The rain stopped the next day, but it was grey and cold, so that their breath steamed and at the end of each ride Ferox found his feet numb and painful when he dismounted. They kept passing abandoned outposts of Rome and finally came to a vast enclosure bigger than anything they had seen before.
‘The Twentieth Legion built this, although they never quite finished it,’ Ferox said. He could see the tribune gazing in astonishment at the vast remains of the base. ‘Now do you understand?’
‘I think so,’ the young aristocrat said, and for once he lacked his usual confidence and poise. ‘We were once strong for all to see and then we left. Why should they fear us now? Why should they deal with us?’
‘We – that is you – need to tell them why,’ the centurion said, gripping the tribune by the arm.
XVII
TINCOMMIUS DWELLED AT present within the ramparts of an old army base about the size of Vindolanda, and from a distance it did not look so different. Instead of the half-filled ditch and grassy rampart, men had toiled to rebuild the defences. There were timber towers over new gates, more towers at the corners, and a wooden parapet protecting the walkway. Sentries paced the walls or watched from the towers, and if few had helmets, even fewer armour, and their clothes and shields were of every colour, they still appeared vigilant.
Horns blew as the little column approached, and the gates swung open. That was one difference, because during the day camp gates were wide open unless there was an immediate threat of enemy attack. When they went under the tower into the fort the impression of an army base vanished altogether. There were no streets, no ordered rows of barracks and granaries, and instead dozens of round houses with conical thatched roofs stood in no sort of pattern, some clustered tightly together and others scattered. There were wide-open spaces, even a few young trees, and animals and people wandering around. As they came inside Crispinus wrinkled his nose at the sight and smell of a couple of men squatting down and relieving themselves out in the open. Roman cities and big bases stank, but this was different, and had the feel of a great farm.
The high king lived in one of two great houses in the far corner of the old fort. The buildings were fenced off from the rest and guarded by tall warriors in mail coats and bronze helmets, carrying long oval shields painted half red and half black and spear shafts well oiled so that they shone. Each one had a sword on his right hip, almost all of them army issue. Large dogs were chained to posts near the entrance, and loud barking came from a pen behind the house.
Crispinus, Ferox and a single Batavian carrying a wooden chest were ushered towards the higher of the two houses. Their guide had vanished, and instead they were led by a little man with a crooked leg, who leaned on a staff. He wore a thin circlet of gold around his neck, and had on a white tunic trimmed with green and trousers checked in blue, grey and green. The top of his head was bald, the skin mottled and creased, and the fringe of hair around it was rough and thick like horsehair and stuck up at odd angles. The pupil of one eye was a lifeless off-white, and the other peered at them as if struggling to focus. Two warriors stood beside him, not as tall as the other guards but as splendidly equipped. One had raven-black hair and a smooth-shaven face and the other was red-haired and had a long moustache.
‘This is the hall of Tincommius, High King of the Vacomagi and Venicones, Overlord of the Caledonians.’ The small man had a surprisingly deep voice and even more surprisingly spoke near perfect Latin. ‘He is the Red Branch and the Tall Tree, the Great Bull of Camulos, the Mountain that stands alone in the storm, the Bloody Sword and the Unpierced Shield, the Black Cloak.’
One of the guard dogs was looking at Ferox and snarling. He had never cared much for dogs, except as a meal for the desperate. Somehow the creatures always seemed to know how he felt and to return his dislike.
‘He is the Lord of the valleys and mountains,’ the little man continued just when they thought that he had finished. ‘The Horn sounding on the hilltop, the Blade that flashes in the dawn, the Spear that flies true and strong, the Sky that covers the lands and brings rain, the Ram that brings plenty, and the Wise Judge of deep matters.’
Crispinus let out a long breath once he realised that the list was done. The little man limped over to the porch of the house. The door was low, so that even he was forced to duck as he went in. Ferox had almost to bend double, as did the trooper and the two warriors who followed.
