‘I still find it hard to believe that this nonsense will be taken seriously.’ It was Aelius Brocchus who voiced the opinion, but Rufinus nodded in support and Ferox sensed that none of the Romans – perhaps not even Crispinus – suspected the real danger. Fortunately Claudius Super was sick, and unable to attend the consilium, which at least removed the most sceptical of them all.
‘If you will forgive my frankness, my lords, whether or not we believe it is not the point. Enough people out there will believe – or feel afraid and so go along with it just in case it is true. If enough leaders decide to back them then that will give them armies big enough to pose a real problem. We have already heard that there is a high king among the Vacomagi who shelters and aids this Stallion and his allies, and has the support of the great druid. Other leaders might decide to do the same.’
They took him seriously, and at least that was something. All were only too aware that the garrison of the province was not big enough to fight a major war with confidence of victory.
‘The centurion raises many important matters,’ Crispinus said after a long pause. ‘And one is most relevant to our purpose today. An ambassador has come from Tincommius, High King of the Venicones and Vacomagi, seeking the friendship of Rome. Anyone ever heard of the man before?’ The question was general, but the tribune was looking at Ferox.
‘No, sir. Never heard of the two tribes under one ruler either.’
‘Then it may all be boasting, but either way the Legate Quadratus feels it prudent to send a delegation to meet the man. The purpose is to talk rather than fight, so they will take an escort of no more than thirty.’
Rufinus let out a low whistle, making the others turn. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But that is a long way from any rescue. If this high king isn’t friendly, or anyone else goes for them – this Stallion or whatever he’s called – then there won’t be much hope. Has the legate chosen some poor devil to go?’
‘I am going,’ Crispinus said, his expression wooden.
‘Oh, well, look…’ Rufinus glanced around the room for aid, but then gave up. ‘No, I cannot think of a way to make what I said sound any different, so might as well stand by it. It is a big risk. Haven’t we just been talking about this mad priest wanting to sacrifice an important captive? You’ll be there in plenty of time for the whathisname festival.’
‘Samhain,’ Ferox said, and already sensed an inevitability about the course of the meeting.
Crispinus turned to him with a smile.
‘Your local knowledge will be invaluable as usual, Flavius Ferox.’
‘Ah. Of course, sir.’ Orders were orders, and there was also the oath binding him to the tribune’s family.
Rufinus gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Talked your way into that one, boy,’ he said. At most he was a year or so older than Ferox, but he was an equestrian and so the air of superiority came easily.
‘I shall take a decurion and twenty-four of your Batavians, prefect, if that is acceptable to you.’ Cerialis nodded assent. ‘Good. We will also want Vindex and four or five of his scouts. Our job is to talk, see if this man can be dealt with, and most of all to find out as much as we can about him and these priests. If all goes well we shall be back in time to celebrate this Samhain.’
‘I shall lay on the best food we can find,’ Cerialis said, ‘although Batavians have their own festival that begins at dawn.’
‘We shall look forward to it with keen interest, and experience of your table leaves me with no doubt that it will be a dinner to remember.’
‘If you like eggs,’ Rufinus said under his breath. ‘Just hope friend Cerialis won’t be eating it all on his own.’
They were all invited to dinner at the praetorium that evening, and with Claudia Severa visiting along with her husband, there was a determined effort to avoid serious talk. Sulpicia Lepidina wore a dark dress and Ferox hoped that this was not a bad omen for their journey. Yet the sight of her lifted his spirits, as did the ease with which she helped steer the conversation and involve him in it to a degree appropriate to his status without ever making him feel awkward. In the lamplight she seemed to glow, enriching them all merely by her presence, and he thought how strange it was that fully clothed she was far more arousing than the naked twins, for all their smooth beauty. He was disappointed that Cerialis did not ask his wife to play and sing for them. Instead, the prefect invited the men to bathe, apologising for the poor facilities.
