Chapter 1

Flavius Cicero was twenty-two years old. He had been in the servitude of his immediate Centurion superior Marcellus Benedictus, as a Legionary, for three years now. Stationed at Fort Brocolitia, near the eastern end of Vallum Aelium (referred to by the local tribes as “Hadrian’s Wall” or “Vallum Hadriani,”) in Britannia, he was about to start sentry duty, as he had done without incident for the past six months, at exactly 8 o’clock. His watch consisted of a rampart some three hundred and fifty feet long at the very northern end of the fort which was constructed immediately atop the great wall, which itself formed the northern boundary of Fort Brocolitia, situated as it was, between mile-castles thirty and thirty-one. Although well-trained in the use of sword, spear, shield and dagger, as well as hand to hand unarmed combat, this was of little comfort or value when walking the walk, first one way then the other, in the very cold air that northern Britannic winters offered a poor sentry in the Roman Army. Seconded from a legion in Eastern Rome, it had seemed like an excellent career move when offered the transfer and an opportunity to travel to the new frontier as Britannia had been promoted. The wall he knew, had been an initiative of the great Emperor Hadrian who had sailed to Britannia in the year 122, some fourteen years earlier, to oversee the building of the great wall, but had been re-called to Rome just two years later, before its completion in 128. Yet, here he was now, greatly disillusioned, the breath from his nostrils wispy little white wreaths leading the way, in the bitter cold of a late November evening, as he turned to march his fourth westward trek of the night. Some twelve feet above the ground, sentries had a commanding view across both sides of the wall. To the north – Barbarian tribes ascribed the name Picts by the Roman’s themselves – hemmed in finally to their own territory and no longer free to invade the Southern Britannic lands ruled over by the Romans for almost forty years at that point. Vigilance was more important with the onset of winter, with its tendency to bring on heavy mists at this latitude – such as were swirling-in from the north on this very night. Flavius was not specifically hoping for a night attack by marauding Picts, but he yearned for some activity other than freezing to death each night while on duty. He did not fear the prospect of any attacks – he had been too well trained for that in Rome – but if such was to occur, he knew he would acquit himself admirably. Checking the northern sector – nothing was visibly moving out there, as he turned on his heels once again for the return journey. He wrapped the cloak tighter around his shoulders.

A sudden movement almost at the foot of the wall beneath him, on the Roman-occupied side startled him. He stared down at the ground but the movement was not repeated. He stood there for several moments unsure what, if anything, he had actually seen. Straining his ears, he could hear nothing whatsoever, except laughter from within the fort itself which he knew was other legionaries drinking ale and talking about their day’s experiences. By Jupiter, he still had more than three hours to go on this watch. Straightening up, he took but one step and heard, before he saw, a figure move away from the wall, beginning to retrace its direction eastwards stealthily. With the security of the fort his first priority, he quickly descended the wooden steps on his left which gave access to the rampart and glancing to his left he saw clearly something or someone moving silently along the base of the wall – towards the small community square where shopkeepers and the like, plied their trade during the daylight hours.

Moving at a swifter pace than his quarry, Flavius was able to make out that this was indeed a person – of indeterminate age, one who was quite obviously not practiced in the art of either concealment or elusiveness, It took him but a dozen cubits to close the gap, and seize the intruder by the shoulders, turning his back to the wall, against which he held him there firmly.

“By all the Gods,” he said. “Who are you and why were you spying on me back there?’ As he spoke, he inclined his head in the direction of the rampart stairway.

His only response was further desperate struggling, as his captive sought to free himself from his clearly unwanted questioner.

Flavius could not make out any details of the detainee and roughly pulled aside the headscarf the man was wearing.

“I asked you...” the words died on his tongue, as the mass of blonde hair spilled out into the cold night air.

“What is this – you’re a girl? He could barely get the words out.

“Obviously you’ve seen one before,” she muttered, smoothing her hair into a semblance of presentability.

