VINDOLANDA
Adrian Goldsworthy
www.headofzeus.com
About Vindolanda
AD 98
VINDOLANDA
A FORT ON THE EDGE OF THE ROMAN WORLD
The bustling army base at Vindolanda lies on the northern frontier of Britannia and the entire Roman world.
In just over twenty years time, the Emperor Hadrian will build his famous wall. But for now defences are weak as tribes rebel against Rome, and local druids preach the fiery destruction of the invaders.
It falls to Flavius Ferox, Briton and Roman centurion, to keep the peace. But it will take more than just a soldier’s courage to survive life in Roman Britain.
Vindolanda is the first Roman novel from the bestselling non-fiction author of Caesar.
Contents
Welcome Page
About Vindolanda
Dedication
Place Names
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Historical Note
Endpapers
Glossary
About Adrian Goldsworthy
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
For Siân
Place Names
Bremenium: High Rochester
Bremesio: Piercebridge
Coria: Corbridge
Corinium: Cirencester
Eboracum: York
Gades: Cadiz in Spain
Londinium: London
Lugdunum: Lyon in France
Luguvallium: Carlisle
Magna: Carvoran
Trimontium: Newstead
PROLOGUE
11 September AD 98
THE RIDERS CAME from the north, black shapes in the darkness, and the few people who saw them kept out of their way and did not dare to call out a challenge. A band of men abroad at this hour were more than likely warriors or thieves or both. These ones moved with purpose, and that could mean many things. They came suddenly into a dell, scattering the dozen sheep that were grazing there, and the shepherd yelled out in anger before fear made him fall silent. The horsemen rode past, ignoring him and his animals. Half an hour later they came to a shallow valley, and the men urged their tired mounts into a canter. It was nearly dawn.
There was a Roman outpost in the valley, but the sentry standing on the tower over its single gateway did not see them for some time. He was a Thracian, tired at the end of a long watch and not expecting anything to happen because nothing much ever happened here. There might be the odd feud and murder, and the inevitable thefts of livestock, but not any real trouble. With twenty-three years’ service under his belt, that was why the Thracian had applied for the posting. He had two more years left to go before his discharge. That meant becoming a Roman citizen, freedom from the army’s rules, and… After such a long time it was hard to picture life outside the army. He was not quite sure what it would mean, but wanted to live to find out, which meant that quiet was good, and at times it was so quiet here that it seemed the army and the wider world had forgotten all about them.
The outpost was as small and insignificant as any he had ever seen. For an army whose units loved to proclaim that they had built anything, the painted sign above the gate was unusual and merely stated that Legio II Adiutrix had made this burgus – they did not say when or why, neither did any officer claim credit for supervising the work. The notice was plain and the lettering small, giving the impression that the legionaries were not proud of the deed, and the Thracian did not blame them, neither did he wonder why the whole legion had left Britannia and cleared off to the Danube soon afterwards. This was a half-forgotten dunghill in the middle of nowhere in the empire’s most northerly province, and II Adiutrix had not even bothered to do a decent job.
It was supposed to be eighty-five feet square, but the side walls were nearly a double pace different in length and the front and back not much better. Long hours of guard duty, day after day and night after night, meant that the Thracian knew every inch of the place, and every creak in the walkway and crack in the timber where the legionaries had used green wood because they had wanted the job over with and had not waited for seasoned supplies to arrive. One of the planks of the tower’s platform was spongy underfoot and would give way sooner or later. He had the happy hope that the new acting curator Crescens would be standing on it when it did. The Thracian smiled at the thought, turned to face the east and then raised hand to forehead and promised to pour a libation to the Rider God of his people if only it would happen.
As if in answer a sliver of burning orange light appeared over the top of the hill behind the fort and made him blink. Dawn was coming, and the Horseman was galloping through the heavens, his hound running alongside as they drove the stars from the sky and let the sun bring a fresh day to the world. A moment later he heard Crescens’ voice raised in anger, bawling at one of the slaves for no good reason.
‘That’s him, lord,’ the Thracian muttered. ‘Know you’re busy, but the bastard has it coming.’
The little garrison was stirring, apart from the centurion whose quarters were set up against the far wall. No one had seen the officer for three days – or heard him since the last burst of singing on the second morning. It happened every month or so, and by now the Thracian knew the pattern, and guessed that the centurion Flavius Ferox would be half sober by tonight, or maybe tomorrow morning.
