Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘He must have been so disappointed when he heard.’

  ‘Gutted, I’m sure. But they are saying that one of his foals went in his place, so that must be the one in the headdress, the one I killed. But people aren’t telling it that way. They are saying that he died along with all his band after falling on the Romans at night and slaying ten times their number. He is supposed to have broken his sword from hewing through Roman necks. The last he killed was the Roman commander. With his sword gone, the pupil of the great priest rent the Roman apart with his bare hands.’

  Crispinus looked down at himself and then used his free hand to pat his other arm and his chest. ‘Seems to have worn off. So this was the fellow skulking in the darkness who had the misfortune to run into you?’

  ‘The same, but people will believe anything else quicker than the truth.’ When Crispinus raised an eyebrow, Ferox explained. ‘That is a saying of my people.’

  ‘Of the Silures, you mean – you are a Roman after all.’

  Ferox let that pass. ‘It’s taken a while to learn, and come in whispers and hints, but it seems that the Great Stallion has six foals – well, five now: followers who learn from him and are mighty in their own right.’

  ‘Do the people you meet like him and his men?’

  The centurion had forgotten for a moment that the tribune knew so little of these lands and the folk who lived there. ‘That does not matter – they fear them. Men who can work magic and have one foot in the Otherworld are dangerous. As long as they have power then people will do what they want whether they want to or not. We need to do something about them.’

  ‘You are probably right, and I will see what I can do. For the moment keep your eyes and ears open.’ Crispinus tossed the cup to Philo, who fumbled, but managed to catch it before it dropped. ‘Nearly caught you there!’ the aristocrat told the slave. ‘Time to go. I think it might be a good idea if you went to Vindolanda. If he is well enough, ask Titus Annius about the orders given to him by Flaccus. We won’t be able to prove anything, but it gives us more to go on.’

  The tribune leaped into the saddle and clicked with his tongue to make the horse walk on. He had almost reached the gate when he turned and came back. He snapped his fingers and then pointed at the centurion.

  ‘Augustus,’ he said. ‘I am right, aren’t I? The divine Augustus used to go to a special room in the palace when he wanted peace and quiet and to get away from it all. He called it Syracuse, and I dare say you would struggle to find anywhere better than this for getting away from it all.’ His horse tried to pull towards the water in the trough, but the tribune held the rein firmly.

  Ferox nodded. ‘You are a learned man, my lord.’

  ‘And you are full of surprises. Farewell for the moment, Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius.’

  The wind picked up overnight, coming from the east with the bitter hint of the coming winter. It ripped half a dozen tiles from the roof of the gate-tower, and a few more from the buildings inside the fort.

  Ferox rode to Vindolanda the next morning, swathed up to stay warm and dry in the saddle as best he could, but it was not long before his face felt numb from the battering of the wind. He passed a young birch tree snapped almost in half and an older tree pulled from the ground by its roots. When he reached the fort he was not surprised to learn that Titus Annius had died. This was the sort of day a good man’s soul would leave its body. The centurion had seemed to be at peace, but then had cried out during the night and when the slaves ran to his room they found that he was dead. Ferox thought it odd that no slave was with him all the time, although the centurion was well known for his frugal lifestyle and for his fixed ideas of how things should be done.

  His will was a case in point. He had no wife or children, and no other family members to whom he wished to bequeath his estate. No one at Vindolanda knew much about Titus Annius’ background. Every detail of his funeral was set down. The centurion wanted no hired mourners and only the simplest procession to a spot near the road outside the porta praetoria, the main gates of the fort. ‘Let whoever come who chooses, and let a dozen of my boys see me off. Burn me, drink to cohors I Tungrorum and to the emperor, and tell my lads that I’ll be watching them and they had better never disgrace me by their turnout or conduct or I’ll come back and haunt them.’

