Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Crispinus could not understand a word and swiftly tired of the monotonous tune. ‘How long do we have to put up with this?’

  ‘A while yet.’ Ferox did not want to worry the man by saying that it would probably last for hours. ‘He is singing praises of the high king, of the man born to lead his people and to unite the tribes. Of his keen eye and strong arm…’ He stopped because he could see that the tribune was not interested and also because he wanted to listen.

  The bard told a story, most of which was wholly new to Ferox and helped to give him a better sense of Tincommius and how the high king wanted men to see him. It was a remarkable tale of a boy who survived the murder of his father and older brothers at the hands of a neighbouring chief. They were all burned alive, trapped in a hut set on fire by an enemy who had pretended to welcome them as friends. The young Tincommius had somehow scrabbled his way through the mud wall of the house before the smoke and flames reached him, helped by one of the enemy who rejected the treachery of his leader. The bard sang of the hunters chasing the boy, of the warrior giving his life to save him, and of how he went to an island far in the north and trained to fight. Grown to manhood, he came back to exact vengeance and there was much about this, of enemies killed in battle as the blood ran red off the wheels of Tincommius’ chariot, and of others taken by surprise and slaughtered like pigs.

  ‘Hercules’ balls, when will he stop,’ Crispinus muttered, until a young woman appeared and offered him more wine. The aristocrat hung his head and may have blushed, although it was hard to tell in the red light and smoky atmosphere of the hall. The woman looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, and had her thick auburn hair plaited and coiled up in a tower on the top of her head. She was pretty, and her checked dress was held at the shoulders by a pair of bronze brooches.

  Vindex laughed and nudged the tribune with his elbow. ‘Lucky bastard.’

  Ferox did not pay much attention, although he felt a flash of envy. The bard paced slowly around the circle of tables as he sang, and apart from drawing breath he did not pause in the tale. Tincommius’ own people welcomed the returned exile and rallied to him. His clan were not numerous, but were brave and proud-hearted and stout fighters. The gods led him to a hoard of weapons and fine swords, crafted with cunning and magic to bite through bone and armour as easily as butter. His men armed and armoured, and with Tincommius, the bravest of all, at their head, they fought and beat each of the neighbouring clans in turn, even when three joined forces to face him. Yet he was wise and merciful. Only the men who had wronged him were killed, their families enslaved or slaughtered by their sides. The rest had only to take an oath to him and serve him loyally and then share in the glory and spoils to come. His power grew, chieftain after chieftain and clan after clan swearing to serve him. The great druid – Ferox’s attention doubled at his appearance – had watched the contest for power, not taking sides, until the gods spoke to him and he came to Tincommius and guided his steps. It was the great druid who proclaimed him high king in front of all the leaders of the people. Soon clans from other tribes pledged allegiance: Venicones, Caledonians, Selgovae, even the strange Epidii of the far west. Warriors came from across the oceans to serve him. Great chieftains begged to foster his sons and offered their daughters as brides to the high king.

  For a while the bard turned to praise of the men gathered around the table. He would gesture towards a man, then sing of his fame and lineage, of his great deeds and his staunch faithfulness. Some men leaped up or punched the air when they were named, while others sat impassively. There was mockery within the praise, for this was the high king’s hall and no one could be praised more than him. When the bard reached Venutius he made verses about his beautiful face and how much it had improved from the beating he had received. The chieftain of the Selgovae laughed and pointed at Ferox. Then the bard told of how the young Venutius had been walking out on the moors when a beautiful woman appeared to him, her eyes huge and brown, her naked breasts vast and milky white. She told him that she was the goddess of cows and that she loved him with a passion. Ever since all the cows of the world rushed to be at his side out of an unquenchable love. The whole gathering guffawed and Venutius took it all in good spirit and laughed with them.

