Ferox could not help thinking that the high king had kept a foot in each camp until the very last moment. He had sent Gannascus and several hundred warriors to join the Stallion. If the Romans had blundered into that force instead of retreating when their cavalry were routed then it was hard to believe that the German and the rest would not have fought against them, especially if the Stallion’s bands had come round from behind and trapped them according to plan. The same was surely true if things had gone worse for the Romans in the battle. Tincommius’ men were cautious, but either way they would have ended up on the winning side. Ferox suspected that the legate sensed this truth, but was happy to ignore it since everything had turned out well. He was less sure that the tribune understood, for Crispinus was a harder man to read.
Neratius Marcellus had ordered Ferox to hunt down the wounded priest and bring him back as a captive or his head as a trophy. ‘Either way I want his head on a stake over the gates at Vindolanda,’ he told them. ‘That seems the right place, and it would be better if he was executed there, but it does not matter too much if you cannot bring him in alive.’ He had nodded to Flavius Cerialis, who was nursing a nasty wound to the side. The prefect winced as he smiled at the compliment.
‘The men would appreciate it, my lord. As would I.’
Ferox wondered whether the prefect was thinking about his murdered lover. Cerialis ought to recover as long as the wound did not turn bad. The centurion tried to dismiss from his mind a wild fantasy where the prefect died, leaving his widow free to remarry. It was nonsense and he knew it, for a senator’s daughter could condescend to marry an eques, but never a man of lower rank and far less means. Sulpicia Lepidina was as far beyond him as the stars in the heavens and in truth he could not really wish her husband ill. Cerialis had fought well, leading his Batavians even after he had taken the cut to his thigh and a heavy blow to the chest.
Aelius Brocchus was also among the wounded, although not so seriously, and none of the senior officers had been killed. The centurions had suffered more, as they always did, for their place was in front. A quarter were dead, half wounded, and the remainder struggling to run the units. Overall there were one hundred and fifty-two dead and almost double that number wounded. The Britons had lost a thousand dead, and another thousand too badly wounded to crawl or be carried away, who would be killed as soon as they were found by the parties of soldiers sent out on that grim duty.
Ferox was glad to leave the stench and the cawing of ecstatic crows behind. Vindex came with him, refusing to stay in spite of a nasty cut to the head.
‘If I leave you on your own you’ll only get into trouble,’ he insisted, and Ferox was pleased to have his company, for he chattered away and kept Crispinus occupied. There was also Flaccus and an escort of five legionary horsemen, the number agreed with Gannascus, who with ten of his warriors would accompany them.
‘A prophet cannot survive when his miracle fails,’ the Legate Marcellus assured them. ‘You should not have any trouble, but the sight of the king’s men will make you doubly safe.’
Ferox was much less certain, but was proved wrong for they met no parties of fanatics determined to kill any Roman they saw. The lands seemed unnaturally quiet, and for all the trails left by men going back to their homes they saw few people abroad, although since rain fell steadily from the very start it was rarely possible to see far.
Gannascus was in good spirits, seemed pleased to see him, and made jokes about how they were lucky his Germans had not led the attack on the Roman line. Ferox did not let himself be drawn, and was glad that the constant downpour dampened spirits so that most of the time they rode in silence. He did not want to speak, needing to think because he was not sure how to obey the legate’s last, secret order.
‘One of those tribunes is a traitor,’ the legate had said, once again with only his intimate friend Ovidius as witness. ‘Whoever it is, even if it is my nephew, I want you to make sure that he does not come back.’
Much of the time he rode ahead of the rest, claiming that he needed to search for tracks, and even Vindex left him alone. Ferox thought he knew the answer to all the riddles, was almost sure, but the battle had drained much of his hatred and anger, taking the hard edge off his desire for revenge. Instead he felt listless and empty. If he had been back at Syracuse he suspected that he would have got drunk, so maybe it was better that he had something to do, unpleasant though the task was.
‘We will be at the ferry soon, will we not?’ Crispinus had ridden up to join him.
‘Two hours, my lord, but I do not think we shall have to go that far. “Some leaves do not fall, some trees do not die.”’ He sang the words softly.
