Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘Lady, I had better go,’ Ferox said. ‘I do hope that the boy’s condition continues to improve. After all, we Flavii should stick together!’ He had brought her water from Covventina’s Spring to add to the sick child’s broth, and whether by this or something else, Cerialis’ son’s fever had broken.

‘Thank you. You have been very kind.’ Sulpicia Lepidina stood close to him, and, unseen because of her heavy wool cloak, her hand clasped his for just a moment. ‘Good fortune,’ she added, her blue eyes staring up into his.

‘I’m sure your husband will return in glory,’ he said.

‘I am sure he will.’ For the first time since he had met her she looked fragile. ‘Good fortune,’ she said again, before dropping her voice to a faint whisper. ‘Come back.’

‘I will.’ As he mouthed the words he wondered what he was doing. Her song at the feast still echoed in his mind, as did her good humour and signs of pleasure in his company whenever they met. He was drawn to her, but then surely any man with blood in his veins would be drawn to such a woman. What he did not understand was why she seemed interested in him, and he could not quite make up his mind whether she was singling him out or was simply always so full of charm. He tried to stop them, but in the last days wild, absurd and dangerous dreams kept bubbling up in his mind, feeding his good spirits as much as the activity.

Philo waited with his horse.

‘You should stay here,’ he told the boy for the tenth time.

‘My place is with you.’

‘You won’t enjoy it,’ Ferox said.

‘That is the lot of a slave.’

They rode after the column, and Ferox forced himself not to look back. It was ridiculous and dangerous to them both – and maybe it was all in his imagination, and he mistook natural charm and understandable gratitude for real interest. He made himself stare at the fort buildings as they went along the road and out under the gate. The serried ranks of standards were in place, although the escort had stood at ease now that there were only native scouts ambling past. More people had gathered to watch the column, standing in the fronts of shops and bars or in the alleys leading off the main route through the canabae. They lived here because the army was here and were part of it even if they were not soldiers. Batavians and Tungrians were customers, friends, drinking partners and lovers and some made signs to bring good luck as the ranks of soldiers went past. At the far edge of the crowd were beggars, with all the ones he had seen the day before and a few more. The old man to whom Vindex had given a coin was a little apart as usual, leaning on his crooked staff, his filthy beard and hair down to his waist, and his scruffy dog beside him. The man stared at the soldiers’ boots, never looking anyone in the eye, and all the while he muttered words that made no sense.

‘Chin up, Father,’ Vindex called to him, but the beggar did not react. Ferox wondered whether his appearance was a bad omen and then tried and failed to dismiss the thought. By this time he was riding alongside the cemetery with its rows of wooden pillars. It did not depress him and instead he thought of a woman with golden hair and big blue eyes and wondered.

Two hours later they met the vexillation brought by the Prefect Rufinus to complete the column. Cohors I fida Vardullorum equitata was a mixed unit like the Batavians, and had sent fifty horsemen in two turmae and two hundred and fifty infantrymen in four centuries. They were small men in the main, dark-haired and clean-shaven, recruited from the highlands in Iberia, and they marched with a jaunty confidence. They were new to this northern frontier and to Britannia itself, but looked to be good soldiers, confident in themselves and their leaders. They wore black tunics, a rare sight in the army, and Ferox suspected that some would see this as unlucky. The Vardulli just said that it was unlucky for whoever met them.

A third of Crispinus’ column consisted of horsemen, but if they wanted to stay together they could go no faster than a man or mule could walk. By day the cavalry from the cohorts provided scouts ahead, on the flanks and to the rear of the main force. Brocchus’ men were split into two, as vanguard and rearguard; they were kept formed up and ready to fight. The Batavian infantry led, the Tungrians protected the baggage and the Spanish infantry were in the rear. Vindex and his men rode far ahead to scout, and often Ferox went with them, wearing his battered old floppy hat so that the tribesmen would know him from afar. At night the cavalry provided pickets while the infantrymen did the digging, making a ditch and throwing up a low rampart of cut turves and piled earth and stones when the ground was too hard. It was rarely more than waist high, but would slow an assault if one came. Tents were pitched inside, although they had carried as few as possible so each one was packed fuller than usual. Men on guard during the night watches came back to climb under blankets left warm by the men who had relieved them.

They dug in each night because it made them a little safer and because that was the army’s way, but because they pushed on and marched as far as they could there was never time to do the job properly. Cavalrymen always hated to dig, and the infantry did their best, and men from both arms formed the outposts beyond the ditch and rampart with the job of dying noisily if an attack came.

For three days there was no sign of any enemy – indeed little trace of people at all.

‘They’re wary of us, sir,’ Ferox explained when Crispinus expressed surprise to find another farm empty of humans and animals alike. There were four huts, a raised grain store, and dry stone walls to form animal pens. Some of the dung in these was no more than five or six hours old.

‘Why?’ the tribune demanded. ‘These are not from one of the clans we are sent to chastise.’

‘They don’t know that – at least, not for certain, and would you take a risk?’

Ferox was pleased when a Batavian cavalryman asked whether they should burn the houses and Crispinus was aghast at the thought. ‘Of course not.’

The soldier looked disappointed, but resigned to the vagaries of senior officers.

The tribune brought a dozen troopers with him whenever he joined Ferox and some of the scouting parties, something he did more often as the days passed. Now, at long last, on the fourth morning when they reached the lands of one of the chieftains who had not yet paid his tax, Crispinus saw his first warrior. The Briton with his painted face sat on his pony, watching them as they watched him.

‘Do they always paint their faces?’ he asked. Crispinus talked a lot and asked many questions, so that his early long silences were no more than a blessed memory of a better world.

‘Means the bugger’s taken a vow,’ Vindex explained when the centurion said nothing. ‘He will either vanquish an enemy and take a trophy before returning home or he will die in the attempt. They’re queer folk, the Selgovae. Good hosts, though, and fairly honest if you don’t trust them too much.’

Crispinus was puzzled. ‘So he really will not go back to his home unless he kills an enemy?’

‘Pity we haven’t got any archers, we could solve his problem for him now,’ Ferox suggested, making the tribune stare at him.

‘I thought you wanted to talk to him?’

‘Well, I’ll try.’ Ferox urged his horse into a trot up the slope towards the lone warrior. He raised his empty right hand high to show that he was coming in peace. The man watched him, letting him come close, until the centurion was twenty paces away. The Briton raised his spear and Ferox reined in. He shouted out that they did not want to fight unless they had to and wanted to speak to the chieftains. The man rode away.