Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Vindex gasped. ‘Double bugger!’ An arrow had grazed his right leg just above the knee, tearing his trousers and gouging a red line across his flesh. It must have had a broader head than the ones Ferox had seen before.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reaching out his free arm in an offer of support.

  ‘Piss off!’ the Brigantian said, pushing it away, and kept going. The slave girl was jumping from stone to stone, but even on that boggy ground Ferox could hear the hoof beats getting closer. They were at the first big stone.

  ‘If you’re all right then you take her. I’ll try to slow them down.’

  Vindex’s face was grim as he took the weight of the girl, who immediately began to scream again.

  A javelin whipped through the air between the two men just as they parted, missing them and the girl’s legs by a whisker. The horseman who had thrown it wore a hooded cloak that streamed behind him, but was bare-chested like the two Ferox had killed. He was close, no more than ten paces away, and riding like a wild man, straight at them, his right hand reaching to draw his long sword. His horse threw up fountains of water, then one of its front feet went deeper and the animal stumbled, throwing the rider, who slid through the mire towards them.

  ‘Stupid mongrel,’ Vindex said and jumped to the second stone, which rocked under the weight.

  The centurion drew his blade, splashed forward through the mud and stabbed down once. Ferox saw the same horse tattoo on the man’s forehead before the long point of his gladius punched through the skull. For all his bravery, this third warrior was no more skilled than the other two. He had dropped his shield, a small one like the others, although round rather than square. Ferox picked it up.

  The man with the red shield was a long spear cast away, but although he carried a slim-shafted javelin in his hand he made no move to throw it. He was a big man and yelled something at the warrior coming up alongside him, who was another of the bare-chested, animal-tattooed fighters, this time with his head shaved completely bald. A gesture confirmed that he was telling the man to stay back. The third horseman was little more than a beardless boy, fair-haired and red-cheeked, and was leading a saddled but riderless mare. There was no sign of any of the other horsemen.

  Ferox bounded across the first few stones. If he must fight, then at least the mud would make it harder for anyone to come up on him from the side.

  ‘Roman!’ a deep voice shouted.

  He turned and saw that the warrior with the red shield had dismounted. On foot he was huge, several inches taller than Vindex and broader across the shoulders than Ferox himself. He was bareheaded, with thick blond hair down to his shoulders and a neat beard. He wore boots and pale trousers, and had mail, with a black tunic underneath, the sleeves short and showing his powerfully muscled arms. A heavy, almost clumsy bronze bracelet was on his right wrist. His shield was hexagonal, a white star painted around the boss. He did not look like any warrior from the tribes of Britannia that Ferox had ever seen – more like a German, but that made no sense.

  ‘Want the queen,’ the man said, taking a step forward. He spoke in the language of the Celtic tribes, differing only in details among the peoples of Gaul as well as Britannia, but he did not speak it naturally. Each word took an effort to pronounce, and Ferox wondered whether he did not know the word for woman. He must be a German, perhaps an army deserter who had taken service with a chieftain?

  ‘Why do you want her?’ he asked in Latin. There was no sign of understanding, so he repeated the words in the Celtic tongue.

  ‘An oath,’ the warrior said and kept coming forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Ferox noticed that the boy was hanging back, but the bald-headed man had also dismounted and was wading through the mud. It would slow him down, but was not deep enough to stop him, let alone suck him down and smother him.

  ‘Don’t worry about him.’ The voice of Vindex came from close behind. ‘I’ll sort him. You deal with the big bastard.’

  ‘What about the women?’

  ‘Oh, I tipped them in the bog.’

  The big German was closer, his spear raised. ‘The queen,’ he bellowed, ‘or I kill you both.’

  ‘What?’ Ferox glanced back, saw the Brigantian’s cadaverous face broken by a toothy grin, and beyond him the blonde slave girl helping her mistress jump across the bridge of stones. They were almost at the wood.

  ‘Look out!’ Vindex yelled.

  Ferox turned, saw the spear coming at him, the head glinting as it spun, and just had time to raise the shield and catch it on the boss. The blow dented the iron, rocking him back and jarring his arm. He ducked to avoid the deflected spear.