‘I am too cold and wet for mysteries, my friend.’ The tribune was pale and looked truly miserable.
‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had not come, my lord.’
Crispinus smiled. ‘I had to be here at the end.’
‘Not long now,’ Ferox said. Under his cloak he felt for the bone handgrip of his gladius.
The trail ran straight the last few miles, and when they came to the spot it was easy to see in his mind’s eye what had happened. They had unharnessed the two ponies from the chariot and then burned the car. The remains were scorched a deep black by a great heat, for they must have used oil to get the wood and leather to burn in all this rain. The ponies lay dead, throats cut and made to lie down on either side of the pyre.
‘The Legate Marcellus was right,’ Crispinus said, patting his horse to calm it as it tried to pull away. ‘A prophet cannot fail.’
The Stallion’s corpse swung gently in the breeze, suspended from one of the main branches of the yew tree. Ferox imagined Acco the druid supervising, probably placing the noose around the priest’s head himself, then watching as the others hauled him up and made the rope fast. The naked priest would have jerked and twitched, struggling for breath, choking slowly as his own weight dragged his body down. They had cut him about the body, cut him time and again, and Ferox saw a broken flint blade on the ground, which meant that they had not used ordinary knives. A great scar ran across his stomach, sewn up and starting to heal a little, which was the wound the centurion had given him during the battle. It did not look as if it would have proved fatal. All the other cuts were neater, less deep, and the rain had fallen, washing away the blood, so all that was left was slice after slice cut into his white skin. It would have taken a long time and traces around his lips told Ferox that the man had been given poison as well. The triple death, the sacred death of a willing victim sacrificed to appease the anger of the gods.
Flaccus gave a nervous laugh. ‘These Britons really don’t like failures.’
Ferox did not bother to answer. The Romans would never understand.
Flaccus jumped down. ‘You men,’ he ordered the escort. ‘Help me cut this fellow down. My Lord Crispinus, perhaps you would like to do the honours and take his head?’
The tribune seemed surprised, but realised that there would be something for him to boast about and shock his friends with when he returned to Rome, so got down.
Ferox gestured to Vindex to dismount as well. ‘Do you trust me?’ he whispered to the Brigantian.
‘No.’
‘Then just do what I ask. Have your blade ready. When I look away and say that I’m expecting someone to join us, that will be the signal.’
Crispinus had thrown his cloak back to get at his sword. He drew it, just as one of the legionaries rode over to the tree and sawed through the rope. The corpse thumped on to the soggy ground and somehow looked even whiter.
‘Little bloke, wasn’t he?’ one of the soldiers joked.
Ferox drew his gladius and in the same motion brought it so that the tip quivered an inch from Crispinus’ throat. ‘Drop the sword,’ he said.
‘Have you gone mad, centurion?’
Flaccus looked baffled.
‘My Lord Flaccus, I must ask you to place the noble Crispinus under arrest on charges of treason.’
‘What?’ Crispinus’ eyes flicked from side to side. ‘This is absurd.’
‘Drop the sword.’ Ferox pressed so that the tip of his gladius touched the skin of the tribune’s neck. ‘Drop it.’ Crispinus let the weapon fall.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Flaccus was confused, but he gestured to one of the legionaries and the man came and took away the tribune’s sword.
‘I am acting on orders of the Legate Marcellus,’ Ferox said, his eyes fixed on Crispinus. ‘And I regret to say that the tribune has plotted with other senators to damage the majesty of the republic and our princeps, the glorious Trajan.’
The legionaries had all stopped and were watching and listening. Gannascus frowned and then shrugged, and his men sat on their horses showing only mild curiosity at the Romans talking in a language they did not understand.
‘You!’ Ferox nodded to one of the legionaries. ‘Get some rope and tie the tribune’s hands behind his back.’ The soldier looked at Flaccus, who waved a hand to show that he was to obey the order.
‘That is better,’ the centurion said, even though the man had not yet returned, for Crispinus held his arms down and waited meekly for the bonds. ‘Now I can lower my arm.’
