Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘The lads have a bigger one on the far side of the fort,’ he told them, ‘but someone had the nice idea of building this one for the senior staff and for any officials who pass through. We’ll probably meet a couple of them.’

  It lay in one of the enclosed areas of civilian occupation, and was itself isolated from the rest by its own rampart on which sentries stood watch. ‘Nice to have a bit of privacy,’ Secundus said happily as he gave a casual wave to a saluting legionary. ‘Evening, Longus.’

  A paved path took them to the main entrance of a long stone building, the walls left bare rather than rendered, perhaps to show off the fact that they were stone rather than wattle and daub. They found three occupants being massaged by slaves after completing their bath. One was the plump imperial freedman Vegetus, along with a colleague, a little taller and even fatter, who also worked for the procurator of the province and supervised the collection of taxes and the private contractors hired by the state. With them was a negotiator, a businessman who undertook some contracts to supply clothing and mounts to the army, as well as carrying out plenty of trade on his own account. He was a Treviran with the accent of the Rhineland, but had been in this part of the world for years, spending a lot of time in the far north. Ferox thought that there was something familiar about the man, but could not remember where they had met. There was something about his thin hands, the long fingers engrained with dirt even after washing that sparked a memory.

  ‘Similis is a splendid fellow,’ Vegetus assured them, patting the merchant with one plump paw. ‘Must be ten years since we first met and I do not regret a day of it.’ The freedman’s wife was not with him on this trip. ‘It’s a bit bleak up here, and she has picked up a cold. The Lady Sulpicia Lepidina’ – the man glowed with pride as he mentioned so eminent an acquaintance – ‘graciously offered an invitation for my dear wife to stay in her house until I return.’

  No doubt Cerialis was all in favour of such generosity.

  Ferox asked Similis whether he knew anything about Tincommius, and could sense the man balancing whether he would gain or lose from answering the question, and giving up each snippet of information as if it caused him physical pain. Yes, he had met the new high king, but could not claim to know him well. His rise was recent, a mixture of brute force and considerable effort in winning friends and allies. ‘He’s got three wives, has daughters married off to other chieftains in his tribe and further afield, and sons out to fosterage. He also welcomes exiles and their followers, so that he has more warriors at his beck and call than any chief anyone can remember.’

  ‘What about priests?’ Crispinus cut in. Ferox saw the man’s eyes close as if curtains were shut across a window and wished that the aristocrat had left the matter to him.

  ‘Wouldn’t know about that. I’ve only been to his dun once, to buy hounds and some bears to sell to the circuses down south. Only really dealt with one of his men. He was tough but fair and we both did well out of it.’

  ‘It’s just that we have heard stories of druids,’ the tribune insisted.

  ‘There’re always stories, but in my line you don’t pry,’ the merchant said.

  ‘Pity. It would have been most useful for us to learn more.’ The young aristocrat had just been shaved by a slave and was rubbing his smooth chin with considerable pleasure. ‘Well-informed men can be so helpful, which of course obliges us to be helpful in return.’

  ‘Sorry, my lord, I cannot tell what I do not know.’

  Liar, thought Ferox, and suspected that the man judged friendship with the two financial officials more valuable in the long run than the fleeting gains to come from helping a young officer who would only be in the province for a year or so. Presumably the procurator’s men would prefer to keep his friendship something only they enjoyed.

  ‘I truly am sorry, my lord. If there is any other way that I can help, you have only to ask, for the gratitude of so great a man as yourself is a prize above all others. Perhaps there is something you cannot get here in the wilds. There are few things I cannot obtain in time, and would happily give them as a gift.’

  ‘What did they want in trade?’ Ferox asked softly.

  A brief chink of light showed from behind the curtain before it was tied closed again.

  ‘Tincommius, I mean,’ the centurion went on. ‘I doubt you paid him in coin.’

  ‘Oh, this and that, you know – the usual trinkets, some silver vessels and plenty of wine. The Britons like their wine, although quantity matters more than the quality. They are just barbarians.’

