Brigantia

XII

OVIDIUS WAS SO excited that his words tumbled out almost as fast as Claudia Enica in full flow. He had worked on in the archives until the third hour of the night, a special order from the legate forcing a few of the staff to stay with him, do as they were bid, and make sure the old fool remembered to drink and have something to eat. The next morning they again waited on Neratius Marcellus, and while they did Ovidius scarcely paused to draw breath as he told his story. Ferox listened with patience, and because the only way to have interrupted would have been to grab the old man and shake him bodily.

Did Ferox know that Agricola was a broad-stripe tribune under Suetonius Paulinus? Yes, of course he did. And that the legate took a shine to the diligent young officer and kept him with him throughout the expedition to Mona and when they turned around to meet Boudicca? Perhaps not. He trusted him with activities that were not generally made public, and one was to deal with this Prasto, who had been captured by chance a year before and decided that his hide was more precious than his cult. Agricola was tasked with keeping a close eye on the man and with learning as much as they could. There had been rumours of captives kept alive by the druids for years, including at least one narrow-stripe tribune, and the governor was keen to discover whether or not there was any truth in this. If there was, their rescue came second only to destroying the cult.

‘And as far as I can see, Prasto took with relish to the task,’ Ovidius went on. ‘It turns out that he was in dispute with many of his fellow druids, something to do with seniority, which he felt had been unfairly denied to him. So he was happy to see his old colleagues put to the sword, and the sacred groves cut down or burned. A man of strong passions, it seems! Yes, yes. More murderous in revenge than his fellow priests were in their grim religion. Led the Romans to Mona, and then guided them so they knew just where to strike and who needed to be caught and killed. Helped a lot in dealing with the rebels too, because he knew Boudicca and most of the chieftains quite well. The gods only know what they thought of him! Still, if he was a traitor, he was our traitor, and very useful too, more than justifying the reward of a plush villa by the sea and enough gold and silver to live in comfort. Agricola remembered him when he came back, and employed him again, and one of the results was this!’ The old man brandished a scroll.

The usher had to raise his voice and repeat his message before the oration ceased and Ovidius realised that they were summoned. Ferox and the slave both had to hurry to keep up as the old man almost danced along the corridors.

‘No luck, I see,’ the legate said as his friend bounced into the office. Crispinus grinned. He was the only other person in the room once the slave closed the doors behind them.

Ovidius went back to the beginning, starting with getting the note from Ferox, and then went through his search, the false starts, growing despair at another trail apparently leading nowhere, and then the thrill when he saw the name. Neratius Marcellus listened with patience and growing interest. ‘And when can we expect the first reading of the poem about this great quest?’ he said when the old man finally stopped and slumped down exhausted. ‘What about you, Ferox, anything to add?’

‘Only a little, my lord. I found a Batavian whose father had served and been one of Prasto’s escorts.’ In fact, Longinus was his source, speaking a little more freely than usual the night before as the wine had flowed. There was something about Gannascus’ huge and merry presence that made other men relax. After several hours in the baths they had gone to some bars, and spent a long time watching the dancers in one tavern, the lithe girls in skimpy leather costumes.

‘I must be getting old,’ Longinus said as he joined Ferox in a quieter corner. After a while he coaxed the story from the veteran. He had served in cohors IV Batavorum, one of the old units disbanded after the rebellion that Longinus-Civilis had led. ‘In those days they used to send us noblemen to serve as a trooper for a year or two before they made us prefect. Good system, since you got knocked about a bit – but not too much because they knew you would come back very senior – and at least knew a bit about soldiering when they made you prefect.’ He remembered the turncoat druid. ‘That bastard. An animal or worse. Never forget him even if I tried. I’ve met some wrong ’uns in my time – well, I knew Nero and Vitellius – but that sod didn’t even try to hide it. Wish I could forget.’ Ferox knew how the veteran felt, for now that he had heard what had happened he half wished he could forget.

