Vindolanda

V

FEROX HEFTED THE shield again, holding the cross-grip tight enough to be secure without becoming rigid. His sword was high, arm back and elbow bent almost double ready to jab the blade forward at eye level, striking for the face, or lunging over the top of his opponent’s shield if he saw a gap open. It was not his own gladius and felt heavy and cumbersome in his hand.

Both men were breathing hard, watching for their chance. Ferox’s arms and legs ached, and his right shoulder was sore from a slamming cut that he had not seen in time. He suspected that the blow had driven some of the rings of his mail through the padded jerkin to bruise the skin. The centurion stamped forward with his left foot and punched with the boss of his shield, the weight of his body behind the blow. His opponent lifted his own shield to block as he sprang back, landing well and cutting down with his longer sword, catching Ferox on the helmet. It was a weak blow with no real force in it and did not bother him.

Ferox panted as they both went back to watching and waiting. This one was good, old in war and dark in cunning, and the centurion was weary with not much more to give. The greaves on his shins were heavy and uncomfortable. He was sure the top of the left one had cut into his skin. If he did not win soon then he was finished. He let his shield drop a little before raising it with visible effort, wanting the man to think that he was even more tired.

The Thracian shouted, the first cry in an otherwise silent fight, and came at him, slamming his lighter oval shield high and jabbing with the point of his sword. Ferox went back, step by step, giving ground and not getting a chance to reply to the flurry of blows from left and right. He was near the post now, the ditch only a couple more paces behind him. One jab punched through the wickerwork near the top of his curved rectangular shield and he tried to twist it to trap the blade, but the Thracian was too quick and while Ferox’s guard was down scythed his long sword through the air and struck his left shoulder. The centurion staggered, hissing with pain, and lost his hold on the shield’s handgrip so that it fell to the ground. The Thracian grinned wickedly as the centurion crouched.

Ferox sprang up, flinging himself against the cavalryman, hurling them both sideways. His hand grabbed the Thracian’s right wrist, pushing it so that his long spatha was driven against the heavy wooden post. Ferox cut at it, not with much of a swing but with all his force, and there was a sharp crack as the wooden training spatha broke. Half the blade was hanging down loose and the Thracian was so surprised that Ferox was able to hook one foot around his leg and trip him up.

The watching soldiers sighed in disappointment, until someone started laughing and the rest joined in. The Textoverdi who had started to come to watch just stayed wrapped tight in the cloaks, their faces expressionless, after the manner of the clan.

‘Time!’ called the man on sentry duty in the gate-tower of Syracuse.

‘Nearly, but not quite,’ Ferox said, reaching his left hand down to pull the Thracian up. He had promised any man five denarii and an amphora of good wine if they could put him on his back. This was the fourth day, and so far he had not had to pay, although Victor had come close more than once, as had this Thracian. They were the pick of the bunch, the rest solid enough and stubborn, but too tied to the drill book to be really good. It was good training for them, and even better for him. Ferox was worried and drove himself hard to prepare for whatever was coming. He spent an hour each day working at the fencing post outside Syracuse, using the regulation wooden swords and wickerwork practice shields to go through the fighting drills the army had copied from the gladiatorial schools. Sword and shield were heavier than the real things, to strengthen the arms and make it easier when a man was given proper equipment. For the same reason he wore helmet and mail, and strapped iron greaves on to his lower legs. He had never liked greaves, clumsy things that made a man slow, and rarely wore them even in battle, but the weight made every drill harder and that helped. Once that was done he let three of the stationarii challenge him, each bout lasting a tenth of an hour measured by the water clock. Nothing matched facing a real opponent, and they had landed quite a few good blows and surprised him plenty of times. It reminded him of how rusty he had become, letting himself become lazy because things were quiet and no one believed him when he claimed that trouble was brewing.

When there was time he ran – at least three miles a day, choosing routes that forced him to drive himself up steep hillsides. There was no need to look for opportunities to get on a horse, for each day he rode many miles. He went to Vindolanda several times and to Magna, the next garrison to the west, up to the watchtower again, and all the while did his own job of going to villages and farms and meetings with chieftains. He spent most of his time listening to the usual grievances. With harvest done, taxes were due and the procurator’s men were out collecting the empire’s share of grain, livestock or hides, and sometimes money, although few in this part of the world paid levies in coin.

