Vindolanda

VII

FEROX STRUGGLED TO keep pace. It was an hour into the dinner and he felt bloated and his elbow ached from supporting his weight. The borrowed toga was stiff and uncomfortable, and every time he shifted on the couch there was tightly bunched-up wool underneath him. He hoped that Philo had not lied when he assured him that the garment was on loan from the slave of one of the centurions in the garrison, and that everything had been properly arranged. The little Alexandrian had been delighted when he heard of the invitation. In moments it revived him from a bedraggled wreck into a whirlwind of excited activity. ‘A pity it is not a symposium,’ he kept saying, but that disappointment aside, the slave was happier than he had seen him for years. Much to Ferox’s surprise, he produced the centurion’s best tunic, cleaned to an almost dazzling whiteness, and his best shoes, free of any speck of dirt. ‘I had hoped for some invitation of this kind,’ Philo confessed, as if he were going to the meal, but had worried that the senior officers would fail to realise the true importance of his master. The lack of a toga caused panic, and the slave vanished for nearly two hours before returning in triumph, then fussed until the centurion was ready. Philo inspected him, walking all around, with less of an air of disappointment than usual.

‘No scent,’ Ferox told him firmly when the lad produced a small bottle of blue-green glass.

‘Very well, my lord,’ the Alexandrian replied, meaning nothing of the sort. ‘But do you not think, my lord, that a slight touch would be beneficial after the rigours of the last days?’

‘You mean to cover the foul reek of filthy centurion?’

Philo said no more, lifting the bottle and reaching for the stopper, convinced of the correctness of his judgement.

‘No.’

‘My lord, please?’ The voice was imploring, tinged with regret.

‘No.’ Ferox sighed. ‘Do you know that the Emperor Vespasian once gave a promotion to a man recommended to him, but when the fellow turned up, in he walked in a cloud of scents and perfumes. Then the emperor – the very wise emperor – rescinded the commission and sent the man packing. Said he’d rather he smelled of garlic if he had to reek of anything.’

‘I see, master, but the Emperor Vespasian is long dead’ – and good riddance to bad rubbish was the implication – ‘while I am sure the other gentlemen will be properly turned out. And there will be great ladies present…’ The boy pulled the stopper from the bottle.

‘No.’ Ferox wondered where the lad had got the stuff, and thought it might be best not to ask. It was obviously expensive and unless the boy had raided his purse he could not have bought it. In the past he had wondered whether Philo had a flexible approach to the concept of property, hence his concern about the ‘borrowed’ toga.

He was glad that Vindex was not there, for the Brigantian would no doubt have found all this very funny. He was out somewhere in the fort, probably at one of the small taverns inside the walls. Ferox had warned him not to go out to the canabae in case the guards were reluctant to let him back in.

‘It must be time by now?’ he asked, rubbing his chin.

‘Almost, my lord. Although if you wish it there would be time for another shave.’

‘It’s fine.’ Ferox ignored the doubting look. He had been shaved this morning and again a few hours ago, so that even his dark stubble ought not to be showing again so soon.

‘As you will, my lord,’ Philo said, bearing another of life’s disappointments with dignity. ‘The rain has stopped and it is a clear night,’ he added with satisfaction. Ferox wondered whether the boy had done some deal with his Jewish god. At least it made the walk to the praetorium more pleasant, following the walkway of laid planks running alongside the buildings. Vindolanda was a damp place and after the rain the roads were muddy. Philo yelped in horror when the centurion stepped in a puddle and dirty water lightly spattered his shoes and legs.

The prefect’s house was large, grander than some of the aristocrats’ houses he remembered from his schooldays in Lugdunum. Only a few cracked patches on the rendering of the outside wall betrayed its construction in timber rather than stone. When he was ushered into the porch it proved to be a large room, with polished plank floorboards rather than the straw-covered earth of the barrack blocks. The walls were plastered and painted in panels showing simple rural scenes. Cerialis was there to greet him with warmth, and the other male guests were also waiting. Philo gave his master a reproving look, before being taken off to wherever he and the other servants accompanying the visitors would wait until the end of the night.

