Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Animals,’ Rufinus said. ‘Just animals.’

  Cerialis recovered quickly. ‘Well, that merely reinforces my gratitude for the centurion’s arrival at the vital moment. I shall make another offering to thank the gods that my wife is safe. But all this talk of druids, magicians and kings in the far north must be left for another time, as we have more urgent matters and new orders.’

  Crispinus took over, telling them that the provincial legate was on his way to govern the province, but that he might not arrive until the winter was well under way. In the meantime the governor had sent word authorising the acting governor, the Legate Julius Quadratus, commander of II Augusta, to carry out active operations here in the north before the weather rendered them too difficult. Quadratus was at Luguvallium, ready to take the field in person with a column drawn from the forces concentrated there over the summer, including detachments from his own and other legions as well as auxiliaries. They would advance along the Western Road as far as it took them. A second column was to advance from Coria along the Eastern Road.

  ‘We shall form a third, smaller column, staying between the two to ensure that they can communicate, and acting boldly on our own if the opportunity permits. I shall command this force – although I shall of course readily take advice from more experienced men. There is no need to remind you that the emperor will look with great kindness and generosity on those who serve him well in the field, and that a victory, even a small one, will resound to our credit.’

  They took that in, all looking eager. There had been few chances for senior officers to make names for themselves in Britannia in the last few years. Yet Ferox was puzzled that no one had asked the obvious question.

  ‘Where are we going, sir?’

  Crispinus smiled. ‘Of course, I am remiss. Several chieftains of the Selgovae need to be reminded of the power of Rome. Claudius Super can give more details.’

  The senior centurio regionarius battled with his headache to explain the situation. He mentioned several leaders and clans who had failed to deliver the cattle and grain due to the empire. Ferox got the impression that Claudius Super was one of the main advocates of an aggressive response.

  ‘Give them time,’ Ferox argued. ‘I am sure that they will pay eventually.’ None of the leaders mentioned struck him as especially militant. ‘If we get it by the end of this month then that will be soon enough.’

  ‘They are late.’ Claudius Super implied that this alone demanded retribution.

  ‘It gives us a pretext at least for a display of power,’ Crispinus told them. ‘And it may well be that no harm is meant and they will deliver what is owed to us without the need for any unpleasantness. If so then all to the good. The campaign is intended to be short and to show that we will strike hard if we are provoked in any way. Now, let us attend to the details.’

  Ferox said little as they planned. The contingents to form the column were agreed upon, equipment, baggage and supplies stipulated, all to be ready to leave in three days’ time. Arrangements were as thorough as was possible in the time, reminding him of something once told to him by a veteran centurion in Legio V Alaudae, one of those rare old sweats who had risen from the ranks through sheer talent. ‘It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s a good idea,’ the man had said. ‘Our job is to make sure that it’s done well.’ Ferox doubted the wisdom of this plan, but when he tried to speak Claudius Super ordered him to be silent. There was an awkward pause, and Crispinus looked intently at him for a while, but was not moved to speak. Claudius Super was senior to Ferox and supposed to know more than the men who reported to him.

  Yet when the meeting ended and they began to disperse Crispinus tugged at Ferox’s arm. ‘I shall want you by my side,’ the young aristocrat told him. ‘And your Brigantian scouts will be invaluable, of course.’

  IX

  THE RIDER SAT motionless, watching them, as the cool wind gusted along the valley, hissing and rippling through the long grass. It must have been stronger and colder up on the hilltop, yet the man was bare from the waist up, his chest covered in a curving web of blue tattoos, his face painted red from the nose down and black above, his dirty brown hair plaited into a pigtail reaching halfway down his back. He carried a thick-shafted spear and a little rectangular shield, the face covered in dark leather and with studs around the iron boss.

  ‘They know we are coming then,’ Crispinus said, squinting as he stared up at the man. It was the first time he had seen a Briton since they had set out – at least one who might well prove an enemy. The sight was as unsettling as it was exciting.

