did not wish Jago’s death. By all the gods, he did not wish for that at all. Yet he had no choice. “Once you are dead, they will have no cause to fight for.”
Jago went on looking at Buccio, clearly pondering his words. Then he laughed harshly. “Once I am dead, they will have all the cause they need. If you would strike the spark that will set the land aflame, then you could find no better way than with my execution.” He struggled to get his legs underneath him, so he could lean forwards and bring his face closer to Buccio’s. “Do you not understand what I told you many months ago? That there are things that are the business of the Tribes and no business of Rome? My father’s death at the gathering ground, my brother’s justice for his murder—Rome has no part in these things.”
“And the men of my patrol who died?” Buccio asked, his voice dangerously quiet, remembering the bloodied bodies and the stench of death.
Jago’s gaze slid away. “That is your business, Rome’s business. I do not deny that.” He looked back up at Buccio. “Nor would the Tribe deny it: Constantius’ men broke the Peace between Rome and the Tribe. And in such a matter, we would have given Rome the satisfaction she craves—if you had not broken faith with us.”
“I break faith?” Buccio glared at Jago, feeling again the same sharp pain he had felt when he had confirmed Ennor’s hand in Constantius’ death. “You promised me. I trusted you.”
Jago gave a slight shake of his head. “I did not break my promise. I—” His voice hitched for a moment, as if he was choking back a bitter laugh. “—I did not make sure enough my brother did not break my promise, that is true enough.”
With a weary sigh, he slumped back against the wall, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. Buccio stayed where he was, looking at him, suddenly seeing the pattern of the days since midsummer with fresh eyes.
He had been thinking that Jago had given him his promise as the leader of his people and that he had accepted it as the leader of his own, as Rome’s administrator. And that had been the way of it, on the surface of things. Yet, Buccio saw with a start, he had also thought of the promise as being of another kind: as between shield-brethren who had hunted together and eaten together and shared stories around the hearth fire while the Guest Cup passed from hand to hand.
Was that why he had been so angry when he had discovered Constantius dead? So unwilling to listen when Jago had come with the green branch in his hand to make good his people’s debt? That was a part of it, Buccio saw, but not all. He had been angry, too, that he had been robbed of his own chance to deliver justice to Constantius, both for his patrol and for Jowan, whom he had also counted a friend. And anger had fed anger, just as the wind will drive a surging tide higher and higher until it overtops a sea wall and rushes on to cover all the fields beyond with bitter saltwater.
Yet Jago, at least, walking the hard, narrow path between his people’s Law and Rome’s demands, had not broken faith.
Rubbing his temples with his fingers, Buccio quietly confessed, “I was wrong. About everything.”
Jago opened his eyes and squinted at Buccio. “Perhaps not everything,” he said just as quietly, only a little mockery in his tone.
“If you had come to me when you discovered what your brother had done, explained….”
Buccio knew he was trying to persuade himself, as much as Jago, that he did not bear all the blame himself. Yet he knew the fault was his alone, and he was not much surprised when Jago said gently, “You would not have listened. Not then. I thought that if you had a day or two for your anger to cool….”
Buccio nodded, understanding now why Jago and his hearth companions had taken themselves out of his reach—until it became clear his temper would not cool with time. And now that it was cooled, it was perhaps too late to mend the damage he had done.
“How do I make this right?” Buccio shifted so he was kneeling, his hands resting on his knees. “I have roused the Tribe, and they are right to be roused, for I have been a fool.”
“You wish for peace?” Jago raised his eyebrows, apparently not quite believing Buccio’s change of heart.
“I do. Though I do not see the way of it. Not after all that has been said and done.” Buccio shook his head, remembering the burned villages and the manner of Jago’s arrest. Remembering, too, the theft of the supply wagons and the harrying of the patrols. If Jago’s people would not easily forgive what Rome had done to them, neither would Rome easily forgive the flouting of its authority.
Jago straighted, pulling himself more upright. “Perhaps there is a way.” When Buccio looked up, hope springing up in him, he quirked his mouth in wry smile. “Do you still trust me?”
“Yes!” Buccio did not hesitate to answer. Though he was not sure why Jago should still trust him. He supposed, whether he trusted Buccio or not, he did not want to see more harm come to his people if peace could be had with honor.
“Sa. That is good to hear.” Jago gave him a brief smile, before his expression turned more serious. “First, you must accept that my father’s murder and my brother’s actions are no business of Rome’s. They are the business of the Tribe, and the Tribe is done with them.”
Buccio nodded. “What else?”