The host and guests walked through a corridor opening on one side to the little square ornamental garden and Ferox caught the scent of flowers on what was now a pleasantly warm evening for the time of year. It always amused him that the Romans insisted on building their houses this way, so perfect for giving shade from the hot Mediterranean sun – something less of a worry here in the north. Flavius Cerialis and his family lived like the gentry of an Italian town, even though they were thousands of miles away and the prefect had not a drop of Italian blood in him. He was a Batavian, like the soldiers he commanded, for the old treaty with the tribe stated that they should serve in units commanded by their own aristocrats.

Crispinus was the only real Roman in this Italian house as they gathered for a quintessentially Roman dinner party. Aelius Brocchus, prefect of the ala stationed at Coria, was slim, hawk-nosed, with thick black hair and piercing dark eyes, and was a long way from his home at Gades in Baetica. It would not have surprised Ferox to learn that the man had Carthaginian as well as Iberian ancestors. Neither could he help wondering whether either he or Cerialis had ever visited Rome. Claudius Super had been there, and liked telling people about it, as had Ferox and the remaining guest, Titus Flavius Vegetus, a very short, very fat Bithynian who had been a slave of the imperial household until given his freedom a few years earlier. Then and now he worked for the procurator, and had clearly done well out of it, with large rings on each of his stubby fingers.

All six men were Roman citizens, including Ferox of the Silures, and each wore a toga carefully draped over his left arm, except Crispinus, the most Roman of them all, who had a light Greek cloak instead. Three of the six were named Flavius, which meant no more than that they or their family had received citizenship from one of the Flavian dynasty, founded by Vespasian, victor in the civil war after Nero’s death thirty years before. Ferox guessed that, like him, Cerialis had become a Roman through a grant of the founder of the dynasty. During the civil war the Rhineland had erupted into rebellion led by Batavian aristocrats backed by Batavian and other auxiliary cohorts. The most important was Julius Civilis, an equestrian prefect just like Cerialis. Up until then he had had a distinguished record, and had been wounded several times and lost an eye fighting for Rome. At first Civilis and his men claimed to be fighting for Vespasian against his Roman rival, but then it all became messier and there was talk of an Empire of the Gauls. That made them rebels, not Romans, and Vespasian had to eradicate the revolt, but some Batavians stayed loyal and others surrendered quickly. In the end the rest were defeated by a cousin of the new emperor, a man named Petilius Cerialis. No doubt the prefect’s father had stayed loyal or switched sides at an opportune moment, and got citizenship and preferment as a reward, taking the emperor’s name and that of the victorious commander.

The ladies were waiting for them in the dining room, standing in front of the triclinia, the three couches surrounding the low table. The room was big, the ceiling above of carved beams, but the walls painted and painted quite well, for they had brought a man up from Corinium in the south. There were scenes of hunting and of stories. In one Hades in his chariot charged towards a mildly shocked – and blonde-haired – Persephone, who did not appear to be making much effort to escape. Others showed a half-naked Leda kneeling by the side of a lake as the swan approached, and Europa astride a great black bull.

‘It does make one wonder about everyday life for aristocratic young ladies in those far-off days,’ Sulpicia Lepidina said softly, having noticed him inspecting the paintings. ‘I have a pair of cats, but they are pets and no more.’

‘I am sure they know their place,’ Crispinus added. ‘Neither would your husband nor any of us wish you to be carried off.’

Cerialis was not paying attention, instead listening with pleasure as Claudius Super and the imperial freedman Vegetus praised the splendour of his house and this room in particular. Their comments were fulsome, but justified, and even Ferox was surprised to find that the floor consisted of well-laid and evenly cut flagstones.

‘I got the idea from Julius Caesar,’ Cerialis explained. ‘He used to carry stones to use as a floor for his tent.’

