Vindolanda

III

FEROX CAUGHT UP with the others quickly, following the trail trampled by the tall Brigantian.

‘Just us?’ Vindex asked as he reached them.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ He pushed on, using his sword to beat down the clinging brambles and then stamping on them to make a path. The blonde slave girl followed him, her dress torn even more by the thorns and with patches stained green. ‘Nearly through,’ Vindex said. ‘Then it’s easier.’

The ground was getting steeper. Ferox looked back, but the crest of the slope was not far away and he could not yet see anyone closing with them. Trees reared up above the steep banks as the gully narrowed. They were thick, and at least it meant no one could ride quickly to cut them off, or even run at any speed through the woods.

Ferox’s foot caught in a thick stem bent round and hidden by leaves and he stumbled, barging into the slave, who was knocked forward and nearly lost her balance.

‘Who are you?’ she hissed angrily.

‘Quiet,’ he whispered. ‘Just keep going.’

‘What are you?’ she said in reply.

‘Move!’

They pushed on, the thorns inflicting even more ruin on the pale blue dress and the darker tunic underneath, and then they were out, into rocky ground that soon turned into scree. Vindex was some way ahead, slipping and sliding as much as walking, stones tumbling away ahead of him. Gusts of wind caught them, and there were more clouds in the sky, running in ever faster from the west.

Ferox wiped his sword on the skirt of his tunic. Most of the blood had gone as he had beaten the path through the brambles, but he cleaned the rest off before sheathing it. His hands were covered in scratches, his woollen trousers holed and dirty.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered at the woman, who had watched him in obvious distaste. He set off, and as always it reminded him of childhood expeditions along the rocky shores of his homeland. The trick was not to put too much weight anywhere, and always to keep going, springing, almost dancing, from stone to stone. He was rusty, sliding and starting a minor rock fall, before his confidence grew and he went rapidly down the slope. Behind him, the slave girl picked her way more gingerly, the hem of her ragged dress held in one hand and the other arm up high for balance. The hillside was too steep for any tree cover, but the gully’s sides were still high and he could not see out. Ahead of them the slope eased and opened out. There was a lake, fringed probably with soft bog, and beyond that straggling woodland. If they could make it to the shelter of the trees then they might just stand a chance. In a few hours the first patrols ought to get here from Vindolanda and begin to search. Their trail was an easy one to follow, which at the moment was not a comforting thought. There were no farms in sight, and the ones he knew were further on, in the valley of the Tyne, and too far for them to reach before they were caught.

‘Come on!’ he called back at the slave, already a good twenty paces behind him. ‘Go faster, you’ll find it a lot easier.’

The woman ignored him, her eyes searching the stones ahead of her to find the safest footing. It was all far too slow. The Britons could not be far behind, too many for him to fight, and if their archers got to the crest up there then he doubted any of them would make the cover of the wood.

‘Do you want me to carry you?’ he said angrily, speaking louder than was wise. Ferox started back towards the woman, but the stones slid away under his right boot and he fell, arms out just in time to stop his face slamming into the ground.

The woman laughed, a rich joyous sound, and the centurion silently hoped that her mistress gave her regular beatings.

He got up, and she was closer now so that he heard the snort when he told her to watch him and copy the way he moved, but they went quicker from then on, so perhaps she copied or had worked it out for herself.

Vindex was waiting at the bottom, crouching beside the girl, who was moaning and moving her head from side to side. One hand clutched the heavy necklace.

‘Reckon something’s broken,’ he told them. ‘And it’ll be me if I go on, so you can carry her for a bit.’

‘Wait.’ The slave girl knelt beside her mistress, feeling her left arm. At the touch the young woman’s dark eyes opened and she gasped in pain.

‘Quiet now.’ The slave spoke with all the tenderness of a mother. ‘I know it hurts, but you must be brave.’

The young woman nodded, eyes wide and face taut as she held back her cries.

Beside her the slave had both hands around her mistress’s shoulder. As she studied the injury her face was soft. It was a good face, Ferox thought, looking at her closely for the first time. A few faint lines around her eyes hinted at someone closer to thirty than twenty, although the life of a slave brought age quickly so he might be wrong. Some of her fair hair had worked loose from the pins and blew across her face until she brushed it away. She looked kind and capable, and he began to hope that the beatings were rare.

‘We need to move,’ he said.

‘No.’ Fierce anger was back and the face hardened as the slave girl looked up. ‘I need to fix this and you must help. The shoulder is out of joint.’

