tanaquiljall (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tanaquiljall) wrote2013-04-12 07:27 pm
tanaquiljall) wrote2013-04-12 07:27 pm
Fic: Jericho/Rosemary Sutcliff Fusion - Borderland - Teen 2/3
Title: 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
5. Midsummer Feast
Buccio watched sparks fly up into the deepening dusk from a nearby bonfire. Children were running around playing tag, apparently inexhaustible even after a day of games and feasting, while their mothers tended to bronze cooking pots and exchanged news from afar. Some of the men were still bargaining over goods—finely crafted axes, lengths of cloth, fine red Samian bowls that must have been imported from Gaul—but the bulk of the day’s trading was done: the sheep and cattle and long-legged colts that had been trotted out to be examined and haggled over and bid on had been driven away and safely penned by their new owners. Now the wide strip of land lying between two shallow ditches that ran side by side towards the setting sun was given over to revelry.
Some of the men had gathered around a ring marked with birch branches where a few of their number, stripped to the waist and hair bound back, tested their strength in wrestling matches, each cheered on by their own friends. In another corner, the cries were for fighting cocks. Beyond them, young men and women were weaving complex patterns, joining hands and parting, in dances that would, for some, lead in time to another, older dance, bringing new blood into their duns.
All in all, Buccio decided, the scene was not so different from the rowdy festival of Fors Fortuna that was being celebrated that same evening in more civilized parts of the Empire further south. He was certainly developing the same sort of headache: a little mazed from the day’s heat and the smoke of the fires and too much time spent going from one group to another to speak to this chieftain and that. Or maybe it was the effect of the sour barley brew in the cups that had been thrust into his hand each time he stopped; for courtesy’s sake, he had needed to accept and drink from each, though he had been careful to take only a sip—but there had been so many cups….
Rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, trying to persuade away his headache, he wondered if he could safely leave the gathering, or whether that would be a diplomatic error of some kind. Centurion Longinus had not mentioned that the Commander would be invited to the Midsummer gathering when he had handed over command, many months ago now. His decurions—none native-born, alas—had also known nothing of any customs beyond those Buccio could have guessed at himself. Surely meeting with all the different leaders, as he had done, was enough?
Yet he certainly did not wish to create offence—not when he had finally, it seemed, convinced Constantius to keep the peace with his neighbours. It had been done at the cost of carrying out near constant patrols of the area where Constantius’ hunting runs marched with Jowan’s, but peace there was. Buccio had also found a way to discreetly return the horses he had confiscated after the fight to Jowan and his people, sure that they were the rightful owners. Remembering Jago’s quick, grateful smile of understanding, Buccio realised that he had one friend here at the gathering he could turn to for advice without appearing weak or foolish: had Jago not shown, in more than the matter of hunting, that he was willing to hold to his promise to teach Buccio the customs of his people, if Buccio was willing to learn?
With the decurion who had accompanied him as he processed around the gathering ground still at his heels, Buccio wove through the crowds. Yet when he reached the place Jago and his father had made theirs for the day, he found only Jowan and Ennor.
“Tribune.” Jowan’s eyes twinkled. “Come to sample our mead now the day has turned a little chillier?” He waved forwards one of the boys, who quickly brought beakers for Buccio and the decurion.
Buccio accepted his with a smile, though he was careful only to wet his lips for form’s sake: he had sampled the honeyed drink back at the fort soon after his arrival and had learned it was as potent as it was sweet. “In truth, I was in search of Jago,” he admitted.
Jowan gave him a cautious look. “He has… business to attend to for a while.”
“Business?” Buccio raised his eyebrows, wondering at the cryptic response.
Jowan jerked his head towards the far end of the gathering ground, where a single large round-house had been erected, the space around it kept clear of children and campfires and livestock, though elsewhere was close-crowded. “There are… ceremonies….”
“Ah.” Buccio dipped his head in apology. “Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.” He should have guessed as much, for such gatherings were the domain of gods as well as men, and he had noticed the round-house earlier, and the way it was set apart, and the way men came and went from time to time.
“No harm done. And my son should return soon, if you still wish to speak with him.” Jowan downed the remaining contents of his own cup and handed it back to the boy who had served Buccio. “And now I have business of my own.” This time he indicated another part of the gathering ground, where crude latrines had been set up just beyond the ditch.
Buccio watched him for a while, weaving his way in stately fashion through the throng, greeting acquaintances here and there. Then he bent his gaze towards the round-house, wondering when Jago would return. When he looked back at Jowan, he saw to his surprise that the older man had been joined by the unmistakable figure of Constantius.
The two of them spoke for a moment. Even at this distance, Buccio could see Jowan’s shoulders stiffen, while Constantius’ hands clenched into fists at his sides. Then Jowan raised a hand dismissively and stalked away. Constantius turned to look after him, his displeasure at the outcome of the conversation writ large in his stance. Buccio wondered briefly if he should follow and speak with Constantius, to discover what had been said. Yet his own words to Jago came back to him: there are things which are the business of the Tribes and no business of Rome’s. Belike he would only make things worse if he intervened. Even as he decided to leave well alone, Constantius disappeared back into the crowd.
Swinging away, he found Ennor watching him, a slightly uncertain expression on his face, though he broke into a smile when he saw that he was being observed in turn. Buccio had spent less time with the younger of Jowan’s sons, but they had spoken on occasion. Now Ennor raised his cup to Buccio and asked, speaking slowly and carefully in the native tongue, “Has the Tribune enjoyed the gathering?” Perhaps Buccio looked startled at being addressed so, for Ennor gave a slight shrug. “My brother tells me you have been learning our speech.”
Buccio raised his own cup in reply and returned the smile. “I have,” he answered, searching for the words. “Both the enjoying and the learning.” He suspected he had made more than one mistake, but his words must have been clear enough, for Ennor looked pleased. The exchange reminded Buccio that he should thank Jago for the lessons: though most conversations during the day had switched rapidly to Latin, he had found himself treated more warmly once he had made the attempt to use the native speech. Taking a deep breath and mustering his balky tongue, he asked in return, “Has it been a good trading for you?”
Ennor nodded. “Sa. It has been a good trading.” He smiled to himself and said something else in which Buccio only caught one word in three. Catching Buccio’s confusion, he switched back to Latin. “The fame of our horses grows. There was a trader of the Coritani, from Lindum, who came especially to see our foals.”
“They are indeed fine,” Buccio agreed. “Even the Arab horses of the eastern deserts would not outmatch them, I think.”
He and Ennor went on talking about horses for a while longer, Buccio casting the occasional glance towards the round-house, looking for Jago’s return, until Ennor abruptly broke off what he had been saying, looking past Buccio to where some commotion was starting up near the edge of the gathering ground, on the inner side of the ditch. Voices were being raised in outrage, and Buccio thought he caught the word “Dead!”
Exchanging a glance with Ennor, he put down his beaker and the two of them hurried across to where a crowd was growing in the shadow of a tent improvised from lashed poles and gaily striped native blankets. The crowd stepped back as Buccio approached, revealing the figure of a man lying on the ground.
For a moment, it looked as though the man had simply fallen asleep. Then Buccio saw a dark stain spreading across the man’s tunic where a knife must have been thrust under his ribs—and that it was Jowan.
Ennor pushed forward, falling to his knees beside the body. “Father!” He reached out his hands but stopped short of touching Jowan, as if afraid.
Thinking rapidly, Buccio turned to the decurion, who was still close behind him. “Tell the escort to look out for anyone trying to leave the gathering and to detain them. Have one of the men ready to carry a message to the fort. Then come back here. I shall need you to—.”
He broke off as the crowd parted, making way for Jago. “I was on my way back and I heard….” His gaze went past Buccio to where his brother knelt next to Jowan. Even in the uncertain light of the torches, Buccio saw him turn pale. Without another word, he brushed past Buccio and knelt opposite Ennor.
Buccio was half-aware that the decurion, understanding the need for haste, had hurried away to carry out the first part of his orders. Most of his attention was fixed on Jago, as he slowly swept his gaze over his father’s body, taking in not only the neat, precise wound but also the brooch that still clasped his cloak and the arm ring and torc he still wore. At last, Jago lifted his head and met Buccio’s gaze.
“Constantius. Constantius did this.”
“We have no proof of that,” Buccio pointed out, very gently, though it had been his first suspicion also. This was certainly no robbery gone wrong.
“Who else?” Jago’s eyes flashed. “Who else would bring weapons to the gathering ground? Who else wished my father ill?”
“None that I know of.” Buccio caught Jago’s gaze and held it. “And yet I do not know all of this matter there is to be known. And nor do you. Let us seek out the truth—.”
Jago let out a snort. “The truth is that Constantius must pay for what he has done.”
“If he has done it.” Buccio squatted down on his haunches next to Jago and put a hand on his arm. “Do not let your grief and anger provoke you into foolishness, Jago.” He spoke softly. “For the sake of your father, and the friendship he offered me, do not act rashly. Give me a little time….”
