Vindolanda

VI

IT WAS THE sixth day after the Ides of September and the birthday of the new Caesar, Marcus Ulpius Trajan, adopted son of the deified Caesar Nerva who had ascended to the imperial purple on the same day. It was also raining steadily, had been raining since before dawn and showed every sign of raining for the rest of the long day. Ferox hoped it was not an omen, although if every drab, dank and windy morning in these parts were a bad omen, then the world would be a grim place indeed.

Bad times. A storm coming. The phrases kept going through his head.

Vindex was unhappy, although not for that reason. ‘Do I have to go?’

‘Yes.’

Both men wore hooded Gallic cloaks, drawn tight around them. The hood shadowed the Brigantian’s face and made his expression especially bleak and sinister.

‘I do not like crowds,’ he said, in the tone of a man announcing that he did not care to have his feet roasted over an open fire, but was resigned to the ordeal. They were riding to Vindolanda to witness the sacrifices to mark the occasion and the festivities to follow. There was also to be a meeting of senior officers on the following day and Ferox was required to be present to explain what he had learned about the ambush and report on the mood in his region. He wanted the Brigantian to be there if this was permitted, or at least be on hand in case he needed to ask him about anything. For all that Ferox remained unsure how much he would reveal. He feared treachery, probably by someone of high rank, and knew none of the men well enough to trust.

Behind the two horsemen trailed an unhappy Philo, riding a borrowed army mule. The Alexandrian had insisted on accompanying his master to make sure that Ferox was turned out respectably. No doubt the boy had long since begun regretting his persistence.

‘There it is.’ Ferox did not bother to point as the fort was barely a quarter of a mile in front of them. On a clear day they would have seen it long ago, not least when they crossed the ridge to the north, but today the mist and rain had hidden the base until the last minute.

‘Too big,’ Vindex muttered. ‘They must live like rats down there.’

There were dozens of buildings in front of the fort – houses, shops and bars. Wherever the army stopped, such settlements or canabae grew up, filled with people wishing to take on contracts for the army or sell things to the soldiers. It was a safer place to live in wilder country, governed by law – if a law that usually favoured the state and the army.

‘You have been to Eboracum.’

‘Aye,’ Vindex admitted. ‘Once.’ He thought for a while. ‘It stank.’

Eboracum was the depot for Legio IX Hispana – or VIIII as the legionaries usually insisted just to show that they were different. The Batavians here at Vindolanda had campaigned alongside the legion when they were first formed and had picked up this affectation.

Vindolanda was built to house the double-strength Batavian cohort, over a thousand men with a fifth of them cavalry when at full strength – which of course, like the rest of the army, they rarely were. It also had space for detachments, some of them large, from other units, and like any base individuals and small parties regularly passed through. Eboracum was ten times bigger than Vindolanda, and Ferox would be the first to admit that it did stink. The military mind was keen on cleanliness. Every base was provided with latrine blocks flushed by a flow of water and sewers to carry the waste away. Yet once it was outside the walls they tended to lose interest. At Eboracum the excrement of thousands emptied into the river and it reeked to high heaven, especially in summer when the water was low. It was the same at most bases. Here at Vindolanda the sewer pipes drained into the pretty little valley on the eastern side beyond the fort. No one complained, and would not have got far if they had tried, and all the while vegetables grew very well on that slope.

‘Too big,’ Vindex said. ‘Just too big.’ Most Brigantes lived on farms or in small villages, with only a few of the more important chieftains maintaining larger holdings. In the old days of the kings and queens it had been different, although even then there were few big towns compared to the tribes of the south. Ferox wondered whether he could ever convince Vindex of how small this was compared to the many great cities in Gaul and how plenty of people liked to live in them – let alone explain that vast, teeming, beautiful and filthy anthill that was Rome. He had only spent a few months there and after all these years the memory had an unreal, dream-like quality. He had no great desire to go back.

They followed the road running just north of the fort, the land gently sloping down. A couple of buildings stood apart from the rest of the canabae. There was a cluster of beggars by the roadside. They tended to get driven away from the houses, so there were usually a few here, even in bad weather. Some were familiar, such as the hunchback with the drooling lip, the one with both hands gone, and the two old women who went everywhere together, one of them blind and the other deaf. All started to call out for money or food, but one voice cut above the others.