  ‘They have known we were coming since we set out,’ Ferox told him. ‘Probably earlier than that.’ He hoped the words did not hint at British spies and traitors in their ranks, but he judged the tribune to be a fair man and he needed to learn how quickly news travelled and how difficult it was to achieve surprise. The Roman army was not made for stealth and since you could not hide the movement of any sizeable force, the best to be hoped for was to move so fast that the enemy did not have enough time to prepare. Ferox did not want to think of the clans of the Selgovae as enemies – at least not until he was forced to do so – but in the field it was always wise to expect the worst and look for the slightest sign of danger.

  They were four days out and almost fifty miles as the raven flew from Vindolanda, making good progress in spite of the country, which had added some distance to the march. Smaller forces always moved faster than big armies, and Crispinus’ first independent command consisted of scarcely one thousand fighting men, marching expedita, with only the bare essentials of baggage and supplies, which still meant one hundred and thirty pack animals and some eighty slaves and other followers. They had food for another eight days, although good fodder for the horses and pack mules and ponies for only half that time. At worst the animals could eat grass, and for a few days that should not do too much harm to their condition. Otherwise they would demand more supplies from the clans as proof of their loyalty or as a mark of submission, depending on how things went.

  Ferox was sure that given a little more time the chieftains would have handed over all that was owed without the need for threats. As he saw it, the procurator’s men had changed the rules by demanding payment earlier than usual. The chieftains were bound to resent that, for they had a strong sense of what was fair – especially when it came to their obligation to others. They would pay in time, but only after showing that they could not be pushed around. It could all have been tactfully managed with faces saved on all sides, but that would have required tact, something lacking in Claudius Super’s soul. None of this was necessary, but Quadratus, as acting governor, wanted to mount a display of Roman military might, and the real provincial legate had given permission, and so the army marched. Nobody seemed bothered that they were putting on a show of force for a people who had had nothing to do with the ambush on the road.

  For all that, there was excitement in being with a column in the field, especially since it had been several years since he had last taken part in a campaign. Idleness did not suit Ferox, for it gave him too much time to brood and to sink into black moods, when drink seemed the only shelter. It was always better to be busy and to feel that each moment and each decision he made mattered, not least because mistakes and misjudgements could kill him and plenty of others. His life had purpose again, at least for the next few days.

  The campaign began with pageantry, as they marched from Vindolanda at dawn amid the ceremony that the army could never resist. At the head of the column were the massed standards of the Batavians and Tungrians, guarded by an immaculately turned-out honour guard from the troops who were to remain in the garrison, their brightly painted shields uncovered. These marched up the via principalis, through the gate and over the causeway between the ditches, before parting to parade on each side of the road.

  Crispinus and Cerialis waited until the standards were in position before mounting. They were at the head of the column, and after the trumpets sounded
three times Cerialis raised his voice and shouted words Ferox did not recognise, even though he knew what they meant. The prefect was asking his soldiers in their own language whether they were ready to fight.

  ‘Huh!’ The Batavians bellowed a sound, half animal grunt and half shout of rage. Behind them the centurion Annius called out in Celtic asking his Tungrians whether they were ready, prompting an answering shout of ‘Yes!’ Three times he shouted and three times the cry was returned. That was the normal way, but the Batavians boasted that they only needed to be asked once if they were ready for war. At the rear because they were setting out from the base of other units, Aelius Brocchus spoke in Latin to his cavalrymen and received a whooping reply from his men.

  ‘Expect we’ll leave eventually,’ Vindex said to his men as they waited at the very rear, behind the baggage train. Some of the Brigantes grinned. Others, who never seen even such a small Roman force muster, just stared in wonder.

  At the head Crispinus drew his sword and pointed towards the gates.