On the other side of Jowan’s body, Ennor made a movement, as if he wished to speak but at a shake of the head from Jago, he sank back on his heels again. Jago was silent for a long moment, his gazed fixed on Buccio’s face, as if trying to read what was in his mind.
Then, at last, he drew in a deep, ragged breath and nodded. “You shall have your time. A little time. So that Rome may prove to her satisfaction what my people already know in their hearts is true.”
oOo
6. Investigations
The next few hours were as busy as any Buccio had ever known. When the decurion—Paulinus—returned, Buccio set him to searching the immediate area for the knife that had ended Jowan’s life. As Buccio had expected, there was no trace of the weapon. Buccio himself questioned those who had crowded around the murder scene, but it seemed most had only gathered once the body had been discovered, and no one present recalled seeing anything amiss before the alarm was raised.
By that time, Jago and Ennor and other men of their dun had made a rough bier and were bearing the body away towards the round house at the far end of the gathering ground. The news had run through the place and the merriment that had been in full swing only minutes before had been silenced. Each dun drew its own together, the men speaking in low murmurs and the women keeping their children close as they watched the sad procession pass. Now and then, one of the men would leave his own people and cross the trampled grass to speak for a while with those from another dun, sober faced.
Once the small procession reached the round house and the bier had been set down before the doorposts, Buccio set off along the gathering ground with Paulinus at his heels to where Constantius’ people had made their place for the day. He was still many feet away when he saw that several of the men who were normally in Constantius’ company were absent. Of Constantius himself there was no sign.
Coming to a halt before Constantius’ people, Buccio demanded, “Where is your chieftain? Where is Constantius? I wish to speak with him.”
The men stared back at him, sullen-eyed and silent, while the women turned their gazes down and the children gaped at him, wide-eyed. One man, standing a little in front of the others, apparently the leader of those who were left, gave a small shrug and half spread his hands, as if he had not understood the Latin words.
Swallowing down his rising anger, aware he was being watched from all quarters of the gathering ground, Buccio repeated the question, this time speaking in the native tongue. “Where is Constantius?”
The man sniffed derisively. “Gone.” He gestured roughly in the direction of Constantius’ dun, many miles away. “Home. An hour, two hours, maybe.”
Buccio knew that for a lie. He had seen Constantius speaking with Jowan—arguing with him—not half an hour before. Yet he knew he would get no better answer tonight.
“Then I shall follow and speak with him.” He held the man’s gaze for a moment, before he turned and strode away. Time to find his escort and see if they had news of a party fleeing the gathering ground.
He was already several paces away when he realised that, with anger lending him a little more fluency than usual, he had in his haste mistakenly used the word for hunt not follow. Perhaps, he thought to himself with bitter amusement, it had not been a mistake after all.
Walking back down the gathering ground, Paulinus still at his shoulder, he was aware of many eyes on him. He was not much surprised when, only half way to the entrance at the south-eastern end, a small knot of men detached themselves from the crowd and approached him. He recognised two of them: chieftains whose hunting runs ran to the south of the fort. He slowed to a halt as they blocked his way.
“What do you do now, Tribune?” the foremost of them asked.
“I go to speak to my men.” Buccio gestured towards where he had left the rest of his escort. “To see if there is anything they can tell me that will bring me closer to the truth of what has happened here.”
The other chieftain stepped up. “The Law has been broken. No man may bring weapons to the gathering ground, and he that does brings shame upon his dun.”
Buccio nodded, acknowledging the point. He and Paulinus had given their own swords into the safekeeping of the duplicarius in charge of his escort before they entered. Yet he was not so sure the Law had been violated. “Even an eating-knife may be a weapon in an unfriendly hand,” he pointed out quietly. The wound under Jowan’s breast had been small, scarce two-finger’s width. It would not have needed a sword or a dagger to make it. “But this deed shall not go unpunished. Rome does not look kindly upon murder, within your gathering ground or without.”
He made as if to move on—all that needed to be said had been said, and there was work to be done—but the two chieftains stood where they were, still blocking his path. The first spoke again. “The Tribe also does not look kindly upon murder, within the gathering ground or without. Yet within…. A dun that would give shelter to the man who would do such a thing must answer for it—with fire and blade.”
Buccio blinked, suddenly realizing that he had misunderstood the request to give up his own sword. He had thought the ban on weapons was simply to prevent a quarrel escalating into something worse, but he saw now that it was more: it was a symbol that the gathering ground was a place of truce, where old disputes, and current ones, were to be laid aside for a few hours. The man who had killed Jowan had struck a blow not just at another man but at the heart of the Tribe, at the trust that let the duns come together, summer and winter, to trade and talk and dance. Without that trust, he would have had a dozen men like Constantius on his hands, stirring up trouble with their neighbours over imagined slights and old feuds.
He nodded. “It shall answer.”
The chieftains bowed their heads in acknowledgement, seemingly satisfied, and let him pass on. Yet as Buccio resumed his course towards the entrance, he found himself wondering if all in Constantius’ dun should be punished for the ill-temper and rashness of their chief. Did the women who tended the hearths and the babes who suckled at their breasts deserve to have the thatch fired over their heads?
He pushed aside the question as he reached the entrance to the gathering ground and looked around for his escort. For now, his task was to find the proof that would allow him to lay the blame for Jowan’s death where he was already sure it belonged: at Constantius’ feet.
oOo
When Buccio reached his escort, he found that they had seen nothing of Constantius’ departure—but they did have confirmation that he had left.
“Sorry, sir,” the duplicarius said, with a rueful shrug. “There’s been comings and goings all day, so we didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But after Decurion Paulinus brought your message, I sent the lads round to ask a few questions. A pair of boys keeping an eye on things out here said they saw some of Constantius’ lot leading a score or more ponies away. Half an hour ago, maybe.”
Buccio knew Constantius and his men would be long gone, either halfway back to their dun or somewhere else in the wild countryside where he would likely never find them. Certainly not by stumbling about in the dark with less than a dozen men with him. The matter must wait until the next day. Then he could ride out to the dun with a proper show of strength, enough to force the truth out of Constantius if he would not provide it willingly.
Ordering the escort to make ready to leave—all but two, who would stay behind to bring word of any trouble that might blow up later—Buccio once more passed through the entrance to the gathering ground. He owed Jago and Ennor the courtesy of informing them of what he had discovered and what his intentions were.
The gathering had quieted still further. Half-asleep children lolled against their yawning mothers, while the men had drawn close to their campfires, keeping a wary-eyed watch. Several of Jowan’s people were still gathered around his body, Jago and Ennor among them. When Jago saw Buccio approaching, he touched his brother’s arm, drawing Ennor with him so that the three of them met a short way from Jowan’s corpse.
“Constantius has fled.” Buccio hitched at the shoulder straps of his breastplate, suddenly feeling tired under the weight of his armour. “Gone before your father’s murder was discovered, I think, which speaks to his guilt. Tomorrow, I shall seek him out at his dun and see if he will yield the truth. ”
“Why not tonight?” Ennor gestured impatiently towards the entrance to the gathering ground, as if urging Buccio to lead the way, right now.
“Because I do not have enough men with me to persuade him of the wisdom of answering my questions truthfully, and it will take time to gather them.” Buccio kept the rebuke gentle, understanding the young man’s need for action.
“There are men enough here.” This time, Ennor swept his arm more widely, encompassing the whole of the gathering ground.
“But not my men.” Buccio hardened his tone, catching Ennor’s eye and holding it until the other looked away, conceding the point with a grudging lift of the shoulder.
Turning to Jago, Buccio saw the same frustration on his face. “And after?” Jago lifted his eyebrows.
“And after, if you will, come you to the fort in the evening and I will give you an account of it.”
“And if my people do not wish to wait for such an accounting, but would demand their own?” Jago tilted up his chin, his expression challenging.
“Then I shall be gathering my troops to have an accounting from you.” The two of them glared at each other for a long moment, before Buccio reached out and grasped Jago’s arm. “I know this matter touches you near.” He spoke softly but urgently. “I know that the blood of your father cries out for vengeance. But, for now, Constantius is my quarry, not yours. And you have my word: tomorrow, I will have the truth of it. Until then, I put my trust in you to hold the peace. No threats nor venegeance. Do you understand?”
Jago was silent for a moment, and then Buccio felt some of the anger flow out of him. He gave a sharp nod. “I understand.”
oOo
7. Feathers Tipped With Yellow
As Buccio rode towards Constantius’ dun the following morning, he wished he had been able to snatch a little more sleep before the coming confrontation. His day had not ended when he returned to the fort the previous evening: instead of the calm challenge of the gate guards and the quiet clink of armour from the watch patrolling the ramparts, he had found the place seething like an angry anthill. The area behind the gate had been turned from night to day by guttering torches, which were casting their light on two units of cavalry preparing to head out.