‘Prasto was vicious,’ he told the legate, ‘even more than the noble Ovidius has told us. He tortured and killed with such glee that even the legionaries were sickened, and you probably know how much they loathed the druids, especially once the stories came out of what Boudicca’s warriors were doing. Prasto hated and desired many of the women who were part of the cult.’

‘I did not know that there were women druids,’ Crispinus said. The legate gave him a quizzical look. ‘Sorry, I am just trying to understand.’

‘There were not, my lord, although these days I have heard of women claiming to be druids. In the old days women acted as seers and performed some of the rituals, but they were not druids and did not have their learning. Some were old, and these Prasto had killed, usually through some inventive torture. The younger he took and toyed with, taking pleasures as he willed. I am assuming the details are unnecessary.’

‘Well…’ Crispinus began, before his uncle silenced him with a gesture of his hand.

‘Most he killed in the end,’ Ferox went on, ‘or they took their own lives if they had the chance, and the survivors he kept as slaves.’

Neratius Marcellus sighed and stood up. Ferox had been impressed at how long he had kept still listening to his friend. ‘Bad business, but those were grim years, and if he was a dirty tool for us to use, he did serve a purpose. Now, where does this take us in our present need? I am not sure…’

‘Oh, I forgot about this!’ Ovidius bounded to his feet again, waving the scroll. The legate smiled and nodded for him to continue. ‘It was written for Agricola after he had gone to Mona and was preparing his drive to the north. He asked Prasto to record a good deal of the lore of the druids, in case the cult sprang up again. And the greatest was this list.’ Ovidius unrolled the scroll, coughed and began. ‘The Treasures of Britannia! Prasto calls them artefacts of great potency and symbolism – perhaps what friend Ferox here would call power?’ The centurion nodded.

‘Some will be all too familiar to us. Here we have the armour of Venutius, the mirror of Cartimandua, the cloak of Claudius – odd, that, but I suppose even the enemy has power. The torc of the high king of the Catuvellauni. Oh dear, that was what they took from poor Caratacus, I suppose. The Spear of Camulos and the cauldron of Morrigan. Not heard of those so far, and he says that they are hidden in the cavern of the three-faced god. The shield of Boudicca, but he says that was buried with her corpse and no man knows where her grave was made. After that it is not so much specific items as objects with power, the blood of kings and queens, the tears of the gods – I wonder how you collect those for he does not say – and the skull of a witch or druid.’

‘Is this Prasto still alive?’ the legate asked. ‘I confess that I never heard his name until today, which makes me suspect that he is dead. Can we check?’

Ovidius beamed. ‘Vanished at sea five years ago. He was a very old man, but liked to go out fishing in a little boat along with some of his almost as elderly slaves. One day the weather was bad and they did not come back. The body of one of the slaves and timbers from the boat washed up. One of the procurator’s men sent in a report about it because the emperor was heir to all his estate.’

‘Generous, since we’d given it to him in the first place,’ Crispinus said.

‘Do I take it you had to request this information from the procurator’s office?’ the legate asked, paying no attention to his nephew. ‘Yes, I thought so. Ah well, probably cannot do any harm.’

‘I invented a legal case involving property in the area,’ Ovidius replied. ‘And gave the usual sort of gift to encourage the efforts of the freedman.’

‘Fair enough, and it cannot be helped.’ Neratius Marcellus set off on one of his walks. ‘Let us assume Prasto is dead. Let us also assume that someone, probably Acco, has taken the cuirass, the torc and the mirror. The shield may be lost forever, and we have the cloak. What about this spear and… what was it?’

‘A cauldron.’

‘Truly?’ The legate paused to shake his head and then turned to pace in the opposite direction. ‘Does not seem so very dramatic, but there it is. Any idea where they can be found?’

Ovidius shook his head. ‘The beneficiarius assures me that there is another scroll associated with this one. He reckons it was put back in the wrong place, but has set his men to searching. Perhaps there is something in there.’

Neratius turned to Ferox.

