The others were all men he knew, and most had served in that same brief and bitter conflict. Aelius Brocchus was of average build, slim and hawk nosed, his deep brown eyes keen and his statements always precise. He was a Baetican from Gades, his skin a rich brown hinting at as much Carthaginian as Iberian blood in his ancestry. Beside him was Rufinus, prefect in command of the cohort stationed to the west at Magna. He was an African, with the precise, slightly antiquated Latin of that province, and had a narrow, eager face and a short, well-groomed beard.
‘I wondered whether it would make me look more martial,’ he joked when the others asked him about it. All three men were equestrians, the class below the Senate, and were following the usual career. Cerialis and Rufinus were in their first command, each placed in charge of a cohort of auxiliary infantry, whereas Brocchus was at the third stage and, having already led a cohort and served as one of the five junior tribunes in a legion, was now in command of one of the prestigious alae of cavalry. He was thirty-three, which meant he had risen through the posts reasonably quickly, making him senior in years as well as rank to the others in spite of the fact that all were called prefect.
Crispinus was the son of a senator, and when he finished his term as the senior tribune in Legio II Augusta he would go back to Rome and soon be enrolled as a senator. A man with ambition would seek a range of civil and military posts, commanding a legion around the time he was thirty, a senatorial province without much of a garrison a few years later, and a military province with a fair-sized army in his forties. Ferox had no doubt that the young aristocrat had ambition, and probably the connections, perhaps even the money to rise so high. His birth and his likely future made him the most important man in the room, but none of the others gave any impression of deferring to the younger man, not least because of his courtesy and fondness for self-deprecation. This was the way the empire worked, and in this case the four men trusted each other.
Ferox was junior in rank and class and had never seen any point in resenting a world he could not change. He was relieved when Crispinus announced that Claudius Super was unable to join them, owing to illness.
‘Nothing serious, I trust,’ Cerialis said, showing a genuine concern that Ferox could not find it in his heart to share. The prefect and his wife often entertained the senior regionarius to dinner. Claudius Super was another equestrian and, unlike the other men, actually from Italy. Yet his family’s wealth and influence had not been sufficient to secure him command of an auxiliary unit, so that instead he had been commissioned as a centurion in a legion, with lower pay, prestige, and in all likelihood a far less impressive career ahead of him. Claudius Super never missed an opportunity to remind others of his high birth. Ferox did not dislike the man for that, but he despised him for his crassness, stupidity and arrogance, which too often caused trouble and disturbances when none were necessary.
‘I do not believe there is cause for worry,’ Crispinus replied, ‘and in his stead we can raise any appropriate matters with Ferox.’
They spent the first hour planning the assignment of troops from each garrison to join the spring and summer’s training programme and exercises. None of the forts were to be wholly stripped of soldiers, for there was always work and administration to be done, and there was no harm in keeping just enough to mount the odd patrol and respond to any minor problems.
‘Our noble legate is of the opinion that there is no prospect of serious uprisings in this area during the rest of this year. This judgement is based on all the reports he has received, including those of the regionarii. I take it there is no reason to change this assessment?’ Crispinus and the others all looked at Ferox.
‘No,’ he said, still unsure what was meant by the abduction of Genialis, but unable to see in it hints of trouble on any great scale. ‘There is no reason to alter it. After all, the distance is not so great. Within a few days all the troops could return to their garrisons.’
‘Indeed – and come with plenty of company from the other detachments involved in the training. Good,’ Crispinus concluded, and went back to the details of how and when to move each contingent and ensuring that it would be properly supplied wherever it went. Cerialis’ cornicularius acted as the main recorder of their decisions, although there were several other military clerks with him to make copies where necessary.
Halfway through the second hour they turned to the census that was to begin around the time of the army exercises, in the region to the north. ‘We may be called upon to provide some soldiers to assist in the process,’ Cerialis informed them. ‘And I seem to remember from history that the first census on a conquered people is sometimes resented, perhaps violently.’
