Vindolanda

VIII

THE ARMY’S DAY began at Vindolanda much as it did at Syracuse or Eboracum or anywhere else, and this morning Ferox was glad of such familiar routine after the strangeness of the night before. Dawn found him in the principia of the fort, standing with the row of officers from cohors VIIII Batavorum milliaria equitata in front of the aedes, where the standards stood securely in the slots made for them in the plank floor. There were ten signa, one for each of the centuries composing the infantry of the cohort, each with a number of large silvered discs mounted on the pole, topped by a wreathed ornamental spearhead. The eight turmae of cavalry had their own smaller standards, with a single symbol and cross bar trailing weighted ribbons beneath the elaborate heads. Almost half of the cohort was currently absent on detached service, but the most important standards all remained here unless the unit as a whole marched out. Any big detachment carried a vexillum, a square red flag hanging from a crossbar on an otherwise plain pole, the banner bearing the name of the cohort in gold lettering. Empty slots in the floor alongside the single flag suggested that two important vexillations were away. In the centre of the mass of decorated poles was the imago of Trajan. In spite of yesterday’s wet parade, even the tiniest metal fitting on each standard gleamed, while the shafts were freshly oiled and polished. Ferox had heard some men say that soldiers worshipped their standards. That was a lie, but in any half-decent unit they worshipped the idea that the standards represented.

Flavius Cerialis was in armour this morning, even though he sat on a stool behind a desk, reviewing a succession of wax writing tablets presented to him by his personal clerk, the cornicularius of the prefect. They listed the current strength of the cohort, recent acquisitions and losses, and detailed every individual and group away from the base. Ferox wondered whether at this very moment the legate of II Augusta – or whichever senior officer was present – was glancing down a list without paying much attention to the entry stating that one centurion was absent serving as regionarius. The legion had its main depot at Isca Silurum, there on the riverbank in his homeland. He wondered whether he would ever see the legion or his own people again. It was doubtful either would welcome him with open arms.

Hobnailed boots stamped on wooden floorboards as the optio of the day marched across the room, halting with a final shattering crash in front of the prefect and saluting.

‘Good morning, sir!’ The greeting was more like a battle cry and echoed around the high hall. An optio was second-in-command to a centurion, responsible for much day-to-day administration of the century and commanding in the officer’s absence. This one was short by Batavian standards, but immaculately turned out. He had the accent of his people, as well as the typical yellow moustache and beard glimpsed between the broad bronze cheek pieces of his helmet. On either side of the fur-covered top of the helmet was a tall feather dyed yellow and standing straight up to mark his rank. His scale armour shone, as did the fittings on his belt and scabbard, and the ornate top of the staff of office in his left hand.

‘Good morning, Arcuttius,’ Cerialis replied, his voice clear and quiet. The prefect’s iron helmet with its high plume and enamel decoration was on the desk beside him. The other officers, four centurions and five decurions present at the base, stood in a row, in armour, carrying their helmets in the crook of their left arms. That was the tradition for the Batavians, and Ferox had got Philo to find out so that he was properly attired. The Alexandrian enjoyed such details, and revelled in preparing his master for yet another formal occasion. He was also very happy, filled to the brim with gossip picked up from the other slaves and servants at the prefect’s house.

‘Thank you, sir!’ The optio bellowed the words, lowering his arm from the salute. He reached into a pouch at his belt and produced one of the thin wooden tablets used for routine documents. ‘Seventh day after the Ides of September. Report of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians. All who should be are at duty stations, as is the baggage. The optiones and curatores made the report. Arcuttius, optio of the century of Crescens, delivered it.’ The optio recited from memory – apart from the names and dates it was the same thing said every morning.

‘Thank you, Arcuttius.’ Cerialis stood. ‘The watchword for today is “Fortuna”. Pay parade at the second hour.’

‘Sir!’ The optio saluted again, turned about and marched noisily away. Ferox wondered whether the password was just coincidence, or a little joke of the prefect. Philo swore that the kitchen staff and other slaves in the praetorium had told him that their master and mistress had not shared the same bed since they arrived at Vindolanda six weeks ago, and rarely before that. It was not that the master lacked interest. He covered many of the slave girls at every opportunity and had visited Flora’s establishment. He just did not seem that interested in his wife, which the servants found odd for they liked her and anyone could see that she was beautiful, if a little old at twenty-seven.

‘They think he does not want the expense of more children,’ Philo said with great assurance. ‘He is a gifted man, and going places.’

The boy’s tone reflected the obvious pride shared by Cerialis’ household in their young master. Ferox certainly did not doubt the man’s ambition. Marriage into a senatorial family, let alone such a well-established one, was rare for any equestrian, and surely unprecedented for a Batavian aristocrat, son of the first in his family to become a Roman citizen. There was no sign now that it was so unlikely a thing as a love match, which meant that something had persuaded a former consul to give his daughter in marriage to an upstart from the Rhineland.