‘They may become a bit chilly when the winter comes,’ Sulpicia Lepidina added, gently grasping each guest by the hand in more formal greeting. ‘But it does make the place feel more like it is ours.’ She was in a dark blue dress, the shoulders fastened by finely cast brooches, and her hair in its usual bun, this time tied back by a ribbon studded with white gems. She had pearl droplets hanging from each ear and a delicate gold necklace stood out against her fair skin. Her slippers were in pale leather, a single thong between her toes and the soles built up to the heel making her a couple of inches taller. Her husband’s shoes were almost as expensive, the uppers a lattice pattern allowing glimpses of his dark red socks.

Introductions were made. Claudia Severa was dark-eyed and dark-haired like her husband Brocchus, although her skin was fashionably white, and lightened further by make-up that seemed strong in comparison with Lepidina’s. Her hair was also tied back, but a servant had teased the fringe into a row of curls and combed up the top to make it look very thick. It made her already round face look rounder, but that drew attention to her big eyes, giving her a gentle, doe-like appearance. She was in dark pink, with gold bracelets, earrings, necklace and brooches, and pale shoes, the tops of whitened calfskin. She greeted Crispinus with a peck on the cheek, standing on the balls of her feet to reach him for she was very small. Claudius received a similar welcome, perhaps a little less sincere, and it was obvious both men were known to her. Ferox and the former slave had to make do with a warm smile and a gentle press of the hand.

Vegetus’ wife Fortunata was different, her dress expensive red silk that shimmered in the lamplight, barely concealing her full figure. Ferox thought that she might be a Gaul, from somewhere in the far north-west by the shape of her face and her green eyes. She was quite tall and a little plump, but much of her weight was carried on breast and hips and she walked with grace. Her hair was so fair that it was almost white, arranged in an ornate confection of curls and combs rising into a dome. If it was not a wig, then a small army of servants had spent hours creating such a monument. With each movement heavy bangles clinked together on her arms. Her sandals were similar in style to the ones worn by Lepidina, save that the soles were built up much higher. Fortunata welcomed all of the men with a kiss – her lips soft and moist, lingering a little too long for courtesy on Ferox’s cheek. Her manner as much as her name proclaimed that she had been a slave, like her husband, although probably not one working as an administrator’s assistant.

Crispinus joined the host and hostess on the main couch. To their right were Brocchus and Claudia with Claudius Super beside them. In each case the lady reclined between the two men. The couches were large and well cushioned so that there was plenty of room, save perhaps on the third one, which Ferox shared with Vegetus and Fortunata. Both were smothered in enough scent to make even Philo’s eyes water. The freedman also spread across the cushions, taking up almost half the space. Ferox had the uncomfortable sense that he was about to fall off, the back of the freedwoman so close that he felt the thin silk of her dress brush against him whenever she moved. The guests lay on their sides so that they could see the main couch.

It had been years since Ferox had attended a formal dinner and he realised that he no longer had the stamina of the past. Food kept arriving, dish after dish of well-presented and finely cooked food. Cerialis was fond of poultry. They had small chickens, one for each diner, and two large geese carved for them by the slaves. A supervisor was always in the room, and another grey-haired slave who cut portions and served as necessary. Other slaves wafted in and out, moving silently, taking old dishes and replacing them with new, or serving wine.

‘Falernian,’ Cerialis announced when the first cups were poured. ‘I can never resist it even though there are other vintages. And after all “cups were meant for joy”.’ He beamed happily. ‘“Cease this impious row, my friends, and rest as you are, propped on your elbow, or would you not wish me to drink my share of dry Falernian?”’

‘I do love Horace,’ Claudius Super declared. ‘Quite my favourite of the great poets.’ The generous condescension in his voice suggested that composing verses was something he could do in his sleep.

‘I am fonder of Virgil,’ Aelius Brocchus said. ‘And I should be loyal to Martial of course, if we include more modern singers of songs.’ Crispinus smiled in understanding.

