Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  A modest refusal, persistence from the husband, supported by the growing pleas from Crispinus, Brocchus and Claudius Super – the last almost shouting and clearly half drunk – and once the things were cleared away a stool was brought and with it a small lyre.

  ‘I am not sure this has travelled well,’ the lady said, picking up the instrument, ‘and setting up house has not given me much time to practise. That is apart from such minor interruptions as barbarian attacks!’ They laughed, Claudius Super red-faced and loud.

  After some tuning and plucking a few chords, Sulpicia Lepidina began to play. The room went quiet, not simply from courtesy but because she was well trained and gifted. The tune was soft and mournful. Claudia Severa’s eyes soon were glassy in the flickering lamplight.

  Sulpicia Lepidina began to sing, the words in Greek. Ferox did not have much call for the language these days, and it took him a while to understand that she sang of love, passion and loss. It was from Sappho, set to music, and her voice was deeper than that of many women, powerful and resonant so that the room filled with the song and with music. Claudia Severa wept, her husband touching her cheek fondly. Fortunata began to move closer to him again, so he stood up, wandering a few paces away to listen with more concentration. After a few minutes, the Tribune Crispinus joined him.

  When the song ended there was silence for a long while before they all applauded – Claudius Super with violent force, and Fortunata with surprising enthusiasm. Ferox wondered whether she had been an entertainer and listened with the educated ear of a professional.

  The next song Sulpicia Lepidina sang was an ancient folk song from Achaea. Ferox recognised the tune, but not the words, which told the story of a shepherd boy and a nymph. After that the lady turned to Latin, and sang verses by Horace and Ovid, the last a frivolous tale. Her voice had grown richer.

  ‘I have rarely heard better,’ Crispinus said quietly as Sulpicia Lepidina paused and took a drink. ‘She is a truly remarkable woman.’

  ‘“Abundantly favoured by fortune,”’ Ferox quoted from distant memory, ‘“well read in Greek and Latin literature, able to sing and play the lyre more skilfully than an honest woman need…” At least I think that is it, and I mean no offence.’

  Crispinus smiled. ‘Sallust always took a jaundiced view, though our hostess might have softened even his cold heart and won true praise. Although if I recall the lady in question danced rather than sang. Like that one, I suspect.’ He spoke quietly and gave a nod and smile towards Fortunata, whose elaborate hair remained in order.

  ‘Conversation in the audience is not considered a compliment,’ Sulpicia Lepidina told them, one eyebrow arched in mock disapproval. ‘Now perhaps something fitting for this place and this land.’

  The tune was very familiar, but Ferox was paying no attention and watching her fingers as they moved and plucked the strings of the lyre. Someone gasped in surprise when the lady began to sing, but he was intent on her playing. It was one of many regrets that he had not learned an instrument.

  To his amazement he realised that she sang not in Latin or Greek, but in the Celtic tongue of the Gauls and Britons, and the tune was a favourite of Vindex.

  ‘And the Hound caught sight of the girl’s full breasts over the top of her dress,’ the lady sang, and he realised that she was watching him. ‘“I see a sweet country,” he said, “I could rest my weapon there.”’

  Ferox glanced around, but saw no sign that anyone else understood the words. He wondered whether Lepidina knew what they meant. She certainly sang as if she did. The heroine in the tale kept telling the hero that no one would travel ‘that country’ until they had performed a series of impossible feats. Each time he answered, ‘In that sweet country, I’ll rest my weapon,’ and the story told of how he undertook all the tasks and won his bride. The lady sang it through, her eyes never leaving him.

  The applause was long and sincere.

  ‘You could almost civilise the barbarians,’ Claudius Super told her. Vegetus announced that next time his wife should entertain them with her dancing, and perhaps the lady would consent to play for her.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Sulpicia Lepidina said, and her husband regretted that it was time to bid their guests good night for tomorrow would be another busy day.

  ‘You have a friend there,’ Crispinus whispered to Ferox, catching him watching their hostess.

