Hyperborea (Veteran of Rome Book 4) Read online

  HYPERBOREA

  Book four of the Veteran of Rome series

  By: William Kelso

  To: Dimphy and Nick

  Chapter One - Homecoming - December AD 103

  The snowflakes blanketed the road and the surrounding forest in a whirling white shroud, reducing visibility to a dozen yards. It was dawn but in the dull, grey and bleak sky the sun's light struggled to break through to the frozen earth. Marcus strode on along the forest track, his head bowed into the bitter, moaning wind that was trying to drive him back to the warm tavern he'd just left in Noviomagus Reginorum, Chichester. His long black, Dacian, fur, winter-cloak was covered with snow and a hood was pulled over his head and snow flecks clung to his grey beard. A Gladius, his father's old short sword, hung from his army belt. In his right hand he clutched a spear and with the two remaining fingers on his left hand, he fiddled tensely with the small bronze phallic amulet, that hung from a cord around his neck. A leather pack was slung over his shoulder. He'd not seen a soul since leaving town and around him the forest was deserted. Warily he lifted his head and peered into the thick whirling snow-fall ahead. If he hurried, and the boat's man was where the tavern owner said he would be, he would be able to make the family farm at Brading on the Isle of Vectis by nightfall.

  He grunted and muttered something under his breath. His long journey, all the way from the Dacian frontier, was at last coming to an end. Fourteen hundred miles he had walked and ridden, through vast deserted forests, over desolate, lonely mountains and along heavily guarded and populated rivers and finally across the treacherous sea to the port of Londinium. It had taken him three months. But tonight he would finally be home, under the same roof as his family; Kyna, his beautiful Brigantian wife, Fergus his son, Dylis his little sister, Efa his mother and old Quintus and be just in time to celebrate the Saturnalia festivities. It had been seven years since he'd seen any of them. Seven years! He tried to picture Kyna's face. It had been too long, he thought. Fergus would be seventeen, he would be a man. Tensely he squeezed the phallic amulet around his neck and lowered his eyes. The thought of seeing his family again after such a long time should have filled him with joy and excitement, but instead, an unsettled feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach. What would he find at the farm? It had been eighteen months since the last letter from his wife had reached him and anything could have happened since then. They could all be dead. They could have moved away. Disaster came in many forms and life was short and often brutal. He should know. And perhaps they would not welcome him home? He had been away for a long time. He had not been faithful to his wife since the 2nd Batavian Cohort had been transferred to the Danube frontier, to take part in Emperor Trajan's war of conquest against the Dacians. No, there was no way of knowing what awaited him on Vectis.

  He trudged on down the deserted, forest track. His heavy, army boots sent the snow blowing away at his feet. At forty, he should have had two or three more years to serve before he would retire from the army, but the wound to his hand, sustained in a skirmish with Dacian cavalry, had forced him into early honourable-discharge and retirement from the 2nd Batavian Cohort. With a solid army record, the Roman authorities had provided him with a full army pension, paid in newly liberated Dacian gold and a bronze diploma granting him full Roman citizenship. His comrades had thrown him a final, wild and drunken farewell party, after which he had been out; a civilian again after twenty-three years service. No, he shook his head, as he peered into the thick, swirling snowfall, not a civilian, a veteran of Rome, just like his father Corbulo had once been. He was a veteran of Rome and serving in the army was by far the best and finest thing he had ever done. He may not have been much of a husband and a father, but no one could say that he had been a bad soldier. No one would ever take away the pride he felt in serving in the 2nd Batavian Cohort.

  In the forest to his right he heard a sudden loud crack and instantly he turned in the direction of the noise and raised the point of his spear towards the trees. What was this? Warily he peered into the snow flurries that whirled around the dark tree trunks and leafless branches, but he could see nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing moved. It must have been a branch breaking in the cold. For a long moment his eyes lingered. Then just as he was about to resume his journey he heard it again, another loud crack and this time he saw a furtive movement in amongst the trees. Instinctively he went into a crouch, his good hand clutching his spear ready to impale any attacker who came at him.

