Vindolanda

XIII

‘THE LEGATE IS delighted, truly delighted.’ Crispinus leaned forward to scratch his horse’s ears. ‘And he is especially pleased with your conduct. Claudius Super assures him that you are one of his best men – at least when you are sober.’

Ferox did not share the tribune’s enthusiasm and made no reply. Twenty-nine Tungrians and fourteen legionaries had died during the retreat from the old fort, and almost as many were badly wounded. The few survivors left on their feet at the end were all grazed or bruised. Ferox’s right shoulder ached and was stiff, but he knew that he had got off lightly. Rufus was dead, his head taken by the enemy, and Titus Annius had been stabbed as he lay on his stretcher and the surgeons held out little hope for him. The four auxiliaries carrying him had all died defending their commander. They and many of the other corpses had been mutilated after they had fallen. Men spoke of warriors tattooed with animals on their foreheads as the most vicious of the enemy, and there had been a lot of them as well as ordinary Selgovae in the group that overran the party carrying the injured.

‘I have spoken to Vindex the Brigantian and he is even more fulsome in his praise.’

Ferox stared at him sceptically.

‘Well, what he actually said was, “He’s a hard, clever bastard, and one you want on your side.” I am pretty sure those were his words, although sometimes his accent baffles me – as does his directness. It’s as if the man has no manners, but perhaps that is just the way among his people.’

The centurion shrugged, but said nothing.

‘He also told me a lot about you. From all that I have heard I do not believe that you are truly the drunken fool described by Claudius Super. You are sober most of the time, but now and again you brood and feel sorry for yourself and drink yourself senseless. Vindex reckons that you are so fond of being miserable because it makes you feel important. I suspect that he is right.’

‘I cannot help what you believe, my lord.’

‘Well, believe this at the very least. This is a victory,’ Crispinus assured him, letting go of the reins and spreading his arms wide. His weight did not shift in the saddle and the horse did not stir and just plodded on. The centurion had to concede that the aristocrat knew how to ride.

‘Some might not call it that,’ Ferox replied.

‘Perhaps.’ Crispinus sniffed his fingers and wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of horse. ‘But the only thing that matters is the report Quadratus is writing, which will say that we won a great victory and punished the tribes for refusing to pay their taxes and daring to oppose the might of Rome.’

Ferox said nothing. If the reinforcements had not arrived when they had, then he doubted that anyone would have survived. Vindex had reached the main force quickly, but had trouble finding a senior officer or anyone who knew where the legate or Crispinus were. In the end he met the junior tribune Flaccus, who told him to wait while he reported to Quadratus. The Brigantian waited a long time, until Crispinus appeared and expressed surprise at his presence. By that time Ferox had started to retreat, and it was only the urgent demands of the tribune that gathered enough men and got them moving in time to save the survivors.

‘I shall take your silence as agreement with my fine argument,’ the tribune said. ‘The story will be told of success and we shall all share in the rewards of victory. I do not think that I am breaking any great confidence if I tell you that your name is on the list of those recommended for dona.’

‘I already have plenty of decorations.’ The day after the fight the two chieftains had sent messengers to say that they were willing to make their peace. There was too little food left for the columns to remain in the field, and on top of that the Legate Quadratus wanted to declare victory in the neat little campaign he had been so keen to fight. In the afternoon he met with Tagax and Venutius. The latter was badly bruised and had a bandage tied around his face, but greeted Ferox with great warmth.

‘We met yesterday as enemies, let us talk now as friends,’ the old horse thief declared. ‘I come now because you fought as a man and I can trust you as one brave warrior to another.’ The chieftain’s voice boomed out as he spoke, and Ferox suspected that the words were intended as much for his own warriors as anyone else. This was a good, honourable way to end the fighting. Both chieftains promised to pay all their taxes within ten days, including an additional levy of grain and cattle demanded as the price for peace, and to give hostages from their families as a pledge of their firm alliance with Rome.

‘Be a lean winter for their people,’ Vindex had muttered when the terms were agreed by both sides.

‘Even tougher for Venutius’ neighbours. That rogue will rob them blind to find the cattle he is supposed to give us. I’ll bet Tagax’s folk will lose more than a few over the next few nights.’