‘Would you like strangers coming around asking lots of questions about your family and your possessions, all the time knowing that the mongrels want to tax you?’ The room went silent save for the surprised gasp of the cornicularius. Ferox had not realised that he had not just thought the words but spoken them out loud. After a moment Crispinus and the three prefects all burst into laughter, the soldiers following their lead.
‘Fair enough,’ the tribune said, ‘the tax gatherer or the one who paves the way for him is bound to be an unwelcome guest. Reminds me of that little poem of Catullus about the worst wind blowing at a man’s house being his mortgage.’ There was more laughter. ‘Finally, there is one more matter, in fact one directly from our most noble princeps, who instructed the outcome of a trial to be read out in every army base since it concerned military discipline as well as other matters.’ Crispinus paused, deliberately overacting in feigned discomfort. ‘I fear it is all a little sordid,’ he went on.
‘Well, that should brighten things up.’ Rufinus was smirking and the other two prefects chuckled.
‘Yet it is a sad tale, of betrayal and infidelity. I almost feel I should set it to verse!’ That brought open laughter. Ferox clenched the fingers of his right hand as tightly closed as he could.
‘There is – I am tempted to say was as it sounds like a story – a young aristocrat just come back from his time as tribune in a legion. Now where have I heard that before.’ There was more laughter, and the prefects were enjoying it. The clerks looked bored and were still scratching away to finish their notes. Ferox decided a smile was appropriate.
‘In this case the legion was in Syria. Hot climate, you know, eastern passions and dark appetites, so the setting will give you warning. Now our young tribune was married to a young lady called Gallitta. Well, there’s no law against that, although the wise young tribune remains unattached so that he can devote all his strength and intelligence to serving as a soldier.’
‘Of course,’ Brocchus cut in, the words dripping with sarcasm. Most senior tribunes did as little work and spent as little time with their legion as possible.
‘They were young and in love.’ Crispinus almost sang the words as he ignored the interruption. ‘And the thought of parting for months or years was too much to bear, so the dutiful wife packs up all her perfumes, her silks, her intimate things, and follows her husband to Antioch. Little more than a blushing bride, her innocence left her unprepared for life in that den of iniquity.’ Ferox felt his heart sink at the obvious direction of the story.
‘You’ve been there then,’ Brocchus interrupted again.
‘How could you think such a thing?’ Crispinus smiled happily, then frowned as if pondering something. ‘Ah yes,’ he said at last. ‘Gallitta, I recollect her now. No more than seventeen. Small girl, a little plump, but in the right places. Generous hearted, if I recall. That, I fear, is part of the tragedy.
‘Alas, when he arrived our young hero did his best to be diligent, working hard, and accepting missions away whenever he was ordered by his superiors. That was the problem. Poor little Gallitta was left at his house in the legion’s base, so close to Antioch, alone with her perfumes, her intimate things, and her silks. Fortunately, there were kind folk to console her. One was a centurion – well, we all know what they’re like.�
� He pretended to notice Ferox sitting in the corner of the room for the first time. ‘Of course, not all of them, dear Flavius Ferox.’
‘Centurions are the pillars of the army,’ Brocchus said flatly, while the others grinned.
‘Well, the pillar in question was a bit crooked, but a mature man and vigorous in every way, while ardent in his determination to console the lonely wife.’ Crispinus spread his hands apologetically. ‘I am tempted to add consoling her several times a night and in the afternoons as well, but that would be to embellish too far the raw judgement and summary sent from Rome. Such lewdness is inappropriate, for I have no wish to shock the delicate mind of the cornicularius either.’ The prefect’s clerk had been giving the speech his rapt attention for some time now, his work forgotten.
‘As comedy must teach us to beware, the husband came home earlier than expected, in time to see this pillar of the army scrambling out of the window. Once again, I shall refrain from adding details from my sordid imagination.’
‘You can leave it to our sordid imaginations,’ Rufinus said.
