Brigantia

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘I take it that no trace was found of the woman?’ Ferox asked.

  ‘None,’ Crispinus replied. ‘The description was not exactly precise, and it does not sound as if you were able to coax any more from this soldier.’

  ‘He is young, was tired and on his way to the latrine. Then a half-naked woman barges into him. What do you expect him to remember?’

  Cerialis snorted with laughter. The prefect was in his late twenties and a vigorous man, who kept a number of attractive young slaves to attend to his needs, as well as making frequent visits to the special staff at the brothel on the edge of the vicus outside the fort.

  ‘Do you think he is hiding anything, this soldier?’ Crispinus ignored the commander of the Batavians and his gaze was hard.

  ‘Cocceius has an excellent record.’ The prefect spoke loudly, quick to defend one of his men. ‘There is no reason to doubt him.’

  Crispinus paid no attention and stared intently at Ferox.

  ‘I believe he has told us all he knows, and he stumbled on all this by pure chance.’

  ‘You are sure. Some women can get even good men to do what would otherwise be unthinkable.’

  ‘I am sure.’ Ferox glanced apologetically at the prefect. ‘He’s not the brightest. Certainly not to lie consistently over something like this.’

  Cerialis chuckled. ‘He’s a good soldier. He doesn’t need to be bright.’

  Ferox bit back a suggestion that intelligence was equally not essential for senior officers. Instead he raised the matter that the others had oddly left out. ‘Why was Narcissus here, my lord?’

  The two officers exchanged a glance. ‘If you are asking why he was in the north of the province,’ Crispinus began, a hand smoothing his unnaturally white hair, ‘then the answer is that he was assisting with the census in the Anavionestan districts, as well as helping Vegetus collect revenue from tenants on some of the emperor’s estates, and also well as some matter of a legacy from the Brigantian royal family.’

  The census had begun this summer, and in time would cover most of the Brigantes and their kin as well as those of the Selgovae and Demetae who were considered formal allies of Rome. As soon as he had heard the plan, Ferox had worried that it was needlessly provocative at a time when discontent was already bubbling away and the Roman garrison of the province was known to be weak. Plenty of rebellions throughout the empire had been sparked when census officials came around asking lots of questions that everyone knew were a prelude to fresh levies.

  ‘I know you consider the census unwise,’ Crispinus continued, making Ferox worry that he had betrayed his thoughts. He was tired, and everything was too much effort. ‘However,’ the tribune added, ‘if you mean why he was at Vindolanda, he came to attend a dinner last night held in honour of our emperor’s birthday.’

  Ferox had lost all track of the date and was surprised to learn that yesterday must have been the sixth day after the Ides of September.

  ‘I was the host, and issued the invitation.’ Cerialis cut through his thoughts.

  The tribune patted him on the arm. ‘At my prompting, dear Cerialis, and it was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. So it does mean that the prefect and I, along with his dear wife and their guests, were among the last people to see Narcissus before his untimely death.’

  ‘When did you last see him, my lords?’

  ‘The dinner finished sometime before the end of the second hour of the night,’ Cerialis said. ‘Several of the guests had an early start the next morning, so there was no taste for a late night. And most of the men had been hunting for the last few days and came back later than we had planned. We had ridden hard and while that gives one an appetite for food, none of us were in a mood for prolonged discourse. And then…’ He trailed off. ‘It was not the most successful of dinners.’

  ‘Scarcely your fault, my dear friend. I invited him.’ Crispinus stared at Ferox for a while. ‘Your lack of curiosity can become tiresome. I had never met Narcissus before, but he carried a letter from my uncle, the noble Neratius Marcellus, and from other connections of mine. No doubt they had their reasons for writing,’ he added sourly, ‘but it was not because the fellow was a congenial companion. When he spoke it was often barbed.’ The tribune glanced at the prefect.

  ‘Perhaps you are aware, centurion, that my wife’s brother has a somewhat…’ He paused searching for the right word. ‘Shall we say unfortunate past.’