  A copy of the will was posted up outside the small praetorium where he had lived – a far more modest building that the one housing Cerialis. All day there were Tungrians gathered around it, half weeping and half laughing, those who were able reading the words out to the others. Titus Annius’ estate was considerable, and he left most of it as a fund to give a year’s pay to each widow or child left behind when one of his auxiliaries died going about his duty or from sickness. The recent losses meant that there would soon be plenty of calls on the legacy. One thousand denarii were set aside by special arrangement with Flora, who for the three days after the centurion’s death was to welcome without charge any Tungrian who knocked on her door. ‘Give the lads whatever they want. I want to hear humping as I make my way to the Elysian Fields.’

  As Ferox watched the wrapped corpse burn, he wondered whether Titus Annius had got his wish. Cerialis was there, as was Crispinus, Aelius Brocchus, and Rufinus, the prefect of the Spaniards. The twelve picked Tungrians sparkled even on this drab, rainy morning, with every piece of metalwork polished like a mirror. Two of the men wore bandages from wounds taken on the day the centurion fell, and one of them limped as he carried the couch on which the body was laid. Around them, forty or fifty more men from the cohort watched. No one gave orders, but they stood in ranks and files, and all had found a reason to appear in their best uniforms. Quite a few Batavians had come as well, and there were civilians from the canabae. The centurion had said that no women were to attend, and this was obeyed, although several cloaked and hooded figures watched from a distance.

  No one cried openly, for that was another rule, but plenty of eyes were moist, not least because a fitful wind stirred the smoke and blew it around. The Tungrians had done their job well, though, and Ferox could feel the heat from twenty paces away, even though the only wood available was damp, so that its smoke was thick and black. Now and again the wind carried the smell of burning flesh, the scent lingering even after the skin and fat must have burned away. It was the smell of death, and he had never cared for the Roman custom of watching a man being cremated. The smoke reminded him of the burning thatch in the old fort and not for the first time he wondered whether or not he had done the right thing in ordering the retreat. Had he killed Annius and all those men or saved the survivors from being surrounded and slaughtered inside the ramparts? Instinct and reason told him that they had had to leave, and that the supports should have come much sooner. He wondered about Flaccus – and about the plausible Crispinus, standing just a few feet away in a black cloak.

  With a great flare of sparks, the piled wood collapsed, letting the remnants of the body fall, and soon the remains of Titus Annius, centurion of Legio XX Valeria Victrix and lately commander of cohors I Tungrorum, would mingle with the rest of the ash. When it cooled they would gather some of the ash in an urn and bury it, letting the rest blow on the four winds. The tombstone was already being carved and would be erected in nine days’ time.

  It was almost time for the funeral banquet, although thankfully Titus Annius’ will had stated that he wanted this to be simple, a soldier’s meal and not some great feast. They had brown bread and a stew made with salted bacon and hard tack biscuit, all to be washed down with posca, and not just his own men, but any soldier who passed was welcome to join. It ought not to take long, once a libation had been poured, and Ferox was glad. He had never understood the way the Romans would laugh and joke so soon after burning the remains of a friend. Titus Annius had gone on his own journey to the Otherworld or wherever it was that Romans went. Did the man truly believe in the Elysian Fields? Ferox met so many Romans who did not seem to believe in the soul and thought the whole essence
of a man ended with death, or slowly faded away into nothingness.

  The sun came out as they were eating and drinking, and this seemed to make the mourners merry. Ferox stayed as long as courtesy and respect to the departed required, but let himself gradually drift away to the edge of the crowd. No one noticed as he strode away up the slope to the parade ground. He wanted open space and quiet, and the prospect to the west was a good one.

  There were a few cavalrymen exercising horses at the far end, beyond the rostra from which the officer commanding could address a parade. Otherwise it was empty, and he went to the far side and looked to the west. The clouds had closed in again and he looked in vain for a break in the hope of glimpsing the setting sun. He was surprised at how moved he was by the centurion’s death, for he had not known the man at all well.

  After a while he heard voices behind him, but the wind was strong, driving into him, and he could not pick out any words. He pulled his cloak tighter and did not turn, making it clear that he was not looking for company. There were steps in the grass and the sound of horses, but he ignored them.

  ‘I like this view.’ Sulpicia Lepidina stood beside him. ‘It seems to stretch on and on, the hills rolling into the distance.’

