Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

His companion let out a contented sigh, although there was no sign of his finishing. ‘There are many joys in life,’ he said, ‘a great many, but in the moment itself how many can truly compare to the relief of emptying a full bladder?’

Ferox smiled at him. He was an old man with long hair and beard that were white except where the hair was greasy or stained with dirt. Ferox stood up straight and tried hard to look him in the eye, but his sluggish mind took a while to recognise the beggar he had seen at Vindolanda, and then only because of the little mongrel, rubbing against the old man’s legs. ‘It is a blessing,’ he said.

‘They call you Flavius Ferox,’ the old man asked, ‘but what is your real name, Prince of the Silures?’

‘If you know anything of my people, you know that I will never tell you that.’ Every Silurian boy was given a name three weeks after birth, a secret name known only to the closest family and never used except in silent prayer for their protection.

‘I do know your people, and I knew your grandfather. I was there when the Romans killed your father and left his mangled corpse in the surf, blood soaking out into the pebbles. I was there, boy, and I know that you are still of your people and not of Rome.’

Ferox did not reply and stared at the puddle he had just made. He had finished so began fastening everything back into place. He did not want to think about what the man was saying, or how he knew such things.

‘I remember you as a boy,’ the old man said, ‘sitting with the others and listening to Diviciacus drone on.’ A noise more cackle than laugh, and even more like someone choking than either, was presumably the sound of merriment. ‘He was an old fool even when he was young, but a druid nonetheless, and fit to teach infants.’

The memories came flooding back. Diviciacus was a Gaul, who had come to Britannia to study, and missed the slaughter of the priests at Mona so never completed his full training. Ferox’s grandfather had liked him, and entrusted him with the education of the children in his family. For reasons Ferox had never understood, the druid was ordered to teach him – and only him – to speak, read and write Latin.

‘It was a long time ago in a different world,’ Ferox said at last. The old man watched him as if reading every thought. Diviciacus was a mild, worried man, and the children had played many tricks on him, but every now and again another druid had appeared, young, but with a voice full of power and horror. The two men knew each other, and whenever the druid appeared the tutor let him speak to his charges. A name rose from distant memory – a name the children had used to frighten each other.

‘Acco?’

‘You remember then,’ said the old man. ‘Then remember the truth of who you are. You are of the tribes, boy, not a lackey to an emperor. Join us.’

‘Us?’ Ferox did not look up.

‘The free tribes of the Britons. The Romans have tried to crush our spirit and take our lands, but they have failed here in the north. For the first time they have failed and the tide has turned so that we will sweep them from the whole island and go back to the old ways.

‘Rome is finished, its gods fading away. Thirty years ago the Temple of Jupiter on Rome’s Capitol burned. Within nine times three years it will be struck again by the fire of the gods, and this time it will burn into ashes and nothing will be left. That time is fast approaching. Thirty years ago the seers in Gaul prophesied the end of Rome. They were premature, and had not read the signs properly for they no longer had the true knowledge. I have that knowledge. I saw the groves on Mona before they fell, and I was taught secrets no longer known to anyone. The fire will come and the end will come if only we listen to the gods and obey them.’

Ferox pushed his mail shirt down comfortably over his hips. ‘You sound like that fool in there.’

‘He is a child – a gifted child certainly, but no more than that. He seeks only to kill. I too would sweep Rome away, but we must build something better. Will you help me?’

It was hard to remember the hunched beggar muttering to himself. This man looked hale in body and sharp in his mind. He also seemed genuinely eager to persuade.

‘I am sworn man to the emperor and to Rome.’

‘Which emperor? No one had heard of Trajan until a few years ago.’ The voice was reasonable, the knowledge obvious. This was a man who spoke of the Capitoline Hill in Rome and of emperors and understood what he was saying. Ferox knew without having to be told that this was the great druid, although he could not guess how the man came to understand such things.

‘Civil war is coming again, and this time the empire will not survive. They will turn on each other like rats and rush down the road to their utter ruin. Leave them, boy. Leave the people who disdain you and leave you to rot and drown your sorrows in drink. What have they ever done to earn your faith?’

Acco knew too much, and at that moment if he had brought up her name and promised to lead Ferox to her, he might just have gone with the man.

‘I am sworn. If you truly knew my grandfather you would not expect me to break an oath.’

‘An oath to them? What does that matter? Do you know that even now some of them send us arms and information, that they even kill their own when we ask? They are filth, worthless in every way. Rome is a poison killing the whole world and the world will die if it is not stopped now.’ The man was getting wilder, his voice louder, and the first spell was broken. ‘Be free of them, boy. Leave them and be free of oaths to the unworthy.’

Ferox did not love Rome, but neither did he put much store in prophecies and predictions of doom. There was much about the empire that was rotten and much that sickened him. Honesty forced him to admit that there was also much he hated about the way the tribes lived and preyed on each other and he had known plenty of chieftains as ruthless, cruel and treacherous as the worst emperors. He suspected that Tincommius was one of them, otherwise he doubted that the man would have proved so successful. The same was doubtless true of this druid.

‘There was an old man and boy,’ Ferox said, not wanting to discuss the evils of Rome. ‘Men called him the Goat Man. I never knew the boy’s name. You must have met them or heard of them.’

‘What of it?’ Acco frowned. ‘They are gone now and do not matter.’

‘Yes, they are dead. The Stallion’s men buried the boy alive.’

‘I was not there,’ the druid said. ‘But I lived with your kin and stood with them as they fought Rome. Your grandfather fought with all the cruelty of your people. Evil things must be done in war.’

Ferox sighed. There was no point in trying to explain to a man like this. The druid’s hatred burned less brightly than the Stallion’s, but it had the strong deep heat of iron worked in a forge. The old man could see nothing beyond his own path, and that was paved with blood and ruin.

‘I am a centurion of Rome, sworn to serve the city and the emperor,’ Ferox said.

‘Then I cannot save you.’ The beggar or great druid or whoever this was sounded disappointed and sad. ‘And you could have served us so well. You are Flavius Ferox indeed and no longer anyone else. I am sorry. Soon all will be blood and fire and you will perish. I have failed your grandfather.’ The old man stalked off into the night.

For a moment Ferox nearly followed. He did not remember his father, for he had been a babe in arms when he was killed, and part of him wanted to learn more about what sort of man he had been. Yet he knew that it would not change anything.

He went back to the feast and drank beside the German. Eventually they both passed out.