The villa was modest by the standards of the south, let alone the grand country residences of the wealthy in Gaul or Italy. Yet it was built of stone, rectangular with two floors and a high roof of red tiles. On each of the long sides of the house was a roofed veranda leading onto a garden with gritted paths, well tended and organised beds of flowers and vegetables. Yet beyond the gardens were wooden fences forming pens for animals, a number of simple timber huts around a big barn. More striking was the other house, close to the Roman-style building, for this was round and thatched and built on a scale befitting the hall of a great chief, perhaps three times the size of the big house in Eburus’ farmstead. At the moment half a dozen figures were clustered around it, slapping fresh clay, no doubt to repair damage to the wall.
Half to his own surprise, Ferox nudged the gelding into a canter down the slope towards them. He was not sure why, or really sure why he had come here at all. It simply felt right. One of the little figures ran towards him, waving his arms and shouting. The words were faint, but the tone was not one of welcome.
‘You must leave!’ the man was still running towards him, close enough now to be understood. He was tall and lean, with a checked tunic, striped trousers and a drooping moustache and long brown hair. Suddenly he stopped and froze, before lowering his arms, and simply waiting for Ferox to reach him.
‘Greetings, centurion.’ The man must have seen the crested helmet. ‘Forgive my rudeness, for you are welcome.’ Close up Ferox saw the heavy silver torc around the man’s neck, and that his hair was brushed and clothes clean and well woven. Clearly this was a man of some importance. He was also surprised. ‘How did you know?’
Ferox introduced himself and then Vindex as the scout caught up.
‘Our kin are welcome here,’ the man said, before introducing himself as Cunovindus, servant to the old queen and keeper of this place.
His story was simple enough, and did not really come as a surprise for it fitted with everything else. During the night a guard had been struck on the head, knocked unconscious, and then had his throat cut. It looked as if he had heard or seen someone chipping at the wall of the great hall and had gone to investigate. The only other man awake was tending to a flock of sheep at some distance from the house and saw nothing. ‘We don’t really expect trouble here,’ Cunovindus explained. ‘Our people would not dare take from us, and the fort protects us from bandits and common thieves.’ Yet someone had come, killed the guard and dug their way through the wall. They must have known about the secret chamber in the hall, and not wanted to risk waking anyone inside. ‘There were only a handful of old women there, but they were not to realise. They dug through the wall, and into the chamber.’ Cunovindus’ eyes flicked nervously, but the presence of Vindex appeared to reassure him. ‘It was where she passed into the Otherworld, and it has been sealed ever since some of her things were buried there.’
‘And these thieves dug up these valuables and took just one thing?’ Ferox said softly.
The Brigantian nodded. ‘I cannot tell you what it was, for I am bound by an oath. Those who could tell you are not here.’
Ferox did not force the issue. ‘You must keep your word.’ He was remembering the stone pillar and the carving of the mirror and was sure he knew what had gone. ‘Do you wish me to assist you, or send word to the fort?’
‘Leave us to deal with our own, my lord.’
‘As you wish.’
VI
‘Seen it before. It stinks.’ Vindex’s verdict on Eboracum did not surprise Ferox, who knew that the scout was not fond of towns and cities. The fortress of Legio VIIII Hispana was ten times bigger than Vindolanda and its vicus on the same scale. ‘Stinks of shit,’ he added later, once Crispinus was not around, since he knew the tribune had learned some of the language of the tribes. With sewers from the fortress opening into the river it was hard to argue at this time of year. No doubt anyone spending a long time here became used to it.
‘A lot of people,’ Gannascus said over and over again. ‘Why would they want to live here?’ Ferox tried to explain that many were warriors oathbound to Rome’s high king and their families and that he ordered them to be here. This satisfied the big German for the moment.
