Ferox reached them just as the last warrior hacked at the soldier, nearly severing his left arm. The pony bit the man, ripping off his nose and part of his face, and bucked, throwing its wounded rider. It bounded away, knocking the man aside, so that Ferox’s thrust missed and the centurion was carried past. Vindex finished the job, cutting down twice at the man’s neck.
Gannullius was coughing up blood, gasping for breath as he lay on the grass. The spear point had broken off and was still deep in his belly. The man tried to speak, but Ferox could not make out any words, and then there was more blood pouring from his mouth and the eyes went dead as his soul left the body.
‘Poor sod,’ Vindex said and he sounded sad. ‘I liked him, even if he was a southerner. What now? He was supposed to tell everyone the truth.’
‘Same as before. We get to Vindolanda and hope we are in time.’ Ferox sighed. ‘I doubt they would have believed him – at least not at first. If I cannot persuade them then…’ He trailed off. ‘The only thing now is to get back to the garrison.’
‘Then what?’
‘How should I know?’ Ferox tried to hide his bitterness. ‘If we keep our heads above water maybe we can swim to shore or last a little longer before we drown.’
‘Lost me there.’
‘It’s a saying among the Silures.’
‘Cheerful lot, aren’t you?’
Ferox swung back up into the saddle. ‘What is there to be cheerful about?’ he said, and set Frost off at a canter.
XXIII
THE BATAVIANS DID not know Samhain, but they had their own festival to herald the approaching winter. It began earlier, at dawn instead of sunset, and the rites continued after the sun went down so that for one night the two festivals overlapped. Ferox and Vindex saw the glow of the bonfires off the low clouds long before they could see the fort. In the settlement outside, several locals gathered to sacrifice a bull in the traditional way. The centurion saw one man had even found a flint knife and watched as he delivered the first cut to the animal’s throat. Other people watched – Romans, Spaniards, Pannonians, and the gods only knew how many other races – curious enough come out and see the rituals and sensible enough to feel that even witnessing them might bring good fortune.
Inside the fort, the Batavians took over. Ferox saw one of the Tungrians he had fought alongside in charge of the guard at the porta praetoria. The man saluted and then offered an acknowledging nod.
‘Any trouble?’ Ferox asked him, raising his voice to be heard over the chants and shouts. ‘Anything odd?’
The auxiliary shook his head. ‘Just this lot trying to deafen the gods!’ He jerked his thumb at a Batavian, his fur-covered helmet tipped low over his forehead as he leaned against the corner post of the tower’s lower platform. The sentry did not move and although there was a glint from his open eyes it was clear that he could see and hear very little. On any other day he would have earned a flogging for being incapably drunk on guard, but this was not any other day or night.
‘If the enemy comes he’ll just have to puke over them,’ the Tungrian said. Vindex laughed, and then followed the centurion as he kicked his weary horse under the gate.
Fires were lit in two rows behind the western rampart of the fort, spaced out every six feet as the length of a man and left with just enough gap between for someone to run with care. If a man could race from one end of the course to the other in bare feet then it was thought lucky, and a good omen for all. If someone scorched himself in the attempt then that was not the end of the world, for it gave onlookers plenty to laugh at. Like most of the celebrations held by cohors VIIII Batavorum, it grew more festive with every mug of beer. Every man not on duty ran or watched and shouted, and tradition in this and every other unit of Batavians meant that very few soldiers were on duty – and even fewer in a fit state to perform their allotted tasks.
Frost shied and reared, nostrils flaring and teeth bared as a runner stumbled and fell into one of the fires, throwing up a fountain of sparks, and it took force to calm her as the soldier rolled away from the flames. Comrades rushed to throw a blanket over him and staunch the flames from his burning tunic, but they were laughing too much to do a good job. The man kept rolling until the fire went out and his tunic was in rags. His friends doubled over, unable to speak, while the scorched man started to sing tunelessly as he lay on the ground.
