Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘You should send a man and have the beacon lit.’

  Ferox had not noticed Vindex come up beside him and was surprised at this interruption to his thoughts. It was the second time the Brigantian had made the request. There was a watchtower only a couple of miles away, built on one of the highest peaks in the line of hills, with a good view, especially of the lands to the south. There were rarely more than half a dozen soldiers there, enough to keep watch from the top of the tower and tend the beacon.

  ‘We haven’t found any sign of your latrones yet.’

  ‘Have we not?’ Vindex looked around him. ‘Anyway, isn’t that all the more reason to give the alarm? They could be anywhere.’ The black smoke of the beacon was visible for many miles and informed army and civilians alike that trouble was abroad. Once it was seen, riders would gallop from the garrisons to find out was happening, strong patrols would go out along the main routes and even larger forces prepare to move as soon as detailed reports came in. It warned the attackers just as it warned everyone else, letting them know that they were hunted, and that the danger would steadily increase for every hour they remained in the area.

  ‘Not yet.’ Ferox repeated his answer to the earlier request. The first time Vindex had dropped back and followed with the others. Now he said no more, but kept riding alongside the centurion.

  Ferox was tempted, for there was certainly something not right. They had passed several farms and the people in them were courteous, nodding or waving at them as they went by. Yet they looked watchful, as if unsure what was happening and sensing danger. They met some drovers urging a small herd onwards in quite a hurry, but the men claimed to have seen and heard nothing untoward. To Ferox their faces were even more wary than men’s faces often were when confronted by Romans asking questions. He suspected that if his mind were not so dulled by his hangover he would have seen more.

  There were a few signs by the wayside of the sort used by the tribes to send simple messages. Among the Textoverdi of these lands, one stone piled on another meant that there were warriors or soldiers abroad, and he had seen several of these that looked fresh. A mile or so back there were three flat stones piled on top of each other, the highest one much lighter coloured than the others. That meant a large force of warriors, well armed, with the bright stone marking them as enemies, although in truth some of the locals signified the Roman army in that way. It meant that the group were not Textoverdi, and probably not from one of the other Brigantian clans like Vindex’s Carvetii. Ferox wished that he had taken the time to read the fresh bundle of letters back at Syracuse and to check through the latest orders as that should have told him if a large army patrol or other detachment was in the area. He doubted that there was, as the nearest garrisons were stretched pretty thin these days, but it was still just summer, the time for training and shows of force, so it was possible that something was on.

  Ferox knew that he did not believe it and wondered whether it was stubbornness or fear that stopped him from sending a man to raise the alarm. He could not pretend that the fear was not real. His was once a promising career, as the first young nobleman of the Silures to be given Roman citizenship, educated at Lugdunum in Gaul with the aristocratic children of the three provinces, commissioned as centurion in a legion, and decorated for valour by the Emperor Domitian himself. All of that had turned sour long ago and some of it was his fault. He had spent the last seven years here in the north of Britannia, without leave or promotion, serving away from his legion who never gave any suggestion that they wanted his presence. His political importance had long vanished now that the Silures were said to be peaceful, and he was posted to Syracuse because he did not matter and neither did the duties he carried out – at least not to any senior man in the province, let alone anyone at Rome. Ferox was regionarius of a district of little importance and if he wanted to rot there or drink himself into an early grave then no one much minded. Neither were they much inclined to trust his judgement, for his stubborn pursuit of the truth had made him few friends and plenty of enemies.

  The truth mattered. ‘Lie to others,’ his grandfather used to say, ‘but don’t be fool enough to lie to yourself.’ Last summer, and then again at the start of this year, he had sent in reports of serious trouble brewing in the north. Everything he saw and heard had convinced him that it was only a matter of time before the tribes broke their alliance with Rome, but his superiors had scoffed at his fears, and nothing had happened so far, so he was now marked down as an alarmist, possibly unreliable. If he roused the garrisons with stories of great raiding bands of barbarians and it all proved to be nothing then he was finished. Crescens for one would happily testify to his drunkenness at the time of the alarm and there were bound to be others who would back up his story. After all, it was the truth. He would be broken, dishonourably discharged and lose the last faint traces of purpose and meaning in his life. Ferox could not face that, for he had nowhere else to go.

