‘I am sorry,’ Ferox said, flustered and then realising that it would not be clear just what he was sorry for. ‘And I am sure that there is plenty of time.’
‘Perhaps, but I doubt it. I shall be twenty-eight next year, so time – and other things – are not on my side.’ When he made no reply, she leaned out of the window, lowering her head so that her eyes stared up at him. ‘That was the moment when a well-mannered young officer was supposed to look shocked and assure me that I have all the bloom of a virgin bride and that I could not possibly be so old.’
‘If you have ever glanced at your reflection in a mirror, then you would have no need to seek such praise because no words would be adequate to describe your perfection.’
Vindex started humming again, the same song as before.
‘That is a pretty tune, and those were pretty words and bold – perhaps too bold?’
Ferox had not come to play games. ‘I am a soldier, lady. The emperor pays me to be bold.’
They were passing the last building to stand apart from the others, a big two-storey house built in stone, the plastered walls painted a white that was bright even on this dull day. It was owned by Flora, once a dancer, slave and prostitute, who ran the most expensive brothel north of Eboracum, but there was nothing on the outside of the building to show what it was. Ferox wondered whether the commander’s wife knew about it.
‘I have offended you,’ she said. ‘For that I apologise.’
‘You have caused no offence,’ he said, feeling clumsy and brutish again.
‘When I say that you are offended, you will be offended.’ The words were sharp, spoken as if to admonish a slave by someone with the assurance of many generations of aristocratic blood. Then she pulled back in through the window, threw her head back and laughed. ‘You are an odd fellow, Flavius Ferox, Prince of the Silures and centurion of Rome,’ she said after a while. He assumed that she must have spoken to Crispinus. ‘Your wife is a fortunate woman.’
‘I am not married.’
‘A woman?’
‘There was once, but no longer.’ He was surprised to find himself telling her.
‘Did she die, poor thing?’
‘I do not know. She vanished many years ago.’ The words came out, but for once to his surprise the sorrow did not engulf him, neither was there much of the shame at his failure to devote his life to searching for her.
‘Then I am sorry, I did not mean to open old wounds or to pry.’ He could see no trace of regret in her voice or expression, neither did he believe that the questions were idle ones. ‘We all have our sorrows and disappointments, and may not always find it easy to live the life given to us. Things are not always as we imagined they would be, and yet the world goes on and on, whatever we feel.’ She glanced away, looking through the other window of the carriage at Flora’s place. ‘Close the curtain,’ she said to her maid.
Time was running out and they would soon reach the gate where it would be harder to hover around the carriage without inviting comment. ‘On the day of the attack,’ he began, deciding that he must be blunt, ‘you were going to Coria, I understand?’
‘Yes, sir, very good, sir, straightaway, sir.’ She mimicked the tone of an obedient soldier. mocking him. ‘Yes, I was. I was to attend the birthday party of Claudia Severa, wife of Aelius Brocchus, whose ala is stationed there. It ought to have been a pleasant excursion, and yet I found myself under assault from barbarians – then yelled at and slapped on the behind by a friendly barbarian!’
‘Once again, my sincere apologies.’
‘And my insincere acceptance.’
‘How long ago did you receive the invitation?’
‘Do you want the hour and the day – and a signed chit from my commanding officer? Well, I don’t know, but several weeks at least. It is not as easy as calling on a friend back home. I dare say the letter inviting me is in the house somewhere. I can look if it would interest you and clear my good name?’
Ferox tried to stick to the point. ‘Your departure was delayed?’
She made a face like a guilty child. ‘Yes. One of the mules got kicked and the poor thing broke its leg. After that I was all ready and then some silly girl’ – she nodded towards her maid and was grinning broadly – ‘spilled half a bottle of scent on me. I could not go reeking like a whore, so had to change. I suppose you know well what a whore smells like?’
‘I have little knowledge of such things.’
