From what Victor said they must have been killed early in the day – perhaps at dawn or soon afterwards. Even if he had sent warning as soon as Vindex arrived at Syracuse he could not have saved them.
Victor had done well. The beacon was prepared, but someone had taken the flints and kindling, and shattered the pot of oil kept to light it. A little had survived in one shard, and he had found a tiny piece of old flint among the rubbish piled in the ditch behind the tower. Somehow he had got a fire lit and then set the piled timbers aflame. It had taken most of an hour, but he had done it. Then he had climbed to the top of the tower, pulling up the ladder, and waited through the long day, surrounded by the stench of blood and butchered flesh.
Ferox asked if he wanted to ride straight back to Syracuse, but the man said that he would wait until they left, or would stay if the centurion felt that the tower needed to be manned. In fact Ferox planned to leave soon, just wanting to look one more time. Once he had done that, he helped them drag the corpse from outside back into the lower chamber of the wooden tower.
Ferox had found a lock and used it to fasten the door from the outside. After that they left, riding through the still night to Syracuse. They rode in silence apart from the breathing of the horses and the jingle of harness. Ferox wondered whether he had the energy to write the reports he knew needed to be sent. Most of all he wondered about the names on the duty roster, for one of them was British. The man might be among the corpses, but he might not, and that was worrying. Crispinus had told him to search for the truth. As so often in the past, Ferox feared where it would lead.
V
FEROX HEFTED THE shield again, holding the cross-grip tight enough to be secure without becoming rigid. His sword was high, arm back and elbow bent almost double ready to jab the blade forward at eye level, striking for the face, or lunging over the top of his opponent’s shield if he saw a gap open. It was not his own gladius and felt heavy and cumbersome in his hand.
Both men were breathing hard, watching for their chance. Ferox’s arms and legs ached, and his right shoulder was sore from a slamming cut that he had not seen in time. He suspected that the blow had driven some of the rings of his mail through the padded jerkin to bruise the skin. The centurion stamped forward with his left foot and punched with the boss of his shield, the weight of his body behind the blow. His opponent lifted his own shield to block as he sprang back, landing well and cutting down with his longer sword, catching Ferox on the helmet. It was a weak blow with no real force in it and did not bother him.
Ferox panted as they both went back to watching and waiting. This one was good, old in war and dark in cunning, and the centurion was weary with not much more to give. The greaves on his shins were heavy and uncomfortable. He was sure the top of the left one had cut into his skin. If he did not win soon then he was finished. He let his shield drop a little before raising it with visible effort, wanting the man to think that he was even more tired.
The Thracian shouted, the first cry in an otherwise silent fight, and came at him, slamming his lighter oval shield high and jabbing with the point of his sword. Ferox went back, step by step, giving ground and not getting a chance to reply to the flurry of blows from left and right. He was near the post now, the ditch only a couple more paces behind him. One jab punched through the wickerwork near the top of his curved rectangular shield and he tried to twist it to trap the blade, but the Thracian was too quick and while Ferox’s guard was down scythed his long sword through the air and struck his left shoulder. The centurion staggered, hissing with pain, and lost his hold on the shield’s handgrip so that it fell to the ground. The Thracian grinned wickedly as the centurion crouched.
Ferox sprang up, flinging himself against the cavalryman, hurling them both sideways. His hand grabbed the Thracian’s right wrist, pushing it so that his long spatha was driven against the heavy wooden post. Ferox cut at it, not with much of a swing but with all his force, and there was a sharp crack as the wooden training spatha broke. Half the blade was hanging down loose and the Thracian was so surprised that Ferox was able to hook one foot around his leg and trip him up.
The watching soldiers sighed in disappointment, until someone started laughing and the rest joined in. The Textoverdi who had started to come to watch just stayed wrapped tight in the cloaks, their faces expressionless, after the manner of the clan.
‘Time!’ called the man on sentry duty in the gate-tower of Syracuse.
‘Nearly, but not quite,’ Ferox said, reaching his left hand down to pull the Thracian up. He had promised any man five denarii and an amphora of good wine if they could put him on his back. This was the fourth day, and so far he had not had to pay, although Victor had come close more than once, as had this Thracian. They were the pick of the bunch, the rest solid enough and stubborn, but too tied to the drill book to be really good. It was good training for them, and even better for him. Ferox was worried and drove himself hard to prepare for whatever was coming. He spent an hour each day working at the fencing post outside Syracuse, using the regulation wooden swords and wickerwork practice shields to go through the fighting drills the army had copied from the gladiatorial schools. Sword and shield were heavier than the real things, to strengthen the arms and make it easier when a man was given proper equipment. For the same reason he wore helmet and mail, and strapped iron greaves on to his lower legs. He had never liked greaves, clumsy things that made a man slow, and rarely wore them even in battle, but the weight made every drill harder and that helped. Once that was done he let three of the stationarii challenge him, each bout lasting a tenth of an hour measured by the water clock. Nothing matched facing a real opponent, and they had landed quite a few good blows and surprised him plenty of times. It reminded him of how rusty he had become, letting himself become lazy because things were quiet and no one believed him when he claimed that trouble was brewing.