  ‘Flavius Ferox is a Briton from the south,’ Crispinus said with smooth and courteous malice.

  ‘I meant no offence,’ the Treviran replied. Ferox could sense the man’s relief at the change of subject, and was sure that he had been up to no good, selling something that he ought not to the ambitious tribal leader. Weapons perhaps, or the iron to forge blades – or just information.

  ‘Slippery fellow, that,’ Secundus said when the trader and the two officials left some time later. ‘Cannot say I really trust the others either.’

  ‘Taking more than is due in tax?’ Crispinus asked.

  ‘Well, obviously that. I mean, they all do, don’t they? Just afraid they’re taking more than most and enough to drive the poor devils paying it into penury. No sense in making the locals more desperate than they already are, is there?’ Attius Secundus could tell them little more about the tribes to the north and the high king. ‘Patrols don’t go so far these days, not without good reason,’ he explained. ‘We don’t have enough men, so keep our distance unless someone asks for our help. If you ask me that’s half the reason why the other tribes and clans are turning to this Tincommius. Heard rumours about your druids more than once, but nothing definite. We certainly have not seen any of these bloodthirsty tattooed fiends you were telling me about. No, I’m afraid that it’s you who will have to tell me what is going on and not the other way around.’

  A guide was waiting for them at Trimontium, as had been arranged. ‘Looks a rogue to me, but I can’t offer anyone better,’ Secundus said as he bade them farewell. ‘Good luck. Hope to see you back before the end of the month – and of course to avoid the inconvenience of having to avenge your horrible deaths!’ He grinned happily.

  They left an hour before dawn, without trumpets or ceremony. ‘Be on your guard, lads,’ Masclus said to his men as they left the fort behind them.

  Their guide was a thin man with leathery skin who looked ancient in years, but still appeared to be vigorous and untiring. He was simply dressed, in shoes, long-sleeved tunic, trousers and a heavy cloak fastened with a simple brooch. He rode a shaggy little pony, his legs trailing down and brushing the long grass, for he did not ride on the fading remains of the Roman road, but kept to the far side of the ditch beside it. The man gave them no name, and spoke only when he could not avoid it, but Vindex knew who he was.

  ‘I’ve heard of him, and I think we are honoured. He is known as the Traveller, and that is what he does. They say he came from one of the islands in the far north-west – Thule or even further away – and that he never stays in one place very long, before he gets up and walks or rides away. Knows all the paths, even the ones you cannot see, and all the places, knows the spirits and the gods of every valley and lake. I’ve even heard tell that he sails the seas to lands far away, following the whales and the great demons of the deep.’ Vindex touched the wheel of Taranis to his lips. ‘Who knows, but what I do know is that the chiefs use him to take messages to each other. They cannot force him – no one can – and he will only agree if he wishes to do it and thinks it is important. As I said, we’re honoured.’

  The Traveller carried a staff that had leaves and berries tied to its top.

  ‘That is the mark of an envoy,’ Ferox told the tribune.

  ‘Is not mistletoe a mark of the druids?’

  ‘It can be. It can also just be mistletoe.’

  The road north had been built by the army twenty years a
go and was meant as a temporary route, but no one had got around to laying it down properly before the bases it reached were abandoned. Since then many stones had been pulled up by the locals wanting material for cattle pens or house walls, and weeds and grass had sprung up in the gaps between the ones the thieves had left. Much of the time they followed their guide and rode beside the track rather than on it, but the line of the old road was easy to follow.

  ‘Not sure we really need him yet,’ Crispinus remarked. ‘Guess it will be different further on, but he could have waited for us there.’

  ‘We need him for the things we cannot see,’ Ferox said. ‘And if you will forgive me, I would like to ride out to see how Vindex and his scouts are doing.’ He galloped off before the tribune could reply. From the very start of the journey Crispinus had resumed his questioning and discussion, and the centurion once again found the endless chatter oppressive.