A few quick words with his second-in-command brought the unwelcome news that a patrol had run into a band of natives to the west of the main road. The tribesmen had refused to stop when challenged, and had cut the patrol almost to pieces when the auxiliaries had tried to make them comply. Reinforcements were being sent to recover the dead and to begin the search for the tribesmen.
Pausing only long enough to change to a fresh mount, Buccio had swung into place at the head of the column. He was sure the band must be Constantius and his men, fleeing from the gathering ground. When they reached the site of the skirmish, the scene confirmed it: Buccio recognised one of Constantius’ hearth companions among the tumbled and bloodied bodies of his own soldiers.
Buccio had quietly beaten his fist into the palm of his hand as he watched the corpses of the four dead auxiliaries being loaded onto pack ponies. Constantius had crossed one line earlier in the evening, with Jowan’s murder, whether he had done the deed himself or simply condoned the actions of the man who had actually wielded the blade by shielding him from justice. Now he had crossed another line, one that touched Buccio more nearly.
There had been casualties before, of course, as the patrols had broken up running fights between men of different duns or turned back groups intent on raiding. For the most part, the tribesmen had surrendered or fled when confronted: with the memory of the recent uprising in the East—and the way it had been put down—still fresh in their minds, they knew better than to provoke Rome. Yet Constantius had disregarded all that, just as he had disregarded the customs of his own people, back at the gathering ground.
Riding back from the site of the slaughter, Buccio had decided that he had tried to play peacemaker for long enough. If the local tribes would not respect Rome’s authority and live quietly, then it was time to start taking a spear or two from among the sheaves.
Now, in the cool of the summer morning, he headed towards Constantius’ dun with a full eight units—a quarter of his vexillation—at his back. He was determined to leave Constantius’ people, and Constantius himself, in no doubt of what might happen if there was further trouble.
Nearing the turning from the main road, Buccio drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for the coming confrontation—and then sniffed again, as he scented smoke. Not the ever-present reek of wood-and-dung fires that seemed to hang over the whole countryside when the wind was light, but a sharper, stronger smell.
As they rounded the shoulder of the hill and the dun came into view, the reason for the smell quickly became apparent. At least three or four huts had been burned to heaps of blackened timbers from which thin trails of smoke still rose. Buccio could see patches of scorched thatch on perhaps half a dozen more. To the right of the dun, a group of boys of ten or eleven were driving a handful of cattle towards a pen where men laboured to repair the smashed hurdles that had once formed its walls.
Buccio left most of his cavalry on the slope below the dun, taking only Decurion Paulinus and a small escort with him as he approached a handful of men who waited at the entrance to the dun, watching his approach with distrustful eyes.
Buccio swept his gaze over the group, not finding the face he sought. “I come seeking Constantius, your chief.”
An older man with a bald pate fringed by greying sandy hair, who stood a little ahead of the others, gestured to Buccio to follow him inside the dun. “I will take you to him.” Slipping from his horse, Buccio made his way after him, Decurion Paulinus a pace behind.
The man led him towards the forecourt before the Chieftain’s Hall. Buccio guessed what he was going to see a moment before they reached the place: a row of bodies, Constantius’ in the centre.
Buccio swallowed hard: some of the bodies belonged to women and children, and several of them were badly burned. But he could see at once that this was not the work of some ill-chance spark catching upon dry thatch: three or four of the men, Constantius among them, had been taken by an arrow in the neck or chest.
“What happened here?” Buccio turned to the man—Priscus was the name he used, Buccio remembered now; he had been one of the men attending Constantius when Buccio had first visited the dun.
“We were attacked.” Priscus’ eyes flashed dangerously. “Those thieving cowards to the south.”
“Jowan’s people?” Buccio raised his eyebrows. While he could not quite believe Constantius would have staged a scene such as this as a final act of provocation—he would have surely arranged his own survival—he could well believe that his people would be happy to blame Jowan’s dun, regardless of who the real culprit might be. Besides, Jago had given his word there would be no retaliation. Buccio gave Priscus a long, hard look. “You are sure of that?”
“Aye.” Priscus turned his head and made as if to spit. “We saw his son, Ennor, with our own eyes in the light of the flames. And you can see for yourself the arrows they left behind.”
Buccio took a step closer to the bodies, looking more closely at the shafts. All were fletched with goose feathers that had been tipped with yellow, tying them to the hunter who owned them. The shape of the point would also mark out the smith who had forged them. He did not yet know which man those arrows belonged to, but it would be an easy enough matter to discover if they were tied to Ennor or any other among Jowan’s kin. And if they were…. Buccio grimaced. He had known Constantius for a liar, but he had trusted Jago, counted him a friend. The thought that Jago might have lied to him made the breath catch in Buccio’s throat for a moment.
“Get me one of those arrows,” Buccio instructed Paulinus when he could speak again, his tone sharp. He cocked an eyebrow in Priscus’ direction. “If is permitted?”
“The Tribune wishes to look for the truth?” Priscus shrugged a shoulder. “Then he should take what he needs.”
As the decurion began on his grisly task, Buccio turned his attention fully on Priscus. It had not escaped his attention that the other man had a fresh bruise on his forehead, or that he carried one arm a little stiffly, as if it had been hurt. Some of the other men, too, bore fresh cuts and bruises. Perhaps they had been gained during the assault on the dun—and perhaps not.
“There are two other matters in which I seek the truth.” Buccio swept his gaze over the small crowd of men who had gathered in the forecourt, addressing his remarks as much to them as to Priscus. “The murder of Jowan at the gathering ground yestereve, and the killing of four of my men in an attack between here and the gathering ground an hour later.” He turned back to Priscus, waiting for an answer.
Priscus gave him a carefully blank look in return. “I am sorry for the Tribune’s losses. But I know nothing of these matters. We have been busy with our own troubles.” He gestured around at the burned buildings.
Buccio gave him a level look in return. “I see that may be so.” He wondered if the rest of the tribe would consider Constantius’ people had now been sufficiently punished for Jowan’s murder. He could hope, at least, that with Constantius and many of his hearth companions dead, he could expect less trouble from this dun in the coming months. But the deaths of his own men had still not been sufficiently accounted for. “Yet I think at least some of your people have knowledge of the attack on my patrol. We found one of your men, Lucius I believe he called himself, among the slain.”
Priscus mouth twisted for a moment, as if he had bitten into a sour apple, and he looked as if he wished to deny it, but apparently could find no excuse that he though Buccio would accept, for he remained silent.
“Sir?” Paulinus was on his feet again, showing him the arrow he had retrieved.
“Thank you, decurion.” Buccio took a quick glance around again to conform how many of the huts had been burned beyond repair, before he turned back to Priscus. “My men who survived the attack also tell me Lucius was not alone. That he had a dozen companions or more with him who did not stand aside from the slaughter. I think another eight huts should suffice—for now.”
Not giving Priscus a chance to reply, he turned on his heel and marched out of the dun. There was another new made chieftain who must also give an accounting for his people.
oOo
Buccio left three quarters of his troops behind to see to the burning of the eight huts, taking the remainder with him to Jowan’s dun. He was not expecting much trouble there, for all that Jago and Ennor had broken their word, and he was confident a double unit should be enough to handle it. Indeed, when he rode up towards the dun, he found it even quieter than Constantius’ place had been. The fields and pens were empty, and silence hung over the huts as he rode in through the unguarded gates, though he felt many eyes watching from within dim doorways.
He was met before the whale-backed Chieftain’s Hall by a tall, fair-haired woman who carried herself like a queen. He remembered seeing her on the women’s side of the hall, busy with some task or other, during the two or three visits he had made previously, though they had not spoken. She held out the Guest Cup as he dismounted. “Greetings, Tribune. Drink and be welcome.” There was a coolness to her tone that belied her words.
Buccio took the cup and drank and gave it back to her. “Good fortune on the house, and the woman of the house.” Glancing around and seeing only more women, he looked back at her. “I am seeking Jago. Is he within?”
He thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, before she said, just as coolly, “My lord is from home today.”
With a start, Buccio realised this must be Jago’s wife, and that she must have found herself, all without warning, mistress of the Chieftain’s Hall. He wondered where Jowan’s wife was, and hoped she had some comfort in her grief. But all he said was, “I see.” He glanced over the woman’s shoulder, into the gloom of the hall. “And Ennor, your lord’s brother? Is he from home also?”
“He is.” Jago’s wife tipped her chin up a little, clearly defying him to question the truth of her statement.
“And when will your lord and his brother return.”
She gave a slight shrug. “I do not know. My lord did not tell me.”
“I see,” Buccio said again, feeling somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed. He could hardly camp outside the dun until Jago returned—and Buccio had a suspicion that would not be any time soon. He certainly did not expect Jago to present himself at the fort that evening, as arranged, after all that had happened. Just as the hasty departure of Constantius and his men from the gathering ground had spoken of their likely involvement in his murder, so did the strangely convenient absence of Jago, Ennor and most of the men of the dun speak to their role in the attack on Constantius and his people.
