Private word of the adverse report reached the governor early, before it was known in the province or even leaked to his staff. And it was on the very morning when he received the news that young Porteus requested his interview.
Suetonius was in a rage – a towering rage. He had nearly refused to see Porteus, but supposing it was some minor routine matter that could be easily disposed of, he had him sent in. The young man entered smartly, his clear expression giving no hint that he was about to touch off an explosion.
“Well Porteus, be quick about it,” he muttered testily.
And so Porteus stood to attention, squared his shoulders, and began.
He had worked hard to prepare his speech. It was well thought out, carefully argued, respectfully submitted; it contained exact instances of why he thought the policy of revenge was a mistake, and made practical suggestions for a new and more conciliatory policy; it was in every way an excellent speech, of which Porteus could rightfully be proud – and it contained not one word that the governor wished to hear. As Porteus went on, the general’s anger turned to fury; but not a muscle in his red face moved as he listened.
Porteus had no idea of this. Even if he doesn’t agree, he thought, he must be impressed with my case. And when he had finished he waited confidently for the governor’s response.
Suetonius was completely silent for some time, his eyes resting impassively on this impudent young man who had just challenged him. First it had been the procurator starting a campaign against him – a shameful and outrageous campaign, but one that was at least recognised within the imperial system. And now he had discovered that there was a traitor in his own staff. For that was, unquestionably, what this young man that Graccus had wished on him had turned out to be – a disloyal troublemaker. From his long years of experience the governor knew exactly how to deal with traitors: they must be neutralised and destroyed with a single, sudden blow – and it must be a blow that they could not see coming. So his face remained a perfect mask as he considered the matter; and certain things were clear to him at once: Porteus must not be allowed to give his views to any commission of inquiry; nor must he be able to spread discord amongst the other members of the staff; nor would it do to send him back to Rome either, where he might stir up trouble with Graccus. No, something different was needed, and before long he could see clearly what it was. Without doubt he would deal with this young man. At last he spoke,
“Thank you for your valuable advice, which has been noted.” He gave Porteus a polite incline of the head, and then dismissed him coolly. It was a danger signal which Porteus completely missed, and afterwards he confided to Marcus:
“I think I impressed him.”
The blow fell the next day.
It was a note from the governor’s office, which Marcus delivered to his quarters in the early afternoon. The note was short:
C. Porteus Maximus is transferred to the staff of the procurator.
Porteus was puzzled. What did this mean?
“Do you know about this?” he asked Marcus.
But Marcus shook his head.
“Perhaps they think you should have experience of finance; it could be a good sign,” he suggested doubtfully.
“There’s another note too,” he went on.
This was from the secretary to the procurator, in Londinium.
You are appointed as assistant to the junior procurator. Your first post will be at Sorviodunum. Proceed to this office for instructions at once.
Assistant to the junior procurator! It was a minor clerical post. And Sorviodunum! He had never been to the place but he knew it was nothing more than a staging post at a crossroads – miles from anywhere: a complete backwater.
As he gazed at the two impersonal documents, he realised with a cold horror what they meant – and knew that there was nothing he could do about it.
Suetonius’s solution to the problem of Porteus was simple, and perfect. By transferring him to the procurator’s office, he removed him completely from his own staff and put him in the enemy camp where he belonged. Even if his views were ever heard, it would be assumed that anything he said was because either he wished to please the procurator, or to revenge himself on the governor for dismissing him from his staff. And by sending an urgent message to Londinium, recommending that the young man would be ideally suited to a junior post in a backwater, Suetonius had ensured that the commission of inquiry was unlikely ever to see him at all. He had to go there, or be guilty of disobeying orders. There was nothing, nothing that he could do. It was a trap that had already closed. Without fully understanding all that had happened, Porteus could see that he had been neutralised.
“What can I do?” he asked Marcus; and for once his friend was at a loss. “I’m finished,” the young man said sadly.
He could see the consequences quite clearly. Graccus would say that he had failed; he would lose Lydia; his parents would be disgraced. Was there some way out? He could not see it.
But why had Suetonius turned on him so violently? He shook his head. He was still ignorant of the procurator’s report.
Marcus did not know either.
“It looks as if Suetonius didn’t like what you said,” he muttered.
Out of consideration, Marcus sat with him for some time, though neither man spoke much.
“I have a posting too,” Marcus said at last. “I am to go to Rome for a year and I’m leaving in two days. I’m sorry, young Porteus, to be leaving you like this; but perhaps something will turn up.” He gave him an encouraging smile. It was easy for him, Porteus thought: he was a success.
“Let me know if I can do anything for you,” Marcus said as he left.
For the rest of the day Porteus prepared to leave. Several times he wondered whether to appeal to Suetonius, but common sense told him that this was a waste of time. Instead he put his affairs in order and wrote a long letter to Lydia, asking her to wait for him while he tried to rescue his career. It was a brave letter:
I still hope to recover and to return from this province with honour. Marcus will give you news of me.