It was brighter inside than he had expected, for a fire raged in a long trench in the middle of a wide floor and torches burned, mounted on iron holders or attached to the circle of posts near the edge of the great hall. Crispinus gasped in surprise at the sheer size of the place, the high ceiling dark with shadows and smoke, and the almost empty circle of floor around the fire. There was a single chair, high-backed and richly carved, and on it sat a boy of eight or nine, his hair the colour of pale gold tinged with red by the firelight.
The deep voice began again. ‘Welcome to the Hall of Tincommius, High King of the Vacomagi and Venicones, Overlord of the Caledonians, the Red Branch and the Tall Tree, the Great Bull of Camulos, the Mountain that stands alone in the storm, the Bloody Sword and the Unpierced Shield—’
‘I think that is enough for now.’ The clean-shaven warrior stepped in front of them, and he also spoke in Latin, though with a lilting accent than made ordinary speech almost like verse. He had given his spear and shield to the other man, and now took off his helmet and ran a hand through his well-oiled black hair. ‘I am Tincommius, and I cannot remember all the rest of that stuff, nor do I care to listen to it all again. The gods alone know how he does. That’s if he really does. Often I wonder whether he makes half of it up. Haven’t a clue where some of those titles come from. Do I look like a ram to you?’
He did not wait for an answer. Without his helmet he was not much taller than Crispinus. His face was young, but there were faint creases around his eyes and they had the hardness born from experience that usually came with age or suffering. ‘Welcome, Tribune Marcus Atilius Crispinus, son of Marcus, former consul of Rome. Welcome Flavius Ferox, centurion, descended from the Lord of the Hills and prince of his people.’ A woman appeared beside him, carrying a wooden platter with a round loaf and a cup of red Samian ware. She was taller than the man, paler skinned, but with long hair almost as black as his, though it reached down to her waist. Her dress was of bleached white linen that clung to her full figure and was gathered at the waist by a belt of silver rings.
‘Come, eat from my table.’ The king broke off a piece of bread and passed it to Crispinus, and then did the same for Ferox. He raised the cup to his own lips, sipped and then passed it to each in turn, this time including the Batavian who had stood woodenly to attention throughout all this. ‘You are guests of the king and under his protection.’
The tribune gestured to the soldier, who opened the chest to show the silver platters and cup held within it. He bent down to lay it on the ground and then stepped back, resuming his stiff, parade-ground posture.
‘Thank you. I bring greetings and this token of friendship from the Legate—’ Crispinus began, but was cut short.
‘We shall talk together later, and discuss high matters tomorrow. First, you must be tired. They will show you to your bowers. Rest, eat and refresh yourselves. Tonight we shall feast, and tomorrow we shall talk. You must forgive me my little subterfuge – is that the right word? It is? Good. I try to do everything as well as I can and it is better to be corrected than to continue in ignorance, don’t you think? Farewell. We shall speak again.’
The high king tossed the cup away and put his arm around the waist of the woman. He pulled her towards him, making her drop the platter, and reached up to kiss her. She responded with enthusiasm. Ferox nudged the tribune with his foot and they left, ducking to get out of the low door. Men waited to escort them, but a few paces away another three men knelt on the ground, hands tied behind their backs. A big warrior with a long sword paced up and down in front of them. It took a moment for
Ferox’s eyes to adjust back to full daylight before he recognised the man he had fought on the day of the ambush. If anything he looked even bigger.
The sword swung, the first head rolled and a fountain of blood only just missed the warrior’s legs.
‘Who are they?’ Crispinus asked.
Their escorts did not seem to speak Latin, so Ferox spoke to them in their own tongue.
‘Thieves who stole from the high king,’ he told the tribune. ‘And I dare say this is a demonstration for our benefit – like everything else.’ The blade fell for a second time, another head dropped and the dead man slumped forward. Tincommius was parading his involvement with the ambush of Sulpicia Lepidina, no doubt to remind them that he could be a dangerous enemy, so that it was better for the Romans to persuade the king to become their friend.
‘Better to be corrected than to continue in ignorance,’ Crispinus said. ‘What message is he trying to send? That he is a barbarian of great power and ruthlessness?’
‘That he’s strong and clever, more like. He wants us off balance.’