  ‘My lady.’ He took off his helmet as he faced her, and the wind ruffled his dark hair. ‘I am sorry, I did not know that it was you.’

  There were a couple of male slaves with her, as well as her maid, the girl looking cold and miserable in spite of a heavy tartan cloak. There was also Longinus, the one-eyed veteran, and another soldier leading a couple of horses. On one sat a boy, his hair flame red and his face so like Cerialis’ that it was obviously his son. Ferox guessed that he was about six, but tall for his age. The boy sat awkwardly, hunched forward and legs dangling low, shifting back and forth. Then he remembered that the lad had been born with a crooked back, the deformity slight, but obvious as soon as he remembered.

  ‘His father insists that Flavius rides every day. I do wonder whether he is still a bit young, but the prefect insists that if he learns now he will sit more naturally.’

  ‘The Lord Cerialis is right,’ Ferox said. ‘I was younger than he is when my grandfather first sat me on a pony. I confess that I was terrified.’

  She smiled, the warm smile that lit up her face, even when the wind blew hard and her skin was cold and pale. ‘I find it hard to imagine anything terrifying you, centurion. Your grandfather sounds quite a character. Tell me about him?’

  Ferox was surprised at how readily he answered, talking about the Lord of the Hills and his own youth among his people. She listened, asking question after question with no hint of disdain at any of his answers, and when she mocked it was gentle. In the meantime the cavalrymen began to take the boy through some basic riding exercises.

  ‘None of my family have served in Britannia,’ she said after a while. ‘Indeed I am the first to invade!’

  ‘And the only one we could never resist, lady.’

  The boy was cantering in a circle, and in spite of his back he was shaping up well, better balanced now if still ungainly to the eye.

  ‘I do not understand why,’ she said, ‘but he wears out shoes faster than any child I have ever known.’ Her tone was fond. ‘His father drives him, wanting him to grow up as a true aristocrat, and the boy is eager to please. Sometimes I wish—’ She stopped, and turned back to look over the hills.

  ‘Do you like Vindolanda?’ he asked, as much for something to say because she seemed uncomfortable. Then he realised that he had forgotten to address her properly. ‘I do not mean to pry, my lady. Please forgive me.’

  She looked up at him, wisps of her golden hair blowing loose across her face. ‘Forgive you?’ She smiled, trying to push the strands out of her eyes and failing. She had on the same drab cloak she had worn to visit the temple. Her eyes looked very blue as she stared at him in silence for what seemed like an age.

  ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘there are many ways of answering that. The house is adequate, the household learning my ways – those who did not come with us in the first place. Claudia Severa is a dear thing, her husband a decent man, and there are others whose society is not unpleasant. It is something of a bore to have everyone looking up to me, but I do not suppose there is another woman of my rank closer than Eboracum. Would it shock you to hear that I do not miss the company of my own class?’

  Ferox was not sure how to respond. He wondered whether there was opportunity for a compliment, but could not think of one.

  ‘I do not believe that anything you could say would shock me, my lady,’ he said in the end, feeling that honesty was the simplest response.

  ‘Really. Then it seems I have grown dull in a very short time.’

  ‘M-my lady,’ he stammered. ‘I did not mean… That is I did not imply…’

  ‘For such a bold warrior you tease very easily!’ Sulpicia Lepidina laughed softly. They were standing close together, and after a glance to see that the troopers and her stepson were some way away, she took his hand. ‘This time you must forgive me for being cruel. You are a soldier under discipline, and not free to act or say what you wish to me.’

  ‘Duty and discipline, my lady.’ He thought that he ought to pull his hand free, but did not and instead pressed hers. ‘There is little left for me in this life.’

  ‘The soldier’s life,’ she said sadly. ‘That of the noblewoman is not so different. We marry as we have to, live as we have to, and try to avoid disgrace. Duty and discipline in another guise, its hold on us just as tight.’ The lady slid her hand away back under the cover of her cloak.

