Vindolanda

XVIII

‘YOU ARE LATE,’ said the high king, one leg hooked casually over the arm of his chair. There was no emotion in his voice, and only the slightest hint of reproof as he waited a moment before adding, ‘But you are welcome as always. Sit, eat and drink with us.’

The priest did not bow or say anything in reply. He looked around at the faces behind the table until he fixed on the Romans. For a long time he stared at them. Ferox stared back, and hoped that neither of the others would do anything foolish. The priest rubbed his hands together and then spat on the floor and at last turned away and went to his place at the table.

Ferox heard Crispinus breathe out. ‘Are we in danger?’

‘We have been from the start,’ he whispered back. ‘But we are guests of the high king and this is his hall. We should be safe here.’

The bard resumed his song, but the mood had shifted and become uneasy. It took a while for talk to grow again. Most of the guests drank heavily, saying little, and for a while there were no more arguments.

‘I do not like that priest,’ the German growled. ‘He is…’ He struggled to find the right word and said something in his own language first. ‘He is a bad man. He likes to kill.’

Ferox thought back to the beheadings earlier in the day, and the calm skill with which this big man had performed them. ‘Sometimes it is necessary. We are warriors.’

‘To kill enemy, yes. To kill when our lord tells us to kill his enemy, yes. To kill for pleasure, no.’ The big man grinned at him, his beard still stained with food. ‘If your friends had not come, I kill you that day.’

‘Yes.’ Ferox did not see any point pretending otherwise.

‘Now we are friends, until the king say different.’ It sounded as if this was the most he had said all year. ‘You are brave and know how to fight. Share a drink.’ He offered his cup. Ferox took it, drank what he guessed to be half and handed it back.

‘I like you,’ the German rumbled and clapped the centurion hard on the shoulder, the friendly blow feeling as if it would drive him a foot into the floor.

‘I like you,’ Ferox replied, a little surprised to find that he meant it.

The German bellowed for more drink.

It was always hard to judge time at a feast like this. The beer and wine kept coming, as did the food. Crispinus was struggling, but Ferox admired the way the man persisted and could not help being impressed by his capacity for drink. Vindex was already slumped forward on the table, head on his folded arms and snoring away in satisfied contentment. The Brigantian was not a great drinker, but neither was he the only one, and a good quarter of the chiefs had also fallen either forward or back and no longer moved.

The German showed no signs of diminished hunger or thirst, and probably always spoke and thought slowly. Opposite them the priest drank little and spent most of his time watching them, his spiked hair and the harsh shadows of the fire making him seem like a creature from the Otherworld. The bard still sang, but now he told old tales of love and hate, of raids and battles, and most people were too drunk or too concerned with their own talk to pay much heed.

Ferox happened to glance at the high king just as Tincommius gave orders to some of his servants. They returned bearing a roast boar and carried it into the circle of tables before laying it in front of the royal chair. Silence returned, broken only by the crackling of fresh logs put on to the fire.

‘Who is worthy of the first cut?’ Tincommius did not raise his voice or shout and yet it carried along the tables.

The Hibernian who had flung his opponent into the fire was the first to stand. His neighbour and fellow countryman joined him a moment later. Three others got to their feet. Tincommius pointed to the first Hibernian and one of the others and the pair sprang across the table into the open space by the fire. Servants hastily moved out of the way to clear space for them.

‘Are they going to fight?’ Crispinus was frowning and his speech was a little slurred.

‘Yes. For the right to receive the first portion – the champion’s portion.’

The chiefs drew their swords and waited while their attendants walked around to the gap between the tables and came to them, handing over their shields. They bowed and left the circle to the challengers.

‘Sweet Mother Isis,’ the tribune muttered. ‘It’s like something out of Homer. Is the fight to the death?’

‘Sometimes.’

The two men launched themselves at each other and there was the dull beat of blade on wooden shield. The Hibernian was good and fast, hacking his opponent’s shield to pieces in spite of his wounded leg.

‘Enough!’ Once again the high king did not shout, but the two men at once drew apart. Tincommius pointed at the Hibernian to show that he was the victor. The other chieftain bowed to him and to the king as the other guests roared approval and banged the table with the palms of their hands.

