HISTORICAL NOTES
Emperor Lucius Septimius Severus came to Britain in A.D.208. He repaired Hadrian’s Wall and invaded Caledonia but without success. The strains of this campaign, however, proved too much for the old Emperor and he died at York (Eburacum) on February 4th, A.D.211
(Ref. Roman Coins and their value – David R. Sears)
The fort at Bremetennacum (Ribchester, Lancashire) founded in the first century A.D. was in a very important strategic position, midway between the great Legionary fortresses of York and Chester. (Deva) It was on the line of the main road, which led north to the frontier of the province of Britain, a frontier marked by Hadrian’s Wall.
(Ref. Ribchester Museum Trust)
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THE COINS OF JUSTICE
ONE
The year is A.D. 210
On a cruel black night, when even stray dogs abandoned their scavenging, thunder crashed across the heavens and jagged lightening scythed through banks of thick cloud. A bedraggled figure wearing a tatty tunic shivered at the side of a wooden warehouse on the quayside of Bremetennacum harbour. The terrified man known locally as Cethin, cursed his misfortune and wished desperately for the raging storm to send his pursuers to seek shelter. It was a fanciful idea for Roman soldiers acted on orders and the order of the day was to arrest him. Foul weather would not deter the military, for their Commander was outraged and he would lead the hunt for the rebel himself. Cethin scanned the blackened sky for Divine intervention but no Gods looked down on him. He was alone, so very alone. He drew solace that darkness offered him a level of protection from discovery but nothing could alleviate the feeling of absolute terror coursing through his veins. His pulse pounded in his head and his breathing was shallow. He wiped wetness from his eyes; it was not rain but tears for he was on the brink of collapse. How quickly his bravado, fuelled by anger and hatred had deserted him. He wished he could turn back time, and be safe in his farmhouse. Thunder boomed and he clasped his hands against his ears. He was in a living Hades and it was as fearful as he had imagined.
Irrationally his mind told him he must now have reached the edge of the world. It could well be so for beyond the waters of the harbour there was nothing but open sea. Tired and aching with hunger he forced his mind back to reality. The promise of salvation lay before him in the form of a large cargo ship moored at the quay. He would become a stowaway, a thief stealing food and slinking back into the bowels of the ship like one of the rats that he would surely encounter. Now with enthusiasm for the cause gone, a feeling as empty as his belly challenged him. He shivered again not from cold but from a hollow feeling at the failure of the insurrection.
Due to sail to Gaul on the early morning tide, the cargo ship swayed gently on sheltered water, and sea mist floated along her deck softening her outline. Unfamiliar sounds of creaking timbers and of ropes, slapping loosely against her mast increased his apprehension. He bowed his head and took a moment to pray to his Gods to keep him safe and give him the strength to sneak on board when the crew left for the night.
His spirits lifted, a lamp at the top of the ship’s gangway flickered yellow light that penetrated the gloom where three men stood talking beneath the swaying lamp.
Cethin caught sight of the ship’s name but he had never learned to read so did not know that his escape would be aboard the “Falcon”
He expected the men would be the first of the crew leaving to spend a last comfortable night in their homes before a voyage of hardship and danger. Cethin thought of his own home. It would be warm inside the old farmhouse with a fire burning in the hearth. There would be the smell of pinewood filling the air and melting resin would blister and burst as it oozed from the crackling logs. His two children would be safe in their beds and his wife would have hot broth and freshly baked bread on the table. He thought of her distress. She had begged him not to go to the river crossing, but he had reached breaking point and had to make a stand.
Rainwater poured onto him from a broken roof gutter and it surged into his mouth. A break in the cloud shafted moonlight onto his tattered clothing and dirty, bleeding limbs. He shook his head in disbelief at his state.
The men on the ship shouted above the sound of the storm. Their conversation reached him only in snippets as the swirling wind spirited their words away into the tempestuous night.
‘Weather easing tomorrow... safe journey....farewell’
The word “farewell” shattered his hopes. He guessed that the ship would sail in the early hours and no crew would leave. Disappointment stabbed him in the chest and he felt sick.
Would his suffering never end? It would if the soldiers caught him: permanently!
Dejected he flopped back into the shadows and pounded his head against the warehouse wall in frustration. Coldness robbed him of his sense of feel and he did not know that the rain-filled puddle in which he stood covered his sandals. His heavy eyes followed two cloaked figures hurrying off the gangway. Once on the quayside they turned intending to wave to the lone sailor but he had already dowsed his lamp and gone below deck.