  Some things he did not mind explaining. ‘Whenever we pass a village or any big cluster of houses – let alone a walled place – we must swing round to the left,’ he had told the tribune on the first day.

  Crispinus waited for more and finally forced the issue. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it means that they will be on our right.’ Ferox said, his tone suggesting that it was obvious, and there was another long pause before he realised that he still needed to explain. ‘Our shields are on our left side, so the right is unprotected. It shows them that we come in peace and so willingly offer our exposed sides to them. Enemies would not take such a chance.’

  ‘Unless it was a trick,’ Crispinus mused. ‘But these people are Votadini, so allies of ours.’

  ‘Then no harm in reminding them of that, my lord. The Selgovae are allies and we attacked them just a few weeks ago.’

  Each night they made camp, but they were too few to entrench the position even if the cavalrymen had been willing. There were three big tents made of panels of calfskin stitched together for the Batavians and the army slaves, and a slightly smaller one shared by the three officers. The horses and mules were tethered in lines, beside the stacked shields and spears of the soldiers. Five of the troopers were always on guard, with one standing fifteen paces out on each side of the camp and the other man watching the horses.

  ‘We are under the king’s protection,’ Crispinus said. ‘Surely no one will risk his anger by molesting us?’

  Ferox was insistent. ‘There are outlaws in every land, men who do not care much for the word of kings, chiefs or even emperors. And there are quite enough folk who might be tempted if the risks looked slight. Best not to tempt them in the first place,’ he said and was backed up by Masclus. The tribune deferred to their experience, but Ferox still worried. A really skilled thief might take animals from under the sentry’s nose. He arranged with Vindex that one of the scouts would patrol the darkness each night and took a turn himself to spread the load.

  Yet if there were such men in the neighbourhood, they held their hand. The camp went undisturbed each night, save for the persistent calling of a wildcat. On the second morning they woke to frost on the leather tents and grass that was white and crunched underfoot. It vanished quickly once the sun rose, with only a few patches left where valley sides kept the land in shadow.

  The following night they pitched tents beside a brook, overlooked by a cluster of round houses perched on a hillock. The headman invited the officers to share his meal. Masclus remained with his troopers, and the tribune and centurion took a couple of Batavians with them. Crispinus squatted uncomfortably by the fire, blinking and coughing in the smoky atmosphere inside, for like most local houses it had no chimney and let the smoke seep into the thatch. Yet Ferox was surprised and pleased with the way the young aristocrat conducted himself, drinking and eating all that was offered, and treating his host with the greatest respect.

  ‘Good manners are important,’ was all that he said afterwards, although that may have been because he was feeling a little the worse for wear after downing several wooden cups of beer. The Batavians had sucked the liquid down like sponges and after initial suspicion had greatly enjoyed being chosen.

  The next day the tribune had a green pallor and Ferox was spared questions for the first few hours. The respite was temporary. ‘Why do the houses have doors facing south-east?’ ‘Why no chimneys?’ ‘Were those people from a certain clan and how can you tell?’ On and on, until the centurion set off to visit the scouts. Crispinus was only prevented from going with him when Masclus insisted that as commander of the escort it was his job to ensure the tribune’s safety and that would not be easy if he started gadding about away from the column.

  Two more cold nights were followed by bright days with only gentle winds and the tribune talked about how everyone exaggerated the savagery of northern climes. They passed the great trading post of the Votadini, a walled stronghold and market on a great hill that rose above miles and miles of gently rolling pastures. Ferox had been there a couple of times and often seen the place from afar. It always reminded him of a painting he had once seen of the pyramids in Egypt. They did not go close, for it was out of their way, but he could see that even Crispinus was impressed.

  ‘Never expected to see so many people up here,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There are farms everywhere, villages, well-tilled fields and fat cattle and sheep.’

  ‘What were you expecting, my lord?’

  ‘More of a wilderness – marsh and dark woods.’