‘Wonder he didn’t go up like a barrel of oil with all that he’s drunk,’ Vindex said, but the centurion was not listening and instead drove the grey to jump across the line of fires, making the flames surge and wave as she passed.
‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian muttered, and let go of the horses he was leading so that he could use both hands to force his own mount over the fires. ‘Oh bugger, oh bugger, oh bugger!’ he yelled as the beast fought him and then finally bounded awkwardly across, throwing him out of the saddle before he slammed back down hard and just managed to regain his seat.
Ferox was looking for an officer, or anyone else who looked sober and responsible. He could not see one, apart from a centurion who was being carried along in a blanket by four soldiers. The little procession lurched this way and that, but if the men were barely sober it was obvious that nothing could be hoped for from the centurion for many hours.
Some children, the oldest a girl of no more than seven or eight, came over to stare at the two riders.
‘Have you seen the prefect, little lady?’ Vindex asked in Latin and then in his own tongue. The children just watched them until the Brigantian stuck his tongue out and a little boy giggled. The child cupped his hand around his mouth and did the same thing back at the tall, fierce-looking scout, until the girl cuffed him and started to chivvy them all away. Vindex chuckled and then realised that the centurion had galloped off again. Along the roadside were groups of soldiers preparing big effigies that they would carry in a procession out of the fort. They were made from timber, straw, wickerwork, cloth and anything else ingenuity could devise, and most were shaped like cows or deer. There were also a few shaped like people, two or three times life size, including one in armour, with a high plumed helmet and bright red hair, riding a mule deliberately made to look small and ugly. The whole thing was mounted on a cart with a dozen soldiers waiting to haul it along. Vindex grinned because it was obviously meant to be Cerialis, and he saw the centurion shout something to the men before spurring away when they just pointed at the effigy.
Ferox pounded along the via principalis, the horse’s tread flinging up water and mud because this was Vindolanda and the ground was always wet. He swerved to the right when he reached the junction with the other road, ignoring the principia and riding straight up to the commander’s house. He sprang down and ran to the main door. It was locked and he pounded on the heavy oak.
‘Open up!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s urgent! I need to see the master and mistress now!’ There was no reply, although since the sound of the festivities rumbled on behind him he could not be sure whether or not anyone responded. It was almost the third watch of the night, so late without being so very late, and he could see light from behind some of the shutters on the upstairs rooms. It was hard to believe that the household was asleep. Who could sleep with all this going on around them?
Ferox pounded on the door, using his clenched fists like hammers. ‘Open up!’
Vindex went past him along the side of the house to the alleyway and the entrance to the servants’ quarters and working area of the praetorium. The door hung open, leaning at an angle because the top hinge had been ripped out of place.
‘Here!’ he screamed at the centurion. ‘This way.’ The Brigantian swung out of the saddle, wincing because his feet were cold and numb after so many hours riding and that made the ground feel harder than usual. He went to the door, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and waited to listen. He could hear nothing apart from the shouts, and started in shock when there was a great raucous blare of trumpets and horns. Someone began to beat on what sounded like drums made fr
om tree trunks, a deep sound, pounding on and on. Before the Brigantian could lean around to look inside Ferox pushed past him, sword drawn and his face so full of cold fury than the scout hesitated before he followed.
The drums throbbed in their ears. The corridor was long, with doors opening off on either side. One was open a little, light spilling from it, and Ferox pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around his left arm to use as a primitive shield. His sword was up, ready to thrust, but he was fighting the despair that told him he had failed, and that brought an urge to charge ahead and hack into pieces anyone he met. He tried to breathe and to think, but it was hard. They had failed, the drums went on with the same relentless rhythm, and then he smelled the blood and the rage took over. He kicked the door in and screamed as he burst into the room and the stench of blood and butchered meat was overwhelming.