Cerialis obviously planned to ‘go places’ and was working hard to that end, cultivating the acquaintance of Crispinus, the other equestrians, and even the imperial freedman. Former slaves of the emperor sometimes climbed very high indeed, reaching the top of the imperial administration and having an influence behind the scenes greater than many a senator. The days of the Emperor Claudius were gone, and Domitian, of damned memory but prudent rule, had replaced some of the freedmen in his staff with equestrians. Even so, there was no knowing how important Vegetus might one day become, for all his humble start in life. Ferox had asked his boy about the freedman and his wife.

‘The Lord Vegetus and his lady’ – Philo was grudging in his use of both titles – ‘stayed at the praetorium rather than returning to the mansio.’ There was a way-station for those travelling on official business in the canabae. ‘They did not receive the best of the guest rooms, but were comfortably accommodated in separate rooms. The Lord Vegetus was feeling ill,’ the Alexandrian added with a knowing look, ‘and sleeps soundly and snores loudly, they say.’

The morning reports complete, Flavius Cerialis picked up his helmet and led the assembled officers out. He was in a bright mood, and perhaps the man was revelling in his good fortune after an energetic night. Slaves knew a lot about their owners – more than the latter cared to admit – but they were inclined to embellish and invent like anyone else.

In the central courtyard of the headquarters building they saw a travel-stained cavalryman walking towards them. He had an oval red shield with the Capricorn symbol of II Augusta, which meant that he was one of the small contingent of horsemen in that legion to serve as escorts to senior officers or as messengers. In his right hand he held a spear with a feather tied just below the head, which showed that he was the latter. Tradition older than anyone could remember and certainly older than they could explain made this the mark of a despatch rider, although it was something of an affectation to carry the symbol when not on the battlefield or at least campaign. The cornicularius took a wooden tablet from the man. It was tied up and sealed.

‘Ah, it looks as if everything is starting sooner than expected,’ Cerialis said, taking it from his cornicularius before the man had a chance to break the seal. Ferox must have missed something, for he had not heard that any major operation was planned. ‘It is probably for the best. I leave you to your duties, fellow soldiers. My dear Ferox, if you would be good enough to come with me?’

A little later they were in one of the side rooms off the courtyard. Crispinus, Brocchus and Claudius Super were there, as was a tired-looking officer with the narrow dark red band of a tribunus angusticlavius, one of the five junior equestrian tribunes in a legion, and another officer who, from his uniform, looked like an equestrian too. There was also a leathery-faced centurion, whom he recognised as Titus Annius, the acting commander of cohors I Tungrorum.

Introductions were soon made and kept brief. The junior tribune was one Julius Flaccus from VIIII Hispana, who had accompanied the despatch rider, and the other man was Rufinus, commander of the auxiliary cohort stationed at Magna to the west, a unit of Vardulli from Spain. Crispinus was senior to the others in status and rank, if not years or experience, but let Cerialis begin the conference by summarising all that was known of the raid earlier in the month and the murder of the soldiers at the tower. It was certain that the missing soldier was the Briton.

‘May I ask from what tribe, my lord?’ Ferox asked.

‘What does it matter? They’re all the same,’ Claudius Super muttered. Ferox suspected that the man had a bad hangover and enjoyed his obvious discomfort.

Cerialis nodded to his cornicularius who fished out a wax tablet from the file. ‘Trinovantes from down south, although enlisted with the Tungrians.’

‘Good record up to now,’ Annius told them, ‘seven years’ service.’ He paused to stare at each of them. ‘I should like to state on record that the man has disappeared and there is no direct evidence of complicity in the attack. It is perfectly possible that he was taken as a prisoner, poor devil.’ Annius was junior to all the equestrians, but he spoke with force and his pride in his own soldiers was obvious.

‘You cannot trust Britons,’ Claudius Super told them, unimpressed by this display of loyalty. ‘Lies and treachery come too naturally to them.’ Ferox ignored the insult, suspecting that the man had forgotten he was there, but worried that the sentiment was a common one. When he had returned to his quarters after the dinner last night he had found a bruised and battered Vindex.

‘Some of the Batavian lads held Britons responsible for the men killed at the tower and in the ambush,’ he explained. ‘I told them that I was Carvetii and a Brigantian, not a Briton, but that didn’t seem to matter. They wanted to show their annoyance and I was there, drinking quietly and talking to a few of their women. All harmless,’ he assured Ferox. ‘Just being friendly, but then it turned nasty, and might have got a lot nastier if that one-eyed old bugger hadn’t turned up and knocked a few of them down. He stopped it all, told ’em I had saved their lady and then they all bought me drinks. They’re mad, the lot of them.’

‘Trinovantes, though,’ Rufinus said as if thinking aloud, and Ferox’s mind returned to the present. The prefect had dark skin and curly black hair, the accent of Africa Proconsularis and an air of competence. ‘That lot were out with Boudicca.’

Cerialis did not sound convinced. ‘That is ancient history, surely. All forgotten after nearly forty years.’

