Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Good,’ the German said as he squatted down beside him, and devoured yet more meat. The king had given him the second cut from the boar, but that did not last long and soon he demanded a great joint of mutton. ‘Good,’ he said again, although surely this time his admiration was for the food.

  After half an hour Ferox got up and left the hall to relieve himself. A guard gestured towards a stretch of wicker fence over to the right which was clearly kept for such matters. A thin man in a long drab cloak was already there and Ferox heard splashing as he approached. After a little fumbling with the ties on his breeches and drawers, he was able to add his own steaming stream.

  His companion let out a contented sigh, although there was no sign of his finishing. ‘There are many joys in life,’ he said, ‘a great many, but in the moment itself how many can truly compare to the relief of emptying a full bladder?’

  Ferox smiled at him. He was an old man with long hair and beard that were white except where the hair was greasy or stained with dirt. Ferox stood up straight and tried hard to look him in the eye, but his sluggish mind took a while to recognise the beggar he had seen at Vindolanda, and then only because of the little mongrel, rubbing against the old man’s legs. ‘It is a blessing,’ he said.

  ‘They call you Flavius Ferox,’ the old man asked, ‘but what is your real name, Prince of the Silures?’

  ‘If you know anything of my people, you know that I will never tell you that.’ Every Silurian boy was given a name three weeks after birth, a secret name known only to the closest family and never used except in silent prayer for their protection.

  ‘I do know your people, and I knew your grandfather. I was there when the Romans killed your father and left his mangled corpse in the surf, blood soaking out into the pebbles. I was there, boy, and I know that you are still of your people and not of Rome.’

  Ferox did not reply and stared at the puddle he had just made. He had finished so began fastening everything back into place. He did not want to think about what the man was saying, or how he knew such things.

  ‘I remember you as a boy,’ the old man said, ‘sitting with the others and listening to Diviciacus drone on.’ A noise more cackle than laugh, and even more like someone choking than either, was presumably the sound of merriment. ‘He was an old fool even when he was young, but a druid nonetheless, and fit to teach infants.’

  The memories came flooding back. Diviciacus was a Gaul, who had come to Britannia to study, and missed the slaughter of the priests at Mona so never completed his full training. Ferox’s grandfather had liked him, and entrusted him with the education of the children in his family. For reasons Ferox had never understood, the druid was ordered to teach him – and only him – to speak, read and write Latin.

  ‘It was a long time ago in a different world,’ Ferox said at last. The old man watched him as if reading every thought. Diviciacus was a mild, worried man, and the children had played many tricks on him, but every now and again another druid had appeared, young, but with a voice full of power and horror. The two men knew each other, and whenever the druid appeared the tutor let him speak to his charges. A name rose from distant memory – a name the children had used to frighten each other.

  ‘Acco?’

  ‘You remember then,’ said the old man. ‘Then remember the truth of who you are. You are of the tribes, boy, not a lackey to an emperor. Join us.’

  ‘Us?’ Ferox did not look up.

  ‘The free tribes of the Britons. The Romans have tried to crush our spirit and take our lands, but they have failed here in the north. For the first time they have failed and the tide has turned so that we will sweep them from the whole island and go back to the old ways.

  ‘Rome is finished, its gods fading away. Thirty years ago the Temple of Jupiter on Rome’s Capitol burned. Within nine times three years it will be struck again by the fire of the gods, and this time it will burn into ashes and nothing will be left. That time is fast approaching. Thirty years ago the seers in Gaul prophesied the end of Rome. They were premature, and had not read the signs properly for they no longer had the true knowledge. I have that knowledge. I saw the groves on Mona before they fell, and I was taught secrets no longer known to anyone. The fire will come and the end will come if only we listen to the gods and obey them.’

  Ferox pushed his mail shirt down comfortably over his hips. ‘You sound like that fool in there.’

  ‘He is a child – a gifted child certainly, but no more than that. He seeks only to kill. I too would sweep Rome away, but we must build something better. Will you help me?’