‘Mona would be the most likely place, my lord.’ Ferox wished he had another answer, and part of him wanted to pretend that he had no idea because he feared to go there and could sense what would come next. He was also sceptical that Prasto was right about everything, or that the Romans really understood. Acco’s own power grew as he acquired each treasure. He doubted that all were needed, and the druid might already have enough for his purposes.

‘Very well. If we have learned nothing more certain by the end of tomorrow you will set out for the island at dawn on the next day. See what you can find.’

‘My lord.’

‘Good. You must make the most of the remainder of your time here. Have you heard about the statue? No. At least someone has not. This morning a statue of the princeps fell off its mounting on the wall of the basilica. The head broke off and has not been found.’

‘The work on the pedestal was very poor,’ Crispinus said. ‘It is no surprise that the mortar crumbled and the thing fell down.’

‘That does not explain the theft of the head. It is not as if it was bronze and could be melted down by a sacrilegious thief. And accident or not, people see it as another bad omen. Rumours are spreading that the princeps is ill and not long for this world.’

‘I haven’t heard that.’ Crispinus’ surprise seemed genuine.

‘Then perhaps you should spend more time around the docks!’ The legate’s pacing meant that he was standing behind his nephew and he reached down and grabbed his shoulders. ‘As far as I am aware, it is not true, but it is repeated and some will believe. Nothing has been seen or heard of that rogue Domitius, and that is also worrying.’ The legate paused and faced the double doors. ‘I always know when my accensus is impatient!’ The doors opened slowly. ‘Off you all go. We have already spent too long and I shall be late convening today’s first case.’

Ferox thought the tribune wanted to speak to him, but Ovidius took the young aristocrat by the arm and led him away. That was a relief, because he wanted to go to the principia and preferred to go on his own. Once there he sought out the office of the frumentarii, the soldiers detached from their units to help organise the supply of grain and other bulky essentials to the army in the province. They were a privileged group, who spent a lot of time on the move, as likely as not travelling to Rome to liaise with their counterparts there. An idle remark by the exactus had made him wonder whether he knew the centurion in charge, one Valerius Maximus who for a while had served as regionarius to the east of his own patch.

Thankfully, he was right, and although he had to wait a good hour before the man returned to his office, it gave him the chance to call in a few favours. The most important was to ask for help. Frumentarii heard a lot of things in their job, especially in the markets, inns and harbours, and since many people wanted to secure contracts to help the army they were usually well treated. Ferox wanted to know if they had picked up any rumours about Domitius. Maximus was a sensible man, honourable enough in his way, so he risked a few hints about plots.

‘I’ll do my best, contubernalis.’ Maximus had lost all the fingers on his left hand and his lonely thumb tended to twitch when he was thinking. His other hand closed around it and grinned. ‘I thought you said last time that you would never ask me another favour.’

‘Sorry. Still, it got you this posting and you never really liked it up north.’

Declining an offer of dinner, Ferox went to the office of the procurator and asked to see the freedman Vegetus.

‘Why?’ The deep voice came from behind him, and he turned to see Cornelius Fuscus standing in the doorway. His head jutted forward so that he resembled a small and angry bullock.

‘My lord.’ Ferox stood to attention and raised his arm in salute. He was not sure whether the procurator had a right to this courtesy, but felt that it could not do any harm. ‘My name is Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius. A short while ago a wagon owned by Vegetus was attacked, two of his slaves killed, another abducted and his property stolen. Although I have punished the bandits responsible, the property has not been recovered and I was hoping to learn more to help me to find it.’

The procurator glared at him. His eyes were pale and watery, without any hint of softness. For a long time he was silent, and Ferox was not sure whether he was trying to think of a reason to refuse the request or simply wanted to display his power before he agreed.

‘I have seen you,’ Fuscus said at last. ‘And now I recall your name. You are the one who failed to discover who murdered Narcissus at Vindolanda. You do not seem very good at finding anything.’

‘Sir.’ Ferox remained at attention and stared over the procurator’s head. If the man wanted to revel in his rank then let him.

‘Why should I help you, centurion? Tell me that. My staff are busy.’