‘People remember, especially down south,’ Rufinus assured them. ‘My father was in the province then and saw what those bastards did. Women impaled, mutilated.’ The Trinovantes had joined the Iceni and other rebels, sacking three cities and massacring everyone they caught, whether Roman or just from another tribe.

‘Well, a one-man rebellion by a soldier sounds unlikely,’ Cerialis concluded. ‘We must hope to find him or at least discover what happened. However, there are concerning signs of priests and magicians stirring up the tribes here in the north.’

Ferox explained what he had seen and heard, speaking of the shadowy figure of the druid, and his guess that the priest known as the Stallion had led the ambush. He did his best to make them understand the difference between the two holy men, and how the tribes feared men of power and magic even if they did not like them. Claudius Super kept interrupting, scoffing at his fears, and Ferox suspected that even the more sympathetic ones in the room did not understand. He pressed on, but kept back his suspicion of treachery in high places. If for the moment they wanted to believe that it was the raiders who had wiped out the men at the tower then let them. He had one surprise, and waited until the end in the hope of shocking them and at least making them cautious. ‘The ambush of the Lady Sulpicia Lepidina was no accident, but part of a deliberate plan, of that I am sure.’

Claudius Super made a scoffing sound and several of the others looked doubtful. These were wild barbarians on the prowl for prey, any prey, not some organised army capable of planning.

‘I have no doubt at all,’ Ferox went on. ‘The captive taken by the Brigantes told them that they wanted to take the noble lady alive, lead her back north and burn her in the fire.’

The room went so quiet that Ferox could hear the sound of the lesson going on in the next room, even though there was no adjoining door. A group of soldiers were being taught to read and write, and were reciting lines of the Aeneid with the foot-dragging, lifeless tones of schoolboys. Flavius Cerialis had gone pale. The rest, even the senior regionarius, gaped in sheer horror.

‘Bastards,’ muttered Annius.

‘Animals,’ Rufinus said. ‘Just animals.’

Cerialis recovered quickly. ‘Well, that merely reinforces my gratitude for the centurion’s arrival at the vital moment. I shall make another offering to thank the gods that my wife is safe. But all this talk of druids, magicians and kings in the far north must be left for another time, as we have more urgent matters and new orders.’

Crispinus took over, telling them that the provincial legate was on his way to govern the province, but that he might not arrive until the winter was well under way. In the meantime the governor had sent word authorising the acting governor, the Legate Julius Quadratus, commander of II Augusta, to carry out active operations here in the north before the weather rendered them too difficult. Quadratus was at Luguvallium, ready to take the field in person with a column drawn from the forces concentrated there over the summer, including detachments from his own and other legions as well as auxiliaries. They would advance along the Western Road as far as it took them. A second column was to advance from Coria along the Eastern Road.

‘We shall form a third, smaller column, staying between the two to ensure that they can communicate, and acting boldly on our own if the opportunity permits. I shall command this force – although I shall of course readily take advice from more experienced men. There is no need to remind you that the emperor will look with great kindness and generosity on those who serve him well in the field, and that a victory, even a small one, will resound to our credit.’

They took that in, all looking eager. There had been few chances for senior officers to make names for themselves in Britannia in the last few years. Yet Ferox was puzzled that no one had asked the obvious question.

‘Where are we going, sir?’

Crispinus smiled. ‘Of course, I am remiss. Several chieftains of the Selgovae need to be reminded of the power of Rome. Claudius Super can give more details.’

The senior centurio regionarius battled with his headache to explain the situation. He mentioned several leaders and clans who had failed to deliver the cattle and grain due to the empire. Ferox got the impression that Claudius Super was one of the main advocates of an aggressive response.

‘Give them time,’ Ferox argued. ‘I am sure that they will pay eventually.’ None of the leaders mentioned struck him as especially militant. ‘If we get it by the end of this month then that will be soon enough.’

‘They are late.’ Claudius Super implied that this alone demanded retribution.

‘It gives us a pretext at least for a display of power,’ Crispinus told them. ‘And it may well be that no harm is meant and they will deliver what is owed to us without the need for any unpleasantness. If so then all to the good. The campaign is intended to be short and to show that we will strike hard if we are provoked in any way. Now, let us attend to the details.’

Ferox said little as they planned. The contingents to form the column were agreed upon, equipment, baggage and supplies stipulated, all to be ready to leave in three days’ time. Arrangements were as thorough as was possible in the time, reminding him of something once told to him by a veteran centurion in Legio V Alaudae, one of those rare old sweats who had risen from the ranks through sheer talent. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s a good idea,’ the man had said. ‘Our job is to make sure that it’s done well.’ Ferox doubted the wisdom of this plan, but when he tried to speak Claudius Super ordered him to be silent. There was an awkward pause, and Crispinus looked intently at him for a while, but was not moved to speak. Claudius Super was senior to Ferox and supposed to know more than the men who reported to him.

Yet when the meeting ended and they began to disperse Crispinus tugged at Ferox’s arm. ‘I shall want you by my side,’ the young aristocrat told him. ‘And your Brigantian scouts will be invaluable, of course.’