This he gave to Marcus, with a request that he would take it to the house of Graccus when he reached Rome.
“Hand this to Lydia,” he begged. “Give her a good report of me, and tell her father that I have conducted myself with honour. I have no one else I can trust but you.”
Marcus took the letter with a trace of embarrassment.
“I shall do what I can,” he promised, “but don’t hope for too much, Porteus.” And with that the two men parted.
That evening Porteus made one attempt to take leave of the governor, but Suetonius would not see him, and so as dusk fell, there was nothing for him to do but to ride slowly and sadly down the long road to Londinium.
At the port of Londinium his last hopes were dashed. Perhaps, he had thought, I can at least make a good impression on the procurator and he will speak for me in Rome. But at the procurator’s headquarters he found that Classicianus was absent in the north and would not return for weeks.
“You’re to go to Sorviodunum at once,” the secretary told him bleakly. “Governor’s request. The procurator’s never heard of you and you probably won’t see him at all until next year.”
It was only then that Porteus realised the complete effectiveness of Suetonius’s action against him.
“And what am I to do in Sorviodunum?” he asked slowly.
The secretary shrugged. He was a short, bald man with many things on his mind, and he had only taken on this gloomy-looking young man, about whom he knew nothing, at the urgent request of the governor.
“There are some imperial estates there and you’re to supervise them. It’s a routine job,” he added. “Hurry up, will you – you’re expected there tomorrow.” And before Porteus could argue, the bald secretary’s attention was engaged elsewhere.
Sorviodunum: a place that scarcely existed. Porteus: a young Roman whom the administration had decided to forget. That night he faced the
fact that his career was in ruins, and even though he did not yet understand the cause of his disgrace, there could be no mistaking its results. For the moment there was nothing he could do except go to the lonely outpost.
He wondered what he would find there.
Life had not dealt very kindly with Tosutigus since the conquest, and as he looked back, some of the memories were painful.
In the days after Vespasian left, the young chief had waited anxiously for developments. News soon arrived from the south west: every few days word came through the valleys of the fall of another of the many-walled hill forts.
“So much for the proud Durotriges,” Tosutigus would mutter with grim satisfaction; and it was not long before he had convinced himself that his surrender of the dune and the signing away of his lands had been a masterstroke of diplomacy.
The fortresses continued to fall and he waited expectantly for news from Vespasian or the governor; but no message came.
By the end of the summer, Vespasian’s campaign was over. The Durotrigan chiefs had fought hard, but the siege engines of the II had been too much for them; and the hard-faced tribune had cut a swathe through their entire territory from east to the far west, where he set up camp for the winter. All over the island the news travelled: “The proud Durotriges have been humbled.”
But if they were humbled, they had still fought; and they had not forgotten the betrayal of the young chief at Sarum.
It was one early autumn morning that a small party of prisoners arrived from the south west at Sarum and were led into the dune by a detachment of Roman soldiers. There were twenty prisoners, men of all ages, and the Romans ordered Tosutigus’s men to feed them.
“They tried to break into our camp and loot the stores,” the soldier in charge explained to him. “They’re bound for Londinium, to be sold as slaves.”
The party rested there the night, and while the soldiers rested, Tosutigus went to inspect the prisoners. One of them, he noticed, was only a boy of ten, and as he drew close he recognised the son of one of the Durotrigan chiefs. Feeling sorry for the boy, he approached him.
“I know your father and I am sad to see you like this,” he said.
But the boy only scowled at him.
“Better a slave than a traitor like you,” he cried bitterly. “Tosutigus the Liar.” And he spat on the ground to show his contempt.
Tosutigus turned and walked away. So that was to be his reputation – just as the Druid Aflek had warned him. He told himself that he did not care.
“The Durotriges may hate me; but it’s from the emperor that I shall get my reward,” he reasoned.
The autumn passed and no word came.
The snows fell; Sarum was silent. The huge gaping circle of the dune stood frozen and empty. Each day, Tosutigus would climb its high walls and pace about on the great rim of ice, scouring the horizon for signs of the Roman messengers he hoped for. Sometimes Numex and Balba accompanied him, waddling at his side, their red faces shining in the cold air, peering with him across the snow-covered wastes – but as the months passed, he had little conviction that anything would come out of them.
Throughout the long winter, the landscape remained empty. When the snows departed, Tosutigus noticed that the chalk sides of the dunes were sprouting tufts of new grass.
As the river grew to its full spate, and spring began, the people of Sarum went about their business quietly. The young chief guessed that they despised him for surrendering the dune, and compared him unfavourably with the Durotriges; already, while Vespasian’s troops were busy occupying their territory, they had begun to compose songs about the feats of bravery of their chiefs who had fallen in battle. But he was not discouraged.
