Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘No.’

  ‘I am a guest; there is no shame,’ he said, not believing a word of it, but reluctant to let her move.

  ‘I am the king’s. I have delivered our message and shown you that I am serious. There will be no more.’ She must have thought that there was anger in his face rather than mere disappointment. ‘If you force me Tincommius will cut it off before he cuts your throat.’ A glance downwards was enough to show what she meant.

  Ferox lay back, folding his hands underneath his head. Galla stood up, the furs and other coverings sliding away so that she stood tall and completely bare. He watched her and she did not appear to resent him looking. Her white dress was draped over a stool and his eyes stayed on her as she dressed, neither of them saying anything. In the end the woman drew a heavy brown cloak around her and the dim light in the house became even dimmer.

  ‘Tincommius has a high opinion of you and believes that you are a man who can be trusted,’ she said, breaking the long silence. ‘He is fond of the son you spared, very fond, even if the boy is from a lesser wife and unlikely ever to become king.’

  ‘What son?’ Ferox had no idea what she meant. None of the men who fought for the champion’s portion were young enough to be the king’s son, and it stretched even the most generous praise to say that he had saved one of them, even the man he had wrestled to the floor.

  ‘Epaticcus,’ she said. ‘You really do not know, do you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Epaticcus is foster son to Venutius of the Selgovae. Both are here now, and the boy stood behind the chieftain at the feast. That was his first battle, and all say that he fought with courage and also that he was at your mercy, but that you spared him and told him to go with honour. Since he proved his courage he is at last fit to appear in his father’s presence. Tincommius sent him away seven years ago.’

  Ferox struggled to remember the fight at the fort and the scrambling retreat down the valley side, but like most battles it had faded into a few memories of fear and exultation. ‘I think I told him to piss off.’ He laughed at the thought. ‘But he did fight well and that is why I preferred not to kill him. I honestly did not know who he was, so cannot boast of it as a favour.’

  ‘That is what we thought, which only makes the obligation to you all the deeper. Tincommius is grateful and thinks that you are a man to trust. I believe that he is right, and I am glad that we have met and spoken.’

  ‘And I am glad that you sleep so deeply,’ he replied and his mischief was rewarded with a moment of uncertainty and doubt in this confident young woman. It did not last.

  ‘Farewell, centurion. We shall never be alone again.’

  ‘Farewell, Galla.’

  She left, crouching down to go through the low doorway and closing the door behind her. He let out a long breath and just lay, staring up at the roof. To his surprise his head felt clear and calm and he had no desire for any drink other than spring water or some posca.

  After a while the door opened and a man came through, bent almost double. It was Vindex. It would have to be Vindex.

  ‘Good night?’ the Brigantian said, baring his big teeth.

  XX

  THE HIGH KING went hunting that day and the Romans were not invited.

  ‘Is it a snub?’ Crispinus asked as they ate the food brought to them by servants. It was early afternoon, with a bitter wind, and they were all glad to sit inside the house that the tribune had reclaimed for his own use.

  ‘In other words, no poaching,’ Vindex muttered when Ferox told him. As they took their meal, Ferox told the others what had happened from the moment the Brigantian had passed out at the feast. He spoke of the priest’s rage, and of the great druid disguised as a beggar.

  ‘Bugger me,’ Vindex cut in at this point. ‘Suppose at least the blessing ought to be worth something given all the money I gave the old liar. I ought to be the luckiest man in the world.’

  Ferox did not hide the druid’s attempt to win him over to their cause, and then he came to Galla and he talked at length about her message, while skimming over everything else. It was clear that Vindex’s imagination readily filled in the rest, no doubt in the most lurid way. Even Crispinus was jealous.

  ‘From all you tell me, by rights it should have been me greeting so fair and important a visitor.’

  Ferox shrugged. ‘She could not speak your language, and you cannot speak hers.’

  ‘Curse my parents for neglecting my education so shamefully. Well, that is past remedy – at least for the moment. What matters is that she claims Tincommius wants peace. Do you believe her?’