Why, Jago? he found himself asking silently. Why did you break faith with me?
Still, this need not be an entirely wasted journey. He dipped his head in the direction of the hall. “Since I cannot ask it of your lord, I must ask it of you. I would see your lord’s hunting arrows. Also those of your lord’s brother.”
Again, there was that flicker of uncertainty in her face, and her gaze shifted over his shoulder to where the two units waited patiently behind him. She must know that he did not need to make this as a request and that there was nothing she or the other women could do to stop his troops ransacking the dun if he ordered it, though he hoped it would not come to that. After a moment, she nodded. “As you wish.” Gesturing to one of the other women to follow—Ennor’s wife, Buccio guessed—she disappeared into the hall.
The two women returned a few moments later, each carrying a handful of arrows. The feathers on the bundle Jago’s wife bore were a dark red, but the ones Ennor’s wife carried were yellow-tipped.
Buccio stepped forwards and took one. “Decurion Paulinus?” He held out his other hand.
Paulinus stepped forwards and handed the arrow he had taken from Constantius’ body to Buccio. Buccio compared the two: the fletchings were the same, while the point of the arrow in his right hand might have been the twin of the one in his left.
Without a word, he gave the arrow he had taken from Ennor’s wife back to her. She held herself bravely, but he could see the fear for her husband in her face. Returning the other arrow to Paulinus, he once more turned towards Jago’s wife.
“Tell your lord that I shall expect to see him at the fort this evening, as was our agreement. Tell him to bring his brother with him. And if not this evening, then by sundown tomorrow and no later.”
She bent her head briefly in acknowledgment. “When my lord returns, I shall tell him.”
Buccio swung away and mounted his horse. Gathering the reins, he looked down at her where she stood, tall and proud, afraid and yet unafraid. Had it been so with the wild queen to the east who had butchered half a legion, Buccio wondered. Pray that this woman and her lord were woven of wiser cloth. “Tell him, also,” he said, his voice quiet but with not an ounce of softness in it, “that if he does not come, I shall seek him out, and I shall not rest until I find him.”
oOo
8. Like a Defeat and not a Victory
Buccio paced restlessly around the narrow confines of his office. Paylists and duty rosters lay scattered across his desk, but he had no patience for them. His ears were cocked for the sound of patrols coming in at the main gate; for his second-in-command’s footsteps on the stairs, bringing his report; for the sound of other footsteps, however unwilling.
Two days earlier, at around the same time, he had stood on the ramparts above the Sinister Gate, straining his eyes along the road while the sun sank behind a shoulder of the hills, hoping, still hoping—.
He had gone on standing there even after it had grown dark enough that it was impossible to make out anything more than a bowshot from the walls. Maybe he would have gone on standing there all night if the decurion in charge of the first watch had not given a discreet cough. “Sir? Will you be making last rounds?”
Buccio had nodded, even as he swept his gaze one last time along the darkening road. Then he had turned away.
Jago had not come.
Buccio had spent the night trying to puzzle out the reason. For all that he and Jago had reached out to each other across the distance that lay between their two worlds, and for all Jago had tried to explain the ways of the Tribes, it seemed to Buccio that he still did not understand how they thought. They were like children or slaves, he decided in the end: always fearing the rod of a cruel master and not understanding that a kind master would temper correction and punishment with mercy and understanding. And, like a fearful slave, Jago and his people had run and hidden. Yet had he not shown Jago that Rome could be a kind master? That he himself could be a good friend to the Tribe, to Jago….
Tossing and turning on the narrow cot in his sleeping cell, Buccio could not quite push away the hurt he felt that Jago had not trusted him, the way he had trusted Jago when he made his promise at the gathering ground.
The next morning, Buccio went again to Jago’s dun and watched unsmiling as his men searched the houses and barns, the granaries and the workshops, the cattle pens and the horse runs. They found none but women and children, and a few old men too frail to walk far. The villagers had stood aside, silent and uncomplaining, as his soldiers had pulled apart bedding, rummaged through chests and overturned storage pots, scattering their meagre possessions across the beaten-earth floors and outside on the paved forecourts. Buccio had never really expected to find the men he sought, but he hoped that perhaps the women—already picking up pieces of broken dish or shaking the dirt from striped blankets tossed in the dirt as the auxiliaries withdrew—might talk some sense into their menfolk.
After he returned to the fort, he sent out patrols into the hills, to search the valleys and woods where he and Jago had hunted together. He had already set men to guard the road north and south, and the road that led to the river-crossing at Glevum, and left his best scouts to watch the dun, to see who came and went and to follow them. But the patrols returned at dusk, footsore and weary, with nothing to report: they had scarcely seen a squirrel or a thrush stirring, much less the men they sought. The scouts likewise had no good tidings—though Buccio was far from certain that meant none had left or entered the dun, despite the watch kept upon it.
The patrols had gone out again this morning, their numbers doubled, this time beating up from south to north along the line of the hills. Yet there were so many hollows and thickets and tangled woodlands where many men might lie hid while a whole Roman legion passed—and these men had hunted these hills since they were boys. Buccio was not much surprised when, at last, his second clattered into view and said wearily, “Nothing to report, sir, I’m afraid.”
Buccio turned and leaned on the windowsill, tilting his head so that he could see the sweep of the hills, dark against the lighter sky in which the stars were finally beginning to prick out. “Then tomorrow we shall send another message.”
It gave him no pleasure to send that message, sitting astride his horse as he watched his soldiers fire the thatch of a half dozen houses, taking care to keep the fire from spreading further while the reed and wattle-and-daub crumbled to ash.
When the task was done, he turned to Jago’s wife, standing before her people outside the dun, where his men had herded them before they began their work. She lifted her gaze to meet his, not bothering to conceal the hatred behind her eyes as he spoke to her. “Send word to your lord that I will return, and burn the rest and salt the fields, if he and his brother do not come to the fort by tomorrow nightfall.” Wattle-and-daub huts could be easily rebuilt and salted fields would bear again in three years, but it would go hard with them until then. Surely Jago would see the sense in yielding up his brother for the sake of all his people.
Buccio kept his troops beating the hills throughout the afternoon, pushing further into the clumps of gorse and thickets of hawthorn, where a man might lie hid under the tangled branches. All they got for their pains by nightfall were scratched arms and blistered feet. Buccio knew his men were starting to mutter that maybe the Tribune had become sun-touched at the midsummer gathering. Yet did they not understand that his orders—Rome’s orders—could not be defied without consequences?
He was standing outside the praetorium the next morning, discussing the allocation of the patrols for the day’s search, when a runner from the guard at the Sinister Gate hurried up and gave a hasty salute. “Sir. A man approaches. One of the natives. Carrying a green branch.”
“An ambassador?” Buccio raised his eyes inquiringly in his second’s direction. When he nodded, Buccio turned back to the guard. “Bring him to me here.”
It was a few minutes before the gate swung open to allow the newcomer to enter, but even from halfway across the fort, it took but a moment for Buccio to recognise him.
Jago.
He seemed to be alone; the gates swung closed behind him without admitting any other. Watching him approach slowly, a guard of soldiers at his shoulder and back, Buccio wondered where Ennor and the rest of the men were still cowering.
When Jago was within a dozen paces, Buccio took a step forward. “This is a start. But my orders were for you and your brother. Where is Ennor?”
Jago’s step faltered for an instant, before he came on, stopping perhaps three paces away. He lifted the green branch a little, as if to draw attention to it. “This is my fault. No one else’s. I am the chieftain of my people—.”
“You were the chieftain.” Buccio interrupted sharply. “By Rome’s favour.”
Jago took half a step back, clearly startled. Then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “As the Tribune wishes.” He dipped his head slightly before raising his gaze and fixing it on Buccio’s face again. “But I still speak for my people, as their ambassador.” Again, he made a slight gesture with the green branch, reminding Buccio he carried it and considered himself under its protection, before he went on, “And for their sakes, I surrender myself to you. Punish me for bringing Constantius to justice by our Law and not yours, if you will, but let them go in peace.”
Buccio stared back at him, feeling all of a sudden as if someone had smote him in the centre of his bronzed chestplate. Why must Jago make this so hard? Why could he not let the blame fall where it should, on the man who had fired the shaft that had killed Constantius? “Where is your brother?” he managed to grind out.
Jago hesitated, though he did not drop his eyes, before he shook his head slightly. “I am the one at fault. Accept my surrender—.”
“I accept your surrender.” Buccio nodded to the soldiers on either side of Jago and they stepped forwards and caught him by the arms. “But your people shall not go in peace while your brother hides like a coward behind his women and children. And you shall not go free until I have him in my power.” He nodded to soldiers. “Take him to the cells.”
“No!” The green branch fell from Jago’s hand and was trampled under foot as he twisted in the grip of the soldiers, attempting to pull free as they began to march him away. “Tribune Buccio, listen to me—.”
With a sharp shake of the head, Buccio turned away and strode back towards the entrance to the praetorium. He had Jago. Ennor would surely follow soon.