  The German drew his sword, one of the long, slim spatha-swords issued to Roman cavalrymen.

  ‘Come on, you eunuch, or do I have to sew your balls back on!’ Ferox yelled at him in Latin.

  There was no sign of understanding, and the big warrior came on. Ferox could see that this one knew what he was doing and in spite of his size was light-footed. The way the man moved reminded him of the big cats he had seen in the arena, those great lions and tigers which moved with such poise.

  ‘Last chance,’ the man said, his gaze never leaving the centurion. He jumped from the first to the second stone, water spurting up as his weight landed on it.

  The bald warrior was struggling through the mud, but he had to trust Vindex to deal with the man. Ferox hefted the unfamiliar shield, keeping his sword low. He wondered whether he should have taken off the helmet, for speed might well be the key to this fight. It was too late now, with the big warrior only a couple of yards away. The man bounded forward again, and used the motion to lunge with his spatha. The blade was nearly three feet long, adding to the man’s great length of arm as the point jabbed at him, faster than he expected. Ferox braced the shield, and saw the iron tip of the warrior’s sword burst through the single layer of wood. He tried to keep it stuck in the wood, twisting the shield away in the hope of pulling the sword out of the warrior’s hand, but the German was too quick for him. The big-bearded face broke into a smile.

  Ferox jabbed low, saw the red shield blocking and pulled back, whipping the blade high for a thrust at the man’s neck. The German swayed back and stopped grinning, but Ferox knew that he was in trouble. His opponent had a longer reach, and with the mud it would be hard for him to close the distance and get past his guard. The big German also looked fresh, whereas he was tired. He had one chance, and hoped that his memory was accurate. There was the sound of grunting and effort over to his left, which must be Vindex and the bald warrior trying their best to hew each other down as they struggled through the mud.

  The German had his spatha held up, arm bent, ready to stab forward at eye level. Ferox watched, saw the slightest betraying flicker in the man’s bright blue eyes and jumped back. His left foot landed on the next stone, the right boot squelching in mud, as the warrior jabbed at air. The centurion wrenched his foot out, feeling the leather uppers break apart as he left his boot in the clinging mud, and had his soaking sock on the stone. It was one of the larger rocks, wide and deep enough for him to stand, left foot forward and right behind, waiting. Better still, it was just a little nearer to the stone he had left than the one the German was on.

  With a bellow of rage the warrior jumped, this time scything his blade in a great downward sweep. Ferox raised his shield, felt the wood cracking under the blow, and thrust, down low again, hit the edge of the red shield, went past and he felt it jar as it struck the mail rings. At least one had broken, and the long triangular tip speared through cloth and flesh. He pulled back quickly as the man slashed down again, going for his right hand.

  Ferox had struck a blow, but doubted that it was enough, for there was only a little blood on his sword and he knew that the wound was not deep. The German swung again and he took the blow on the boss of his shield, feeling it dent in and the round piece of metal shudder. His own stab aimed higher than the last, only to meet his opponent’s shield cleanly and be blocked.


  The centurion was already tired, his breath coming in pants, while the German looked as if he was only warming up. Another downward hack and half the little shield fell away. Ferox made another attack on the same spot and it was blocked again. The sword swept down and more of the wooden board crumbled. There was little more than the boss left now. His own blade had scored the red shield, but not weakened its defence.

  So this was death, the beckoning of the Otherworld. There was little for him here, but he still feared the journey to the land of shadows. He wondered whether his grandfather would speak to him or turn away in disgust. Would she be there? She had not believed in such things, but what did that matter?

  Someone screamed in pain and either Vindex or his opponent must be down. The beardless youth was calling to the big warrior in a tongue he did not understand. It sounded urgent.

  The German cut again and Ferox jumped to the side, slashing low as he dived into the mud and rolled. It took the warrior by surprise, and he felt his sword strike and cut the man’s shin.

