Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘Your first legion destroyed, its eagle and honour lost, your second disbanded in disgrace and the survivors mostly killed in another disaster.’ Crispinus spoke as if these were minor misfortunes. ‘I’m thinking the Second Augusta were none too pleased when you were posted to them!’

Vindex cackled. The noise was so loud that heads turned, including that of Lepidina, who looked puzzled. Seeing her the Brigantian started humming again, glancing at Ferox all the while.

The tribune must have noticed. ‘She is something truly special, is she not?’ he sighed.

‘Earlier today I mistook her for a slave,’ Ferox confessed. ‘I may have treated her a little roughly.’

Crispinus burst out laughing once again, tears in his eyes, and could say nothing for a long time. Sulpicia Lepidina glared for a moment, a look Ferox remembered well, but then resumed her poise and ignored them.

‘Well,’ Crispinus said once he had mastered himself, ‘there are little slave girls with all the grace of empresses – and aristocratic women who act like slaves or sluts. She is most definitely neither. She is the daughter of a consul, with ten generations of senators for ancestors, and carries herself so that even such a background seems a mean thing compared to her own dignity.’

‘Well, that makes me feel better,’ Ferox said, making the tribune relapse back into uncontrollable laughter.

The sun was setting when Ferox and Vindex peeled away from the road. Sulpicia gave them a smile and nod, Crispinus a hearty wave.

‘Always search for the truth,’ he called after them.

The truth proved to be grim as they rode up to the tower, lit by a red glow from the dying embers of the beacon. Victor stood on the high balcony that went all around the tower just beneath its shingle roof. He had lit torches and placed one at each corner, but kept back in the shadows until he saw them. His horse was tethered to a post inside the circular ditch surrounding the tower. The outpost had no stockade, for it was felt unlikely that anyone would ever attack it.

‘Thank the gods you’re here, centurion!’ he shouted down. They could already guess some of the story from the body lying just a few feet outside the tower’s single door. It took a while for Victor to come down, for he had pulled the ladder up on to the highest floor so that no one could get to him.

Seven men were serving at the tower this week, their names written on the wax tablet hanging from a nail inside the door. There were a couple of legionaries, and five auxiliary infantrymen from three different cohorts. Now there were six corpses and no sign of the last man. By torchlight Ferox examined the scene as Victor told his story. The cavalryman had made good time, but when he reached the tower there was no one on guard, the body outside and the rest on the ground floor. The door had not been forced, and there was little sign of a struggle. There was a lot of blood, long dried but still stinking. Only one of the men was in armour, and someone had grabbed him from behind and slit his throat. Ferox could see the blood on the neckerchief and all down the scales of his cuirass. The rest were half dressed and had been hacked down before they had much chance to fight. Ferox leaned down and saw that two of the men had deep cuts to their arms. Another had his left arm sliced off just below the elbow. He imagined the desperate, terrified men crouching, arms held up for protection as the blades slashed again and again.

From what Victor said they must have been killed early in the day – perhaps at dawn or soon afterwards. Even if he had sent warning as soon as Vindex arrived at Syracuse he could not have saved them.

Victor had done well. The beacon was prepared, but someone had taken the flints and kindling, and shattered the pot of oil kept to light it. A little had survived in one shard, and he had found a tiny piece of old flint among the rubbish piled in the ditch behind the tower. Somehow he had got a fire lit and then set the piled timbers aflame. It had taken most of an hour, but he had done it. Then he had climbed to the top of the tower, pulling up the ladder, and waited through the long day, surrounded by the stench of blood and butchered flesh.

Ferox asked if he wanted to ride straight back to Syracuse, but the man said that he would wait until they left, or would stay if the centurion felt that the tower needed to be manned. In fact Ferox planned to leave soon, just wanting to look one more time. Once he had done that, he helped them drag the corpse from outside back into the lower chamber of the wooden tower.

Ferox had found a lock and used it to fasten the door from the outside. After that they left, riding through the still night to Syracuse. They rode in silence apart from the breathing of the horses and the jingle of harness. Ferox wondered whether he had the energy to write the reports he knew needed to be sent. Most of all he wondered about the names on the duty roster, for one of them was British. The man might be among the corpses, but he might not, and that was worrying. Crispinus had told him to search for the truth. As so often in the past, Ferox feared where it would lead.

FEROX HEFTED THE shield again, holding the cross-grip tight enough to be secure without becoming rigid. His sword was high, arm back and elbow bent almost double ready to jab the blade forward at eye level, striking for the face, or lunging over the top of his opponent’s shield if he saw a gap open. It was not his own gladius and felt heavy and cumbersome in his hand.

Both men were breathing hard, watching for their chance. Ferox’s arms and legs ached, and his right shoulder was sore from a slamming cut that he had not seen in time. He suspected that the blow had driven some of the rings of his mail through the padded jerkin to bruise the skin. The centurion stamped forward with his left foot and punched with the boss of his shield, the weight of his body behind the blow. His opponent lifted his own shield to block as he sprang back, landing well and cutting down with his longer sword, catching Ferox on the helmet. It was a weak blow with no real force in it and did not bother him.

Ferox panted as they both went back to watching and waiting. This one was good, old in war and dark in cunning, and the centurion was weary with not much more to give. The greaves on his shins were heavy and uncomfortable. He was sure the top of the left one had cut into his skin. If he did not win soon then he was finished. He let his shield drop a little before raising it with visible effort, wanting the man to think that he was even more tired.

The Thracian shouted, the first cry in an otherwise silent fight, and came at him, slamming his lighter oval shield high and jabbing with the point of his sword. Ferox went back, step by step, giving ground and not getting a chance to reply to the flurry of blows from left and right. He was near the post now, the ditch only a couple more paces behind him. One jab punched through the wickerwork near the top of his curved rectangular shield and he tried to twist it to trap the blade, but the Thracian was too quick and while Ferox’s guard was down scythed his long sword through the air and struck his left shoulder. The centurion staggered, hissing with pain, and lost his hold on the shield’s handgrip so that it fell to the ground. The Thracian grinned wickedly as the centurion crouched.

Ferox sprang up, flinging himself against the cavalryman, hurling them both sideways. His hand grabbed the Thracian’s right wrist, pushing it so that his long spatha was driven against the heavy wooden post. Ferox cut at it, not with much of a swing but with all his force, and there was a sharp crack as the wooden training spatha broke. Half the blade was hanging down loose and the Thracian was so surprised that Ferox was able to hook one foot around his leg and trip him up.