  ‘It is a bit early for a big raid,’ Ferox said, trying to delay the decision.

  Vindex looked more than usually gaunt. ‘Depends who they are,’ he said. ‘And what they want.’

  Most bands came for livestock. There might be a few of them, especially if they were horse thieves, or several dozen. If it was a bigger attack, a chieftain with the warriors oath-bound to serve him and any others who wanted to come along, then they wanted more than to take a few animals. The best time was in a month or so, when autumn was truly here. That meant sheep and cattle fat and strong from summer pastures, ground frosted and hard so that the going was good, and the sheltering darkness of longer nights.

  Ferox wondered if this was a murder raid. They were rarer these days, with all the tribes and clans allied to Rome and encouraged to be friendly to each other. A big part of Ferox’s job was to hear complaints and arbitrate in disputes so that men were less tempted to go and burn someone else’s house down. Much depended on the chieftains, whether they sent their clansmen to him, settled the matter themselves or refused to get involved. There were still warriors out there eager to take heads and add to their reputations as dangerous men. Some of the chieftains were as keen for glory or to prove their power, and then there was always hatred and vengeance.

  ‘Someone took that young bugger’s head,’ Vindex said.

  Ferox wanted to think, and needed quiet to do it, but had learned to value the Brigantian’s judgement.

  ‘Didn’t take the Goat Man’s, though, did they?’

  Vindex was unimpressed. ‘Well, would you want that ugly old sod staring at you?’

  Ferox did not know the old man’s real name, and wondered whether anyone really knew it or knew him. They called him the Goat Man, or sometimes just Goat, and even men who were grandfathers could only ever recall him being old. He had no home, but wandered the lands with his goats and the small boy who helped him tend to them. Sometimes he stayed in farms or villages, sometimes in caves or huddled in the shelter of trees. Everyone knew him and he never had a good word for anyone else, but he seemed to draw animals to him. Farmers hoped he would come if their cows went dry or the sheep were sick, for Goat Man understood the lore of creatures and how to heal them.

  ‘It won’t be the same without him,’ Ferox said.

  ‘Yes, it will be a lot less miserable. He never had a kind word for anyone, not that I ever heard. He’s cursed me plenty of times.’

  Goat Man was never happy and never grateful. He arrived at a man’s house at night, took shelter and food and the place closest to the fire. He stayed as long as he wanted, then left without a word and without any thanks. Yet he was always welcome and more than a little feared.

  ‘I’ve heard people say that he was a god or spirit in disguise.’

  Vindex threw his head back and laughed, causing a murmur to run around the men following them. ‘Humpin’ good disguise if it was.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But he’s dead as stone, and you can’t kill a god.’

  ‘I do not think they meant to kill him,’ Fer
ox said, rubbing the thick stubble on his chin.

  ‘That’s kind of them.’

  ‘Reckon they wanted something from him,’ he continued, trying the idea out as he spoke. ‘Probably wanted him to guide them, and when he refused they slapped him around and he died on them.’

  ‘Probably just to spite ’em, knowing that miserable git.’ Vindex chuckled to himself. ‘What about the other one? Did he try to help?’

  ‘No, he must be one of their band. I do not think he was from these parts. Something happened, he broke his leg and that was that. He’d only slow them down, so they killed him.’

  ‘Nice to have friends,’ Vindex said. ‘Why take the head – and the hand?’

  ‘That I do not know, but he let them.’ The cut to the neck was neat and from behind. It was a hard thing to take off a head with one blow, and to do it so well suggested skill and practice. Ferox imagined the man meekly waiting, probably a couple of others helping him to kneel in spite of the agony from his leg and one of the others raising his sword, timing it carefully before the downward sweep. ‘They took the hand afterwards. Maybe they have Goat Man’s boy as a guide or maybe he escaped. But I think—’

  Ferox broke off, brought his gelding to a halt and held up his hand to stop the others. He swung down and walked forward through the long grass. They were in another little valley, a muddy stream at the bottom, and in one patch the ground on either side was churned and marked with the tracks of horses.

