Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The stationarii not on guard duty were paraded in a line on one side of the road. Temporarily detached from half a dozen parent units and stationed at this outpost, they wore a range of uniforms and carried shields of different shapes, but were ready for inspection – except that this Briton was between the curator and his morning parade.

  ‘He is ill,’ Crescens said at last.

  Vindex sniffed, while his horse started to urinate. Crescens stepped back to avoid the splashes from the long and noisy yellow stream.

  The Thracian joined the parade and watched the confrontation with amusement. Ferox’s orders were for any scouts with information to be brought to him as soon as they arrived, and the curator must know that. Of course, the Thracian had to admit, the orders had not covered what to do when the centurion was drunk off his skull, so that was a knotty little problem for the curator to solve. It was hard not to smile.

  ‘Ill?’ Vindex’s expression did not change, until with the tiniest twitch of his legs he sent his horse straight into a canter. Crescens gaped, unsure what to do.

  The Brigantian brought his big bay horse to a dead stop in front of the water trough, pushed up from the saddle and jumped down in one fluid movement. As he strode up to the centurion’s quarters, the mare was already lapping water. The Britons leading the pack horses followed him, ignoring the Roman soldiers as they followed their leader. Bare legs, shoeless and filthy, swung slowly from side to side as the leading mount passed the line of soldiers.

  ‘I need to see the centurion.’ Vindex’s deep voice echoed around the small courtyard.

  ‘My Lord Ferox regrets that he is unable to receive visitors.’ That was Philo, the centurion’s slave, a sleek easterner who looked far too civilised for a place like this.

  ‘I need to see the regionarius,’ the Brigantian repeated, his voice still loud. ‘And I need to see him now.’

  ‘I am sorry, my Lord Vindex, but that is not possible.’

  The Thracian was at the right of the line of soldiers, and could see the tall Briton towering over the little slave, thumbs looped in the belt of chains around his waist that supported his long sword. Philo’s skin was smooth and dark, his eyes such a deep brown that they were almost black. He wore no cloak, and his tunic was so bleached that the white shone. There did not seem to be a speck of dirt or dust anywhere on him, even though he stood in the mud in front of the doorway. He could not have been much more than a boy, barely five feet tall, and yet he stood firm against this barbarian who looked as if it would trouble him less to kill someone than waste time talking to them. The Thracian was impressed.

  ‘This is important.’ Vindex, the head scout, lowered his voice, although it still carried around the outpost.

  ‘I am sorry, my lord, truly sorry.’ Philo’s left hand gripped his right wrist and rubbed it, but this was the only sign of nervousness.

  ‘Which day is this?’ Vindex spoke softly now, and smiled, though in his cadaverous face it looked more like a leer.

  Philo’s shoulders slumped and he clasped his hands together. ‘This will be the fourth day,’ he admitted.

  Vindex grunted. He took a step forward and the slave straightened up again, still blocking the doorway. Crescens tried to force his way to join them, but was blocked by the two horses and the scout holding their reins.

  ‘Look, Greek,’ Vindex said, his tone combining reason with menace. ‘We both know that I am going in there and that you cannot stop me. Your master will not blame you.’ He was head and shoulders bigger than the slave, and at last Philo gave up and stepped aside. The Brigantian gestured to his remaining man to follow, pushed the door open and went inside.

  There was a crash from inside the centurion’s quarters, then another, and then the sound of pottery shattering.

  ‘You mongrels!’ The Thracian recognised Ferox’s voice, although he had never heard him so full of rage.

  More shouts, more smashing, then a sharp cry of ‘Taranis!’ suggesting someone in pain. Crescens again tried to push past the Briton, but the man and horses blocked him.

  ‘I want two men, now!’ he yelled, but his voice cracked and sounded weak. The Thracian and the man beside him stepped out of the rank to join the curator.