  "Show yourself," Marcus roared as he stared into the forest, "I know you are out there. What do you want?"

  There was no reply from forest. Then as the silence lengthened, Marcus grunted as a figure detached itself from behind a tree, ten paces away. The figure was cloaked and hooded and he could not see the person's face, but from his size Marcus guessed he was a man. But instead of coming towards him, the figure stayed where he was, staring straight at Marcus, his cloak and hood covered in snow.

  Marcus growled irritably as he stood his ground. The man wanted him to see him. He was making no effort to hide. No man with legitimate business would be out in this weather. What was he doing out here in the forest? As he stared at the figure Marcus growled again. Did the stranger know that he was carrying his entire army pension in gold with him? The money was worth a small fortune. Had someone in Londinium or the taverns he stayed in, guessed he was a retired veteran on his way home and had they decided to rob him? It had been a worry he'd had to cope with ever since he'd left the protection of 2nd Batavian's camp. In Pannonia it had not been uncommon for a soldier's enemies to tip off the local gangs when a retired soldier was about to set off for home, laden down with his army pension. Marcus wrenched his eyes from the figure and quickly and carefully glanced around him. The man might not be alone. Only a fool would have come alone.

  Amongst the trees the stranger did not move. Instead, he seemed to be looking straight at him. Marcus bit his lip. He could attack, charge straight into the forest, but somehow he knew the man would simply vanish into the gusts of whirling snow. In this visibility it would be impossible to find anyone. The silent standoff lengthened and Marcus felt his patience start to run out. If the stranger was indeed here to rob him of his army pension then what was he waiting for?

  "Oh fuck off," Marcus cried out with sudden disgust. Then contemptuously he turned away and started on down the forest track and within moments, the figure in the forest was lost amongst the swirling snowflakes.

  ***

  The old grumpy boat-man had at last fallen silent as he slowly dipped the oars into the water and propelled the small, open currach down the narrow channel that led towards the sea. Around them the marshes were frozen and covered in a thick blanket of snow and amongst the myriad of inland waterways, creeks and small islands, nothing moved. There was just enough space for the two of them to fit into the boat. Marcus ran his finger along the animal-hide bound hull as he stared southwards. The straights that separated the Isle of Vectis from the mainland were only a few miles wide and he could just about make out the grey, low lying coastline in the distance. It was noon and the snow fall had finally petered out but in the sky the dull clouds had not gone away.

  Marcus sighed as the sight of the island brought on a sudden rush of memories. It had been Corbulo, his father, who had first brought his family to Vectis. Agricola, ex Governor of Britannia, had owned a farm on the island at Brading and, as the family's patron, he'd instructed Corbulo to make it prosper, which his father had accomplished. Marcus muttered a short silent prayer as he peered across the straights at Vectis, unable to look away. Corbulo had been dead for fourteen years now and Agricola for nine, but upon learning of Corbulo's death, Agricola had imm
ediately given the farm and its land to Marcus. It was a noble and generous act Marcus thought, for Agricola had not been short of loyal and land-hungry clients. But there had been some kind of special bond between his father and Agricola. A friendship and respect that had extended to Marcus too. His elevation to second in command of the 2nd Batavian auxiliary cohort, and his subsequent rehabilitation into the Cohort after his court martial for disobeying orders in the fort at Luguvalium, during the Brigantian uprising, had been solely down to the influence that Agricola had brought to bear on the military authorities.

