In the Shadow of a Fading Empire

By John Leslie Evenden

430 CE: In the shadow of the fading empire of Rome, Marcus Lucullus Ursinus is toiling to maintain the peace and prosperity of the former province of Britannia Prima. Raiders from over the eastern sea may be the most obvious threat he faces, but the most dangerous challenge

• Language: English
• Publisher: WiltonLogic LLC
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798218069896

Book preview

In the Shadow of a Fading Empire

By the same author

Memories of a Fading Empire

Journeys Through a Fading Empire

In the Shadow of a Fading Empire

J Leslie Evenden

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, July 2022

Copyright © John Evenden, 2022

All Rights Reserved

ISBN 979-8-218-06989-6

FICTION/Historical/Ancient

Keywords: Britannia, Gaul, Roman Empire, Dark Ages

Published by WiltonLogic LLC

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

Map 1: Part of Britannia

There seems to be disagreement among experts on where the exact boundaries between the four provinces of late Roman Britannia lay. However, in post-Roman Britain there would probably not have been hard-and-fast boundaries at this level in any case. More important would be the boundaries between the lands of different chiefs, their inter-relationships and their loyalties. Some of the towns on this map have pseudonyms. Even if these correspond to actual towns in Roman Britain, the descriptions in this story are entirely fictitious.

Map 2: Sketch of Town of Corinium as Described to the Author

This map is of an imaginary town in the location of Corinium (today’s Cirencester). An imaginary map is necessary because not enough is known about the layout of the real Roman city to provide the background for a story such as this. I ask readers to imagine that this map was drawn by a chronicler far away from the actual city, based on tales they have heard while sitting in the shade of a tree far away from the scene of the events.

Part I, around 430 CE

Chapter 1

High summer, and I was riding along a narrow path beside a stream, half shaded by willows and alders, with Captain Gracchus and half a dozen of his soldiers and my housemen, Jarmi and Huw. Our intention was to combine an inspection tour of the forts guarding the eastern approaches to Britannia Prima with inviting the local notables to the celebration of my daughter’s marriage. This section of our path bordered the province which used to be known as Britannia Superior and now was anything but superior, being given over to lawlessness and disorder. Jarmi called out suddenly, pointing to a group of riders on the hillside opposite. As we continued on our way, the strangers kept pace with us, trotting across the sheep-nibbled grass, maintaining their distance. The stream marked the boundary, and the strange riders were on the lawless side.

Presently, we came to a place where a track perpendicular to our path led over the stream and up the far hillside to a low dip in the crest. Our shadowers, if they were going to continue their route, would have to cross the track on the far slope of the hill. I raised my hand to halt our party as we emerged from the cover of the trees and then turned my horse towards the shallow ford where the track crossed the stream.

We’ll let them know we’ve seen them and how many we are, I said to Gracchus, who was riding behind me, and find out why they are following us and what their business is.

Trouble, that’s their business, muttered Gracchus, turning to the soldiers behind us and telling them to follow me down to the ford. Since our party had been joined the previous evening by Horvath, one of Chief Gisla’s men, and two of his comrades, he repeated the words in Saxon. My ally, Chief Gisla, had the responsibility for this section of the frontier.

Bandits, the Saxon said, looking at me and grinning, as he and his companions turned their horses to follow. He then glanced over to Gracchus and spoke some more. Gracchus’ command of Saxon was better than mine. He had picked up the language from auxiliaries he had encountered in a long professional career, while I was still acquiring the tongue. I did not like depending on him, but the captain had to act as interpreter occasionally. Undoubtedly, he took advantage of the situation.

Horvath says he’s seen them before. They’ve a camp a few miles to the east, said Gracchus. He says they’re a nuisance, no more, leftovers from the rebellion. They ride over now and then to remind Gisla they’re still around.

They look familiar, I said. The dress and the way they bear their weapons.

An uneasy feeling began to seep through my bones. Neither Gracchus nor Horvath had been held captive by the rebels. Neither Gracchus nor Horvath had seen them close up as I had. I had not forgotten that episode. The ghostly figures disturbing my dreams and the details I recalled matched those I could see of the horsemen on the slope opposite. As they saw us splash out into the ford, they stopped and watched. Then, with deliberation, they wheeled their mounts and began to descend the track towards us.