‘Oh, because he is from Iberia, like you,’ Claudius Super said after a moment, obviously pleased with his deduction. The man was flushed, making Ferox wonder whether he had begun drinking before he had arrived. For himself it had been a long while since the vintage mattered. Drink was something to provide occasional oblivion, and strength had come to matter more than taste. Tonight, he drank slowly and made sure that each cup held far more water than wine. His knowledge of literature was modest, not because he disliked reading but because books were expensive and bulky, very hard to obtain in this part of the world and even harder for a man to carry around. He let the conversation flow around him and said nothing. Even he could sense that Claudius Super was not well read, but believed that he was. Cerialis’ knowledge tended towards famous passages, almost as if he had studied to masquerade as an educated man.

Ferox had half forgotten how much he hated reclining to eat. In spite of his schooling in Gaul, the spell in Rome after that and the formal dinners in the army since then, it did not seem natural. A man should sit at the table – something Romans only did as a sign of deliberate denial of comfort. He felt far more at home visiting the houses of local chieftains, sitting on stools or cross-legged around a fire, or eating alone in his quarters at Syracuse, without fuss or making a great pantomime of it all.

A slave girl with long brown hair offered him fish stew. She was a pretty girl, as were all the female slaves serving them, neat and tidy in simple buff-coloured dresses and slippers. He smiled in thanks, but declined.

‘It is good,’ Aelius Brocchus said encouragingly, spooning up the contents of his own dish with evident pleasure. Ferox saw a bowl filled with oysters being carried in and felt his usual revulsion at the sight of this delicacy.

‘I am not fond of food from river or sea,’ he said, for the man’s goodwill was genuine. ‘My people believe it is bad for the soul.’

Sulpicia Lepidina chuckled gently, mistaking his words for a pun, but the sound was covered by a guffaw of laughter from Claudius Super. No one joined in – not even Fortunata who giggled whenever she thought that a joke had been told – and he fell into embarrassed silence.

‘Do you believe in the soul?’ Crispinus asked. The young tribune spent more time listening that talking, but when he spoke tended to be direct. Everyone’s face turned to stare at Ferox, apart from Vegetus, who continued to eat. Fortunata frowned as she looked at him, her face barely a foot away.

‘Yes. When you see a dead man all you see is flesh and bone.’ He tried to shrug, a difficult thing to do in this posture, and made do with moving his head gently from side to side. ‘I must apologise to the ladies.’ He glanced at each in turn. ‘I had not meant to speak of such grim things, but it does explain my sense. Our bodies are no more than meat. The spirit, the spark, the life itself leaves at death. That is the soul and that is eternal.’

Crispinus was interested. ‘Yet can it be seen?’

‘It is the life and light in a man or woman,’ Ferox said, ‘how can it not be seen? Without it we are no more than statues.’ He was not comfortable talking about such things, so hoped to end their interest. ‘You wonder whether you can see it. Well, my people say that the rattle in a man’s throat as a blade takes his life is the soul leaving. At least you can hear it.’ He did not apologise this time, largely because Fortunata screwed up her face in obvious distaste. Another slave girl, this time with black hair and golden-brown skin, appeared, offering freshly baked white bread, so he took some.

Cerialis began to talk of philosophy and the different schools’ ideas of the nature of life and whether or not men had souls. Brocchus joined him, Crispinus added a little, Sulpicia Lepidina made a joke about Cynics, and the conversation moved on. When the slave girl served Vegetus the top of her dress sagged a little and the fat man leered. Fortunata noticed, and when she turned back to face the main couch she shifted so that her body was pressed up against Ferox. She did not appear to have much on under the silk dress.

Philosophy exercised their interest for some time, and Ferox was left to listen and try to guess how much of the food he was obliged to eat for courtesy’s sake, and whether this amount would still cause his stomach to burst. The others picked at things, taking a little from each dish and leaving more. He had never acquired the knack of eating so lightly. To him it was a waste, and with meat, good bread or broth he felt a man should devour it all. As a strategy it was not comfortable.

Only for a moment did the conversation require anything from him, when Crispinus asked about druids and their teachings.

