Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

Ferox envied the animals their stamina and their lack of care, when he just wanted to lie down for a hundred years. His head throbbed, his belly churned and he could not rid his mouth of the taste of vomit. He worried that he might throw up again, as he had when they started to trot for the first time. He had not fallen off, but when he had tried to mount up back at Syracuse he had not been able to make his limbs work. Ferox had grabbed the horns on his saddle, ready to jump up, but could not. Instead he had just stood there, staring dumbly as the gelding turned its head and stared back. His legs had felt like lead – heavy, ready to bend or crack as soon as he put weight on them. He had bounced slightly, unable to do more. It was a sign of how bad he felt that the snort of laughter from one of his men and the contemptuous sniffs of the Brigantes had not cut deeper. They had to help him on, one of the soldiers cupping his hands and bracing them against his knee so that Ferox could step on it, while another man lifted and shoved him from behind.

Vindex was already on his own horse and had looked at him with a pity in his eyes that cut deeper than the laughter and contempt. Then his bony face became hard.

‘She is gone,’ the Brigantian had whispered. ‘She’s not coming back.’

It was like being thrust into the cold and dirty water of the horse trough again, and for a moment the old pain burned bright and fierce. Ferox hated the scout, hated himself for what he had become, hated the whole world and the gods who had brought him to this place and the great emptiness inside him. Rage and pain filled him with strength.

‘Let’s go,’ he had said, and urged the gelding towards the gate. Once he was outside the ramparts he had given a gentle nudge and the animal willingly trotted – the whole move only spoiled when the nausea took over and he vomited. It left him empty and weak once again as he led the straggling column south. Vindex had left the trail of the men who had killed the old man to come to Syracuse, and rather than retrace his path they hoped to find it again further on. It was a gamble, but time was precious. The scouts had lost half the night coming to fetch him, and it had taken a good half-hour before they were ready to leave the outpost.

Now that it was too late, Ferox wished he had let Philo shave him. It was always easier to think with a smooth chin to rub, and somehow it made him feel more alive. The Alexandrian boy fussed over him – ‘Like a good Jewish mother,’ he always said, even if Ferox doubted that the slave had spent much of a childhood with either of his parents. Philo set high standards, clearly determined to make his master almost as neat and well groomed as he was, and looked so disappointed at the centurion’s constant failure to match this ideal. Ferox liked the boy and indulged him a little, if only because he was a reminder of better times and of her. He had bought the boy as a slave for her, but then she had vanished and he was left with this fussy servant. That meant there was always a struggle for he could not be too hard on the boy.

The centurion had refused the mail shirt when the slave brought it out, knowing that if he had taken it the lad would surely have wanted him to wear his harness and decorations as well. He also turned down the helmet with its high transverse crest of feathers, demanding this old felt hat instead. Master and slave compromised in the end, and he had left wearing the hat, but with the helmet strapped to the rolled blanket tied behind his saddle. Ferox also allowed the slave to pin a deep blue cloak around his shoulders. It might prove useful if the weather changed or they were out for a night or more. Philo was no doubt pleased that it partly covered the old padded jerkin, a garment that he was convinced shamed his important master.

‘You should send a man and have the beacon lit.’

Ferox had not noticed Vindex come up beside him and was surprised at this interruption to his thoughts. It was the second time the Brigantian had made the request. There was a watchtower only a couple of miles away, built on one of the highest peaks in the line of hills, with a good view, especially of the lands to the south. There were rarely more than half a dozen soldiers there, enough to keep watch from the top of the tower and tend the beacon.

‘We haven’t found any sign of your latrones yet.’

‘Have we not?’ Vindex looked around him. ‘Anyway, isn’t that all the more reason to give the alarm? They could be anywhere.’ The black smoke of the beacon was visible for many miles and informed army and civilians alike that trouble was abroad. Once it was seen, riders would gallop from the garrisons to find out was happening, strong patrols would go out along the main routes and even larger forces prepare to move as soon as detailed reports came in. It warned the attackers just as it warned everyone else, letting them know that they were hunted, and that the danger would steadily increase for every hour they remained in the area.

‘Not yet.’ Ferox repeated his answer to the earlier request. The first time Vindex had dropped back and followed with the others. Now he said no more, but kept riding alongside the centurion.

Ferox was tempted, for there was certainly something not right. They had passed several farms and the people in them were courteous, nodding or waving at them as they went by. Yet they looked watchful, as if unsure what was happening and sensing danger. They met some drovers urging a small herd onwards in quite a hurry, but the men claimed to have seen and heard nothing untoward. To Ferox their faces were even more wary than men’s faces often were when confronted by Romans asking questions. He suspected that if his mind were not so dulled by his hangover he would have seen more.

There were a few signs by the wayside of the sort used by the tribes to send simple messages. Among the Textoverdi of these lands, one stone piled on another meant that there were warriors or soldiers abroad, and he had seen several of these that looked fresh. A mile or so back there were three flat stones piled on top of each other, the highest one much lighter coloured than the others. That meant a large force of warriors, well armed, with the bright stone marking them as enemies, although in truth some of the locals signified the Roman army in that way. It meant that the group were not Textoverdi, and probably not from one of the other Brigantian clans like Vindex’s Carvetii. Ferox wished that he had taken the time to read the fresh bundle of letters back at Syracuse and to check through the latest orders as that should have told him if a large army patrol or other detachment was in the area. He doubted that there was, as the nearest garrisons were stretched pretty thin these days, but it was still just summer, the time for training and shows of force, so it was possible that something was on.

Ferox knew that he did not believe it and wondered whether it was stubbornness or fear that stopped him from sending a man to raise the alarm. He could not pretend that the fear was not real. His was once a promising career, as the first young nobleman of the Silures to be given Roman citizenship, educated at Lugdunum in Gaul with the aristocratic children of the three provinces, commissioned as centurion in a legion, and decorated for valour by the Emperor Domitian himself. All of that had turned sour long ago and some of it was his fault. He had spent the last seven years here in the north of Britannia, without leave or promotion, serving away from his legion who never gave any suggestion that they wanted his presence. His political importance had long vanished now that the Silures were said to be peaceful, and he was posted to Syracuse because he did not matter and neither did the duties he carried out – at least not to any senior man in the province, let alone anyone at Rome. Ferox was regionarius of a district of little importance and if he wanted to rot there or drink himself into an early grave then no one much minded. Neither were they much inclined to trust his judgement, for his stubborn pursuit of the truth had made him few friends and plenty of enemies.