‘Alms for a blessing!’ It came from a hunched man standing a little apart, leaning on a stick. His long white hair was plastered against a dark and ragged cloak. Both hair and the garment were filthy, as was the toe poking out from a hole in the front of one shoe. He had a straggling white beard and a face lined with age, suffering and dirt, but kept his eyes down, staring at their horses’ feet. A little mongrel, almost as filthy as its master and with several bald patches, was curled up by his heels. The two old women shrieked and spat at him, but he ignored them.

Vindex reached into his pouch and tossed him a bronze coin, which the beggar caught without looking up.

‘Generous?’ Ferox said as they rode on.

‘Bit of luck never did anyone any harm,’ Vindex told him.

‘Only if it’s good luck.’ He blinked as heavy drops of water fell from the edge of his hood and blew into his eyes.

The Brigantian was not listening. ‘Look familiar?’ he said.

There was a tall building just on their right beyond where the road forked and a branch led down to the main gateway of the fort. A square central tower topped with a pyramid-shaped roof of red tiles was surrounded by covered galleries on all sides, although these had large windows open to all weathers. It was the Temple of Silvanus – or Vinotonus as the Brigantes knew him, god of the hunt and of fertility – and outside the entrance waited the four-wheeled carriage. Ferox felt sorry for the driver, sitting in front, hair drenched and cloak sodden. Still, at least his luck was better than that of his predecessor.

They took the track towards Vindolanda, and as they came level with the temple’s entrance saw a short woman standing in the shelter, dark hair carefully arranged. It was the lady’s maid and Vindex gave a grin and big wink. She looked around to see whether anyone else was watching, realised that she was safe and stuck her tongue out at him. Shifting slightly and twitching her arm, the girl let her cloak part to show a bright white dress, cut rather low in front.

‘Making friends?’ Ferox said, wondering just how much time the Brigantian and the freedwoman had spent together on the day of the ambush, given her injuries. She looked well enough – and lively enough – a week later.

‘She’s a grateful lass. Hope so, any road.’ Losing two wives had done nothing to dampen the Brigantian’s enthusiasm for women.

Ferox was tempted to linger in spite of a fresh deluge of rain driving into their backs, but did not have to, as a moment later the lady appeared. She was in pale blue again and it suited her, so that he rather regretted the maid handing her mistress a heavy cloak in a grey wool even darker than the skies.

He clambered down, limbs stiff after a couple of damp hours spent in the saddle, and opened the door of the carriage. The repairs had been done well, and apart from one deep gouge made by an arrow he could see no sign of damage.

Sulpicia Lepidina smiled and then she and her maid dashed for the shelter of the carriage, each of them holding their hooded cloaks tight with one hand and using the other to lift their hems.

‘It appears I am in your debt once again,’ the lady said after clambering inside, followed by her servant. The curtain to the carriage window was clipped back so that she could see out.

Ferox bowed his head. ‘Happy to be of service, my lady.’

‘Are you well?’ She looked over him to Vindex.

‘Thank you, lady. I am much restored. Your treatment has worked wonders.’

The centurion pulled himself back into the saddle and they rode beside the carriage as it went back to the fort.

‘It is an indulgence to travel this way on so short a journey,’ Lepidina told him, ‘but on a day like this…’

‘Do you go there often?’ Ferox took pleasure in talking to her, seeing the life in her face, although he wondered whether he ought to suggest that she close the curtain and travel the rest of the way in more comfort.

‘I go most days. There is much to be said for silence and seclusion. Have I said something amusing?’

‘My apologies, it is just that someone else said something very similar to me earlier on.’ Ferox heard Vindex chuckle.

‘Today there was a greater reason. I made an offering for the recovery of young Flavius. He has a bad stomach and a fever and it has not improved after two days. I am not sure the camp seplasiarius is that skilled in preparing his potions. Apart from his back, he is a strong child, and may recover even without aid, but there is no harm in seeking help from the heavens.’

‘You should visit the Spring of Covventina, lady,’ he said automatically, without giving it sufficient thought, for the sacred spring and grove lay to the east, along the road past where she had been ambushed. ‘The waters have a potency, they say, against many evils, but then men say many things that are false.’