‘They have gone now,’ Ferox explained. ‘The real ones at least. We’ – this was the Roman ‘we’, but they all instinctively understood – ‘have suppressed the cult. It used to be organised, the senior druids standing outside the tribes, schooled by twenty years of training. All that is long gone. Some claim to be druids now, but they are little more than magicians and medicine men wandering the lands. Only a few are dangerous.’

‘Here you go again.’ Claudius Super spoke louder than was necessary. ‘Our friend Ferox sees trouble and druids under every bed. They’re gone, as you say, and good riddance to the murderous bastards.’

Claudia Severa’s lips twitched in restrained disapproval, and Ferox noticed Lepidina glare at the man.

‘That sounds like business and this is not the time for that,’ Cerialis told them, before steering the conversation to less sensitive subjects, asking whether there were natural philosophers and if true learning had all begun in the East.

Ferox found it hard to listen, in part because he did not care, but mainly because Fortunata had begun to shift back and forth on the couch, rubbing her round bottom against him. It was difficult to ignore, and even if he found her foolish and vulgar, she was an attractive woman. His body began to respond in spite of his distaste for her. She moved slowly at first, but as time passed the rhythm little by little became faster. All the while she whispered in her husband’s ear, chiding him lightly when he eyed up another slave girl. Still she moved, the silk smooth, almost like a second skin, as her body slid up and down against his.

‘And what do you think about it, centurion?’ Sulpicia Lepidina asked and the room went silent as they turned to look him. Fortunata went still.

Ferox had not the remotest idea of what she meant. ‘I am not a learned man,’ he said, ‘so I would not dare to offer an opinion.’

‘Indeed,’ she said with a knowing expression. Beside her Crispinus looked amused.

‘Well, one learned man is our new consular,’ Vegetus put in, speaking with force for the first time in the dinner. He had the assurance of a man with private information, which he planned to make public. ‘Our Legatus Augusti, Lucius Neratius Marcellus, should arrive in the province before the year is out.’ The imperial freedman spoke with the satisfaction of a man who had just rolled Venus on the dice.

Britannia was one of the major military commands in the empire, given only to senior senators and former consuls to command as provincial legate. The last governor had fallen sick and died in office almost a year ago. Nerva had been too ill to choose a replacement, and it had taken months before his successor made the appointment. The new provincial legate did not appear to be in any hurry to get here.

‘Well, centurion, you must have an opinion on our new governor,’ Sulpicia Lepidina asked. ‘Or are you not sufficiently learned for that either?’

Fortunata began to rub against him once more, and Ferox did his best to ignore her. ‘I would not presume to judge a former consul and my commander.’ The other officers nodded in agreement, even Claudius Super joining in.

‘However, I will say this. It will be a good thing to have a governor again. Many in the tribes see us as weak, and who can blame them.’ He warmed quickly to his theme and shifted in his seat so that he knocked Fortunata. ‘I am sorry, lady,’ he lied as she was forced to move away from him a little.

‘They live in mud huts, and yet they see us as weak?’ Crispinus spoke, eyes fixed on him, looking very alert and not like a man who had been eating and drinking for hours.

‘Why should they not? Tomorrow the cohorts celebrate Mons Graupius. When Agricola was legate we overran all the lands to the far north. A few years later we abandon them and withdraw more than a hundred miles. In the last decade a legion and many auxiliaries have been posted away. Most of the units we have left here are short of recruits and scattered in detachments here, there and everywhere. The tribes do not see a great army any more, but they do see tax collectors. The last governor died, the one before that was summoned home in disgrace by Domitian and executed.’

‘We do not speak that man’s name here,’ Cerialis cut in. Ferox assumed he meant the Emperor Domitian, whose name had been formally damned by the Senate and chiselled off every monument in the empire. On the other hand he might have meant Lucullus, the legate killed for letting a new lance be named after him. ‘And while this is very interesting, my friend,’ he continued, ‘it is once again business and not suitable for this gathering. So since I believe we have finished, I shall tell the slaves to clear away. Then, may I beg my lady wife will play and sing for us?’