The colonia at Lindum was no more appreciated. ‘Stinks of old leather and shit.’ There were fewer men in uniform in the city, but a lot of old men who, whatever they wore, carried themselves like the legionaries they had been until a few years ago. Begun under Domitian and officially founded under the far more acceptable Nerva, when the legion was posted away, this place was reborn as a colony for discharged soldiers. The military feel of the place was all the stronger because use had been made of many of the existing buildings. They passed row after row of little houses, obviously built as barracks and now converted so that a family occupied a pair of rooms. At least these each had their own hearth. Ferox wondered who was now living in the big praetorium and the houses once made for tribunes and senior centurions, and wondered how many officers had taken their discharge here to become local worthies. It sometimes must have seemed like the same old service, albeit less crowded. Still, the huge principia with its assembly hall made a serviceable basilica for the town council, with space for courts and public records. Among the timber military buildings the newer ones of stone stood out. They were paving a square near the principia and surrounding it with temples – something you never saw in an army base. Statues of Nerva and Trajan were mounted on high plinths in the centre of the square.
‘Who are they?’ Gannascus asked after he had stared at them for a while. There were stalls set up over much of the open area, traders yelling, customers bartering and all the loafers, idlers, and groups of unruly children you always found in markets such as this. The thieves and whores were there as well, if you knew where to look.
‘They are the emperor and his son,’ Vindex said, and Ferox was glad that he did not have to answer. ‘The high kings of Rome.’
‘Is that one a war chief?’ the German asked, pointing at Trajan, who was depicted in cuirass with a sword at his hip and pointing as if he was ordering soldiers into battle.
The scout turned to Ferox for help. ‘They say he is. A brave one.’ Crispinus had confirmed the rumours that the princeps planned to lead a big attack on Dacia next spring. Ferox had fought the Dacians and their allies before, and reckoned it would be a tough task. Depressingly that probably meant more detachments and whole units being withdrawn from Britannia. He hoped that the legate’s summons did not mean that his services were required, for he had work to do here.
‘Good,’ was all the German would say. He seemed distracted, and was clearly aware of all the stares they were attracting. Gannascus stood out anywhere, but especially here. On the other hand it may have been the image of the defied Nerva. Whenever Ferox saw him on statue or coin he was left with the impression of a man thoroughly perplexed by the world around him. He did not relish trying to explain to the German that here was a man chosen as emperor because of his high birth and the feeling that he was insufficiently talented to be too much of a tyrant.
Yet if Gannascus was puzzled it was not at the vagaries of politics. Instead he stared around at the crowd. ‘How did all these people reach here before us? Did we miss a quicker path?’
The suspicion that he was seeing the same people over and over again persisted as they travelled south, even though none of the other towns were quite as big. Nothing would convince the big warrior otherwise. ‘It’s very clever,’ was all he would say.
By the second week Ferox was in the saddle as often as riding in the coach. He was feeling a lot better, and even when Crispinus joined them on horseback, the tribune’s conversation was less intense and unavoidable than in the cramped confines of the raeda. A lot of the time Philo now travelled inside the carriage while tribune and centurion endured the dust or rain of riding. Vindex found this very funny.
Sometimes, Ferox spoke to the scout and the big German, lagging a little behind so as not to be
overheard. He was not ready to tell Crispinus about the theft from Cartimandua’s old house. In his letter Tincommius had said that he had been approached by a merchant claiming to act on behalf of powerful men who wished to see a new emperor. This would not be the first time, and he and the king had met because of another plot. The high king claimed that Acco spoke of a great revolt, not simply in the north, but of all the tribes of Britannia. The old druid promised great magic to unite all the tribes and give strength to their swords. Tincommius wondered whether artefacts like Venutius’ armour were part of this and Ferox was inclined to agree. The high king believed Acco possessed other objects of power and the lore to understand their uses.