  Ferox weighed his answer. ‘Yes he does, because the stakes are too high for him to want to risk war with Rome. He wants recognition, friendship and help.’

  Crispinus was pleased. ‘Not too high a price for removing the most powerful of our enemies, since you say that the Stallion and his followers are set on war.’

  ‘He is, and there are bound to be a good number who follow him. If he wins even a few little victories that number will grow rapidly.’

  ‘Then all the more reason for us to befriend Tincommius and tilt the balance more in our favour.’ The tribune frowned. ‘I do not understand your caution.’

  ‘We make Tincommius stronger, then in a few years he may not be so friendly.’

  ‘A few years is a long time, and not our problem,’ Crispinus declared. ‘I may be envious of your good fortune last night, but you should not doubt my satisfaction with your conduct, centurion.’

  Later in the day, the wind dropped and the Romans took a stroll around the high king’s stronghold. People stared at them, but were generally friendly and obliging. Children, too young to remember the days when the Romans were here, followed them about, curious to see these strange creatures from the south. Ferox heard a little girl explaining to a younger brother that a Roman was made from stone fashioned to look like a man and that is why they were happy around stone and lived in high stone towers that reached up to the sky. He whispered an explanation to the tribune. The boy did not seem convinced, but was a bold lad and crept up behind Crispinus. Vindex nudged Ferox and they watched as the child took a big swing and kicked the tribune on the ankle. To his credit the aristocrat did not react, save to turn very slowly around as if his whole body were stiff. The boy scampered away howling in fear.

  Gannascus and several dozen warriors were practising in an open space, throwing javelins and fencing with each other. All were big men, if only one or two as big as their giant of a leader, and they were markedly thicker set than the local tribesmen. A lot of them were blond or red-haired, but that was not uncommon in these parts, even if it was unusual to sport such thick beards and long hair. Every man had an army-issue sword at his belt.

  ‘I understood that it is against the law to trade in weapons beyond the frontier,’ Crispinus observed, sticking to Latin so as not to cause offence.

  ‘It is, but people find a way.’ Ferox thought back to the Treviran merchant they had met at Trimontium, and how the man had not wanted to say what he had sold to Tincommius. ‘A lot of stores of all kinds went missing when we pulled out of the bases up here. It always happens. People make mistakes, or they try to cover them up, and there’s always someone up to making a quick profit by selling contraband to the locals.’

  ‘Why, think of that,’ Vindex added sarcastically. ‘A dishonest Roman, whatever is the world coming to?’

  ‘Or someone is giving arms to the king already,’ Crispinus suggested, ignoring the Brigantian.

  ‘Perhaps,’ Ferox said. ‘Then there’s always deserters. A man who goes over the wall with all his gear is a man likely to find a welcome up here. You saw the posts?’ Earlier on they had passed another open patch and seen two posts like the one outside Syracuse. Army methods of training suggested former soldiers serving the king – no doubt men who chose to keep out of sight while the Roman envoys were here.

  As they watched, a few more Germans appeared carrying a crude stra
w figure of a man strapped to an upright stake, which they drove into the ground at the foot of the rampart. The effigy was dressed in an old Roman helmet and the segmented cuirass sported by legionaries. A pair of tall warriors carrying bows as tall as themselves came to stand near them, while the rest moved to either side to watch. Each planted five arrows in the grass at their feet, before stringing their bows. They were simple, made from a single piece of timber, but Ferox saw the men strain to hook the strings in place. The army used smaller bows, with several types of wood glued together and reinforced with animal horn, and these looked crude by comparison.

  One of the warriors plucked an arrow from the ground, drew back his bow and loosed, sending the missile straight into the target and there was a dull clang as it punched through an iron plate of the cuirass. The other archer fired a moment later with the same effect. Ferox thought back to the ambush and the Batavians shot down by hidden archers. He had never seen arrows fly with such force unless they came from a ballista. The next arrows went higher, the first clattering off the helmet to the mocking applause of the crowd. Then there was a cheer as the next one drove into the bronze and stuck there.