Now Cethin could not expect to reach the ship’s hold without discovery and panic hit him. His mind raced. If I do nothing I will be captured. He had to speak to the approaching men but it meant taking a huge risk. They could hand him over to the Romans but he had no choice - escape or die.
A wave of dizziness swept over him; his body was shutting down. Steadying himself, he drew a long cold breath that scratched his dry throat. He edged closer to the corner of the building. His heart hammered so hard in his chest it pained him, and unremitting rain fell onto his chapped lips. As the men came closer, he noticed the taller, younger man was the better dressed. His tailored britches and the cut of his cloak, with its shiny clasp, were indications of wealth. The companion wore hardwearing britches with wide bottoms flapping above his ankles and a tatty cloak lay awkwardly around his broad shoulders. Perhaps the young man is a merchant, but is he a Roman sympathiser?
Cethin watched the two men skirting around potholes as they dashed towards the warehouse door and in the distance thunder rumbled like a mountain breaking apart. He braced himself to speak.
‘Will you help me?’ His plea so tentative it barely left his lips.
As he moved from the side of the building out into the open a flash of lightening split the darkness and for a moment it was as bright as day. He closed his eyes certain a Roman javelin would burst through the rain and fell him, but he felt no pain and heard no shouts of alarm. Despite the odds, he was still alive. He summoned what strength he had and called out.
‘I need your help.’ He had committed himself to speak. No way back now.
The men turned and peered in his direction, eventually focusing on his swaying silhouette.
‘Come out where we can see you.’ Adwen, the son of a prominent ship owner, Dugald Finval spoke authoritatively. He expected to see a drunken sailor unable to reach his ship or even a prostitute sheltering from the storm before trawling the quayside for custom. A dishevelled almost ghostlike figure shuffled towards them and as he came closer, Adwen could see his desperate state. His flimsy tunic, no longer drawn up to the knee by a belt, hung down and was wet, filthy, and torn. His gaunt face completed the sorry picture of a defeated man.
‘Please don’t let the soldiers take me,,, they will kill me,,, please I beg you.’
His strength of voice diminished and his words faltered. It took a mammoth effort to hold on to consciousness and through glazed eyes Cethin believed he saw compassion in the young man’s face. Could it be that he was finally out of harm's way? At that moment, his resistance flowed from him like blood from a deep wound. His jaw dropped open yet he was powerless to utter a further plea. He did not want to die and Adwen saw that in his eyes.
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Cethin, a farmer from the outskirts of Bremetennacum.’
Saying the words hurt him so much, for he knew he would never see his farm or his family again. If he escaped he would be banished to a distant land, but if not he would die a fearful death at the hands of the Romans. Either way it would be the end for Cethin the farmer from the outskirts of Bremetennacum.
Adwen saw no threat from the pitiable man, unlike many of the unsavoury characters that frequented the harbour.
‘Come inside and tell us what has happened to you.’ Adwen placed his hand on the man’s shoulder causing him to wince with pain. In his swim for freedom, he had been tossed against rocks by the strong current of the river. He had pain everywhere but now Adwen’s touch focused the discomfort on his shoulder and he supported his arm at the elbow.
Entering the dimly lit warehouse he looked around and saw ropes, pulleys, sails and all manner of tackle for the five ships in the Finval fleet. Cethin felt warmth wrapping around him and took in the sweet smell of new timber. For the first time in many days, he allowed a glimmer of hope to enter his mind.
As the door closed, flames of two, old and discoloured oil lamps flickered and settled. The storm continued to attack the building, rattling roof tiles and forcing wind through gaps between the wallboards. Instinctively Cethin scanned the building for a hiding place. If they will not allow me onto the ship, perhaps they will let me stay the night in the warehouse. The two men threw their wet cloaks on top of a crate and the three then sat close together on empty storage boxes. Cethin looked at the companion who had not yet spoken. He saw a strong and stocky, olive-skinned man with a mass of black, curly hair that dripped with rain. He wore a sleeveless tunic with slipshod embroidery along its square neckline, and he looked more like a farmer than a seafarer. From under the dripping mop of hair, Garad scanned the fugitive with empathy. In his escape from Gaul, he too had run the gauntlet of Roman patrols, but he possessed skills Cethin lacked. He could live off the land and had the boldness to help himself to the contents of pantries in unlocked farmhouses. It had pricked his conscience just a little, but survival meant breaking the rules.
