Vindolanda

XXI

GANNASCUS AND TWENTY of his men rode south with them. The Germans looked too big on the little ponies, but the animals had strength and stamina and they went at a good pace. With them also came Venutius, accompanied by a dozen warriors as well as Epaticcus, the son of the high king. It rained for the first few days with barely a break, and somehow that made the abandoned remains of the army’s old bases seem even more forlorn.

In their last meeting Crispinus had presented the high king with a gift of three hundred denarii, newly minted and shiny and bearing the image of Trajan. The gift was a token of esteem and friendship, and the centurion had not even known that the tribune had brought it with him. He had known about the sword, a new, perfectly balanced spatha, and was pleased at the evident joy with which Tincommius accepted it, and his immediate gift of it to Epaticcus. In return Ferox and the tribune were given horses, a couple of greys so similar that they might have been twins, and had by chance been born on the same day. Their names were Frost and Snow and they were a generous gift.

The high king had spoken frankly to them, his great hall almost empty apart from a few servants. Galla was there, standing tall behind the royal chair, but she did not acknowledge Ferox in any way. Tincommius told them that he feared that the Stallion meant to start a war. A year ago at least a thousand men served him, bearing his marks on their foreheads and hands, and now there were surely far more because men kept coming north to find him. Most were strangers to these lands, vagrants, dreamers and runaways – not warriors but filled with faith in his magic. The priest had gathered them all in a long-abandoned fort on the borders between the Venicones and Selgovae. There were thousands of them there a few weeks ago, and by now there might be many more, all daubing the mark of the horse on their heads.

‘It is a bleak spot, hard to access. I will no longer send food to him, and I do not know what stores he has. I doubt that he will stay there, for he must attack to show his strength.’ The king suspected that many true warriors, men from the tribes, would answer the call to war, and so might some chieftains. ‘Many more will come if victories show his magic to all.

‘You must stop him soon,’ he said, but the Stallion had left on the night of the feast and was more than a day ahead of them. ‘He can travel fast.’ With more reluctance, the high king explained that the druid had also gone, no one knew where.

They went at a good pace, but the sight of more than sixty heavily armed riders did not make villagers wary, for the presence of the Germans and the king’s son showed that they travelled with his blessing. People gave them food and shelter for the nights and talked freely. They spoke of the Stallion, who flitted about from place to place, appearing when least expected and telling men of the end of Rome and the cleansing fire that would soon sweep through the land. Even folk loyal to Tincommius were in awe of the priest’s powerful magic. Ferox spoke to one herdsmen and then repeated the story to Crispinus and Vindex.

‘They say that at the great feast the Stallion confronted the Roman envoys,’ he explained.

‘Well, there is truth enough in that,’ the tribune allowed.

‘They also say that he raised his hands in the air, calling on the gods, and struck all three Romans stone dead.’

Vindex grabbed his own left wrist and flopped the hand back and forth. ‘Should we still be moving about?’ he asked.

Crispinus was unsure whether to laugh or take it seriously. ‘How can we make the lie known? Tell the man that we are the envoys and we are as alive as he is.’

‘I already have,’ Ferox said. ‘But he wasn’t surprised. It seems that the great druid told the Stallion that the time was not yet ripe, and that he should respect the high king’s hearth and hospitality, so the priest raises his arms, prays a bit more, and restores us to life.’

Vindex puffed breath on to the palm of his hand and nodded with exaggerated pleasure.

‘Very kind of him, I must say,’ the tribune said. ‘But surely the fellow does not believe such nonsense?’

‘Maybe yes, maybe no,’ Ferox explained. ‘But someone told him the tale and he told us. Word is spreading.’

Next day they met a group of half a dozen men trudging along wrapped in their thick woollen cloaks. They had round shields, a couple of throwing spears on their shoulder, and were going to answer the priest’s call, even though they did not seem to know why. Epaticcus told them to go back home and with the big Gannascus looming over them they shuffled back along the track.

‘Probably double back as soon as we have gone,’ Vindex said and Ferox suspected that he was right.

There were more men the next day striding over the hills to the south as little groups or individuals, but all going in the same direction.

On the fourth day the skies cleared for a few hours, and a pale sun without warmth beamed down on them. An hour after dawn on the next day, the rain started and lasted throughout the day, now and again turning to sleet. They were cold and wet, but by the end of the day they reached the ferry and were taken across the river.