Cerialis grinned. ‘Speak for yourself,’ he said, patting the other man on the shoulder.
‘The tribune went to the legate of the province to complain, and the governor wrote to the emperor to report this breach of discipline, which so undermined the hierarchy of the army – not to mention the sacrosanct and honoured institution of marriage. To cut a long story short…’
‘Bit late for that,’ Rufinus whispered loudly.
‘As I say, to cut a long story short, the centurion is dishonourably discharged, and sent in exile in perpetuity, unless the emperor chooses to change his mind. He’s gone to Tomi, so can no doubt console himself with following in the footsteps of Ovid.’
‘One shagger after another, and good riddance to them both,’ Rufinus said. For the first time Cerialis looked a little shocked, evidently at the word not the sentiment.
‘What distressed the emperor was that the betrayed husband now thought the matter solved. With his rival packed off to dwell among the barbarians, he settled back to domestic bliss – no doubt several times each night and so on… It was up to the Lord Trajan to remind him that adultery cannot be committed by one person on their own. Back in Rome the former tribune was ordered to make a formal accusation against the affectionate Gallitta, who was of course found guilty. As a blushing new divorced woman, she is now in exile – of course somewhere a long away from Tomi as well as from Italy.’
‘Any chance it’s Britannia?’ Rufinus said, licking his thin lips underneath his beard and laughing with the others.
Crispinus hushed them and made his face serious. ‘The point of all this is to emphasise the dangers to military discipline and the good of the empire that come from such gross misbehaviour. The centurion brought shame on his rank and the army. Not only has the emperor decreed that his offence and punishment be announced throughout the army, but he is also to be named, so that all shall know of his dishonour. And that name is…’ He paused, shook his head and reached down for one the tablets on the table. ‘Ah yes, it is Titus Flavius Ferox.’
Ferox jerked upright in his seat before he could stop himself and banged his knee against a table leg, hissing with the pain.
‘Dear me no, that’s the wrong note,’ Crispinus said as the others roared with laughter. ‘It is Caius Julius Similis. My apologies, friend Ferox, of course no one would ever imagine that you would behave in so shameful a manner. Will you forgive me?’
‘Of course, my lord,’ he said, laughing along with the others because it would have been odd if he had not joined in. Junior officers were obliged to share the humour of their superiors.
The consilium finished on this cheerful note. Ferox left, heart still pounding, and trying to convince himself that it was all just coincidence. Crispinus was a clever man, a politician to the bone, who loved intrigue. The year before last Ferox had wondered whether he was one of the men conspiring to replace Trajan with another emperor. The tribune’s uncle, Neratius Marcellus, had been willing to consider the possibility, believing that his nephew was the sort of man to end up on the winning side, whichever side it might me. Ferox was still not sure that the young aristocrat was wholly innocent, and suspected the governor also harboured a few doubts. Could Crispinus know about his night with Sulpicia Lepidina? Was all this long oration meant as a hint, just like their earlier conversation? The tribune was a man to store knowledge, keeping it for when it might be useful.
Ferox left the principia, thinking that everything had been so much simpler when he was far off in the north away from Rome and Romans.
V
A VISIT TO the prisoners proved fruitless. There was a range of buildings behind the granaries, mostly used as workshops and for storing equipment, but at one end it was divided into a dozen cells, each fitted with heavily barred windows and a solid door. Most were empty at the moment for there was only a handful of soldiers confined for various delinquencies. The brothers were on their own, Segovax lying out on the straw and rush carpeting, muttering and twitching in a fevered sleep.
‘Medicus says they’ll know in a day or two whether or not he makes it, sir,’ the guard told him, in a tone of utter indifference to the outcome.
The Red Cat sat on his haunches beside his brother, chanting too softly to catch the words. There was no window in their cell, and with just the light through the little opening in the door Ferox could see no more than his outline. He did not need to see it to sense the man’s hatred and knew at once that there was no point asking any questions.