So why, he wondered, as he mounted the stairs to his office, did this moment feel like a defeat and not a victory?
oOo
Chapters 9 to 12
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
Buccio watched sparks fly up into the deepening dusk from a nearby bonfire. Children were running around playing tag, apparently inexhaustible even after a day of games and feasting, while their mothers tended to bronze cooking pots and exchanged news from afar. Some of the men were still bargaining over goods—finely crafted axes, lengths of cloth, fine red Samian bowls that must have been imported from Gaul—but the bulk of the day’s trading was done: the sheep and cattle and long-legged colts that had been trotted out to be examined and haggled over and bid on had been driven away and safely penned by their new owners. Now the wide strip of land lying between two shallow ditches that ran side by side towards the setting sun was given over to revelry.
Some of the men had gathered around a ring marked with birch branches where a few of their number, stripped to the waist and hair bound back, tested their strength in wrestling matches, each cheered on by their own friends. In another corner, the cries were for fighting cocks. Beyond them, young men and women were weaving complex patterns, joining hands and parting, in dances that would, for some, lead in time to another, older dance, bringing new blood into their duns.
All in all, Buccio decided, the scene was not so different from the rowdy festival of Fors Fortuna that was being celebrated that same evening in more civilized parts of the Empire further south. He was certainly developing the same sort of headache: a little mazed from the day’s heat and the smoke of the fires and too much time spent going from one group to another to speak to this chieftain and that. Or maybe it was the effect of the sour barley brew in the cups that had been thrust into his hand each time he stopped; for courtesy’s sake, he had needed to accept and drink from each, though he had been careful to take only a sip—but there had been so many cups….
Rubbing the back of his hand across his forehead, trying to persuade away his headache, he wondered if he could safely leave the gathering, or whether that would be a diplomatic error of some kind. Centurion Longinus had not mentioned that the Commander would be invited to the Midsummer gathering when he had handed over command, many months ago now. His decurions—none native-born, alas—had also known nothing of any customs beyond those Buccio could have guessed at himself. Surely meeting with all the different leaders, as he had done, was enough?
Yet he certainly did not wish to create offence—not when he had finally, it seemed, convinced Constantius to keep the peace with his neighbours. It had been done at the cost of carrying out near constant patrols of the area where Constantius’ hunting runs marched with Jowan’s, but peace there was. Buccio had also found a way to discreetly return the horses he had confiscated after the fight to Jowan and his people, sure that they were the rightful owners. Remembering Jago’s quick, grateful smile of understanding, Buccio realised that he had one friend here at the gathering he could turn to for advice without appearing weak or foolish: had Jago not shown, in more than the matter of hunting, that he was willing to hold to his promise to teach Buccio the customs of his people, if Buccio was willing to learn?
With the decurion who had accompanied him as he processed around the gathering ground still at his heels, Buccio wove through the crowds. Yet when he reached the place Jago and his father had made theirs for the day, he found only Jowan and Ennor.
“Tribune.” Jowan’s eyes twinkled. “Come to sample our mead now the day has turned a little chillier?” He waved forwards one of the boys, who quickly brought beakers for Buccio and the decurion.
Buccio accepted his with a smile, though he was careful only to wet his lips for form’s sake: he had sampled the honeyed drink back at the fort soon after his arrival and had learned it was as potent as it was sweet. “In truth, I was in search of Jago,” he admitted.
Jowan gave him a cautious look. “He has… business to attend to for a while.”
“Business?” Buccio raised his eyebrows, wondering at the cryptic response.
Jowan jerked his head towards the far end of the gathering ground, where a single large round-house had been erected, the space around it kept clear of children and campfires and livestock, though elsewhere was close-crowded. “There are… ceremonies….”
“Ah.” Buccio dipped his head in apology. “Forgive me. I did not mean to pry.” He should have guessed as much, for such gatherings were the domain of gods as well as men, and he had noticed the round-house earlier, and the way it was set apart, and the way men came and went from time to time.
“No harm done. And my son should return soon, if you still wish to speak with him.” Jowan downed the remaining contents of his own cup and handed it back to the boy who had served Buccio. “And now I have business of my own.” This time he indicated another part of the gathering ground, where crude latrines had been set up just beyond the ditch.
Buccio watched him for a while, weaving his way in stately fashion through the throng, greeting acquaintances here and there. Then he bent his gaze towards the round-house, wondering when Jago would return. When he looked back at Jowan, he saw to his surprise that the older man had been joined by the unmistakable figure of Constantius.
The two of them spoke for a moment. Even at this distance, Buccio could see Jowan’s shoulders stiffen, while Constantius’ hands clenched into fists at his sides. Then Jowan raised a hand dismissively and stalked away. Constantius turned to look after him, his displeasure at the outcome of the conversation writ large in his stance. Buccio wondered briefly if he should follow and speak with Constantius, to discover what had been said. Yet his own words to Jago came back to him: there are things which are the business of the Tribes and no business of Rome’s. Belike he would only make things worse if he intervened. Even as he decided to leave well alone, Constantius disappeared back into the crowd.
Swinging away, he found Ennor watching him, a slightly uncertain expression on his face, though he broke into a smile when he saw that he was being observed in turn. Buccio had spent less time with the younger of Jowan’s sons, but they had spoken on occasion. Now Ennor raised his cup to Buccio and asked, speaking slowly and carefully in the native tongue, “Has the Tribune enjoyed the gathering?” Perhaps Buccio looked startled at being addressed so, for Ennor gave a slight shrug. “My brother tells me you have been learning our speech.”
Buccio raised his own cup in reply and returned the smile. “I have,” he answered, searching for the words. “Both the enjoying and the learning.” He suspected he had made more than one mistake, but his words must have been clear enough, for Ennor looked pleased. The exchange reminded Buccio that he should thank Jago for the lessons: though most conversations during the day had switched rapidly to Latin, he had found himself treated more warmly once he had made the attempt to use the native speech. Taking a deep breath and mustering his balky tongue, he asked in return, “Has it been a good trading for you?”
Ennor nodded. “Sa. It has been a good trading.” He smiled to himself and said something else in which Buccio only caught one word in three. Catching Buccio’s confusion, he switched back to Latin. “The fame of our horses grows. There was a trader of the Coritani, from Lindum, who came especially to see our foals.”
“They are indeed fine,” Buccio agreed. “Even the Arab horses of the eastern deserts would not outmatch them, I think.”
He and Ennor went on talking about horses for a while longer, Buccio casting the occasional glance towards the round-house, looking for Jago’s return, until Ennor abruptly broke off what he had been saying, looking past Buccio to where some commotion was starting up near the edge of the gathering ground, on the inner side of the ditch. Voices were being raised in outrage, and Buccio thought he caught the word “Dead!”
Exchanging a glance with Ennor, he put down his beaker and the two of them hurried across to where a crowd was growing in the shadow of a tent improvised from lashed poles and gaily striped native blankets. The crowd stepped back as Buccio approached, revealing the figure of a man lying on the ground.
For a moment, it looked as though the man had simply fallen asleep. Then Buccio saw a dark stain spreading across the man’s tunic where a knife must have been thrust under his ribs—and that it was Jowan.
Ennor pushed forward, falling to his knees beside the body. “Father!” He reached out his hands but stopped short of touching Jowan, as if afraid.
Thinking rapidly, Buccio turned to the decurion, who was still close behind him. “Tell the escort to look out for anyone trying to leave the gathering and to detain them. Have one of the men ready to carry a message to the fort. Then come back here. I shall need you to—.”
He broke off as the crowd parted, making way for Jago. “I was on my way back and I heard….” His gaze went past Buccio to where his brother knelt next to Jowan. Even in the uncertain light of the torches, Buccio saw him turn pale. Without another word, he brushed past Buccio and knelt opposite Ennor.
Buccio was half-aware that the decurion, understanding the need for haste, had hurried away to carry out the first part of his orders. Most of his attention was fixed on Jago, as he slowly swept his gaze over his father’s body, taking in not only the neat, precise wound but also the brooch that still clasped his cloak and the arm ring and torc he still wore. At last, Jago lifted his head and met Buccio’s gaze.
“Constantius. Constantius did this.”
“We have no proof of that,” Buccio pointed out, very gently, though it had been his first suspicion also. This was certainly no robbery gone wrong.
“Who else?” Jago’s eyes flashed. “Who else would bring weapons to the gathering ground? Who else wished my father ill?”
“None that I know of.” Buccio caught Jago’s gaze and held it. “And yet I do not know all of this matter there is to be known. And nor do you. Let us seek out the truth—.”
Jago let out a snort. “The truth is that Constantius must pay for what he has done.”
“If he has done it.” Buccio squatted down on his haunches next to Jago and put a hand on his arm. “Do not let your grief and anger provoke you into foolishness, Jago.” He spoke softly. “For the sake of your father, and the friendship he offered me, do not act rashly. Give me a little time….”