It was hailing as they crossed, the sluggish waters pocked with splashes. Ferox felt his face stinging from the blows. The people in the houses on the south bank were nervous, reluctant to talk, and they discovered the cause an hour later. At first they saw only the outline of the great yew tree, standing alone on the low ridge above the track leading south. When they got closer they saw the overturned cart, blackened and smouldering, the remains of a fire under the boughs of the tree and the two bodies hanging down from the branches. One of the men wore a Roman tunic, the dull white wool slashed and stained dark with blood from where they had sliced at him with knives as he slowly choked to death from the noose around his neck.

The other corpse was naked, and hung upside down, the rope around his ankles, his head downwards so that it was held just above the fire lit under the tree. He would not have been in the flames but kept in their heat, and Ferox imagined the men who had done this sitting and listening to his screams.

‘I hope the poor fellow was dead when they did that to him,’ Crispinus said, staring in horror at the corpse, the head burst open and its scorched contents in the fire.

Ferox did not bother to answer so foolish a question but jumped down to look at the ground properly.

‘If he was dead they wouldn’t have bothered,’ Vindex replied when the centurion said nothing.

‘It’s the Treviran,’ Ferox said at last, recognising the dead man’s hands. ‘The one we met at Trimontium.’ There was little left to recognise of the man’s face.

Crispinus glanced at him, obviously wondering how he could tell, but deciding not to ask.

There were three more corpses in the grass, all badly cut about, which meant that whoever did this had kept slashing long after they were dead. Apart from the burned cart there were marks from a dozen mules, which the attackers had taken with them.

‘Whatever they were carrying, the Stallion’s men have it now,’ Ferox said. ‘Come on, we’d better get them down and buried.’ He called to Masclus and his men to help.

‘Won’t do them much good now,’ Crispinus said, unable to tear his eyes away from the dead men, ‘and it will take a lot of time. Why bother?’ Then something occurred to him. ‘How do you know it was the priest’s men?’

‘Who else? They were killed because they were Roman and whoever killed them had a lot of hate. They wanted their goods – whether it was food or weapons it was something of value. And it’s a yew tree. That would have appealed to them.’

‘Weapons?’

Ferox drew his dagger and started cutting the rope tying the Treviran’s corpse above the fire. ‘Someone has been giving or selling swords and other gear to Tincommius.’ He glanced at their escorts, wondering whether any spoke Latin, not that it mattered now. ‘I reckon the priest’s men decided that they could put them to better use. And they’ve started killing any Roman they can find. These two and their slaves were in the wrong place at the wrong moment and this is what happened. We don’t need to leave them up there as proof that Romans can be killed without fear, do we?’

‘I see.’ Crispinus dismounted. ‘Let me help.’

They scraped a long shallow hole and laid all five corpses in it, before covering them with soil and any stones they could find. Gannascus, Venutius and the others watched with mild interest for a while, before attending to their horses and taking a bit of food. Only the young Epaticcus helped, eagerly following Ferox and doing whatever he did.

No one talked much for the rest of the day, and even the Germans were subdued, until the clouds broke up and they saw the sun for the last part of the afternoon. A clear sky meant a cold night, but they found enough kindling and wood to make a couple of good fires. Better still, they were given two sheep by the headman from the nearest cluster of farms. These were quickly killed and butchered, one of Venutius’ men showing great skill in the task. Ferox enjoyed the meal, although part of him wished they had cooked them in the fashion of his own tribe, tossing the entire animal on to a hot fire, and cutting and butchering it after it was cooked. It had been a long time since he had eaten mutton roasted that way and he missed it.

The headman brought news that was not good. The two merchants and their slaves were not the only victims of the Stallion’s rampage. He had heard of other traders caught and tortured to death, some of them local men whose only fault was to do business with the Romans.

‘Men say that we all must choose,’ the headman told them, ‘to join with the gods and cleanse the land or to be slaughtered along with the Roman defilers.’ He was old with leathery skin and little hair left on his wrinkled head. Two fingers were missing on his right hand from some old injury, and his left leg was stiff. ‘I tell them that it is folly, but the young do not understand and they listen too well to the promise of a great magic. A king and a queen’s blood will summon the strength of the gods and an army from the Otherworld to fight alongside them. It will happen at Samhain, so he says, and many believe him.’

Ferox felt a chill as he heard the man’s assurance. The festival began at sunset in three days’ time. As they ate he drew Vindex aside. ‘If the tribune lets me, I want to do something very foolish.’