Ferox said nothing. The procurator walked around him. He stayed as he was, staring straight ahead. A warrior of the Silures took pride in his outward calm. Still, a warrior of the Silures might easily have slit the stocky man’s throat for such an insult. At least all these years in the army made it easy to ignore the obnoxious behaviour of those protected by rank.

‘You are a dull sort of fellow, aren’t you. Most officers have shit for brains.’ He was back in front of Ferox again, glaring up, and so close that flecks of spittle pattered onto Ferox’s chin. ‘They are useful to kill and be killed, but for little else.’ The procurator slapped him a stinging blow across the face, and then stepped back a pace. Ferox remained rigidly at attention. ‘Hmm. At least you are not provoked easily. I shall let you bother Vegetus. See to it.’ The last words were to the clerk at the desk.

‘At once, my lord.’

Again Ferox had to wait, but only for a short time and then he was taken into a side office and found Vegetus slumped in a chair behind a desk, piles of tablets in front of him. It was the first time he had glimpsed the freedman at work and he was impressed by the surprising energy of this obese man.

Ferox did not expect a warm welcome and was not disappointed. The gaze was cold, although harder to tell whether he was most blamed for the horrible death of his wife Fortunata two years ago or the more recent loss of his prized antiques. He said little that Ferox did not already know. Still, he had not appreciated the bitterness of the dislike the man felt for Narcissus, which was clearly more than merely the rivalry of two collectors.

‘Nasty bugger.’ Vegetus almost spat the words. ‘Always listening, learning secrets. He liked to hurt people and make them crawl. A plotter too.’ Vegetus realised his hatred had carried him away, but he could not turn back. ‘I had reason to doubt his loyalty.’

‘Did you report this?’

‘Of course.’ Which meant that the procurator knew and had not told the legate.

‘Do you know who killed him?’

Vegetus screwed his face into a grimace. ‘How should I know? I wasn’t there. Some friend of our lord Trajan perhaps? Or just someone he had pushed too far. Who hasn’t got secrets they would rather no one else knew? I cannot lament the loss of such a worthless life. Now, is that all?’ Without waiting for an answer, he opened the next tablet in the pile and reached for his stylus.

‘Thank you. Yes, that is all.’

Ferox wondered whether anyone had liked Narcissus. Mention of his name to Longinus the night before had prompted a snort of disgust and a simple ‘Little bastard got what he deserved, didn’t he? I’d shake the hand of the man who did it – well, as long as he’s washed since then! Give it another month and he will be forgotten. Nobody cares even now.’

A couple of Batavians were with Vindex and the others when Ferox joined them a little later. The one-eyed veteran was not there, but Cocceius was. They were all sitting in the benches on one side of the amphitheatre. There were no games today, but men from the ludus were practising and now and then fighting mock bouts. Gannascus had been asking about the place ever since the fight, so Ferox had told them to bring him. The German watched every move, at least when his attention could be prised away from the girl sitting on his lap. She looked about sixteen, dark skinned and with long black hair that shone like silk. An easterner certainly, perhaps a Parthian or even an Indian, her face with the soft features that made you understand why the Greeks said the Persians were the most perfectly beautiful people in the world. She wore a threadbare, faded tunic and plain sandals, but it did not really matter for she looked like a princess until she spoke in a jarringly harsh voice.

‘He won her, didn’t he,’ Vindex explained.

‘With my money?’

‘Maybe. He’s lost and won back so many times that it’s hard to say.’ There was a bruise on the scout’s cheek, which he rubbed now and again. ‘Her owner wasn’t so keen on his taking his winnings, though. We had a bit of an argument.’

‘Anyone dead?’

Vindex thought for a while. ‘Probably not. No one likely to have important friends, anyway. You should have come with us after the bath. It was a good night.’

‘Couldn’t get used to you being clean,’ Ferox said. To his great surprise the others had enjoyed the bath-house, especially when they found one section where women were allowed to bathe with the men. That led to one fight, but the sheer size of the German helped to keep the peace. ‘We’ll probably be moving day after tomorrow. Make sure everyone is ready and check on the horses.’