  It was hard to remember the hunched beggar muttering to himself. This man looked hale in body and sharp in his mind. He also seemed genuinely eager to persuade.

  ‘I am sworn man to the emperor and to Rome.’

  ‘Which emperor? No one had heard of Trajan until a few years ago.’ The voice was reasonable, the knowledge obvious. This was a man who spoke of the Capitoline Hill in Rome and of emperors and understood what he was saying. Ferox knew without having to be told that this was the great druid, although he could not guess how the man came to understand such things.

  ‘Civil war is coming again, and this time the empire will not survive. They will turn on each other like rats and rush down the road to their utter ruin. Leave them, boy. Leave the people who disdain you and leave you to rot and drown your sorrows in drink. What have they ever done to earn your faith?’

  Acco knew too much, and at that moment if he had brought up her name and promised to lead Ferox to her, he might just have gone with the man.

  ‘I am sworn. If you truly knew my grandfather you would not expect me to break an oath.’

  ‘An oath to them? What does that matter? Do you know that even now some of them send us arms and information, that they even kill their own when we ask? They are filth, worthless in every way. Rome is a poison killing the whole world and the world will die if it is not stopped now.’ The man was getting wilder, his voice louder, and the first spell was broken. ‘Be free of them, boy. Leave them and be free of oaths to the unworthy.’

  Ferox did not love Rome, but neither did he put much store in prophecies and predictions of doom. There was much about the empire that was rotten and much that sickened him. Honesty forced him to admit that there was also much he hated about the way the tribes lived and preyed on each other and he had known plenty of chieftains as ruthless, cruel and treacherous as the worst emperors. He suspected that Tincommius was one of them, otherwise he doubted that the man would have proved so successful. The same was doubtless true of this druid.

  ‘There was an old man and boy,’ Ferox said, not wanting to discuss the evils of Rome. ‘Men called him the Goat Man. I never knew the boy’s name. You must have met them or heard of them.’

  ‘What of it?’ Acco frowned. ‘They are gone now and do not matter.’

  ‘Yes, they are dead. The Stallion’s men buried the boy alive.’

  ‘I was not there,’ the druid said. ‘But I lived with your kin and stood with them as they fought Rome. Your grandfather fought with all the cruelty of your people. Evil things must be done in war.’

  Ferox sighed. There was no point in trying to explain to a man like this. The druid’s hatred burned less brightly than the Stallion’s, but it had the strong deep heat of iron worked in a forge. The old man could see nothing beyond his own path, and that was paved with blood and ruin.

  ‘I am a centurion of Rome, sworn to serve the city and the emperor,’ Ferox said.

  ‘Then I cannot save you.’ The beggar or great druid or whoever this was sounded disappointed and sad. ‘And you could have served us so well. You are Flavius Ferox indeed and no longer anyone else. I am sorry. Soon all will be blood and fire and you will perish. I have failed your grandfather.’ The old man stalked off into the night.

  For a moment Ferox nearly followed. He did not remember his father, for he had been a babe in arms when he was killed, and part of him wanted to learn more about wh
at sort of man he had been. Yet he knew that it would not change anything.

  He went back to the feast and drank beside the German. Eventually they both passed out.

  XIX

  FEROX WOKE WITH hair in his mouth. For a while he just lay on his back and felt the wiry strands on his lips. There was a weight resting against him and something over him, but he was comfortable and did not mind. Above was the high thatched roof and there was a dull light, which made him suspect that the morning was well advanced. The fire had died away to nothing sometime during the night and his eyes did not want to do any hard work, so he let them close and only now and again looked up at the roof. There was movement there, probably the usual roaches or other vermin in the thatch, but the more he stared up the more he became convinced that this was not the hut he had occupied with Vindex and Masclus. It was smaller, for one thing, and the gentle sighing breath beside him did not sound much like either man.