‘My predecessor did not consider a proper bath necessary, and there was a limit to what could be done in the house.’ The timber praetorium did not lend itself to the underfloor and flue heating possible in a stone house, so the prefect had had a work party of his soldiers dig a circular pool reinforced with stone and lined with concrete, a deep shelf raised up from the floor so that bathers could sit and soak. A broad pipe brought heated water from a collection of big coppers hanging over open fires, and another pipe could be opened to let it drain. Ten people could cram into the pool, and with just five it was comfortable. Steam filled the air, but did not make the first shock of the hot water any less and Ferox let out a hiss and blew out. The others stared at him in amusement – the barbarian centurion reverting to type.
Once he was used to it, Ferox sat, arms outstretched on the lip of the pool, and let the warmth seep into him. He had last had a bath at Flora’s, and he could see that this was very similar, apart from inoffensive paintings of dolphins and other sea creatures on the plastered walls and ceiling. There were three slaves, and Cerialis insisted that they wait to be oiled and scraped clear rather than doing it for themselves.
‘There is a cold shower in the next room, for afterwards,’ he told them, but Ferox did not plan to use it. He felt drowsy and content and had forgotten how refreshing so simple a thing could be.
Two nights later they were at Coria, and were given several hours when the big bath-house outside the fort’s ramparts was set aside for their exclusive use.
‘I’ll be so glad when we finish building our one at Vindolanda,’ Cerialis said as they went into the raging heat of the caldarium. There was plenty of building going at his garrison, but Ferox could tell that the greatest enthusiasm and effort was being lavished on the long stone bath-house outside the rampart and down the slope.
‘It is less convenient having to take our turn,’ Aelius Brocchus replied. ‘I wish the pool in our house were as fine as yours.’
This was the full experience, throwing leather balls to each other and exercising in the high, echoing hall, before going from warm to raging hot, then to a plunge into the cold pool, and repeating the circuit several times. It was invigorating, although for Ferox could not compete with the ease and comfort of a long soak in decently hot water.
They set out along the Eastern Road an hour before dawn on the next day. There were twenty-four Batavian horsemen under the command of a decurion named Masclus, a quiet, steady man. Each rider had a heavy cloak and a blanket rolled up and tied behind his saddle, and a pair of sacks filled with barley grain slung over the horse’s back. Two galearii rode mules and each led a string of four more with provisions and tents. Vindex had brought four of his best men, including the stolid and reliable Brennus, and the scouts watched the heavily laden troopers with curiosity and a hint of disdain.
‘What do they want all that lot for?’ the gaunt Brigantian asked Ferox. ‘Thought we were just going to talk to the man?’
‘An ambassador of Rome needs to look the part. And these Batavians are handy lads, so we’ll be glad of them if it comes to a fight.’
‘If it comes to a fight we’re humped, and they won’t make any difference.’ They were speaking in the language of the tribes, waiting as the escort checked their harness and equipment. Cerialis and another forty horsemen watched. He was not coming any further and would return to Vindolanda later today.
‘So we’re going to talk to this Tincommius, which means that you’re doing the talking. Why is the dandy coming along?’ He smiled at Crispinus who gave a
n affable nod in return.
Ferox did not know the answer. Regionarii like him usually dealt with negotiations of this sort, even with the kings of major tribes, and it was odd for a young aristocrat to be sent. It seemed a needless risk, and he was not sure whether Crispinus had lobbied to go or been picked for the task. He would make a valuable hostage – perhaps a great sacrifice – and the thought that there might well be senior men trying to engineer disaster on the frontier made him afraid that they were walking into a trap.
‘Reckon he fancied an adventure,’ he said.
‘Oh, good.’ Vindex sniffed and wrinkled his long nose. ‘You smell funny.’
‘It’s called being clean.’
A trumpet sounded, harsh and brazen in the still air. Masclus gave orders for his men to mount up.
‘Bet they don’t even crap unless they’re told,’ Vindex said.
Ferox ignored him and walked his horse over beside Crispinus. The decurion saluted the tribune and then went to his prefect and saluted again.