On the other side of Jowan’s body, Ennor made a movement, as if he wished to speak but at a shake of the head from Jago, he sank back on his heels again. Jago was silent for a long moment, his gazed fixed on Buccio’s face, as if trying to read what was in his mind.
Then, at last, he drew in a deep, ragged breath and nodded. “You shall have your time. A little time. So that Rome may prove to her satisfaction what my people already know in their hearts is true.”
The next few hours were as busy as any Buccio had ever known. When the decurion—Paulinus—returned, Buccio set him to searching the immediate area for the knife that had ended Jowan’s life. As Buccio had expected, there was no trace of the weapon. Buccio himself questioned those who had crowded around the murder scene, but it seemed most had only gathered once the body had been discovered, and no one present recalled seeing anything amiss before the alarm was raised.
By that time, Jago and Ennor and other men of their dun had made a rough bier and were bearing the body away towards the round house at the far end of the gathering ground. The news had run through the place and the merriment that had been in full swing only minutes before had been silenced. Each dun drew its own together, the men speaking in low murmurs and the women keeping their children close as they watched the sad procession pass. Now and then, one of the men would leave his own people and cross the trampled grass to speak for a while with those from another dun, sober faced.
Once the small procession reached the round house and the bier had been set down before the doorposts, Buccio set off along the gathering ground with Paulinus at his heels to where Constantius’ people had made their place for the day. He was still many feet away when he saw that several of the men who were normally in Constantius’ company were absent. Of Constantius himself there was no sign.
Coming to a halt before Constantius’ people, Buccio demanded, “Where is your chieftain? Where is Constantius? I wish to speak with him.”
The men stared back at him, sullen-eyed and silent, while the women turned their gazes down and the children gaped at him, wide-eyed. One man, standing a little in front of the others, apparently the leader of those who were left, gave a small shrug and half spread his hands, as if he had not understood the Latin words.
Swallowing down his rising anger, aware he was being watched from all quarters of the gathering ground, Buccio repeated the question, this time speaking in the native tongue. “Where is Constantius?”
The man sniffed derisively. “Gone.” He gestured roughly in the direction of Constantius’ dun, many miles away. “Home. An hour, two hours, maybe.”
Buccio knew that for a lie. He had seen Constantius speaking with Jowan—arguing with him—not half an hour before. Yet he knew he would get no better answer tonight.
“Then I shall follow and speak with him.” He held the man’s gaze for a moment, before he turned and strode away. Time to find his escort and see if they had news of a party fleeing the gathering ground.
He was already several paces away when he realised that, with anger lending him a little more fluency than usual, he had in his haste mistakenly used the word for hunt not follow. Perhaps, he thought to himself with bitter amusement, it had not been a mistake after all.
Walking back down the gathering ground, Paulinus still at his shoulder, he was aware of many eyes on him. He was not much surprised when, only half way to the entrance at the south-eastern end, a small knot of men detached themselves from the crowd and approached him. He recognised two of them: chieftains whose hunting runs ran to the south of the fort. He slowed to a halt as they blocked his way.
“What do you do now, Tribune?” the foremost of them asked.
“I go to speak to my men.” Buccio gestured towards where he had left the rest of his escort. “To see if there is anything they can tell me that will bring me closer to the truth of what has happened here.”
The other chieftain stepped up. “The Law has been broken. No man may bring weapons to the gathering ground, and he that does brings shame upon his dun.”
Buccio nodded, acknowledging the point. He and Paulinus had given their own swords into the safekeeping of the duplicarius in charge of his escort before they entered. Yet he was not so sure the Law had been violated. “Even an eating-knife may be a weapon in an unfriendly hand,” he pointed out quietly. The wound under Jowan’s breast had been small, scarce two-finger’s width. It would not have needed a sword or a dagger to make it. “But this deed shall not go unpunished. Rome does not look kindly upon murder, within your gathering ground or without.”
He made as if to move on—all that needed to be said had been said, and there was work to be done—but the two chieftains stood where they were, still blocking his path. The first spoke again. “The Tribe also does not look kindly upon murder, within the gathering ground or without. Yet within…. A dun that would give shelter to the man who would do such a thing must answer for it—with fire and blade.”
Buccio blinked, suddenly realizing that he had misunderstood the request to give up his own sword. He had thought the ban on weapons was simply to prevent a quarrel escalating into something worse, but he saw now that it was more: it was a symbol that the gathering ground was a place of truce, where old disputes, and current ones, were to be laid aside for a few hours. The man who had killed Jowan had struck a blow not just at another man but at the heart of the Tribe, at the trust that let the duns come together, summer and winter, to trade and talk and dance. Without that trust, he would have had a dozen men like Constantius on his hands, stirring up trouble with their neighbours over imagined slights and old feuds.
He nodded. “It shall answer.”
The chieftains bowed their heads in acknowledgement, seemingly satisfied, and let him pass on. Yet as Buccio resumed his course towards the entrance, he found himself wondering if all in Constantius’ dun should be punished for the ill-temper and rashness of their chief. Did the women who tended the hearths and the babes who suckled at their breasts deserve to have the thatch fired over their heads?
He pushed aside the question as he reached the entrance to the gathering ground and looked around for his escort. For now, his task was to find the proof that would allow him to lay the blame for Jowan’s death where he was already sure it belonged: at Constantius’ feet.
When Buccio reached his escort, he found that they had seen nothing of Constantius’ departure—but they did have confirmation that he had left.
“Sorry, sir,” the duplicarius said, with a rueful shrug. “There’s been comings and goings all day, so we didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But after Decurion Paulinus brought your message, I sent the lads round to ask a few questions. A pair of boys keeping an eye on things out here said they saw some of Constantius’ lot leading a score or more ponies away. Half an hour ago, maybe.”
Buccio knew Constantius and his men would be long gone, either halfway back to their dun or somewhere else in the wild countryside where he would likely never find them. Certainly not by stumbling about in the dark with less than a dozen men with him. The matter must wait until the next day. Then he could ride out to the dun with a proper show of strength, enough to force the truth out of Constantius if he would not provide it willingly.
Ordering the escort to make ready to leave—all but two, who would stay behind to bring word of any trouble that might blow up later—Buccio once more passed through the entrance to the gathering ground. He owed Jago and Ennor the courtesy of informing them of what he had discovered and what his intentions were.
The gathering had quieted still further. Half-asleep children lolled against their yawning mothers, while the men had drawn close to their campfires, keeping a wary-eyed watch. Several of Jowan’s people were still gathered around his body, Jago and Ennor among them. When Jago saw Buccio approaching, he touched his brother’s arm, drawing Ennor with him so that the three of them met a short way from Jowan’s corpse.
“Constantius has fled.” Buccio hitched at the shoulder straps of his breastplate, suddenly feeling tired under the weight of his armour. “Gone before your father’s murder was discovered, I think, which speaks to his guilt. Tomorrow, I shall seek him out at his dun and see if he will yield the truth. ”
“Why not tonight?” Ennor gestured impatiently towards the entrance to the gathering ground, as if urging Buccio to lead the way, right now.
“Because I do not have enough men with me to persuade him of the wisdom of answering my questions truthfully, and it will take time to gather them.” Buccio kept the rebuke gentle, understanding the young man’s need for action.
“There are men enough here.” This time, Ennor swept his arm more widely, encompassing the whole of the gathering ground.
“But not my men.” Buccio hardened his tone, catching Ennor’s eye and holding it until the other looked away, conceding the point with a grudging lift of the shoulder.
Turning to Jago, Buccio saw the same frustration on his face. “And after?” Jago lifted his eyebrows.
“And after, if you will, come you to the fort in the evening and I will give you an account of it.”
“And if my people do not wish to wait for such an accounting, but would demand their own?” Jago tilted up his chin, his expression challenging.
“Then I shall be gathering my troops to have an accounting from you.” The two of them glared at each other for a long moment, before Buccio reached out and grasped Jago’s arm. “I know this matter touches you near.” He spoke softly but urgently. “I know that the blood of your father cries out for vengeance. But, for now, Constantius is my quarry, not yours. And you have my word: tomorrow, I will have the truth of it. Until then, I put my trust in you to hold the peace. No threats nor venegeance. Do you understand?”
Jago was silent for a moment, and then Buccio felt some of the anger flow out of him. He gave a sharp nod. “I understand.”
As Buccio rode towards Constantius’ dun the following morning, he wished he had been able to snatch a little more sleep before the coming confrontation. His day had not ended when he returned to the fort the previous evening: instead of the calm challenge of the gate guards and the quiet clink of armour from the watch patrolling the ramparts, he had found the place seething like an angry anthill. The area behind the gate had been turned from night to day by guttering torches, which were casting their light on two units of cavalry preparing to head out.
A few quick words with his second-in-command brought the unwelcome news that a patrol had run into a band of natives to the west of the main road. The tribesmen had refused to stop when challenged, and had cut the patrol almost to pieces when the auxiliaries had tried to make them comply. Reinforcements were being sent to recover the dead and to begin the search for the tribesmen.