  ‘Forward, march!’ Cerialis shouted and they set off. The men were ready for the field, wearing dark cloaks, shields protected by drab calfskin covers, and armour and other metalwork well greased and oiled to fend off rust. Three turmae of Batavians followed the senior officers, each decurion leading two dozen men in three files so that they could get through the gate without having to slow down. They went in silence apart from the clink of harness and the dull thump of shields swinging gently against the horses’ left shoulders. Decurions had high yellow plumes running down the centre of the helmets, as well as the animal fur sported by their men. Behind came the infantry, helmets with deeper, broader neck guards and uncovered ears so that they could hear commands better. Apart from the officers and one or two men who liked to dress up, their helmets were covered with moss, which looked like fur from any distance. There were seventy-five Batavian cavalry and two hundred infantry divided into three centuries, one of them led by the optio Arcuttius as acting commander because only a pair of centurions were available. The last remaining vexillum was carried by one of the standard-bearers at the head of the infantry.

  Ferox stood beside his horse watching them pass. The road was lined with well-wishers, other soldiers off duty, and scores of women and children from the camp watching their menfolk march away and not knowing whether they would ever see them again. The law said that soldiers could not marry, but many of them ignored the rule and the army turned a blind eye, content as long as they did not expect extra rations or pay. The women were a tough bunch, some from home, many more picked up wherever the unit served. If their man survived his twenty-five years of service and was honourably discharged, then as an auxiliary he would gain citizenship for himself, his wife and their children, which was fine as long as he did survive. In the meantime they lived in the barracks, making love and giving birth in the little rooms shared with the man’s comrades. The children grew up knowing the army as their only world. The boys usually enlisted when they were old enough, while many of the girls would marry soldiers. There was a tall boy of eleven or twelve not far from Ferox, standing to attention with a ferocious determination, obviously yearning to be marching with the men. Alongside was his mother, a thin pale woman with long brown hair streaked grey and moist eyes that made it clear she wished her man was not going and that they had sent someone else instead.

  The families did not cheer, watching in silence as the men filed past, looking straight to the front, and yet the scene moved Ferox as it did every time he saw an army marching off. Sulpicia Lepidina was next to him, wrapped up in a heavy deep blue cloak against the chilly morning air.

  ‘You must stay with me and explain what is happening,’ she had told him and he had obeyed, although there was little to explain and he had not said much. The lady was silent, watching her husband as he rode at the head of the column, dressed in martial finery. Her maid was with her, as were two male slaves and the two centurions left in command of the rest of the Batavians.

  The Tungrians followed the Batavians, with two of their double-sized centuries mustering a total of one hundred and eighty men. Their helmets were bare bronze, polished to a dull sheen. Titus Annius rode at their head, his transverse crest a wide spray of tall white feathers tipped red. He nodded respectfully to Sulpicia Lepidina as he passed, for he was a commander and granted more licence than the parading soldiers. Ferox noticed that the second century was also led by an optio.

  Aelius Brocchus came next, with seven turmae comprising some two hundred men, so that each was close to its full strength. The ala Gallorum Petriana – until a few years ago with the additional name Domitiana, now quietly forgotten – saw themselves as the best horsemen of the army in Britain and took every opportunity to show it. Another part of the ala was serving with the column marching up the Eastern Road from Coria, and Ferox wondered whether they were as splendidly equipped and mounted as these men. The horses were excellent, bigger than those provided for the Batavians, well groomed and grouped by colour, so that there were two turmae on greys, two more on chestnuts and the rest on bays. It was an affectation only possible when active campaigning was rare. Each man carried a strong-shafted spear upright and had three lighter javelins in a long quiver hanging from the right rear horn of his saddle. They wore their long spathae on their right hips in the Gallic fashion, the weapons hanging low so that it was easier to draw them while mounted. Their helmets were iron, with brass decoration, most of them shaped to look as if the bowls were covered with locks of thick hair. Each man had a shirt of mail, split at the sides on the hips for comfort. A third of each turma, the men who would form the front rank, also had laminated guards of iron sections on their right arms, protecting them from shoulder to wrist.