  The struggle inside the building redoubled with even greater noise of violence and destruction. Philo winced at the sound of what must have been a whole shelf or table full of plates and vessels being struck by something heavy and smashed into ruin. The door burst open and the scout who had followed Vindex staggered out, his face bruised and blood pouring from a split lip.

  Then the centurio regionarius Titus Flavius Ferox appeared, held in a lock by Vindex. The Brigantians loved their wrestling, although all that the Thracian had seen suggested more brute force and low cunning than true art. In this case he could not doubt its efficacy. Ferox was only a little shorter than the tall Brigantian, and much wider around the chest and shoulders, but he was bent over, arm twisted back so that all his strength was useless and he had to go forward if bone was not to break. Vindex drove him at the trough.

  With a grunt of sheer effort the Brigantian lifted the centurion over its wooden side and plunged him head first into the cold water. He said something in his own tongue and the man with the split lip joined him, holding the Roman down as he fought them.

  They pulled the centurion out of the water. Ferox was coughing up water, shaking his head and still struggling.

  ‘Mongrels!’ he spluttered. ‘Sons of—’

  Vindex and the other Briton thrust him back into the water. Crescens’ mouth hung open as he watched, but still the curator did nothing.

  The Britons lifted the centurion up again. This time he looked limp and exhausted, all the fight gone. His tunic was the dull off-white army issue, loosely belted so that it hung down to his shins, and the seam along one shoulder had been torn completely so that the material hung down. There were bruises growing on his bare skin, and a couple of old scars, one of them long. His dark hair was soaked and filthy, several days’ worth of beard on the chin of his slim face, and his usually clear grey eyes stared out blankly. There were traces of dried vomit on his torn tunic and on his skin, wine stains and dirt on his hands, bare legs and feet.

  ‘There, are you quiet?’ Vindex had switched back to his accented Latin. ‘I need you, and I need you now.’ He saw Philo standing near the door, staring aghast at his master. ‘Greek. Get him some posca.’ That was the cheap drink of soldiers and slaves, more water than sour wine and very bitter in taste. ‘And get him ready. He has a long way to ride and he may need to fight.’

  With a nod at the other scout, they began to assist Ferox back into his quarters, until he shook them free. The centurion stared around him, eyes bleary. He noticed the gaping Crescens and looked at him for what seemed a long time.

  ‘Ah, curator,’ he said at last. His voice had a rich musical quality so that everything he said sounded almost like verse. ‘Do not let us keep you from your duties.’

  Vindex shrugged as he followed the centurion back into his quarters. The other Briton went back to the trough and started dabbing water on his cut lip.

  Crescens rallied, took a roll call and issued the new watchword of ‘Mercury Sanctus’, but his heart was not in the parade and he dismissed them after only a cursory inspection. Several men, including the Thracian, decided to eat their breakfast out in the courtyard to see what happened. At first there was no sign of Ferox or Vindex and the only change was that the scouts had taken the corpses down and laid them side by side on the grass. Two more Britons came into the outpost and started to fill waterskins for the men and animals outside, walking past the dead bodies without visible signs of interest or concern.

  One of the dead was an old man, with thin grey hair and a straggling beard, dressed only in a ragged tunic with a checked pattern so faded that it was only just visible. He had a few light cuts about the face, but no serious wound. The other body was younger, taller and fitter, wearing dark wool trousers, a striped
tunic and a pair of shoes that still had plenty of wear left in them. His right leg was twisted, the lower bones obviously broken. Otherwise the young man looked unhurt, save that his head and his left hand had been cut off.

  After a while Ferox and Vindex reappeared, and the soldiers moved back a little, but stayed close enough to listen. The centurion did not show any sign of noticing them. Ferox was pale, his eyes bloodshot and sunken. He was wearing closed boots, trousers and a deep red tunic with a padded jerkin on top. The centurion walked like an old man, but there was some trace of his normal hard-eyed gaze as he stared at the body of the old man.

  ‘Any sign of the boy?’ he asked Vindex. The regionarius was frowning, giving the impression that thought was a great effort, and talking an even greater feat of strength and will.