Whether or not she was the prettiest young female he had ever encountered, he wasn’t sure. Certainly no other image appeared in his mind at that moment, to challenge it. He was having trouble maintaining an authoritative stance.

“So what were you doing here in the fort grounds – following me?”

She looked bemused.

“I didn’t know I was in the fort,” she replied, “and I wasn’t following you – I didn’t even know you were there!”

“Well, why did you run then? He was striving for the upper hand in this conversation.

“Because I suddenly heard you up above, walking about and then coming down the steps. I’m only fifteen and I was scared you might come after me. Should I be scared?” she added solemnly. The playing field was suddenly tilted back his way!

“No,” he said, “What reason do I have to hurt you?”

“What reason do any men have for hurting girls?” she responded, almost petulantly.

Right at that moment he wanted to kiss her so badly, but thought better of it.

“What’s your name?” he asked, needing to change the subject.

“Paola,” she said with a touch of shyness, dropping her eyes as she spoke.

“And your family name?”

“Quirinus,” she answered.

“Quirinus?” he repeated, “I know a shop-owner over in the Quadrant there by that name,” he pointed behind her at the Community center, “he sells groceries I believe.”

“That’s my father,” she smiled – and his desire to kiss her quadrupled on the moment.

Seeing that he was still puzzled by her presence, she added slowly,

“Look, I was just taking a late evening walk, I heard a lot of laughter coming from the fort and walked over here, hoping to glance through one of the windows and see what was going on. I couldn’t see anything though, so I started on my way back home – that’s all. I’m not a spy! What are you doing out at this late hour yourself? Are you one of the sentries?”

He nodded, “Yes Paola – that’s a beautiful name by the way!” He blushed, but hoped that in the poor light that they were standing, she didn’t notice.

“Do you have a name?” she asked breezily.

“My parents back in Rome, named me Flavius,” he told her,” Thus I’m Flavius Cicero – at your service!” he bowed his head.

At that moment a voice thundered down from above - “Flavius – are you there?”

“I have to go Paola,” he muttered desolately. “I shouldn’t have left my post – it’s one of the rules here. I’ll just tell them I thought I heard something suspicious down here and came to look. It will be fine.”

For a second he was lost just staring at her

“Could I see you again?” he muttered hopefully.

She smiled. “Maybe Flavius, maybe you might hear something suspicious again – tomorrow night, at about the same time,” she giggled. In seconds, she was lost in the encroaching mist.

Turning swiftly, he strode back towards the steps leading up to the rampart.

“Fret not, I’m here Drusus,” he called out loudly. “I just needed to check below. I thought I heard suspicious noises. It was just some kids playing late! I sent them home.” He reached the top of the stairs as Drusus gave him a hand up to the rampart.

“You shouldn’t leave your watch Flavius,” Drusus reminded him. “You were right to investigate, but you should have called me over first and explained what you were doing. You know they punish us for the slightest infringement of rules here. If anything had happened to you – I would be spending time in the dungeon.”

“You’re right my friend, and I’m sorry.” Flavius put his hand on Drusus’ shoulder armor. “I was acting without thinking!”

“‘Tis forgotten,” said the other. “Let us share an ale or two after our watch concludes.”

“I was thinking more like three,” Flavius grinned.

By good fortune, the following day was one that Flavius was rostered off-duty, which meant he had no need to devise some ruse by which he might leave sentry-watch, even for a few minutes late that evening, without disclosing to Drusus his real motive for doing so. Neither could he be sure that Drusus would even cover for him under such circumstances. He spent the morning in the enormous garrison that housed just on five hundred Roman soldiers attached to Fort Brocolitia, spending an hour or so in voluntary training sessions in the enormous rectangular courtyard. It felt good afterwards to bathe, before putting on civilian clothes for the afternoon and evening. He did however keep his sword in its scabbard hanging at his side, despite the unlikely need for it while off-duty. The majority of the soldiers never left the garrison, preferring to eat there and play knuckle-bones and other games with their companions. Others took advantage of their off-duty days and returned to local townships where a few had relatives living there. The greater majority of these men however had been transferred from Roman units in southern France and/or Belgium. Many were bi-lingual.