  Moodily Marcus scratched his beard and stared out across the sea, as the small currach left the narrow waterway behind and entered the straights. The power of the sea immediately made itself felt and the small flimsy craft was soon being buffeted and thrown around by one remorseless wave after another. Marcus however, hardly noticed the swell or the freezing cold seawater that slapped over the side of the hull. His thoughts were suddenly faraway, back at the auxiliary fort in Luguvalium, Carlisle, fourteen years ago. Those had been his glory days. During the Brigantian uprising, in the eighth year of the reign of Emperor Domitian, he'd disobeyed a direct order from his commanding officer, Cotta, but his actions that day had saved the entire cohort from annihilation and he'd gone on to command the unit. He had led his men into battle and he had accomplished much. But the army had not forgotten his disobedience and once the uprising had been crushed he'd been hauled in front of a court martial. The legate of the Twentieth had demanded the death penalty but through Agricola's tireless work and influence behind the scenes, he'd been overruled and instead of execution, Marcus had been demoted and allowed to rejoin the 2nd Batavians as a simple trooper, a rank he would retain for the rest of his career. The Roman officers had never again allowed him to command men, but it had not bothered him. The Batavian rank and file, to a man, had known who he was and how he had saved the entire cohort and their loyalty, friendship and respect had meant far more to him than the early termination of his career.

  A wave slapped into the side of the boat, soaking him in freezing sea-water and as he wiped his face he sighed and his expression grew pained. His war against the rebels in the north of Britannia had come to an abrupt end when his friend and second in command Lucius, had betrayed him. He'd never received an explanation or the closure of looking down at the man's corpse because, before the end of the uprising, Lucius had deserted and vanished. There had been no word or sighting of Lucius in over thirteen years and Marcus had long ago given up hope of ever confronting his former friend.

  A sudden movement on the shore caused him to look back, and as he did so, his eyes narrowed. Standing on the shore, some thirty or forty paces away, with his arms folded across his chest, was the hooded man he'd seen in the forest. The figure was staring straight at him and as he peered back at the man, Marcus felt a sudden tremor of unease run down his spine, as if he had just witnessed something unnatural. Who was following him? What did this stranger want from him?

  "See that man on the shore?" Marcus growled, turning to the boat-man, "do you know him. Have you seen him before?"

  The boat-man tilted his head so that he could see past Marcus. For a moment he studied the distant figure on the shore. Then he shook his head disinterestedly and grunted something that Marcus did not catch. As the boat steadily pulled away Marcus frowned and stared at the stranger. On the shore the silent man did not move.

  Wrenching his eyes from the shoreline, Marcus turned to the boat-man. "I will pay you an extra copper coin if you do not ferry that man across the water after you have dropped me on the island," he exclaimed. The old boat's man looked up and one of eyes twitched. "Two coppers," he grunted, "a man like you can afford two coins and I have children to feed."

  "Done," Marcus snapped.

  ***

  Stiffly, Marcus heaved himself over the side of the currach and splashed into the surf. He gasped at the brutally cold seawater, as it lapped around his legs. Then he slung his pack over his shoulder, lifted up his spear, and nodded a farewell to the boat-man. The ferryman however did not return the gesture and Marcus turned away to look at the sandy beach, that stretched away along the shore. There was no one about, not a single soul or animal. Further inland the treeless and gently-rolling farmland lay covered in snow and a few miles to the west, along the shoreline, a river mouth emptied into the sea. He was home. For a brief moment he allowed himself a smile. He was home at last. Slowly he waded through the surf and up onto the beach and as he reached dry land, he stooped and with his right hand he scooped up a handful of sand. Studying the earth, he slowly allowed the grains to slip through his fingers. Then abruptly he looked up in the direction of his farm. Another few miles and he would be there. He could scarcely believe it.

  He sighed as he stared out across the deserted, white landscape. What sort of welcome awaited him? Kyna had not wanted to leave Britannia when he'd told her the 2nd Batavians were being transferred to Pannonia. She had not wanted to leave her native land and he had decided not to force her and Fergus to go with him. He was not going to make the same mistake, that Corbulo, his father had made when he'd tried to force Marcus's mother to come with him to Italy. Instead he had brought Kyna and Fergus to Vectis, where he'd told them that they would share their home with Efa, Dylis and old Quintus. It was a sensible, practical solution for the whole family would be together, and it seemed to have worked. He may have put his army service before Kyna and Fergus, he may not have been faithful to Kyna, but he had tried to do the right thing for them. He had sent her money whenever he could and now that his army career was over, he was going home to keep a promise he had made to her long ago. He was going home to marry her and make Fergus his legitimate son, for the army forbade its soldiers from officially marrying until their discharge. But now that he was a full Roman citizen, he had the right to officially marry Kyna and by all the gods, above and below, that was what he was going to do. He was not going to treat his woman and son like his father, Corbulo had treated his, upon his retirement. He had never beaten Fergus, not once, nor had he ever laid a hand on Kyna. No, he was not the man, his father had once been, before he'd sought redemption.

