Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Venutius came forward, dancing as much as walking, his legs bent. He thrust with his sword and Ferox blocked it, but his own swift jab forward went over the man’s shield and broke the skin in a slash across the chieftain’s shoulder. Venutius punched with his shield, but was too close for it to have much force, and Ferox swerved out of the way, making the man turn so that now they were on the same level. The chieftain jumped back again.

  Ferox made sure that his breathing was even more laboured than it needed to be. It was unnerving having his right side to rows of enemies just a few paces away, but he had to ignore them and fix his mind and spirit on his opponent.

  The chieftain came on again, his sword raised high this time, ready for a great downward slash. It was the way the Britons fought, and always a risk for it left much of his body unprotected by shield. Ferox had his sword high, ready to stab at eye level, but he guessed that Venutius’ guard was a feint and so was his. The Briton wanted to draw his eyes up to the sword.

  Venutius twitched his right hand as if to hack down, but checked it as the centurion raised his own blade high to parry, and instead put his weight behind his shield and punched it forward. Ferox stepped into the blow, weight behind his own scutum, feeling the terrible slam that knocked the breath from both men. It brought him close to the chieftain and he kept his gladius up, but slammed the carved wooden pommel into the man’s face. It was shaped like a globe and had a small bronze nipple on the end.

  The chieftain reeled from the unexpected blow, and Ferox followed it with a second, even harder, and felt the man’s nose break. He struck again and again, aiming at the forehead, and Venutius swayed, face bloodied and cold eyes suddenly empty. Then he sank to his knees. Ferox jumped back and let the man fall.

  The young warrior in the striped cloak yelled, a sound without words, and rushed at him, sword high. Ferox barely had time to raise his shield before the blade carved through the air. It hit the top of his scutum, widening the great rent torn in it by Venutius, and Ferox let it drop to the ground, because the boy’s sword was stuck in the wood. He darted his gladius at the boy, the point going between the top of his mail and the cheek pieces of his bronze helmet, the crest a raven hinged so that the wings flapped.

  ‘You have a lot to learn, boy, but may not get a chance.’ Ferox held the sword there, pressing hard enough so that the lad would feel it and know that only a little more force would open his throat to the bone. The young warrior gulped, and although his green eyes stared wide in terror, he did his best to look brave.

  Trumpets sounded. Not the vibrating call of the carnyx, but the rasp of the army’s brass cornu-horns and iron trumpets. The Selgovae were chattering, men pointing past the centurion, but Ferox did not take his eyes from the boy.

  ‘You are brave,’ he said, ‘and it is no disgrace to lose to an older fighter.’

  ‘Get it over with.’ The lad did not sound like one of the Selgovae and had more of the lilting tone of the Caledonians of the far north. The warriors were going back up the slope, turning to run.

  Ferox pressed just a little harder. The boy closed his eyes, but did not flinch. The centurion held the sword there before pulling it back.

  The boy opened one eye and then the other.

  ‘Go!’ Ferox told him. ‘Take him with you.’ He pointed with his sword at the groaning Venutius. ‘Get away if you can and go with honour as brave men who met other brave men. Let us hope that next time we meet in friendship.’ The boy was gaping, so he thought one of Vindex’s favourite expressions might help. ‘Piss off!’ he told him.

  The young warrior laughed and leaned down to help the chieftain up. Venutius was bruised, his nose smashed, but he looked at the centurion and gave a gentle nod of his head.

  Ferox turned away from them to look at the battered remnants of the Tungrians as they stood, leaning on their shields and panting, struggling to understand that they had survived. Down the slope he saw Cerialis and Brocchus leading turmae of their horsemen over the low spur. They cut some of the Britons down, but the rest were running and most would get away because the horses could not go fast on this ground. There were legionaries behind them, but he doubted that the heavily laden soldiers would catch many of the nimble warriors.

  ‘Well done, lads,’ he said to the Tungrians, but could find neither the words nor the energy to say more.