When there was time he ran – at least three miles a day, choosing routes that forced him to drive himself up steep hillsides. There was no need to look for opportunities to get on a horse, for each day he rode many miles. He went to Vindolanda several times and to Magna, the next garrison to the west, up to the watchtower again, and all the while did his own job of going to villages and farms and meetings with chieftains. He spent most of his time listening to the usual grievances. With harvest done, taxes were due and the procurator’s men were out collecting the empire’s share of grain, livestock or hides, and sometimes money, although few in this part of the world paid levies in coin.
Ferox drove himself hard and, as always when he was kept busy, had no urge to drink more than was needed to slake a thirst. Her face still came to him, hazier now after all these years, but still with the dark eyes, olive skin and raven-black hair. The memories made him sad, but sometimes he pictured another woman, blonde, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, and there was little similarity in looks but something akin in their essence, that sense of life and joy. Sulpicia Lepidina puzzled him, not least because if all Crispinus had said was true then it was odd to find so distinguished a lady married to a mere equestrian.
That was one mystery, but not the foremost in his mind. Cerialis had chased the raiders for two days before losing their trail altogether. By then his Batavians were running short of hard tack and salted bacon for the men and barley for the horses, so they returned to Vindolanda with nothing to show for their pains. The detachment from Coria was better prepared to take the field and had gone further, pushing well north into the lands of the Selgovae and Votadini. Even so they had not caught up with any of the raiders and had ended up coming back down the Eastern Road with nothing to show for all their hard riding. No word had yet come from the Brigantian scouts, although Vindex had ridden after them in spite of his injuries.
‘Go on then and kill yourself,’ Ferox told him as he left. ‘At least it will save me the trouble.’ The Brigantian had kept the poultice damp and tied on tightly and claimed that he felt fine.
The raiders had got away, avoidi
ng roads and outstripping the pursuit. They were well mounted – even bringing spare horses – and well prepared. They had also taken nothing that might slow them down. All they had looted was some weapons, some horses and a few heads as trophies. It was not much of a haul, and Claudius Super was hailing the raid’s repulse as a great victory, ignoring the dead Batavians – and the men at the tower.
By the time Ferox had returned to the tower in daylight a party had come to clear up and the ground was even more disturbed. Even so he was sure that there were no tracks from a group like the raiders they had followed on the day of the ambush. There were prints from half a dozen or so army horses, heavily burdened with their riders and gear. Whoever had killed the little garrison had not had to force their way in. Everything pointed to the killers being soldiers – or looking the part of soldiers – and being let inside to unleash sudden violence. The seventh man from the tower was still missing. Four of the corpses had been recognised, and the Briton was not among them, nor was he thought likely to be either of the remaining corpses, given that they were dark-skinned and stocky. They should know soon when men came from his unit to look at the remains.
Ferox had not been able to find the track made by the horsemen as they left the tower because there were too many trails from the frequent patrols passing this place. In spite of a careful search he could see no sign that they had gone east to join the raiders. Yet a coincidence was hard to accept. Someone had slaughtered the men at the beacon on the very day that the raiders struck. Only Victor’s quick thinking and some luck had allowed the alarm to be raised at all.
It all looked very deliberate and well planned, for these were not normal raiders. They had disguised their numbers coming south, moving stealthily past the garrisons, and would have escaped notice altogether if it had not been for Vindex and his men finding their trail and then coming across the two corpses. From the beginning the aim was surely to attack the road at that one spot between Vindolanda and Coria. Ferox could not believe that the raiders were trusting to luck, relying on something worth attacking to come along at the right moment. They were waiting for Sulpicia Lepidina and her escort, waiting just for her. He thought of the big warrior demanding that they hand over the queen.
Raiders liked to take women. Seizing a woman from an enemy and forcing her gave a warrior power, strengthening his spirit and proving his might, as much or even more than killing a man and taking his head as trophy. Yet rape of an officer’s wife and her maid hardly justified the scale of the attack. They could be sold as slaves, it was true, or ransomed, although this was likely to provoke a major response by the army rather than payment. Perhaps whoever was behind this wanted war, but again it seemed an unnecessarily complicated way to go about it.
Ferox had not yet spoken again about the tattooed priest who had led the raiders, for Romans tended to become hysterical when they heard words like priest or druid, and Claudius Super would once again dismiss him as alarmist and certainly would not understand. Lots of men and some women called themselves druids these days, and most were wandering healers and magicians of no importance, preying on the superstitious, but without real power or any reputation. This one was bold, daring to break the sign at the Mother and Daughter and scratch the images on to the stones. Then there were warriors, each tattooed on forehead and left hand. They were not marks he had seen or heard of before among the tribes – and neither had Vindex, who knew the peoples to the north well. Warriors liked to look different, not the same, and he had never heard of any people marking themselves with such prominent and identical symbols. That meant that they must mean something, and he wondered about oaths to gods or to follow their servant on earth. Yet alongside these fierce but inexperienced followers there had been other warriors, not marked in the same way, as well as the big man. Ferox was still convinced that the giant was a German, and was equally sure that he was not a deserter. That begged many questions that he could not answer.