  ‘This doesn’t look too friendly,’ Vindex said.

  Gannascus acted as if he had not noticed them until now. ‘Roman!’ he called to Ferox. ‘Want to try?’

  The Silures were not archers. As a boy Ferox learned how to use a sling, but it was not until he went to Rome and trained with the Praetorians that he had been taught to shoot a bow. He had practised a little since then, especially when he was on the Danube, but had not even held a bow for years.

  One of the Germans grinned as he handed him a bow. The warrior was taller than he was and so was his bow, but Ferox was surprised at how light and well balanced it felt. There were two arrows in the ground beside him, and after feeling the taut string, he reached down and plucked one. He nocked it, began to pull and felt the appalling strength holding the string back. Grunting, he used all his might to draw it. His left arm was straining to keep straight, his right hand juddering with the effort. He tried to steady it, breathing out before he loosed, but it all felt wrong and he was not surprised when the arrow went high and wide over the rampart and outside.

  ‘Some poor bastard of a shepherd’s probably having a bad day!’ Vindex commented.

  The Germans roared with laughter. Ferox reached for the second arrow, nocked it and drew all in one motion, doing his best not to think and just letting his muscles take over. One thing he had learned long ago was that if a shot felt right then it flew true and to the mark. As soon as he had the string to his chest he loosed and if the aim was not perfect it was better than before. It missed the armour and drove deep into the post on which the straw figure was mounted, piercing the straw just where it divided to form the legs.

  ‘Ooh, that’s nasty,’ Vindex said and the Germans laughed again, but this time they were amused rather than scornful and they made squealing noises as if the target were a real man hit in the crotch. Gannascus came over and pounded the centurion on the shoulder in delight. The blow added to the ache in his arms and the sense that his ribs had almost been pulled apart.

  ‘Now show us what you can do with a sword,’ the big German demanded and to Ferox’s surprise they produced wooden swords and heavy wickerwork shields. As he hefted the training equipment he could see that they were not army issue, but close copies. Gannascus’ warriors were used to handling them, and to simple versions of the standard drills, and he guessed that the deserters recruited by the high king had brought with them ideas as well as their own weapons.

  The Germans were good – not up to the level of a truly well-trained unit, but still better than he had expected, at least when they fought as individuals. He put his first opponent down quickly, surprising him with an immediate attack that knocked him off balance. The second man did better, but kept his shield too high, wanting to protect his face, and after feinting high, Ferox was able to slice low and hit him hard behind the knee, scooping the man’s leg from under him. Gannascus cheered, but pounded the warrior on the back for doing well and grinned at Ferox.

  Crispinus lost interest after a while, and took Vindex away with him in case he needed an interpreter, leaving Ferox to fight on. The Germans were enthusiastic and he knew that each man desperately wanted to be the one to beat the Roman officer. He was glad Gannascus stood back and watched, for he did not relish facing his speed and strength, at least not now that he was tired.

  The third man was older, with streaks of grey amid his brown hair, and there was a good deal of watching and waiting in between each rapid attack. Ferox thought that he could beat the man, but reckoned that it was better to declare a draw and do him honour. The Germans cheered that, especially when he put down his sword and clasped the man’s hand. After that he took a break, calling for water.

  More warriors were appearing, some of them Germans, but also local men and a few wearing long tunics and bare-legged who were most likely Hibernians. Talking to the men, he learned that the high king had more than a thousand warriors in his household, although half lived at other settlements. These thousand were the best men, the ones who had no real occupation other than war, and they included the exiles. For a month before Lughnasadh, the great summer festival, each clan sworn to the high king sent him fifty men, along with all the lads who had turned fifteen. For four weeks they trained for war or laboured to restore the defences of this fort or helped to tend his cattle, then they shared in a great feast before returning home, ready to muster again in time of war. One of the Germans boasted to him of the storerooms full of shields and good spears ready to be given to men answering the king’s call to arms. Tincommius was creating an army of a sort never seen before among the tribes of the north, and that raised more questions about what he planned in the longer run.