  ‘I am aware, my lord.’ Ferox knew that Sulpicia Lepidina’s older brother had been a young tribune much like Crispinus when he was caught up in Saturninus’ plot against Domitian. That episode was a dark memory for Ferox, who had been tasked with investigating a number of senior officers accused of being involved. All had died, whether he had shown them innocent or not. Later, recalled by Nerva, the fool of a brother had been part of another conspiracy, this time by the provincial legate in Syria. That had meant a second disgrace. This, and the huge debts of her family, seemed the main reason why a senator’s daughter had married a mere equestrian, and one of provincial stock. Petilius Cerialis was rich and known to have the favour of Trajan.

  ‘Good,’ Crispinus said, ‘then we have no need to speak of such distasteful matters. Sadly, Narcissus displayed a vulgarity exceptional even for a freedman come into wealth, and thought it fitting to make jokes about this and other matters.

  ‘My wife’s brother is shortly to take up command of Legio VIIII Hispana,’ Cerialis explained. ‘That fellow hinted that he was on trial, with a last chance to prove his loyalty.’

  That might or might not be true, Ferox thought, although it would seem a considerable risk unless the emperor was confident that the man would pass the test. Either way it was a surprising rehabilitation. Perhaps the brother had something of the ability and charm of his sister. From all he had heard, this seemed unlikely.

  ‘Worse than the jokes were the silences,’ Cerialis added and then went quiet. His normally cheerful face was grim.

  ‘Narcissus listened too closely to be polite,’ Crispinus explained. ‘It gave the impression that we were all on trial.’

  ‘Who else was there, my lords?’

  The other guests were familiar. Aelius Brocchus commanded the cavalry ala at Coria, and he and his wife Claudia Severa were old friends, as was Rufinus, who led the cohort at Magna to the west. ‘Oppius Niger is new to these parts,’ the tribune went on, ‘having just arrived to take charge of the cohort at Aballava. While you will remember Attius Secundus from when we stopped at Trimontium two years ago.’ It took Ferox a moment to remember the tribune who had entertained them at that northern outpost. ‘In contrast he is on his way home at the end of his tour.’

  None of the guests appeared the type to stab a freedman and shove his body into a latrine, however vulgar the fellow was. On the other hand they might just order someone else to do the business.

  ‘Do we know who was the last one to speak to Narcissus, my lords?’

  ‘I believe it was that dubious character, the tribune Crispinus,’ the young aristocrat said with an exaggerated raise of the eyebrow. ‘He hurried after me as I went through the courtyard and begged leave to ask a favour.’ Noting Ferox’s questioning look, he went on. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. Did I happen to have an acquaintance who might introduce him to the king of the Coritani. I said that I would see what I could do.’

  ‘And would you have done anything?’

  ‘Impudent as ever. Well, centurion, I probably would have found someone. One does not have to like a fellow like that to realise that there is no harm in having him well disposed.’

  ‘And perhaps great harm in having him ill disposed?’ Ferox finished the thought.

  Crispinus grimaced. ‘Either you do not ask or are too direct for true courtesy. Better to say harm rather than great harm, but it is generally a sound policy to grant a favour if you can. Why run a risk even of that lesser harm unless it is necessary?’

  ‘May I speak to the other guests?’

  ‘Rufi
nus and Niger are still here,’ Cerialis explained. ‘Everyone else left before dawn. My wife and Claudia Severa are taking the children south for a few months, perhaps even for the winter if it seems likely to be a severe one. Brocchus and I may join them for a while, and for the moment he will take them part of the way and provide an escort of troopers for them. Secundus will ride with them to Coria, but planned to go ahead with his own servants from there.’

  ‘That is unfortunate.’

  ‘I doubt that you would learn much from them,’ Crispinus replied archly. ‘If your mystery woman was incapable of hefting a corpse about, then I trust that you are not hinting two noble ladies might have been capable of such a feat!’

  ‘Of course not, sir. Perish the thought, sir!’

  The tribune shook his head. ‘Ah, the flat insolence of a soldier. How truly tiresome.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I dare say we can write and ask them if they know anything of importance.’