There were five of them altogether. If they were the men I remembered, they were mercenaries from Frisia, in the pay of Drusus Astrebanus, my enemy. They had once attacked my home, Villa Verdaris, burned my farm buildings and killed several of my retainers.

I came no further in my recollections, because as the riders drew near, I could see that Drusus himself was among them. I supposed he maintained the vain desire to win back his birthplace on this side of the boundary, Agridurnum Manor. Four mercenaries would hardly suffice against the men I had with me today, so why was he being so deliberately confrontational?

Marcus Silvanus, you fortunate bastard. I’m surprised to see you here, he said. Rumours in the country told me that you were about to follow your wife into the grave.

I felt my anger rise at his mocking tone. It was true that I had not been well during the previous winter, but a man had a right to grieve his wife.

I don’t know how you manage it, Drusus continued, but the gods always spare you. Perhaps they don’t relish sharing their home with you. Perhaps, he laughed, you’ll have to live for ever.

No thanks to the gods, I thought. Not long before, Drusus had bribed a group of foolhardy auxiliaries to break out in rebellion and occupy Agridurnum. During the fight to retake the manor, Drusus and his followers had captured me and smuggled me away through a hidden tunnel. Drusus had intended to kill me in a parody of the execution of his brother. One of his own followers, a man whose life I had once spared, retained sufficient honour to spare mine, though only after giving me a hard blow to the head and leaving a scar which now ran across my cheek from my jaw to my ear.

Even today you have the insolence to ride across my lands with your puppet soldiers and tame Saxons. That land, Drusus pointed down the track behind me, belongs to my family, and you stole it.

Your brother was a traitor, Drusus, I called back. He was judged by the tribunal and punished. In form, at least, we had behaved correctly.

My brother was the rightful governor of Britannia Prima, appointed by the emperor. I know you saw the letter. And now you can no longer hide behind Hypatia. You’re an imposter, a usurper, a renegade, and I will never forget or forgive you.

It was bluster, of course, and I was in no mood to continue the encounter, now I had seen that the strangers were, in fact, no strangers.

Drusus, I said, gesturing to the riders beside him, you don’t have the men or the weapons to retake Agridurnum today or any other day. Go back to the mainland. Go back to Remis or Treviri. Save your gold and silver and stop wasting your time here.

Remember the fort, Silvanus, he replied, ignoring my words. Remember being bound up, at my mercy. Remember my sword at your neck, because I’ll be back for you.

He glanced at his men. Let’s not waste more time here.

They wheeled again, but one of the Frisians hesitated long enough for me to recognise him: Liutmann, the man who had owed me his life and who had spared mine.

He held his horse steady and stared at me. Then as he circled to follow the others, he raised his hand and pointed his finger skywards. The message was unmistakable. Our debts had been settled.

Later in the day, we stood outside the place where Drusus had held me captive, or so Gracchus assured me. I had no recollection of arriving or leaving the fort on that first occasion and had never seen the building from the outside. I chose not to go in. The inside was etched in my memory and still disturbed my sleep. I trusted that Gracchus and his men were doing their duty during the inspection.

When they returned, I saw Horvath speaking to the captain.

Our friend, young Horvath, says he understands that the rebels were greedy men and their leader was a fool, but he asks why the man you spoke to today is your enemy? Gracchus said.

I wondered how to explain. My Saxon was inadequate, and how much Latin or British would Horvath understand?

It goes back a long way, I said, speaking slowly. His father and my wife’s father were chiefs, competing for honours from the Romans. My wife’s family had always been the most important. Her father was the governor and a loyal supporter of the Empire.

The Saxon nodded. And your father, he asked, was he chief?

My father was a chief, from the north of the province, a friend of the governor. He died, years ago, when I was young.

We had mounted our horses and were now riding slowly along the banks of the Tamesis river. I remembered seeing the trees, the sky, the water and the white swans as I had been dragged up onto the walls of the fort, when I thought my last hour had come.