“The killing of your patrol is Rome’s business. If the Tribe gives up the men responsible, or those who remain, at least—say a life for a life—will that satisfy Rome?”
Again, Buccio nodded. He could not bring Constantius himself to justice, but he could mete out punishment to those who had aided him. If Jago could deliver the men, it would even send a message that the Tribe would not permit such actions against Rome.
Again, Jago’s mouth quirked. “Perhaps your commanders could be persuaded also that these same men were responsible for all the troubles since midsummer.”
Buccio raised his eyebrows. “And that your brother was blameless in all of this?”
Jago gave a slight shrug. “If you would have peace, I think it would be politic to believe it so.”
“Hmm.” Buccio pressed his lips together for a moment. “If the Tribe delivers up also my supply train and aught else that was taken, it would help me make the argument.”
“Your supply train?” Now it was Jago’s turn to press his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. “I see my brother has been busy. But that I think is possible also. Would all this satisfy Rome?”
Buccio nodded. “If there is peace.”
“So.” Jago leaned forwards a little, wriggling his shoulders as if to ease them. “The negotiations are concluded, and the ambassador thanks the Tribune for his hospitality, and will take his leave and carry the Tribune’s terms to his people.”
It took a moment for Buccio to understand. “You want me to let you go?”
“If you want peace.” Again, Jago shrugged. “If the Tribe is as angry as you say, then even I may not be able to persuade them to relinquish the fight. But you will not persuade them otherwise.” Again, he quirked an eyebrow. “Do you not trust me? I give you my word….”
His gaze sought Buccio’s and held it. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, all that lay between them, past and present, hanging in the air. Perhaps Jago would not be able to calm the Tribe, after the way Buccio had stirred them up, but—.
Buccio dipped his head. “I trust you.”
The day was sultry, the heat cloying even though it was only mid-morning, as Buccio rode out through the Sinister Gate. He rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat that had formed there in the short time since he had left the praetorium. It was hard to believe this was the same country in which he’d shivered against the biting wind and driving rain just a few months ago. A glance over his shoulder showed the small escort accompanying him were suffering just as much in the heat.
Turning his face forwards again, letting his gaze wander over the familiar lift of the hills ahead, he found his mind going back to the letter he had left on his desk back in the praetorium. It had arrived the previous day. Though he had read it a half dozen times, he had not grown to like its contents much better than when he had first broken the seal.
To Tribune Tiberius Matius Buccio, from Septimius Cornelius Rufinius, Legate, greetings. Our thanks for the prisoners you have sent us and our commendation on the suppression of the unrest in your locality. We—.
Buccio shooks his head at the memory. He did not feel he deserved his legate’s congratulations. That the crisis was over was scarcely his doing. No: it had been Jago who had calmed the growing anger of the Tribe, and Jago who had persuaded his brother to end the attacks on the Buccio’s men. Or, at least, Buccio assumed Jago had been responsible for the change in temper following his release.
What Buccio did know was that there had been no more clashes between his men and the Tribe after Jago had walked out of the fort eight days previously. He, for his own part, had disbanded the encampments on the roads and returned his patrols to their normal patterns. The native population had, in turn, gone back to their own duns and busied themselves again with the usual summer tasks of haying and harvesting and horsebreaking.
The only notable event in all that time had happened two days after Jago had left. A message had come up from the settlement that a number of men had been left tied up in a street in front of one of the wine shops, alongside the still-loaded wagons that had formed Buccio’s captured supply train. “Some time in the middle of the night,” claimed the wine-shop owner. “Didn’t hear a thing myself. A little deaf, you know.” Buccio wasn’t entirely sure he believed the man, but he didn’t bother to question him too closely. It was the business of the Tribe exactly how they got there, and the business of the Tribe whom they sent. What mattered to Buccio was that the prisoners included Priscus and several others who had been Constantius’ hearth companions. Though the handful of men might not encompass all those who had killed the patrol at Midsummer, it was enough for Buccio.
He had kept them in the cell block for a further two days, while he made certain the peace would hold, before forwarding them on to legionary headquarters, along with his report. It would, he had decided, be prudent to hold their execution elsewhere.
The legate’s letter confirmed they had been dealt with—and also contained other news that Buccio hoped would not disturb the delicate and still uneasy balance that had been forged in the past few days. Though, Buccio mused, as his small troop rounded the shoulder of the hill and he caught sight of Jago’s dun, set above the horse-runs and cattle pens and the apple-garth where small green fruit were now budding, perhaps the news was for the best, after all.