  XIII

  ‘THE LEGATE IS delighted, truly delighted.’ Crispinus leaned forward to scratch his horse’s ears. ‘And he is especially pleased with your conduct. Claudius Super assures him that you are one of his best men – at least when you are sober.’

  Ferox did not share the tribune’s enthusiasm and made no reply. Twenty-nine Tungrians and fourteen legionaries had died during the retreat from the old fort, and almost as many were badly wounded. The few survivors left on their feet at the end were all grazed or bruised. Ferox’s right shoulder ached and was stiff, but he knew that he had got off lightly. Rufus was dead, his head taken by the enemy, and Titus Annius had been stabbed as he lay on his stretcher and the surgeons held out little hope for him. The four auxiliaries carrying him had all died defending their commander. They and many of the other corpses had been mutilated after they had fallen. Men spoke of warriors tattooed with animals on their foreheads as the most vicious of the enemy, and there had been a lot of them as well as ordinary Selgovae in the group that overran the party carrying the injured.

  ‘I have spoken to Vindex the Brigantian and he is even more fulsome in his praise.’

  Ferox stared at him sceptically.

  ‘Well, what he actually said was, “He’s a hard, clever bastard, and one you want on your side.” I am pretty sure those were his words, although sometimes his accent baffles me – as does his directness. It’s as if the man has no manners, but perhaps that is just the way among his people.’

  The centurion shrugged, but said nothing.

  ‘He also told me a lot about you. From all that I have heard I do not believe that you are truly the drunken fool described by Claudius Super. You are sober most of the time, but now and again you brood and feel sorry for yourself and drink yourself senseless. Vindex reckons that you are so fond of being miserable because it makes you feel important. I suspect that he is right.’

  ‘I cannot help what you believe, my lord.’

  ‘Well, believe this at the very least. This is a victory,’ Crispinus assured him, letting go of the reins and spreading his arms wide. His weight did not shift in the saddle and the horse did not stir and just plodded on. The centurion had to concede that the aristocrat knew how to ride.

  ‘Some might not call it that,’ Ferox replied.

  ‘Perhaps.’ Crispinus sniffed his fingers and wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of horse. ‘But the only thing that matters is the report Quadratus is writing, which will say that we won a great victory and punished the tribes for refusing to pay their taxes and daring to oppose the might of Rome.’

  Ferox said nothing. If the reinforcements had not arrived when they had, then he doubted that anyone would have survived. Vindex had reached the main force quickly, but had trouble finding a senior officer or anyone who knew where the legate or Crispinus were. In the end he met the junior tribune Flaccus, who told him to wait while he reported to Quadratus. The Brigantian waited a long time, until Crispinus appeared and expressed surprise at his presence. By that time Ferox had started to retreat, and it was only the urgent demands of the tribune that gathered enough men and got them moving in time to save the survivors.

  ‘I shall take your silence as agreement with my fine argument,’ the tribune said. ‘The story will be told of success and we shall all share in the rewards of victory. I do not think that I am breaking any great confidence if I tell you that your name is on the list of those recommended for dona.’

  ‘I already have plenty of decorations.’ The day after the fight the two chieftains had sent messengers to say that they were willing to make their peace. There was too little food left for th
e columns to remain in the field, and on top of that the Legate Quadratus wanted to declare victory in the neat little campaign he had been so keen to fight. In the afternoon he met with Tagax and Venutius. The latter was badly bruised and had a bandage tied around his face, but greeted Ferox with great warmth.

  ‘We met yesterday as enemies, let us talk now as friends,’ the old horse thief declared. ‘I come now because you fought as a man and I can trust you as one brave warrior to another.’ The chieftain’s voice boomed out as he spoke, and Ferox suspected that the words were intended as much for his own warriors as anyone else. This was a good, honourable way to end the fighting. Both chieftains promised to pay all their taxes within ten days, including an additional levy of grain and cattle demanded as the price for peace, and to give hostages from their families as a pledge of their firm alliance with Rome.

  ‘Be a lean winter for their people,’ Vindex had muttered when the terms were agreed by both sides.