‘Huh.’ She raised her eyes to the sky. ‘Well, of course I must believe you.’ She stared at him straight-faced, and then laughed that rich, musical laugh. ‘Nearly home,’ she said, a moment later. ‘So I had better become the great lady once more.’ Sulpicia Lepidina gave him a stern look, lips pursed in exaggerated distaste as she glanced down at his mud-stained cloak, and then with a jerk she pulled the curtain closed.
They were through the canabae and approaching the main entrance to the fort. Compared to Syracuse it was massive, with double gates each high enough for a horseman not to have to lower his spear and wide enough to let a big wagon – let alone the raedula – through, or a rank of men pass four abreast. The rampart of the turf wall with its palisade on top was fifteen feet high and the wide tower over the gateways was as high again, although it was not roofed. Ferox could see a pair of sentries standing miserably on the platform on top. Vindolanda was in the process of being rebuilt for the second time in less than a decade, mainly because the previous fort had been thrown up too quickly for it to last.
A file of sentries straightened up, spears held perfectly straight to salute the passing carriage. One of the men stepped forward in a less welcoming manner as Ferox, Vindex and Philo walked their mounts forward, coming level with the deep ditch on either side of the road through the gates.
‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’
‘Sorry, sir. Didn’t recognise you, sir.’ The man stiffened to attention, without quite matching the respect shown to the commander’s wife. ‘And your party, sir?’
‘Vindex, son of the high chief of the Carvetii and commander of the scouts that serve alongside us, and Philo, scholar, philosopher, doctor and teacher from the great city of Alexandria.’
The senior soldier knew when an officer was having his little joke. ‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir. I’m sure you know best, sir. Officer and two others to pass!’ he shouted up to the sentries in the tower. ‘Use the right-hand passage if you please, sirs,’ he added.
Ferox also knew the signs and could see the big puddle and churned mud in the middle of the road behind the open gate. ‘Let the horses walk two paces then canter through,’ he whispered. Vindex followed his lead, kicking his horse so that it surged forward. Philo was confused, and when he kicked the mule the animal bucked and threw him. The other two just made it through before a jet of water shot down from the underside of the rampart. Ferox guessed that there was a gutter leading from the open platform to funnel the rain downwards and that the men on top had opened a little sluice.
‘Sorry about that, sir,’ the sentry called. ‘Nearly a nasty accident there.’ Philo was grubby and even more miserable than before, but otherwise unhurt. He led the mule behind them as they walked their horses along the via principalis, the main road through the centre of the fort. On either side were rows of long buildings, wattle and daub rendered over the top and whitewashed. Ahead of them the road met the via praetoria, the second road of the fort, which lay at right angles to it, running between the side gates in the middle of the long walls. Neither were paved and both were rapidly turning into mud as rainwater flowed down the gentle slope.
Where the two roads met was the principia, a square courtyard complex with an assembly hall, offices, storerooms and the shrine where the cohort’s standards were kept. To the right was another building, the praetorium, which was almost as big, but this time a house for Cerialis and his family.
Vindex sniffed. ‘Doesn’t look very cosy,’ he decided. ‘Bet it’s cold too.’
‘Doe
sn’t worry us,’ Ferox said, before dismounting and going through the high archway into the principia to report his presence. He was soon back. Men came to take the horses, and another to show them to a couple of rooms at the end of a barrack block. The rest of the block was empty at the moment.
‘It’s allocated to part of the vexillation away at Coria,’ the soldier explained. They were given a pair of rooms in the apartment at the end of the block, which accommodated the centurion and provided some office space for the administration of the century. No one had used the rooms for months, and layers of dust were heavy, even if Philo was too cold, wet and tired to register his horror. The soldier got a fire going, provided a pair of lamps and some oil for light, and then left them to it.