Ferox drove himself hard and, as always when he was kept busy, had no urge to drink more than was needed to slake a thirst. Her face still came to him, hazier now after all these years, but still with the dark eyes, olive skin and raven-black hair. The memories made him sad, but sometimes he pictured another woman, blonde, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, and there was little similarity in looks but something akin in their essence, that sense of life and joy. Sulpicia Lepidina puzzled him, not least because if all Crispinus had said was true then it was odd to find so distinguished a lady married to a mere equestrian.

That was one mystery, but not the foremost in his mind. Cerialis had chased the raiders for two days before losing their trail altogether. By then his Batavians were running short of hard tack and salted bacon for the men and barley for the horses, so they returned to Vindolanda with nothing to show for their pains. The detachment from Coria was better prepared to take the field and had gone further, pushing well north into the lands of the Selgovae and Votadini. Even so they had not caught up with any of the raiders and had ended up coming back down the Eastern Road with nothing to show for all their hard riding. No word had yet come from the Brigantian scouts, although Vindex had ridden after them in spite of his injuries.

‘Go on then and kill yourself,’ Ferox told him as he left. ‘At least it will save me the trouble.’ The Brigantian had kept the poultice damp and tied on tightly and claimed that he felt fine.

The raiders had got away, avoiding roads and outstripping the pursuit. They were well mounted – even bringing spare horses – and well prepared. They had also taken nothing that might slow them down. All they had looted was some weapons, some horses and a few heads as trophies. It was not much of a haul, and Claudius Super was hailing the raid’s repulse as a great victory, ignoring the dead Batavians – and the men at the tower.

By the time Ferox had returned to the tower in daylight a party had come to clear up and the ground was even more disturbed. Even so he was sure that there were no tracks from a group like the raiders they had followed on the day of the ambush. There were prints from half a dozen or so army horses, heavily burdened with their riders and gear. Whoever had killed the little garrison had not had to force their way in. Everything pointed to the killers being soldiers – or looking the part of soldiers – and being let inside to unleash sudden violence. The seventh man from the tower was still missing. Four of the corpses had been recognised, and the Briton was not among them, nor was he thought likely to be either of the remaining corpses, given that they were dark-skinned and stocky. They should know soon when men came from his unit to look at the remains.

Ferox had not been able to find the track made by the horsemen as they left the tower because there were too many trails from the frequent patrols passing this place. In spite of a careful search he could see no sign that they had gone east to join the raiders. Yet a coincidence was hard to accept. Someone had slaughtered the men at the beacon on the very day that the raiders struck. Only Victor’s quick thinking and some luck had allowed the alarm to be raised at all.

It all looked very deliberate and well planned, for these were not normal raiders. They had disguised their numbers coming south, moving stealthily past the garrisons, and would have escaped notice altogether if it had not been for Vindex and his men finding their trail and then coming across the two corpses. From the beginning the aim was surely to attack the road at that one spot between Vindolanda and Coria. Ferox could not believe that the raiders were trusting to luck, relying on something worth attacking to come along at the right moment. They were waiting for Sulpicia Lepidina and her escort, waiting just for her. He thought of the big warrior demanding that they hand over the queen.

Raiders liked to take women. Seizing a woman from an enemy and forcing her gave a warrior power, strengthening his spirit and proving his might, as much or even more than killing a man and taking his head as trophy. Yet rape of an officer’s wife and her maid hardly justified the scale of the attack. They could be sold as slaves, it was true, or ransomed, although this was likely to provoke a major response by the army rather than payment. Perhaps whoever was behind this wanted war, but again it seemed an unnecessarily complicated way to go about it.