  Not everyone was so mild in their response. Crispinus gasped in surprise when the first fight broke out. Two of the chieftains stood up and bounded across the table towards each other. They screamed abuse, then threw punches, and only when one had a split lip and the other a swiftly blackening eye did other men pull them apart. The next argument went no further than yelling, but in the third blades were drawn and sparked as they clashed. One of the chiefs was a Hibernian, and he took a graze on the cheek and a deeper gash on his bare thigh, but then tipped his opponent off balance so that he fell into the fire in a flurry of sparks. The man rolled out, and then rolled again to quench his burning shirt. All the while the Hibernian held his sword aloft and screamed in victory.

  Then the door of the hall was opened to let in a gust of wind so strong that the great fire rippled like a field of corn. Heads snapped round to see what was happening. The Hibernian went silent and walked back to his place.

  A tall man strode across the rush floor towards the gap in the circle of tables. He was covered in a cloak made from a bearskin, his face shadowed by the animal’s mask. Ferox noticed that his feet were bare and dirty.

  The man stopped and then flung his cloak down and stretched his arms high into the air. The skin of each arm was a network of long scars left by cuts from a sharp knife, cuts that he had surely given to himself. He was naked apart from a heavy gold torc and a grubby loincloth of the sort worn by slaves labouring to tend the furnaces in a bath-house. All of his body was covered in blue tattoos, images of animals and horned gods mingling with curving patterns and shapes. Both his hair and moustache were washed with lime so that they stood out stiffly.

  Ferox saw Vindex’s lips move and could guess the words he mouthed. ‘We’re humped.’

  It was the priest who had led the ambush all those weeks ago. The one they called the Stallion.

  XVIII

  ‘YOU ARE LATE,’ said the high king, one leg hooked casually over the arm of his chair. There was no emotion in his voice, and only the slightest hint of reproof as he waited a moment before adding, ‘But you are welcome as always. Sit, eat and drink with us.’

  The priest did not bow or say anything in reply. He looked around at the faces behind the table until he fixed on the Romans. For a long time he stared at them. Ferox stared back, and hoped that neither of the others would do anything foolish. The priest rubbed his hands together and then spat on the floor and at last turned away and went to his place at the table.

  Ferox heard Crispinus breathe out. ‘Are we in danger?’

  ‘We have been from the start,’ he whispered back. ‘But we are guests of the high king and this is his hall. We should be safe here.’

  The bard resumed his song, but the mood had shifted and become uneasy. It took a while for talk to grow again. Most of the guests drank heavily, saying little, and for a while there were no more arguments.

  ‘I do not like that priest,’ the German growled. ‘He is…’ He struggled to find the right word and said something in his own language first. ‘He is a bad man. He likes to kill.’

  Ferox thought back to the beheadings earlier in the day, and the calm skill with which this big man had performed them. ‘Sometimes it is necessary. We are warriors.’

  ‘To kill enemy, yes. To kill when our lord tells us to kill his enemy, yes. To kill for pleasure, no.’ The big man grinned at him, his beard still stained with food. ‘If your friends had not come, I kill you that day.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ferox did not see any point pretending otherwise.

  ‘Now we are friends, until the king say different.’ It sounded as if this was the most he had said all year. ‘You are brave and know how to fight. Share a drink.’ He offered his cup. Ferox took it, drank what he guessed to be half
and handed it back.

  ‘I like you,’ the German rumbled and clapped the centurion hard on the shoulder, the friendly blow feeling as if it would drive him a foot into the floor.

  ‘I like you,’ Ferox replied, a little surprised to find that he meant it.

  The German bellowed for more drink.

  It was always hard to judge time at a feast like this. The beer and wine kept coming, as did the food. Crispinus was struggling, but Ferox admired the way the man persisted and could not help being impressed by his capacity for drink. Vindex was already slumped forward on the table, head on his folded arms and snoring away in satisfied contentment. The Brigantian was not a great drinker, but neither was he the only one, and a good quarter of the chiefs had also fallen either forward or back and no longer moved.