Sulpicia Lepidina gave a gentle laugh. ‘Yes, men do.’ Her deep blue eyes sparkled. She wore her hair simply, tied back in a bun by a deep blue ribbon. ‘But thank you for your concern.’

‘It is nothing. I can only imagine the dreadful worry of a mother for a sick child.’

‘Flavius is not my son,’ she said, the laughter gone. ‘He and his little sister and brother are the children of my husband. His first wife died giving birth to the second boy. I have no children, so I suppose that I have failed in the duties the divine Augustus and most of the other Caesars have encouraged, but my husband is father of three and has all the benefits and respect that entails.’

‘I am sorry,’ Ferox said, flustered and then realising that it would not be clear just what he was sorry for. ‘And I am sure that there is plenty of time.’

‘Perhaps, but I doubt it. I shall be twenty-eight next year, so time – and other things – are not on my side.’ When he made no reply, she leaned out of the window, lowering her head so that her eyes stared up at him. ‘That was the moment when a well-mannered young officer was supposed to look shocked and assure me that I have all the bloom of a virgin bride and that I could not possibly be so old.’

‘If you have ever glanced at your reflection in a mirror, then you would have no need to seek such praise because no words would be adequate to describe your perfection.’

Vindex started humming again, the same song as before.

‘That is a pretty tune, and those were pretty words and bold – perhaps too bold?’

Ferox had not come to play games. ‘I am a soldier, lady. The emperor pays me to be bold.’

They were passing the last building to stand apart from the others, a big two-storey house built in stone, the plastered walls painted a white that was bright even on this dull day. It was owned by Flora, once a dancer, slave and prostitute, who ran the most expensive brothel north of Eboracum, but there was nothing on the outside of the building to show what it was. Ferox wondered whether the commander’s wife knew about it.

‘I have offended you,’ she said. ‘For that I apologise.’

‘You have caused no offence,’ he said, feeling clumsy and brutish again.

‘When I say that you are offended, you will be offended.’ The words were sharp, spoken as if to admonish a slave by someone with the assurance of many generations of aristocratic blood. Then she pulled back in through the window, threw her head back and laughed. ‘You are an odd fellow, Flavius Ferox, Prince of the Silures and centurion of Rome,’ she said after a while. He assumed that she must have spoken to Crispinus. ‘Your wife is a fortunate woman.’

‘I am not married.’

‘A woman?’

‘There was once, but no longer.’ He was surprised to find himself telling her.

‘Did she die, poor thing?’

‘I do not know. She vanished many years ago.’ The words came out, but for once to his surprise the sorrow did not engulf him, neither was there much of the shame at his failure to devote his life to searching for her.

‘Then I am sorry, I did not mean to open old wounds or to pry.’ He could see no trace of regret in her voice or expression, neither did he believe that the questions were idle ones. ‘We all have our sorrows and disappointments, and may not always find it easy to live the life given to us. Things are not always as we imagined they would be, and yet the world goes on and on, whatever we feel.’ She glanced away, looking through the other window of the carriage at Flora’s place. ‘Close the curtain,’ she said to her maid.

Time was running out and they would soon reach the gate where it would be harder to hover around the carriage without inviting comment. ‘On the day of the attack,’ he began, deciding that he must be blunt, ‘you were going to Coria, I understand?’

‘Yes, sir, very good, sir, straightaway, sir.’ She mimicked the tone of an obedient soldier. mocking him. ‘Yes, I was. I was to attend the birthday party of Claudia Severa, wife of Aelius Brocchus, whose ala is stationed there. It ought to have been a pleasant excursion, and yet I found myself under assault from barbarians – then yelled at and slapped on the behind by a friendly barbarian!’

‘Once again, my sincere apologies.’

‘And my insincere acceptance.’

‘How long ago did you receive the invitation?’

‘Do you want the hour and the day – and a signed chit from my commanding officer? Well, I don’t know, but several weeks at least. It is not as easy as calling on a friend back home. I dare say the letter inviting me is in the house somewhere. I can look if it would interest you and clear my good name?’

Ferox tried to stick to the point. ‘Your departure was delayed?’