Pausing only long enough to change to a fresh mount, Buccio had swung into place at the head of the column. He was sure the band must be Constantius and his men, fleeing from the gathering ground. When they reached the site of the skirmish, the scene confirmed it: Buccio recognised one of Constantius’ hearth companions among the tumbled and bloodied bodies of his own soldiers.
Buccio had quietly beaten his fist into the palm of his hand as he watched the corpses of the four dead auxiliaries being loaded onto pack ponies. Constantius had crossed one line earlier in the evening, with Jowan’s murder, whether he had done the deed himself or simply condoned the actions of the man who had actually wielded the blade by shielding him from justice. Now he had crossed another line, one that touched Buccio more nearly.
There had been casualties before, of course, as the patrols had broken up running fights between men of different duns or turned back groups intent on raiding. For the most part, the tribesmen had surrendered or fled when confronted: with the memory of the recent uprising in the East—and the way it had been put down—still fresh in their minds, they knew better than to provoke Rome. Yet Constantius had disregarded all that, just as he had disregarded the customs of his own people, back at the gathering ground.
Riding back from the site of the slaughter, Buccio had decided that he had tried to play peacemaker for long enough. If the local tribes would not respect Rome’s authority and live quietly, then it was time to start taking a spear or two from among the sheaves.
Now, in the cool of the summer morning, he headed towards Constantius’ dun with a full eight units—a quarter of his vexillation—at his back. He was determined to leave Constantius’ people, and Constantius himself, in no doubt of what might happen if there was further trouble.
Nearing the turning from the main road, Buccio drew in a deep breath, preparing himself for the coming confrontation—and then sniffed again, as he scented smoke. Not the ever-present reek of wood-and-dung fires that seemed to hang over the whole countryside when the wind was light, but a sharper, stronger smell.
As they rounded the shoulder of the hill and the dun came into view, the reason for the smell quickly became apparent. At least three or four huts had been burned to heaps of blackened timbers from which thin trails of smoke still rose. Buccio could see patches of scorched thatch on perhaps half a dozen more. To the right of the dun, a group of boys of ten or eleven were driving a handful of cattle towards a pen where men laboured to repair the smashed hurdles that had once formed its walls.
Buccio left most of his cavalry on the slope below the dun, taking only Decurion Paulinus and a small escort with him as he approached a handful of men who waited at the entrance to the dun, watching his approach with distrustful eyes.
Buccio swept his gaze over the group, not finding the face he sought. “I come seeking Constantius, your chief.”
An older man with a bald pate fringed by greying sandy hair, who stood a little ahead of the others, gestured to Buccio to follow him inside the dun. “I will take you to him.” Slipping from his horse, Buccio made his way after him, Decurion Paulinus a pace behind.
The man led him towards the forecourt before the Chieftain’s Hall. Buccio guessed what he was going to see a moment before they reached the place: a row of bodies, Constantius’ in the centre.
Buccio swallowed hard: some of the bodies belonged to women and children, and several of them were badly burned. But he could see at once that this was not the work of some ill-chance spark catching upon dry thatch: three or four of the men, Constantius among them, had been taken by an arrow in the neck or chest.
“What happened here?” Buccio turned to the man—Priscus was the name he used, Buccio remembered now; he had been one of the men attending Constantius when Buccio had first visited the dun.
“We were attacked.” Priscus’ eyes flashed dangerously. “Those thieving cowards to the south.”
“Jowan’s people?” Buccio raised his eyebrows. While he could not quite believe Constantius would have staged a scene such as this as a final act of provocation—he would have surely arranged his own survival—he could well believe that his people would be happy to blame Jowan’s dun, regardless of who the real culprit might be. Besides, Jago had given his word there would be no retaliation. Buccio gave Priscus a long, hard look. “You are sure of that?”
“Aye.” Priscus turned his head and made as if to spit. “We saw his son, Ennor, with our own eyes in the light of the flames. And you can see for yourself the arrows they left behind.”
Buccio took a step closer to the bodies, looking more closely at the shafts. All were fletched with goose feathers that had been tipped with yellow, tying them to the hunter who owned them. The shape of the point would also mark out the smith who had forged them. He did not yet know which man those arrows belonged to, but it would be an easy enough matter to discover if they were tied to Ennor or any other among Jowan’s kin. And if they were…. Buccio grimaced. He had known Constantius for a liar, but he had trusted Jago, counted him a friend. The thought that Jago might have lied to him made the breath catch in Buccio’s throat for a moment.
“Get me one of those arrows,” Buccio instructed Paulinus when he could speak again, his tone sharp. He cocked an eyebrow in Priscus’ direction. “If is permitted?”
“The Tribune wishes to look for the truth?” Priscus shrugged a shoulder. “Then he should take what he needs.”
As the decurion began on his grisly task, Buccio turned his attention fully on Priscus. It had not escaped his attention that the other man had a fresh bruise on his forehead, or that he carried one arm a little stiffly, as if it had been hurt. Some of the other men, too, bore fresh cuts and bruises. Perhaps they had been gained during the assault on the dun—and perhaps not.
“There are two other matters in which I seek the truth.” Buccio swept his gaze over the small crowd of men who had gathered in the forecourt, addressing his remarks as much to them as to Priscus. “The murder of Jowan at the gathering ground yestereve, and the killing of four of my men in an attack between here and the gathering ground an hour later.” He turned back to Priscus, waiting for an answer.
Priscus gave him a carefully blank look in return. “I am sorry for the Tribune’s losses. But I know nothing of these matters. We have been busy with our own troubles.” He gestured around at the burned buildings.
Buccio gave him a level look in return. “I see that may be so.” He wondered if the rest of the tribe would consider Constantius’ people had now been sufficiently punished for Jowan’s murder. He could hope, at least, that with Constantius and many of his hearth companions dead, he could expect less trouble from this dun in the coming months. But the deaths of his own men had still not been sufficiently accounted for. “Yet I think at least some of your people have knowledge of the attack on my patrol. We found one of your men, Lucius I believe he called himself, among the slain.”
Priscus mouth twisted for a moment, as if he had bitten into a sour apple, and he looked as if he wished to deny it, but apparently could find no excuse that he though Buccio would accept, for he remained silent.
“Sir?” Paulinus was on his feet again, showing him the arrow he had retrieved.
“Thank you, decurion.” Buccio took a quick glance around again to conform how many of the huts had been burned beyond repair, before he turned back to Priscus. “My men who survived the attack also tell me Lucius was not alone. That he had a dozen companions or more with him who did not stand aside from the slaughter. I think another eight huts should suffice—for now.”
Not giving Priscus a chance to reply, he turned on his heel and marched out of the dun. There was another new made chieftain who must also give an accounting for his people.
Buccio left three quarters of his troops behind to see to the burning of the eight huts, taking the remainder with him to Jowan’s dun. He was not expecting much trouble there, for all that Jago and Ennor had broken their word, and he was confident a double unit should be enough to handle it. Indeed, when he rode up towards the dun, he found it even quieter than Constantius’ place had been. The fields and pens were empty, and silence hung over the huts as he rode in through the unguarded gates, though he felt many eyes watching from within dim doorways.
He was met before the whale-backed Chieftain’s Hall by a tall, fair-haired woman who carried herself like a queen. He remembered seeing her on the women’s side of the hall, busy with some task or other, during the two or three visits he had made previously, though they had not spoken. She held out the Guest Cup as he dismounted. “Greetings, Tribune. Drink and be welcome.” There was a coolness to her tone that belied her words.
Buccio took the cup and drank and gave it back to her. “Good fortune on the house, and the woman of the house.” Glancing around and seeing only more women, he looked back at her. “I am seeking Jago. Is he within?”
He thought he saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, before she said, just as coolly, “My lord is from home today.”
With a start, Buccio realised this must be Jago’s wife, and that she must have found herself, all without warning, mistress of the Chieftain’s Hall. He wondered where Jowan’s wife was, and hoped she had some comfort in her grief. But all he said was, “I see.” He glanced over the woman’s shoulder, into the gloom of the hall. “And Ennor, your lord’s brother? Is he from home also?”
“He is.” Jago’s wife tipped her chin up a little, clearly defying him to question the truth of her statement.
“And when will your lord and his brother return.”
She gave a slight shrug. “I do not know. My lord did not tell me.”
“I see,” Buccio said again, feeling somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed. He could hardly camp outside the dun until Jago returned—and Buccio had a suspicion that would not be any time soon. He certainly did not expect Jago to present himself at the fort that evening, as arranged, after all that had happened. Just as the hasty departure of Constantius and his men from the gathering ground had spoken of their likely involvement in his murder, so did the strangely convenient absence of Jago, Ennor and most of the men of the dun speak to their role in the attack on Constantius and his people.
Why, Jago? he found himself asking silently. Why did you break faith with me?