The fields and pens were once more busy with beasts and people as the troop passed, but Buccio noticed, as he rode in through the gateway and up towards the whale-backed Chieftain’s Hall, that the people fell quiet when they saw him and did not meet his gaze. He could not much blame them: he could see, to his right, that workers were busy rebuilding one of the huts he had ordered burned a fortnight earlier.
Jago appeared from the direction of the building work as Buccio was dismounting outside the Hall. He was stripped to the waist and smears of dirt obscuring the tattoos on his arms as he wiped his hands on a cloth showed he had been busy among his people. He gave Buccio a cautious nod. “Tribune. Good fortune go with you.”
Buccio dipped his head, knowing he fully deserved the rebuke of the formal greeting. “And with you, Lord Jago.” He nodded towards the hut that was being repaired. “The building goes well?”
“The building goes well,” Jago agreed. Though his words were courteous, there was none of the easy warmth in him that Buccio had seen and liked so much at their first meeting.
“Then I shall not keep you long from it.” Pushing down the disappointment that welled up in him—yet had he really expected any other response from Jago?—Buccio hurried on to the reason for his visit. “I am come to thank the Tribe for giving over the men who killed my patrol. Also to let the Tribe know that the matter of those deaths is now considered closed; Rome has her satisfaction and hopes the peace we have enjoyed these past few days will long continue.”
Jago gave a wordless nod, still watching Buccio closely. Though Buccio could have reached out and touched him, he felt as if all the length of the Empire lay between them, from Cappadocia to these rolling hills.
Taking a deep breath, Buccio went on, “Also to inform the Lord Jago and his people that there will be another new Commander soon. I hope he will…. will prove less ignorant of the ways of the Tribe and the business of the Tribe.”
Buccio stumbled over the words as Jago went on looking at him, an odd expression settling on his face. “They are punishing you by sending you away?” he asked at last.
Buccio pressed his lips together for a moment to stop a bitter laugh from escaping him. “No. They are rewarding me. Apparently they have great need elsewhere of my skills at making peace among the tribes, in the lands north of Viroconium.”
Jago was silent for a few moments, his dark-eyed gaze holding Buccio’s. Then his expression softened a little. “I shall be sorry to see the Tribune leave.”
Buccio raised his eyebrows. “I would have thought you would be sorry to see me stay, Lord Jago.”
A corner of Jago’s mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “But now I must train a new Commander,” he pointed out, his tone only a little mocking. “And I may not find him so easy to my hand—nor so pleasant a companion on the hunting trail.” The smile turned into something warmer. “Besides, I have had no chance to take the Tribune hunting to the west, as I promised.”
Buccio swallowed down the sudden lump in his throat and said hoarsely, “I am sorry that we shall not hunt there also. But I release you from your promise.”
“Nay.” Now Jago was definitely smiling at him. “When the tribes north of Viroconium are at peace and you return to us, we shall hunt there still.”
Buccio cast a glance over his shoulder at the rest of his escort waiting several yards away behind him. Turning back to Jago, he said softly, speaking so that only he might hear, “I fear that there will be no peace. That I shall choose poorly again and let my Roman anger blind me to greater wisdom. I do not think that I am suited to… to understanding the business of the frontier tribes.”
“Perhaps.” Jago tilted his head a little. “But I think you have more understanding than you did or credit yourself with.” His tone turned more serious. “And you have done none so ill in the end. Constantius and his hearth companions were always a thorn in the side of my people, and you have helped us pluck it from our flank. For that alone, I think the gods have been kind to us in sending you to this place, even if they have tested us also.”
As Buccio gaped at him, startled by his words, Jago reached out and grasped Buccio’s shoulder. Instinctively, Buccio brought his hand up to grip Jago’s as the other man said, with the dancing smile and the old warmth back in his voice, “If Rome sends us no worse, I shall not be grieved. And if you return soon for our hunting to the west, I shall surely not be grieved either.”
Riding away a few minutes later, Buccio promised himself that, when the Legion allowed, he would return.
Buccio’s heart started to beat a little faster as the countryside around him became increasingly familiar. Though it was more than five years since he had last ridden this road, the lift of the approaching hills, the clumps of woodland that clustered here and there, the thickets of reeds that marked the course of the river that meandered now nearer, now further from the arrow-straight road: all was much as it had been.