  VIII

  THE ARMY’S DAY began at Vindolanda much as it did at Syracuse or Eboracum or anywhere else, and this morning Ferox was glad of such familiar routine after the strangeness of the night before. Dawn found him in the principia of the fort, standing with the row of officers from cohors VIIII Batavorum milliaria equitata in front of the aedes, where the standards stood securely in the slots made for them in the plank floor. There were ten signa, one for each of the centuries composing the infantry of the cohort, each with a number of large silvered discs mounted on the pole, topped by a wreathed ornamental spearhead. The eight turmae of cavalry had their own smaller standards, with a single symbol and cross bar trailing weighted ribbons beneath the elaborate heads. Almost half of the cohort was currently absent on detached service, but the most important standards all remained here unless the unit as a whole marched out. Any big detachment carried a vexillum, a square red flag hanging from a crossbar on an otherwise plain pole, the banner bearing the name of the cohort in gold lettering. Empty slots in the floor alongside the single flag suggested that two important vexillations were away. In the centre of the mass of decorated poles was the imago of Trajan. In spite of yesterday’s wet parade, even the tiniest metal fitting on each standard gleamed, while the shafts were freshly oiled and polished. Ferox had heard some men say that soldiers worshipped their standards. That was a lie, but in any half-decent unit they worshipped the idea that the standards represented.

  Flavius Cerialis was in armour this morning, even though he sat on a stool behind a desk, reviewing a succession of wax writing tablets presented to him by his personal clerk, the cornicularius of the prefect. They listed the current strength of the cohort, recent acquisitions and losses, and detailed every individual and group away from the base. Ferox wondered whether at this very moment the legate of II Augusta – or whichever senior officer was present – was glancing down a list without paying much attention to the entry stating that one centurion was absent serving as regionarius. The legion had its main depot at Isca Silurum, there on the riverbank in his homeland. He wondered whether he would ever see the legion or his own people again. It was doubtful either would welcome him with open arms.

  Hobnailed boots stamped on wooden floorboards as the optio of the day marched across the room, halting with a final shattering crash in front of the prefect and saluting.

  ‘Good morning, sir!’ The greeting was more like a battle cry and echoed around the high hall. An optio was second-in-command to a centurion, responsible for much day-to-day administration of the century and commanding in the officer’s absence. This one was short by Batavian standards, but immaculately turned out. He had the accent of his people, as well as the typical yellow moustache and beard glimpsed between the broad bronze cheek pieces of his helmet. On either side of the fur-covered top of the helmet was a tall feather dyed yellow and standing straight up to mark his rank. His scale armour shone, as did the fittings on his belt and scabbard, and the ornate top of the staff of office in his left hand.

  ‘Good morning, Arcuttius,’ Cerialis replied, his voice clear and quiet. The prefect’s iron helmet with its high plume and enamel decoration was on the desk beside him. The other officers, four centurions and five decurions present at the base, stood in a row, in armour, carrying their helmets in the crook of their left arms. That was the tradition for the Batavians, and Ferox had got Philo to find out so that he was properly attired. The Alexandrian enjoyed such details, and revelled in preparing his master for yet another formal occasion. He was also very happy, filled to the brim with gossip picked up from the other slaves and servants at the pre
fect’s house.

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ The optio bellowed the words, lowering his arm from the salute. He reached into a pouch at his belt and produced one of the thin wooden tablets used for routine documents. ‘Seventh day after the Ides of September. Report of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians. All who should be are at duty stations, as is the baggage. The optiones and curatores made the report. Arcuttius, optio of the century of Crescens, delivered it.’ The optio recited from memory – apart from the names and dates it was the same thing said every morning.

  ‘Thank you, Arcuttius.’ Cerialis stood. ‘The watchword for today is “Fortuna”. Pay parade at the second hour.’