Just a few months ago, Ferox had encountered the druid. They had fought a bitter battle on a far northern island against pirates. Among them was a boy, an especially unpleasant youth whose father had become a wealthy businessman. The son had stabbed his father before he defected and found a welcome among the enemy who knew him as the gifted son of a witch. Ferox had captured him, left the boy under guard, but when the fight was over he had returned to find the boy dead. Acco had come, killed him and taken his head, for everyone knew the skull of a witch held power. It was all beginning to fit together, although Ferox was still not sure what would happen next, and how he might thwart the old man’s plans.
Londinium was a lot bigger, twice the size of Eboracum, and had a far more civilian feel and look about it. ‘Smells of fish and shit,’ Vindex said. Gulls circled noisily above the shallow valley of the river.
Gannascus was even more impressed. ‘Faster than us again,’ he said as they rode through the thronged streets past the high timber amphitheatre and caught a glimpse of the wide river ahead of them. He stared wistfully at the ships at the jetties and out on the water. The ruins of an old fort were decaying, and in places used for piling rubbish or had shacks built by the very poor. Crispinus explained that there was no longer a fort in the city, and instead substantial numbers of soldiers were billeted in a commandeered area not far from the big house that served as the legate’s residence whenever he was here. Another, larger, if less luxurious, house acted as a principia and he led them there to report.
‘Something of a novelty,’ he announced cheerfully, ‘me showing the regionarius and his head scout the way!’
September had gone, and the days were becoming shorter even here in the south so that it was dark by the time they had reported. The soldiers were led away, but on the tribune’s instructions Ferox and the others were taken to the same house, lodging high above a pottery. Food was waiting for them, and while it was probably an insult for him not to be given a room of his own, Ferox was content. ‘Tonight we stay here. I’ll take you around the place tomorrow, but tonight let us simply rest after the journey.’ That proved less easy than he hoped, for Gannascus snored as only a great bear of a man could. The others, even Philo, all dropped off one after another, but Ferox struggled hour after hour. He must have slept at some point, but he felt that he had lain awake throughout the night, staring at the beams of the roof overhead.
*
His orders were to report at the principia by the first hour of the day, and this he did, freshly shaved and so well turned out that even Philo was satisfied. The beneficiarius in the entrance hall could not find him on any list.
‘I should wait in there, sir,’ the man suggested. ‘Sure it will be sorted out soon enough. They never tell me anything.’ He pointed to a room over to the side, empty save for half a dozen folding chairs. Ferox sat and waited. The walls were bare, the paint faded and with more than a few cracks in the plaster, and offered little to divert him. He heard the trumpets sound the second hour and brief conversations as the beneficiarius outside directed visitors.
It must have been almost the third hour of the day when he heard a familiar voice and went to the door.
‘My lord?’
Crispinus turned angrily at the interruption. ‘Ferox, where in all Hades have you been? The legate expected you at his house at dawn. I am here to send out men to look for you.’
‘I was told to report to the principia, my lord.’
‘Which blasted fool told you that?’
‘You did, my lord.’
The beneficarius stood rigidly to attention, holding up his ornately headed spear and his face had the expressionless gaze mastered by anyone who meant to get on in the army.
‘Did I? Well, I meant the praetorium. The legate wanted to see you straight after the morning salutatio was done. You are late, so make sure you apologise.’
‘Would you not like to accompany me, my lord?’
‘Oh, I have far more important things to do. Now off you go.’
*
A slave governed admission to the legate’s house, and quickly summoned another who led him away down a corridor. Both servants stopped and bowed their heads as a man and a woman walked past.
‘Lord, lady,’ they echoed. Both were tall, and if there was something about the eyes that marked them as kin, no one could mistake that fiery red hair. The lady wore it plaited and piled on her head, and was in a brilliant white dress, supplemented by a tasteful amount of jewellery. She was pretty, walked with elegance and did not deign to notice the centurion. The man’s toga looked faded by comparison, but his left arm carried the folds easily. His face had a hardness about it that robbed it of being truly handsome, although Ferox suspected that it would draw women, each eager to reach an imagined inner softness. For a moment he glanced at the woman and then gave Ferox a wry smile. His eyes still had the softness of flint. Other slaves, presumably their own, appeared from a side room with cloaks and in a moment they were gone. The chamberlain gestured for Ferox to follow the guide.