  ‘Of course,’ Cerialis said, bristling with dutiful eagerness. ‘It is unlikely to be much, but you never know. I will write a letter before the day is out and send a swift trooper to carry it.’

  ‘Does that satisfy you, centurion?’ the tribune asked.

  It did not, but there was no use saying so. ‘Of course, my lord. Very generous of you, sir, to trouble the ladies.’ Ferox hoped this face was an unreadable mask. ‘What I do not yet fully understand is what you wish me to do.’

  ‘I should have thought that would be obvious.’ Crispinus spoke like a teacher addressing a slow pupil. ‘Find out what you can about this affair. You will have to stay in the hospital for some days so you may as well earn your pay while you are there. Learn whatever you can. It may not be much, but you have a nose for the truth as good as those of friend Cerialis’ hounds for a scent. Learn what you can and write us a report. As full a report as possible in the finest tradition of this scribbling army. Do it as fast as you can and then we can send it to the procurator and that should help shape his actions, and more importantly the story he chooses to tell to others.’

  ‘Do you want the truth, or simply a truth fit for the procurator, my lord?’

  Cerialis chuckled again. ‘We shall make a philosopher of you yet, prince of the Silures.’

  ‘More likely a legal advocate,’ Crispinus muttered. ‘I have asked you to do this because I want as much of the truth as you can find. My fear is that there will be little to learn, but that is neither here nor there. If this is somehow connected to the attack on Vegetus’ people, then we should know. Do I detect surprise? Since you have failed to mention the possibility that our mystery woman was the same one who killed the two men you sent in pursuit, I felt that I ought to raise it. At this point it would at the very least be courteous to register surprise at my perceptive and suspicious mind.’

  Ferox patted his brow with one hand. ‘Wisdom of the gods, my lord. Too much for a mere mortal.’

  ‘I truly hope not. Learn what you can. Perhaps this is to do with the census, perhaps not. You have spent the last weeks warning of trouble brewing among the tribes. On the other hand I have never met an imperial freedman who was poor, and I know this one was not. Money tends to complicate everything and that may well be behind this. I do not know, Flavius Ferox. All I do know is that I did not kill the wretched man, and I will lay you good odds that neither did any of the guests at dinner. So try to find out who did and why, and we may be able to smooth this whole business over. Will you do that for me?’

  Ferox sprang to his feet. ‘Sir!’ The obedient shout was louder than he had meant it to be. Crispinus winced and Cerialis jumped in his seat. Then the prefect smiled.

  ‘I shall check with the medicus, but I am sure that he would not object if you stayed in the praetorium rather than the hospital.’

  ‘Thank you, my lord.’

  ‘Now, if the noble tribune will excuse me, I shall enquire whether Rufinus and Niger are free to see you.’

  Both of the prefects were indeed free, although they had little to say. Rufinus had met the freedman a couple of times, but the dinner was the first social encounter. ‘Bit of a tick, but you have to be polite,’ was his verdict.

  Oppius Niger was from Antioch, almost as impeccably neat as Philo and with the same olive skin and eyes so dark that they were almost the black of his name. He had a slim face and an abrasive manner. ‘Couldn’t stand the little shit. Too oily. Reckon the shithouse was the best place for him.’ He looked around twenty-three, just starting his first posting in the army after years of education and idle indulgence. Like of lot of equestrians at this stage in his career, he overdid the brusque fighting man act. ‘No, never met him before. Never been comfortable around geldings, even to ride. They lack spirit.’

  Little the wiser, Ferox decided to have a look around outside. Vindex appeared from nowhere, probably sent by a nervous Philo to persuade the centurion to make use of a wooden crutch or at least a staff. Ferox took only the stick and the scout said nothing, but carried the crutch with him. For a while they wandered around on the rampart either side of the latrine and he was shown where the torn dress was found. They left the fort and walked along to the same point beyond the ditch. The ground behind them sloped sharply down into a valley, and he soon found the trail. They followed it down, over the brook, crossing by a number of big logs laid there and then climbed the far hill up to the old abandoned hill fort.