It was over, and Ferox wondered whether Crispinus, let alone the legate, realised that the Selgovae would not feel beaten. They had stood up like men to the great empire and had inflicted some losses and proved their courage. The tribesmen would remember the burning farms, and they would also remember cutting up the Tungrians and legionaries as they retreated and a few other sharp skirmishes where they had taken heads. Their courage was proved by the plain facts that the Romans had withdrawn from their lands, and had had to talk to them to end the fighting. The soldiers of the emperor had gone and they were still the Selgovae, ‘the brave ones’ as they called themselves, warriors to be feared and respected by all their neighbours, including the Romans.

Ferox still felt that the campaign was a foolish waste of everyone’s time and too many lives. He remembered reading that the Emperor Augustus described fighting a needless war as like a man fishing with a golden hook, where no possible gain justified the risk.

‘Our luck held,’ Crispinus said. ‘Only just, but it held. If over a hundred men had been massacred then the story would no doubt have grown with the telling and brought delight to the emperor’s rivals. But that did not happen and Trajan has a victory. Some of you survived, which means that the fallen are heroes who helped us to win.’

Ferox did not bother to comment, but was reassured that the young aristocrat had some sense of the folly of it all. It had been very, very close. Luck mattered, but too many mistakes had been made by the senior officers. Crispinus’ column ought to have moved sooner to drive into the main valley and cut off the Selgovae’s retreat, and Titus Annius ought to have withdrawn much sooner. Flaccus claimed that his orders had allowed the centurion to make his own decision when to pull back to the main force, and blamed him for hesitating. So far Annius was in no state to reply.

Flaccus always seemed to be around when mistakes occurred and the man might be no more than a fool. There were always plenty of them serving in the higher ranks, and most had the knack of being just where they could cause the most harm. Yet the tribune might also be a friend or a relative of someone of greater importance, the sort of man Crispinus claimed wanted the emperor to fail.

‘You should trust me, Flavius Ferox,’ Crispinus said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You really should.’ They were riding ahead of the main column as it marched back south, and far enough ahead of their escort to be able to speak freely.

Ferox hesitated, balancing the risk, and then decided that at most he would be fishing with a brass hook, and Crispinus might just be honest and able to help. If someone did not do something, then there was the risk of war and ruin here in the north and spreading afield. This was his patch, and it was his job to keep the peace. He told the young aristocrat of his suspicions of Flaccus and perhaps others working to start a war and wanting failure and defeat. The tribune listened, occasionally asking questions that were precise and to the point. Ferox talked for a long time, speaking of the priests and the tattooed warriors, many of whom came from far afield and some from inside the empire, and of the great druid who was able to change shape and make Roman fight Roman, and the men murdered at the tower back on the day of the ambush.

‘The tribes always know a lot about us, but lately they know too much,’ he said. ‘It all points to someone helping them, and someone senior enough to know the big things as well as the small.’

Crispinus let out a long breath. ‘That is a lot to think about.’ He stared at the centurion. ‘You do not strike me as the sort of man who starts at shadows. Still, I doubt that Flaccus would be working on his own. He was recommended for his first post by the legate of Syria whose resignation came as such a surprise to us all,’ he added drily.

‘Then why is he still here, and promoted to legionary tribune?’

‘Any senator of importance, let alone a former consul and provincial governor, recommends scores of men every year – hundreds probably. It would be hard to dismiss them all and not worth the effort. Flaccus is not a clever man, or very important – or ever likely to be. He might just be covering up his mistakes, or one of those people convinced that every mistake they make must be bad luck or someone else’s fault.’

‘Typical senior officer.’

Crispinus ignored the sarcasm. ‘Yet I suspect you are right and he is acting deliberately. But what matters is who is giving him his orders. Someone much more imaginative, I suspect. Do you have any suspicions?’

‘Plenty, my lord, but I have learned that it is prudent to treat everyone as a fool or an enemy until their deeds show them to be something else.’

Crispinus grinned. ‘If your friend Vindex were here he would no doubt make some comment about Silures. I do hope that your present company is not included in your suspicions – or have I shown myself to be trustworthy?’