‘I must to get away. I’m too tired to run anymore and your ship is my only chance’
Cethin did not make eye contact, He let go of his elbow and placed his head in his hands sighing heavily. His soaking-wet grey hair was thin and revealed his scalp and a bald patch at the back of his head. Adwen guessed him to be in his late forties and an unlikely man to be on the run.
‘Look. If we’re to help you we must know what it is you’ve done.’
Cethin was in serious trouble and needed help, but it was true that trouble had a nasty habit of sweeping others into its path. Trouble following trouble. Adwen had much to lose if he crossed the Romans, for shipping contracts were hard to come by.
Still with his head bowed Cethin drew a long breath. The intake of air caught the back of his dry throat and he coughed. A moment later, he blurted out his explanation.
‘You have to understand that we were desperate, I mean we were driven to it by those thieving bastards.’
‘Slow down, who are the thieves? And what were you driven to?
Cethin wiped rain from his face and took a moment to recover his composure. He shuffled into a more comfortable position on the crate, letting his skinny legs dangle.
‘The soldiers when out on patrol come to our farms and help themselves to our food supplies.’ He thumped the side of the crate in anger. ‘It has been happening for months.’
Garad stood and fetched his day bag from a table and handed Cethin a partly eaten flatbread and a small piece of cheese, which the starving man ate with the ferocity of a wild animal.
‘This all we ‘av, but you get more food on ship’ Garad’s thick Gaul accent took the man by surprise.
Adwen screwed his face and glared at Garad for he had virtually promised Cethin passage on the ship. Garad responded a Gallic shrug of the shoulders.
‘The man, he is starving and if Romans get him he will be dead.’
‘He is right.’ Cethin insisted. ‘Please don’t turn me out. I beg you.’
‘Continue with your story so I know what I am letting myself in for.’ Adwen knew Garad was right to want to help, but until he had the full picture, he remained apprehensive. If this was simply a squabble between Cethin and a couple of legionaries there would be no need to ship him off to Gaul – no need to be involved. It was not that simple as Cethin explained.
‘I persuaded two of my neighbours that it was time to fight back. When the light was fading, we went to the river crossing. The guards are only at the bridge during the day collecting tolls from travellers, so we thought we would be safe after they left.’
Cethin’s eyes filled with tears and he shook his head dejectedly thinking of his friends imprisoned at the fort. Their degradation, torture, and fear made him heave dryly.
‘We began cutting through ropes that held the crossings planks in place. We wanted to create a weak spot that would give way when a freight wagon passed over, but we were discovered.’
‘I thought you waited for the guards to leave?’ Adwen queried.
‘It wasn’t the guards that found us, it was a cavalry patrol returning to the fort, and they were on us before we realised. I jumped into the river and swam to the opposite bank but my friends were captured.’
‘The others, where are they?
‘They were dragged away to the fort. Commander Cimarus will kill them. I know he will. He is evil.’
Adwen blew out his cheeks and shook his head from side to side nervously. He knew Cimarus would stop at nothing to punish those who dared usurp his authority. Every moment Cethin was in the warehouse, they were sinking into quicksand. He nodded to Garad to move away out of Cethin’s earshot.
‘This is a bloody mess. If Cimarus finds us helping this man he will ruin us.’
‘He no find the man if we take him to the ship. There is so many places he can hide, eh?’
Garad’s nonchalance skimmed over the reality. Cethin would be on board the “Falcon” for several hours. Long enough for Cimarus to prevent the ship from leaving if thought the fugitive was onboard. He could take the vessel to pieces if he wished and Adwen would be powerless to stop him.
Cethin trembled and held his head in his hands, and sobbed. He sensed from the gesturing and whispering that the two men were having second thoughts about helping him. He decided
if they turn their backs on him, he would give himself up. At least the cowardly feeling of abandoning his friends would stop.
Cethin’s plight was typical of Roman tyranny, yet the success of the shipping business was due entirely to the Romans.
‘What a bloody mess’ Adwen repeated. ‘If I get caught my father will lose the business. If I do nothing I am sentencing Cethin to death.
Garad waited. He dropped the decision making firmly into Adwen’s lap, but had no doubts in his own mind. Although it was not his business that would suffer, it would be his back that took a lashing if he was caught helping the fugitive.