  The German showed no signs of diminished hunger or thirst, and probably always spoke and thought slowly. Opposite them the priest drank little and spent most of his time watching them, his spiked hair and the harsh shadows of the fire making him seem like a creature from the Otherworld. The bard still sang, but now he told old tales of love and hate, of raids and battles, and most people were too drunk or too concerned with their own talk to pay much heed.

  Ferox happened to glance at the high king just as Tincommius gave orders to some of his servants. They returned bearing a roast boar and carried it into the circle of tables before laying it in front of the royal chair. Silence returned, broken only by the crackling of fresh logs put on to the fire.

  ‘Who is worthy of the first cut?’ Tincommius did not raise his voice or shout and yet it carried along the tables.

  The Hibernian who had flung his opponent into the fire was the first to stand. His neighbour and fellow countryman joined him a moment later. Three others got to their feet. Tincommius pointed to the first Hibernian and one of the others and the pair sprang across the table into the open space by the fire. Servants hastily moved out of the way to clear space for them.

  ‘Are they going to fight?’ Crispinus was frowning and his speech was a little slurred.

  ‘Yes. For the right to receive the first portion – the champion’s portion.’

  The chiefs drew their swords and waited while their attendants walked around to the gap between the tables and came to them, handing over their shields. They bowed and left the circle to the challengers.

  ‘Sweet Mother Isis,’ the tribune muttered. ‘It’s like something out of Homer. Is the fight to the death?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  The two men launched themselves at each other and there was the dull beat of blade on wooden shield. The Hibernian was good and fast, hacking his opponent’s shield to pieces in spite of his wounded leg.

  ‘Enough!’ Once again the high king did not shout, but the two men at once drew apart. Tincommius pointed at the Hibernian to show that he was the victor. The other chieftain bowed to him and to the king as the other guests roared approval and banged the table with the palms of their hands.

  The other Hibernian took on one of the local men, a gaunt redhead, and the Hibernian lost, his right cheek gashed open so that it flapped, and blood mingled with spittle sprayed out whenever he tried to speak. Next the victorious redhead fought the last remaining challenger and this turned into a bitter and prolonged struggle. Each man’s shield was hacked to pieces, and soon they were landing blows on each other’s arms, heads and shoulders. Ferox wondered whether an old grudge was being settled for the king let the fight go on longer than he expected and the two fighters were gasping for breath as they slashed and cut. The priest showed little interest, and when Ferox managed to tear his eyes away from the struggle he noticed that the bard was beside the Stallion and that the two men were deep in conversation.

  Crispinus started to gag, and then threw up noisily and messily on to the table. As Ferox turned to see how he was, there was a great shout and a harsh rattle as the redhead opened the other’s man’s chest with a terrific slash that cut through mail, flesh and bone.

  ‘I’m fine,’ the tribune said, and he smiled weakly.

  The redhead ought to have been tired, for he had just fought two combats and the last had been arduous. Yet when the victorious Hibernian faced him there no sign of fatigue. The man was fast and strong and if anything his opponent seemed the tired one. Ferox had seen it before and sometimes felt it – that strange mood of battle when a man became one with his sword, when he knew that he could do anything, defeat anyone and those around him were slow and weak. Perhaps this was what the bards sang about when they told the tales of great heroes, of men who no longer knew fear or doubt and wanted only to kill, so that they did not feel the wounds dealt to them. If the redhead lived he would collapse once it was over, as the love of battle left him.

  Not bothering to call for another shield, he wielded his sword two-handed. That was awkward, but gave dreadful power to the blows. He cleft the Hibernian’s shield in two, breaking the man’s arm, and did not seem to notice the wild slice that cut off a piece of his scalp and took the top off his ear.

  ‘Enough!’ This time the high king shouted, sensing that the red-headed warrior was so lost in fury that he would not hear. ‘Enough!’

  The Hibernian gave ground as the man came at him, blood pouring down the side of his face. He swung again, sweeping the long sword down, and the Hibernian jumped back only just in time.

  ‘Enough!’