  ‘Careless,’ Vindex said, but the centurion raised his hand angrily for silence. Ferox crouched, studying the ground some way from the stream.

  The Brigantian took the reins of the centurion’s gelding and walked his own horse forward.

  ‘Twenty, maybe a couple of dozen,’ Ferox said without looking up. ‘A couple with packs and a couple more unridden. Some of the horses are big, and some carrying heavy riders.’

  ‘As I said, but these are not the ones we followed.’ Vindex and his men had found the tracks of one party the day before, following it and finding the bodies. Just before sunset they had seen another similar-sized group join the first. Now there was a third bunch, heading in the same direction and probably planning to meet, which meant a band fifty or sixty strong at least, and one that was well prepared. The bigger horses were a puzzle. The tracks looked more like army mounts than ponies.

  ‘Looks like they came past seven or eight hours ago,’ Ferox concluded as he went to his horse and grabbed the horns of the saddle. ‘While it was dark.’

  ‘Do you need help?’ Vindex said nastily as the centurion hesitated.

  ‘Mongrel,’ Ferox muttered and then grunted with effort as he half jumped and half pulled himself up.

  The trail headed up the side of the valley and the centurion put the horse into a canter as he followed it, the gelding bounding up the slope with obvious joy. Vindex and the others followed. The signs were clear – hoof prints and flattened grass. It meant that whoever they were they were no longer afraid of pursuit. They must be close to whatever it was they wanted.

  ‘Get the beacon lit,’ Vindex called as he caught up with the centurion.

  ‘Not yet. I need to know more.’ They came out of the valley on to a hilltop and followed the trail east. It was easy to see, and shifted direction only to avoid the patches of bog and the steepest and most rocky ravines. They went for a mile across this rolling country, riding near the top of the ridges so that all the land to the south was spread before them. Anyone looking would see them, but Ferox did not care. People in these parts knew his felt hat. It was old and battered, the sort farmers and labourers wore in the lands around the shore of the Mediterranean, and a rare sight in Britannia, let alone in the north. Locals knew it and would recognise him long before they could see his face. The raiders would see them too, at least if they were still close and watching out. Like the beacon, the sight might make them nervous or more dangerous or both. Still, if he kept to the open country then there should be warning of any threat.

  They dipped down into a valley before climbing on to the next long ridge. Ferox slowed to a walk to preserve the horses, then came on to the crest and stopped as he saw something that chilled his heart. Vindex was beside him and went pale. The Brigantian tugged out a bronze wheel of Taranis, which he wore on a cord beneath his mail shirt.

  ‘Lord of Thunder, protect us,’ he murmured, pressing the wheel to his lips.

  Two grey stones stood on the slope ahead of them. Men called them the Mother and Daughter or sometimes the Mare and Foal and they were old, older than memory, set up by the vanished people who left behind their mounds and their blades of flint – or perhaps by the gods themselves before time began. The Textoverdi rarely came here, and only stepped between the two stones in dire need to work some magic or make an oath unbreakable.

  The Mother was the taller stone and someone had balanced a flat red brown pebble on top of it. That was a dreadful sign, one Ferox had never seen before, a warning of evil and a curse abroad. What was worse was that someone had come along afterwards, taken the pebble and thrown it to the ground so that it smashed in two. Then they had picked up one of the pieces and drawn on both the standing stones. Each picture was no more than a crude circle, turned into a face by dots for eyes and an upturned V for a mouth.

  Ferox’s voice was flat as he turned to the Brigantian. ‘It appears that our fears were justified.’

  ‘Yes.’