Two hours later, at noon, the parade was held to honour the emperor. The rain had slackened, becoming no more than a fine drizzle, and this had no doubt encouraged someone – presumably Cerialis – to hold the ceremony on the drill-ground as planned. About four hundred men from cohors VIIII Batavorum stood in three ranks, forming one side and the base of a U-shape. The other long side was composed of one hundred and seventy men of cohors I Tungrorum and a mixed bag of individuals from other units who were at the fort at the moment. None of the men carried shields or spears and they stood with their hands straight down at their sides. They were permitted to have cloaks – Ferox noticed that the Batavians’ were uniform in colour, with the infantry in dark green and the cavalry troopers in dark blue, whereas the Tungrians, let alone the detachments, were in a broad rainbow of colours. He suspected that someone was making a point. All the men wore armour and helmets and had belts around the waist and over the shoulder supporting the scabbards of their swords. There was little to choose between the two cohorts in the state of their equipment, everything polished as brightly as possible.
Cerialis stood with the officers of his cohort in front of the standards. Ferox and the others present, including the staff of the Tungrians, stood to the side, watching as the prefect covered his head with a fold of his white cloak and poured a libation on a stone altar inscribed to Jupiter Optimus Maximus. He prayed aloud to Rome’s great god and to the other gods of the city for the health and success of their beloved Caesar. A round cake, specially baked from flour of the finest wheat, was offered and another long prayer recited. The rain was getting heavier all the time. Ferox could almost hear the equipment of nearly six hundred men tarnishing and rusting as they stood and watched. The hours spent preparing for this parade would be nothing compared to the days spent restoring everything to order.
Ferox let the words roll past him without paying much attention. Trajan had become emperor when the elderly Nerva had fallen ill and died. A brass image of his face mounted on a silver disc replaced that of Nerva on the imago, the image of the emperor carried with the other standards. It was the first time Ferox had seen a picture of the man, although past experience suggested that it would not look too much like him. Trajan came from the city of Italica in Baetican Spain, and his family had done well by backing the Emperor Domitian’s family in the civil war thirty years ago.
A garlanded bull was led forward. This last part of the ceremony was probably the only good reason for holding it outside rather than in the covered hall in the principia. The bull was docile, no doubt drugged, and stood dumbly waiting in front of the altar. Most legions had professional priests and assistants and some auxiliary units copied them, but the Batavians did things their own way, in this as in so many other matters. A massive soldier, almost as big as the warrior Ferox had faced, stood in just his tunic, the wool plastered to his skin. He carried a dolabra, the army’s pickaxe, but this was a special one, carefully forged, sharpened to a razor’s edge and with a longer wooden shaft. The man waited, his great chest and heavily muscled arms tensed, and then swung once just where the bull’s head met its spine. The animal grunted and dropped on to its knees, tongue lolling out. Blood was pouring from the wound, great pools forming around the beast as it fell over on its side.
‘Good luck for the cohort, he did it in one.’ Ferox heard a standard-bearer whisper the words to the man next to him.
Cerialis uncovered his head and called on the men to salute the emperor.
‘Long life and good fortune to the Lord Trajan!’ the men shouted, raising their right arms up straight in salute and holding them rigid as they repeated the phrase twice.
‘Tomorrow you shall parade to receive the gift he promised you on his proclamation – a donative of three aurei per man!’ Cerialis’ voice carried well in spite of the wind and rain. ‘The parade will be at noon in the principia!’
‘Long life and good fortune to the Lord Trajan!’ The cheers were more enthusiastic this time, whether at the money – a quarter of a year’s pay – or the prospect of being in the dry.
Cerialis let them repeat the chant three times.
‘Tomorrow is also the anniversary of our great victory at Mons Graupius.’ He paused, looking along the lines of soldiers. ‘This will be commemorated in the usual way!’
The cheers and chants were almost ecstatic in their enthusiasm. Ferox had heard that the anniversary was the time for eating and drinking to excess.
As the units were marched back to the fort to be dismissed, Cerialis passed him.
‘Centurion, my wife the Lady Sulpicia Lepidina and I are entertaining friends to dinner this evening. I do hope that you will join us.’
