Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘I have rarely heard better,’ Crispinus said quietly as Sulpicia Lepidina paused and took a drink. ‘She is a truly remarkable woman.’

‘“Abundantly favoured by fortune,”’ Ferox quoted from distant memory, ‘“well read in Greek and Latin literature, able to sing and play the lyre more skilfully than an honest woman need…” At least I think that is it, and I mean no offence.’

Crispinus smiled. ‘Sallust always took a jaundiced view, though our hostess might have softened even his cold heart and won true praise. Although if I recall the lady in question danced rather than sang. Like that one, I suspect.’ He spoke quietly and gave a nod and smile towards Fortunata, whose elaborate hair remained in order.

‘Conversation in the audience is not considered a compliment,’ Sulpicia Lepidina told them, one eyebrow arched in mock disapproval. ‘Now perhaps something fitting for this place and this land.’

The tune was very familiar, but Ferox was paying no attention and watching her fingers as they moved and plucked the strings of the lyre. Someone gasped in surprise when the lady began to sing, but he was intent on her playing. It was one of many regrets that he had not learned an instrument.

To his amazement he realised that she sang not in Latin or Greek, but in the Celtic tongue of the Gauls and Britons, and the tune was a favourite of Vindex.

‘And the Hound caught sight of the girl’s full breasts over the top of her dress,’ the lady sang, and he realised that she was watching him. ‘“I see a sweet country,” he said, “I could rest my weapon there.”’

Ferox glanced around, but saw no sign that anyone else understood the words. He wondered whether Lepidina knew what they meant. She certainly sang as if she did. The heroine in the tale kept telling the hero that no one would travel ‘that country’ until they had performed a series of impossible feats. Each time he answered, ‘In that sweet country, I’ll rest my weapon,’ and the story told of how he undertook all the tasks and won his bride. The lady sang it through, her eyes never leaving him.

The applause was long and sincere.

‘You could almost civilise the barbarians,’ Claudius Super told her. Vegetus announced that next time his wife should entertain them with her dancing, and perhaps the lady would consent to play for her.

‘Perhaps,’ Sulpicia Lepidina said, and her husband regretted that it was time to bid their guests good night for tomorrow would be another busy day.

‘You have a friend there,’ Crispinus whispered to Ferox, catching him watching their hostess.

THE ARMY’S DAY began at Vindolanda much as it did at Syracuse or Eboracum or anywhere else, and this morning Ferox was glad of such familiar routine after the strangeness of the night before. Dawn found him in the principia of the fort, standing with the row of officers from cohors VIIII Batavorum milliaria equitata in front of the aedes , where the standards stood securely in the slots made for them in the plank floor. There were ten signa , one for each of the centuries composing the infantry of the cohort, each with a number of large silvered discs mounted on the pole, topped by a wreathed ornamental spearhead. The eight turmae of cavalry had their own smaller standards, with a single symbol and cross bar trailing weighted ribbons beneath the elaborate heads. Almost half of the cohort was currently absent on detached service, but the most important standards all remained here unless the unit as a whole marched out. Any big detachment carried a vexillum , a square red flag hanging from a crossbar on an otherwise plain pole, the banner bearing the name of the cohort in gold lettering. Empty slots in the floor alongside the single flag suggested that two important vexillations were away. In the centre of the mass of decorated poles was the imago of Trajan. In spite of yesterday’s wet parade, even the tiniest metal fitting on each standard gleamed, while the shafts were freshly oiled and polished. Ferox had heard some men say that soldiers worshipped their standards. That was a lie, but in any half-decent unit they worshipped the idea that the standards represented.

Flavius Cerialis was in armour this morning, even though he sat on a stool behind a desk, reviewing a succession of wax writing tablets presented to him by his personal clerk, the cornicularius of the prefect. They listed the current strength of the cohort, recent acquisitions and losses, and detailed every individual and group away from the base. Ferox wondered whether at this very moment the legate of II Augusta – or whichever senior officer was present – was glancing down a list without paying much attention to the entry stating that one centurion was absent serving as regionarius. The legion had its main depot at Isca Silurum, there on the riverbank in his homeland. He wondered whether he would ever see the legion or his own people again. It was doubtful either would welcome him with open arms.

Hobnailed boots stamped on wooden floorboards as the optio of the day marched across the room, halting with a final shattering crash in front of the prefect and saluting.

‘Good morning, sir!’ The greeting was more like a battle cry and echoed around the high hall. An optio was second-in-command to a centurion, responsible for much day-to-day administration of the century and commanding in the officer’s absence. This one was short by Batavian standards, but immaculately turned out. He had the accent of his people, as well as the typical yellow moustache and beard glimpsed between the broad bronze cheek pieces of his helmet. On either side of the fur-covered top of the helmet was a tall feather dyed yellow and standing straight up to mark his rank. His scale armour shone, as did the fittings on his belt and scabbard, and the ornate top of the staff of office in his left hand.

‘Good morning, Arcuttius,’ Cerialis replied, his voice clear and quiet. The prefect’s iron helmet with its high plume and enamel decoration was on the desk beside him. The other officers, four centurions and five decurions present at the base, stood in a row, in armour, carrying their helmets in the crook of their left arms. That was the tradition for the Batavians, and Ferox had got Philo to find out so that he was properly attired. The Alexandrian enjoyed such details, and revelled in preparing his master for yet another formal occasion. He was also very happy, filled to the brim with gossip picked up from the other slaves and servants at the prefect’s house.

‘Thank you, sir!’ The optio bellowed the words, lowering his arm from the salute. He reached into a pouch at his belt and produced one of the thin wooden tablets used for routine documents. ‘Seventh day after the Ides of September. Report of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians. All who should be are at duty stations, as is the baggage. The optiones and curatores made the report. Arcuttius, optio of the century of Crescens, delivered it.’ The optio recited from memory – apart from the names and dates it was the same thing said every morning.

‘Thank you, Arcuttius.’ Cerialis stood. ‘The watchword for today is “Fortuna”. Pay parade at the second hour.’

‘Sir!’ The optio saluted again, turned about and marched noisily away. Ferox wondered whether the password was just coincidence, or a little joke of the prefect. Philo swore that the kitchen staff and other slaves in the praetorium had told him that their master and mistress had not shared the same bed since they arrived at Vindolanda six weeks ago, and rarely before that. It was not that the master lacked interest. He covered many of the slave girls at every opportunity and had visited Flora’s establishment. He just did not seem that interested in his wife, which the servants found odd for they liked her and anyone could see that she was beautiful, if a little old at twenty-seven.