  ‘Even tougher for Venutius’ neighbours. That rogue will rob them blind to find the cattle he is supposed to give us. I’ll bet Tagax’s folk will lose more than a few over the next few nights.’

  It was over, and Ferox wondered whether Crispinus, let alone the legate, realised that the Selgovae would not feel beaten. They had stood up like men to the great empire and had inflicted some losses and proved their courage. The tribesmen would remember the burning farms, and they would also remember cutting up the Tungrians and legionaries as they retreated and a few other sharp skirmishes where they had taken heads. Their courage was proved by the plain facts that the Romans had withdrawn from their lands, and had had to talk to them to end the fighting. The soldiers of the emperor had gone and they were still the Selgovae, ‘the brave ones’ as they called themselves, warriors to be feared and respected by all their neighbours, including the Romans.

  Ferox still felt that the campaign was a foolish waste of everyone’s time and too many lives. He remembered reading that the Emperor Augustus described fighting a needless war as like a man fishing with a golden hook, where no possible gain justified the risk.

  ‘Our luck held,’ Crispinus said. ‘Only just, but it held. If over a hundred men had been massacred then the story would no doubt have grown with the telling and brought delight to the emperor’s rivals. But that did not happen and Trajan has a victory. Some of you survived, which means that the fallen are heroes who helped us to win.’

  Ferox did not bother to comment, but was reassured that the young aristocrat had some sense of the folly of it all. It had been very, very close. Luck mattered, but too many mistakes had been made by the senior officers. Crispinus’ column ought to have moved sooner to drive into the main valley and cut off the Selgovae’s retreat, and Titus Annius ought to have withdrawn much sooner. Flaccus claimed that his orders had allowed the centurion to make his own decision when to pull back to the main force, and blamed him for hesitating. So far Annius was in no state to reply.

  Flaccus always seemed to be around when mistakes occurred and the man might be no more than a fool. There were always plenty of them serving in the higher ranks, and most had the knack of being just where they could cause the most harm. Yet the tribune might also be a friend or a relative of someone of greater importance, the sort of man Crispinus claimed wanted the emperor to fail.

  ‘You should trust me, Flavius Ferox,’ Crispinus said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You really should.’ They were riding ahead of the main column as it marched back south, and far enough ahead of their escort to be able to speak freely.

  Ferox hesitated, balancing the risk, and then decided that at most he would be fishing with a brass hook, and Crispinus might just be honest and able to help. If someone did not do something, then there was the risk of war and ruin here in the north and spreading afield. This was his patch, and it was his job to keep the peace. He told the young aristocrat of his suspicions of Flaccus and perhaps others working to start a war and wanting failure and defeat. The tribune listened, occasionally asking questions that were precise and to the point. Ferox talked for a long time, speaking of the priests and the tattooed warriors, many of whom came from far afield and some from inside the empire, and of the great druid who was able to change shape and make Roman fight Roman, and the men murdered at the tower back on the day of the ambush.

  ‘The tribes always know a lot about us, but lately they know too much,’ he said. ‘It all points to someone helping them, and someone senior enough to know the big things as well as the small.’

  Crispinus let out a long breath. ‘That is a lot to think about.’ He stared at the centurion. ‘You do not strike me as the sort of man who starts at shadows. Still, I doubt that Flaccus would be working on his own. He was recommended for his first post by the legate of Syria whose resignation came as such a surprise to us all,’ he added drily.

  ‘Then why is he still here, and promoted to legionary tribune?’

  ‘Any senator of importance, let alone a former consul and provincial governor, recommends scores of men every year – hundreds probably. It would be hard to dismiss them all and not worth the effort. Flaccus is not a clever man, or very important – or ever likely to be. He might just be covering up his mistakes, or one of those people convinced that every mistake they make must be bad luck or someone else’s fault.’

  ‘Typical senior officer.’

  Crispinus ignored the sarcasm. ‘Yet I suspect you are right and he is acting deliberately. But what matters is who is giving him his orders. Someone much more imaginative, I suspect. Do you have any suspicions?’