‘Thank you, my lord. That is most kind.’ A hope from a senior officer was an order in all but name, though this one surprised him, as he would have thought that he was beneath their social circle.
‘Wonderful. At the start of the second hour of the night watch. We shall look forward to seeing you there. It will not be anything special, I am afraid, but at least it will be warm and dry!’ Cerialis grinned and patted the centurion on the shoulder.
VII
FEROX STRUGGLED TO keep pace. It was an hour into the dinner and he felt bloated and his elbow ached from supporting his weight. The borrowed toga was stiff and uncomfortable, and every time he shifted on the couch there was tightly bunched-up wool underneath him. He hoped that Philo had not lied when he assured him that the garment was on loan from the slave of one of the centurions in the garrison, and that everything had been properly arranged. The little Alexandrian had been delighted when he heard of the invitation. In moments it revived him from a bedraggled wreck into a whirlwind of excited activity. ‘A pity it is not a symposium,’ he kept saying, but that disappointment aside, the slave was happier than he had seen him for years. Much to Ferox’s surprise, he produced the centurion’s best tunic, cleaned to an almost dazzling whiteness, and his best shoes, free of any speck of dirt. ‘I had hoped for some invitation of this kind,’ Philo confessed, as if he were going to the meal, but had worried that the senior officers would fail to realise the true importance of his master. The lack of a toga caused panic, and the slave vanished for nearly two hours before returning in triumph, then fussed until the centurion was ready. Philo inspected him, walking all around, with less of an air of disappointment than usual.
‘No scent,’ Ferox told him firmly when the lad produced a small bottle of blue-green glass.
‘Very well, my lord,’ the Alexandrian replied, meaning nothing of the sort. ‘But do you not think, my lord, that a slight touch would be beneficial after the rigours of the last days?’
‘You mean to cover the foul reek of filthy centurion?’
Philo said no more, lifting the bottle and reaching for the stopper, convinced of the correctness of his judgement.
‘No.’
‘My lord, please?’ The voice was imploring, tinged with regret.
‘No.’ Ferox sighed. ‘Do you know that the Emperor Vespasian once gave a promotion to a man recommended to him, but when the fellow turned up, in he walked in a cloud of scents and perfumes. Then the emperor – the very wise emperor – rescinded the commission and sent the man packing. Said he’d rather he smelled of garlic if he had t
o reek of anything.’
‘I see, master, but the Emperor Vespasian is long dead’ – and good riddance to bad rubbish was the implication – ‘while I am sure the other gentlemen will be properly turned out. And there will be great ladies present…’ The boy pulled the stopper from the bottle.
‘No.’ Ferox wondered where the lad had got the stuff, and thought it might be best not to ask. It was obviously expensive and unless the boy had raided his purse he could not have bought it. In the past he had wondered whether Philo had a flexible approach to the concept of property, hence his concern about the ‘borrowed’ toga.
He was glad that Vindex was not there, for the Brigantian would no doubt have found all this very funny. He was out somewhere in the fort, probably at one of the small taverns inside the walls. Ferox had warned him not to go out to the canabae in case the guards were reluctant to let him back in.
‘It must be time by now?’ he asked, rubbing his chin.
‘Almost, my lord. Although if you wish it there would be time for another shave.’
‘It’s fine.’ Ferox ignored the doubting look. He had been shaved this morning and again a few hours ago, so that even his dark stubble ought not to be showing again so soon.
‘As you will, my lord,’ Philo said, bearing another of life’s disappointments with dignity. ‘The rain has stopped and it is a clear night,’ he added with satisfaction. Ferox wondered whether the boy had done some deal with his Jewish god. At least it made the walk to the praetorium more pleasant, following the walkway of laid planks running alongside the buildings. Vindolanda was a damp place and after the rain the roads were muddy. Philo yelped in horror when the centurion stepped in a puddle and dirty water lightly spattered his shoes and legs.
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