  Ferox pushed himself up and leaped over the table, spilling a flagon of beer and sending a plate clattering away. The Hibernian dodged another blow, but lost his balance and fell, managing to roll away from the fire, but losing his sword in the process. The redhead raised his sword above his head.

  ‘Stop him!’ Tincommius shouted, and Ferox did not know whether the high king meant him or the frenzied warrior. He ran at the man, crouching low, as the redhead turned and snarled at him, spraying drops of blood from the side of his head. The warrior checked his blow, and slashed one-handed at the centurion.

  Ferox dived, arms outstretched. He felt the sword strike his back, but the angle was poor and he was moving fast so that the blade did not cut into his mail. He locked his hands around the man’s knees, hitting him with all his weight, and the warrior buckled and fell. Ferox felt the fierce heat of the fire as they landed with the man’s head and shoulders in the flames. His hair flared and burned and the man started to scream. The centurion rolled back, pulling at the man with all his might, and then someone was beside him and rolled the redhead in a cloak. It was the big German.

  ‘This is an outrage!’ The voice was shrill, almost as high as a woman’s, as the Stallion stood and screamed at them. ‘See how the Romans mock our customs! How they humiliate us in the king’s own hall! They are filth and must be swept from the land.’

  Ferox pushed himself up. The priest was not looking at him, but sweeping his gaze around the chieftains. He was wilder than the warrior at the height of his battle madness, yet cold, almost lifeless, and whether or not it was an act Ferox could understand men believing that the man was no more than a mouthpiece for a god.

  Tincommius said nothing, but the big German patted the centurion on the shoulder and grinned. The gesture outraged the Stallion.

  ‘They are not of us!’ The priest shrieked. ‘Neither of them. The one has forgotten and the other was not born in these isles blessed by the love of the gods. They pollute us by their presence, but soon it will be gone.’ He jumped up on to the table, and Ferox could see that he was not as tall as he had thought.

  ‘Rome is weak!’ he yelled. ‘Every day it withers and if we strike hard enough it will die. They fled from these lands, and they will flee from the rest if we have the courage to defy them. Now is the time, for if we let them they will grow again like weeds in a field and choke us once again. Kill them! Kill them all! Kill them now!’

  A few of the chieftains cheered, but only a few and Ferox wondered whether they shouted just because they were drunk and would cheer anything. The rest said little, but their faces
were scared. There was a force in the priest, an unearthly force that cowed bold men.

  ‘Kill them!’ The Stallion drew a long knife, the only weapon on him, and jumped down into the circle. He ran at the fire and leaped through the flames and men gasped because he did not seem touched.

  Ferox gripped the handle of his sword, but the German stepped in front of him and grabbed the priest’s thin arms, holding them tight.

  ‘Enough!’ Tincommius shouted and held up one hand. ‘Enough,’ he repeated, calmly this time. ‘This is my hall and you are all guests. Let him go, Gannascus.’ The German did so with obvious reluctance. The priest stood still, his whole body quivering.

  ‘Keep your blade in its sheath, centurion,’ the high king said. ‘Your deed was an honourable one and it seems that you now have best claim.’ He pointed to the boar. ‘Take the portion of the champion and eat it with pride.’

  The Stallion’s eyes had rolled up so that only the whites could be seen. He was still shaking, froth at his lips. ‘They will die,’ he said, quieter now, but in a voice suddenly deeper even than the big German’s. ‘All will burn and all will die.’ He sagged, shoulders slumping, and then he fell flat on the floor, his limbs twitching as he writhed. Some men touched wheels of Taranis like the one Vindex wore and others made different signs to ward off evil. The German looked down at him in contempt.

  ‘Come,’ the high king said. ‘This is a feast, not a funeral, and there is plenty more to eat and drink at my table.’

  When Ferox got back to the table he saw that Crispinus had fallen back and was fast asleep. He wondered how much the tribune had seen, and wondered even more whether he had missed his best chance to kill the priest and end the matter. The Stallion lay where he had collapsed, limbs twitching now and again.