Towards late November in Britannia, darkness would fall as early as 4 pm which left Flavius another four hours to fill in, before Paola might make an appearance and he had no assurance that she would in fact be able to do that. It was expecting a lot of the Gods to orchestrate such an event. After all they had met for barely fifteen minutes under circumstances that might hardly be construed as ideal, and what assurance did she have that he was an honorable man that might have her best interests at heart. The more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that she would in fact return to the fort, on the off-chance that he would be there. Exiting the garrison by way of the main gate, he made his way to the Quadrant’s thermopolium (restaurant) where he sought to partake of his vesperna (dinner). Recognized by the establishment’s owner on entry, he was seated quickly and a young girl brought him a chalice and flagon of their best red wine. Thanking her, he poured some and gazed abstractedly at a fine mosaic of two horseman with Roman soldiers astride them, on the far wall. The earlier training exercises had built up his hunger and this was readily assuaged by the crusty bread and cheese, olives and salted fish that appeared at remarkably short notice. It would be fair to say he was in state of extreme contentment and bonhomie when he left the establishment some eighty minutes later.

Exiting the thermopoium, he retraced his steps to that area of the great wall where first he had noticed Paola’s presence. The night air was cooling rapidly and he had no real expectations now of the girl appearing. Would he, in her position? Not by all the Gods! Almost an hour passed before he made his decision to return to the garrison and bed down for the night. The bunks after all, were not in the least uncomfortable and had he not squired away a small flagon of wine beneath the bed? – his being the lower bunk. Whilst contrary to a Legionary’s rules – many soldiers did this and if the truth be known, most Centurions turned a blind eye towards this fairly minor indiscretion. He turned to leave.

“Flavius?” called a soft voice from the shadows.

He spun round. “Paola,” he whispered, “is that you?”

Emerging from the darkened recess in the wall, she glanced left and right, before stepping out in front of him.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” she smiled.

“I was thinking the same,” he replied. “In your position, I would understand if you had decided against meeting me here. You’re only a very young girl.”

“I trusted my instincts,” she muttered. “Was I right to?”

“Yes, Paola,” he smiled back at her. “I would never hurt you.”

“I believe you,” she said. “Let’s go to that small parkum (park) the far side of the Quadrant. I can only stay for a very short time, else my father will start worrying.”

Taking her small hand, he walked her across the Military Road, rounded the corner of the Quadrant and took the eastern path. Moments later they reached the neat grassy area – completely empty on this cold night. They sat together on a long stone bench-seat.

“So where are you from Paola?” he asked.

Flavius was still holding her hand, she having made no move to extricate it. “Both you and your father have Roman names it seems.”

He caught a smile in the near darkness.

“My father is Roman and I was born in Rome. About a year ago, they were asking if any families would be interested in travelling to Britannia and supporting the Garrisons on the frontier. My father owns a thermopolium in Rome itself. He has many years’ experience, and liked the idea of starting up again in this part of the world which is now under Roman rule.”

“And your Mother Paola, where is she now?”

Paola looked down, squeezing his hand slightly he noticed.

“My mother died Flavius – giving birth to me.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Quite without any provocation, he pulled her towards him and as she looked up, kissed her softly on the lips. She clung to him and he knew then, this moment had been orchestrated cosmically, way back in time.

“Oh Paola,” he mumbled, “I’m so sorry,”

Her nearness and youth combined to increase his desire and he put his arms around her, holding her to him tightly. He detected no resistance on her part. As their lips met again, moonlight clearly illuminated her beautiful face, and he saw reflected in her eyes, feelings to match his own.