Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘Do not touch it!’ one of the Brigantes shouted as Ferox jumped down and walked towards the ghastly warnings. Vindex did not speak, but looked as worried.

‘It’s not meant for me,’ the centurion told then, ‘so it cannot harm me.’ He hoped that he was right. ‘Get me a sack.’

The red-headed doll must be Cerialis, and that would fit with the attack on his wife, even though Ferox could not understand why the couple were singled out. He pulled the little figure off, ripping it to get it past the broad head of the nail. On the arm was a tiny scroll of papyrus, covered on both sides with writing in Greek characters, although many of the words did not make sense. ‘Barbaso Barbasoch Barbasoch,’ it began and looked a lot like magic, some spell or curse presumably meant to strike the prefect of the Batavians.

‘I thought they did not read and write up here,’ Crispinus said, his face almost as grey as his hair.

‘They don’t.’ Ferox tore the doll to pieces and flung them in the air, and then spun around his arms held high. ‘The spell is broken!’ he yelled. Vindex touched the wheel of Taranis to his lips. The centurion used his knife to prise the second nail loose. Vindex helped him and they freed the head and put it in the sack so that they could treat the remains with honour when the force stopped for the night.

The main column would not have to see this grim message, but Ferox had little doubt that word would spread like wildfire and worry the men. He was known to be a strange man and a Briton, so perhaps his little charade of dispelling the curse would help.

Late in the afternoon the cloud thinned and they saw the sun for the first time that day as it set in magnificent splendour. Mounted Selgovae hovered around them, keeping well away as the column closed up and laid out the camp. They had stopped an hour earlier than usual and did their best to dig in the stony soil; in the end they had to be content with a ditch not much more than a foot deep. The wall was better, with a base of turves, some piled earth, built up with stones pulled out of the soil, gathered off the ground and ripped from the cattle pens around a cluster of round houses. They built just three entrances, for the fourth wall lay alongside the stream, and in each of the openings the left-hand wall curved out in front of the gateway. It meant any attacker would have to swerve to come in, all the while exposing their unshielded right side.

No tents were pitched, so that the perimeter was as small as possible while still enclosing all the men and the animals. Crispinus detailed double the normal number of men to stand guard, and told the rest to sleep rolled up in their cloaks and with their arms to hand. At least it was dry so that fires could be lit and a hot meal prepared. Oddly, for all the rumours of severed heads and curses, the mood was brighter than the previous night. Ferox ate quickly and slept during the last hours of daylight. He had given the scroll to Philo to decipher and the task cheered the young slave, making him feel useful and important. After a moment’s glance he told his master that the language was a mix of Greek, Aramaic, Old Hebrew and Egyptian, but that much of it was gibberish or secret words of power. Yet one theme was repeated in all the tongues. ‘Blood of king, blood of queen, blood of power and blood of woe,’ it said again and again. ‘It will take longer to work it all out,’ the slave said. ‘I’ll keep at it.’

‘Good lad,’ Ferox told him. ‘It may be important.’

Halfway through the first watch Ferox slipped over the wall beside the stream. His face was smeared with ash so that his skin did not shine. He wore his boots and trousers but no tunic and was glad of the heavy hooded cloak because the air was chill. His only weapon was his army-issue dagger, unsheathed and tucked into the back of the simple rope belt he wore. Vindex had wanted to come, but the Brigantian was not used to this sort of work, and Ferox was happier on his own. He did not tell anyone else of his plan, including Crispinus and the other officers. If nothing happened then they would be none the wiser.

At first it was easier than expected. A stallion, one of many ridden by the ala Petriana, sniffed a mare on heat and began to whinny and pull at the stake to which he was tethered. Men gathered, there was shouting, and the guards on the wall by the stream turned to see, giving him all the time in the world to vault the rampart, jump to the far bank of the stream, run ten paces and then fall flat and lie still. Lying still was a big part of the game, and that was why the elders taught Silurian boys to love silence and stillness. Covered in the long cloak he would be hard to see. He waited until he was sure that no one had spotted him, then made himself wait even longer before he began to crawl slowly forward, wondered why whenever a man did this it took him straight over a cowpat, and then stopped, watching and listening.

It was another hour or more – time was hard to judge because the cloud covered the stars and there was no moon – before he sensed and then saw figures ahead of him. By now he was some five or six hundred paces away from the outlying pickets, having swung around the camp in a big arc, helped by a series of gullies deep enough to jog along if he kept low and was careful.

There were Britons out on the slope and the fools were talking. He expected that of Roman soldiers, men who had stood guard so many times than even on campaign it came to feel routine and safe. More than once he had heard chatter and laughter from the camp, the sound carrying clearly in the still air. Now there were two men whispering as they crouched behind some boulders some way in front of him. They were tribesmen, but the accents did not sound local and neither was easy to understand.

Ferox lay flat on the earth, watching them. He spotted another pair about a hundred paces to the men’s right, and searched until he found two more a little further away to the left and better hidden. After a while he crawled back into the gully and crept along it, stopping as always to wait and listen as he worked his way gradually up the slope.

He sensed the man before he saw or heard him, and could not have explained to anyone how he knew. The centurion lay on his chest, head raised to scan the darkness. At last he saw him, a monstrously tall man standing straight and still, looking down into the valley. He did not move or speak, and Ferox did not sense that he knew the centurion was there. He told himself that he was getting old and sloppy to go so close before spotting the man.

There were shouts from the Roman camp. Probably another false alarm because soon there was silence again. All the while the huge man stood like a statue. He looked to be seven or eight feet tall, but then the cloud parted for a moment and in the bright starlight Ferox saw that the man wore a stag’s head, antlers and all, as a headdress. He was tall enough, his bare chest lean and muscled, but he was no giant or being from the Otherworld, just a man who could be killed. The cloud closed and the centurion waited for his eyes to adapt again to the dark.

Ferox began to inch forward.

More shapes came out of the shadows towards the man wearing antlers.

‘Are you ready?’ The voice was a strong one, used to command, and Ferox guessed that it was from the tall man. Two others appeared beside him.

‘Soon. The lot took longer than I thought, but the ones are chosen and have taken their draughts.’

‘Good. Strike at the ones on this side. There are ten or twelve. Tell them to pay no heed to the enemy’s shouts or blades. Each of them will be given the strength of a hundred. They must kill and burn until there are none left to kill and burn or they fall and receive their reward.’