Drusus’ father, Chief Astrebanus, backed Constantinus, a general who led the legions across to the mainland and proclaimed himself emperor.

Horvath gave no hint of recognising the name. Maybe he did not care. Maybe none of the barbarians cared who was or who claimed to be emperor of the Romans, but Cassius Astrebanus cared because he had bet a fortune, and the fortunes of many of his allies, on Constantinus gaining power. For a while, the rebel general seemed to have succeeded, but fate is fickle, and when Cassius Astrebanus heard the news that his candidate had been executed, he collapsed and was dead before he hit the ground…at least that was the story I had heard.

And your wife’s father?

That was a mystery, one I had, like a fool, tried to solve myself. He disappeared, I said, along with his whole family on the way to visit his son in Gaul. He had appointed me his delegate before he left. He never returned, and we never discovered what happened, I continued. I had remained as governor by default.

Horvath shook his head. Bad place, mainland, he said, many bad men.

Many of them Saxons, I thought, like you and your chief. But Gisla and Horvath were my Saxons, my allies. Others, the Franks and Frisians, Goths and Vandals, and whoever was roaming the remains of the slowly fading Empire…if they weren’t with you, there was a very good chance they were against you.

He called you Silvanus, said Horvath.

My father’s family name, I explained. When I was married, I took my wife’s name, became part of her family. Astrebanus doesn’t accept that. It’s his way of insulting me, especially now that my wife has passed on.

Silvanus, said the Saxon, man of the forest. That sounds good to me. I’m a man of the forest.

I smiled. You make Drusus’ point exactly, I thought. So long as he could consider me a mere man of the forest, then I was not fit to be governor of Britannia Prima while we were still a Roman province. And I was not fit to be magister militum now we had been abandoned by the Empire and left to fight our own battles.

This land belonged to Drusus’ family, I said, gesturing at the fields which surrounded us. They were rich and respected, but his brother could not accept that I married Hypatia Ursina and became governor after her father. Drusus’ brother thought he was better than me and the governorship was his right. He was an educated man from a good family, but I was the one chosen, not him.

Horvath nodded, still following my tale. Family feuds, matters of honour between chiefs, those affairs he could understand.

The brother, Vitellus, I continued, challenged me, brought armed men to attack me, produced false documents, lied in front of the court. I had no choice. I had him tried and executed. His lands were confiscated, according to our laws, and his family was driven away. Drusus still imagines he can win his lands and honour back.

Horvath turned to me with a serious expression. Vengeance! he said. His Latin might not be fluent, but that was obviously a word he knew. He smiled coldly and pointed to the horizon, to where Drusus had ridden off. No end until one of you is dead!

Chapter 2

A magister militum, a general, even the emperor, are all human beings, despite the palaces, the fine uniforms, the cheering multitudes, the decrees and proclamations. They are not above but merely part of nature, despite what they might imagine. However, I was no exception to the delusion that the ills which affected ordinary mortals would not touch my family. I assumed that Hypatia must have eaten something which had disagreed with her when she first complained of pains in her belly. The medicus was summoned from Corinium. The wise woman came up from the village. Even Father Felix and Deacon Baxter, the Christian churchmen from Corinium, could do nothing. No prayers, no medicines, no loving care could dull the pain, until one evening, as I sat beside her holding her hand, her life came to its end.

I followed numbly in the procession down the road to Corinium to lay her in the family mausoleum, but that ceremony was only another reminder that I did not belong. There would be no place for me in that tomb. What would I do now that my dear wife, the governor’s daughter, was dead and buried alongside her illustrious ancestors? I felt anguished, isolated and aimless. I was an outsider who had been propelled into my position and only survived, I felt at that moment, thanks to my wife’s love and support.

In the dead of winter, the world was quiet, and I did not have to face my friends, the men of my family, the notables of Britannia Prima, the landowners, the chiefs and the merchants; but what about in spring? The future was like peering into a fog without being able to discern what lay ahead. I could not turn back, but I could see no way forward. One day blended into the other, just passing by without improving, without even changing.