‘Sounds like a strategem. Uncle Frontinus is obsessed with them. He’s even writing a book about them. But all the ones he goes on about had a purpose. What do you think that is?’
‘Isn’t that the answer we have come to find?’
They were taken to an area of the fort away from other buildings. There was a corral for the horses, and the animals were already being fed and groomed. One large hut was provided for the troopers, scouts and slaves, and two smaller ones for the officers. Ferox was happy to share with Masclus and let the tribune rest on his own – at least he would be spared the constant talk. There were servants waiting in each house, and he heard the decurion swearing that he would castrate any man who mistreated them. ‘We’re a long way from home, boys, and if you want to see home you won’t do anything daft.’
With a lot of units Ferox would have worried that some of the men would see the chance to desert, now that they were so far from the nearest garrison, but he doubted that there was much risk with these Batavians, who were a clannish bunch and stuck close to their comrades.
It was dark by the time they were summoned, and men came with torches to lead them to the great feast. Masclus was included in the invitation, but they had decided that a tactful fatigue and illness was prudent in his case, so the three of them, Crispinus, Ferox and Vindex, went on their own. The tribune had abandoned uniform and was resplendent in white tunic and toga, a garment Ferox had never truly mastered, for he tended to wave his arms around when he talked and that spelt ruin to its drape.
The tribune walked with elegance, but seemed perplexed.
‘Do you feel well?’ Ferox asked.
‘Yes, yes. Indeed I suppose I ought to say better than well. Did, um, I mean to say, were you also…?’ The young aristocrat trailed off. ‘I am not quite sure how to put this, but did women come to you while you were waiting?’
‘No,’ the centurion said. Vindex was sniggering. ‘But you are our leader and the guest of honour and hospitality in these parts demands certain courtesies.’
‘She just came in,’ he said in a tone of disbelief. ‘Smiled as if I was an old friend and undid the brooches on her shoulders so that her dress fell to the ground. Pretty thing, and without the falseness of your usual whore, but very direct. Walks over and starts…’ Again he seemed lost for words.
‘It is courtesy. And she will not be some tart, but one of the King’s household. A wife perhaps, or a daughter.’
‘His daughter?’ The aristocrat was shocked at the thought. ‘You cannot mean that. Who would send his own daughter to…’
‘Hump a stranger in welcome,’ Vindex suggested. ‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but you’re a lucky sod.’
They walked on in silence, and were soon near the hall.
‘Wish I’d known,’ Crispinus said wistfully. ‘I might have enjoyed it all the more.’
They entered to a great roar of noise, and Ferox was glad that he had gone in first because the shout of greeting made the tribune flinch in surprise. He hoped that no one noticed this as he raised his arms and bellowed in reply.
There were low tables forming a circle with the fireplace in the middle. There was one gap in the circle to allow the servants to come and go, and opposite it Tincommius sat on the carved chair. Men stood beside the table, arms lifted high in welcome. All were splendidly dressed in brightly coloured clothes, and most wore gold or silver torcs and bracelets and had jewelled brooches pinning their cloaks into place. Ferox guessed that they were chiefs and kings for behind them stood more plainly garbed warriors, resting long shields on the ground. These were men sworn to the high king, or ones he wished to win over, and it could not be coincidence that they gathered for this feast. Tincommius was showing his influence.
There were two gaps, and the bald-headed steward led them to the wider of the two. Crispinus took his place between them, with Ferox on his right and Vindex on his left. The big warrior who had beheaded the thieves glared at the centurion before moving to make room.
‘You should have attendants,’ the German rumbled in his guttural, thick-accented voice.
‘We have no need,’ Ferox replied and hoped that he was right. Batavians were fine soldiers, but apt to be aggressive, especially if drink was freely available, and he did not regret leaving them behind.
The big warrior boomed out something the centurion did not understand, and the dark-haired woman appeared, her white dress almost luminous in its brightness. She whispered to the high king who gave swift orders to three of the warriors standing in the shadows behind his chair. The men wore mail that glistened a dull red and had rich fur cloaks that must have been almost insufferably hot in this hall with its blazing fires. In silence they walked to stand behind the three Roman envoys, and in silence they stood there, faces wooden.