The change was greater as he neared Corinium itself. The fort was a year gone, of course, following the decision—now the lands of the Dobunni were no longer on the frontier—to replace it with a new territorial capital built in the Roman style. The palisades and barrack blocks and the praetorium and other buildings in the principia had all been carefully removed, and the high earthen bank levelled and used to fill the deep ditch that once ran around it. Yet the roads still ran straight and true, so that Buccio could tell where his office and sleeping cell must once have been. Now, a new building was taking shape, the first layer of foundation stones almost complete: a basilica and forum for the new tribal capital.
Other buildings were rising here and there, among a dozen or so large plots marked out with pegs and string: one might be the public baths, Buccio decided, but the others seemed to be private houses. A gang of men were at work metalling a road that ran at right angles from the former Via Principia of the fort close to where the dexter gate had once stood.
Nearing the line of the infilled ditch, Buccio directed the junior official riding at his side to set up camp in the agreed spot, while he rode on towards the forum alone. A number of men were gathered there, deep in a discussion of some matter that required much waving of arms and pointing in various directions at the construction around them. They were dressed in Roman-style tunics, though most still wore native chequered trousers underneath against the spring chill. Several of them turned at his approach and Buccio’s breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of the face of one of them.
The man said something to the rest and the group split up. Several of the men seemed in no great hurry to make their way to wherever they were going, and Buccio was aware of many eyes on him as he reined his horse in next to the man who had given the order to disperse.
He looked up at Buccio, his dark brown eyes warm with amusement. “They told us we were to expect a new procurator to oversee the building work—but they did not tell us who it would be.” His hair had been clipped in the Roman fashion, but the flyaway brows and wry smile were the same; and even as he spoke, he unconsciously reached out and gentled the neck of Buccio’s mare.
For a moment, Buccio did not move, still not quite believing his eyes, though he had expected—hoped—for this moment. Still uncertain, too, of whether he would be welcome or not. But when the man went on grinning up at him, apparently quite as pleased with this reunion as Buccio was, Buccio slipped from his horse and embraced him. “Jago!”
After a moment, Buccio pushed back, holding Jago by the shoulders. “You look well.”
“So do you.” Jago huffed a laugh and rolled a shoulder before adding with a mixture of pride and embarrassment, “They made me a magistrate.”
“No toga?” Buccio took another look at the tunic, noting the purple stripe.
Jago laughed. “I’m working up to it. But come you to my home—” He caught the reins of Buccio’s patient mount and began to turn her. “—and let us discuss how you will help me build this new town of mine. And then—” He threw a grin back over his shoulder in Buccio’s direction. “—we shall plan how to steal the time for that day’s hunting to the west I once promised you.”
Following after Jago, Buccio made a mental note to pay a visit to the temple complex to be built behind the basilica once it was completed and raise an altar: "To the gods, that they have been kind."
This story is set in and around Cirencester (Roman Corinium), which was the base for a number of auxiliary cavalry units, including the First Thracian, in the years between the Roman conquest of Britain in AD43 and the creation of a new tribal capital on the site shortly after AD 70.
The local tribe were the Dobunni, who were generally friendly towards their Roman conquerors. I have used the Iron Age oppidum (or town) at Bagendon, around four miles from Cirencester, as the site of Jowan and Jago’s dun, while I have based Constantius’ people at another oppidum that has been identified at Salmonsbury near Bourton-on-the-Water. This lies a dozen miles to the north of Cirencester on the Fosse Way, the Roman road from Exeter to Lincoln which runs through Cirencester.
The cursus where the midsummer gathering takes place and Jowan is murdered is intended to be the neolithic one at Lechlade that (in the tradition of many scenes in Rosemary Sutcliff’s works) my Iron Age tribe has re-purposed as the site of a midsummer fair. The valley where Beck’s troops break up the fight over the stolen cattle is meant to be the one that now contains the magnificent Roman villa complex of Chedworth.
The personal names in the area in the early Roman period would belong to a dialect of the Brythonic language, most likely a precursor of Welsh. However, the Cotswolds are most definitely “West Country” rather than “Welsh” and I have therefore chosen to use personal names from the only surviving "West Country" Brythonic language, modern Cornish. (To aid readers familiar with Jericho, I have tried to use names reminiscent of the names of the canon characters.) The Roman version of Beck has, of course, a full set of praenomen, nomen and cognomen.
In looking for a military rank for Buccio/Beck that would provide a good counterpart to his rank as a US Army major in canon, I settled on making him one of the five Tribuni Angusticlavii or narrow-stripe tribunes in his legion. These tribunes were career officers, typically from an equestrian background, on a standardised career path which took them from roles as local administrators through mid-ranking military command positions to senior military or administrative posts.