In the outside world, of course, life was continuing. The days grew longer and the air warmer, while my thoughts were full of self-pity. The buds began to sprout into blossoms and leaves, and green shoots to appear from the earth. Calves and lambs were born and took their first shaking steps. I remained in my room, the shutters drawn, staring into the space before me, paying no attention. Until I was disturbed, one morning, by a light knock on my door, and Edwulf Gislasson entered, dropping to one knee.

My lord, he said, I’m sorry to disturb you, but we can’t wait any longer.

Speak, I said after what must have seemed to Edwulf to be an interminable delay.

My lord, I have to tell you… And even then he hesitated before blurting out, Amanda is expecting a child, and I’m the father. I’ve come to ask you for her hand.

I do not know how long I remained seated, looking at the young man down on his knee, while he looked back at me waiting for some sort of response, but after a while the door opened a little more and a woman entered the room. For a moment, I caught my breath, under the impression she was Hypatia, come back as I knew her when we were first married, but the woman was my daughter, changed somehow, no longer a girl. She seemed softer, plumper than before, holding her hands in front of her belly. I remembered Hypatia when she had been awaiting our children, how proud to be a mother. I saw the same in my daughter, and tears came into my eyes. I started to weep like I had never wept before. Amanda ran forward and put her arms around me and held me tight.

Father, Father, she whispered into my ear. Please give us your permission.

From over her shoulder, I saw Edwulf stand up, not knowing quite what to do. I held my daughter tightly and whispered back, Of course, Amanda. I love you, and you shall do exactly as you desire.

Her mother had chosen me above more eligible, more politically favoured partners. Who was I to stand in my daughter’s way?

After that day, my humours readjusted, I suppose the doctors would say, what little they know of these matters. I opened the shutters of my room and let the light flood in. I opened the shutters of my mind and let hope in. I began to see the new life around me.

It was that hope, that spark, that Drusus Astrebanus had sneered at when we crossed paths on that hillside trail a few months later.

The wedding between Edwulf Gislasson and my daughter was celebrated in the Christian church in Corinium, with a feast afterwards in the Ursinus’ townhouse. The groom was handsome and the bride beautiful, as they should be, although she was rather plump. I was happy for the couple. It was rare enough those days among families like ours that children could choose their own partners. Perhaps parents should do that more often. You never know, they might find better husbands and wives than we could arrange for them. No doubt there were men who assumed the marriage was merely cunning political scheming on my part. If so, they were careful to keep their opinions to themselves then, and for a long while afterwards.

Across the river from Verdaris, around the summit of the hill, there were banks of earth and rows of ditches, signs that people had lived there in ancient times. Shortly, builders appeared from Agridurnum, men experienced in constructing wooden halls, and Amanda and Edwulf started building their own house on the slope of the hill. The posts and beams for their hall, the walls of a stable, a cookhouse and a weaving shed were soon rising. The people of the past had shown wisdom by securing the top of the hill. While Edwulf’s hall rose on the slope safely above the flood line of the river, he took care to place his storehouses and barns within the protection of the old hill fort.

--oo00oo--

While the icy season had maintained its grip on the landscape, I had scarcely given my duties as military magistrate a thought. I had my excuses to avoid riding into Corinium, the capital city of the province of Britannia Prima. Deacon Baxter had been dispatched unwillingly by Counsellor Aurelius, the civil magistrate, to assess my state of mind. The deacon’s kind words did little to conceal that he was concerned about my ability to continue as military magistrate. There had been a time in the aftermath of the rebellion, after my capture, when I had asked to be relieved from my duties as governor, to return to the life of a peaceful farmer and landowner. Better men had done the same in the past, if we can believe the histories. Hypatia had convinced me that sharing my responsibilities for the province with Aurelius would give me time to put my thoughts to rights. Faced by the deacon, I found I no longer needed Hypatia’s pressing.

There was no fanfare when I rode into Corinium and made my way to the centre of the provincial administration in the basilica, just a silent, cold drizzle, a smell of damp wool, careful glances.

How are you bearing up, Gov…Magister? asked the counsellor, meeting me face to face for the first time that spring, trying to sound cheerful and momentarily reverting to my former title.