Ferox shook his head. ‘There is no time.’

‘Make the time!’

Vindex rolled his eyes, but was grinning. ‘Yes, your highness,’ he said.

‘Come next to me, be ready to move her arm as I tell you when I tell you.’ She turned to her mistress. ‘This will hurt, but it will make it better, so you must be brave.’

‘I’ll try.’ The voice was weak.

‘You,’ she said, looking up at Ferox. ‘Hold her down. She needs to be still.’

The centurion obeyed, putting one hand on the girl’s good shoulder and the other across her body. There was fear in her eyes when he loomed over her, and it made him think of Hector frightening the baby because he still had his helmet on. He smiled.

‘Lie still. Soon be over,’ he said softly, while the slave gave short, sharp instructions to Vindex. The girl shrieked, starting to shake, and he pressed down as hard as he could.

‘Good girl, good girl,’ Ferox whispered, staring into her eyes, trying to reassure. A sound of grating bone almost made him flinch and loosen his grip.

‘Now,’ the slave girl said. ‘Push!’

The scream was appalling and seemed to go on forever, the girl trying to arch her back so that it took all his strength to keep her flat and still.

Vindex let out a deep breath, and the scream faded and turned into sobs.

‘Well done,’ the slave said, brushing her mistress’ cheek. ‘Now we can go.’

Ferox eased his grip and started to lift the young woman. Vindex helped and they hauled her on to his shoulder and he set off. She was heavy for her size and he stumbled, making her yell out.

‘Quiet,’ he said as gently as he could and tried to shush her. The necklace was pressing hard against the cheek piece of his helmet. The yelling went on, very loud just next to his ear. He heard a slap and the girl went quiet.

‘Well done, Vindex,’ he said and started out across the mossy ground.

‘Wasn’t me,’ the Brigantian said.

The slave girl strode past him, her expression blank.

‘Trouble,’ Vindex warned.

Shoulder already uncomfortable from the weight pressing down, Ferox struggled to look back at the little figures high on the crest above them. An arrow arched towards them, coming straight until the wind took it and it veered away.

‘Run!’ he said, and wondered how many times he had given the same order. The ambush had started less than an hour ago, and yet it seemed as though days had passed. He lumbered on as fast as he could, at first over spongy grass, but soon each step sank into soft mud.

‘Bugger!’ Vindex was looking to the west, where four horsemen galloped towards them who were not Romans. One was leading a riderless horse, and the leader carried a long red shield. There were more riders about a quarter of a mile behind them.

An arrow stuck into the soft earth just a yard or so away from Ferox, the missile going deep so that only half of its shaft and feathers were left above the mud. They were level with the lake, its dark waters still for the breeze had gone. Splashes came up with every step, boots sinking deeper and deeper.

‘More of the bastards!’ Vindex called. Other horsemen were coming from the south-west, and were not far off, hidden up to now by the valley. There were half a dozen, perhaps more, and Ferox could see no trace of uniform or anything else to identify them. They did not ride like Britons, but they were heading towards the main group of the enemy.

‘This way!’ The slave girl was pointing at a flat grey stone, the first of a line dotted towards the wood. Her feet and her once white sandals were brown from the mud, and Ferox was surprised that the clinging mire had not pulled them off.

Vindex gasped. ‘Double bugger!’ An arrow had grazed his right leg just above the knee, tearing his trousers and gouging a red line across his flesh. It must have had a broader head than the ones Ferox had seen before.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reaching out his free arm in an offer of support.

‘Piss off!’ the Brigantian said, pushing it away, and kept going. The slave girl was jumping from stone to stone, but even on that boggy ground Ferox could hear the hoof beats getting closer. They were at the first big stone.

‘If you’re all right then you take her. I’ll try to slow them down.’

Vindex’s face was grim as he took the weight of the girl, who immediately began to scream again.

A javelin whipped through the air between the two men just as they parted, missing them and the girl’s legs by a whisker. The horseman who had thrown it wore a hooded cloak that streamed behind him, but was bare-chested like the two Ferox had killed. He was close, no more than ten paces away, and riding like a wild man, straight at them, his right hand reaching to draw his long sword. His horse threw up fountains of water, then one of its front feet went deeper and the animal stumbled, throwing the rider, who slid through the mire towards them.

‘Stupid mongrel,’ Vindex said and jumped to the second stone, which rocked under the weight.