‘Third day after the Nones of October. Report of the detachment of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians. All who should be are at their duty stations, as is the baggage. Masclus and his men are ready to depart, and ask permission from his king and lord to set out.’
‘Permission granted.’ Cerialis was wearing his high plumed helmet. ‘Ride to good fortune and a successful return.’
‘My lord!’ Masclus saluted again and went back to the head of the little column. ‘Prepare to march!’ he bellowed. ‘Forward at a walk.’
Crispinus nudged his mare to follow. Ferox stayed back with Vindex, ready to send his scouts ahead once they were properly clear of the fort and canabae. The civilian settlement at Coria, including a number of official buildings, spread far wider than at Vindolanda so that soon it would earn the more formal status of a vicus, but it was early and the few people up and about were not inclined to pay them much attention. On the edge of the village, he heard shouts and saw three small boys lobbing stones at the white-haired beggar as he walked down a lane on to the road. Their aim was not good, but the sight annoyed Vindex.
‘Piss off, you little buggers!’ he shouted, and his savage face was enough to send them scampering back around a corner. The boldest peeked back to look at him, but fled again when the Brigantian snarled.
‘Alms for a blessing.’ The man seemed even more hunched than usual, staring down at the road as he held out his hand. His dog growled at them.
‘Here you are, Father,’ Vindex said, throwing down a couple of coins. ‘We won’t need it where we are going,’ he explained. ‘And I reckon we need all the blessings we can get.’
‘Strange how he seems to follow us around,’ Ferox said. ‘Or it would be if you didn’t keep paying him! Wonder why he’s here?’
Vindex frowned. ‘Everyone’s got to be somewhere. Just wish we weren’t going where we are going.’
‘A man cannot avoid his destiny. We go where we are meant to go.’
‘You saying all this is our fault?’ Vindex gave his leering grin.
‘Not mine – I reckon it’s all your fault. Usually is.’
Crispinus turned and stared at them when he heard the roar of laughter.
They went north along the road, making good progress on a day of clear sunshine. A thought nagged at Ferox as he rode, just in the back of his mind and too vague to pin down. Someone had just done or said something strange when they set out, but he had not really been paying attention and could not remember what. When the horses had warmed up they trotted for some time, but even the jogging motion failed to help his thoughts. After an hour they dismounted and marched. They halted twice to rest and water the animals, and to eat a meal of biscuit and salted bacon. Masclus was a quiet man who never seemed to need to shout, and although no more than twenty-five had the authority of a much older officer. Ferox felt that the decurion was a good choice to command the escort.
Even Vindex expressed grudging approval. He and his men spent most of the day riding ahead and behind the column. Not that there should be any danger yet, but Masclus had suggested without prompting that it was wise to get into good habits from the start. When Vindex came back to report that the road was clear and that they would reach Bremenium before sunset, the decurion beckoned to one of the slaves who had food to give to the scout and more bundles of biscuit and meat waiting for his men when they returned.
They reached the fort at Bremenium as the sun began to set and the western skies were ablaze with colour. Vindex and his men had closed with the column, and he reported to the three officers. Progress had been good, the day a pleasant one, and if they were tired all were united in a determination not to show it to the garrison of this base.
‘Good lad, that one,’ Vindex said as they watched Masclus and Crispinus ride forward to report to the commander of the guard at the towering porta praetoria. ‘Even if he is a bit oily.’
‘You like anyone who feeds you. Why oily?’
‘Well, smarmy then. Bit of a crawler. Remember how he called the prefect his king?’
‘Omnes ad stercus!’ Ferox spat the words with such violence that his horse shied. The troopers looked at him in surprise. That was it – that was what he had been trying to remember. Dark fear grew within him as he remembered the big German warrior demanding that he hand over the ‘queen’. He had a vague memory of something he had heard about the Batavians, but he needed to find a way to raise the subject with delicacy and wondered how to do it.