  Soon – too soon – Ferox was forced to duel again, and he wondered whether Gannascus had deliberately saved his better warriors until the Roman was tired. Soon he had to start pulling out all the dirty tricks he could remember. He beat the fifth man by punching with the boss of his shield at the top of his opponent’s shield, then slamming it up so that the edge caught the man on the chin. The warrior bit his lip and was left dazed and bloodied.

  The sixth man was not a German, but was clearly in Gannascus’ band. It seemed that he had bolstered his numbers with a couple of dozen eager local men, so that these days he led almost a hundred men, eleven of them archers. The new recruits were slighter than the Germans, but several sported beards instead of moustaches. The one facing Ferox had gone further, tying his hair in a knot on top of his head in imitation of some of Gannascus’ best men. He was quick in his movements and wily, so Ferox let him probe his defence for a time while he looked for a weakness. He noticed a raven tattooed on the man’s right wrist, which was a mark of one of the clans of the Venicones.

  Trumpets blared, the sound a mix of the harsh carnyxes and softer horns, and the Briton’s eyes flicked towards the gateway. Ferox pounded him with his shield, forcing the man back, and the warrior’s guard dropped for a moment allowing the centurion to thrust with his practice sword. He stopped the blow with the tip just short of the man’s throat.

  Gannascus clapped the man on the back. ‘Watch the man you fight. Forget everything else,’ he bellowed, but looked pleased that his warriors were doing better when they faced the Roman.

  The trumpets announced the return of the high king, who thundered through the gateway at the reins of a chariot. The car was painted bright red, and the harness on the two grey ponies pulling it was of red leather. Seeing the Roman, he turned on a denarius and galloped towards the training area, slewing the chariot to a halt at the last minute. ‘So, are you teaching my warriors?’ he called happily.

  ‘And learning from them.’ Compliments were rarely wasted and this one made Gannascus’ men cheer. Ferox had to admit that he liked them. He had always felt most at ease among fighting men, finding them easier to understand than Rom
ans like Crispinus, for whom the army was merely one short step as they climbed the political ladder.

  ‘Talk with me,’ the high king said and began walking off. Ferox followed.

  ‘Did the hunt go well?’ he asked.

  ‘Well enough, although I lost a fine horse.’

  ‘Boar?’ Ferox had seen plenty of mounts brought down and gored by the tusks of a cornered animal.

  ‘Spear,’ said the high king. ‘We were hunting men who dared to steal my cattle. I had thought yesterday’s executions were sufficient warning, but these rogues must have thought that I would be too busy feasting to watch my own property. They were wrong, as I am sure they realised when my hounds found them.’

  They were near the great hall and in a burst of yapping half a dozen puppies ran up to greet Tincommius, their tails wagging furiously.

  ‘Ah, my children.’ The high king scooped up one of the animals in each hand. They were only a few months old, and their legs looked too long for their bodies. ‘You must leave tomorrow.’ The abrupt change of subject took Ferox by surprise. ‘Speak to your tribune, and we will have a council tonight and agree matters.’ The high king made it clear that he expected the Romans to accept his offer.

  ‘I will speak to the Lord Crispinus.’

  ‘Good. You must go quickly and I will send some of my men with you as escort.’ Tincommius’ tone suggested that this was more than a courtesy. ‘There may be danger.’

  ‘The Stallion?’ Ferox asked and the high king looked surprised at his directness.

  ‘You do not like dogs, do you?’ He offered one of the puppies to the centurion, and the animal stopped barking and stared at him with scepticism ‘No, I thought not. They call the Silures the “Wolf People” so perhaps you do not care for creatures broken and trained. I hear that the Silures are queer folk. Yet there is an old saying that you cannot trust a man who does not like dogs, but I trust you so perhaps the saying is wrong or I am wrong. I like dogs because they are simple and the best ones are more loyal than any man. My hounds are like family to me and it gives me sorrow when I lose one.’ He put the other dog down and held the puppy he had offered to Ferox up to his own face. A little pink tongue licked the king with great energy and enthusiasm.