  ‘Plenty, my lord, but I have learned that it is prudent to treat everyone as a fool or an enemy until their deeds show them to be something else.’

  Crispinus grinned. ‘If your friend Vindex were here he would no doubt make some comment about Silures. I do hope that your present company is not included in your suspicions – or have I shown myself to be trustworthy?’

  ‘Early days, sir, early days. And I have been wondering just what you and the prefect were doing on the day when his wife was ambushed.’

  The tribune frowned for a moment, then slapped his thigh and threw back his head to laugh. ‘The truth really does matter to you, doesn’t it? Well, in this case it is mundane. We were hunting, as you well know.’

  ‘That was a strange place to choose, especially if you were after boar, as you claim.’ Ferox paused before adding, ‘Sir.’

  ‘You must seek that answer from the Prefect Cerialis. I was merely the guest. As far as I know it was all just coincidence – a fortunate one for you, let alone the Lady Sulpicia.’

  ‘As you say.’ Ferox did not care for too many coincidences, and at that moment a rider came with orders summoning the tribune to a conference with the legate.

  ‘I meant what I said about trusting me,’ he said in parting.

  ‘My lord, I am sure that you did.’ It was far too early for that, but it would be interesting to see what the young aristocract did.

  Crispinus sniffed and kicked his heels to put his horse into a canter.

  That was the last day of good weather, and from then on driving winds brought in rainstorm after rainstorm. The track was churned into mud by marching boots and the ruts left by carts, and the better road connecting the forts was not much better. It took a week to return to Luguvallium, and then a long day for the Batavians and Tungrians to reach Vindolanda. Titus Annius clung to life, and Ferox could only imagine the agonies the man must have endured in the back of a lurching army wagon.

  ‘He’s a tough one,’ Vindex said, when he went with Ferox to pay their respects. The centurion seemed to recognise them, and gave a weak smile. His face was pale, tinged with yellow, and there was a bandage strapped over his ruined eye. The medicus told them that most of the time he was unconscious, taking only a little thin broth prepared under the orders of the seplasiarius.

  The centurion was in a fever when they reached Vindolanda, babbling nonsense and now and again shouting commands or givin
g orders to an imagined parade. They kept him in his house rather than the hospital, and off-duty soldiers clustered around the side entrance hoping to hear news of their commander for he was well respected by all and liked by most. Perhaps the realisation that he was in his home helped for he revived a little, enough to eat several meals. For a while his doctor dared to hope.

  Crispinus brought the news, stopping at Syracuse accompanied by a patrol of twenty cavalrymen from II Augusta, meant to exercise the horses and keep the men in trim more than to gain useful information. It was strange to find so senior an officer joining so small and routine an activity, and Ferox could tell that it made the decurion in charge very nervous. The tribune did not appear to care.

  ‘I ought to learn as much as I can about how the army does things,’ he said. ‘And I cannot do that sitting in the principia reading endless lists and reports.’

  ‘Endless lists and reports are what the army does best,’ Ferox told him.

  ‘Why Syracuse?’ The tribune swept an arm to encompass the little courtyard of the wooden outpost. ‘I cannot say that I see a resemblance.’ His horse was drinking from the trough, while the tribune was drinking posca from a dark, locally made cup. He grimaced at the taste, but drained it and held his cup out for more. Philo, immaculate as ever, took great pleasure in tending to such an important visitor.

  ‘Why not Syracuse?’ Ferox replied mildly.

  Crispinus shook his head, but let the matter drop. ‘We were told that some deserters had been seen in the area. It would be good to find that Briton – the one from the tower.’

  ‘As long as he is in a state to talk.’

  ‘Have you heard anything in the last few days?’ The tribune lowered his voice.

  ‘Not much,’ Ferox said. ‘Venutius’ men are lifting herds from far and wide, so we should get paid in full. Apart from that people are talking more about the Stallion and his great power. It seems he was up a mountain in a trance receiving messages from the gods while the fighting was going on.’