  After the glorious cavalry came the pack train: mules and ponies supervised by a few soldiers and around eighty personal servants and galearii, slaves owned by the army, given boots, uniform tunic and cloak, knives and old patterned helmets to wear. Behind them, at the very rear of the column, walking their horses through quite a few piles of fresh dung, came Vindex and his scouts, their numbers raised to nearly thirty by some fresh men sent by his chieftain, They sauntered along, chattering or ogling the women in the crowd. Vindex winked at the maid as he passed, prompting a burst of giggling and feigned modesty until her mistress glared at her.

  ‘Lady, I had better go,’ Ferox said. ‘I do hope that the boy’s condition continues to improve. After all, we Flavii should stick together!’ He had brought her water from Covventina’s Spring to add to the sick child’s broth, and whether by this or something else, Cerialis’ son’s fever had broken.

  ‘Thank you. You have been very kind.’ Sulpicia Lepidina stood close to him, and, unseen because of her heavy wool cloak, her hand clasped his for just a moment. ‘Good fortune,’ she added, her blue eyes staring up into his.

  ‘I’m sure your husband will return in glory,’ he said.

  ‘I am sure he will.’ For the first time since he had met her she looked fragile. ‘Good fortune,’ she said again, before dropping her voice to a faint whisper. ‘Come back.’

  ‘I will.’ As he mouthed the words he wondered what he was doing. Her song at the feast still echoed in his mind, as did her good humour and signs of pleasure in his company whenever they met. He was drawn to her, but then surely any man with blood in his veins would be drawn to such a woman. What he did not understand was why she seemed interested in him, and he could not quite make up his mind whether she was singling him out or was simply always so full of charm. He tried to stop them, but in the last days wild, absurd and dangerous dreams kept bubbling up in his mind, feeding his good spirits as much as the activity.

  Philo waited with his horse.

  ‘You should stay here,’ he told the boy for the tenth time.

  ‘My place is with you.’

  ‘You won’t enjoy it,’ Ferox said.

  ‘That is the lot of a slave.’

  They rode after the column, and Ferox forc
ed himself not to look back. It was ridiculous and dangerous to them both – and maybe it was all in his imagination, and he mistook natural charm and understandable gratitude for real interest. He made himself stare at the fort buildings as they went along the road and out under the gate. The serried ranks of standards were in place, although the escort had stood at ease now that there were only native scouts ambling past. More people had gathered to watch the column, standing in the fronts of shops and bars or in the alleys leading off the main route through the canabae. They lived here because the army was here and were part of it even if they were not soldiers. Batavians and Tungrians were customers, friends, drinking partners and lovers and some made signs to bring good luck as the ranks of soldiers went past. At the far edge of the crowd were beggars, with all the ones he had seen the day before and a few more. The old man to whom Vindex had given a coin was a little apart as usual, leaning on his crooked staff, his filthy beard and hair down to his waist, and his scruffy dog beside him. The man stared at the soldiers’ boots, never looking anyone in the eye, and all the while he muttered words that made no sense.

  ‘Chin up, Father,’ Vindex called to him, but the beggar did not react. Ferox wondered whether his appearance was a bad omen and then tried and failed to dismiss the thought. By this time he was riding alongside the cemetery with its rows of wooden pillars. It did not depress him and instead he thought of a woman with golden hair and big blue eyes and wondered.

  Two hours later they met the vexillation brought by the Prefect Rufinus to complete the column. Cohors I fida Vardullorum equitata was a mixed unit like the Batavians, and had sent fifty horsemen in two turmae and two hundred and fifty infantrymen in four centuries. They were small men in the main, dark-haired and clean-shaven, recruited from the highlands in Iberia, and they marched with a jaunty confidence. They were new to this northern frontier and to Britannia itself, but looked to be good soldiers, confident in themselves and their leaders. They wore black tunics, a rare sight in the army, and Ferox suspected that some would see this as unlucky. The Vardulli just said that it was unlucky for whoever met them.