Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

The deep voice began again. ‘Welcome to the Hall of Tincommius, High King of the Vacomagi and Venicones, Overlord of the Caledonians, 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—’

‘I think that is enough for now.’ The clean-shaven warrior stepped in front of them, and he also spoke in Latin, though with a lilting accent than made ordinary speech almost like verse. He had given his spear and shield to the other man, and now took off his helmet and ran a hand through his well-oiled black hair. ‘I am Tincommius, and I cannot remember all the rest of that stuff, nor do I care to listen to it all again. The gods alone know how he does. That’s if he really does. Often I wonder whether he makes half of it up. Haven’t a clue where some of those titles come from. Do I look like a ram to you?’

He did not wait for an answer. Without his helmet he was not much taller than Crispinus. His face was young, but there were faint creases around his eyes and they had the hardness born from experience that usually came with age or suffering. ‘Welcome, Tribune Marcus Atilius Crispinus, son of Marcus, former consul of Rome. Welcome Flavius Ferox, centurion, descended from the Lord of the Hills and prince of his people.’ A woman appeared beside him, carrying a wooden platter with a round loaf and a cup of red Samian ware. She was taller than the man, paler skinned, but with long hair almost as black as his, though it reached down to her waist. Her dress was of bleached white linen that clung to her full figure and was gathered at the waist by a belt of silver rings.

‘Come, eat from my table.’ The king broke off a piece of bread and passed it to Crispinus, and then did the same for Ferox. He raised the cup to his own lips, sipped and then passed it to each in turn, this time including the Batavian who had stood woodenly to attention throughout all this. ‘You are guests of the king and under his protection.’

The tribune gestured to the soldier, who opened the chest to show the silver platters and cup held within it. He bent down to lay it on the ground and then stepped back, resuming his stiff, parade-ground posture.

‘Thank you. I bring greetings and this token of friendship from the Legate—’ Crispinus began, but was cut short.

‘We shall talk together later, and discuss high matters tomorrow. First, you must be tired. They will show you to your bowers. Rest, eat and refresh yourselves. Tonight we shall feast, and tomorrow we shall talk. You must forgive me my little subterfuge – is that the right word? It is? Good. I try to do everything as well as I can and it is better to be corrected than to continue in ignorance, don’t you think? Farewell. We shall speak again.’

The high king tossed the cup away and put his arm around the waist of the woman. He pulled her towards him, making her drop the platter, and reached up to kiss her. She responded with enthusiasm. Ferox nudged the tribune with his foot and they left, ducking to get out of the low door. Men waited to escort them, but a few paces away another three men knelt on the ground, hands tied behind their backs. A big warrior with a long sword paced up and down in front of them. It took a moment for Ferox’s eyes to adjust back to full daylight before he recognised the man he had fought on the day of the ambush. If anything he looked even bigger.

The sword swung, the first head rolled and a fountain of blood only just missed the warrior’s legs.

‘Who are they?’ Crispinus asked.

Their escorts did not seem to speak Latin, so Ferox spoke to them in their own tongue.

‘Thieves who stole from the high king,’ he told the tribune. ‘And I dare say this is a demonstration for our benefit – like everything else.’ The blade fell for a second time, another head dropped and the dead man slumped forward. Tincommius was parading his involvement with the ambush of Sulpicia Lepidina, no doubt to remind them that he could be a dangerous enemy, so that it was better for the Romans to persuade the king to become their friend.

‘Better to be corrected than to continue in ignorance,’ Crispinus said. ‘What message is he trying to send? That he is a barbarian of great power and ruthlessness?’

‘That he’s strong and clever, more like. He wants us off balance.’

‘Sounds like a strategem. Uncle Frontinus is obsessed with them. He’s even writing a book about them. But all the ones he goes on about had a purpose. What do you think that is?’

‘Isn’t that the answer we have come to find?’

They were taken to an area of the fort away from other buildings. There was a corral for the horses, and the animals were already being fed and groomed. One large hut was provided for the troopers, scouts and slaves, and two smaller ones for the officers. Ferox was happy to share with Masclus and let the tribune rest on his own – at least he would be spared the constant talk. There were servants waiting in each house, and he heard the decurion swearing that he would castrate any man who mistreated them. ‘We’re a long way from home, boys, and if you want to see home you won’t do anything daft.’

With a lot of units Ferox would have worried that some of the men would see the chance to desert, now that they were so far from the nearest garrison, but he doubted that there was much risk with these Batavians, who were a clannish bunch and stuck close to their comrades.

It was dark by the time they were summoned, and men came with torches to lead them to the great feast. Masclus was included in the invitation, but they had decided that a tactful fatigue and illness was prudent in his case, so the three of them, Crispinus, Ferox and Vindex, went on their own. The tribune had abandoned uniform and was resplendent in white tunic and toga, a garment Ferox had never truly mastered, for he tended to wave his arms around when he talked and that spelt ruin to its drape.

The tribune walked with elegance, but seemed perplexed.

‘Do you feel well?’ Ferox asked.

‘Yes, yes. Indeed I suppose I ought to say better than well. Did, um, I mean to say, were you also…?’ The young aristocrat trailed off. ‘I am not quite sure how to put this, but did women come to you while you were waiting?’

‘No,’ the centurion said. Vindex was sniggering. ‘But you are our leader and the guest of honour and hospitality in these parts demands certain courtesies.’

‘She just came in,’ he said in a tone of disbelief. ‘Smiled as if I was an old friend and undid the brooches on her shoulders so that her dress fell to the ground. Pretty thing, and without the falseness of your usual whore, but very direct. Walks over and starts…’ Again he seemed lost for words.

‘It is courtesy. And she will not be some tart, but one of the King’s household. A wife perhaps, or a daughter.’

‘His daughter?’ The aristocrat was shocked at the thought. ‘You cannot mean that. Who would send his own daughter to…’

‘Hump a stranger in welcome,’ Vindex suggested. ‘Begging your pardon, my lord, but you’re a lucky sod.’

They walked on in silence, and were soon near the hall.

‘Wish I’d known,’ Crispinus said wistfully. ‘I might have enjoyed it all the more.’

They entered to a great roar of noise, and Ferox was glad that he had gone in first because the shout of greeting made the tribune flinch in surprise. He hoped that no one noticed this as he raised his arms and bellowed in reply.

There were low tables forming a circle with the fireplace in the middle. There was one gap in the circle to allow the servants to come and go, and opposite it Tincommius sat on the carved chair. Men stood beside the table, arms lifted high in welcome. All were splendidly dressed in brightly coloured clothes, and most wore gold or silver torcs and bracelets and had jewelled brooches pinning their cloaks into place. Ferox guessed that they were chiefs and kings for behind them stood more plainly garbed warriors, resting long shields on the ground. These were men sworn to the high king, or ones he wished to win over, and it could not be coincidence that they gathered for this feast. Tincommius was showing his influence.