The other Hibernian took on one of the local men, a gaunt redhead, and the Hibernian lost, his right cheek gashed open so that it flapped, and blood mingled with spittle sprayed out whenever he tried to speak. Next the victorious redhead fought the last remaining challenger and this turned into a bitter and prolonged struggle. Each man’s shield was hacked to pieces, and soon they were landing blows on each other’s arms, heads and shoulders. Ferox wondered whether an old grudge was being settled for the king let the fight go on longer than he expected and the two fighters were gasping for breath as they slashed and cut. The priest showed little interest, and when Ferox managed to tear his eyes away from the struggle he noticed that the bard was beside the Stallion and that the two men were deep in conversation.

Crispinus started to gag, and then threw up noisily and messily on to the table. As Ferox turned to see how he was, there was a great shout and a harsh rattle as the redhead opened the other’s man’s chest with a terrific slash that cut through mail, flesh and bone.

‘I’m fine,’ the tribune said, and he smiled weakly.

The redhead ought to have been tired, for he had just fought two combats and the last had been arduous. Yet when the victorious Hibernian faced him there no sign of fatigue. The man was fast and strong and if anything his opponent seemed the tired one. Ferox had seen it before and sometimes felt it – that strange mood of battle when a man became one with his sword, when he knew that he could do anything, defeat anyone and those around him were slow and weak. Perhaps this was what the bards sang about when they told the tales of great heroes, of men who no longer knew fear or doubt and wanted only to kill, so that they did not feel the wounds dealt to them. If the redhead lived he would collapse once it was over, as the love of battle left him.

Not bothering to call for another shield, he wielded his sword two-handed. That was awkward, but gave dreadful power to the blows. He cleft the Hibernian’s shield in two, breaking the man’s arm, and did not seem to notice the wild slice that cut off a piece of his scalp and took the top off his ear.

‘Enough!’ This time the high king shouted, sensing that the red-headed warrior was so lost in fury that he would not hear. ‘Enough!’

The Hibernian gave ground as the man came at him, blood pouring down the side of his face. He swung again, sweeping the long sword down, and the Hibernian jumped back only just in time.

‘Enough!’

Ferox pushed himself up and leaped over the table, spilling a flagon of beer and sending a plate clattering away. The Hibernian dodged another blow, but lost his balance and fell, managing to roll away from the fire, but losing his sword in the process. The redhead raised his sword above his head.

‘Stop him!’ Tincommius shouted, and Ferox did not know whether the high king meant him or the frenzied warrior. He ran at the man, crouching low, as the redhead turned and snarled at him, spraying drops of blood from the side of his head. The warrior checked his blow, and slashed one-handed at the centurion.

Ferox dived, arms outstretched. He felt the sword strike his back, but the angle was poor and he was moving fast so that the blade did not cut into his mail. He locked his hands around the man’s knees, hitting him with all his weight, and the warrior buckled and fell. Ferox felt the fierce heat of the fire as they landed with the man’s head and shoulders in the flames. His hair flared and burned and the man started to scream. The centurion rolled back, pulling at the man with all his might, and then someone was beside him and rolled the redhead in a cloak. It was the big German.

‘This is an outrage!’ The voice was shrill, almost as high as a woman’s, as the Stallion stood and screamed at them. ‘See how the Romans mock our customs! How they humiliate us in the king’s own hall! They are filth and must be swept from the land.’

Ferox pushed himself up. The priest was not looking at him, but sweeping his gaze around the chieftains. He was wilder than the warrior at the height of his battle madness, yet cold, almost lifeless, and whether or not it was an act Ferox could understand men believing that the man was no more than a mouthpiece for a god.

Tincommius said nothing, but the big German patted the centurion on the shoulder and grinned. The gesture outraged the Stallion.

‘They are not of us!’ The priest shrieked. ‘Neither of them. The one has forgotten and the other was not born in these isles blessed by the love of the gods. They pollute us by their presence, but soon it will be gone.’ He jumped up on to the table, and Ferox could see that he was not as tall as he had thought.

‘Rome is weak!’ he yelled. ‘Every day it withers and if we strike hard enough it will die. They fled from these lands, and they will flee from the rest if we have the courage to defy them. Now is the time, for if we let them they will grow again like weeds in a field and choke us once again. Kill them! Kill them all! Kill them now!’

A few of the chieftains cheered, but only a few and Ferox wondered whether they shouted just because they were drunk and would cheer anything. The rest said little, but their faces were scared. There was a force in the priest, an unearthly force that cowed bold men.