Ferox had not yet spoken again about the tattooed priest who had led the raiders, for Romans tended to become hysterical when they heard words like priest or druid, and Claudius Super would once again dismiss him as alarmist and certainly would not understand. Lots of men and some women called themselves druids these days, and most were wandering healers and magicians of no importance, preying on the superstitious, but without real power or any reputation. This one was bold, daring to break the sign at the Mother and Daughter and scratch the images on to the stones. Then there were warriors, each tattooed on forehead and left hand. They were not marks he had seen or heard of before among the tribes – and neither had Vindex, who knew the peoples to the north well. Warriors liked to look different, not the same, and he had never heard of any people marking themselves with such prominent and identical symbols. That meant that they must mean something, and he wondered about oaths to gods or to follow their servant on earth. Yet alongside these fierce but inexperienced followers there had been other warriors, not marked in the same way, as well as the big man. Ferox was still convinced that the giant was a German, and was equally sure that he was not a deserter. That begged many questions that he could not answer.

On the fifth morning Ferox attacked the post with unusual savagery. He found that he thought best during this exercise, going through the proper guards, cuts and thrusts and quite a few moves of his own. He was not aching as much as in the first few days, but his mind was weary. He had been roused before dawn by a farmer claiming that thieves were taking his cows. Hastily dressed and accompanied by Victor, he had given chase. The trail was easy to follow and stretched no more than five miles to a farm in another valley. The head of that household was muddy and travel-stained and did not bother to deny the charge, insisting instead that he had only taken back what was his. There was much shouting, swearing of oaths and a few threats, the noise fuelled as neighbours wandered over to see what was happening. Ferox was still not sure of the truth of the matter, but suspected villainy on both sides. The men agreed to be judged by two chieftains, one to speak for each man, with the centurion to arbitrate and give the casting vote. It would almost certainly come to that, since he would be surprised if the chiefs did not simply back their dependant whatever the truth of the matter.

Back at Syracuse, Ferox read a new report that added nothing to their knowledge of the raid, but took a long time to say it. He dealt with Crescens, who had brought a number of trivial matters to him. The man seemed to have lost a lot of his bluster and was looking for guidance on more and more matters. Ferox kept hoping that he would take up the challenge to fight him, even though he realised that putting the curator down would probably not be good for discipline. The stationarii were a very mixed bunch, with a few eager volunteers among men sent here because their units did not want them.

Ferox lunged at the post, then stepped back before coming in again and cutting at head height, his shield all the while held up over his body. The German warrior bothered him. During one of his visits to Vindolanda he had asked to see the two survivors from the escort. The man cut across the face was in hospital, head bandaged.

‘Ask whatever you like,’ the orderly told him. ‘But his wits are in and out at the moment. Woke up screaming last night and said that there were horses chasing him and wanting to trample him beneath their hoofs.’

The man seemed well enough, sitting on the side of a cot and playing dice with another convalescent. If anything he enjoyed telling his story, which did not tell Ferox anything new.

Longinus was in the barrack block occupied by his turma and Ferox got the impression that the Batavians were not keen on letting him visit. They were a strange, clannish bunch, the closed expressions of the soldiers stopping just short of insubordination, and he had to insist for some time before a soldier led him to the right part of the fort. Men working on tack and equipment under the shelter of the colonnade running the length of the building watched him with cold eyes.

For all that, Longinus was welcoming when Ferox knocked on the open door of the room at the far end of the block. He was the only man there, and there were no blankets on either of the other two low beds. As he perched on the side of one, Ferox wondered if they belonged to men killed in the ambush. The old Batavian sat on his bed running a whetstone along the edge of his long spatha. When he tried to get up, obviously with some discomfort, Ferox gestured to him to sit. ‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ he said. ‘But if you are not too tired I’d like to draw on your experience.’

‘Sir.’ An old soldier could make that short word do so many things.

The floor was covered in straw and rushes, fresh layers piled on the old and all giving off a musty odour. There were sounds from beyond the back wall. Cavalry barracks were built with a line of ten rooms backing on to ten horse boxes. Up above was an attic for storage and the army felt that it was convenient for troopers to be near their horses. It also meant that the rich scents of manure, horse sweat and old leather were everywhere, and there were always flies crawling on the walls or buzzing through the air.

