Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

With much stamping of hobnailed boots, the Thracian’s relief arrived.

‘Longinus reporting as guard to the gate-tower,’ the man announced. He was a thickset Tungrian, his broken nose and scarred face hiding a gentle character. ‘Anything to report, brother?’

The Thracian was not really listening. As the two pack horses came towards the gateway he saw that each bore a corpse hidden under a blanket. The side of one of the animals was caked with dried blood. It seemed that things were not so quiet after all.

‘What?’ he said after a moment, realising that Longinus was staring. ‘Oh, you know, the usual – omnes ad stercus .’

His relief blinked, but the Thracian did not bother to explain. He went down the ladder on to the rampart and headed for the steps down into the courtyard, where Vindex sat his horse in front of the curator, staring down at the man.

‘I need the centurion.’ The Brigantian’s Latin was clear in spite of an accent that gave the words a brusque, guttural tone. ‘Is he here?’ Vindex’s face was long, almost horse-like, the skin so tight that every muscle and each line of his skull and jaw was stark. It was a face to terrify children and unsettle most men, the face of a ghost or devil, only softened a little by the luxuriant and well-combed moustache. Crescens hesitated, and the Thracian did not blame him.

The stationarii not on guard duty were paraded in a line on one side of the road. Temporarily detached from half a dozen parent units and stationed at this outpost, they wore a range of uniforms and carried shields of different shapes, but were ready for inspection – except that this Briton was between the curator and his morning parade.

‘He is ill,’ Crescens said at last.

Vindex sniffed, while his horse started to urinate. Crescens stepped back to avoid the splashes from the long and noisy yellow stream.

The Thracian joined the parade and watched the confrontation with amusement. Ferox’s orders were for any scouts with information to be brought to him as soon as they arrived, and the curator must know that. Of course, the Thracian had to admit, the orders had not covered what to do when the centurion was drunk off his skull, so that was a knotty little problem for the curator to solve. It was hard not to smile.

‘Ill?’ Vindex’s expression did not change, until with the tiniest twitch of his legs he sent his horse straight into a canter. Crescens gaped, unsure what to do.

The Brigantian brought his big bay horse to a dead stop in front of the water trough, pushed up from the saddle and jumped down in one fluid movement. As he strode up to the centurion’s quarters, the mare was already lapping water. The Britons leading the pack horses followed him, ignoring the Roman soldiers as they followed their leader. Bare legs, shoeless and filthy, swung slowly from side to side as the leading mount passed the line of soldiers.

‘I need to see the centurion.’ Vindex’s deep voice echoed around the small courtyard.

‘My Lord Ferox regrets that he is unable to receive visitors.’ That was Philo, the centurion’s slave, a sleek easterner who looked far too civilised for a place like this.

‘I need to see the regionarius,’ the Brigantian repeated, his voice still loud. ‘And I need to see him now.’

‘I am sorry, my Lord Vindex, but that is not possible.’

The Thracian was at the right of the line of soldiers, and could see the tall Briton towering over the little slave, thumbs looped in the belt of chains around his waist that supported his long sword. Philo’s skin was smooth and dark, his eyes such a deep brown that they were almost black. He wore no cloak, and his tunic was so bleached that the white shone. There did not seem to be a speck of dirt or dust anywhere on him, even though he stood in the mud in front of the doorway. He could not have been much more than a boy, barely five feet tall, and yet he stood firm against this barbarian who looked as if it would trouble him less to kill someone than waste time talking to them. The Thracian was impressed.

‘This is important.’ Vindex, the head scout, lowered his voice, although it still carried around the outpost.

‘I am sorry, my lord, truly sorry.’ Philo’s left hand gripped his right wrist and rubbed it, but this was the only sign of nervousness.

‘Which day is this?’ Vindex spoke softly now, and smiled, though in his cadaverous face it looked more like a leer.

Philo’s shoulders slumped and he clasped his hands together. ‘This will be the fourth day,’ he admitted.

Vindex grunted. He took a step forward and the slave straightened up again, still blocking the doorway. Crescens tried to force his way to join them, but was blocked by the two horses and the scout holding their reins.

‘Look, Greek,’ Vindex said, his tone combining reason with menace. ‘We both know that I am going in there and that you cannot stop me. Your master will not blame you.’ He was head and shoulders bigger than the slave, and at last Philo gave up and stepped aside. The Brigantian gestured to his remaining man to follow, pushed the door open and went inside.

There was a crash from inside the centurion’s quarters, then another, and then the sound of pottery shattering.

‘You mongrels!’ The Thracian recognised Ferox’s voice, although he had never heard him so full of rage.

More shouts, more smashing, then a sharp cry of ‘Taranis!’ suggesting someone in pain. Crescens again tried to push past the Briton, but the man and horses blocked him.

‘I want two men, now!’ he yelled, but his voice cracked and sounded weak. The Thracian and the man beside him stepped out of the rank to join the curator.

The struggle inside the building redoubled with even greater noise of violence and destruction. Philo winced at the sound of what must have been a whole shelf or table full of plates and vessels being struck by something heavy and smashed into ruin. The door burst open and the scout who had followed Vindex staggered out, his face bruised and blood pouring from a split lip.

Then the centurio regionarius Titus Flavius Ferox appeared, held in a lock by Vindex. The Brigantians loved their wrestling, although all that the Thracian had seen suggested more brute force and low cunning than true art. In this case he could not doubt its efficacy. Ferox was only a little shorter than the tall Brigantian, and much wider around the chest and shoulders, but he was bent over, arm twisted back so that all his strength was useless and he had to go forward if bone was not to break. Vindex drove him at the trough.

With a grunt of sheer effort the Brigantian lifted the centurion over its wooden side and plunged him head first into the cold water. He said something in his own tongue and the man with the split lip joined him, holding the Roman down as he fought them.

They pulled the centurion out of the water. Ferox was coughing up water, shaking his head and still struggling.

‘Mongrels!’ he spluttered. ‘Sons of—’

Vindex and the other Briton thrust him back into the water. Crescens’ mouth hung open as he watched, but still the curator did nothing.

The Britons lifted the centurion up again. This time he looked limp and exhausted, all the fight gone. His tunic was the dull off-white army issue, loosely belted so that it hung down to his shins, and the seam along one shoulder had been torn completely so that the material hung down. There were bruises growing on his bare skin, and a couple of old scars, one of them long. His dark hair was soaked and filthy, several days’ worth of beard on the chin of his slim face, and his usually clear grey eyes stared out blankly. There were traces of dried vomit on his torn tunic and on his skin, wine stains and dirt on his hands, bare legs and feet.