You don’t know how much you depend on someone until they’ve gone, I admitted.

He sighed and looked thoughtful. It was a hard blow, especially following so soon after the rebellion.

As if he could read my thoughts, Flavius the treasurer, ever practical, came up bearing a sheaf of accounts and, once he had offered his sympathy, we sat for most of the afternoon going through the expenditures for the military and civil offices, pretending that our meeting was routine.

At the end of the day, the officials went home to their families, perhaps caught in embarrassment whether to invite me to dine with them or leave me to my thoughts. I walked back to the Ursinus’ townhouse on my own. At Verdaris, in the country, I had had the company of Amanda and the support of the house people, more family than servants. I had not set foot in the townhouse since the previous summer. It belonged, like everything else, to the Ursini, to Hypatia’s family, and I feared the staff had heard the same rumours as Aurelius and Flavius and wondered what ghost of a master would eventually appear.

I could have invited myself to Fabiansson the merchant’s home, where I was always welcome without awkwardness. I could have slipped out into the town, to the Fox Tavern, for example, and been surrounded by the familiar accents of my native north, where I could have exchanged news of old friends and neighbours with some farmer or trader from my home tract. I could have purchased company for the night. I knew where to ask, though that gossip would have gone around the town before morning. Besides, it was not my physical desires which were unfulfilled, but a more emotional absence, still lingering in my mind when the housemaid, Silke, came to serve me my evening meal.

We’re all so sorry about the mistress, she said. If there’s anything we can do… Her voice trailed off. As she bent down to place the food by my side, I sensed her warmth and saw the curve of her breasts. I was sure that she did not imply what I had been considering on my walk home, though I watched her leave with a certain longing. She glanced over her shoulder in the doorway, perhaps to make a last check that I was well enough, perhaps to gather a final impression before returning to the kitchen. I doubt it was an invitation, but if it was, I did not take it. Many a man might not have hesitated, but I would have felt like a fool to make any sort of proposition. But what, what was I going to do, single again, unattached?

Some years ago, Fabiansson’s wife, Mistress Priscilla, had been told by the wise woman that another pregnancy might lead to her death. A devout Christian, she had chosen to withdraw from family life and spend her time assisting the poor and sick. Fabiansson, being a trader, had employed the means he knew best and filled the empty place in his bed with a slave girl, Soraya, dark, beautiful but quiet. Even today, I can hardly imagine how she had found her way from some far corner of the Empire to Britannia. They had a daughter, Megana, a little younger than Amanda. Hypatia and I were her godparents. With the passing of time, Soraya had become as much a wife to Fabiansson as Priscilla. I was sure that my friend would be happy to find a similar partner for me if I asked him, perhaps another exotic girl from the east. But company like that would not solve my problem for me. In fact, I was sure there were village girls who would already be willing to lie with me for a present now and then, and a hope that perhaps…no, that was not going to happen. I shrank from the thought of taking a girl of my daughter’s age, simply as a bed partner.

The fire’s lit in our hall, Father, said Amanda when I returned to Verdaris, referring to the construction across the river. Now it’ll be warm enough for baby Edric, so we’re moving out. Come with me and see.

You’ll still come and visit me? I asked.

Of course. We’re just across the valley, and now the days are getting warmer, you’ll soon be off on your travels around the province again or living in Corinium at the townhouse, taking care of your business. Who’s going to look after Verdaris while you’re away, if not me?

That evening, I was left alone in the old villa after dinner, and I felt the melancholy creeping back.

You’d soon find someone, Master, said Maud, Barnulf the steward’s wife, putting a comforting hand on my arm, if you’d let it be known you were looking. There’s a lot of ladies who’d be glad to be your wife.

I had to smile, but there were more people than Maud who saw my being single as an opportunity. Before long, Gisla, Aurelius, Fabiansson, even Deacon Baxter and Captain Gracchus began to imply I should begin to think about marrying again. Matters almost came to an embarrassing head when a young widow from Britannia Superior, a friend of a friend of Hypatia’s, happened, so she explained, to pass by Verdaris with her maidservant and a groom. To offer her condolences, she said.