She made a face like a guilty child. ‘Yes. One of the mules got kicked and the poor thing broke its leg. After that I was all ready and then some silly girl’ – she nodded towards her maid and was grinning broadly – ‘spilled half a bottle of scent on me. I could not go reeking like a whore, so had to change. I suppose you know well what a whore smells like?’

‘I have little knowledge of such things.’

‘Huh.’ She raised her eyes to the sky. ‘Well, of course I must believe you.’ She stared at him straight-faced, and then laughed that rich, musical laugh. ‘Nearly home,’ she said, a moment later. ‘So I had better become the great lady once more.’ Sulpicia Lepidina gave him a stern look, lips pursed in exaggerated distaste as she glanced down at his mud-stained cloak, and then with a jerk she pulled the curtain closed.

They were through the canabae and approaching the main entrance to the fort. Compared to Syracuse it was massive, with double gates each high enough for a horseman not to have to lower his spear and wide enough to let a big wagon – let alone the raedula – through, or a rank of men pass four abreast. The rampart of the turf wall with its palisade on top was fifteen feet high and the wide tower over the gateways was as high again, although it was not roofed. Ferox could see a pair of sentries standing miserably on the platform on top. Vindolanda was in the process of being rebuilt for the second time in less than a decade, mainly because the previous fort had been thrown up too quickly for it to last.

A file of sentries straightened up, spears held perfectly straight to salute the passing carriage. One of the men stepped forward in a less welcoming manner as Ferox, Vindex and Philo walked their mounts forward, coming level with the deep ditch on either side of the road through the gates.

‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’

‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t recognise you, sir.’ The man stiffened to attention, without quite matching the respect shown to the commander’s wife. ‘And your party, sir?’

‘Vindex, son of the high chief of the Carvetii and commander of the scouts that serve alongside us, and Philo, scholar, philosopher, doctor and teacher from the great city of Alexandria.’

The senior soldier knew when an officer was having his little joke. ‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir. I’m sure you know best, sir. Officer and two others to pass!’ he shouted up to the sentries in the tower. ‘Use the right-hand passage if you please, sirs,’ he added.

Ferox also knew the signs and could see the big puddle and churned mud in the middle of the road behind the open gate. ‘Let the horses walk two paces then canter through,’ he whispered. Vindex followed his lead, kicking his horse so that it surged forward. Philo was confused, and when he kicked the mule the animal bucked and threw him. The other two just made it through before a jet of water shot down from the underside of the rampart. Ferox guessed that there was a gutter leading from the open platform to funnel the rain downwards and that the men on top had opened a little sluice.

‘Sorry about that, sir,’ the sentry called. ‘Nearly a nasty accident there.’ Philo was grubby and even more miserable than before, but otherwise unhurt. He led the mule behind them as they walked their horses along the via principalis, the main road through the centre of the fort. On either side were rows of long buildings, wattle and daub rendered over the top and whitewashed. Ahead of them the road met the via praetoria, the second road of the fort, which lay at right angles to it, running between the side gates in the middle of the long walls. Neither were paved and both were rapidly turning into mud as rainwater flowed down the gentle slope.

Where the two roads met was the principia, a square courtyard complex with an assembly hall, offices, storerooms and the shrine where the cohort’s standards were kept. To the right was another building, the praetorium, which was almost as big, but this time a house for Cerialis and his family.

Vindex sniffed. ‘Doesn’t look very cosy,’ he decided. ‘Bet it’s cold too.’

‘Doesn’t worry us,’ Ferox said, before dismounting and going through the high archway into the principia to report his presence. He was soon back. Men came to take the horses, and another to show them to a couple of rooms at the end of a barrack block. The rest of the block was empty at the moment.

‘It’s allocated to part of the vexillation away at Coria,’ the soldier explained. They were given a pair of rooms in the apartment at the end of the block, which accommodated the centurion and provided some office space for the administration of the century. No one had used the rooms for months, and layers of dust were heavy, even if Philo was too cold, wet and tired to register his horror. The soldier got a fire going, provided a pair of lamps and some oil for light, and then left them to it.