‘Early days, sir, early days. And I have been wondering just what you and the prefect were doing on the day when his wife was ambushed.’

The tribune frowned for a moment, then slapped his thigh and threw back his head to laugh. ‘The truth really does matter to you, doesn’t it? Well, in this case it is mundane. We were hunting, as you well know.’

‘That was a strange place to choose, especially if you were after boar, as you claim.’ Ferox paused before adding, ‘Sir.’

‘You must seek that answer from the Prefect Cerialis. I was merely the guest. As far as I know it was all just coincidence – a fortunate one for you, let alone the Lady Sulpicia.’

‘As you say.’ Ferox did not care for too many coincidences, and at that moment a rider came with orders summoning the tribune to a conference with the legate.

‘I meant what I said about trusting me,’ he said in parting.

‘My lord, I am sure that you did.’ It was far too early for that, but it would be interesting to see what the young aristocract did.

Crispinus sniffed and kicked his heels to put his horse into a canter.

That was the last day of good weather, and from then on driving winds brought in rainstorm after rainstorm. The track was churned into mud by marching boots and the ruts left by carts, and the better road connecting the forts was not much better. It took a week to return to Luguvallium, and then a long day for the Batavians and Tungrians to reach Vindolanda. Titus Annius clung to life, and Ferox could only imagine the agonies the man must have endured in the back of a lurching army wagon.

‘He’s a tough one,’ Vindex said, when he went with Ferox to pay their respects. The centurion seemed to recognise them, and gave a weak smile. His face was pale, tinged with yellow, and there was a bandage strapped over his ruined eye. The medicus told them that most of the time he was unconscious, taking only a little thin broth prepared under the orders of the seplasiarius.

The centurion was in a fever when they reached Vindolanda, babbling nonsense and now and again shouting commands or giving orders to an imagined parade. They kept him in his house rather than the hospital, and off-duty soldiers clustered around the side entrance hoping to hear news of their commander for he was well respected by all and liked by most. Perhaps the realisation that he was in his home helped for he revived a little, enough to eat several meals. For a while his doctor dared to hope.

Crispinus brought the news, stopping at Syracuse accompanied by a patrol of twenty cavalrymen from II Augusta, meant to exercise the horses and keep the men in trim more than to gain useful information. It was strange to find so senior an officer joining so small and routine an activity, and Ferox could tell that it made the decurion in charge very nervous. The tribune did not appear to care.

‘I ought to learn as much as I can about how the army does things,’ he said. ‘And I cannot do that sitting in the principia reading endless lists and reports.’

‘Endless lists and reports are what the army does best,’ Ferox told him.

‘Why Syracuse?’ The tribune swept an arm to encompass the little courtyard of the wooden outpost. ‘I cannot say that I see a resemblance.’ His horse was drinking from the trough, while the tribune was drinking posca from a dark, locally made cup. He grimaced at the taste, but drained it and held his cup out for more. Philo, immaculate as ever, took great pleasure in tending to such an important visitor.

‘Why not Syracuse?’ Ferox replied mildly.

Crispinus shook his head, but let the matter drop. ‘We were told that some deserters had been seen in the area. It would be good to find that Briton – the one from the tower.’

‘As long as he is in a state to talk.’

‘Have you heard anything in the last few days?’ The tribune lowered his voice.

‘Not much,’ Ferox said. ‘Venutius’ men are lifting herds from far and wide, so we should get paid in full. Apart from that people are talking more about the Stallion and his great power. It seems he was up a mountain in a trance receiving messages from the gods while the fighting was going on.’

‘He must have been so disappointed when he heard.’

‘Gutted, I’m sure. But they are saying that one of his foals went in his place, so that must be the one in the headdress, the one I killed. But people aren’t telling it that way. They are saying that he died along with all his band after falling on the Romans at night and slaying ten times their number. He is supposed to have broken his sword from hewing through Roman necks. The last he killed was the Roman commander. With his sword gone, the pupil of the great priest rent the Roman apart with his bare hands.’

Crispinus looked down at himself and then used his free hand to pat his other arm and his chest. ‘Seems to have worn off. So this was the fellow skulking in the darkness who had the misfortune to run into you?’