  ‘Wasn’t hiding anything, was she?’ Vindex commented as his friend struggled up the steep side of the hill, pushing his way through the heather. Broken fronds made the trail very clear. It was probably deliberate.

  At the top there were prints from two horses and from the boots of a man. The woman had come here, met a companion, and most likely dressed herself before they rode away to the south.

  ‘No point following on foot,’ Vindex said. ‘And the sun will be down by the time we could fetch horses.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ferox stared down at the fort and the vicus beyond it. It was easier to think up here away from the busy army base. Even so, he heard the clear call of a trumpet sounding the last watch of the day.

  Vindex came to stand beside him. ‘None of this makes much sense,’ he said. ‘So, are we already humped, or are we waiting for it?’

  ‘Maybe both.’

  ‘Same as usual then. Lovely.’

  IV

  Ferox wondered what to write in his report. Five days had passed and the tribune was becoming impatient. There was some excuse because yesterday the garrison had paraded to witness the sacrifice of an ox in honour of the birthday of the divine Augustus and he had been required to attend the ceremonies and the dinner Cerialis gave for his own centurions and decurions. At least his leg was feeling better and he had tried to do a little more exercise each day. It was now an hour after noon and he had borrowed a practice sword and shield so that he could test himself at one of the posts on the training ground beyond the vicus. At this time of day it was usually quiet before training resumed later in the afternoon, and he had come here every day apart from the day of the parade. For the first few sessions he had contented himself with stretching, some short jogs, and throwing a javelin at one of the ox skulls mounted as targets at the far end of the field. Today he felt ready to use the overweight wicker shield and wooden gladius.

  Vindex had wanted to come, saying that fencing with a real opponent rather than a lump of wood would be more useful, but Ferox needed to think and it was easier to do that on his own. The praetorium was too crowded to be peaceful, and even with the lady of the house, her children and attendants away, there remained a large household who seemed always to be busy. There never seemed to be any peace, even compared to the little outpost where Ferox spent most of his time when he was not riding abroad. He had been there for many years now and it was the closest he had to a home. Soon after arriving he had dubbed the place Syracuse, after the room in the palace where the emperor Augustus had gone whenever he did not want to be disturbed.

  Eager for news from the
wider world, Ferox had asked the scout to ride over to Syracuse and pick up any fresh reports or rumours. He would have preferred to do it himself, but the tribune was adamant that he was not to leave Vindolanda until the report was completed to his satisfaction. Ferox knew that he must sit down and do it. Hopefully the exercise would help clear his mind and perhaps let him glimpse some answers.

  He began with the sword, cumbersome and poorly balanced compared to his own blade, and after some stretching made a series of mock attacks that stopped short of contacting the six-foot-high post set into the ground. There was no one else using the training area and that was good, but a straggle of children appeared and stared at him and this was less good. The oldest, a tall, raw-boned lad with hair so blond it was almost white, must have been nine or ten, the others younger. One, a little girl of four or five clutching the edge of the boy’s tunic, had a squint, which made her steady stare slightly unnerving. All were no doubt children of the cohort, hanging around looking for something to do. Ferox found that he was a good deal more indulgent of all children ever since he had become a father. Even so, he could have done without their silent scrutiny. He could not help wondering whether they knew almost as much as he did about the murder.

  For the simple truth was that in six days Ferox had learned almost nothing more. He wondered if everyone else was equally baffled and simply wanted to forget the dead man. The Batavians were a clannish bunch, and even though he had fought alongside them a good few times in the last years, he knew that he remained an outsider and wondered if they were telling him everything. Longinus, the trooper who had once been Julius Civilis, prefect and leader of the Batavian rebellion against Rome and afterwards vanished into the anonymous ranks of the army, might have told him. However, the one-eyed veteran had gone as part of the escort to Sulpicia Lepidina. Presumably he felt that no one would recognise him after almost thirty years, even if he went with the lady as far as Londinium and the big cities of the south. Oddly enough he had not been marked down for this duty, but two troopers had been taken ill with food poisoning early that morning and Longinus and another man assigned to take their places.