There was blood everywhere, dark pools staining the earth floor where the liquid had gushed out so quickly that it could not all drain away at once. A man lay on his back, but little of the blood was his because he had died from a neat wound that had gone under his ribs and into his heart. Whoever had done it was well practised, but there was no hint of skill in the rest. Ferox guessed that there had been three dogs – three of the big hounds the prefect loved so much – but it was hard to tell, because whoever had come here had chopped them into so many fragments. There were heads, paws, limbs, cuts of bone and flesh from a butcher’s shop strewn all over the room. Amid them were a few fragments of torn clothes, and no doubt the hounds had given a good account of themselves, but they had faced cruel men with sharp blades and the temper of madmen. It was almost like angry children tearing their toys apart.
Ferox’s rage eased, and it helped that the drums stopped amid another blare of trumpets. He guessed that the corpse was a slave, taken by surprise, but the slaughter of the enraged dogs must have made a noise and he had to hope that they had warned the rest of the household.
Vindex looked into the room and whistled in dismay. He was fond of dogs. Ferox went past him, calm again, and gestured for the scout to follow. Most of the doors along the corridor were locked, and the few that were not opened on to rooms that held tidily stored sacks of grain, amphorae and barrels. When they turned the corner they came to the places where slaves and freedmen lived, and the floors were covered in a mat of heather and straw just like the barracks. There was another corpse, this one slashed across his stomach and then cut several times on the head. There were scratches in the white plaster on the wall beside the dead slave.
Further along was the underside of wooden stairs leading to the upper storey, and Ferox sensed that this was the way the attackers had gone because the heather around them looked scuffed up by running feet. Someone had also gone further along the corridor and that made him wonder whether he should follow them or even whether he and the Brigantian should split up. Then he remembered Sulpicia Lepidina saying how much she preferred the upper rooms for their sense of space. She would be there and so would the children, and whatever had happened he must see because it was his fault for failing them and not returning in time.
The centurion stepped quickly past the foot of the stairs and turned, so that he faced up the stairs, left arm ready to ward off a blow, but there was no one waiting at the top. He started to climb, each creak as he placed his weight on the next step sounding as loud as a slammed door. He wondered if someone was waiting, arm poised to throw a spear as soon as he appeared up the stairs. He wished that he had put on his helmet rather than kept on the felt hat as its broad brim made it harder to see up to the side where the ceiling opened to lead on to the upper floor.
Ferox took another step and the drums were pounding again unless that was just the beat of his own heart. For the first time the next step made no noise when he put his weight on it. He could not see anyone’s feet along the edge of the floor to the side of the stairs, but then the obvious place to wait was behind him. That was where he would be and it would be so easy to kill anyone climbing the stairs before he had any chance to fight back.
The centurion was nearly at the top and he flicked his head around and saw a pair of eyes gleaming, and then there was a yowl and something leaped past him, soft fur brushing his face. It shot off down the stairs and was followed by a second cat. He breathed out for otherwise the corridor was empty. There was light from around the corner ahead of him and so he went that way, beckoning Vindex to follow. The drums kept throbbing and every now and again the trumpets blared and men cheered and yelled. He edged towards the corner, the plank floor squeaking only a little less than the stairs.
Ferox swung with his left arm as he turned the corner and saw the glint of the blade. He pushed the thrust aside, felt his cloak being sliced, and the man was roaring at him in anger, a tall man, with a lined face and grey beard and flecks of blood on his cheek. Ferox managed to get his balance back and was about to stab at the man’s face when he saw it break into a smile. ‘You,’ he said.
‘Centurion.’ Longinus raised his left hand in salute and then winced, clapping it back against his side. Ferox saw that there was a long rent in his mail shirt and that the fingers were covered in blood. ‘I’m getting too old,’ the one-eyed veteran said and leaned against the wall, the plaster brightly painted because this was the area where the family lived.
‘Them two won’t get any older.’ Vindex had come around and gestured at the two corpses stretched out on the floor. They were both in army uniform, one in scale and the other in mail armour, although their heads were bare.
‘Reckon they’re legionaries,’ Longinus said, ‘or at least dressed up to look that way. That one’s got the Capricorn on his brooch.’
‘Where are the Lady Sulpicia and the family?’