‘Time is passing. You is needing to decide if you help. Do I take him to “Falcon”?
Adwen thought for several minutes until Garad prompted him.
‘Two men is probably going to die. We have chance to stop it being three eh?’
‘You are right Garad. What is a shipping contract worth compared to a man’s life?’
Adwen moved back to Cethin and put his arm around his shoulder.
‘I cannot help your friends, but I can get you away to Gaul on my ship. ’ The words brought a huge sigh from Cethin and the beginnings of a grateful smile formed on his lips.
Adwen untied his leather purse from his belt and pressed it into Cethin’s bony, wet hand.
‘It’s not much money but it will buy you food in Gaul for a little while.’
Garad added the coins from his purse and smiled supportively.
Adwen felt satisfied that conscience had won. It had not left him feeling jubilant, but quite the opposite and a sense of foreboding tiptoed into his brain.
‘We must go aboard now. Keep faith that your God goes with you. I‘ll tell the captain to take you to Gaul.’.... and out of my life forever!!!
‘Thank you. You’ve saved me and I won’t ever forget your kindness.’ Cethin spoke so joyfully he did not consider how he would live and work in a land he knew of only from stories.
‘Can I ask one more favour of you? After the ship has sailed would you go to my wife and tell her I am safe and that one day I will find a way to return to her and my children.’
Adwen agreed and opened the warehouse door gingerly to peer into the horrid night. Rain-filled wind blew into the young man’s face sending locks of his long, light-brown hair flicking across his eyes. Clearing his view, he looked out towards the ship and cringed at the sight of Roman soldiers swarming all over the vessel. Shit. Trouble following trouble.
He recoiled and hastily turned a large, iron key in the lock. ‘Hide him Garad there’s a search party on the “Falcon” They will have seen our lamplight and are bound to come here.’
Garad grabbed Cethin by the arm and dragged him to the back of the warehouse where a large sail lay stretched across dusty boxes and crates.
‘On to top of sail, quick.’
Garad moved assuredly. His mind flashed back to his own escape. Calmness under pressure was the key to success. He drew a deep breath and began work. He wrapped Cethin into the sail and tucked in the edges to form a neat parcel. With casual strength, the muscular man lifted the bundle off the boxes and placed it on the floor alongside a stack of deck timbers.
‘Stay still and silent.’ He ordered. ‘You must to be strong or we is all dead men.’
Inside the coarse fabric of the sail, Cethin closed his eyes tightly and breathed slowly. There would only be enough airflow for a short time and he must not squander that precious commodity. In a few moments, Roman soldiers would be standing close to him and perhaps a hobnail boot would kick at the bundle. He managed to place one hand across his nose and teeth, his other hand covered his manhood. He lay still, bracing himself to take such a kick in silence. He would not let his new friends down.
Adwen ignored a pounding at the door. He waited anxiously watching the latch lifting and falling repeatedly and hoping the lock would hold firm.
Garad rushed to sit next to Adwen who had hurriedly found a manifest and spread it on top of a crate. They stared at the document as though checking a future shipment. A couple of hefty kicks to the door followed, it yielded and at that same moment, in strode Commander Cimarus.
‘Search the building.’ Soldiers pouring in through the broken door acted on his order and scurried about the warehouse like hounds hot on the trail.
Cimarus looked around. His instincts telling him he was close to his prey.
His men poked and prodded at piles of heavy ropes and searched around crates, boxes, and stacks of timbers. A startled rat jumped onto an empty amphora that toppled to the ground and smashed. Three soldiers thought they had their man and rushed to the shards of clay. A squeal came from the rat as a lance pinned it to a wooden crate, but there was no fugitive. Nearby, a rolled-up sail received a casual prod from the butt of a lance yet his men found nothing.
Cethin could hear the sound of approaching footsteps. It had to be Cimarus searching for a movement, a smell, a sound, but the dimness hampered the Commander’s search and Cethin held his breath.
Pieces of grit crackled under the Commander’s boots. That sound came ever nearer and Cethin felt faint with fear but then mercifully, a grit-crunching swivel of the Commander’s boots took him away.
‘Pass me a lamp.’