‘Kill them!’ The Stallion drew a long knife, the only weapon on him, and jumped down into the circle. He ran at the fire and leaped through the flames and men gasped because he did not seem touched.

Ferox gripped the handle of his sword, but the German stepped in front of him and grabbed the priest’s thin arms, holding them tight.

‘Enough!’ Tincommius shouted and held up one hand. ‘Enough,’ he repeated, calmly this time. ‘This is my hall and you are all guests. Let him go, Gannascus.’ The German did so with obvious reluctance. The priest stood still, his whole body quivering.

‘Keep your blade in its sheath, centurion,’ the high king said. ‘Your deed was an honourable one and it seems that you now have best claim.’ He pointed to the boar. ‘Take the portion of the champion and eat it with pride.’

The Stallion’s eyes had rolled up so that only the whites could be seen. He was still shaking, froth at his lips. ‘They will die,’ he said, quieter now, but in a voice suddenly deeper even than the big German’s. ‘All will burn and all will die.’ He sagged, shoulders slumping, and then he fell flat on the floor, his limbs twitching as he writhed. Some men touched wheels of Taranis like the one Vindex wore and others made different signs to ward off evil. The German looked down at him in contempt.

‘Come,’ the high king said. ‘This is a feast, not a funeral, and there is plenty more to eat and drink at my table.’

When Ferox got back to the table he saw that Crispinus had fallen back and was fast asleep. He wondered how much the tribune had seen, and wondered even more whether he had missed his best chance to kill the priest and end the matter. The Stallion lay where he had collapsed, limbs twitching now and again.

‘Good,’ the German said as he squatted down beside him, and devoured yet more meat. The king had given him the second cut from the boar, but that did not last long and soon he demanded a great joint of mutton. ‘Good,’ he said again, although surely this time his admiration was for the food.

After half an hour Ferox got up and left the hall to relieve himself. A guard gestured towards a stretch of wicker fence over to the right which was clearly kept for such matters. A thin man in a long drab cloak was already there and Ferox heard splashing as he approached. After a little fumbling with the ties on his breeches and drawers, he was able to add his own steaming stream.

His companion let out a contented sigh, although there was no sign of his finishing. ‘There are many joys in life,’ he said, ‘a great many, but in the moment itself how many can truly compare to the relief of emptying a full bladder?’

Ferox smiled at him. He was an old man with long hair and beard that were white except where the hair was greasy or stained with dirt. Ferox stood up straight and tried hard to look him in the eye, but his sluggish mind took a while to recognise the beggar he had seen at Vindolanda, and then only because of the little mongrel, rubbing against the old man’s legs. ‘It is a blessing,’ he said.

‘They call you Flavius Ferox,’ the old man asked, ‘but what is your real name, Prince of the Silures?’

‘If you know anything of my people, you know that I will never tell you that.’ Every Silurian boy was given a name three weeks after birth, a secret name known only to the closest family and never used except in silent prayer for their protection.

‘I do know your people, and I knew your grandfather. I was there when the Romans killed your father and left his mangled corpse in the surf, blood soaking out into the pebbles. I was there, boy, and I know that you are still of your people and not of Rome.’

Ferox did not reply and stared at the puddle he had just made. He had finished so began fastening everything back into place. He did not want to think about what the man was saying, or how he knew such things.

‘I remember you as a boy,’ the old man said, ‘sitting with the others and listening to Diviciacus drone on.’ A noise more cackle than laugh, and even more like someone choking than either, was presumably the sound of merriment. ‘He was an old fool even when he was young, but a druid nonetheless, and fit to teach infants.’

The memories came flooding back. Diviciacus was a Gaul, who had come to Britannia to study, and missed the slaughter of the priests at Mona so never completed his full training. Ferox’s grandfather had liked him, and entrusted him with the education of the children in his family. For reasons Ferox had never understood, the druid was ordered to teach him – and only him – to speak, read and write Latin.

‘It was a long time ago in a different world,’ Ferox said at last. The old man watched him as if reading every thought. Diviciacus was a mild, worried man, and the children had played many tricks on him, but every now and again another druid had appeared, young, but with a voice full of power and horror. The two men knew each other, and whenever the druid appeared the tutor let him speak to his charges. A name rose from distant memory – a name the children had used to frighten each other.