  ‘Well, there’s some of that, to be sure, but hopefully we won’t need to go through it.’

  They kept going, until the crest of a rise gave them a view of the estuary of the great river opening out into the sea. The water sparkled in the morning sun, white-capped in places for the wind was blowing strong and bitter cold from the east.

  ‘“Thalassa! Thalassa!”’ Crispinus proclaimed at the sight. Ferox felt his heart lift, but he was thinking of his own homeland more than Xenophon and his Ten Thousand mercenaries glimpsing the sea that led them home to Greece. The water up here was a clear blue like glass, not like the muddy brown of the channel near his homeland, and yet its moods were the same. He caught the faint hint of salt on the air and it made him yearn for the simplicity of his childhood when no oaths bound him tight. Here he was, several days’ ride beyond the furthest outpost of the empire, and he still felt confined. More than once in the last days the tribune had asked him why he stayed in his out-of-the-way post.

  ‘No one else wants me,’ he said the first few times, but Crispinus persisted.

  ‘There is always a need for able men.’

  ‘I like it at Syracuse,’ Ferox confessed at last. ‘No one breathes down my neck – at least until now. I’m on the edge of the empire, almost the edge of the world, if you like. I can see where it ends.’

  That appeared to satisfy the tribune’s curiosity. Ferox was not sure whether or not it was the truth. After so many years serving Rome and the emperors, he could not really imagine any other life. Like it or not, it seemed to be his fate.

  They had to go west for some distance before they were able to cross the river, ferried across four at a time, men and horses together on a raft. No payment was demanded and the sight of their guide seemed enough to make the locals help them.

  Within hours of crossing the water the skies darkened and the rain started to fall. It rained all night, defying their best efforts to light a fire, and kept raining throughout the next day. It was warmer, but the wet seeped into their clothes and their souls and they did not feel any benefit. The next night they were glad of the hospitality of the chieftain whose people lived in a small walled enclosure beside a mere. There was a hot meal of stew and plenty of beer, so that they went to their tents content. The chieftain belonged to the Venicones, and told them that he had known to expect them today.

  Crispinus was pleased with this proof of power and goodwill on the part of the high king. They made quick progress the next day in spite of driving wind and heavy showers of rain. The route followed
the line of another road built by the army. Outlines of old ditches and ramparts showed in the grass, little squares like Syracuse and more circles or smaller rectangles that would each have protected a watchtower. It was not until they went past a bigger rectangular enclosure than Crispinus recognised what they were.

  ‘This was a garrison? It looks almost as old as the land itself.’

  ‘Ten years, maybe twelve since it was abandoned,’ Ferox said. ‘The army likes to be thorough so they knock down the buildings, rip up the posts, pile the wattles and burn them.’ He pointed to patches in the grass that were a different shade to the rest from the heat of the fires. ‘There’ll be thousands and thousands of nails buried in pits around here, and plenty of other stuff that was useless or too heavy to be worth carting away.’

  ‘Why don’t the locals dig it up? The iron would be useful if nothing else.’

  ‘They probably do if they know where to look.’

  They were heading north-east, and whenever the rain stopped and the cloud lifted a little they could see the line of mountains to their left. On the next day they followed a ridge, passing a succession of old outposts.

  ‘Amazing how fast the grass covers everything,’ Crispinus said.

  Ferox shrugged. ‘Ten years is a long time.’

  Some farmers used the old ramparts as cattle pens. People were wary of them, but not unfriendly. When they stopped in the day to rest their horses, men would come and stare at them. The children were less bashful, and wandered into the little camp. They kept away from Vindex, at least until he began doling out pieces of biscuit, and seemed most fascinated by Crispinus, trying to touch him as he passed.

  Ferox listened to their chatter and could not help chuckling. ‘They think you’re the Emperor of Rome and that it’s good luck to touch you because gold flows in your veins instead of blood.’

  ‘I’ve been trying to persuade women of that truth for years,’ the tribune joked, but seemed pleased with the attention.