“You will see,” he told Numex and his brother. “I have done well for Sarum.”
It was a full year after Vespasian’s visit that a little group of men was seen approaching across the high ground from the north east. It consisted of a tall, sallow, middle-aged man on a small horse, six slaves and six legionaries; the group came across the high ground towards the dune slowly, pausing frequently.
Eagerly, Tosutigus rode out to meet them. When he reached them, he saw that two of the slaves carried posts, on top of which rested a pair of crossed wooden bars, from the four ends of which hung small plumb lines.
“We’re surveyors,” the sallow man told him. “There are important roads coming through here.”
When the surveyors reached the dune, they inspected it carefully, and then went down the slope to the river below.
“There’s to be a road across the river,” the sallow man said, “and a new settlement.” He indicated a modest rectangular site by the bank.
A new settlement! The young chiefs eyes lit up. So the Romans had important plans for the place.
“Just a staging pose, a mansio,” the surveyor went on. But Tosutigus was not listening. Already he had visions of an extensive town under his control.
They came to build the roads two months later: this time a whole century of eighty men with their centurion swung over the high ground, each man carrying a spade on his back in addition to his other equipment.
They began with the settlement, and they worked with astonishing speed. On the site by the river that the surveyor had marked out, they threw upa bank of earth, just as though they were building one of their walled military camps. Down the centre they laid out a single small street, with three square plots on each side of it, making a grid. And that was all. There was no forum, no space for any large official building, no temple: just a few modest plots designated for a stable block, a guardhouse, and some simple dwellings. In one corner, a rectangular area was set aside for a little orchard within the wall. The entire work was done in under two days and when it was completed, the centurion remarked:
“Well that’s it. That’s Sorviodunum.”
But to Tosutigus, even then, the drab little enclosure seemed full of promise.
“We’ll need labourers for the road,” the centurion said next. “What can you give us?”
Glad to have a chance to show his usefulness, Tosutigus at once provided them with fifty men, and to these he added Numex, despite the fellow’s protesting: “But I’m a carpenter!”
“Learn how the Romans build,” the chief ordered him. “You’ll be more useful to me then.” For he knew very well that Numex would quickly learn Roman skills and bring credit to Sarum and its chief in the future.
When he saw how the Romans built their roads, Tosutigus was astounded. The first main route lay across the high ground to the north east and was to stretch in an almost straight line from the dune to the port of Londinium some eighty miles away. As the men worked he would ride out to watch them, returning home shaking his head in wonder.
First the men dug two parallel trenches, about eighty feet apart, and piled up the earth they dug into a raised causeway in the middle, roughly twenty-five feet wide. This was the famous raised agger. Then on top of this they packed chalk, a handspan deep and cambered down from the centre, to ensure that the road surface would be well drained. Next, they brought carts of flint from local diggings, and these the legionaries laid over the chalk, packing each flint carefully down by hand until they were three or four inches deep, and filling in with chalk to make the surface even. Finally they packed six inches of gravel on top, stamping it down until it was hard and smooth.
“Sometimes, if there are ironworks in the area, we put the slag on top,” the centurion told him. “Then it rusts into a single sheet and it lasts for ever.”
Tosutigus also noticed that several roads were to intersect beside the dune. “Sorviodunum will be connected to places all over the island,” he thought happily. At the river Afon below, the soldiers built a stone causeway across the river bed and paved it to form an artificial ford.
“Why not build a bridge?” he asked.
“Bridges can be destroyed,” the centurion replied grimly. “Fords aren’t so easy to break up.”
The road acr
oss the river led south west towards the land of the Durotriges; he watched with fascination as, during the next two months, the Romans laid wooden underpinnings across the low marshy ground, laid the road surface over them, and then made the road zig-zag up the steep hill beyond. But it was what followed that made him gasp with wonder.
For across the rolling lands of the proud Durotriges, in a straight line that ran south west from Sarum, the Romans built a highway unlike anything the island would see again until the coming of the railways nearly two thousand years later. Between its deep ditches the agger was almost fifty feet wide, and it rose a full six feet high. It stretched across the landscape, straight, uncompromising and magnificent for thirty miles into the Durotrigan heartland before curving south towards the coast.
This was the mighty road known as the Ackling Dyke and its message was unmistakable: Your hill forts have fallen, it stated, but hill or valley, open land or forest, all are one to Rome. We march straight across them at our will.
As Tosutigus stood on the high ground and stared at this great new highway, so utterly unlike the ancient ridgepaths of the island that he had known before, he was lost in admiration.
“They are like bands of iron over the whole land,” he murmured. And for the first time he began to understand the real power of Rome.
That winter, word finally came from the governor, in the form of a dark, swarthy man from the governor’s staff, with small, hard eyes. He was accompanied by a clerk from the procurator’s office. He came to the point at once.