Brigantia

IV

FEROX WONDERED WHAT to write in his report. Five days had passed and the tribune was becoming impatient. There was some excuse because yesterday the garrison had paraded to witness the sacrifice of an ox in honour of the birthday of the divine Augustus and he had been required to attend the ceremonies and the dinner Cerialis gave for his own centurions and decurions. At least his leg was feeling better and he had tried to do a little more exercise each day. It was now an hour after noon and he had borrowed a practice sword and shield so that he could test himself at one of the posts on the training ground beyond the vicus. At this time of day it was usually quiet before training resumed later in the afternoon, and he had come here every day apart from the day of the parade. For the first few sessions he had contented himself with stretching, some short jogs, and throwing a javelin at one of the ox skulls mounted as targets at the far end of the field. Today he felt ready to use the overweight wicker shield and wooden gladius.

Vindex had wanted to come, saying that fencing with a real opponent rather than a lump of wood would be more useful, but Ferox needed to think and it was easier to do that on his own. The praetorium was too crowded to be peaceful, and even with the lady of the house, her children and attendants away, there remained a large household who seemed always to be busy. There never seemed to be any peace, even compared to the little outpost where Ferox spent most of his time when he was not riding abroad. He had been there for many years now and it was the closest he had to a home. Soon after arriving he had dubbed the place Syracuse, after the room in the palace where the emperor Augustus had gone whenever he did not want to be disturbed.

Eager for news from the wider world, Ferox had asked the scout to ride over to Syracuse and pick up any fresh reports or rumours. He would have preferred to do it himself, but the tribune was adamant that he was not to leave Vindolanda until the report was completed to his satisfaction. Ferox knew that he must sit down and do it. Hopefully the exercise would help clear his mind and perhaps let him glimpse some answers.

He began with the sword, cumbersome and poorly balanced compared to his own blade, and after some stretching made a series of mock attacks that stopped short of contacting the six-foot-high post set into the ground. There was no one else using the training area and that was good, but a straggle of children appeared and stared at him and this was less good. The oldest, a tall, raw-boned lad with hair so blond it was almost white, must have been nine or ten, the others younger. One, a little girl of four or five clutching the edge of the boy’s tunic, had a squint, which made her steady stare slightly unnerving. All were no doubt children of the cohort, hanging around looking for something to do. Ferox found that he was a good deal more indulgent of all children ever since he had become a father. Even so, he could have done without their silent scrutiny. He could not help wondering whether they knew almost as much as he did about the murder.

For the simple truth was that in six days Ferox had learned almost nothing more. He wondered if everyone else was equally baffled and simply wanted to forget the dead man. The Batavians were a clannish bunch, and even though he had fought alongside them a good few times in the last years, he knew that he remained an outsider and wondered if they were telling him everything. Longinus, the trooper who had once been Julius Civilis, prefect and leader of the Batavian rebellion against Rome and afterwards vanished into the anonymous ranks of the army, might have told him. However, the one-eyed veteran had gone as part of the escort to Sulpicia Lepidina. Presumably he felt that no one would recognise him after almost thirty years, even if he went with the lady as far as Londinium and the big cities of the south. Oddly enough he had not been marked down for this duty, but two troopers had been taken ill with food poisoning early that morning and Longinus and another man assigned to take their places.

Ferox had had enough of mock blows and slammed the hardwood sword into the post strongly enough to leave a dent. He did not like coincidences, although in truth he had come across plenty of them over the years. A letter had come last night from Sulpicia Lepidina, expressing mild sorrow for the death of her guest while saying nothing of importance about him. Narcissus had not spent long this far north, even though he had been in and around Eboracum for over a year. In time Vindex might pick up some rumours about his business with the Brigantian royal family.

It was time to use the shield, and he was pleased to have found one shaped like the rectangular scutum used by legionaries rather than the flat oval type equipping the Batavians and Tungrians here at Vindolanda. He hefted it, testing the weight. In some ways it was easier having something balance the sword in his right hand.

