Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

‘ Omnes ad stercus ,’ the Thracian groaned, too tired for anger, but not for fear. ‘Boy,’ he hissed at the young sentry standing outside the little fort. The pair of them had shared this long watch, and as the senior man he had taken the ramparts and tower. The regulations for the army set down by the divine Augustus and repeated by every Caesar since then stated that a picket must always be maintained in the open outside each gate of a camp. Men on that duty were oath-bound to stand their ground even in the face of overwhelming odds, and were there to warn the garrison of danger. ‘What if the barbarians come?’ asked the new recruit in one of the army’s oldest jokes. ‘Just make plenty of noise while they’re killing you,’ was the centurion’s answer.

The young sentry did not move, so was true to his pledge at least. He was also just where he should be, standing three paces in front of the ditch and to the right of the track leading up to the gate, but he was far too still.

‘Boy!’ the Thracian tried again, a little louder.

The lad stayed as he was, the butt of his spear planted firmly on the ground, the shaft against his shoulder to rest his weight. With his dark cloak gathered around him and shield propped against his legs, only his stillness and the slump of his helmeted head gave him away. The Thracian knew every soldier’s trick and this was an old and dangerous one. One of the most important things a recruit had to learn was to nap whenever and wherever he got the chance, because the army never minded getting you up at all hours. Sleep was precious, almost as precious as food. A knack for sleeping while standing up was rare and sometimes useful, but a dangerous curse for a man on sentry duty.

‘Wake up, you daft sod, or they’ll have the skin off your back!’ The Thracian spat the words out and then looked nervously back into the courtyard in case someone had heard. There were half a dozen men out in the street, fiddling with their equipment and adjusting buckles, but no one was paying him particular attention. The closed gate meant that they could not see the lad outside, but once the sun cleared the crest of the hill then it was the Thracian’s duty to ring the brass bell to mark the end of the night watches and the beginning of a new day. As the garrison was roused and the gate opened, he would shift the wooden peg on the board beside it to show that it was now the third day before the Ides of September. A pair of sentries would come to relieve them, morning parade would be held, orders and a new password issued, and only after that was there a chance of some food. Nothing much changed whether the garrison held a whole legion or a couple of dozen men, so even here the army’s day started in the same way as it did everywhere else.

He had to act quickly, for Crescens was bound to blame him for not keeping the youngster awake. He could tell that the curator was itching to lay formal charges against someone and earn them a beating or worse.

‘Sonny!’ the old soldier tried again, calling as loud as he dared. His foot kicked something across the floor. It was an apple core, left by one of the earlier sentries – probably that mucky bugger Victor. Propping his spear against the wooden parapet, he bent over to grab it.

As the Thracian straightened up, movement out in the valley caught his eye, and at last he saw the horsemen, no more than half a mile away, coming on at a brisk trot. There were little dots in his eyes as he stared at the rapidly approaching figures – at least ten and not more than twenty. The rising sun glinted red off helmets and spear points, which meant that they were well armed, but they did not ride in a neat column – more like a swarm – and that surely meant that they were Britons.

The Thracian had not seen an enemy since he had come here, back in the winter. He strained to see more clearly, in case this was about to change, while praying that it was not. The Britons swept past the herd boys and their cows, ignoring them, and the children did not seem to be afraid of them, which was a good sign.

The leading rider was a tall man on a big horse and even though he could not make out his face, the Thracian recognised him and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Vindex, leader of the scouts who served with the army. He and his men were frequent visitors, and the centurion often rode out with them, but they had not been here for nearly a month.

‘Tower, there!’ Crescens yelled up from the courtyard, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Anything to report?’

‘ Omnes ad stercus ,’ the Thracians said wearily. There was no more time. Taking just a moment to aim, the Thracian lobbed the apple core, and felt considerable satisfaction when it struck the shallow neck guard of the boy’s iron helmet. The young sentry jerked awake with a grunt, still groggy as he turned and looked up, his face very pale.

‘Do your job, boy,’ the Thracian shouted, pointing at the horsemen. It no longer mattered if he made any noise. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Riders coming in!’

Below him the lad was still sluggish as he looked in that direction. He stared for a moment, and then gasped, dropping his spear. The Thracian laughed as the boy, gaping, raised his own arm to point, the movement making his shield fall flat on the grass.

‘Yes, I know,’ the old soldier said under his breath, ‘I see ’em. And how’s your laundry doing, sonny-boy?’

The horsemen were close enough to count fourteen riders and three more horses carrying burdens. The sun had cleared the hill and cast long shadows behind them as they pounded up the path towards the gate. The Thracian stepped over to the bell and rang it six times to announce the rising of the sun. He waited for three breaths before ringing it again to sound the alarm, not that he thought there was anything to worry about, but because that was the rule.

‘Scouts coming in,’ he shouted down into the courtyard. ‘Open the gate!’

Crescens glared up because the order was given without consulting him, but the Thracian knew exactly what the regulations said. Vindex kicked his horse and cantered past the flustered young sentry and through the entrance way just as the gate opened. The Thracian grinned, poking his fingers through the little gap where the cheek pieces of his helmet met and scratching his beard. They had style, some of these Britons, you had to give them that.

The rest of the horsemen halted outside. Like their leader the scouts were Brigantes, warriors from the big tribe that held a great swathe of northern Britannia, and loyal allies of Rome for some time now. Slim-faced, tall and rangy, they sat straight-backed as statues in their saddles, staring impassively down at the young sentry. Most of them had thick moustaches, although none as full as the great brown whiskers of their leader. Each wore an old-fashioned army-issue helmet, the bronze types with a straight neck guard, modest peak and topped by a blunt spike, the style that the legions had stopped wearing half a century ago. Only the leader had a mail shirt, but every man had a sword on his right hip, though these were every shape and size from long local blades to infantry- and cavalry-issue patterns. The shields were even more mixed and painted in bright colours, some with pictures of animals on them.

The young sentry looked as if he was trembling as he stared at the silent warriors, and at last one grinned, and then they were all laughing and talking while some swung down to the ground. Brigantes talked a lot – at least compared to other Britons. The Thracian noticed that two of them had been riding double – never a comfortable thing, especially for the one behind – and then saw that two more of the scouts were heading into the fort on foot, each one leading a pack horse.