Still, this need not be an entirely wasted journey. He dipped his head in the direction of the hall. “Since I cannot ask it of your lord, I must ask it of you. I would see your lord’s hunting arrows. Also those of your lord’s brother.”
Again, there was that flicker of uncertainty in her face, and her gaze shifted over his shoulder to where the two units waited patiently behind him. She must know that he did not need to make this as a request and that there was nothing she or the other women could do to stop his troops ransacking the dun if he ordered it, though he hoped it would not come to that. After a moment, she nodded. “As you wish.” Gesturing to one of the other women to follow—Ennor’s wife, Buccio guessed—she disappeared into the hall.
The two women returned a few moments later, each carrying a handful of arrows. The feathers on the bundle Jago’s wife bore were a dark red, but the ones Ennor’s wife carried were yellow-tipped.
Buccio stepped forwards and took one. “Decurion Paulinus?” He held out his other hand.
Paulinus stepped forwards and handed the arrow he had taken from Constantius’ body to Buccio. Buccio compared the two: the fletchings were the same, while the point of the arrow in his right hand might have been the twin of the one in his left.
Without a word, he gave the arrow he had taken from Ennor’s wife back to her. She held herself bravely, but he could see the fear for her husband in her face. Returning the other arrow to Paulinus, he once more turned towards Jago’s wife.
“Tell your lord that I shall expect to see him at the fort this evening, as was our agreement. Tell him to bring his brother with him. And if not this evening, then by sundown tomorrow and no later.”
She bent her head briefly in acknowledgment. “When my lord returns, I shall tell him.”
Buccio swung away and mounted his horse. Gathering the reins, he looked down at her where she stood, tall and proud, afraid and yet unafraid. Had it been so with the wild queen to the east who had butchered half a legion, Buccio wondered. Pray that this woman and her lord were woven of wiser cloth. “Tell him, also,” he said, his voice quiet but with not an ounce of softness in it, “that if he does not come, I shall seek him out, and I shall not rest until I find him.”
Buccio paced restlessly around the narrow confines of his office. Paylists and duty rosters lay scattered across his desk, but he had no patience for them. His ears were cocked for the sound of patrols coming in at the main gate; for his second-in-command’s footsteps on the stairs, bringing his report; for the sound of other footsteps, however unwilling.
Two days earlier, at around the same time, he had stood on the ramparts above the Sinister Gate, straining his eyes along the road while the sun sank behind a shoulder of the hills, hoping, still hoping—.
He had gone on standing there even after it had grown dark enough that it was impossible to make out anything more than a bowshot from the walls. Maybe he would have gone on standing there all night if the decurion in charge of the first watch had not given a discreet cough. “Sir? Will you be making last rounds?”
Buccio had nodded, even as he swept his gaze one last time along the darkening road. Then he had turned away.
Jago had not come.
Buccio had spent the night trying to puzzle out the reason. For all that he and Jago had reached out to each other across the distance that lay between their two worlds, and for all Jago had tried to explain the ways of the Tribes, it seemed to Buccio that he still did not understand how they thought. They were like children or slaves, he decided in the end: always fearing the rod of a cruel master and not understanding that a kind master would temper correction and punishment with mercy and understanding. And, like a fearful slave, Jago and his people had run and hidden. Yet had he not shown Jago that Rome could be a kind master? That he himself could be a good friend to the Tribe, to Jago….
Tossing and turning on the narrow cot in his sleeping cell, Buccio could not quite push away the hurt he felt that Jago had not trusted him, the way he had trusted Jago when he made his promise at the gathering ground.
The next morning, Buccio went again to Jago’s dun and watched unsmiling as his men searched the houses and barns, the granaries and the workshops, the cattle pens and the horse runs. They found none but women and children, and a few old men too frail to walk far. The villagers had stood aside, silent and uncomplaining, as his soldiers had pulled apart bedding, rummaged through chests and overturned storage pots, scattering their meagre possessions across the beaten-earth floors and outside on the paved forecourts. Buccio had never really expected to find the men he sought, but he hoped that perhaps the women—already picking up pieces of broken dish or shaking the dirt from striped blankets tossed in the dirt as the auxiliaries withdrew—might talk some sense into their menfolk.
After he returned to the fort, he sent out patrols into the hills, to search the valleys and woods where he and Jago had hunted together. He had already set men to guard the road north and south, and the road that led to the river-crossing at Glevum, and left his best scouts to watch the dun, to see who came and went and to follow them. But the patrols returned at dusk, footsore and weary, with nothing to report: they had scarcely seen a squirrel or a thrush stirring, much less the men they sought. The scouts likewise had no good tidings—though Buccio was far from certain that meant none had left or entered the dun, despite the watch kept upon it.
The patrols had gone out again this morning, their numbers doubled, this time beating up from south to north along the line of the hills. Yet there were so many hollows and thickets and tangled woodlands where many men might lie hid while a whole Roman legion passed—and these men had hunted these hills since they were boys. Buccio was not much surprised when, at last, his second clattered into view and said wearily, “Nothing to report, sir, I’m afraid.”
Buccio turned and leaned on the windowsill, tilting his head so that he could see the sweep of the hills, dark against the lighter sky in which the stars were finally beginning to prick out. “Then tomorrow we shall send another message.”
It gave him no pleasure to send that message, sitting astride his horse as he watched his soldiers fire the thatch of a half dozen houses, taking care to keep the fire from spreading further while the reed and wattle-and-daub crumbled to ash.
When the task was done, he turned to Jago’s wife, standing before her people outside the dun, where his men had herded them before they began their work. She lifted her gaze to meet his, not bothering to conceal the hatred behind her eyes as he spoke to her. “Send word to your lord that I will return, and burn the rest and salt the fields, if he and his brother do not come to the fort by tomorrow nightfall.” Wattle-and-daub huts could be easily rebuilt and salted fields would bear again in three years, but it would go hard with them until then. Surely Jago would see the sense in yielding up his brother for the sake of all his people.
Buccio kept his troops beating the hills throughout the afternoon, pushing further into the clumps of gorse and thickets of hawthorn, where a man might lie hid under the tangled branches. All they got for their pains by nightfall were scratched arms and blistered feet. Buccio knew his men were starting to mutter that maybe the Tribune had become sun-touched at the midsummer gathering. Yet did they not understand that his orders—Rome’s orders—could not be defied without consequences?
He was standing outside the praetorium the next morning, discussing the allocation of the patrols for the day’s search, when a runner from the guard at the Sinister Gate hurried up and gave a hasty salute. “Sir. A man approaches. One of the natives. Carrying a green branch.”
“An ambassador?” Buccio raised his eyes inquiringly in his second’s direction. When he nodded, Buccio turned back to the guard. “Bring him to me here.”
It was a few minutes before the gate swung open to allow the newcomer to enter, but even from halfway across the fort, it took but a moment for Buccio to recognise him.
Jago.
He seemed to be alone; the gates swung closed behind him without admitting any other. Watching him approach slowly, a guard of soldiers at his shoulder and back, Buccio wondered where Ennor and the rest of the men were still cowering.
When Jago was within a dozen paces, Buccio took a step forward. “This is a start. But my orders were for you and your brother. Where is Ennor?”
Jago’s step faltered for an instant, before he came on, stopping perhaps three paces away. He lifted the green branch a little, as if to draw attention to it. “This is my fault. No one else’s. I am the chieftain of my people—.”
“You were the chieftain.” Buccio interrupted sharply. “By Rome’s favour.”
Jago took half a step back, clearly startled. Then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “As the Tribune wishes.” He dipped his head slightly before raising his gaze and fixing it on Buccio’s face again. “But I still speak for my people, as their ambassador.” Again, he made a slight gesture with the green branch, reminding Buccio he carried it and considered himself under its protection, before he went on, “And for their sakes, I surrender myself to you. Punish me for bringing Constantius to justice by our Law and not yours, if you will, but let them go in peace.”
Buccio stared back at him, feeling all of a sudden as if someone had smote him in the centre of his bronzed chestplate. Why must Jago make this so hard? Why could he not let the blame fall where it should, on the man who had fired the shaft that had killed Constantius? “Where is your brother?” he managed to grind out.
Jago hesitated, though he did not drop his eyes, before he shook his head slightly. “I am the one at fault. Accept my surrender—.”
“I accept your surrender.” Buccio nodded to the soldiers on either side of Jago and they stepped forwards and caught him by the arms. “But your people shall not go in peace while your brother hides like a coward behind his women and children. And you shall not go free until I have him in my power.” He nodded to soldiers. “Take him to the cells.”
“No!” The green branch fell from Jago’s hand and was trampled under foot as he twisted in the grip of the soldiers, attempting to pull free as they began to march him away. “Tribune Buccio, listen to me—.”
With a sharp shake of the head, Buccio turned away and strode back towards the entrance to the praetorium. He had Jago. Ennor would surely follow soon.
So why, he wondered, as he mounted the stairs to his office, did this moment feel like a defeat and not a victory?
Chapters 9 to 12