The Brigantian grinned, the lines of his face even harsher than usual in the glow of the fires. ‘So naturally you thought of me,’ he said. ‘Lovely.’

‘I will not command you to go.’

‘Wouldn’t take a command anyway. I am of the Carvetii. But I’ll come as a friend, if you need me.’

‘We’re not friends,’ Ferox began, and then found that he was laughing.

Crispinus was not keen when he heard that the centurion wanted to leave them and ride hard to get to Vindolanda.

‘I can travel much faster if I leave the main tracks and go as straight as I can. They need to be warned,’ Ferox insisted. ‘Your letter may not be enough.’

‘Letter?’ The tribune looked puzzled and then seemed to remember. ‘Of course, I had quite forgotten. It should have got there, though.’ He began to waver.

‘You do not need me, my lord, and if I can get there in time I might make a difference.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you want to see her hanging from a yew tree like those merchants, or burned like this mutton?’

Crispinus stared in sudden distaste at the meat. ‘Very well, centurion.’

They set out an hour later, as the camp began to settle down for the night, and they took Snow and Frost with them as spare mounts. They were close enough to the lands they knew well to find their way without much difficulty and when a waning moon rose the country was easy to see in its silver light. They rode for three hours, changed horses, and then rode for another three before they rested and ate a little food. As a red sun started to rise they set out again.

At first they rode through country dotted with farms, and everywhere there was the smell of blood and fire as flocks and herds were culled to provide meat for the winter. It was the smell of Samhain, the beginning of the lean and cold months, and for the first time Ferox found it to be sinister. People were nervous, and whenever they stopped they spoke of the older boys and younger men leaving to join the great war. They saw plenty of them striding away, heading in the direction of rimontium.

‘Hope the tribune gets through,’ Ferox said.

Vindex snorted. ‘Yes, there’s only fifty or sixty of them.’

‘You did not have to come.’

‘You did not have to ask me.’

Late in the day they realised that they were being followed. There was a lone rider on a shaggy pony, tailing them about half a mile behind. He was bareheaded and wore a drab cloak, but did not come close enough to be seen properly. They changed horses and cantered, flying over the spongy turf, and their lead grew.

‘He might just have been going our way,’ Vindex suggested when they slowed. Frost and Snow were panting, a foam of sweat making them look even whiter than usual.

‘He might.’

An hour before sunset five horsemen appeared on the crest of a hill ahead of them and to the right.

‘Must have had friends,’ Vindex said. Their mounts were too tired to try to outrun them, so they veered a little to the left and pressed on. The riders kept their distance, watching them.

‘Waiting for darkness,’ the Brigantian suggested.

‘That is what I would do.’

It was another clear night, frost adding to the silver light of star and moon. They lit a fire, and tethered the horses to some low birch trees. For a while they talked, knowing that the sound would carry a long way. There was not a farm or village in sight, for this was one of the barren patches used mainly as summer pasture and it was not where anyone chose to live.

As Vindex moved around and stood warming his hands on the fire, Ferox slipped away into the night. He left his mail behind, but kept sword and dagger because he was sure that there was killing to be done. With his face smeared with mud and the heavy hooded cloak around him, he should not be easy to see even on so bright a night. He went away from the camp for some distance, before looping around. They had chosen a site overlooked by a craggy hill because he reckoned that no attacker would ignore such a well-sheltered approach. Slowly and carefully, stopping again and again to lie still, watch and listen, he made his way to a steep-banked little gully on the far side of the hill. At the bottom was a brook, bloated with rain and running along noisily. All the while he could hear Vindex humming. ‘I see a sweet country; I’ll rest my weapon there.’ The tune had become a great favourite with the Brigantian.

Ferox waited. The song made him think of Sulpicia Lepidina, and of Galla lying beside him. Such thoughts helped to keep away the cold, but he could not let them distract him or make him drop his guard. The moon rose and the stars turned as the hours passed, and it was not until sometime in what must have been the third watch that he heard a low scraping sound. He waited, eyes just above the lip of the gully, head covered by the dark hood. There were shapes moving up the slope of the hill. Three shapes, crawling slowly and with care. The leader stopped and hissed something back at the men behind. One shifted, sitting up, and Ferox guessed that he was adjusting the scabbard, which had scraped on the ground.