‘You have been with the cohort a long time, I understand.’

‘Sir.’

Ferox had been surprised to learn that the man had served over forty stipendia – fifteen years more than the normal enlistment. It was not his business to ask why, and Longinus did not seem inclined to talk about it. He must be nearly sixty, and yet still remarkably hale.

Instead the centurion asked the man to tell him about the ambush. ‘All that you can remember – no matter how trivial it seems.’

The man’s single eye glinted in the dim room. Ferox felt that the veteran was studying him, amusement mingled with curiosity. His account was precise and matter-of-fact. The decurion was dozy, led them into it, letting the scout get out of sight so that he did them no good. Then the arrows had come.

‘Have you faced archers like that before?’

‘No.’ The eye never left his face. There was a steady grating sound as the old soldier honed the edge of his sword.

Then the sling stones hit them, more arrows, and the screaming charge. Longinus told him about the testudo, the brief respite, of the carriage nearly escaping, until the driver was killed and it tipped over. ‘Got a bit hot then,’ he said. Ferox knew from his own experience how hard it was to remember a fight after it was over, and how it was even harder to recount it. Men who told long detailed stories of battles and heroism were usually making it up.

‘Did you get a good look at the Britons?’ he asked.

Longinus snorted. ‘Too damned good – the buggers were swarming all over us.’

‘Notice anything odd about them?’

The eye was still fixed on him. Longinus stopped sharpening his sword and reached up to scratch his empty eye socket.

‘How did you lose that?’ Ferox asked, letting curiosity get the better of him.

‘Cut myself shaving. Now what did you ask before?’ The man’s Latin was good, for all his slang. He had a Rhineland accent, but did not clip the ends of words or roll his vowels like most of them.

‘You have been in Britannia a while.’

‘Sir.’

‘Well, what did you think about the attackers? Were they like other Britons you have seen?’

There was the slightest nod. ‘Some of them. Not seen those daft ones with the painted heads before. Not much skill in them, but they came on well enough. A couple were wearing tunics without breeches. Don’t see that much hereabouts.’

Ferox had not noticed that little detail. Thinking back he thought the men he had fought had all been in trousers, but it was so hard to remember everything. At the time he had worried more about not getting killed. ‘And the others?’

‘Ah, you noticed.’

‘Big men, one of them really big, heavier set than Caledonians, if just as fair.’

‘Germans,’ Longinus said, ‘or I’m a Syrian.’

‘Germans?’

‘That’s right. Don’t tell me you had not thought the same thing.’

‘I wondered, but they told me I was a fool,’ Ferox said, half to himself.

‘Can’t say one way or the other about that, sir. But they were Germans. They did not have time to say much, but the words were in German. I met one of the Gotones once who talked like that. At least, people said that he was one of them and he certainly wasn’t from any tribe we knew well. These ones sounded the same. They’re from far away – the east, or maybe from the north, but enough akin to the closer races to recognise.’

‘Thank you, trooper, that is very helpful.’

A horse whinnied loudly from the next room, then started to kick hard against something wooden. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Longinus looked up and yelled through the trapdoor into the attic. ‘You there, Felix?’ There was the sound of panicked movement and then stillness in response. ‘I know you’re there, boy!’ There was a low acknowledgement. ‘Do your job, you little bugger!’ Longinus shouted. ‘They want feeding, so get on with it!’ The one eye fixed on the centurion again. ‘Good enough lad, but you have to chase him or he’ll dream the day away.’

Ferox got up.

‘Sir?’

‘Yes, trooper?’

‘Bad business at the watchtower.’

‘Yes.’

Longinus winked – or since he had just the one eye perhaps it was a blink, although Ferox did not think that it was involuntary. ‘Something is rotten, sir. And there is something in the air that isn’t good. Smelled it before, or something much like, and that ended in a lot of killing.’

‘Thank you once again, trooper.’

Ferox wondered what the old soldier had meant, but did not doubt the conviction or the shrewd mind in that battered, one-eyed face. He also wondered why the man had not been promoted after all these years. Drink perhaps, or insubordination, or perhaps for all his sharp mind Longinus could not read and write well enough.

