Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

The Traveller carried a staff that had leaves and berries tied to its top.

‘That is the mark of an envoy,’ Ferox told the tribune.

‘Is not mistletoe a mark of the druids?’

‘It can be. It can also just be mistletoe.’

The road north had been built by the army twenty years ago and was meant as a temporary route, but no one had got around to laying it down properly before the bases it reached were abandoned. Since then many stones had been pulled up by the locals wanting material for cattle pens or house walls, and weeds and grass had sprung up in the gaps between the ones the thieves had left. Much of the time they followed their guide and rode beside the track rather than on it, but the line of the old road was easy to follow.

‘Not sure we really need him yet,’ Crispinus remarked. ‘Guess it will be different further on, but he could have waited for us there.’

‘We need him for the things we cannot see,’ Ferox said. ‘And if you will forgive me, I would like to ride out to see how Vindex and his scouts are doing.’ He galloped off before the tribune could reply. From the very start of the journey Crispinus had resumed his questioning and discussion, and the centurion once again found the endless chatter oppressive.

Some things he did not mind explaining. ‘Whenever we pass a village or any big cluster of houses – let alone a walled place – we must swing round to the left,’ he had told the tribune on the first day.

Crispinus waited for more and finally forced the issue. ‘Why?’

‘Because it means that they will be on our right.’ Ferox said, his tone suggesting that it was obvious, and there was another long pause before he realised that he still needed to explain. ‘Our shields are on our left side, so the right is unprotected. It shows them that we come in peace and so willingly offer our exposed sides to them. Enemies would not take such a chance.’

‘Unless it was a trick,’ Crispinus mused. ‘But these people are Votadini, so allies of ours.’

‘Then no harm in reminding them of that, my lord. The Selgovae are allies and we attacked them just a few weeks ago.’

Each night they made camp, but they were too few to entrench the position even if the cavalrymen had been willing. There were three big tents made of panels of calfskin stitched together for the Batavians and the army slaves, and a slightly smaller one shared by the three officers. The horses and mules were tethered in lines, beside the stacked shields and spears of the soldiers. Five of the troopers were always on guard, with one standing fifteen paces out on each side of the camp and the other man watching the horses.

‘We are under the king’s protection,’ Crispinus said. ‘Surely no one will risk his anger by molesting us?’

Ferox was insistent. ‘There are outlaws in every land, men who do not care much for the word of kings, chiefs or even emperors. And there are quite enough folk who might be tempted if the risks looked slight. Best not to tempt them in the first place,’ he said and was backed up by Masclus. The tribune deferred to their experience, but Ferox still worried. A really skilled thief might take animals from under the sentry’s nose. He arranged with Vindex that one of the scouts would patrol the darkness each night and took a turn himself to spread the load.

Yet if there were such men in the neighbourhood, they held their hand. The camp went undisturbed each night, save for the persistent calling of a wildcat. On the second morning they woke to frost on the leather tents and grass that was white and crunched underfoot. It vanished quickly once the sun rose, with only a few patches left where valley sides kept the land in shadow.

The following night they pitched tents beside a brook, overlooked by a cluster of round houses perched on a hillock. The headman invited the officers to share his meal. Masclus remained with his troopers, and the tribune and centurion took a couple of Batavians with them. Crispinus squatted uncomfortably by the fire, blinking and coughing in the smoky atmosphere inside, for like most local houses it had no chimney and let the smoke seep into the thatch. Yet Ferox was surprised and pleased with the way the young aristocrat conducted himself, drinking and eating all that was offered, and treating his host with the greatest respect.

‘Good manners are important,’ was all that he said afterwards, although that may have been because he was feeling a little the worse for wear after downing several wooden cups of beer. The Batavians had sucked the liquid down like sponges and after initial suspicion had greatly enjoyed being chosen.

The next day the tribune had a green pallor and Ferox was spared questions for the first few hours. The respite was temporary. ‘Why do the houses have doors facing south-east?’ ‘Why no chimneys?’ ‘Were those people from a certain clan and how can you tell?’ On and on, until the centurion set off to visit the scouts. Crispinus was only prevented from going with him when Masclus insisted that as commander of the escort it was his job to ensure the tribune’s safety and that would not be easy if he started gadding about away from the column.

Two more cold nights were followed by bright days with only gentle winds and the tribune talked about how everyone exaggerated the savagery of northern climes. They passed the great trading post of the Votadini, a walled stronghold and market on a great hill that rose above miles and miles of gently rolling pastures. Ferox had been there a couple of times and often seen the place from afar. It always reminded him of a painting he had once seen of the pyramids in Egypt. They did not go close, for it was out of their way, but he could see that even Crispinus was impressed.

‘Never expected to see so many people up here,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘There are farms everywhere, villages, well-tilled fields and fat cattle and sheep.’

‘What were you expecting, my lord?’

‘More of a wilderness – marsh and dark woods.’

‘Well, there’s some of that, to be sure, but hopefully we won’t need to go through it.’

They kept going, until the crest of a rise gave them a view of the estuary of the great river opening out into the sea. The water sparkled in the morning sun, white-capped in places for the wind was blowing strong and bitter cold from the east.

‘“Thalassa! Thalassa!”’ Crispinus proclaimed at the sight. Ferox felt his heart lift, but he was thinking of his own homeland more than Xenophon and his Ten Thousand mercenaries glimpsing the sea that led them home to Greece. The water up here was a clear blue like glass, not like the muddy brown of the channel near his homeland, and yet its moods were the same. He caught the faint hint of salt on the air and it made him yearn for the simplicity of his childhood when no oaths bound him tight. Here he was, several days’ ride beyond the furthest outpost of the empire, and he still felt confined. More than once in the last days the tribune had asked him why he stayed in his out-of-the-way post.

‘No one else wants me,’ he said the first few times, but Crispinus persisted.

‘There is always a need for able men.’

‘I like it at Syracuse,’ Ferox confessed at last. ‘No one breathes down my neck – at least until now. I’m on the edge of the empire, almost the edge of the world, if you like. I can see where it ends.’

That appeared to satisfy the tribune’s curiosity. Ferox was not sure whether or not it was the truth. After so many years serving Rome and the emperors, he could not really imagine any other life. Like it or not, it seemed to be his fate.

They had to go west for some distance before they were able to cross the river, ferried across four at a time, men and horses together on a raft. No payment was demanded and the sight of their guide seemed enough to make the locals help them.