‘Please, my lord, would you wait here.’ There were only two chairs this time, high-backed wicker affairs that were a good deal more comfortable, while the walls were decorated with panels of rustic scenes. Tiny farmers ploughed and harvested, shepherds watched their animals, and one lucky one peeked at nymphs bathing.
The house was quiet. After a while he heard a door open, a brief conversation too muffled to catch the words, and then a door closing again. He waited. There was an old army story of a centurion receiving special orders in a base on the Rhine. Before the day was out he was rushed away, carried south by the coaches of the imperial post. They took him over the Alps, down to Puteoli, where a ship was waiting to take him over the Mediterranean to Alexandria. From there it was down the Nile, then into the desert and along the wild roads to the ports on the Red Sea, where traders used the mysterious winds of those waters to fetch silks and spices from the Far East. Reporting to the prefect commanding the garrison there, the man expressed complete surprise. ‘Not been told a thing about you or what you are supposed to do here. Did they tell you?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Oh well, expect we will work something out in the end.’ Depending on who told the story, it took a whole year or even three years before the man was sent back to his legion, with no one any the wiser about what it had all been for.
‘Ferox, my dear fellow, you seem deep in thought?’ The speaker was short and bald save for a wild fringe of white hair. Quintus Ovidius was a philosopher and poet, a junior member of the Senate and friend of the legate, who had accompanied him to his province.
Ferox smiled broadly. He had always liked the spritely old man, and since Ovidius had accompanied them on their desperate attack on the pirates’ stronghold, he had come to respect him as well. ‘I fear I was pondering on the nature of the army’s administration.’
‘Intriguing, no doubt, though probably not satisfying. How are you, my friend?’
They talked for a while, Ovidius explaining that, although the legate was detained, as soon as he had learned that Ferox was in the house, he had rushed to see him. ‘Although I fear this reunion is soured by some sad news. Caratacus is dead. Word arrived from Rome nine days ago. I am very sorry.’
‘He was old.’ Caratacus had been we
ll over ninety, and had been frail the last time Ferox had seen him, some twelve years ago.
‘Sadly it was not age that claimed him in the end. He was murdered in the gardens of his villa in the Alban Hills.’ Ovidius had only a few details. A woman and two men had appeared late at night asking for shelter. It was some sort of feast day for Caratacus’ people, and his custom to walk alone save for a boy in the grounds from midnight until dawn. The boy fled when the guests came for him, blades in their hands, and when the house was turned out they found the old man stabbed to death.
‘Did they take his torc?’ Ferox knew the answer before Ovidius nodded in surprise. At that moment the slave reappeared, announcing that the legate was ready to see him. Ovidius followed and it was clear that the legate desired his presence as well. They found Neratius Marcellus sitting at a desk, still at work. He was clad only in a pale blue tunic, belt and shoes whose lattice pattern gave glimpses of his blue socks. A slave handed him a succession of open writing tablets, which he signed, said should be added to the pile of other matters that did not demand a swift reply, or rejected by simply scratching a cross with his stylus. ‘Tell them no.’ He flashed a brief smile to the visitors and urged them to sit. Two folding camp chairs were on either side of a table. Another slave brought well-watered wine, since it was early in the day.
At long last the batch of correspondence was finished, the slaves left and the legate breathed a sigh of relief. He was a small man, who reminded Ferox of a restless bird, always on the move, and it was strange to see him sitting still. ‘It won’t be long before Tiro is back with an even higher stack.’
‘Perhaps you shouldn’t have bought a clerk called Tiro if you did not want to spend your life scribbling,’ Ovidius said. The governor glanced at Ferox, watching intently.
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