  The centurion blew the hair out of his mouth. It was long and raven black. He licked his lips and squinted to see the long slim arm draped over his chest and outside the warmth of the furs covering them. Turning as gently as he could, he twisted his head to see the mass of long raven-dark hair sprayed out like a great fan. Most of the owner’s face was covered as she rested, but he could see the outline of a pale cheek and full lips that seemed very red in contrast. It was the woman embraced by the high king at their first meeting – a day, and what seemed like months ago. She was naked, for he could feel her bare skin on his under the coverings. The woman stirred slightly, murmured something, and hooked one long leg over his.

  There were worse ways to wake up, far worse, but he could not remember anything after the feast. This was surely the hut given to Crispinus and the woman here to offer the hospitality of the royal house to the honoured guest. Was it all a mistake, and he had been carried here instead of the young tribune? That seemed unlikely, for the high king struck him as a deliberate man, which meant that there must be a reason why he was here, lying with this woman. He doubted that anything had happened, for he had drunk far more than he had done since the ambush over a month ago. Yet someone had undressed him, and as he lay he felt the warmth of his companion. She was a royal favourite, and the way that Tincommius had embraced her made it obvious she was his lover, whether mistress or one of his wives.

  The dark-haired woman stirred again, leaning her body back to rest more on her side than over him. He could feel her breasts brushing against his skin. She smelled very faintly of flowers, a hint of a perfume which could only have come from the lands far to the east of the empire. Fortunata had worn something similar, but the former slave had daubed it on, perhaps revelling in the sheer cost, whereas this woman had no more than a drop of two on her. How a bottle of Indian scent had come to the north was a mystery.

  Ferox was tempted to lie there in peace and enjoy so comfortable a bed and such beautiful company. Yet there must be a reason why she was here. The obvious seemed unlikely, but his clouded mind and throbbing forehead did not offer better explanation. Moving his hand with care, he slipped it under the furs piled over them and began to stroke the woman’s skin. It was smooth, her flesh soft and yielding.

  The woman moaned, shifting a little. Ferox kissed her on the forehead, still running his fingers across her skin, and she stirred, turning to lie on her back. He kissed her on the lips, fighting the powerful urge to swing himself on top of her. His hand cupped one of her breasts. Her eyes opened, pale grey and flecked with spots of green. There was a flicker of surprise, then realisation and she kissed him back. It was no longer easy for him to think about anything apart from their closeness.

  Then the woman pulled her mouth away and the arm that had rested over him instead pushed him back. Ferox lay on his side, head propped up on his left hand while the fingers of his right continued to stroke her. She did not stop him or move any further away.

  ‘Good morning, centurion,’ the woman said. At least that removed any last thought that he was here by chance.

  ‘Good morning,’ he replied, for what else was there to say? The woman spoke in the language of the tribes, although there was a strange brusqueness to her speech. If she did not know Latin then that might be the reason why he shared her bed rather than Crispinus.

  ‘I am called Galla.’ It was not a name he had ever heard before and did not sound local. Her eyes were big and intelligent, the lashes on her eyelids long and dark like her hair. ‘I am the king’s and I am sent by him.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ he said. ‘And I am also not the leader of our embassy – as you must surely know.’ His hand was still on her, exploring and caressing. Ferox was not sure whether this was more of a distraction to him or to Galla.

  ‘The tribune is young and inexperienced. Tincommius judges him to be clever and if that is so he will listen to an older and wiser man like you.’ She gasped as his finger drew a circle on her breast, and for the moment said nothing, running her tongue over her lips. Her hand slipped down under the covers and smoothed his chest.

  ‘Tincommius does not want to fight Rome unless he has no choice,’ she said at long last. ‘He is strong, and has done much in the last ten years to become a great leader, but there is still much to do. There is little for him to gain and much to lose if he makes war on you.’

  ‘The tribune will be pleased to hear that. We want only peace with the high king.’

