Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

Ferox charged, going to the left. He dodged when the warrior tried to punch at him with his little shield, took hold of the spear shaft with his left hand, pushing it aside, and raked the long triangular point of his gladius across the man’s stomach, letting the shape of the blade slide in and pull free easily. Just inches away, he saw the man’s snarl of anger and fear turn into one of agony, noticed that he had the lines of a horse tattooed on his forehead, and then he was past.

The swordsman came at him, blade held high ready to chop down. Ferox had no shield to block the blow, so he waited until the last moment and then dived to the side, rolling, and stabbed up into the Briton’s groin, twisting the blade free. The warrior was shrieking, a high-pitched wail, doubling up with pain as Ferox pushed himself up and used the motion to thrust again, this time into the man’s throat. Blood gushed out as the scream ceased and the man died. This one had the same tattoo.

Ferox pulled the blade free and let the body fall. He went back to the other man, sitting and trying to hold in his innards as they spilled out of the great gash across his stomach. The palm of the warrior’s hand was tattooed as well, but with all the blood he could not be sure of the design. The centurion took careful aim and jabbed once into the back of the man’s neck. With a sigh as the air left him the man slumped forward. It was unlikely that the enemy would not know where they had gone, but at least this one would not be able to tell them.

There was a great shout, and he saw that the lone Batavian had been shot in the chest with an arrow. The man’s horse was bleeding from several wounds, and there were gouges on the rider’s legs. Half a dozen warriors closed around him, some of them big men with long shields, and as the horse sank to its knees the Batavian was pulled down. Ferox could not see over the bank of the gully and had no idea what had happened to the other two.

He ran. The slave girl had helped Vindex lower her mistress down before he also dismounted. The Brigantian struck his horse to make the beast ride off, and then slung the still unconscious girl over his shoulder. He waved at the centurion to hurry, before lumbering on with his burden, pushing his way through a mass of brambles. The slope must have dropped sharply, because Ferox lost sight of them before he had gone a few more paces.

When he reached the brambles he stopped and looked back. There was no sign of any Batavians, but warriors on foot and horseback were swarming around the coach, yelling in their victory. One man had a tall carnyx-trumpet and raised it over his head with both hands. The tattooed rider was standing on top of the coach, waving a severed head in one hand. He was haranguing them, pointing down the gully, and then he swung his hand and let loose a cloud of powder so thick that it looked like smoke. He must be the priest, the man who had violated the sacred stones by drawing on them.

Ferox started to push his way through the brambles and bracken, unclasping the brooch and letting his cloak fall because he knew it would just keep snagging.

The carnyx sounded again and the yelling stopped. They were coming.

FEROX CAUGHT UP with the others quickly, following the trail trampled by the tall Brigantian.

‘Just us?’ Vindex asked as he reached them.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh.’ He pushed on, using his sword to beat down the clinging brambles and then stamping on them to make a path. The blonde slave girl followed him, her dress torn even more by the thorns and with patches stained green. ‘Nearly through,’ Vindex said. ‘Then it’s easier.’

The ground was getting steeper. Ferox looked back, but the crest of the slope was not far away and he could not yet see anyone closing with them. Trees reared up above the steep banks as the gully narrowed. They were thick, and at least it meant no one could ride quickly to cut them off, or even run at any speed through the woods.

Ferox’s foot caught in a thick stem bent round and hidden by leaves and he stumbled, barging into the slave, who was knocked forward and nearly lost her balance.

‘Who are you?’ she hissed angrily.

‘Quiet,’ he whispered. ‘Just keep going.’

‘What are you?’ she said in reply.

‘Move!’

They pushed on, the thorns inflicting even more ruin on the pale blue dress and the darker tunic underneath, and then they were out, into rocky ground that soon turned into scree. Vindex was some way ahead, slipping and sliding as much as walking, stones tumbling away ahead of him. Gusts of wind caught them, and there were more clouds in the sky, running in ever faster from the west.

Ferox wiped his sword on the skirt of his tunic. Most of the blood had gone as he had beaten the path through the brambles, but he cleaned the rest off before sheathing it. His hands were covered in scratches, his woollen trousers holed and dirty.

‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered at the woman, who had watched him in obvious distaste. He set off, and as always it reminded him of childhood expeditions along the rocky shores of his homeland. The trick was not to put too much weight anywhere, and always to keep going, springing, almost dancing, from stone to stone. He was rusty, sliding and starting a minor rock fall, before his confidence grew and he went rapidly down the slope. Behind him, the slave girl picked her way more gingerly, the hem of her ragged dress held in one hand and the other arm up high for balance. The hillside was too steep for any tree cover, but the gully’s sides were still high and he could not see out. Ahead of them the slope eased and opened out. There was a lake, fringed probably with soft bog, and beyond that straggling woodland. If they could make it to the shelter of the trees then they might just stand a chance. In a few hours the first patrols ought to get here from Vindolanda and begin to search. Their trail was an easy one to follow, which at the moment was not a comforting thought. There were no farms in sight, and the ones he knew were further on, in the valley of the Tyne, and too far for them to reach before they were caught.

‘Come on!’ he called back at the slave, already a good twenty paces behind him. ‘Go faster, you’ll find it a lot easier.’

The woman ignored him, her eyes searching the stones ahead of her to find the safest footing. It was all far too slow. The Britons could not be far behind, too many for him to fight, and if their archers got to the crest up there then he doubted any of them would make the cover of the wood.

‘Do you want me to carry you?’ he said angrily, speaking louder than was wise. Ferox started back towards the woman, but the stones slid away under his right boot and he fell, arms out just in time to stop his face slamming into the ground.

The woman laughed, a rich joyous sound, and the centurion silently hoped that her mistress gave her regular beatings.

He got up, and she was closer now so that he heard the snort when he told her to watch him and copy the way he moved, but they went quicker from then on, so perhaps she copied or had worked it out for herself.

Vindex was waiting at the bottom, crouching beside the girl, who was moaning and moving her head from side to side. One hand clutched the heavy necklace.

‘Reckon something’s broken,’ he told them. ‘And it’ll be me if I go on, so you can carry her for a bit.’

‘Wait.’ The slave girl knelt beside her mistress, feeling her left arm. At the touch the young woman’s dark eyes opened and she gasped in pain.

‘Quiet now.’ The slave spoke with all the tenderness of a mother. ‘I know it hurts, but you must be brave.’

The young woman nodded, eyes wide and face taut as she held back her cries.