‘Where?’

‘You wouldn’t like it if I told you.’

‘Humped again, are we?’ Vindex reached for his wheel of Taranis, but his fingers closed on nothing. He sighed. ‘Forgot. Some bitch stole it last night.’ He grinned. ‘I was busy at the time, and happy too, I’ll give her that.’

‘Heard any rumours?’ They were far away from Vindex’s homeland, and he did not know towns and cities, but Ferox had long come to value the scout’s instincts, almost as much as his own.

Vindex curled his lips, his big teeth sticking out. ‘Lot of talk of rebellion,’ he said after a while. ‘Not from those who want one, but those who fear one. The temples and that statue haven’t helped. Making people nervous. Seen the tribune about a lot, talking to all sorts. He’s playing some sort of game.’

‘He usually is.’ Ferox remained puzzled by Crispinus’ suggestion that he marry. ‘Think some of it has to do with the successor to the old high king. Who do you think it should be?’

‘Me! I don’t exactly move in such circles.’

‘You’re Carvetii, though.’

‘Aye, I am, but if I was a great chief I wouldn’t be hanging around with the likes of you, now would I? Course not. So what I think don’t matter spit. What I hear is that it’s between the two children, and most likely the brother, whose older, said to be a great warrior and a hero. The sister is younger. Nice tits, so I hear.’ Ferox snorted in surprise. ‘It was a chieftain who told me. So what, she may be royal, but she’s still a woman and there’s no harm in admiring from a distance. The Romans will chose the lad because they like kings over queens. That doesn’t really matter to us, or the Brigantes. Depends how much of their grandmother is in the lass.’

‘So tits aren’t everything?’

Vindex considered this. ‘Dumb question. They’re a lot, course they are…’ He lapsed into silence for a while, studying the girl on Gannascus’ lap, who was giggling and whispering in the big man’s ear. ‘Bit small,’ he said after a while. ‘Nice, though. She’s a dancer, worth a fortune according to her former owner, but he was desperate and had run out of coin.

‘No, I reckon it will be a new king rather than a queen. That’s the way the Romans think. Still, maybe it doesn’t matter. From all that’s said, brother and sister are more Roman than anything else, and you know what they’re like.’

‘Bastards every one of them,’ Titus Flavius Ferox agreed. He noticed Sempronius the lanista was down in the arena and kept glaring up at him.

‘You always make so many friends, don’t you?’ Vindex said. ‘It really is a gift.’

Ferox stood up. ‘Tell Gannascus that the girl cannot come with us. So he can either sell her back or find someone to take care of her while we are away, although I cannot promise that we will return to Londinium.’

‘Where are you off now?’

‘Work.’ Ferox did not tell his friend that the work in question meant visiting several brothels, otherwise he knew it would be even harder work stopping the scout from coming along. For a married man, Vindex had a lot of energy. Armed with letters written by Flora, he was calling by appointment on three of their owners. It was business, not pleasure, and he hoped to find out things it would be hard to learn another way.

Three hours later as the sun was setting, he found Longinus waiting at his lodgings. The others were out, apart from Philo. ‘He’s been here for a long time,’ the boy said in explanation.

‘Promised to give you this in person,’ the veteran said, standing up and handing over a closed and sealed tablet. ‘Make sure it isn’t left lying around. Right, I’ll be off.’

Ferox told the slave to fetch a lamp and light it. The boy looked surprised, for the room was still fairly light, but did as he was told. Once he had gone, Ferox broke the seal and opened the letter. The wooden frame was thick, for this was the sort with a heavy layer of wax on them and someone had scored the letters deeply.

When the slave returned Ferox held the stylus over the lamp’s flame until even the handle became hot. Then he rubbed it over the surface of the tablet, melting the wax to erase the writing. It took a while, for the wax was hard and the pen soon cooled, but in the end he was satisfied.

‘I’m going out,’ he said. ‘I may send word. If I do, the others are to come with all speed.’