  ‘Sir!’ The optio saluted again, turned about and marched noisily away. Ferox wondered whether the password was just coincidence, or a little joke of the prefect. Philo swore that the kitchen staff and other slaves in the praetorium had told him that their master and mistress had not shared the same bed since they arrived at Vindolanda six weeks ago, and rarely before that. It was not that the master lacked interest. He covered many of the slave girls at every opportunity and had visited Flora’s establishment. He just did not seem that interested in his wife, which the servants found odd for they liked her and anyone could see that she was beautiful, if a little old at twenty-seven.

  ‘They think he does not want the expense of more children,’ Philo said with great assurance. ‘He is a gifted man, and going places.’

  The boy’s tone reflected the obvious pride shared by Cerialis’ household in their young master. Ferox certainly did not doubt the man’s ambition. Marriage into a senatorial family, let alone such a well-established one, was rare for any equestrian, and surely unprecedented for a Batavian aristocrat, son of the first in his family to become a Roman citizen. There was no sign now that it was so unlikely a thing as a love match, which meant that something had persuaded a former consul to give his daughter in marriage to an upstart from the Rhineland.

  Cerialis obviously planned to ‘go places’ and was working hard to that end, cultivating the acquaintance of Crispinus, the other equestrians, and even the imperial freedman. Former slaves of the emperor sometimes climbed very high indeed, reaching the top of the imperial administration and having an influence behind the scenes greater than many a senator. The days of the Emperor Claudius were gone, and Domitian, of damned memory but prudent rule, had replaced some of the freedmen in his staff with equestrians. Even so, there was no knowing how important Vegetus might one day become, for all his humble start in life. Ferox had asked his boy about the freedman and his wife.

  ‘The Lord Vegetus and his lady’ – Philo was grudging in his use of both titles – ‘stayed at the praetorium rather than returning to the mansio.’ There was a way-station for those travelling on official business in the canabae. ‘They did not receive the best of the guest rooms, but were comfortably accommodated in separate rooms. The Lord Vegetus was feeling ill,’ the Alexandrian added with a knowing look, ‘and sleeps soundly and snores loudly, they say.’

  The morning reports complete, Flavius Cerialis picked up his helmet and led the assembled officers out. He was in a bright mood, and perhaps the man was revelling in his good fortune after an energetic night. Slaves knew a lot about their owners – more than the latter cared to admit – but they were inclined to embellish and invent like anyone else.

  In the central courtyard of the headquarters building they saw a travel-stained cavalryman walking towards them. He had an oval red shield with the Capricorn symbol of II Augusta, which meant that he was one of the small contingent of horsemen in that legion to serve as escorts to senior officers or as messengers. In his right hand he held a spear with a feather tied just below the head, which showed that he was the latter. Tradition older than anyone could remember and certainly older than they could explain made this the mark of a despatch rider, although it was something of an affectation to carry the symbol when not on the battlefield or at least campaign. The cornicularius took a wooden tablet from the man. It was tied up and sealed.

  ‘Ah, it looks as if everything is starting sooner than expected,’ Cerialis said, taking it from his cornicularius before the man had a chance to break the seal. Ferox must have missed something, for he had not heard that any major operation was planned. ‘It is probably for the best. I leave you to your duties, fellow soldiers. My dear Ferox, if you would be good enough to come with me?’

  A little later they were in one of the side rooms off the courtyard. Crispinus, Brocchus and Claudius Super were there, as was a tired-looking officer with the narrow dark red band of a tribunus angusticlavius, one of the five junior equestrian tribunes in a legion, and another officer who, from his uniform, looked like an equestrian too. There was also a leathery-faced centurion, whom he recognised as Titus Annius, the acting commander of cohors I Tungrorum.

  Introductions were soon made and kept brief. The junior tribune was one Julius Flaccus from VIIII Hispana, who had accompanied the despatch rider, and the other man was Rufinus, commander of the auxiliary cohort stationed at Magna to the west, a unit of Vardulli from Spain. Crispinus was senior to the others in status and rank, if not years or experience, but let Cerialis begin the conference by summarising all that was known of the raid earlier in the month and the murder of the soldiers at the tower. It was certain that the missing soldier was the Briton.