A legionary moved watchfully to his Commander shielding the lamp’s dancing flame with his hand. Cimarus took it and resumed his scrutiny. He walked unhurriedly past a crate then to a stack of ropes where he bent in close listening for a clue to his fugitive’s hiding place. Again, Cethin heard grit crunching and his racing heartbeat told him Cimarus was close by. No sound came from the rolled sail and the Commander walked on. The hidden man let out breath silently from his aching lungs. Swathed in his cocoon he could not hear the conversation between Adwen and the Commander at the far end of the warehouse. He bit on his lip knowing his life was in the hands of a stranger. He prayed silently.
Adwen’s eyes followed the Commander and the muscles in his body tightened involuntarily. I feel guilty. Relax, he knows nothing. He feigned surprise and called out.
‘What do you want?’
He and Garad stood and the manifest rolled up into a scroll and toppled from the crate.
Cimarus sauntered to stand in front of Adwen breathing warm, tainted breath into his face. He was the epitome of a Roman officer with his aura of strength, ruthlessness, and superiority. He and his men exuded a distinctive smell. A combination of sweat, leather, metal, and horses. With twenty men in the warehouse, that unpleasant odour overwhelmed the fragrance of newly cut timber.
The two men were similar in height, both being about six feet tall, and now their eyes were fixed in a combative stare. Adwen’s soft blue gaze and lightly bronzed face belied his strength and determination. Cimarus glared out of steel-grey, insensitive eyes, set deep into his weathered face.
‘I am looking for a criminal but you know that.’ Cimarus was convinced Adwen knew of his fugitive. The harbour remained the last place in the search and if the man had not drowned in the river, he had to be there. Cimarus watched Adwen for a giveaway sign.- Nothing.
‘There is no criminal here just me and my gangmaster in my warehouse. A warehouse with a smashed door.’
Adwen gambled on forcefulness and it worked. Cimarus stepped back but to Adwen’s horror, the Commander’s lamp shed light on three wet stains on the warehouse floor.
‘What about the door?’ Adwen repeated in the hope of distracting Cimarus from the give-away sign of a third person.
‘You! Go to the fort and bring the carpenter to repair the door.’
The chosen legionary saluted, left, and edged his way through the shattered door.
Cimarus moved away and placed the lamp on top of a crate. The three stains disappeared unnoticed into the darkness and Adwen sighed with relief.
‘I know you Finval and I don’t trust you.’ The Commander’s face wrinkled and he pointed an accusing finger in Adwen’s direction.
The two men had argued in the past about the cost of shipping military supplies from Gaul but that was commerce and was unlikely to have created such mistrust of Adwen. Clearly, the attempted sabotage and the escape of the third conspirator had Cimarus disproportionately incensed.
‘Look here Commander. I have no idea what all this fuss is about.’
‘Fuss? This is not fuss it’s an outrage. Peasants, filthy peasants have attempted to sabotage my river crossing. I have two of the bastards but one escaped, and by the Gods I will have him too.’
The Commander spun around and moved to stand before Garad. He recognised his facial features and style of dress to be foreign.
‘You are not from here. What’s your name?’ He scrutinised Garad and noticed his trousers were styled on the bracco of Gaul. They were made of course hemp with green and blue stripes that had faded to be hardly noticeable.
‘I am Garad Messon from Gaul, but long time now I live here.’
Cimarus bent forward and whispered something in Garad’s own language that he learned during a tour of duty in Gaul, and then rocked back laughing.
Garad’s face toughened. ‘Our women are no whores. It’s you bastards that force them.’
He moved forward and squared up to the Commander with his eyes bulging and his muscles tensing. Visions of his past returned and he wanted desperately to grab Cimarus by the throat and strangle him.
‘Back off or you will feel my sword blade in your guts.’
Cimarus drew his sword from its sheath, making a grating sound as its deadly edge appeared.
Adwen’s eyes widened. Don’t taunt him. He looked around for something with which to hit Cimarus, for he was certain he would attack his friend. His hands settled on the neck of a clay wine amphora and he took a firm grip.
Much to Adwen’s relief Garad had the good sense to back away and Cimarus sheathed his sword. The Commander enjoyed goading the man from Gaul but promptly returned to his quest.
‘If I find you are protecting the pig I am hunting I will personally flog you both until your skin peels from your backs.’ From Cimarus that was no idle threat.
He signalled to his men to leave the warehouse. The fugitive lay still, his throat was dry and his lungs desperate for fresh air. Finally, the sound of clanking swords and the scuffing of hobnail boots retreated into the night.
Outside, Cimarus posted six men at various points in the shadows. They saw nothing suspicious only Adwen and Garad carrying a spare sail to the “Falcon”