  The boy leading the horse was shouting again. The warrior glanced down, decided not to jump into the clinging mud and finish his opponent and instead turned and bounded away from stone to stone. Ferox saw dark blood on the man’s trouser leg, but knew that he would have died if the German had not run off. The warrior and the boy rode away eastwards. There were horsemen in the distance to the west, but he could not tell who they were.

  ‘Some help would be nice,’ Vindex called. The Brigantian was knee deep in mud, mail torn near the shoulder and blood seeping through it. His opponent was motionless, face down in the mire. As Ferox splashed over to help him he saw that there were figures with the women at the treeline. They were dressed in breeches, tunics and cloaks and their short hair showed them as Romans.

  ‘Looks like we’re still alive,’ he said as he pulled Vindex free.

  ‘Never doubted it for a moment,’ the Brigantian said.

  They made their way across the stones, covered in mud, their clothes ragged and torn.

  To his surprise a tall, extremely handsome man with reddish hair was embracing the slave woman, while the little dark-haired girl stood meekly by her side, the unclasped necklace in her hands.

  ‘I believe I owe you profound thanks,’ the redhead said. He was dressed in hunting clothes, only a little stained by travel. His face was open, his hair perfectly in place and his teeth neat and very white. ‘You have saved my wife and I am forever in your debt.’

  ‘We owe you our gratitude,’ the slave added. ‘Although I do not know who you are – or even what you are?’ There was a trace of mischief in her tone, and perhaps she saw the bafflement in his face.

  ‘Titus Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, seconded from Legio II Augusta,’ he said, trying not to think too much about his harsh words – or the slap on her behind. ‘And this is Vindex, a noble warrior of the Carvetii and the leader of their scouts who serve with us.’

  ‘Then I am honoured to meet you,’ the man said, and shook their hands, even though they were filthy. ‘I am Cerialis, Prefect of the Ninth Batavians, and may I name my wife, Sulpicia Lepidina.’ She gave them a gracious smile.

  Another man appeared, quite small and round-faced with thick hair that was a mottled grey even though he looked to be in his early twenties.

  ‘Well, it looks as if you have all had quite an adventure,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’m Crispinus, by the way, and equally pleased to know you. I have heard a lot about you, and I believe you know my father. In the meantime, I’m tribunus laticlavius with the Augusta, so I suppose that makes me your commanding officer – well, at least up in this part of the world.’

  ‘Omnes ad stercus,’ Ferox said under his breath.

  IV

  THEY WERE A hunting party, laid on by Cerialis as entertainment for the visiting Crispinus, and even if they were only armed with boar spears, knives and a few swords, the band of twenty-eight riders and a dozen hounds had looked formidable and deterred the raiders.

  ‘We saw the beacon,’ Cerialis explained, ‘so without hesitation rushed towards the road in case my wife was at risk.’ He had sent a couple of riders to follow the British horsemen, while everyone else waited to see what they should do. Sulpicia Lepidina and her freedwoman, the little dark-haired girl, and a couple of slaves carrying bundles had gone off into the shelter of the wood.

  ‘I am glad you did, sir,’ Ferox told him. ‘You saved us.’ It was several hours after noon, with a few glimpses of blue between the slow-moving grey clouds.

  ‘As I said before,’ Cerialis said, patting him on the shoulder, ‘it is I who am grateful to you for saving my most precious possession.’ His smile was ready and full, yet Ferox could not help thinking that the man was acting, playing the part of the honest, brave and honourable man, and very aware of his audience. Still, educated Romans often seemed that way to Ferox, all of them soaked in rhetoric since youth so that they rarely sounded natural. It mattered to them to be seen to act in the way expected of a member of the equestrian order.

  Some of that audience was less enthusiastic. Caius Claudius Super was the regionarius based at Luguvallium, the big base on the Western Road, tasked with the superversion of junior men like Ferox. He was from Legio VIIII Hispana, an equestrian directly commissioned into the army, and in Ferox’s opinion had all the intelligence of a cowpat. ‘If we had come any later then you would have been gutted by that big barbarian,’ he said.