Crispinus glanced back and up at them, for they were all taller than him by a good six inches. ‘Are they here to guard us?’ he whispered. ‘Or worse?’
‘They’re here to carry us home when we can no longer walk,’ Vindex replied before Ferox had a chance.
The tribune laughed and then saw that he was serious. He looked at Ferox who nodded in confirmation.
‘Better,’ the German rumbled.
They waited for a short while, until the high king looked at the last remaining empty space at his table, his calm expression unchanged, and then beckoned with his arms for his guests to sit. Ferox and Vindex readily sat down cross-legged like the others. The tribune took a little longer, the act awkward for a man in a toga. As he spread his legs his tunic bunched up over his thighs.
‘Glad that table is in front otherwise this might not look too elegant for an envoy of Rome,’ he whispered.
Sitting next to Vindex was a lanky warrior who must have been fifty if he was a day, his long white hair hanging down on to his shoulders and his moustache bristly. From his speech he sounded a local man, and was affable enough, although he talked mainly to his neighbour on the other side. Most of the men wore tunics and trousers, the wool in a wide range of intricate tartan patterns. There were also several bare-legged wearing long tunics, a habit most common among the Hibernians, and Ferox wondered whether they had come from that island to the west.
They began with wine, Gallic by the taste of it, poured out unmixed and strong into cups placed in front of them.
Vindex glanced at Ferox, and Crispinus’ face was concerned. ‘Will you manage?’ he asked.
‘We shall see.’ Ferox nodded towards the far side of the ring of tables, not far from the king’s seat. ‘More surprised to see that one.’ Venutius, face still mottled with bruises, saw that they were looking at him and raised his cup affably. Behind him stood the young warrior Ferox had beaten and allowed to go.
‘He’s not hiding anything from us, is he?’ Crispinus whispered. ‘He’s letting us see his power and connections that include some of our allies.’
‘Don’t assume it’s every
thing.’ Ferox doubted that the people close enough to hear could understand Latin, but could not be sure and wished the tribune would not chatter. He sensed Crispinus’ nervousness and knew it must be difficult for him sitting there, unable to speak the language and follow what was happening. He remembered the first Roman dinner he had attended and how alien it all seemed. ‘We are seeing only what he is letting us see,’ he added after a moment.
The food started to arrive, beginning with a thick stew of beef and vegetable. Beer came with it, and more wine, and, after a dip in the noise as men ate with great enthusiasm, the hubbub of conversation grew louder. The big warrior next to Ferox spooned up his stew as if he had not seen food for a month, spilling the liquid as he shovelled it into his mouth. He called for a second bowl when a serving girl passed, and dealt with that as speedily. His moustache and beard dripped so he wiped his sleeve across them. ‘Good,’ he grunted to Ferox, but did not seem a man given to much talk.
Roasted venison came next, a generous cut for each of the guests. Ferox noticed that the high king ate little and spent most of his time watching and listening. Occasionally he laughed loudly at something someone said. Crispinus struggled manfully with the unfamiliar feast.
‘Wish I’d brought a fork to hold it steady while I cut.’ Ferox had told the tribune to bring a knife and spoon to help him eat.
‘Use your hand.’
Crispinus grimaced, but followed the advice. The big German simply tore the meat apart with his fingers, licking off the gravy once he had finished.
A bard stepped into the circle around the fire and began to sing unaccompanied. He was thin-faced and young, but with prematurely white hair and a livid dark blemish across his right cheek – marks that would surely have been seen as a curse if he had not possessed a rare talent with verse and song. He sang slowly, in the low nasal whine the peoples of the north loved so much. Most Silures had higher-pitched, sweeter voices, and Ferox wished that it was one of their bards who sang because the best of them had a beauty that helped a man’s soul to soar up to the heavens. Yet he had to admit that this man was good, and for a while the talk faded to nothing as everyone listened, and it was almost as if he conjured pictures in the flickering firelight.
Vindolanda Page 25