On the fifth morning Ferox attacked the post with unusual savagery. He found that he thought best during this exercise, going through the proper guards, cuts and thrusts and quite a few moves of his own. He was not aching as much as in the first few days, but his mind was weary. He had been roused before dawn by a farmer claiming that thieves were taking his cows. Hastily dressed and accompanied by Victor, he had given chase. The trail was easy to follow and stretched no more than five miles to a farm in another valley. The head of that household was muddy and travel-stained and did not bother to deny the charge, insisting instead that he had only taken back what was his. There was much shouting, swearing of oaths and a few threats, the noise fuelled as neighbours wandered over to see what was happening. Ferox was still not sure of the truth of the matter, but suspected villainy on both sides. The men agreed to be judged by two chieftains, one to speak for each man, with the centurion to arbitrate and give the casting vote. It would almost certainly come to that, since he would be surprised if the chiefs did not simply back their dependant whatever the truth of the matter.
Back at Syracuse, Ferox read a new report that added nothing to their knowledge of the raid, but took a long time to say it. He dealt with Crescens, who had brought a number of trivial matters to him. The man seemed to have lost a lot of his bluster and was looking for guidance on more and more matters. Ferox kept hoping that he would take up the challenge to fight him, even though he realised that putting the curator down would probably not be good for discipline. The stationarii were a very mixed bunch, with a few eager volunteers among men sent here because their units did not want them.
Ferox lunged at the post, then stepped back before coming in again and cutting at head height, his shield all the while held up over his body. The German warrior bothered him. During one of his visits to Vindolanda he had asked to see the two survivors from the escort. The man cut across the face was in hospital, head bandaged.
‘Ask whatever you like,’ the orderly told him. ‘But his wits are in and out at the moment. Woke up screaming last night and said that there were horses chasing him and wanting to trample him beneath their hoofs.’
The man seemed well enough, sitting on the side of a cot and playing dice with another convalescent. If anything he enjoyed telling his story, which did not tell Ferox anything new.
Longinus was in the barrack block occupied by his turma and Ferox got the impression that the Batavians were not keen on letting him visit. They were a strange, clannish bunch, the closed expressions of the soldiers stopping just short of insubordination, and he had to insist for some time before a soldier led him to the right part of the fort. Men working on tack and equipment under the shelter of the colonnade running the length of the building watched him with cold eyes.
For all that, Longinus was welcoming when Ferox knocked on the open door of the room at the far end of the block. He was the only man there, and there were no blankets on either of the other two low beds. As he perched on the side of one, Ferox wondered if they belonged to men killed in the ambush. The old Batavian sat on his bed running a whetstone along the edge of his long spatha. When he tried to get up, obviously with some discomfort, Ferox gestured to him to sit. ‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ he said. ‘But if you are not too tired I’d like to draw on your experience.’
‘Sir.’ An old soldier could make that short word do so many things.
The floor was covered in straw and rushes, fresh layers piled on the old and all giving off a musty odour. There were sounds from beyond the back wall. Cavalry barracks were built with a line of ten rooms backing on to ten horse boxes. Up above was an attic for storage and the army felt that it was convenient for troopers to be near their horses. It also meant that the rich scents of manure, horse sweat and old leather were everywhere, and there were always flies crawling on the walls or buzzing through the air.
‘You have been with the cohort a long time, I understand.’
‘Sir.’
Ferox had been surprised to learn that the man had served over forty stipendi
a – fifteen years more than the normal enlistment. It was not his business to ask why, and Longinus did not seem inclined to talk about it. He must be nearly sixty, and yet still remarkably hale.
Instead the centurion asked the man to tell him about the ambush. ‘All that you can remember – no matter how trivial it seems.’
The man’s single eye glinted in the dim room. Ferox felt that the veteran was studying him, amusement mingled with curiosity. His account was precise and matter-of-fact. The decurion was dozy, led them into it, letting the scout get out of sight so that he did them no good. Then the arrows had come.
‘Have you faced archers like that before?’
‘No.’ The eye never left his face. There was a steady grating sound as the old soldier honed the edge of his sword.
Then the sling stones hit them, more arrows, and the screaming charge. Longinus told him about the testudo, the brief respite, of the carriage nearly escaping, until the driver was killed and it tipped over. ‘Got a bit hot then,’ he said. Ferox knew from his own experience how hard it was to remember a fight after it was over, and how it was even harder to recount it. Men who told long detailed stories of battles and heroism were usually making it up.
‘Did you get a good look at the Britons?’ he asked.
Vindolanda Page 8