At the far end a horseman walked his dark bay onto the training field. He was fully equipped, with polished scale armour, gleaming bronze helmet, uncovered shield and a long spear. He turned his head, nodding and raising the spear to acknowledge the centurion. Ferox waved his sword in reply, and was surprised to see that the cavalryman had a masked helmet, of the sort used in the cavalry games. He had heard that Cerialis was forming two teams so that he could put on one of these displays, even though they were normally the preserve of the better mounted cavalry alae, rather than mixed foot and horse units like the Batavians. Presumably one of the men was putting in some additional practice, getting used to riding with a mask, which reduced his vision to just a couple of slits. After the wave, he ignored the centurion and began walking his mount in a circle. The children, evidently bored by his ongoing duel with a lump of wood, decided that horse and rider offered better entertainment, and wandered over to watch him instead.

Ferox returned to his practice and his thoughts. Philo had learned far more than he had and the little Jewish lad from Alexandria had obviously enjoyed himself. He had charm when he wanted, and an innocence that seemed to appeal to women young or old. Slaves gossiped. Everyone knew that, although their owners often liked to pretend that they did not. Yet they rarely were so forthcoming to outsiders. In the last few years Philo had become a favourite of quite a few members of Cerialis’ household, even Privatus, the senior steward who recognised a kindred spirit in the boy’s obsession with neatness and cleanliness. It had taken several days, and Ferox did not like to think how many favours or swapped stories, but soon the boy was getting some sense of Narcissus.

‘They are collectors,’ Philo told him, his face brimming with pride. ‘He and his colleague Vegetus. You could call them friendly rivals.’

‘Collectors?’

‘Of antiques, my lord. Jewellery, silver and gold plate, helmets and weapons. They especially like anything associated with the kings and queens of the Britons. Some they keep, but most they hope to sell to wealthier collectors in Gaul and Italy. The profits are said to be substantial, although Narcissus’ man Rivus says that they enjoyed most the thrill of the chase. When the cart owned by Vegetus was attacked, Rivus says that Vegetus’ man joked with him that his master was behind it all!’ He noticed Ferox’s puzzlement. Philo shrugged, ‘Apologies, my lord, I get ahead of myself. The cart carried a tall bronze helmet and a mail shirt said to have been worn by King Venutius of Brigantia when he led his warriors against the legions all those years ago. They had both heard the rumours that they had been given years ago to a chieftain of the Selgovae, and were eager to obtain them. Vegetus won, although not for long. Am I correct in assuming those items were not found with the cart? ’

Ferox nodded, much to the boy’s delight. ‘What did Rivus think of his master?’

‘He was not generous, but nor was he demanding. There is a saying that freedmen make either the very best or the very worst masters.’

‘I have never heard it,’ Ferox said.

‘My lord, you have never been a slave.’

‘No.’ More than once he had wondered about giving the boy his freedom, before Philo’s constant fussing made him dismiss the idea. Perhaps soon.

‘Narcissus did not work Rivus too hard, and kept him even after he lost his arm in an accident.’ That injury was the main reason why no one suspected the slave of the murder, since he could not have lifted the body. ‘Mostly he was decent enough, although now and again he would lose his temper and beat him savagely. Rivus had been a slave of a high chief of the Brigantes and was given to Narcissus in part payment of debt. He wonders a little whether he was part of the collection. His master liked him to strip so that he could look at his tattoos.’

Ferox began to approach the post like a fighter, crouching behind the shield, left leg shuffling, followed by short step with right, sword ready to seek a gap. His thigh was sore, but he did not want to let it get stiff so he forced it to move. The rider was still doing circles, although he had changed rein to ride in the other direction. This appeared to be enough for him to retain his youthful audience.

That had been all Philo had to tell that first session, and had given Ferox plenty to ponder, until his mind was dragged into the present. After the boy had gone, one of Cerialis’ slaves appeared. She was young, pretty like most of the women in his household, and he had seen her serving at table in the past.