  Vindex shook his head.

  With a grunt, the centurion went to the other corpse and prodded it with his boot. ‘Don’t think I know this one,’ he said, his voice flat.

  ‘Nor me,’ Vindex agreed. ‘But I reckon he used to be taller.’

  After a while Ferox leaned over to inspect the broken leg and the other wounds. The centurion studied the corpse in silence, his skin taking on a green tinge as a wave of nausea swept through him. The Thracian did not think that it was because of the grisly sight. The centurion swayed, rubbed his chin and mouth with one hand and straightened up.

  ‘Hmm,’ he muttered, and then added something that did not sound like Latin, all the while massaging his thick stubble.

  Vindex said nothing and so they waited.

  ‘Bad business,’ Ferox said at the end. ‘But do you truly need me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Vindex was standing very still, looking straight and unblinking at the centurion, who struggled to meet his gaze. ‘This is your patch.’

  ‘Huh.’ Ferox prodded the corpse again with the toe of his boot.

  ‘He’s still dead,’ Vindex said.

  ‘Huh.’

  Crescens appeared, coming from the small stable on the far side of the courtyard. There were four horses at the burgus, but one of the mares was not in good shape.

  ‘Good morning, curator,’ Ferox said, as if seeing Crescens for the first time that day. ‘How is the grey?’

  ‘The leg is coming on, but still lame.’ Crescens’ reply was confident, for he was a cavalryman and this was something that he did understand. ‘I would not trust her for more than a mile or two.’ That meant that Syracuse boasted just three horses fit for duty, for the centurion and the four cavalrymen among the stationarii, including the curator himself.

  ‘Today is the Nones?’ There was no more than the slightest trace of doubt in the centurion’s tone. He looked at Vindex, who said nothing.

  ‘No, sir. The third before the Ides,’ Crescens said, surprised that the centurion was fully six days out of reckoning. ‘In September, sir,’ he added maliciously.

  ‘Huh.’ Ferox was still trying to meet Vindex’s unflinching stare, as if Crescens was not there. ‘And you are sure that you need me?’

  ‘Yes, I need you. It will be easier to have a Roman with us, and you can follow a trail better than anyone I have ever met.’

  ‘Is it my fault that you don’t know many people?’ the centurion said with a shrug. ‘Are you truly certain?’

  For the first time the Brigantian looked weary as he nodded. ‘I swear by the god my tribe swears by, and by Sun and Moon, that you must come.’

  Ferox said nothing and did not even grunt. He started to sway once again, and they could see the effort it took for him to stop.

  ‘I also swear by our friendship that you should do this.’

  Ferox sighed and seemed to sag. ‘Curator,’ he said, ‘have the other horses saddled and ready to leave. I’ll take Victor and you with me.’

  As Crescens walked away Ferox spoke again, talking to the Brigantian.

  ‘We are not friends,’ the centurion said. ‘I just haven’t got around to killing you yet.’

  I

  IT WAS CLOSE to noon, only a few fat white clouds in an otherwise bright sky, and Ferox pulled the brim of his felt hat down to shade his eyes from the glare. He would have preferred rain and wind, weather suited to his mood, but the day was a fine one and he resented it, just as he resented everything else. At least his gelding was behaving, and he gave the horse a loose rein, trusting him to pick the best path down this rocky valley. Ferox needed to think, but each thought came grudgingly.

  ‘Drink before a battle if you must,’ his grandfather, the Lord of the Hills, had told him when he was young, ‘although not too much if you hope to live. Never drink before a raid.’ His grandfather had forgotten more about raiding than most men would ever know.

  They were not on a raid this morning, but they were surely hunting marauders who were and that needed the same cold head and colder heart. Ferox had led plundering expeditions and chased raiders more times than he could remember, and he knew that this was true, just as he knew that today his spirit and power were weak. So was the ability to reason, drummed into him by his teachers all those years ago. His mind was not clear, which meant that he would likely make mistakes, and perhaps he would lead them into an ambush and he would die. At least that would be a release.