  The fields were deserted but in the distance, beyond a small dark wood, Marcus could see smoke curling up into the sky and he caught the faint whiff of burning pine wood. As he trudged on down the rutted country lane, he glanced around at the deserted, snow-covered fields but the land seemed alien and unfamiliar. At the borders of the fields, thin lines of trees and tangled brambles and bushes divided the land into endless patches, squares and rectangles. It was getting dark and the temperature was dropping.

  As he approached his farm, he came to an abrupt halt and gasped in astonishment at how the simple farm he'd known had changed. The small original wood, daub, wattle and thatched roofed Briton farmhouse, that he had remembered from many years ago, was completely gone and in its place, a brand new, modern, stone and concrete Roman villa, with neat red roof-tiles occupied three sides of an enclosed courtyard. Snow covered part of the roof and the villa seemed to be divided into three sections, of which the western section contained the main house and the southern, an assembly of agricultural buildings, granaries and storerooms. Smoke was rising from a hole in the roof and drifting away to the east. Everything had changed he thought, as he marvelled at the fine construction that surrounded him. Who had done this? Who'd had the vision to create this beautiful villa? Where had they found the money to do this?

  As he stared at his villa he caught sight of movement in the large snow-drifts that lined the rutted, frozen country track. There, just beyond the wooden fence demarking his property, a child was playing in the snow. The boy looked around five and he was building a snow man. Marcus frowned as he drew closer and as the child caught sight of Marcus, the little boy paused, staring at him with a mixture of childish curiosity and alarm.

  "Boy," he called out in Latin when he was just a half a dozen paces away, "What are you doing out here at this hou
r. Where are your mother and father?"

  The child did not reply at first. For a long moment the boy simply stared at Marcus. Then slowly and proudly he jutted his chin at Marcus.

  "My mother is at home," the boy replied in a high pitched childish voice staring at Marcus, "and my father is a soldier. He's not here. He is a very important man in the 2nd Batavian Auxiliary Cohort. He's fighting in the province of Dacia, but my mother says he will come home one day."

  Chapter Two - Family

  Marcus strode into the courtyard of his farm as the little boy raced ahead of him, calling out to his mother in an excited voice. There was a dark, angry look on Marcus's face. Who was this boy? There had been no such child on his farm when he'd left all those years ago. What the hell was going on? At the boy's cries, two women, clad in long, brown winter cloaks and warm, fur hoods, had appeared in the main doorway to the villa. They were about to reply to the boy when they caught sight of Marcus. Both women stopped in alarm and one of them gasped and raised a hand to her mouth. Marcus too, came to a halt. The courtyard fell silent and at the older woman's side, the boy clutched her hand and turned to stare at Marcus, standing alone, out in the courtyard with the snowflakes falling around him.

  "Kyna," Marcus called out, "Is that you?"

  The older woman clutching the boy's hand seemed to flinch, as if something had struck her. She looked about thirty-five.

  "Marcus," she gasped the shock visible on her face. "You're back."

  Marcus did not move as he stared at his wife. On his long journey from the Dacian frontier he'd often thought about what he would do and say to Kyna when he saw her again, but now standing here before her, it was as if he could not speak. Something was holding him back.

  Suddenly the younger woman, standing beside his wife cried out and rushed towards him and before he could stop her, she had flung her arms around him. The woman was shaking and there was real warmth in her greeting. As he gently freed himself from her embrace, he looked down at her attractive face. The woman looked in her mid-twenties and there were tears in her eyes.