The centurion drew his blade, splashed forward through the mud and stabbed down once. Ferox saw the same horse tattoo on the man’s forehead before the long point of his gladius punched through the skull. For all his bravery, this third warrior was no more skilled than the other two. He had dropped his shield, a small one like the others, although round rather than square. Ferox picked it up.

The man with the red shield was a long spear cast away, but although he carried a slim-shafted javelin in his hand he made no move to throw it. He was a big man and yelled something at the warrior coming up alongside him, who was another of the bare-chested, animal-tattooed fighters, this time with his head shaved completely bald. A gesture confirmed that he was telling the man to stay back. The third horseman was little more than a beardless boy, fair-haired and red-cheeked, and was leading a saddled but riderless mare. There was no sign of any of the other horsemen.

Ferox bounded across the first few stones. If he must fight, then at least the mud would make it harder for anyone to come up on him from the side.

‘Roman!’ a deep voice shouted.

He turned and saw that the warrior with the red shield had dismounted. On foot he was huge, several inches taller than Vindex and broader across the shoulders than Ferox himself. He was bareheaded, with thick blond hair down to his shoulders and a neat beard. He wore boots and pale trousers, and had mail, with a black tunic underneath, the sleeves short and showing his powerfully muscled arms. A heavy, almost clumsy bronze bracelet was on his right wrist. His shield was hexagonal, a white star painted around the boss. He did not look like any warrior from the tribes of Britannia that Ferox had ever seen – more like a German, but that made no sense.

‘Want the queen,’ the man said, taking a step forward. He spoke in the language of the Celtic tribes, differing only in details among the peoples of Gaul as well as Britannia, but he did not speak it naturally. Each word took an effort to pronounce, and Ferox wondered whether he did not know the word for woman. He must be a German, perhaps an army deserter who had taken service with a chieftain?

‘Why do you want her?’ he asked in Latin. There was no sign of understanding, so he repeated the words in the Celtic tongue.

‘An oath,’ the warrior said and kept coming forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferox noticed that the boy was hanging back, but the bald-headed man had also dismounted and was wading through the mud. It would slow him down, but was not deep enough to stop him, let alone suck him down and smother him.

‘Don’t worry about him.’ The voice of Vindex came from close behind. ‘I’ll sort him. You deal with the big bastard.’

‘What about the women?’

‘Oh, I tipped them in the bog.’

The big German was closer, his spear raised. ‘The queen,’ he bellowed, ‘or I kill you both.’

‘What?’ Ferox glanced back, saw the Brigantian’s cadaverous face broken by a toothy grin, and beyond him the blonde slave girl helping her mistress jump across the bridge of stones. They were almost at the wood.

‘Look out!’ Vindex yelled.

Ferox turned, saw the spear coming at him, the head glinting as it spun, and just had time to raise the shield and catch it on the boss. The blow dented the iron, rocking him back and jarring his arm. He ducked to avoid the deflected spear.

The German drew his sword, one of the long, slim spatha-swords issued to Roman cavalrymen.

‘Come on, you eunuch, or do I have to sew your balls back on!’ Ferox yelled at him in Latin.

There was no sign of understanding, and the big warrior came on. Ferox could see that this one knew what he was doing and in spite of his size was light-footed. The way the man moved reminded him of the big cats he had seen in the arena, those great lions and tigers which moved with such poise.

‘Last chance,’ the man said, his gaze never leaving the centurion. He jumped from the first to the second stone, water spurting up as his weight landed on it.

The bald warrior was struggling through the mud, but he had to trust Vindex to deal with the man. Ferox hefted the unfamiliar shield, keeping his sword low. He wondered whether he should have taken off the helmet, for speed might well be the key to this fight. It was too late now, with the big warrior only a couple of yards away. The man bounded forward again, and used the motion to lunge with his spatha. The blade was nearly three feet long, adding to the man’s great length of arm as the point jabbed at him, faster than he expected. Ferox braced the shield, and saw the iron tip of the warrior’s sword burst through the single layer of wood. He tried to keep it stuck in the wood, twisting the shield away in the hope of pulling the sword out of the warrior’s hand, but the German was too quick for him. The big-bearded face broke into a smile.

Ferox jabbed low, saw the red shield blocking and pulled back, whipping the blade high for a thrust at the man’s neck. The German swayed back and stopped grinning, but Ferox knew that he was in trouble. His opponent had a longer reach, and with the mud it would be hard for him to close the distance and get past his guard. The big German also looked fresh, whereas he was tired. He had one chance, and hoped that his memory was accurate. There was the sound of grunting and effort over to his left, which must be Vindex and the bald warrior trying their best to hew each other down as they struggled through the mud.