  He could almost feel his grandfather’s scorn, and tried to break free from his black and hopeless mood.

  Vindex had taken some precautions without waiting for him. Two of the Brigantian scouts rode ahead of them, two more hovered in the rear, and the rest, including the two Roman troopers, came a couple of horse’s lengths behind him. They kept their distance and it was hard to blame them. Now and again Victor hummed a tune Ferox did not know. The rest of them were silent, watching him and waiting to see what happened. He sensed their doubt of his judgement and once again could not blame them. They rode for an hour, dismounted and led their horses for the next hour before remounting and pressing on at a gentle trot. They might have to go a long way and could not afford to wear out their mounts. At least the thick-limbed ponies favoured by the Brigantes were strong beasts, for they had already spent two days searching the country.

  Ferox envied the animals their stamina and their lack of care, when he just wanted to lie down for a hundred years. His head throbbed, his belly churned and he could not rid his mouth of the taste of vomit. He worried that he might throw up again, as he had when they started to trot for the first time. He had not fallen off, but when he had tried to mount up back at Syracuse he had not been able to make his limbs work. Ferox had grabbed the horns on his saddle, ready to jump up, but could not. Instead he had just stood there, staring dumbly as the gelding turned its head and stared back. His legs had felt like lead – heavy, ready to bend or crack as soon as he put weight on them. He had bounced slightly, unable to do more. It was a sign of how bad he felt that the snort of laughter from one of his men and the contemptuous sniffs of the Brigantes had not cut deeper. They had to help him on, one of the soldiers cupping his hands and bracing them against his knee so that Ferox could step on it, while another man lifted and shoved him from behind.

  Vindex was already on his own horse and had looked at him with a pity in his eyes that cut deeper than the laughter and contempt. Then his bony face became hard.

  ‘She is gone,’ the Brigantian had whispered. ‘She’s not coming back.’

  It was like being thrust into the cold and dirty water of the horse trough again, and for a moment the old pain burned bright and fierce. Ferox hated the scout, hated himself for what he had become, hated the whole world and the gods who had brought him to this place and the great emptiness inside him. Rage and pain filled him with strength.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he had said, and urged the gelding towards the gate. Once he was outside the ramparts he had given a gentle nudge and the animal willingly trotted – the whole move only spoiled when the nausea took over and he vomited. It left him empty and weak once again as he led the straggling column south. Vindex had left the trail of the men who had killed the old man to come to Syracu
se, and rather than retrace his path they hoped to find it again further on. It was a gamble, but time was precious. The scouts had lost half the night coming to fetch him, and it had taken a good half-hour before they were ready to leave the outpost.

  Now that it was too late, Ferox wished he had let Philo shave him. It was always easier to think with a smooth chin to rub, and somehow it made him feel more alive. The Alexandrian boy fussed over him – ‘Like a good Jewish mother,’ he always said, even if Ferox doubted that the slave had spent much of a childhood with either of his parents. Philo set high standards, clearly determined to make his master almost as neat and well groomed as he was, and looked so disappointed at the centurion’s constant failure to match this ideal. Ferox liked the boy and indulged him a little, if only because he was a reminder of better times and of her. He had bought the boy as a slave for her, but then she had vanished and he was left with this fussy servant. That meant there was always a struggle for he could not be too hard on the boy.

  The centurion had refused the mail shirt when the slave brought it out, knowing that if he had taken it the lad would surely have wanted him to wear his harness and decorations as well. He also turned down the helmet with its high transverse crest of feathers, demanding this old felt hat instead. Master and slave compromised in the end, and he had left wearing the hat, but with the helmet strapped to the rolled blanket tied behind his saddle. Ferox also allowed the slave to pin a deep blue cloak around his shoulders. It might prove useful if the weather changed or they were out for a night or more. Philo was no doubt pleased that it partly covered the old padded jerkin, a garment that he was convinced shamed his important master.