Three men meant that there were two more out there somewhere, but he could not see them and had to trust that Vindex could cope if they attacked from another direction. Ferox ducked back into the gully and edged his way along it, trusting to the chuckling of the water to mask any sounds he made. After a while he stopped, but could hear nothing apart from the brook, so peered over the bank. He was level with the hillock and could see Vindex sitting next to the fire, humming to himself. The horses shuffled and shifted in the way resting horses always did, and he could just make out the saddles wrapped in blankets that were supposed to imitate his own sleeping form.

One of the men was lying on the crest of the rise, while the other two crept around the side. These men were far more skilful than the ones he had met outside the camp weeks ago. Yet they were not Silures. The two men crawled along next to each other, making a larger, darker shape on the grass than if they had spread out. Metal glinted in their hands, which meant that they were carrying weapons, probably knives. Vindex sat still, now and then stirring up the fire. It must have taken a lot of willpower for him not to turn and notice the men creeping towards him.

Something moved, far beyond the camp, and Ferox saw the taller outline of horsemen, walking slowly forward. There were two long spears in their hands, their sharp points gleaming. Vindex pretended not to see and started to sing in a low voice. He did not have a good voice, and the sound was harsh and discordant. Ferox heard one of the crawling men snigger. They were level with him now, little more than twenty paces from the little camp, and he began to ease over the lip of the gully.

The attack came sooner than he expected. Up on the hillock the warrior rose into a crouch, swinging his arm around above his head. Something cracked as it hit the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. The horsemen surged forward, letting out high-pitched screams as they charged. Vindex sprang to his feet, raising the spear that had lain beside him. To his flank the crawling men pushed up and ran at him.

Ferox copied them, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall. He made no sound, and as he ran drew his pugio in his left hand and his gladius in his right. Only when the nearest warrior saw him did he start to yell. The man turned, dagger raised, and Ferox let him block a slash from the gladius, catching it on the blade of his knife, so that he could thrust his left hand into the warrior’s throat. The stubby army-issue pugio punched through his windpipe and into his spine. Blood jetted over Ferox, the liquid warm on his hand, and he let the knife go and went for the next man.

In the firelight Vindex stood, spear raised and poised to throw. He waited and waited, until Ferox feared that it was too late, and then flung it at the nearest horseman. There was a grunt as it hit the rider full in the chest and pitched him out of the saddle. Then something whipped through the fire and the Brigantian cried out, clutching his leg, and was not ready when the second rider spurred at him, jabbing down with his spear. Vindex fell as the warrior’s horse carried him past.

The man facing Ferox threw his knife at the centurion’s face and he only just had time to swat it away with his gladius. The man drew his own sword, a long slim blade, and stamped forward, thrusting it out. Ferox jumped back because there was no time to parry, then had to go back again because the man followed, lunging.

Vindex was struggling to get up, drawing his own sword, while the horseman reined in hard to stop his mount, and then tugged to turn back and attack the Brigantian again. Another rider appeared, coming from the same direction as the others, galloping straight towards the camp, and it was all going badly wrong.

Ferox feinted a cut at the man’s head and kicked him on the shin. The man gasped in surprise as much as pain, so the centurion jabbed the dome-shaped pommel at his face, just as he had hit Venutius, hitting him squarely on the forehead, where there was a dark mark that was surely a tattoo. The warrior was reeling, and Ferox slashed at his neck, felt the steel edge bite, wrenched it free and slashed again with all his strength. More blood sprayed across his face.

The Brigantian faced two horsemen and did not know which way to turn. Ferox saw him hesitate, and then raise his sword at the newcomer, who was already close.

‘Get down you fool!’ someone shouted in Latin and Vindex dropped to the ground. The rider went past, ignoring him, and then neatly chopped the other warrior from his horse. Momentum carried him past until he turned, heading towards the hillock. The man at the crest flung another stone from his sling, but missed, and then made the mistake of running. Ferox heard the horse’s hoofs pounding across the turf, and saw the animal bound up the slope before he and the rider vanished after the fleeing man.

The centurion ran over to Vindex, who was pushing himself up and feeling his leg.

‘Don’t think it’s broken,’ he said. Ferox could see a gash along the scout’s arm near his shoulder, but his mail had taken the force of the blow above that. ‘It’s nothing.’ Vindex took a deep breath. ‘At least we’re alive.’

‘So far,’ Ferox replied, and then came a long scream of bubbling agony.

‘We’re better off than him, any road.’

The centurion began to bind up Vindex’s arm.

‘You in the camp.’ It was the same voice in its accented Latin. ‘I’m coming in.’