‘Which one is posted to me?’ he asked the guard.
‘In the corner cell, sir. He’s got twenty days, breaking and carrying rocks at the quarry starting from tomorrow. Do you want to see him, sir?’
‘It can wait.’ Men detached from their units as stationarii were occasionally sound men, keen and eager. More often they were ones their units did not want, the drunks, the undisciplined, the incorrigible brawlers, the thieves, the queers and the lazy. He would have to wait and see what this one was like, and the other, if the man ever recovered consciousness.
Ferox wanted to be away from Vindolanda, so returned to the principia and asked for Frost to be brought to him. Tomorrow was the eighth day after the Ides of April and the birthday of the City of Rome, which meant the sacrifice of a pale, well-fattened cow and other ceremonies. It did not matter that there was scarcely anyone from Rome or Italy in the fort, and that apart from Cerialis and a few of the other officers, the Batavians were not Roman citizens, still they would parade and hear prayers and make offerings for the growth and harmony of the city. It was the way of the army, wherever it was based, but Ferox was eager not to be invited to stay, for Cerialis was bound to host a dinner and there was a risk that he would be invited.
The horse arrived quickly, and apart from a short conversation about nothing with one of the centurions of the cohort, he saw no one else he knew. It had rained overnight, so the main roads of the fort were even muddier than usual, and there was a fatigue party of soldiers out filling in runs left by carts and packing the earth down flat. He rode off, aware that his horse was leaving fresh prints in the mud. He noticed one of the workers rolling his eyes and gave the man a nod in response for he remembered fighting alongside him against the Stallion’s men. The soldier recognised him and grinned. The party were all Tungrians, part of the small rump of cohors I Tungrorum left at Vindolanda, with the records of a much-depleted unit that was scattered in small detachments all around the province.
Riding out of the gate always brought a moment of relief for any soldier, at least when times were peaceful, but Ferox kept Frost at a brisk walk as he made his way through the narrow-fronted shops, bars and houses of the canabae. A fine rain started to fall, even though the sun was bright ahead of him, and it turned swiftly into a heavy shower. People scattered, running for shelter where they could find it. Ferox pulled his broad-brimmed hat down more tightly and checked that the brooch held
his cloak securely. The rain did not last long, and by the time he was at the edge of the settlement it had stopped. One of the last buildings was unique because it was built partly from stone and had two storeys, and even more because it was the most expensive brothel for well over fifty miles in any direction. It was run by Flora, an old friend, but she did not like anyone to call on her without an appointment so he rode past. On his right was the temple of Silvanus, a tall square building surrounded by a veranda on each side. The entrance was a simple archway, and in front of it a four-wheeled raeda carriage waited.
Frost must have sensed her rider shift in the saddle for the mare stopped. The raeda was owned by Cerialis. It was the same one Sulpicia Lepidina had been travelling in when she had been ambushed on the road to Coria. Once before he had seen it in this place, when the lady visited the temple to make an offering and to spend time in its silence. On that occasion, she had appeared just as he and Vindex were passing, and he had spoken to her and as always felt himself struggling to keep his balance.
Ferox kicked the horse angrily in the sides. She snorted, shook her head, and lurched into an ungainly canter. He recovered, calming her, and brought her back to a brisk walk. Lingering here might seem suspicious, while hurrying past might appear equally odd as well as rude. He tried not to stare at the temple as he passed. The lady’s maid waited in the shade and shelter of the veranda, just as she had done when they had met here the first time. The girl saw him, and bowed her head respectfully. It was good Vindex was not here, for he was bound to have leered or called out, or worse still wanted to wait. There was no sign of Sulpicia Lepidina. The horse walked on, leaving the temple behind. There were the usual beggars and vagrants clustered by the road, some even in the cemetery on the left. He scanned the hunched, filthy and crippled figures as he always did these days. Acco had travelled among them in years gone by, but he was not there.
The Encircling Sea Page 6