Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

On the fifth morning Ferox attacked the post with unusual savagery. He found that he thought best during this exercise, going through the proper guards, cuts and thrusts and quite a few moves of his own. He was not aching as much as in the first few days, but his mind was weary. He had been roused before dawn by a farmer claiming that thieves were taking his cows. Hastily dressed and accompanied by Victor, he had given chase. The trail was easy to follow and stretched no more than five miles to a farm in another valley. The head of that household was muddy and travel-stained and did not bother to deny the charge, insisting instead that he had only taken back what was his. There was much shouting, swearing of oaths and a few threats, the noise fuelled as neighbours wandered over to see what was happening. Ferox was still not sure of the truth of the matter, but suspected villainy on both sides. The men agreed to be judged by two chieftains, one to speak for each man, with the centurion to arbitrate and give the casting vote. It would almost certainly come to that, since he would be surprised if the chiefs did not simply back their dependant whatever the truth of the matter.

Back at Syracuse, Ferox read a new report that added nothing to their knowledge of the raid, but took a long time to say it. He dealt with Crescens, who had brought a number of trivial matters to him. The man seemed to have lost a lot of his bluster and was looking for guidance on more and more matters. Ferox kept hoping that he would take up the challenge to fight him, even though he realised that putting the curator down would probably not be good for discipline. The stationarii were a very mixed bunch, with a few eager volunteers among men sent here because their units did not want them.

Ferox lunged at the post, then stepped back before coming in again and cutting at head height, his shield all the while held up over his body. The German warrior bothered him. During one of his visits to Vindolanda he had asked to see the two survivors from the escort. The man cut across the face was in hospital, head bandaged.

‘Ask whatever you like,’ the orderly told him. ‘But his wits are in and out at the moment. Woke up screaming last night and said that there were horses chasing him and wanting to trample him beneath their hoofs.’

The man seemed well enough, sitting on the side of a cot and playing dice with another convalescent. If anything he enjoyed telling his story, which did not tell Ferox anything new.

Longinus was in the barrack block occupied by his turma and Ferox got the impression that the Batavians were not keen on letting him visit. They were a strange, clannish bunch, the closed expressions of the soldiers stopping just short of insubordination, and he had to insist for some time before a soldier led him to the right part of the fort. Men working on tack and equipment under the shelter of the colonnade running the length of the building watched him with cold eyes.

For all that, Longinus was welcoming when Ferox knocked on the open door of the room at the far end of the block. He was the only man there, and there were no blankets on either of the other two low beds. As he perched on the side of one, Ferox wondered if they belonged to men killed in the ambush. The old Batavian sat on his bed running a whetstone along the edge of his long spatha. When he tried to get up, obviously with some discomfort, Ferox gestured to him to sit. ‘No need to stand on ceremony,’ he said. ‘But if you are not too tired I’d like to draw on your experience.’

‘Sir.’ An old soldier could make that short word do so many things.

The floor was covered in straw and rushes, fresh layers piled on the old and all giving off a musty odour. There were sounds from beyond the back wall. Cavalry barracks were built with a line of ten rooms backing on to ten horse boxes. Up above was an attic for storage and the army felt that it was convenient for troopers to be near their horses. It also meant that the rich scents of manure, horse sweat and old leather were everywhere, and there were always flies crawling on the walls or buzzing through the air.

‘You have been with the cohort a long time, I understand.’

‘Sir.’

Ferox had been surprised to learn that the man had served over forty stipendia – fifteen years more than the normal enlistment. It was not his business to ask why, and Longinus did not seem inclined to talk about it. He must be nearly sixty, and yet still remarkably hale.

Instead the centurion asked the man to tell him about the ambush. ‘All that you can remember – no matter how trivial it seems.’

The man’s single eye glinted in the dim room. Ferox felt that the veteran was studying him, amusement mingled with curiosity. His account was precise and matter-of-fact. The decurion was dozy, led them into it, letting the scout get out of sight so that he did them no good. Then the arrows had come.

‘Have you faced archers like that before?’

‘No.’ The eye never left his face. There was a steady grating sound as the old soldier honed the edge of his sword.

Then the sling stones hit them, more arrows, and the screaming charge. Longinus told him about the testudo, the brief respite, of the carriage nearly escaping, until the driver was killed and it tipped over. ‘Got a bit hot then,’ he said. Ferox knew from his own experience how hard it was to remember a fight after it was over, and how it was even harder to recount it. Men who told long detailed stories of battles and heroism were usually making it up.

‘Did you get a good look at the Britons?’ he asked.

Longinus snorted. ‘Too damned good – the buggers were swarming all over us.’

‘Notice anything odd about them?’

The eye was still fixed on him. Longinus stopped sharpening his sword and reached up to scratch his empty eye socket.

‘How did you lose that?’ Ferox asked, letting curiosity get the better of him.

‘Cut myself shaving. Now what did you ask before?’ The man’s Latin was good, for all his slang. He had a Rhineland accent, but did not clip the ends of words or roll his vowels like most of them.

‘You have been in Britannia a while.’

‘Sir.’

‘Well, what did you think about the attackers? Were they like other Britons you have seen?’

There was the slightest nod. ‘Some of them. Not seen those daft ones with the painted heads before. Not much skill in them, but they came on well enough. A couple were wearing tunics without breeches. Don’t see that much hereabouts.’

Ferox had not noticed that little detail. Thinking back he thought the men he had fought had all been in trousers, but it was so hard to remember everything. At the time he had worried more about not getting killed. ‘And the others?’

‘Ah, you noticed.’

‘Big men, one of them really big, heavier set than Caledonians, if just as fair.’

‘Germans,’ Longinus said, ‘or I’m a Syrian.’

‘Germans?’

‘That’s right. Don’t tell me you had not thought the same thing.’

‘I wondered, but they told me I was a fool,’ Ferox said, half to himself.

‘Can’t say one way or the other about that, sir. But they were Germans. They did not have time to say much, but the words were in German. I met one of the Gotones once who talked like that. At least, people said that he was one of them and he certainly wasn’t from any tribe we knew well. These ones sounded the same. They’re from far away – the east, or maybe from the north, but enough akin to the closer races to recognise.’

‘Thank you, trooper, that is very helpful.’

A horse whinnied loudly from the next room, then started to kick hard against something wooden. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ Longinus looked up and yelled through the trapdoor into the attic. ‘You there, Felix?’ There was the sound of panicked movement and then stillness in response. ‘I know you’re there, boy!’ There was a low acknowledgement. ‘Do your job, you little bugger!’ Longinus shouted. ‘They want feeding, so get on with it!’ The one eye fixed on the centurion again. ‘Good enough lad, but you have to chase him or he’ll dream the day away.’