‘The same, but people will believe anything else quicker than the truth.’ When Crispinus raised an eyebrow, Ferox explained. ‘That is a saying of my people.’

‘Of the Silures, you mean – you are a Roman after all.’

Ferox let that pass. ‘It’s taken a while to learn, and come in whispers and hints, but it seems that the Great Stallion has six foals – well, five now: followers who learn from him and are mighty in their own right.’

‘Do the people you meet like him and his men?’

The centurion had forgotten for a moment that the tribune knew so little of these lands and the folk who lived there. ‘That does not matter – they fear them. Men who can work magic and have one foot in the Otherworld are dangerous. As long as they have power then people will do what they want whether they want to or not. We need to do something about them.’

‘You are probably right, and I will see what I can do. For the moment keep your eyes and ears open.’ Crispinus tossed the cup to Philo, who fumbled, but managed to catch it before it dropped. ‘Nearly caught you there!’ the aristocrat told the slave. ‘Time to go. I think it might be a good idea if you went to Vindolanda. If he is well enough, ask Titus Annius about the orders given to him by Flaccus. We won’t be able to prove anything, but it gives us more to go on.’

The tribune leaped into the saddle and clicked with his tongue to make the horse walk on. He had almost reached the gate when he turned and came back. He snapped his fingers and then pointed at the centurion.

‘Augustus,’ he said. ‘I am right, aren’t I? The divine Augustus used to go to a special room in the palace when he wanted peace and quiet and to get away from it all. He called it Syracuse, and I dare say you would struggle to find anywhere better than this for getting away from it all.’ His horse tried to pull towards the water in the trough, but the tribune held the rein firmly.

Ferox nodded. ‘You are a learned man, my lord.’

‘And you are full of surprises. Farewell for the moment, Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’

The wind picked up overnight, coming from the east with the bitter hint of the coming winter. It ripped half a dozen tiles from the roof of the gate-tower, and a few more from the buildings inside the fort.

Ferox rode to Vindolanda the next morning, swathed up to stay warm and dry in the saddle as best he could, but it was not long before his face felt numb from the battering of the wind. He passed a young birch tree snapped almost in half and an older tree pulled from the ground by its roots. When he reached the fort he was not surprised to learn that Titus Annius had died. This was the sort of day a good man’s soul would leave its body. The centurion had seemed to be at peace, but then had cried out during the night and when the slaves ran to his room they found that he was dead. Ferox thought it odd that no slave was with him all the time, although the centurion was well known for his frugal lifestyle and for his fixed ideas of how things should be done.

His will was a case in point. He had no wife or children, and no other family members to whom he wished to bequeath his estate. No one at Vindolanda knew much about Titus Annius’ background. Every detail of his funeral was set down. The centurion wanted no hired mourners and only the simplest procession to a spot near the road outside the porta praetoria, the main gates of the fort. ‘Let whoever come who chooses, and let a dozen of my boys see me off. Burn me, drink to cohors I Tungrorum and to the emperor, and tell my lads that I’ll be watching them and they had better never disgrace me by their turnout or conduct or I’ll come back and haunt them.’

A copy of the will was posted up outside the small praetorium where he had lived – a far more modest building that the one housing Cerialis. All day there were Tungrians gathered around it, half weeping and half laughing, those who were able reading the words out to the others. Titus Annius’ estate was considerable, and he left most of it as a fund to give a year’s pay to each widow or child left behind when one of his auxiliaries died going about his duty or from sickness. The recent losses meant that there would soon be plenty of calls on the legacy. One thousand denarii were set aside by special arrangement with Flora, who for the three days after the centurion’s death was to welcome without charge any Tungrian who knocked on her door. ‘Give the lads whatever they want. I want to hear humping as I make my way to the Elysian Fields.’

As Ferox watched the wrapped corpse burn, he wondered whether Titus Annius had got his wish. Cerialis was there, as was Crispinus, Aelius Brocchus, and Rufinus, the prefect of the Spaniards. The twelve picked Tungrians sparkled even on this drab, rainy morning, with every piece of metalwork polished like a mirror. Two of the men wore bandages from wounds taken on the day the centurion fell, and one of them limped as he carried the couch on which the body was laid. Around them, forty or fifty more men from the cohort watched. No one gave orders, but they stood in ranks and files, and all had found a reason to appear in their best uniforms. Quite a few Batavians had come as well, and there were civilians from the canabae. The centurion had said that no women were to attend, and this was obeyed, although several cloaked and hooded figures watched from a distance.