  ‘May I ask from what tribe, my lord?’ Ferox asked.

  ‘What does it matter? They’re all the same,’ Claudius Super muttered. Ferox suspected that the man had a bad hangover and enjoyed his obvious discomfort.

  Cerialis nodded to his cornicularius who fished out a wax tablet from the file. ‘Trinovantes from down south, although enlisted with the Tungrians.’

  ‘Good record up to now,’ Annius told them, ‘seven years’ service.’ He paused to stare at each of them. ‘I should like to state on record that the man has disappeared and there is no direct evidence of complicity in the attack. It is perfectly possible that he was taken as a prisoner, poor devil.’ Annius was junior to all the equestrians, but he spoke with force and his pride in his own soldiers was obvious.

  ‘You cannot trust Britons,’ Claudius Super told them, unimpressed by this display of loyalty. ‘Lies and treachery come too naturally to them.’ Ferox ignored the insult, suspecting that the man had forgotten he was there, but worried that the sentiment was a common one. When he had returned to his quarters after the dinner last night he had found a bruised and battered Vindex.

  ‘Some of the Batavian lads held Britons responsible for the men killed at the tower and in the ambush,’ he explained. ‘I told them that I was Carvetii and a Brigantian, not a Briton, but that didn’t seem to matter. They wanted to show their annoyance and I was there, drinking quietly and talking to a few of their women. All harmless,’ he assured Ferox. ‘Just being friendly, but then it turned nasty, and might have got a lot nastier if that one-eyed old bugger hadn’t turned up and knocked a few of them down. He stopped it all, told ’em I had saved their lady and then they all bought me drinks. They’re mad, the lot of them.’

  ‘Trinovantes, though,’ Rufinus said as if thinking aloud, and Ferox’s mind returned to the present. The prefect had dark skin and curly black hair, the accent of Africa Proconsularis and an air of competence. ‘That lot were out with Boudicca.’

  Cerialis did not sound convinced. ‘That is ancient history, surely. All forgotten after nearly forty years.’

  ‘People remember, especially down south,’ Rufinus assured them. ‘My father was in the province then and saw what those bastards did. Women impaled, mutilated.’ The Trinovantes had joined the Iceni and other rebels, sacking three cities and massacring everyone they caught, whether Roman or just from another tribe.

  ‘Well, a one-man rebellion by a soldier sounds unlikely,’ Cerialis concluded. ‘We must hope to find him or at least discover what happened. However, there are concerning signs of priests and magicians stirring up the tribes here in the north.’

  Ferox ex
plained what he had seen and heard, speaking of the shadowy figure of the druid, and his guess that the priest known as the Stallion had led the ambush. He did his best to make them understand the difference between the two holy men, and how the tribes feared men of power and magic even if they did not like them. Claudius Super kept interrupting, scoffing at his fears, and Ferox suspected that even the more sympathetic ones in the room did not understand. He pressed on, but kept back his suspicion of treachery in high places. If for the moment they wanted to believe that it was the raiders who had wiped out the men at the tower then let them. He had one surprise, and waited until the end in the hope of shocking them and at least making them cautious. ‘The ambush of the Lady Sulpicia Lepidina was no accident, but part of a deliberate plan, of that I am sure.’

  Claudius Super made a scoffing sound and several of the others looked doubtful. These were wild barbarians on the prowl for prey, any prey, not some organised army capable of planning.

  ‘I have no doubt at all,’ Ferox went on. ‘The captive taken by the Brigantes told them that they wanted to take the noble lady alive, lead her back north and burn her in the fire.’

  The room went so quiet that Ferox could hear the sound of the lesson going on in the next room, even though there was no adjoining door. A group of soldiers were being taught to read and write, and were reciting lines of the Aeneid with the foot-dragging, lifeless tones of schoolboys. Flavius Cerialis had gone pale. The rest, even the senior regionarius, gaped in sheer horror.

  ‘Bastards,’ muttered Annius.