Most of the time Ferox did not drink a lot by army standards, and did his job well. He was centurio regionarius, the centurion in charge of the region around here, tasked with keeping the peace and the rule of law, so that the army knew what was going on and the locals were content and willing to settle their disputes without lopping each other’s heads off. Ferox was a Briton, albeit from a tribe living far away in the south-west, and although men said that this was why the locals trusted him, the Thracian doubted that it was the main reason. The centurion was a hard man, grim-faced, but was known for keeping his word and never giving up. They told stories of how he had chased fugitives for weeks on end and over hundreds of miles and almost always got them. Once he went to the far north in the dead of winter and came back with a young warrior accused of raping and murdering the wife of a Roman trader – and then testified at the trial on behalf of the captive and proved that he was innocent and the Roman guilty. Not everyone thanked him for that, but the warrior’s relatives did, and word spread that the centurion prized the truth. It did not matter too much, for they never caught the husband, who had slipped away to Gaul, protected by influential friends.
The Thracian did not know whether any of this was true, for the army always had far more rumours than it had soldiers. Men also said that Ferox had once been a great hero and perhaps that was true, for the harness he occasionally wore over his mail was heavy with disc-shaped phalerae, torcs and other awards for valour. Others whispered that he was unlucky, and that disasters seemed to happen when he was around, with legions cut to pieces by the Dacians
and Germans.
All that was long ago. Ferox had been at this outpost for seven years and nothing bad had happened. Nothing much had happened at all. The Thracian did not know whether a weakness for drink was why the centurion had been sent here in the first place or whether the damp monotony since had turned him to it. Still, Ferox was a Briton and they were an odd lot, so perhaps he liked this hole and was just prone to melancholy. When he arrived, he had had someone paint a much bigger sign with the word SYRACVSE in tall elegant letters, and had had this nailed above the message left by II Adiutrix. No one even pretended to know why.
The light was growing, and it was nearly day, which meant that the Thracian’s four hours on guard would soon be over. Built for some fifty men and a dozen horses and mules, the outpost Syracuse now had less than half that number, and so Crescens had decided to inflict double watches on everyone since Ferox had shut himself away. The curator was parading his little power as garrison commander, picking on all those he did not like. Fortunately, that was just about everyone, so that the burden was shared. The man had barely served five years, but looked eager and could write in a clear hand, so would probably get promotion sooner or later, instead of this temporary post, which did not grant a man any permanent rank.
Stamping his feet to bring them back to life – and taking care to step over the soft plank – the Thracian went to the parapet on the outer side of the tower and looked out across the valley. The small village on the far side seemed quiet, although no doubt the women were stirring the hearth fires back into life. A few boys drove little clusters of cattle down to the stream.
‘Omnes ad stercus,’ the Thracian groaned, too tired for anger, but not for fear. ‘Boy,’ he hissed at the young sentry standing outside the little fort. The pair of them had shared this long watch, and as the senior man he had taken the ramparts and tower. The regulations for the army set down by the divine Augustus and repeated by every Caesar since then stated that a picket must always be maintained in the open outside each gate of a camp. Men on that duty were oath-bound to stand their ground even in the face of overwhelming odds, and were there to warn the garrison of danger. ‘What if the barbarians come?’ asked the new recruit in one of the army’s oldest jokes. ‘Just make plenty of noise while they’re killing you,’ was the centurion’s answer.
The young sentry did not move, so was true to his pledge at least. He was also just where he should be, standing three paces in front of the ditch and to the right of the track leading up to the gate, but he was far too still.
‘Boy!’ the Thracian tried again, a little louder.
The lad stayed as he was, the butt of his spear planted firmly on the ground, the shaft against his shoulder to rest his weight. With his dark cloak gathered around him and shield propped against his legs, only his stillness and the slump of his helmeted head gave him away. The Thracian knew every soldier’s trick and this was an old and dangerous one. One of the most important things a recruit had to learn was to nap whenever and wherever he got the chance, because the army never minded getting you up at all hours. Sleep was precious, almost as precious as food. A knack for sleeping while standing up was rare and sometimes useful, but a dangerous curse for a man on sentry duty.
‘Wake up, you daft sod, or they’ll have the skin off your back!’ The Thracian spat the words out and then looked nervously back into the courtyard in case someone had heard. There were half a dozen men out in the street, fiddling with their equipment and adjusting buckles, but no one was paying him particular attention. The closed gate meant that they could not see the lad outside, but once the sun cleared the crest of the hill then it was the Thracian’s duty to ring the brass bell to mark the end of the night watches and the beginning of a new day. As the garrison was roused and the gate opened, he would shift the wooden peg on the board beside it to show that it was now the third day before the Ides of September. A pair of sentries would come to relieve them, morning parade would be held, orders and a new password issued, and only after that was there a chance of some food. Nothing much changed whether the garrison held a whole legion or a couple of dozen men, so even here the army’s day started in the same way as it did everywhere else.
He had to act quickly, for Crescens was bound to blame him for not keeping the youngster awake. He could tell that the curator was itching to lay formal charges against someone and earn them a beating or worse.
‘Sonny!’ the old soldier tried again, calling as loud as he dared. His foot kicked something across the floor. It was an apple core, left by one of the earlier sentries – probably that mucky bugger Victor. Propping his spear against the wooden parapet, he bent over to grab it.