  When he had warned of trouble the centurion had tried to explain to his seniors that Rome was seen as weak, its armies in retreat, its power ready to crumble into the dust. Especially in the far north ambitious leaders scented a chance to carve out empires of their own. Men nearer at hand spoke in whispers of war and destruction, of magicians and druids preaching hate. Vindex and his men had seen the same signs and brought word to him, but he was dismissed as over-imaginative and nervous. Yet every instinct told him that they were right, just as the hunter sensed the lurking presence of a savage beast long before he saw it.

  ‘A druid?’ Vindex said the word warily, as if the name itself had power.

  ‘Something like that.’ Only a man confident in his own power and magic would risk violating a sacred place in this way.

  ‘Then we’re humped,’ the Brigantian concluded.

  Ferox ignored him and beckoned to the two Roman cavalrymen.

  ‘Crescens, who is in charge now at Vindolanda?’ That was the nearest garrison, a couple of miles away to the south-east.

  The curator looked flattered to be asked something, although surprised that the centurion did not know. ‘The Prefect Flavius Cerialis, new commander of the Ninth Batavians.’

  ‘They are equitata, aren’t they?’

  Crescens nodded. Cohors VIIII Batavorum was a mixed unit, with their own cavalry contingent to support the main force of infantry. The Batavians were Germans from the Rhineland, big men with reddish hair and an obvious disdain for the rest of the army – not just their fellow auxiliaries, but even the Roman citizens in the legions.

  ‘Good. You will ride to Vindolanda and report to Cerialis – or whoever is senior if he is away. Please inform my Lord Cerialis that there is a force of at least sixty barbarians in this area. They are well armed and dangerous. They are planning an attack on the road to Coria. I would ask him to send word to the other garrisons and outposts along the road. Apologise to him that there was no time to write a report.’ The army always preferred to have everything in writing.

  Crescens frowned in concentration as he listened.

  ‘Have you got all that?’ Ferox said. ‘Then repeat it to me.’

  The curator may often have been a fussy, irritating man, but his obsession with detail was sometimes useful and he made no mistakes.

  ‘Good man. If you hear no more from me then return to the burgus as soon as you have rested. Now ride like the wind!’ Ferox turned to the other cavalryman. ‘Victor, ride to the watchtower and have them light the beacon. Tell the man in charge that there are sixty raiders on
the prowl, and give the warning to anyone you meet.’

  As the second rider galloped away, Vindex stroked his thick moustache and smiled. ‘I’m glad I brought you.’

  Ferox grunted. ‘We do not have much time,’ he said, urging the gelding into a trot, although taking him wide of the standing stones.

  ‘If we are right, some poor buggers have a lot less time than us,’ the Brigantian said as they pressed on. ‘Are you sure about the road?’

  It was not truly a road. The army had only built two proper roads here in the north. The Western Road passed through Luguvallium on its way north to the few outposts left beyond, while the Eastern Road went through Coria. There were a couple of forts between those two bases, and a route had been marked out to link them, with bridges where necessary. Ferox had heard talk of plans to turn this into a proper road, but so far nothing had happened.

  ‘Only thing that makes sense,’ Ferox replied, rubbing his chin again. The centurion suspected that he sounded far more positive than he felt. ‘The trail keeps on dead eastwards, not south, even though the routes that way are open. My guess is that the bands met by the end of night and will attack soon. That’s if they haven’t already done it. They’ll do what they came to do, and scurry back north to wherever they came from. There are not enough of them to attack a garrison, so they are looking for something in the open. Perhaps a farm, but no one that important or rich lives within easy reach, so it all comes back to an ambush on the road.’

  They kept to the high ground, and could see the east–west road below them, sometimes as close as half a mile, more often further away. There were a few travellers along this route, but most of the traffic was military. They passed a couple of carts going westwards at the plodding pace of draught oxen, and three score of pack mules escorted by a dozen legionaries with as many slaves to tend to the animals. The sight made Ferox think, because the convoy would have made a prime target for raiders wanting to take some heads and get some loot.

  Vindex must have had the same idea. ‘Perhaps they were lucky and got through before the ambush was ready?’