A modest refusal, persistence from the husband, supported by the growing pleas from Crispinus, Brocchus and Claudius Super – the last almost shouting and clearly half drunk – and once the things were cleared away a stool was brought and with it a small lyre.

‘I am not sure this has travelled well,’ the lady said, picking up the instrument, ‘and setting up house has not given me much time to practise. That is apart from such minor interruptions as barbarian attacks!’ They laughed, Claudius Super red-faced and loud.

After some tuning and plucking a few chords, Sulpicia Lepidina began to play. The room went quiet, not simply from courtesy but because she was well trained and gifted. The tune was soft and mournful. Claudia Severa’s eyes soon were glassy in the flickering lamplight.

Sulpicia Lepidina began to sing, the words in Greek. Ferox did not have much call for the language these days, and it took him a while to understand that she sang of love, passion and loss. It was from Sappho, set to music, and her voice was deeper than that of many women, powerful and resonant so that the room filled with the song and with music. Claudia Severa wept, her husband touching her cheek fondly. Fortunata began to move closer to him again, so he stood up, wandering a few paces away to listen with more concentration. After a few minutes, the Tribune Crispinus joined him.

When the song ended there was silence for a long while before they all applauded – Claudius Super with violent force, and Fortunata with surprising enthusiasm. Ferox wondered whether she had been an entertainer and listened with the educated ear of a professional.

The next song Sulpicia Lepidina sang was an ancient folk song from Achaea. Ferox recognised the tune, but not the words, which told the story of a shepherd boy and a nymph. After that the lady turned to Latin, and sang verses by Horace and Ovid, the last a frivolous tale. Her voice had grown richer.

‘I have rarely heard better,’ Crispinus said quietly as Sulpicia Lepidina paused and took a drink. ‘She is a truly remarkable woman.’

‘“Abundantly favoured by fortune,”’ Ferox quoted from distant memory, ‘“well read in Greek and Latin literature, able to sing and play the lyre more skilfully than an honest woman need…” At least I think that is it, and I mean no offence.’

Crispinus smiled. ‘Sallust always took a jaundiced view, though our hostess might have softened even his cold heart and won true praise. Although if I recall the lady in question danced rather than sang. Like that one, I suspect.’ He spoke quietly and gave a nod and smile towards Fortunata, whose elaborate hair remained in order.

‘Conversation in the audience is not considered a compliment,’ Sulpicia Lepidina told them, one eyebrow arched in mock disapproval. ‘Now perhaps something fitting for this place and this land.’

The tune was very familiar, but Ferox was paying no attention and watching her fingers as they moved and plucked the strings of the lyre. Someone gasped in surprise when the lady began to sing, but he was intent on her playing. It was one of many regrets that he had not learned an instrument.

To his amazement he realised that she sang not in Latin or Greek, but in the Celtic tongue of the Gauls and Britons, and the tune was a favourite of Vindex.

‘And the Hound caught sight of the girl’s full breasts over the top of her dress,’ the lady sang, and he realised that she was watching him. ‘“I see a sweet country,” he said, “I could rest my weapon there.”’

Ferox glanced around, but saw no sign that anyone else understood the words. He wondered whether Lepidina knew what they meant. She certainly sang as if she did. The heroine in the tale kept telling the hero that no one would travel ‘that country’ until they had performed a series of impossible feats. Each time he answered, ‘In that sweet country, I’ll rest my weapon,’ and the story told of how he undertook all the tasks and won his bride. The lady sang it through, her eyes never leaving him.

The applause was long and sincere.

‘You could almost civilise the barbarians,’ Claudius Super told her. Vegetus announced that next time his wife should entertain them with her dancing, and perhaps the lady would consent to play for her.

‘Perhaps,’ Sulpicia Lepidina said, and her husband regretted that it was time to bid their guests good night for tomorrow would be another busy day.

‘You have a friend there,’ Crispinus whispered to Ferox, catching him watching their hostess.