The German had his spatha held up, arm bent, ready to stab forward at eye level. Ferox watched, saw the slightest betraying flicker in the man’s bright blue eyes and jumped back. His left foot landed on the next stone, the right boot squelching in mud, as the warrior jabbed at air. The centurion wrenched his foot out, feeling the leather uppers break apart as he left his boot in the clinging mud, and had his soaking sock on the stone. It was one of the larger rocks, wide and deep enough for him to stand, left foot forward and right behind, waiting. Better still, it was just a little nearer to the stone he had left than the one the German was on.

With a bellow of rage the warrior jumped, this time scything his blade in a great downward sweep. Ferox raised his shield, felt the wood cracking under the blow, and thrust, down low again, hit the edge of the red shield, went past and he felt it jar as it struck the mail rings. At least one had broken, and the long triangular tip speared through cloth and flesh. He pulled back quickly as the man slashed down again, going for his right hand.

Ferox had struck a blow, but doubted that it was enough, for there was only a little blood on his sword and he knew that the wound was not deep. The German swung again and he took the blow on the boss of his shield, feeling it dent in and the round piece of metal shudder. His own stab aimed higher than the last, only to meet his opponent’s shield cleanly and be blocked.

The centurion was already tired, his breath coming in pants, while the German looked as if he was only warming up. Another downward hack and half the little shield fell away. Ferox made another attack on the same spot and it was blocked again. The sword swept down and more of the wooden board crumbled. There was little more than the boss left now. His own blade had scored the red shield, but not weakened its defence.

So this was death, the beckoning of the Otherworld. There was little for him here, but he still feared the journey to the land of shadows. He wondered whether his grandfather would speak to him or turn away in disgust. Would she be there? She had not believed in such things, but what did that matter?

Someone screamed in pain and either Vindex or his opponent must be down. The beardless youth was calling to the big warrior in a tongue he did not understand. It sounded urgent.

The German cut again and Ferox jumped to the side, slashing low as he dived into the mud and rolled. It took the warrior by surprise, and he felt his sword strike and cut the man’s shin.

The boy leading the horse was shouting again. The warrior glanced down, decided not to jump into the clinging mud and finish his opponent and instead turned and bounded away from stone to stone. Ferox saw dark blood on the man’s trouser leg, but knew that he would have died if the German had not run off. The warrior and the boy rode away eastwards. There were horsemen in the distance to the west, but he could not tell who they were.

‘Some help would be nice,’ Vindex called. The Brigantian was knee deep in mud, mail torn near the shoulder and blood seeping through it. His opponent was motionless, face down in the mire. As Ferox splashed over to help him he saw that there were figures with the women at the treeline. They were dressed in breeches, tunics and cloaks and their short hair showed them as Romans.

‘Looks like we’re still alive,’ he said as he pulled Vindex free.

‘Never doubted it for a moment,’ the Brigantian said.

They made their way across the stones, covered in mud, their clothes ragged and torn.

To his surprise a tall, extremely handsome man with reddish hair was embracing the slave woman, while the little dark-haired girl stood meekly by her side, the unclasped necklace in her hands.

‘I believe I owe you profound thanks,’ the redhead said. He was dressed in hunting clothes, only a little stained by travel. His face was open, his hair perfectly in place and his teeth neat and very white. ‘You have saved my wife and I am forever in your debt.’

‘We owe you our gratitude,’ the slave added. ‘Although I do not know who you are – or even what you are?’ There was a trace of mischief in her tone, and perhaps she saw the bafflement in his face.

‘Titus Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, seconded from Legio II Augusta,’ he said, trying not to think too much about his harsh words – or the slap on her behind. ‘And this is Vindex, a noble warrior of the Carvetii and the leader of their scouts who serve with us.’

‘Then I am honoured to meet you,’ the man said, and shook their hands, even though they were filthy. ‘I am Cerialis, Prefect of the Ninth Batavians, and may I name my wife, Sulpicia Lepidina.’ She gave them a gracious smile.

Another man appeared, quite small and round-faced with thick hair that was a mottled grey even though he looked to be in his early twenties.

‘Well, it looks as if you have all had quite an adventure,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m Crispinus, by the way, and equally pleased to know you. I have heard a lot about you, and I believe you know my father. In the meantime, I’m tribunus laticlavius with the Augusta, so I suppose that makes me your commanding officer – well, at least up in this part of the world.’

‘Omnes ad stercus,’ Ferox said under his breath.