  ‘Others think differently.’ Her eyes looked straight into his and showed no emotion, even when his fondling became more vigorous, instead responding in the same way, running her fingers across his skin. ‘They hate the Romans and believe them to be rotten and weak, like a tree decayed from the inside. They cannot wait to set an axe to the trunk and topple it over.’

  Ferox thought of the ranting Stallion and of the calm persuasiveness of the druid. It was odd that so many people wanted to talk to him and to enlist his aid.

  ‘Tincommius cannot be seen to be cowed by Rome or to show any fear. Great kings are never afraid, never forced to do anything. Many of his people yearn to take their spears against the Romans and dream of slaughter and spoils. There are chiefs who tolerate his overlordship only because they are afraid of his power. He is like a bear fighting hounds. They fear him, but it will only take one or two to attack and bite and slowly he will weaken.’ She moaned in pleasure, eyes staring up past him.

  ‘I did not tell you to stop,’ she told him when he thought that he might have gone too far, so Ferox resumed. For a while she panted, her hand back on her own body.

  ‘The Stallion preaches war, and he is a guest of the high king?’ Ferox said.

  ‘He has been useful – a way to win over men who would have been more reluctant without the promise of help from the heavens. He wants war and Tincommius does not. The high king will not be ordered about by any man, least of all such as him.

  ‘The king’s only wish is to rule here, far from your province. He does not seek to challenge, but neither can he be seen as a suppliant.’ Galla – or Tincommius if the words were solely his – understood a good deal about Roman diplomacy. ‘There can be no surrender or subservience. What he wants…’ She lost her thread for the moment and Ferox kissed her again on the forehead, on the neck and then on the lips. Their mouths parted and tongues met, until she pushed him away.

  ‘This is important,’ she said breathily. ‘It must appear as a friendship between great chieftains. Gifts would help.’

  ‘What sort?’

  ‘Gifts fit for a high king. Silver is good, weapons even better. He must be strong if he is to be a useful friend to you. There will be much to gain for you.’

  ‘“And your friendly thighs,”’ he joked, quoting an old poem about a queen promising everything if a warrior would swear loyalty to her, with her own virtue as well as her daughter in marriage.

  Galla shook her head. ‘I am the king’s.’

  ‘His queen?’

  ‘We are not man and wife, but he is my love and I am his. I cannot be
queen, but he has several of those and none matter beyond the alliance they bring with their father or brother. He needs me and I guide him.’

  ‘You are not from these shores?’ Ferox was curious about this tall, slim woman.

  ‘My people come from far away, across the Grey Sea. There was a war, and my father lost it to another man who stole his throne. My brothers saved me and led our loyal folk away. We were chased and at last took to boats. There were twelve when we rowed away from the shore. Five only reached this land. I saw three of the others sink, the heads vanishing in an instant under the rolling waves. One brother died, and only Gannascus was left to lead.’ Ferox realised why her manner of speech was familiar, for it was a softer, more fluent echo of the big German. ‘Although I was young he needed my help – he is not a thinker, but he is a brave and good man.

  ‘We had barely a hundred of us left and did not know where we were. Seventy were warriors, bold men and big, and so we did not fear too much, but the weavers of fate were with us. The local chieftain was wary, and – better still for us – when we did not attack him and just camped peacefully on his shore living off the fish we caught, he sent word to Tincommius. He came to us, just the king, and I saw him and loved him and visions came. Since then we have been one and I have led him as he walks the path to greatness. It was meant to be, and in after years he has welcomed others from other lands. All serve him because he is faithful and generous as a lord should be.’

  Ferox remembered the Hibernians at the feast. Broken lords and chieftains beaten in their homelands, they too had fled here and found safety and success and a measure of wealth fighting for Tincommius. If their numbers were few, such men and their followers were likely better warriors than most and had little left to lose. He tried to imagine a dreadful voyage in little boats on the open sea and shuddered at the thought, so that she looked at him in surprise. He leaned over to kiss her again.