Thank you for coming to visit, I muttered. I can give you a place in the guest room for a few days.

She smiled, hopefully. I admired her initiative.

This really isn’t such a hospitable house for a young lady at the moment, with me being a sour old widower, I explained. My steward can accompany you and your maid to Corinium. My friend’s wife, Mistress Priscilla, and our priest, Father Felix, will be happy to provide safe lodging for you. I saw her face fall along with her hopes. As it happens, I met her in the forum several months later. She seemed happy and satisfied. I began to suspect that Father Felix might not be so severe in his private life as the impression he gave to his flock.

Then one day, when I was at my most desperate, an inspiration came to my mind, almost like a message from the gods. There was one person who had embarrassingly filled my dreams and even shared my bed on a couple of occasions, when she should not have done. I had not thought much about her for years. Now she had come into my mind, her image would not go away. She was my own age, from the right social background, and no one could reasonably object, I thought.

A few days later, at sunrise, I asked Jarmi and Huw to saddle horses for a journey. I told them we would be away for a few days, but not where we were going. I left a message for the house people, which would only be found when my room was cleaned later in the day. At first, we rode south, along the road towards Corinium, but once we reached the town and broke our fast, we topped up our bags with food and drink and turned west. I was determined to travel incognito, to avoid towns and villages, to provide no one the opportunity to ask about my plans, where I was heading and why, and maybe even to try to forestall me. We halted at night at small farms, slept in barns or in the shelter of a ruined wall. By the fourth day, we were climbing over the bleak and windswept south-west hills, seemingly uninhabited by people. Strange formations of rock broke the horizon. The cries of crows and curlews carried across the barren land. From hollows or behind bushes, we occasionally heard the sounds of concealed beasts, a sheep or a horse, alarmed by our passage. Standing stones and circles showed that people had once worshipped here in the times of our ancestors, but they had surely moved on to live in more hospitable places. My companions’ anxiety grew the greater the distance from home, and I saw them crossing themselves and fingering amulets at the sight of the ancient tombs on the moor. I had never been this way myself before, but Deacon Baxter had made the journey many times and had painted the route for me in dramatic tones over glasses of wine. Towards evening, we turned to the south and began to descend into a green valley, divided into fields and pastures, through which a stream flowed down from the hills. In the distance, we could see a small village and beside it a cluster of buildings, surrounded by a wall.

Our destination, I called out to my relieved companions.

Chapter 3

We arrived at the entrance to the holy house of St Penn, where the gate stood open. We passed through and dismounted and were spotted by a young boy who came and took our horses, directing us to the guesthouse that stood to one side. We entered, ducking through a low door, and before we had a chance to state our business, a young woman appeared with bread and cheese and ale.

Please, take a seat. Help yourselves to some food. Will you be staying? We so seldom have visitors here.

I’m here to see Mistress Milesia, I said. I hope we can stay a few days.

Is she expecting you, Master?

No, I answered. Just give her my name – Marcus Ursinus – and I know she’ll speak to me.

She curtsied briefly and left. We ate in silence. My thoughts were elsewhere and my servants too polite to chatter in front of their master.

We had scarcely finished when the young woman returned and, with a smile to my companions, asked me to follow her. We left the guesthouse and crossed the courtyard outside to one of the cottages which ringed the enclosure. At the threshold, the young woman gestured for me to enter, then turned and left. I opened the door and stepped inside. Milesia Cornelia was standing in the light of an oil lamp. Years, fifteen or more, had passed since I had last seen her, since she had kissed me and slipped away down the stairs and into the morning mist of Rotomagus. Milesia Cornelia, or as many would still call her, Milesia Astrebana, the widow of the long-dead and, by me, little-lamented Vitellus Astrebanus. She had been exiled after his execution to this remote corner, inhabited only by monks, to thwart any influence she might have had in Britannia Prima. The distance posed problems for surveillance, and Milesia had crossed the sea, easily visible from the hills above the holy house, at least once to visit Belgica, where she had friends and where her son was being raised. We had met, fortuitously, in Treviri, and we had made our