Yet others sensed something similar. It had been growing for a while, but since the raid he noticed a dark mood among the Textoverdi. ‘Bad times,’ men said to him over and over again. ‘There’s a storm coming and a cruel winter.’ People were worried and they would not tell him why, or perhaps they could not explain, something they sniffed in the wind like the one-eyed Batavian. ‘Bad times.’

Ferox launched a fresh assault on the post, hacking with more fury than skill until he was pouring with sweat. He had seen horsemen coming down the valley, but knew he could not hurry them so kept at his exercises.

‘I’ll give you five to four on the post,’ Vindex announced as he reined in.

Ferox nodded, breathing heavily. ‘Well, it is a very good post.’

‘Got good news and bad,’ the Brigantian continued, his skull-like face serious even by his standards.

‘Let’s have the bad news.’

‘No, let’s have a drink and then all the news.’ Vindex sprang down and walked with him into the outpost.

‘We found the Goat Man’s boy,’ he said, staring down into his flagon of beer, sitting on a three-legged stool in the centurion’s quarters. The room still showed the damage from the struggle to rouse him all those days ago, in spite of Philo’s best efforts. Ferox was sticking to well-watered posca but was thirsty after his exercise and glad to have it.

‘He is dead?’

Vindex nodded and there were tears in his eyes. ‘The bastards buried him.’ He could see that the centurion did not understand. ‘He wasn’t dead. They just trussed him up and buried him on a mound beside a stream.’

He drank for a while, brooding and angry, and Ferox thought it better to let him. He knew that his own rage would grow. People did not come and do this on his patch.

‘We caught one,’ Vindex said after a long wait, the silence only broken by the crackling of the fire. ‘One of the mad buggers with the horse on his head. He was Hibernian, came across the water to follow the Stallion, the seer blessed by Cocidius and the Morrigan to lead the peoples in the war that will end the world. Reckon that’s the lad we saw at the ambush, waving them on. This boy swore that this Stallion has powerful medicine, and is blessed by the gods, who want him to purge the whole island of the corruption of Rome.’

‘Nice names and nice ambition,’ Ferox said. ‘But you said “was”?’

‘We didn’t do it – not that we didn’t want to after finding the boy. He strayed from the rest. Told us a dream told him to look for a sacred oak and cut a branch from it. He left a track a blind man could follow and we took him by surprise. Knocked him around a bit to get answers, though in truth he talked readily, boasting almost, so knocking him about was more for fun.

‘The next day we had him with hands tied behind his back and a man leading his horse, when he just starts chanting. On and on he went in a nasty, high-pitched voice. Then all of a sudden his horse gallops off and he flings himself down. Head hit a stone, lights out forever. Think it was deliberate, but can’t be sure.’

‘That is a pity.’

‘Aye. Still, he told us a lot. The Stallion and his men set out from the far north-east, sent by a high king of the Vacomagi. Said he didn’t know his name.’

Ferox whistled through his teeth. ‘Didn’t know the Vacomagi had a high king.’

‘Well, that’s what he said, and from the way they were going they were heading that way. The lad claimed this king realised the truth of the gods’ purpose for this great Stallion or horse’s arse or whatever he’s called and gave him warriors and horses to help in his quest. Some of the warriors were from deep beneath the sea, summoned to help by the great druid.’

‘Not horse’s arse?’ Ferox asked.

‘No, this one is different, much more powerful. The lad said something about the Stallion being a great storm to sweep the land clean, while this great druid is part of the land itself. Old and wise, he is able to change his shape and work even greater magic. They say he walks among the Romans when he wants and they do not see him. That he can make them turn their swords on each other. He wasn’t with the raiders, but they saw him now and again, shaped like a raven and flying above them.’

Ferox listened as the Brigantian continued, telling everything he had learned about the Stallion and this carefully planned raid..

‘What did they want to do?’

When Vindex told him the room turned cold, even on this bright day and with a good fire burning.

‘Bad times,’ he muttered.

‘Aye.’