As the Thracian straightened up, movement out in the valley caught his eye, and at last he saw the horsemen, no more than half a mile away, coming on at a brisk trot. There were little dots in his eyes as he stared at the rapidly approaching figures – at least ten and not more than twenty. The rising sun glinted red off helmets and spear points, which meant that they were well armed, but they did not ride in a neat column – more like a swarm – and that surely meant that they were Britons.
The Thracian had not seen an enemy since he had come here, back in the winter. He strained to see more clearly, in case this was about to change, while praying that it was not. The Britons swept past the herd boys and their cows, ignoring them, and the children did not seem to be afraid of them, which was a good sign.
The leading rider was a tall man on a big horse and even though he could not make out his face, the Thracian recognised him and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Vindex, leader of the scouts who served with the army. He and his men were frequent visitors, and the centurion often rode out with them, but they had not been here for nearly a month.
‘Tower, there!’ Crescens yelled up from the courtyard, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Anything to report?’
‘Omnes ad stercus,’ the Thracians said wearily. There was no more time. Taking just a moment to aim, the Thracian lobbed the apple core, and felt considerable satisfaction when it struck the shallow neck guard of the boy’s iron helmet. The young sentry jerked awake with a grunt, still groggy as he turned and looked up, his face very pale.
‘Do your job, boy,’ the Thracian shouted, pointing at the horsemen. It no longer mattered if he made any noise. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Riders coming in!’
Below him the lad was still sluggish as he looked in that direction. He stared for a moment, and then gasped, dropping his spear. The Thracian laughed as the boy, gaping, raised his own arm to point, the movement making his shield fall flat on the grass.
‘Yes, I know,’ the old soldier said under his breath, ‘I see ’em. And how’s your laundry doing, sonny-boy?’
The horsemen were close enough to count fourteen riders and three more horses carrying burdens. The sun had cleared the hill and cast long shadows behind them as they pounded up the path towards the gate. The Thracian stepped over to the bell and rang it six times to announce the rising of the sun. He waited for three breaths before ringing it again to sound the alarm, not that he thought there was anything to worry about, but because that was the rule.
‘Scouts coming in,’ he shouted down into the courtyard. ‘Open the gate!’
Crescens glared up because the order was given without consulting him, but the Thracian knew exactly what the regulations said. Vindex kicked his horse and cantered past the flustered young sentry and through the entrance way just as the gate opened. The Thracian grinned, poking his fingers through the little gap where the cheek pieces of his helmet met and scratching his beard. They had style, some of these Britons, you had to give them that.
The rest of the horsemen halted outside. Like their leader the scouts were Brigantes, warriors from the big tribe that held a great swathe of northern Britannia, and loyal allies of Rome for some time now. Slim-faced, tall and rangy, they sat straight-backed as statues in their saddles, staring impassively down at the young sentry. Most of them had thick mous
taches, although none as full as the great brown whiskers of their leader. Each wore an old-fashioned army-issue helmet, the bronze types with a straight neck guard, modest peak and topped by a blunt spike, the style that the legions had stopped wearing half a century ago. Only the leader had a mail shirt, but every man had a sword on his right hip, though these were every shape and size from long local blades to infantry- and cavalry-issue patterns. The shields were even more mixed and painted in bright colours, some with pictures of animals on them.
The young sentry looked as if he was trembling as he stared at the silent warriors, and at last one grinned, and then they were all laughing and talking while some swung down to the ground. Brigantes talked a lot – at least compared to other Britons. The Thracian noticed that two of them had been riding double – never a comfortable thing, especially for the one behind – and then saw that two more of the scouts were heading into the fort on foot, each one leading a pack horse.
With much stamping of hobnailed boots, the Thracian’s relief arrived.
‘Longinus reporting as guard to the gate-tower,’ the man announced. He was a thickset Tungrian, his broken nose and scarred face hiding a gentle character. ‘Anything to report, brother?’
The Thracian was not really listening. As the two pack horses came towards the gateway he saw that each bore a corpse hidden under a blanket. The side of one of the animals was caked with dried blood. It seemed that things were not so quiet after all.
‘What?’ he said after a moment, realising that Longinus was staring. ‘Oh, you know, the usual – omnes ad stercus.’
His relief blinked, but the Thracian did not bother to explain. He went down the ladder on to the rampart and headed for the steps down into the courtyard, where Vindex sat his horse in front of the curator, staring down at the man.
‘I need the centurion.’ The Brigantian’s Latin was clear in spite of an accent that gave the words a brusque, guttural tone. ‘Is he here?’ Vindex’s face was long, almost horse-like, the skin so tight that every muscle and each line of his skull and jaw was stark. It was a face to terrify children and unsettle most men, the face of a ghost or devil, only softened a little by the luxuriant and well-combed moustache. Crescens hesitated, and the Thracian did not blame him.
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