BRIGANTIA
BY ADRIAN GOLDSWORTHY
The Vindolanda Series
Vindolanda
The Encircling Sea
Brigantia
Non-Fiction
Hadrian’s Wall
BRIGANTIA
Adrian Goldsworthy
www.headofzeus.com
First published in the UK in 2019 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Adrian Goldsworthy, 2019
The moral right of Adrian Goldsworthy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781784978198
ISBN (ANZTPB): 9781784978204
ISBN (E): 9781788541886
Cover design: Estuary English
Images: Shutterstock / Arcangel
Maps by Jeff Edwards
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
www.headofzeus.com
For Robert
Northern Britannia at the start of the Emperor Trajan’s Reign
Britannia AD 100
PLACE NAMES
Aballava: Burgh by Sands
Abus: River Humber
Alauna: Maryport in Cumbria
Arbeia: South Shields
Bremenium: High Rochester
Bremesio: Piercebridge
Bremetennacum: Ribchester
Brigantum: Aldborough
Camulodunum: Colchester
Cataractonium: Catterick
Coria: Corbridge
Corinium: Cirencester
Danum: Doncaster
Deva: Chester
Eboracum: York
Lindum: Lincoln
Londinium: London
Longovicium: Lanchester
Lugdunum: Lyon in France
Luguvallium: Carlisle
Magna: Carvoran
Maia: Bowness-on-Solway
Mediolanum: Whitchurch
Mona: Anglesey
Segontium: Caernarfon
Verbeia: Ilkley
Verulamium: St Albans
Viroconium: Wroxeter
Contents
By Adrian Goldsworthy
Welcome Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Northern Britannia at the start of the Emperor Trajan’s Reign
Britannia AD 100
Place Names
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Historical Note
Glossary
About the Author
An Invitation from the Publisher
PROLOGUE
The two men followed the path as it meandered up from the valley floor towards the lone farmstead. They were big men, one just slightly taller and the other broader at the shoulders. Each wore mail armour and helmet and had a sword on their left hip, and few among the Selgovae of these parts could boast such a fine panoply. The thicker set man also carried a torch held high in his right hand. There was no moon, but the heavens were an endless field of bright stars, and they did not need the torchlight to find their path. Instead it warned anyone who cared to watch that they were coming, two warriors well armed and grim.
‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ the taller man said. His face was long, the skin drawn taut over the muscles, giving him the air of a leering horse. His companion ignored him and trudged on. Now and again the gentle breeze picked up and made the flame gutter and wave.
There was no sign that anyone in the farm had noticed them. It was much like the others dotted along the valley, indeed throughout much of Britannia, with a main house, its conical roof a little higher and broader than the round huts on either side. Below all was deep shadow, with the odd hint of movement as the livestock in the fenced enclosures shuffled and fed. Higher up the thatch was pale in the starlight. The Selgovae did not care to live too close to their neighbours. Men felt the need for room around them, so families lived apart and got on with the business of keeping their own flocks or herds and tending fields. Eburus, the old man who lived here, disliked company more than most, for the nearest homestead was nearly two miles away, and his own farm was perched on a narrow shelf halfway up the eastern side of the valley. Beyond the shallow ditch surrounding the three houses the slope steepened and then turned into high cliffs that were dark and brooding even on this bright night. No one could approach from that direction – or escape.
‘I mean,’ the taller man said, ‘we could wait. Catch ’em tomorrow or the next day.’ He spoke in Latin, the words clear and carefully chosen, albeit with the gruff accent of his people. Vindex was one of the Carvetii, a northern people who were close kin to the Brigantes, the biggest tribe anywhere in Britannia. For the last seven years he had led the scouts sent by his chieftain to serve alongside the Roman army.
Still his companion did not reply or stop. They were a good halfway up the slope, where the path reached a broad grey boulder and then made a loop around the mound behind it. There were two more big stones beyond the mound.
‘Guess it could be a woman,’ Vindex mused as they reached the pair of stones, round and evenly matched. ‘Just lying there, waiting.’ Someone must have thought the same, for the name of this place was the Vale of the Mother, or sometimes the Vale of the Queen, and perhaps a goddess had set her mark here as a blessing, for the barley in the fields around the farm was high and thick. ‘Harvest soon,’ he added. ‘Although that lazy old sod Eburus will probably wait longer. Serve him right if a storm blows it flat.’ He stopped and caressed one of the stones that might be breasts and smiled. He was fond of women, and had mourned two wives and not long ago taken a third. Before he left she had wondered whether she was with child. The thought was an exciting one, albeit salted by fear for her.