‘So is Prefect Cerialis your king or what?’ Vindex asked the decurion as they rode up the main street of the camp. Ferox sighed.
‘He could be,’ Masclus replied without any hint of awkwardness. ‘The prefect is from the royal house of our people. We are soldiers of the Ninth Cohort, sworn to Rome and to our emperor and we will die to keep that oath. He commands us because he is the prefect, but he also has our loyalty because we are Batavi and he is our lord. Do you not also have a king?’
‘Aye, several of ’em.’
‘And you obey them as well as serving the emperor.’
‘It’s my chief who sends me, and he does that because his king tells him.’
It was not until late in the evening that Ferox had a chance to talk to Crispinus privately. ‘“Blood of king, blood of queen,”’ he said. ‘I have been blind. Cerialis is the king they want and the Lady Sulpicia his queen. It’s their blood they want to make the priest’s miracle.’ He went through all that he had learned about the ambush, once again telling the tribune about the attack and how the raiders had ignored better targets and only seemed to want the lady.
Crispinus was unsure. ‘He’s not really a king. Just an aristocrat of one tribe.’
‘You are thinking like a Roman, and not like an ambitious priest wanting to proclaim a great magic through the shedding of special blood. How many kings of any sort can be found among the Romans in this part of the world? No emperor has come to Britannia since Claudius.’
The tribune made up his mind. ‘I’ll write a letter and send one of the troopers back to Vindolanda. We cannot do much, but at least we can remind Flavius Cerialis to take every precaution for his own and his wife’s safety. Doubt they can do more than they are already doing, but it will do no harm.’
‘The greatest danger will come as Samhain approaches.’
‘Hopefully we shall be back by then.’ Crispinus patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good work. It would never have occurred to me. The more we understand these murderous bastards the more chance we have of stopping them. Get some rest. It’s another long ride tomorrow. And don’t worry. I’ll send the letter.’
XVI
TRIMONTIUM TOOK ITS name from the three peaks on the ridgeline above the fort. It was twice the size of Vindolanda and these days the northernmost garrison in all Britannia. Lying in the circle of the river, the brown waters high from last month’s rain, it looked like a town, the neat rows of buildings rendered and whitewashed, roofs either red tile or dark shingle. Apart
from the rectangular fort with its curved corners, other ramparts extended out on three sides to enclose the canabae, with numbers of thatched round houses dotted among the Roman-style buildings. There was a village within bowshot of the ditch, several more out on the plains to the west, and an earth-walled hill fort up on the high ground. This was the very edge of the empire, and the end of the Eastern Road, but on the whole the Romans and the allied Votadini tribe got on well with each other.
It was a long ride from Bremenium on a drab day with a sea of brooding grey clouds overhead, but Crispinus was determined to make the trip in one stage and not to stop at the smaller fort that lay in between the two. All twenty-four Batavian troopers rode with them, and the tribune explained to Ferox that he had sent his letter to Cerialis with the regular courier who had left in the early hours.
‘He’s well mounted, will get a fresh horse every time he stops at a garrison, and will do the trip much faster. Besides, we may need every man we can get.’
‘Sir.’
The tribune scented scepticism. ‘Hercules’ balls, you really should trust, man!’ There was anger in his voice.
‘Of course, my lord,’ Ferox said and remembered something his grandfather was fond of saying. ‘A man who keeps asking you to trust him is always hiding something.’
As they approached Trimontium the setting sun appeared beneath the clouds and shone a reddish light across the fort, casting long shadows, and they were all cheered by the sight.
‘Wonder if a man can get a drink there,’ Vindex said, for once willing to set aside his dislike of crowded places.
Accommodation in the barracks and stabling for the horses and mules was waiting for them, all supervised by a cheerful tribune from Legio XX Valeria Victrix, who was in overall command of the mixed garrison of legionaries and auxiliaries at the base. His name was Attius Secundus and he entertained Crispinus and Ferox to a lavish meal before he and some slaves led them to a private bath-house.
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