No one cried openly, for that was another rule, but plenty of eyes were moist, not least because a fitful wind stirred the smoke and blew it around. The Tungrians had done their job well, though, and Ferox could feel the heat from twenty paces away, even though the only wood available was damp, so that its smoke was thick and black. Now and again the wind carried the smell of burning flesh, the scent lingering even after the skin and fat must have burned away. It was the smell of death, and he had never cared for the Roman custom of watching a man being cremated. The smoke reminded him of the burning thatch in the old fort and not for the first time he wondered whether or not he had done the right thing in ordering the retreat. Had he killed Annius and all those men or saved the survivors from being surrounded and slaughtered inside the ramparts? Instinct and reason told him that they had had to leave, and that the supports should have come much sooner. He wondered about Flaccus – and about the plausible Crispinus, standing just a few feet away in a black cloak.

With a great flare of sparks, the piled wood collapsed, letting the remnants of the body fall, and soon the remains of Titus Annius, centurion of Legio XX Valeria Victrix and lately commander of cohors I Tungrorum, would mingle with the rest of the ash. When it cooled they would gather some of the ash in an urn and bury it, letting the rest blow on the four winds. The tombstone was already being carved and would be erected in nine days’ time.

It was almost time for the funeral banquet, although thankfully Titus Annius’ will had stated that he wanted this to be simple, a soldier’s meal and not some great feast. They had brown bread and a stew made with salted bacon and hard tack biscuit, all to be washed down with posca, and not just his own men, but any soldier who passed was welcome to join. It ought not to take long, once a libation had been poured, and Ferox was glad. He had never understood the way the Romans would laugh and joke so soon after burning the remains of a friend. Titus Annius had gone on his own journey to the Otherworld or wherever it was that Romans went. Did the man truly believe in the Elysian Fields? Ferox met so many Romans who did not seem to believe in the soul and thought the whole essence of a man ended with death, or slowly faded away into nothingness.

The sun came out as they were eating and drinking, and this seemed to make the mourners merry. Ferox stayed as long as courtesy and respect to the departed required, but let himself gradually drift away to the edge of the crowd. No one noticed as he strode away up the slope to the parade ground. He wanted open space and quiet, and the prospect to the west was a good one.

There were a few cavalrymen exercising horses at the far end, beyond the rostra from which the officer commanding could address a parade. Otherwise it was empty, and he went to the far side and looked to the west. The clouds had closed in again and he looked in vain for a break in the hope of glimpsing the setting sun. He was surprised at how moved he was by the centurion’s death, for he had not known the man at all well.

After a while he heard voices behind him, but the wind was strong, driving into him, and he could not pick out any words. He pulled his cloak tighter and did not turn, making it clear that he was not looking for company. There were steps in the grass and the sound of horses, but he ignored them.

‘I like this view.’ Sulpicia Lepidina stood beside him. ‘It seems to stretch on and on, the hills rolling into the distance.’

‘My lady.’ He took off his helmet as he faced her, and the wind ruffled his dark hair. ‘I am sorry, I did not know that it was you.’

There were a couple of male slaves with her, as well as her maid, the girl looking cold and miserable in spite of a heavy tartan cloak. There was also Longinus, the one-eyed veteran, and another soldier leading a couple of horses. On one sat a boy, his hair flame red and his face so like Cerialis’ that it was obviously his son. Ferox guessed that he was about six, but tall for his age. The boy sat awkwardly, hunched forward and legs dangling low, shifting back and forth. Then he remembered that the lad had been born with a crooked back, the deformity slight, but obvious as soon as he remembered.

‘His father insists that Flavius rides every day. I do wonder whether he is still a bit young, but the prefect insists that if he learns now he will sit more naturally.’

‘The Lord Cerialis is right,’ Ferox said. ‘I was younger than he is when my grandfather first sat me on a pony. I confess that I was terrified.’