Ferox stepped away and began to walk in a circle, waiting until he was behind Crispinus before he started to speak again. Two of the legionaries crouched down beside the dead priest, waiting for orders. One was next to Flaccus, another fetching the rope, and the last man, the one who had cut the dead priest’s corpse down, sat on his horse, watching.
‘The tribune wanted to start a war,’ Ferox began, ‘so he sent weapons and money to kings among the tribes, men who encouraged that fiend.’ He pointed his blade at the corpse. ‘With a priest preaching hatred and promising victory, the tribes were stirred up. He well knew that the garrisons up here are weak, so that we are seen as vulnerable as well as loathed. That’s never good.’
Ferox gave a thin smile. ‘When you look back it was really all so easy. The tribune had friends. He’s the son of a senator with lots of connections, and he is an up-and-coming man, someone to watch and someone well worth doing a favour to earn his gratitude. There is all that even before he helps break one emperor and raise up another. Plenty of people were eager to help the noble Crispinus. Some were already tied to him or his family.’
Ferox had gone right round and was level with the tribune. The legionary came back with a piece of hemp rope cut from the one that they had used to hang the Stallion. He tied the young aristocrat’s hands together.
‘I recall an oath,’ Crispinus said in a low voice, his words bitter. ‘One willingly taken to my father.’
‘You should,’ Ferox said, glaring at him, ‘because it’s the only reason you are still alive. That oath is a burden, but I have a higher oath, a sacred oath that all soldiers take.’ The sacramentum to obey and serve the princeps and the Senate and People of Rome was sworn when a man joined the army, taken in front of the standards, and then renewed at the accession of each new emperor.
‘I serve Rome,’ the tribune claimed. ‘Always Rome.’
‘But not Trajan!’ Ferox yelled and twitched his sword up before putting his other hand on his wrist to push his arm back down. ‘Noble Crispinus, I will not kill you unless I have to, but will leave that task to others. My oath to your father holds that far.’
‘You have no evidence.’ There was doubt in Flaccus’ voice. ‘It is no light matter to arrest a senior officer.’ The protest came after he had let one of his men bind the tribune. ‘How can I be sure you are right?’
‘He has not denied anything, has he?’ Ferox realised his tone was sharp – too sharp for words to a senior officer. ‘My apologies, my Lord Flaccus, but treason is a dirty business and it is hard not to feel rage, especially since I am pledged to this man. But let me explain. Back in the summer the noble Crispinus met with men from the procurator’s staff and arranged for them to demand a higher levy from the Selgovae, and demand it sooner than usual.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Ferox saw the captive tribune frown. He walked around behind him again, still talking. ‘That provoked rebellion, as he knew it would. He got command of the smaller column and made mistakes. He was too slow to cut off the enemy’s retreat, then left the Tungrians high and dry without support. Only luck and your interventions prevented an embarrassing defeat. Then he claims to deal with the king up north, and yet Tincommius’ warriors still join the rebel army. If you had not acted fast and taken the Ninth to guard against attack from the north we might well have lost that battle.’
‘You are too generous in your praise, centurion.’ Flaccus looked pleased.
‘The legate does not think so, my lord, for these are his words. If it were not for one thing, his joy would be untarnished.’
Flaccus said nothing and his face became hard. Two of his soldiers were close behind and he pointed to one of them. ‘Draw your sword. It is clear that the tribune is a traitor, but I quite understand that it would be embarrassing for the governor to have to arrest and try him in public.’
‘The legate was sure that you had the subtlety to understand. That is why you were sent with us.’
‘Sent among the enemy the day after a battle?’ Flaccus sneered. ‘It seemed a strange order until now. And if the noble Crispinus fell in an ambush and did not return…’
Ferox nodded. ‘Who could blame us, or the legate?’
‘You’ll never get away with this.’ Crispinus was struggling to sound confident. ‘Do not listen to him, Flaccus. My father will demand to know what happened.’
‘And what did happen, soldier?’ Ferox asked the legionary with the drawn sword.