‘My master wishes your stay to be as pleasant as possible,’ she had said, eyes staring down at his knees in the demure manner felt appropriate for servants. He guessed that she was a Gaul, pale skinned and with long brown hair plaited into a pigtail that reached halfway down her back. ‘I am at your service.’

‘That is kind of him,’ was all that he could think to say.

With an easy gesture she slid her dress off her shoulders, letting the material fall to her waist. The belt unfastened almost as quickly and the whole garment rustled down. She was bare apart from a simple pair of sandals.

Ferox wondered whether this was some sort of test. Had he said something during his fevered dreams that hinted at his love for the prefect’s wife or had Cerialis worked it out for himself? For all his open, enthusiastic manner, the commander of the Ninth Cohort was a shrewd enough man.

Philo disapproved, but the woman returned each night and attended to him efficiently enough, as she had no doubt entertained her master and a fair few of his other guests. Cerialis gave him a big wink the morning after her first visit.

Ferox hefted the practice sword and shield once again. It was better not to think, but simply to let his mind roam free. On the other side of the training field the rider clicked his tongue a couple of times as he changed direction again and urged his mount into a trot. The animal bounded, gave a small buck that prompted a scream from the little girl, and then gave in and obeyed. Ferox wondered whether he was still breaking in a fresh horse. The bay looked sleek, its hair recently trimmed and well brushed, two socks on its front legs and its face a blaze of white. When the man took the animal into a canter, still keeping to a tight circle, the group of children cheered.

Ferox did his best to ignore them. He was tired, weak from the illness and days lying idle, and his back was damp with sweat. Forcing himself to keep going for just a little longer, he stamped forward, punched the post with his wicker shield and followed with a thrust from the gladius at eye height, grunting with the effort.

Perhaps it was the nightly visits of the slave woman, but yesterday he had slipped a note to Flora, asking for an appointment. She had once been a slave, entertainer and prostitute, winning freedom and setting herself up in the same business, and was now owner of the most successful brothel in the north, catering for soldiers and, in more style and comfort, senior officers. Cerialis was a frequent visitor to the big house on the edge of the vicus, built partly in stone and with two storeys so that it stood out among all the other civilian buildings.

Earlier that morning, Ferox had gone at the stated time to see the mistress of the house. The place had a subdued, exhausted air after yesterday’s festival, but the clerk and guards were as welcoming as ever. Flora had always been small, even though her voice and most of all her earthy laugh sounded as if they came from a great fat woman. Today Ferox thought she looked even smaller and a lot older. Now and again she coughed, a deep racking cough that shook her slight frame.

‘Doesn’t the sun ever get warm in this benighted place?’ she had asked of no one in particular. Ferox was never quite sure why Flora had set up house at Vindolanda. There was an old bond with Longinus, but she had come here years before he arrived with cohors VIIII, so that did not explain it. Once, on a rare occasion when she had drunk so much that her tongue loosened, she had hinted at some trouble in Londinium years before.

‘How’s your boy?’ Flora asked next. They were alone, sitting in her plain office as they had often done in the past. A slave had brought them wine, but the mistress herself poured it into crystal cups, adding plenty of water to the one she offered to Ferox. ‘Glad to see you have stopped making a beast of yourself.’ In the lonely years at Syracuse, rejected by the army, tortured by dark memories of interrogations and executions, and lost because the woman he had loved above all had vanished, Ferox had been prone to days of heavy drinking. Flora had stayed his friend throughout those hard years.

‘I think Marcus is well,’ he said after a moment. Ferox never knew how Flora had discovered that Sulpicia Lepidina’s baby was his and not her husband’s. She always seemed to know almost everything that happened in and around Vindolanda, and in the wider world.

‘He is,’ she stated firmly, pausing as she relished a long sip of her own wine. Even watered down, Ferox could tell that it was good. ‘Poor mite was a bit crook last month, but he’s better now. Good solid lad, although let’s hope he takes more after his mother than his father.’

Ferox laughed. He had not seen Flora for months and had missed these quiet talks. They chatted for a while, for that was their custom, and then he asked a few questions about Narcissus.