  Ferox wondered whether the man was disappointed. Most equestrians who served in the army were like Cerialis, starting as prefect in command of an auxiliary infantry cohort and then holding a series of more important posts. Only those without the wealth or influence to follow that career joined as legionary centurions, and they always reminded their fellow officers of their superior social status. Claudius Super was worse than most, even if it was clear his family had barely scraped together the property needed to be registered as equites in the census. He was from Etruria, and openly disdained everyone and everything outside Italy. He did not care for any barbarians, despised the Brittunculi in general and the ‘little Britons’ of the north in particular as undisciplined, unreliable, untrustworthy, lazy and drunken. Ferox knew that Claudius Super considered that he was typical native of Britannia.

  ‘It was not going well for me,’ Ferox admitted.

  ‘Indeed.’ Claudius Super sounded like a schoolmaster taking delight in demolishing the arguments of one of his pupils. ‘He looked a tall fellow, if not perhaps as big – or as German – as he seemed to you!’ Ferox had mentioned his suspicion, only to have it dismissed. ‘Damned barbarians, we shall have to go north and teach them a lesson. An iron hand’ – he held his clenched fist in front of him – ‘that is all these brigands understand, if only…’

  Sulpicia Lepidina came out of the trees, her golden hair unpinned and hanging down around her shoulders. She wore a man’s tunic, far too large so that it was loose and baggy even though she had gathered it close around her waist with a soldier’s belt fastened as tight as it would go. It was a pale crimson and went down to her shins, so that only a little of the dark breeches she wore underneath were visible. She had on a man’s shoes, the thongs drawn tight to keep them on as well as possible. Behind her came the freedwoman, a heavy woollen cloak pulled tight around her.

  Claudius Super bowed, Crispinus smiled and Cerialis inclined his head. Ferox stood and stared. Lepidina was slim and straight, gliding more than walking. She was also beautiful, her fair skin flawless, features delicate, and her large round eyes full of life and wit. She was dressed like a man and still looked like a goddess come to earth. Ferox could not understand why he had not noticed before, wondered how he had ever mistaken her for a slave and inwardly cringed at what he had said and done.

  ‘My lady, it is good to see you a little restored,’ Cerialis said, ‘but you should take my cloak as it may become cold.’

  ‘That is kind, my lord, and I thank you.’ Her voice was quite deep for
a woman, yet still soft. She gestured to her servant and then called to Vindex. ‘We have prepared a poultice. Bind it tightly to your leg and keep it on for three days. Keep it damp as well.’

  Claudius Super looked surprised at this concern, before muttering, ‘So kind,’ and smiling with indulgence as the maid helped the Brigantian tie up his leg. The shoulder wound was not so serious, as most of the force had been absorbed by his mail, but they insisted on dressing it as well.

  ‘Make sure that you keep it clean and bound up,’ the lady told the scout. ‘No need to coddle it. It will get stiff if you don’t use it at all.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Vindex smiled, something that always looked more like a leer as he bared his prominent teeth. ‘Your kindness is only matched by your beauty,’ he added in his own language.

  No one else had spoken while they waited. Ferox avoided meeting the lady’s cold gaze.

  When all was done it was she who took the initiative. ‘I am ready to ride, if we are ready to depart?’

  One of the huntsmen brought an unsaddled mare. The lady patted her head, spoke softly to her and then sprang up. ‘It is easier like this,’ Sulpicia Lepidina told them, beckoning to the freedwoman to come up behind her. She needed help, bunching her dress up so that she could sit astride, clasping her mistress as bidden. Two of the slaves were made to dismount and stay with the men in charge of the pack, so that their horses could be given to Vindex and Ferox.

  They set out and soon met one of the riders that Cerialis had sent out earlier, who told them that the barbarians had fled and that there were Roman cavalry on the road coming from the east, so not Batavians from Vindolanda.

  ‘If my lads weren’t there first then I’ll have words to say to the duty decurion,’ Cerialis said cheerfully.

  Keeping to the open fields, they climbed by a gentle route and soon encountered a patrol of cavalrymen with green shields and fur on their helmets – Batavians out from Vindolanda. Cerialis welcomed their commander by name, heard his report and then ordered them to fall in as escorts.