Two hours later, at noon, the parade was held to honour the emperor. The rain had slackened, becoming no more than a fine drizzle, and this had no doubt encouraged someone – presumably Cerialis – to hold the ceremony on the drill-ground as planned. About four hundred men from cohors VIIII Batavorum stood in three ranks, forming one side and the base of a U-shape. The other long side was composed of one hundred and seventy men of cohors I Tungrorum and a mixed bag of individuals from other units who were at the fort at the moment. None of the men carried shields or spears and they stood with their hands straight down at their sides. They were permitted to have cloaks – Ferox noticed that the Batavians’ were uniform in colour, with the infantry in dark green and the cavalry troopers in dark blue, whereas the Tungrians, let alone the detachments, were in a broad rainbow of colours. He suspected that someone was making a point. All the men wore armour and helmets and had belts around the waist and over the shoulder supporting the scabbards of their swords. There was little to choose between the two cohorts in the state of their equipment, everything polished as brightly as possible.

Cerialis stood with the officers of his cohort in front of the standards. Ferox and the others present, including the staff of the Tungrians, stood to the side, watching as the prefect covered his head with a fold of his white cloak and poured a libation on a stone altar inscribed to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. He prayed aloud to Rome’s great god and to the other gods of the city for the health and success of their beloved Caesar. A round cake, specially baked from flour of the finest wheat, was offered and another long prayer recited. The rain was getting heavier all the time. Ferox could almost hear the equipment of nearly six hundred men tarnishing and rusting as they stood and watched. The hours spent preparing for this parade would be nothing compared to the days spent restoring everything to order.

Ferox let the words roll past him without paying much attention. Trajan had become emperor when the elderly Nerva had fallen ill and died. A brass image of his face mounted on a silver disc replaced that of Nerva on the imago, the image of the emperor carried with the other standards. It was the first time Ferox had seen a picture of the man, although past experience suggested that it would not look too much like him. Trajan came from the city of Italica in Baetican Spain, and his family had done well by backing the Emperor Domitian’s family in the civil war thirty years ago.

A garlanded bull was led forward. This last part of the ceremony was probably the only good reason for holding it outside rather than in the covered hall in the principia. The bull was docile, no doubt drugged, and stood dumbly waiting in front of the altar. Most legions had professional priests and assistants and some auxiliary units copied them, but the Batavians did things their own way, in this as in so many other matters. A massive soldier, almost as big as the warrior Ferox had faced, stood in just his tunic, the wool plastered to his skin. He carried a dolabra, the army’s pickaxe, but this was a special one, carefully forged, sharpened to a razor’s edge and with a longer wooden shaft. The man waited, his great chest and heavily muscled arms tensed, and then swung once just where the bull’s head met its spine. The animal grunted and dropped on to its knees, tongue lolling out. Blood was pouring from the wound, great pools forming around the beast as it fell over on its side.

‘Good luck for the cohort, he did it in one.’ Ferox heard a standard-bearer whisper the words to the man next to him.

Cerialis uncovered his head and called on the men to salute the emperor.

‘Long life and good fortune to the Lord Trajan!’ the men shouted, raising their right arms up straight in salute and holding them rigid as they repeated the phrase twice.

‘Tomorrow you shall parade to receive the gift he promised you on his proclamation – a donative of three aurei per man!’ Cerialis’ voice carried well in spite of the wind and rain. ‘The parade will be at noon in the principia!’

‘Long life and good fortune to the Lord Trajan!’ The cheers were more enthusiastic this time, whether at the money – a quarter of a year’s pay – or the prospect of being in the dry.

Cerialis let them repeat the chant three times.

‘Tomorrow is also the anniversary of our great victory at Mons Graupius.’ He paused, looking along the lines of soldiers. ‘This will be commemorated in the usual way!’

The cheers and chants were almost ecstatic in their enthusiasm. Ferox had heard that the anniversary was the time for eating and drinking to excess.

As the units were marched back to the fort to be dismissed, Cerialis passed him.

‘Centurion, my wife the Lady Sulpicia Lepidina and I are entertaining friends to dinner this evening. I do hope that you will join us.’

‘Thank you, my lord. That is most kind.’ A hope from a senior officer was an order in all but name, though this one surprised him, as he would have thought that he was beneath their social circle.

‘Wonderful. At the start of the second hour of the night watch. We shall look forward to seeing you there. It will not be anything special, I am afraid, but at least it will be warm and dry!’ Cerialis grinned and patted the centurion on the shoulder.