‘Don’t know much.’ Flora usually began that way, but this time there was some truth in it. She told him about the freedmen and their rivalry as collectors, adding only a little to what he already knew. Narcissus was not a visitor. ‘And don’t look as if I was stating the blindingly obvious. I’ve been in this trade more years than I care to remember and seen things even a nasty little sod like you wouldn’t dream. Some eunuchs still like to be entertained.’

Vegetus was a regular visitor. ‘The randy pig. Oh, doesn’t do any harm, but the girls say he struts as if he’s Herakles. Losing his wife made him worse, but he was bad enough before.’ Two years ago, Vegetus’ flirtatious wife had been abducted by warriors loyal to a savage priest who called himself the Stallion. They had meant to take Sulpicia Lepidina, but Ferox had saved her and still felt guilty because at the time he had given no thought to anyone else. He and Vindex had found the poor woman’s corpse the next day.

‘Did you get them all?’ Flora asked.

The Stallion was long dead, along with a good few of his followers, but others were still out there, most of all Acco, a true druid who had aided the Stallion and then carved him up as a sacrifice once he failed. ‘No, not yet,’ Ferox said. ‘One day I will.’

‘The freedmen were up to something,’ Flora said after they had sat in silence for some time. ‘They may be the emperor’s men, but that doesn’t tie them to the same emperor we have at the moment.’

‘Do you know something?’

Flora shook her head, which meant that it was a guess, but she had a nose for politics, which always made Ferox wonder all the more about her past. Once or twice she had admitted that she and Longinus had been through a lot together.

‘Something is brewing. There’s still folk out there who reckon Trajan is not the right man to be princeps. Others just out for the main chance. Three weeks ago a trader calling himself Domitius stopped for a few days. Old man – older even than me!’ Flora laughed that deep, incongruous laugh of hers. ‘A Gaul from his speech, but maybe not one who has been home in a long while. No ring, even though he threw money around as if he had no lack of it.’ Equestrians were marked by a distinctive silver ring. ‘I wondered whether he didn’t want too much attention. Men of his type usually get a formal welcome from the prefect, however much he may pretend to despise people in trade.’

‘Where did he stay?’

‘Castus’ place, so decent, but nothing special. Had a different girl each night and paid extra for the best rooms and the bath.’ Flora’s private bath was one of the great luxuries of her establishment. ‘One of the twins saw him talking to that one-armed slave of Narcissus, and he stood drinks for a lot of soldiers in a couple of the bars. Never went to the fort, though, as far as I know. He was a man who was listening, and not here to buy and sell or I’m a virgin.’

Ferox smiled. ‘You are always as fresh and fair as one.’

‘Liar.’ Flora was pleased, which only made her more gruff. ‘Now go on with you. I have not had a chance to finish it all, but I will send a package to you later today. May be a help, where you are going.’

‘Am I going somewhere?’

Flora smiled. ‘Probably. At least if I’m any judge, but it’s no job of mine to do the army’s work for it and tell you where.’

That was one more mystery to add to so many others, although he had little doubt that she was right. He was still not much wiser about Narcissus, and whether or not his death was something to do with the attack on Vegetus’ slaves. Like it or not, he would have to sit down and write the report, doing the best he could. Frustration led him into a furious assault on the post that left it leaning an inch or so to the side.

Ferox decided that he had had enough exercise, and laid the sword down on the ground with the shield over it so that he could do a few last stretches and exercises before quitting. Just then a woman shouted, yelling at the children to come. When they ignored her, she stamped out from behind a nearby house and called again. She was tall, her round face marking her out as a Batavian even though her hair was a dirty grey and no longer the gold or red it had once been. Life in a camp tended to age a woman. One more shout and the children started moving, shuffling their feet to show small defiance without actually disobeying.

The rider had changed rein again and was cantering a wider circle, the horse tossing its head. Ferox reached up and rubbed his neck with his hands, wondering whether tomorrow he ought to try and do everything wearing mail and helmet as well. He froze as the memory of the fight at Eburus’ farm came flooding back. The sound of pounding hoofs was getting closer. He turned, saw the white face of the horse and knew it was the same one Rufus had taken that night.