Longinus grinned and obviously regretted it because it brought a spasm of pain. ‘Safe,’ he said. ‘Leastways as far as I know. I’ve got the rest of the household in there, all locked up from the inside. The youngsters are in the principia playing hide and seek with a couple of good lads to keep ’em safe. The prefect is outside somewhere, that’s his job tonight, and there’s a few more men that I trust with him all the time. Hard to do much in the open with so many people about. The lads may be drunk, but they can still fight.’
‘The lady?’
Longinus gave him a strange look. ‘Safe. Safest place I could think of.’
‘Any more of them around?’ Vindex asked.
‘Must be some. I heard the dogs, saw the door forced and came in here. Fortunately I found this room before they did and Privatus recognised my name. Good lad, that one – he’d done what he was told and got all but one or two somewhere safe. Then this pair appeared and I was busy for a bit. There was a third, but then someone shouted from down below and he ran off. Heard a scream, so I reckon one of the slaves had the bad luck to get in their way, but they all left. Thought that I’d better wait here just in case. Don’t feel much like running, truth be told.’ The old soldier slid down to sit with his back against the wall.
Vindex leaned down to help.
‘I’ve had worse,’ Longinus said. ‘And I’m still here, although whether that’s a blessing or a curse who can say.’ He laughed until he started to cough and the motion must have brought more pain because he hissed and went still. ‘Omnes ad stercus.’
‘How did you know?’ Ferox asked.
‘The letter from Crispinus. Himself didn’t pay much heed, but she told me and so I did my best to protect them. Owe him that much, even if his father was such a bastard.’ With an effort he stopped himself from laughing. ‘We’re Batavians. If we don’t look after each other then who will? And she’s special, and I knew her grandfather and owed him, so that was that. Whoever they wanted, they were going to find me.’
‘You are him, aren’t you?’ Ferox said, wondering why he had taken so long to realise. ‘There were always stories that he survived, was hiding in the army somewhere.’
‘Everyone’s someone.’ The single eye watched him closely. ‘Even
you. Does it matter what we were?’
Someone shouted from inside the room asking what was going on, but Ferox ignored them. What did it matter? If Julius Civilis, former prefect, former equestrian, and former leader of the Batavian revolt, was now Longinus, a simple cavalryman here in the cohort at Vindolanda, then what did it matter?
‘Not a damned thing,’ he said, and then a thought struck him. ‘I have heard that Civilis was of royal blood.’
‘Worked it out, have you?’ He pointed at one of the corpses. ‘A couple of them came for me earlier on. Almost offended it was only two, but then I’m an old man, aren’t I? They won’t give any more trouble, but it slowed me down and let that one scratch me.’
‘If this is a scratch, Father,’ Vindex chipped in, ‘then I’d hate to see what you call a real cut.’
‘Why didn’t you keep some men with you?’
‘Not many I can trust to stay sober enough and to stick with their duty tonight. They were all needed elsewhere.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Flora’s. She’ll be safe there if she can be anywhere.’
Ferox laughed and could not stop, and soon he was leaning against the wall to keep himself up.
‘Glad you are having fun,’ Vindex told him.
At long last the centurion recovered. ‘Look after him,’ he said to the Brigantian. ‘And get the alarm raised in case we can still catch them.’
The old man looked scornful and Ferox was sure that he was right, but the effort had to be made.
‘I’m going to make sure that the prefect and his wife are safe.’
‘Yes, both of them, of course,’ Longinus said.
Frost was still outside, and Ferox hauled himself on to the back of the grey mare and was not gentle as he made her run again. For a moment she fought him, but then she jerked into an ugly canter which soon became smoother. He followed the road, soon catching up with the tail of the procession of effigies and men snarled at him when he went past and forced his way through them to go under the gate. He did not stop. The air was full of smoke and the smell of burning meat, but he ignored it and rode hard for the edge of the canabae, forcing people to jump out of his way. More shouts and curses followed him.
Vindolanda Page 31
