Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

Within hours of crossing the water the skies darkened and the rain started to fall. It rained all night, defying their best efforts to light a fire, and kept raining throughout the next day. It was warmer, but the wet seeped into their clothes and their souls and they did not feel any benefit. The next night they were glad of the hospitality of the chieftain whose people lived in a small walled enclosure beside a mere. There was a hot meal of stew and plenty of beer, so that they went to their tents content. The chieftain belonged to the Venicones, and told them that he had known to expect them today.

Crispinus was pleased with this proof of power and goodwill on the part of the high king. They made quick progress the next day in spite of driving wind and heavy showers of rain. The route followed the line of another road built by the army. Outlines of old ditches and ramparts showed in the grass, little squares like Syracuse and more circles or smaller rectangles that would each have protected a watchtower. It was not until they went past a bigger rectangular enclosure than Crispinus recognised what they were.

‘This was a garrison? It looks almost as old as the land itself.’

‘Ten years, maybe twelve since it was abandoned,’ Ferox said. ‘The army likes to be thorough so they knock down the buildings, rip up the posts, pile the wattles and burn them.’ He pointed to patches in the grass that were a different shade to the rest from the heat of the fires. ‘There’ll be thousands and thousands of nails buried in pits around here, and plenty of other stuff that was useless or too heavy to be worth carting away.’

‘Why don’t the locals dig it up? The iron would be useful if nothing else.’

‘They probably do if they know where to look.’

They were heading north-east, and whenever the rain stopped and the cloud lifted a little they could see the line of mountains to their left. On the next day they followed a ridge, passing a succession of old outposts.

‘Amazing how fast the grass covers everything,’ Crispinus said.

Ferox shrugged. ‘Ten years is a long time.’

Some farmers used the old ramparts as cattle pens. People were wary of them, but not unfriendly. When they stopped in the day to rest their horses, men would come and stare at them. The children were less bashful, and wandered into the little camp. They kept away from Vindex, at least until he began doling out pieces of biscuit, and seemed most fascinated by Crispinus, trying to touch him as he passed.

Ferox listened to their chatter and could not help chuckling. ‘They think you’re the Emperor of Rome and that it’s good luck to touch you because gold flows in your veins instead of blood.’

‘I’ve been trying to persuade women of that truth for years,’ the tribune joked, but seemed pleased with the attention.

The rain stopped the next day, but it was grey and cold, so that their breath steamed and at the end of each ride Ferox found his feet numb and painful when he dismounted. They kept passing abandoned outposts of Rome and finally came to a vast enclosure bigger than anything they had seen before.

‘The Twentieth Legion built this, although they never quite finished it,’ Ferox said. He could see the tribune gazing in astonishment at the vast remains of the base. ‘Now do you understand?’

‘I think so,’ the young aristocrat said, and for once he lacked his usual confidence and poise. ‘We were once strong for all to see and then we left. Why should they fear us now? Why should they deal with us?’

‘We – that is you – need to tell them why,’ the centurion said, gripping the tribune by the arm.

TINCOMMIUS DWELLED AT present within the ramparts of an old army base about the size of Vindolanda, and from a distance it did not look so different. Instead of the half-filled ditch and grassy rampart, men had toiled to rebuild the defences. There were timber towers over new gates, more towers at the corners, and a wooden parapet protecting the walkway. Sentries paced the walls or watched from the towers, and if few had helmets, even fewer armour, and their clothes and shields were of every colour, they still appeared vigilant.

Horns blew as the little column approached, and the gates swung open. That was one difference, because during the day camp gates were wide open unless there was an immediate threat of enemy attack. When they went under the tower into the fort the impression of an army base vanished altogether. There were no streets, no ordered rows of barracks and granaries, and instead dozens of round houses with conical thatched roofs stood in no sort of pattern, some clustered tightly together and others scattered. There were wide-open spaces, even a few young trees, and animals and people wandering around. As they came inside Crispinus wrinkled his nose at the sight and smell of a couple of men squatting down and relieving themselves out in the open. Roman cities and big bases stank, but this was different, and had the feel of a great farm.

The high king lived in one of two great houses in the far corner of the old fort. The buildings were fenced off from the rest and guarded by tall warriors in mail coats and bronze helmets, carrying long oval shields painted half red and half black and spear shafts well oiled so that they shone. Each one had a sword on his right hip, almost all of them army issue. Large dogs were chained to posts near the entrance, and loud barking came from a pen behind the house.

Crispinus, Ferox and a single Batavian carrying a wooden chest were ushered towards the higher of the two houses. Their guide had vanished, and instead they were led by a little man with a crooked leg, who leaned on a staff. He wore a thin circlet of gold around his neck, and had on a white tunic trimmed with green and trousers checked in blue, grey and green. The top of his head was bald, the skin mottled and creased, and the fringe of hair around it was rough and thick like horsehair and stuck up at odd angles. The pupil of one eye was a lifeless off-white, and the other peered at them as if struggling to focus. Two warriors stood beside him, not as tall as the other guards but as splendidly equipped. One had raven-black hair and a smooth-shaven face and the other was red-haired and had a long moustache.

‘This is the hall of Tincommius, High King of the Vacomagi and Venicones, Overlord of the Caledonians.’ The small man had a surprisingly deep voice and even more surprisingly spoke near perfect Latin. ‘He is the Red Branch and the Tall Tree, the Great Bull of Camulos, the Mountain that stands alone in the storm, the Bloody Sword and the Unpierced Shield, the Black Cloak.’

One of the guard dogs was looking at Ferox and snarling. He had never cared much for dogs, except as a meal for the desperate. Somehow the creatures always seemed to know how he felt and to return his dislike.

‘He is the Lord of the valleys and mountains,’ the little man continued just when they thought that he had finished. ‘The Horn sounding on the hilltop, the Blade that flashes in the dawn, the Spear that flies true and strong, the Sky that covers the lands and brings rain, the Ram that brings plenty, and the Wise Judge of deep matters.’

Crispinus let out a long breath once he realised that the list was done. The little man limped over to the porch of the house. The door was low, so that even he was forced to duck as he went in. Ferox had almost to bend double, as did the trooper and the two warriors who followed.

It was brighter inside than he had expected, for a fire raged in a long trench in the middle of a wide floor and torches burned, mounted on iron holders or attached to the circle of posts near the edge of the great hall. Crispinus gasped in surprise at the sheer size of the place, the high ceiling dark with shadows and smoke, and the almost empty circle of floor around the fire. There was a single chair, high-backed and richly carved, and on it sat a boy of eight or nine, his hair the colour of pale gold tinged with red by the firelight.