Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

Beside her the slave had both hands around her mistress’s shoulder. As she studied the injury her face was soft. It was a good face, Ferox thought, looking at her closely for the first time. A few faint lines around her eyes hinted at someone closer to thirty than twenty, although the life of a slave brought age quickly so he might be wrong. Some of her fair hair had worked loose from the pins and blew across her face until she brushed it away. She looked kind and capable, and he began to hope that the beatings were rare.

‘We need to move,’ he said.

‘No.’ Fierce anger was back and the face hardened as the slave girl looked up. ‘I need to fix this and you must help. The shoulder is out of joint.’

Ferox shook his head. ‘There is no time.’

‘Make the time!’

Vindex rolled his eyes, but was grinning. ‘Yes, your highness,’ he said.

‘Come next to me, be ready to move her arm as I tell you when I tell you.’ She turned to her mistress. ‘This will hurt, but it will make it better, so you must be brave.’

‘I’ll try.’ The voice was weak.

‘You,’ she said, looking up at Ferox. ‘Hold her down. She needs to be still.’

The centurion obeyed, putting one hand on the girl’s good shoulder and the other across her body. There was fear in her eyes when he loomed over her, and it made him think of Hector frightening the baby because he still had his helmet on. He smiled.

‘Lie still. Soon be over,’ he said softly, while the slave gave short, sharp instructions to Vindex. The girl shrieked, starting to shake, and he pressed down as hard as he could.

‘Good girl, good girl,’ Ferox whispered, staring into her eyes, trying to reassure. A sound of grating bone almost made him flinch and loosen his grip.

‘Now,’ the slave girl said. ‘Push!’

The scream was appalling and seemed to go on forever, the girl trying to arch her back so that it took all his strength to keep her flat and still.

Vindex let out a deep breath, and the scream faded and turned into sobs.

‘Well done,’ the slave said, brushing her mistress’ cheek. ‘Now we can go.’

Ferox eased his grip and started to lift the young woman. Vindex helped and they hauled her on to his shoulder and he set off. She was heavy for her size and he stumbled, making her yell out.

‘Quiet,’ he said as gently as he could and tried to shush her. The necklace was pressing hard against the cheek piece of his helmet. The yelling went on, very loud just next to his ear. He heard a slap and the girl went quiet.

‘Well done, Vindex,’ he said and started out across the mossy ground.

‘Wasn’t me,’ the Brigantian said.

The slave girl strode past him, her expression blank.

‘Trouble,’ Vindex warned.

Shoulder already uncomfortable from the weight pressing down, Ferox struggled to look back at the little figures high on the crest above them. An arrow arched towards them, coming straight until the wind took it and it veered away.

‘Run!’ he said, and wondered how many times he had given the same order. The ambush had started less than an hour ago, and yet it seemed as though days had passed. He lumbered on as fast as he could, at first over spongy grass, but soon each step sank into soft mud.

‘Bugger!’ Vindex was looking to the west, where four horsemen galloped towards them who were not Romans. One was leading a riderless horse, and the leader carried a long red shield. There were more riders about a quarter of a mile behind them.

An arrow stuck into the soft earth just a yard or so away from Ferox, the missile going deep so that only half of its shaft and feathers were left above the mud. They were level with the lake, its dark waters still for the breeze had gone. Splashes came up with every step, boots sinking deeper and deeper.

‘More of the bastards!’ Vindex called. Other horsemen were coming from the south-west, and were not far off, hidden up to now by the valley. There were half a dozen, perhaps more, and Ferox could see no trace of uniform or anything else to identify them. They did not ride like Britons, but they were heading towards the main group of the enemy.

‘This way!’ The slave girl was pointing at a flat grey stone, the first of a line dotted towards the wood. Her feet and her once white sandals were brown from the mud, and Ferox was surprised that the clinging mire had not pulled them off.

Vindex gasped. ‘Double bugger!’ An arrow had grazed his right leg just above the knee, tearing his trousers and gouging a red line across his flesh. It must have had a broader head than the ones Ferox had seen before.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reaching out his free arm in an offer of support.

‘Piss off!’ the Brigantian said, pushing it away, and kept going. The slave girl was jumping from stone to stone, but even on that boggy ground Ferox could hear the hoof beats getting closer. They were at the first big stone.

‘If you’re all right then you take her. I’ll try to slow them down.’

Vindex’s face was grim as he took the weight of the girl, who immediately began to scream again.

A javelin whipped through the air between the two men just as they parted, missing them and the girl’s legs by a whisker. The horseman who had thrown it wore a hooded cloak that streamed behind him, but was bare-chested like the two Ferox had killed. He was close, no more than ten paces away, and riding like a wild man, straight at them, his right hand reaching to draw his long sword. His horse threw up fountains of water, then one of its front feet went deeper and the animal stumbled, throwing the rider, who slid through the mire towards them.

‘Stupid mongrel,’ Vindex said and jumped to the second stone, which rocked under the weight.

The centurion drew his blade, splashed forward through the mud and stabbed down once. Ferox saw the same horse tattoo on the man’s forehead before the long point of his gladius punched through the skull. For all his bravery, this third warrior was no more skilled than the other two. He had dropped his shield, a small one like the others, although round rather than square. Ferox picked it up.

The man with the red shield was a long spear cast away, but although he carried a slim-shafted javelin in his hand he made no move to throw it. He was a big man and yelled something at the warrior coming up alongside him, who was another of the bare-chested, animal-tattooed fighters, this time with his head shaved completely bald. A gesture confirmed that he was telling the man to stay back. The third horseman was little more than a beardless boy, fair-haired and red-cheeked, and was leading a saddled but riderless mare. There was no sign of any of the other horsemen.

Ferox bounded across the first few stones. If he must fight, then at least the mud would make it harder for anyone to come up on him from the side.

‘Roman!’ a deep voice shouted.

He turned and saw that the warrior with the red shield had dismounted. On foot he was huge, several inches taller than Vindex and broader across the shoulders than Ferox himself. He was bareheaded, with thick blond hair down to his shoulders and a neat beard. He wore boots and pale trousers, and had mail, with a black tunic underneath, the sleeves short and showing his powerfully muscled arms. A heavy, almost clumsy bronze bracelet was on his right wrist. His shield was hexagonal, a white star painted around the boss. He did not look like any warrior from the tribes of Britannia that Ferox had ever seen – more like a German, but that made no sense.

‘Want the queen,’ the man said, taking a step forward. He spoke in the language of the Celtic tribes, differing only in details among the peoples of Gaul as well as Britannia, but he did not speak it naturally. Each word took an effort to pronounce, and Ferox wondered whether he did not know the word for woman. He must be a German, perhaps an army deserter who had taken service with a chieftain?