Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

There were two gaps, and the bald-headed steward led them to the wider of the two. Crispinus took his place between them, with Ferox on his right and Vindex on his left. The big warrior who had beheaded the thieves glared at the centurion before moving to make room.

‘You should have attendants,’ the German rumbled in his guttural, thick-accented voice.

‘We have no need,’ Ferox replied and hoped that he was right. Batavians were fine soldiers, but apt to be aggressive, especially if drink was freely available, and he did not regret leaving them behind.

The big warrior boomed out something the centurion did not understand, and the dark-haired woman appeared, her white dress almost luminous in its brightness. She whispered to the high king who gave swift orders to three of the warriors standing in the shadows behind his chair. The men wore mail that glistened a dull red and had rich fur cloaks that must have been almost insufferably hot in this hall with its blazing fires. In silence they walked to stand behind the three Roman envoys, and in silence they stood there, faces wooden.

Crispinus glanced back and up at them, for they were all taller than him by a good six inches. ‘Are they here to guard us?’ he whispered. ‘Or worse?’

‘They’re here to carry us home when we can no longer walk,’ Vindex replied before Ferox had a chance.

The tribune laughed and then saw that he was serious. He looked at Ferox who nodded in confirmation.

‘Better,’ the German rumbled.

They waited for a short while, until the high king looked at the last remaining empty space at his table, his calm expression unchanged, and then beckoned with his arms for his guests to sit. Ferox and Vindex readily sat down cross-legged like the others. The tribune took a little longer, the act awkward for a man in a toga. As he spread his legs his tunic bunched up over his thighs.

‘Glad that table is in front otherwise this might not look too elegant for an envoy of Rome,’ he whispered.

Sitting next to Vindex was a lanky warrior who must have been fifty if he was a day, his long white hair hanging down on to his shoulders and his moustache bristly. From his speech he sounded a local man, and was affable enough, although he talked mainly to his neighbour on the other side. Most of the men wore tunics and trousers, the wool in a wide range of intricate tartan patterns. There were also several bare-legged wearing long tunics, a habit most common among the Hibernians, and Ferox wondered whether they had come from that island to the west.

They began with wine, Gallic by the taste of it, poured out unmixed and strong into cups placed in front of them.

Vindex glanced at Ferox, and Crispinus’ face was concerned. ‘Will you manage?’ he asked.

‘We shall see.’ Ferox nodded towards the far side of the ring of tables, not far from the king’s seat. ‘More surprised to see that one.’ Venutius, face still mottled with bruises, saw that they were looking at him and raised his cup affably. Behind him stood the young warrior Ferox had beaten and allowed to go.

‘He’s not hiding anything from us, is he?’ Crispinus whispered. ‘He’s letting us see his power and connections that include some of our allies.’

‘Don’t assume it’s everything.’ Ferox doubted that the people close enough to hear could understand Latin, but could not be sure and wished the tribune would not chatter. He sensed Crispinus’ nervousness and knew it must be difficult for him sitting there, unable to speak the language and follow what was happening. He remembered the first Roman dinner he had attended and how alien it all seemed. ‘We are seeing only what he is letting us see,’ he added after a moment.

The food started to arrive, beginning with a thick stew of beef and vegetable. Beer came with it, and more wine, and, after a dip in the noise as men ate with great enthusiasm, the hubbub of conversation grew louder. The big warrior next to Ferox spooned up his stew as if he had not seen food for a month, spilling the liquid as he shovelled it into his mouth. He called for a second bowl when a serving girl passed, and dealt with that as speedily. His moustache and beard dripped so he wiped his sleeve across them. ‘Good,’ he grunted to Ferox, but did not seem a man given to much talk.

Roasted venison came next, a generous cut for each of the guests. Ferox noticed that the high king ate little and spent most of his time watching and listening. Occasionally he laughed loudly at something someone said. Crispinus struggled manfully with the unfamiliar feast.