  She turned away, looking out across the hills. ‘I like it here. Duty commands me to come and assist my husband. Discipline makes me run the house well and try my best to raise his children – our children, I should say. I serve my husband and my own family as best I can. It is not perhaps what I expected. Children have such dreams. When your grandfather put you on that pony did you ever think that your path would lead you here?’

  ‘No. It is hard to remember what I expected from life, but this was not it.’

  ‘Loss is a terrible thing, and yet the gods seem to have placed it at the heart of our lives. Little turns out as you expect. Loss of dreams and loss of hope are almost as sad as the loss of people. I liked Titus Annius, even if I do not think he had much time for me or even for my husband.’

  ‘He was a good man,’ Ferox said, and hoped that did not imply an insult to her or the prefect.

  ‘Duty and discipline.’ She looked up at him again. ‘It is not all bad. At least it has brought me to places that I might only have read about. Life at home can be very dull. To return to the question you have no doubt forgotten. Yes, I like Vindolanda. I like it because it is near the edge of the world. That does not release me from duty and discipline, but at least now and then I can glimpse freedom.

  ‘I had better go. Flavius tries very hard and I do not believe his father gives him sufficient praise, so I try to make up for that.’

  Sulpicia Lepidina walked away, and Ferox forced himself to stare at the hills and not watch her go.

  XIV

  THREE HOURS LATER he passed a couple of drunken Tungrians staggering happily out of Flora’s place.

  ‘Only us today, centurion,’ one of them said, grinning to show broken and yellowed teeth. ‘You’ll have to wait. Unless you want to take that old bitch herself!’ The man found his own wit hysterically funny and doubled up with laughter.

  ‘Sorry, sir. He don’t mean anything,’ his companion said, looking down with glazed fondness at him. ‘You were with us, weren’t you?’ Ferox nodded. ‘Then I don’t think “Old Iron” would grudge you your turn.’

  Ferox had not heard the nickname before, and nodded amicably to the man as he passed. He was going to Flora’s, but not for the usual reason.

  ‘I would like to see the mistress,’ he told the thickset slave standing in front of the open back door. ‘I am expected.’ He had sent a note earlier in the
day and been told to call at this hour.

  ‘Of course, centurion, you are always welcome,’ purred the oily voice of Flora’s clerk, who was sitting at a desk inside the porch. This was the entrance used by the more important clients and led to the luxurious rooms as well as Flora’s office and her apartment. Everyone else climbed the wooden steps at the front to the second floor, where matters were dealt with efficiently, if with less style. ‘You know the way, do you not, sir?’ The man was small and had eyes that only focused on the page in front of him.

  As Ferox went down the corridor, the one-eyed Batavian cavalryman appeared from the main office.

  ‘Centurion,’ Longinus said, nodding respectfully and moving out of the way to let the officer pass. The walls were plastered and painted, less gaudily than the upper storey, and by the look of it the same artist who had worked on the main rooms of the praetorium had done these.

  ‘The terms are the same as usual,’ Flora said as the centurion went into her office, a simple room equipped with several cabinets, a marble-topped table and three well-upholstered chairs. The wall panels showed pastoral scenes with plenty of nymphs, each with the face of a girl who worked or had worked here.

  Flora was a short woman, so slightly built as to be almost boyish, and still slim and strong even though she must be well past her fiftieth year. There were deep lines on her face – at least on those rare occasions like this when she appeared without heavy make-up. He was also surprised that she was dressed simply, and that there was a little tear at the neck of her plain brown robe. Beside her stood a slave boy in a brightly bleached tunic. She wrote something more on a wooden tablet, and then looked up, noticing his gaze.

  ‘I thought a lot of Titus Annius,’ she said, and one hand fingered the torn linen. Ferox guessed that this must be the way her people mourned. He had never been quite sure where Flora came from. She had olive skin, dark eyes and long thick hair – these days dyed a bright henna red. No doubt there were many stories from her rise from slave to prosperous businesswoman, but she hardly ever spoke of her past and he did not pry. Crispinus talked a lot about trust, and that was something Ferox did not give readily. Yet he trusted this little whore mistress and she had always been fair with him.