She smiled, the warm smile that lit up her face, even when the wind blew hard and her skin was cold and pale. ‘I find it hard to imagine anything terrifying you, centurion. Your grandfather sounds quite a character. Tell me about him?’

Ferox was surprised at how readily he answered, talking about the Lord of the Hills and his own youth among his people. She listened, asking question after question with no hint of disdain at any of his answers, and when she mocked it was gentle. In the meantime the cavalrymen began to take the boy through some basic riding exercises.

‘None of my family have served in Britannia,’ she said after a while. ‘Indeed I am the first to invade!’

‘And the only one we could never resist, lady.’

The boy was cantering in a circle, and in spite of his back he was shaping up well, better balanced now if still ungainly to the eye.

‘I do not understand why,’ she said, ‘but he wears out shoes faster than any child I have ever known.’ Her tone was fond. ‘His father drives him, wanting him to grow up as a true aristocrat, and the boy is eager to please. Sometimes I wish—’ She stopped, and turned back to look over the hills.

‘Do you like Vindolanda?’ he asked, as much for something to say because she seemed uncomfortable. Then he realised that he had forgotten to address her properly. ‘I do not mean to pry, my lady. Please forgive me.’

She looked up at him, wisps of her golden hair blowing loose across her face. ‘Forgive you?’ She smiled, trying to push the strands out of her eyes and failing. She had on the same drab cloak she had worn to visit the temple. Her eyes looked very blue as she stared at him in silence for what seemed like an age.

‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘there are many ways of answering that. The house is adequate, the household learning my ways – those who did not come with us in the first place. Claudia Severa is a dear thing, her husband a decent man, and there are others whose society is not unpleasant. It is something of a bore to have everyone looking up to me, but I do not suppose there is another woman of my rank closer than Eboracum. Would it shock you to hear that I do not miss the company of my own class?’

Ferox was not sure how to respond. He wondered whether there was opportunity for a compliment, but could not think of one.

‘I do not believe that anything you could say would shock me, my lady,’ he said in the end, feeling that honesty was the simplest response.

‘Really. Then it seems I have grown dull in a very short time.’

‘M-my lady,’ he stammered. ‘I did not mean… That is I did not imply…’

‘For such a bold warrior you tease very easily!’ Sulpicia Lepidina laughed softly. They were standing close together, and after a glance to see that the troopers and her stepson were some way away, she took his hand. ‘This time you must forgive me for being cruel. You are a soldier under discipline, and not free to act or say what you wish to me.’

‘Duty and discipline, my lady.’ He thought that he ought to pull his hand free, but did not and instead pressed hers. ‘There is little left for me in this life.’

‘The soldier’s life,’ she said sadly. ‘That of the noblewoman is not so different. We marry as we have to, live as we have to, and try to avoid disgrace. Duty and discipline in another guise, its hold on us just as tight.’ The lady slid her hand away back under the cover of her cloak.

She turned away, looking out across the hills. ‘I like it here. Duty commands me to come and assist my husband. Discipline makes me run the house well and try my best to raise his children – our children, I should say. I serve my husband and my own family as best I can. It is not perhaps what I expected. Children have such dreams. When your grandfather put you on that pony did you ever think that your path would lead you here?’

‘No. It is hard to remember what I expected from life, but this was not it.’

‘Loss is a terrible thing, and yet the gods seem to have placed it at the heart of our lives. Little turns out as you expect. Loss of dreams and loss of hope are almost as sad as the loss of people. I liked Titus Annius, even if I do not think he had much time for me or even for my husband.’

‘He was a good man,’ Ferox said, and hoped that did not imply an insult to her or the prefect.

‘Duty and discipline.’ She looked up at him again. ‘It is not all bad. At least it has brought me to places that I might only have read about. Life at home can be very dull. To return to the question you have no doubt forgotten. Yes, I like Vindolanda. I like it because it is near the edge of the world. That does not release me from duty and discipline, but at least now and then I can glimpse freedom.

‘I had better go. Flavius tries very hard and I do not believe his father gives him sufficient praise, so I try to make up for that.’

Sulpicia Lepidina walked away, and Ferox forced himself to stare at the hills and not watch her go.