‘Wish I’d brought a fork to hold it steady while I cut.’ Ferox had told the tribune to bring a knife and spoon to help him eat.

‘Use your hand.’

Crispinus grimaced, but followed the advice. The big German simply tore the meat apart with his fingers, licking off the gravy once he had finished.

A bard stepped into the circle around the fire and began to sing unaccompanied. He was thin-faced and young, but with prematurely white hair and a livid dark blemish across his right cheek – marks that would surely have been seen as a curse if he had not possessed a rare talent with verse and song. He sang slowly, in the low nasal whine the peoples of the north loved so much. Most Silures had higher-pitched, sweeter voices, and Ferox wished that it was one of their bards who sang because the best of them had a beauty that helped a man’s soul to soar up to the heavens. Yet he had to admit that this man was good, and for a while the talk faded to nothing as everyone listened, and it was almost as if he conjured pictures in the flickering firelight.

Crispinus could not understand a word and swiftly tired of the monotonous tune. ‘How long do we have to put up with this?’

‘A while yet.’ Ferox did not want to worry the man by saying that it would probably last for hours. ‘He is singing praises of the high king, of the man born to lead his people and to unite the tribes. Of his keen eye and strong arm…’ He stopped because he could see that the tribune was not interested and also because he wanted to listen.

The bard told a story, most of which was wholly new to Ferox and helped to give him a better sense of Tincommius and how the high king wanted men to see him. It was a remarkable tale of a boy who survived the murder of his father and older brothers at the hands of a neighbouring chief. They were all burned alive, trapped in a hut set on fire by an enemy who had pretended to welcome them as friends. The young Tincommius had somehow scrabbled his way through the mud wall of the house before the smoke and flames reached him, helped by one of the enemy who rejected the treachery of his leader. The bard sang of the hunters chasing the boy, of the warrior giving his life to save him, and of how he went to an island far in the north and trained to fight. Grown to manhood, he came back to exact vengeance and there was much about this, of enemies killed in battle as the blood ran red off the wheels of Tincommius’ chariot, and of others taken by surprise and slaughtered like pigs.

‘Hercules’ balls, when will he stop,’ Crispinus muttered, until a young woman appeared and offered him more wine. The aristocrat hung his head and may have blushed, although it was hard to tell in the red light and smoky atmosphere of the hall. The woman looked to be about sixteen or seventeen, and had her thick auburn hair plaited and coiled up in a tower on the top of her head. She was pretty, and her checked dress was held at the shoulders by a pair of bronze brooches.

Vindex laughed and nudged the tribune with his elbow. ‘Lucky bastard.’

Ferox did not pay much attention, although he felt a flash of envy. The bard paced slowly around the circle of tables as he sang, and apart from drawing breath he did not pause in the tale. Tincommius’ own people welcomed the returned exile and rallied to him. His clan were not numerous, but were brave and proud-hearted and stout fighters. The gods led him to a hoard of weapons and fine swords, crafted with cunning and magic to bite through bone and armour as easily as butter. His men armed and armoured, and with Tincommius, the bravest of all, at their head, they fought and beat each of the neighbouring clans in turn, even when three joined forces to face him. Yet he was wise and merciful. Only the men who had wronged him were killed, their families enslaved or slaughtered by their sides. The rest had only to take an oath to him and serve him loyally and then share in the glory and spoils to come. His power grew, chieftain after chieftain and clan after clan swearing to serve him. The great druid – Ferox’s attention doubled at his appearance – had watched the contest for power, not taking sides, until the gods spoke to him and he came to Tincommius and guided his steps. It was the great druid who proclaimed him high king in front of all the leaders of the people. Soon clans from other tribes pledged allegiance: Venicones, Caledonians, Selgovae, even the strange Epidii of the far west. Warriors came from across the oceans to serve him. Great chieftains begged to foster his sons and offered their daughters as brides to the high king.