Silent apart from the drumming of hoofs and clink of harness and equipment, the masked rider bore down on him like some statue come to eerie life. He was close, coming straight at him, and Ferox flung himself down to the right, hitting the ground hard and rolling. The rider pulled on the reins to follow, coming close so that Ferox was covered in dust thrown up by the horse’s feet. Thrusting across his body to the wrong side, the spear did not have the reach to strike him.

The horseman yelled, an odd distorted sound through the small gap between the tinned lips on the face mask. He was already turning, and the horse reared as it fought against the brutal drag of the bit. Ferox pushed himself up, realising that his dive had taken him away from the shield and sword lying beside the post. Even practice weapons would be better than nothing. He tried to shout for help, but his throat was dry and he managed no more than a croak.

The expressionless mask stared at him and then the horse came at him, slowly this time, the rider taking care. Ferox waved his arms wildly and after a cough screamed a ululating cry, hoping to frighten the beast. It reared, hoofs thrashing near his face and making him jump back, but the rider was still in control and Ferox had to leap back again to avoid the glittering spear point coming for his face.

Another jab, and this time he leaned his body out of the way and tried to grab the shaft of the spear. It jerked back, and grazed his left hand as the edge slipped through his grip. The rider swung the spear, the wood hitting Ferox hard on the side of the head, so that he dropped to his knees. Reeling, he managed to throw himself under the horse and started to scrabble across the ground. One heavy foot landed an inch from his face, dust was in his eyes, and then the animal reared again, and the rider dropped his spear as he struggled for balance.

Ferox pushed up and half staggered, half ran towards the post. The spear was on the far side of the cavalryman and he had no chance of getting there, so he would have to make do. There was a scrape of metal as the rider drew his long spatha. Ferox always winced when he heard the sound, and wondered why the army insisted on a bronze mouth to a scabbard instead of wood, which would not start taking the edge off a blade. Grabbing the shield, he turned. Disturbed by the motion, the wooden sword rolled away and there was no time to reach for it because the horseman was urging his mount into a canter. Someone was shouting and there were figures in armour coming onto the field, but they were fifty paces away and no help for the moment.

Rather than holding the boss, Ferox closed one hand on each of the long sides of the shield and he ran forward shaking it and shrieking. The horseman swerved to come on his left side, sword raised to hack down, and Ferox slammed the heavy shield into the side of the horse’s head. The cut came, but it was wild as the animal pulled away, screaming, and the blade bit into the top of the shield. It must have been old, and after the pounding of the training session, the wicker split. Ferox tried to pull the shield back for another swing, but the boss of the bridle ended in a bronze rosette, which had snagged in the shield. He ducked as the sword slashed down again, hands fast on the shield so that he wrenched it down with him. The animal reared again even more wildly and, tightly drawn by the bridle, the rein snapped, so that the rider slammed back against the two horns on the rear of his saddle. Then the beast rolled sideways and the rider was flung free, shield dropping and limbs flailing to land in a clatter of bronze and iron.

‘Hercules’ balls, what’s going on?’ A centurion had run up, a dozen soldiers following more warily. They were Tungrians, rather than Batavians, the tops of their helmets bare bronze rather than decorated with fur.

Ferox pushed himself to his feet, struggling for breath. ‘That man is a deserter and under arrest.’ Rufus, if it was Rufus, lay on his back, absolutely still, and Ferox did not like the angle of his neck and head.

The centurion went over and pulled off the mask from the helmet. ‘Yes, I remember this one. Always trouble.’ He leaned down and listened. ‘Not any more, though. Not ever.’ He straightened back up. ‘You four, strip this man of equipment and put the body out of the way. You…’ he pointed to another ‘…run to our praetorium and say that the deserter Rufus turned up and is now dead. Ask what they want us to do with him now.’ He grinned. ‘No one will shed any tears over that bastard.

‘You all right, Ferox?’

Ferox just nodded.