His companion continued to ignore him and trudged up the slope. He wore an iron helmet, with deep and wide neck guard, broad cheek pieces and a high transverse crest of feathers, which made him look taller. It was the way the Romans marked out their centurions, making it easier for friend and foe alike to see them in the chaos of battle. Flavius Ferox belonged to Legio II Augusta, but was on detached service as regionarius, the man tasked with keeping the peace and the rule of law in the area near the fort at Vindolanda. A few months ago the senior regionarius in the north had died an especially nasty death, and since then Ferox had acted in his stead. Even so they wer
e a long way further north than any district formally organised by Rome or under his responsibility. No one but Ferox would have come this far in pursuit, especially with so few men. It was not the first time he had led Vindex off in this way and the scout doubted that it would be the last. In truth, given the odds they faced this night, he had to hope that it would not be the last time.
Vindex gave the stone one last pat and followed. Ferox was already a fair way ahead, climbing a little bank rather than following the path as it wound around it. He stood for a moment at the top, and a gust of wind hissed through the barley, rippling the feathered crest and making the torch flicker wildly. Ferox turned his back to the breeze and lowered the branch so that the flame recovered and did not go out. The wind slackened, and once he was sure that the torch was burning well, the centurion looked past the muttering scout down into the valley floor. The three points of light from torches like the one he carried were where they should be. Ferox grunted in approval.
‘You’re awake then,’ Vindex said, staring up at him. ‘Well, nearly.’
‘Huh,’ Ferox grunted again. The Carvetii talked a lot even compared to the rest of the Brigantes. Both made the Romans seem reserved.
Vindex came up to join him. ‘How are they supposed to hold a torch and blow a horn at the same time?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell me that, centurion?’
The wind gusted again and Ferox turned and leaned over to protect the flame. He ignored the question because it was one of many he could not really answer. They had begun the chase three days ago. One of the scouts dropped out early on when his horse became badly lame. The day before last, their quarry met a lone rider who then rode off to the east while the others continued north and Ferox had sent another scout and one of his Roman troopers after whoever this was. The scout was not a true fighter, and the soldier a big Tungrian who would get lost inside a fort if left on his own, so the two would together make one capable man. The tracks suggested the fugitive was small, perhaps a youth, so hopefully the two should manage if they caught up, although anyone willing to meet the men they were chasing was bold at the very least. That was one more mystery in the bigger mystery, and Ferox was not sure why he wanted that lone rider caught save that he did not like loose ends. This whole business was odd, and something told him that it mattered and that nothing was quite what it seemed, so he had listened to his instincts and told them to bring the rider back, alive or dead, with everything he carried.
‘That’s if the buggers don’t just go out before anyone has seen them.’ Vindex spoke loudly over the wind, interrupting his thoughts, especially when the breeze dropped suddenly so that it sounded as if the scout was shouting. They both glanced up at the farm, but there was still no sign that anyone was paying attention.
‘They’ll hear.’ Flavius Ferox spoke at last.
‘They will, will they?’ Vindex said once it was clear that nothing more was forthcoming. After all these years, he was used to his friend’s ways. Not that that made them any less infuriating. ‘Sure that little Greek can even blow a trumpet?’
‘Philo talks all the time.’ Ferox’s tone implied that this well qualified his slave when it came to making noise. ‘And he gave me the idea. Told me a story once about a hero of his people who crept at night with just three hundred warriors and surrounded the camp of a vast host of enemies. Each of them had a torch and a trumpet and they all blew at the same moment and waved the torches. Scared the enemy so much they panicked, killed each other by mistake and fled. A god clouded their minds.’
Vindex pulled up the wheel of Taranis that he wore around his neck and kissed the bronze. ‘Have we got a god on our side tonight?’ he asked.
‘What do you think?’
‘I’d settle for three hundred warriors.’ Vindex sighed. ‘If we wait, a patrol may catch up. The trail is clear. I could follow it with just one eye, half-open. You could follow it in your sleep.’
‘And the girl?’
‘If she isn’t dead already, then why would they kill her now? They’d have to slaughter Eburus while they’re at it. He may be a mean old sod, but he wouldn’t have killing under his roof unless he’s the one doing it.’
‘Cistumucus would slaughter the world without blinking.’ Ferox spoke bitterly. ‘Rufus would do it with a big grin as long as he thought he could escape afterwards. One old man and his family wouldn’t bother them or slow them down.’ He paused, lifted the torch and gently waved it from left to right and then back again three times. Down in the valley the three points of light dipped in answer.
‘And Rufus is there?’
‘He’s there.’ Rufus was an army deserter who had left a trail of blood ever since he ran from his cohort eighteen months ago. Cistumucus was an outcast from one of the far northern tribes. Both were feared as truly bad men even in these hard lands, and it was clear that the rumours were true and they had banded together. ‘They’re both there along with a couple of warriors and the girl.’ The tracks were plain, even with the ground hard after a month with unusually little rain.