‘Barbarians, sir. Came at us from the woods. Terrible it was.’ The man leered at the tribune and walked towards him. ‘Now then, sir. Hurt less if you kneel and make it easy for us both.’
‘A moment. There is one more thing the legate wishes to know. You can still serve the princeps and the state, noble Crispinus.’
‘Which princeps? Trajan won’t last a year and you all know it.’ The tribune did not kneel, but stared at Flaccus. ‘Not a good idea to be on the losing side. There’s no gratitude or favours from dead men.’
Ferox strode over to him, raised his left hand and slapped the tribune hard across the face.
‘Who helped you?’ He looked back at Flaccus. ‘We know about Vegetus demanding the tax early from the Selgovae to make trouble. Then you got his wife killed. Did he know about that? What about Cerialis? What did you promise him, for trying to hand his wife over for that mongrel to sacrifice?’ Ferox hit him again, and the tribune staggered from the blow, falling on his bottom.
‘Go hump yourself, centurion.’
Vindex chuckled. No one had paid him any attention for a while, and he had wandered around to stand next to the mounted legionary.
‘Not until I get an answer.’ Ferox kicked the tribune in the chest, knocking him on to his back. ‘You let those bastards torture a woman to death. It was even the wrong woman. What was the matter, did you screw it up or was that your men?’ He kicked again, making the tribune hunch up on his side.
‘He had help from someone important,’ Ferox went on, looking now at Flaccus. ‘A senior officer in one of the legions. On the day of the ambush he betrayed the Lady Sulpicia, letting the rebels know about her journey. But someone else arranged for soldiers to go to the tower and murder our own men so that they could not light the beacon and raise the alarm. The men who did were legionaries, and they bore the symbols of the Augusta, but that was a ruse to throw us off the scent. Same when some of the men were at Vindolanda at Samhain.’
Ferox kicked Crispinus again. ‘Talk, you mongrel.’
Crispinus moaned.
Ferox spat on him. ‘I’m afraid that the murderers came from the Ninth.’
Flaccus’ hand gripped his sword, but he did not draw it.
‘Did you know they raped that poor woman before they killed her?’ He invented the detail on
the spur of the moment. Given the state of poor Fortunata’s body, there was no way to tell. ‘All of those Roman soldiers took turns and then handed her across to the rebels for them to torture.’
There was a flicker of surprise in the junior tribune’s eyes, but although Flaccus glanced at the soldier with the drawn sword, he said nothing.
‘I will need your help to find them, my Lord Flaccus. And to find the officer who led them. I suspect one of your centurions, although the man dressed as a tribune to confuse us. Will you help me?’
Flaccus’ hand stayed on his sword, but he seemed to relax a little. ‘Of course, centurion, although with so little to go on it will not be easy.’
‘Ah, but we have a witness.’ Ferox turned away and looked north towards the hills above the ferry crossing. ‘He’s late, but should be here soon. The survivor from the attack on the tower. No. No sign of him yet.’ Ferox turned back and smiled. ‘He did not get a good look at the officer, but he claims he saw some of the soldiers clear enough to recognise. We can find them, I am sure.’
Ferox strolled towards Flaccus. ‘You may as well have your man kill him,’ he said mildly. ‘I don’t think he is going to talk.’
‘Do it.’ Flaccus told the soldier with the drawn sword. ‘Make it clean.’
Ferox watched the man pace over to Crispinus, who did his best to roll away. Flaccus sneered and shook his head. ‘A nobleman,’ he said sarcastically, and then Ferox swung his blade up and jabbed straight into the junior tribune’s throat. Flaccus’ eyes widened, blood jetting from the wound as the centurion pulled his sword free, stamped forward and drove the point through the eye of the legionary standing behind the officer.
Vindex grunted as he stabbed the one on horseback, using his knife and driving it upwards between the scales of the man’s armour. The two men next to the dead priest sprang up, reaching for their swords. Ferox headed for the one standing over Crispinus, but the man ignored him and slashed down at the tribune. The young aristocrat just rolled out of the way, swinging his legs, trying to wrap them round the soldier’s ankles and trip him. The legionary sprang away, and then turned as Ferox came at him.
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