‘Acco?’

‘You remember then,’ said the old man. ‘Then remember the truth of who you are. You are of the tribes, boy, not a lackey to an emperor. Join us.’

‘Us?’ Ferox did not look up.

‘The free tribes of the Britons. The Romans have tried to crush our spirit and take our lands, but they have failed here in the north. For the first time they have failed and the tide has turned so that we will sweep them from the whole island and go back to the old ways.

‘Rome is finished, its gods fading away. Thirty years ago the Temple of Jupiter on Rome’s Capitol burned. Within nine times three years it will be struck again by the fire of the gods, and this time it will burn into ashes and nothing will be left. That time is fast approaching. Thirty years ago the seers in Gaul prophesied the end of Rome. They were premature, and had not read the signs properly for they no longer had the true knowledge. I have that knowledge. I saw the groves on Mona before they fell, and I was taught secrets no longer known to anyone. The fire will come and the end will come if only we listen to the gods and obey them.’

Ferox pushed his mail shirt down comfortably over his hips. ‘You sound like that fool in there.’

‘He is a child – a gifted child certainly, but no more than that. He seeks only to kill. I too would sweep Rome away, but we must build something better. Will you help me?’

It was hard to remember the hunched beggar muttering to himself. This man looked hale in body and sharp in his mind. He also seemed genuinely eager to persuade.

‘I am sworn man to the emperor and to Rome.’

‘Which emperor? No one had heard of Trajan until a few years ago.’ The voice was reasonable, the knowledge obvious. This was a man who spoke of the Capitoline Hill in Rome and of emperors and understood what he was saying. Ferox knew without having to be told that this was the great druid, although he could not guess how the man came to understand such things.

‘Civil war is coming again, and this time the empire will not survive. They will turn on each other like rats and rush down the road to their utter ruin. Leave them, boy. Leave the people who disdain you and leave you to rot and drown your sorrows in drink. What have they ever done to earn your faith?’

Acco knew too much, and at that moment if he had brought up her name and promised to lead Ferox to her, he might just have gone with the man.

‘I am sworn. If you truly knew my grandfather you would not expect me to break an oath.’

‘An oath to them? What does that matter? Do you know that even now some of them send us arms and information, that they even kill their own when we ask? They are filth, worthless in every way. Rome is a poison killing the whole world and the world will die if it is not stopped now.’ The man was getting wilder, his voice louder, and the first spell was broken. ‘Be free of them, boy. Leave them and be free of oaths to the unworthy.’

Ferox did not love Rome, but neither did he put much store in prophecies and predictions of doom. There was much about the empire that was rotten and much that sickened him. Honesty forced him to admit that there was also much he hated about the way the tribes lived and preyed on each other and he had known plenty of chieftains as ruthless, cruel and treacherous as the worst emperors. He suspected that Tincommius was one of them, otherwise he doubted that the man would have proved so successful. The same was doubtless true of this druid.

‘There was an old man and boy,’ Ferox said, not wanting to discuss the evils of Rome. ‘Men called him the Goat Man. I never knew the boy’s name. You must have met them or heard of them.’

‘What of it?’ Acco frowned. ‘They are gone now and do not matter.’

‘Yes, they are dead. The Stallion’s men buried the boy alive.’

‘I was not there,’ the druid said. ‘But I lived with your kin and stood with them as they fought Rome. Your grandfather fought with all the cruelty of your people. Evil things must be done in war.’

Ferox sighed. There was no point in trying to explain to a man like this. The druid’s hatred burned less brightly than the Stallion’s, but it had the strong deep heat of iron worked in a forge. The old man could see nothing beyond his own path, and that was paved with blood and ruin.

‘I am a centurion of Rome, sworn to serve the city and the emperor,’ Ferox said.

‘Then I cannot save you.’ The beggar or great druid or whoever this was sounded disappointed and sad. ‘And you could have served us so well. You are Flavius Ferox indeed and no longer anyone else. I am sorry. Soon all will be blood and fire and you will perish. I have failed your grandfather.’ The old man stalked off into the night.

For a moment Ferox nearly followed. He did not remember his father, for he had been a babe in arms when he was killed, and part of him wanted to learn more about what sort of man he had been. Yet he knew that it would not change anything.

He went back to the feast and drank beside the German. Eventually they both passed out.