‘Now killing your host might not be something even those bastards will do lightly,’ Ferox went on, ‘but our horses are spent and apart from us we’ve only got the tubicen fit to fight, and I wouldn’t count much on him. So we probably won’t catch them tomorrow and if we do, the odds wouldn’t be good in the open. If we wait for the others then they’ll have too big a lead and they’ll get away or kill the girl once they see us coming on behind.’ He said no more and simply set off along the path.
‘You ever met her?’ Vindex asked once he had caught up.
‘Met who?’
‘This slave girl?’
‘What’s that got to do with it? You saw what they did.’
‘Aye.’ The woman was a slave, married to a slave, and both of them and their little boy were owned by an imperial freedman who had once been a slave, but Vindex had long since given up seeking reason in the ways of the Romans. The man was driving a cart full of goods belonging to his master when it was ambushed, and the solitary soldier who was presumably their escort could do no more than die with them. Pure chance had brought Ferox and Vindex to the spot half a day later. They had seen the corpses, wished they had not, and followed the trail for three days, riding hard. Ferox had sent a trooper back to Vindolanda asking for support, with little hope that it would arrive in time, and that began the depletion of the tiny band.
‘They need killing,’ Ferox said, his normally musical voice flat, which was always a sign that it was no use trying to persuade him otherwise.
‘Aye, they do.’ Vindex glanced at the other man. ‘And there’s plenty more out there like them.’
Ferox turned and smiled. ‘You do not have to come with me.’
Vindex stopped and watched his friend stride on, his crest bobbing as he climbed the path. The iron helmet glinted red in the flames, as did his mail shirt. He did not look back.
Vindex sighed. ‘That is true because it is not.’ The words were no more than a whisper, for he knew that they did not matter. Brigantes were renowned for sticking with friends whatever the cost, and the Carvetii were known as faithful even compared to their kin. Ferox was his friend, whether the Roman liked it or not, and that meant Vindex would go with him now and always, as long as there was breath in his body. He raised the wheel of Taranis to his lips again, pressed it to them, and then slipped it down the top of his own mail cuirass. He patted the bronze dome of his old-fashioned army issue helmet to check that it was tied on securely and then gripped the handle of his long sword and gave a slight tug to make sure that it was loose in the scabbard. Then he shook his head. ‘Bastard.’ He said the word with great fondness, and followed Ferox.
The farm was close now, no more than a hundred paces away, and there was a brief jab of red firelight as someone pulled open the door of the main house and went in or out. Yet there was still no sign that anyone was paying them any attention. They were past the barley fields and into the open patch of ground in front of
the farm. In spite of the long dry spell the path grew muddy from the passage of animals day after day. One of them, a pony with a broad white mark on its face, stared over the wattle fence of one of the animal pens alongside the huts. The ditch around the farm was shallow and from the smell filled with the waste of the family who lived inside. The Selgovae did not use their own dung on their fields, but tended to toss it aside and then forget about it. It added an extra layer to the odour of pigs, sheep, goats, ponies and rotting food.
There was a single causeway across the ditch, although that was rather a grand name for the earth they had simply not bothered to dig out. The ditch, like the fences around the animal pens, was there to stop the livestock from straying, and make it just a little harder for thieves to steal them without anyone noticing.
Ferox and Vindex stopped in front of the causeway. The centurion turned, and waved his torch for the second time. Down in the valley the three red lights dipped in answer. A bronze trumpet sounded a rising scale, then sounded it again.
‘The lad’s good,’ Vindex muttered, knowing that this was Banno, the tubicen from Vindolanda. The last note faded and they waited for what seemed an age before there was a brief, high-pitched snort, then nothing, and then a thin, rasping note. ‘Not so good.’ That was Philo, a slave who waged merciless war against dirt in his master’s quarters and with less success on his clothes. ‘The music is not in him,’ Vindex added sadly.
No one stirred in the farm, and even the white-faced pony turned away from them.
‘Eburus!’ Ferox shouted, so loud that Vindex flinched. For a man prone to brooding silence, the centurion had a voice of surprising power. ‘Eburus! We are at your gates, my lord, and ask to speak with you!’ The old man was neither a lord nor did he have any gates, but courtesies were important. Ferox spoke in the language of the tribes, and after more than a decade in the north, there was only a slight trace of the accent of his own people. Although a Roman and a centurion of Legio II Augusta, Ferox was born a prince of the Silures, a tribe who had fought Rome for twenty years and lost in the end. In his early teens he had been sent as hostage to the empire, educated like a good Roman, made a citizen and an officer. Vindex always felt that two different, even hostile, spirits battled for the soul of his friend.
Brigantia Page 1
