Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

FEROX WOKE WITH hair in his mouth. For a while he just lay on his back and felt the wiry strands on his lips. There was a weight resting against him and something over him, but he was comfortable and did not mind. Above was the high thatched roof and there was a dull light, which made him suspect that the morning was well advanced. The fire had died away to nothing sometime during the night and his eyes did not want to do any hard work, so he let them close and only now and again looked up at the roof. There was movement there, probably the usual roaches or other vermin in the thatch, but the more he stared up the more he became convinced that this was not the hut he had occupied with Vindex and Masclus. It was smaller, for one thing, and the gentle sighing breath beside him did not sound much like either man.

The centurion blew the hair out of his mouth. It was long and raven black. He licked his lips and squinted to see the long slim arm draped over his chest and outside the warmth of the furs covering them. Turning as gently as he could, he twisted his head to see the mass of long raven-dark hair sprayed out like a great fan. Most of the owner’s face was covered as she rested, but he could see the outline of a pale cheek and full lips that seemed very red in contrast. It was the woman embraced by the high king at their first meeting – a day, and what seemed like months ago. She was naked, for he could feel her bare skin on his under the coverings. The woman stirred slightly, murmured something, and hooked one long leg over his.

There were worse ways to wake up, far worse, but he could not remember anything after the feast. This was surely the hut given to Crispinus and the woman here to offer the hospitality of the royal house to the honoured guest. Was it all a mistake, and he had been carried here instead of the young tribune? That seemed unlikely, for the high king struck him as a deliberate man, which meant that there must be a reason why he was here, lying with this woman. He doubted that anything had happened, for he had drunk far more than he had done since the ambush over a month ago. Yet someone had undressed him, and as he lay he felt the warmth of his companion. She was a royal favourite, and the way that Tincommius had embraced her made it obvious she was his lover, whether mistress or one of his wives.

The dark-haired woman stirred again, leaning her body back to rest more on her side than over him. He could feel her breasts brushing against his skin. She smelled very faintly of flowers, a hint of a perfume which could only have come from the lands far to the east of the empire. Fortunata had worn something similar, but the former slave had daubed it on, perhaps revelling in the sheer cost, whereas this woman had no more than a drop of two on her. How a bottle of Indian scent had come to the north was a mystery.

Ferox was tempted to lie there in peace and enjoy so comfortable a bed and such beautiful company. Yet there must be a reason why she was here. The obvious seemed unlikely, but his clouded mind and throbbing forehead did not offer better explanation. Moving his hand with care, he slipped it under the furs piled over them and began to stroke the woman’s skin. It was smooth, her flesh soft and yielding.

The woman moaned, shifting a little. Ferox kissed her on the forehead, still running his fingers across her skin, and she stirred, turning to lie on her back. He kissed her on the lips, fighting the powerful urge to swing himself on top of her. His hand cupped one of her breasts. Her eyes opened, pale grey and flecked with spots of green. There was a flicker of surprise, then realisation and she kissed him back. It was no longer easy for him to think about anything apart from their closeness.

Then the woman pulled her mouth away and the arm that had rested over him instead pushed him back. Ferox lay on his side, head propped up on his left hand while the fingers of his right continued to stroke her. She did not stop him or move any further away.

‘Good morning, centurion,’ the woman said. At least that removed any last thought that he was here by chance.

‘Good morning,’ he replied, for what else was there to say? The woman spoke in the language of the tribes, although there was a strange brusqueness to her speech. If she did not know Latin then that might be the reason why he shared her bed rather than Crispinus.

‘I am called Galla.’ It was not a name he had ever heard before and did not sound local. Her eyes were big and intelligent, the lashes on her eyelids long and dark like her hair. ‘I am the king’s and I am sent by him.’

‘I am honoured,’ he said. ‘And I am also not the leader of our embassy – as you must surely know.’ His hand was still on her, exploring and caressing. Ferox was not sure whether this was more of a distraction to him or to Galla.

‘The tribune is young and inexperienced. Tincommius judges him to be clever and if that is so he will listen to an older and wiser man like you.’ She gasped as his finger drew a circle on her breast, and for the moment said nothing, running her tongue over her lips. Her hand slipped down under the covers and smoothed his chest.

‘Tincommius does not want to fight Rome unless he has no choice,’ she said at long last. ‘He is strong, and has done much in the last ten years to become a great leader, but there is still much to do. There is little for him to gain and much to lose if he makes war on you.’

‘The tribune will be pleased to hear that. We want only peace with the high king.’

‘Others think differently.’ Her eyes looked straight into his and showed no emotion, even when his fondling became more vigorous, instead responding in the same way, running her fingers across his skin. ‘They hate the Romans and believe them to be rotten and weak, like a tree decayed from the inside. They cannot wait to set an axe to the trunk and topple it over.’

Ferox thought of the ranting Stallion and of the calm persuasiveness of the druid. It was odd that so many people wanted to talk to him and to enlist his aid.

‘Tincommius cannot be seen to be cowed by Rome or to show any fear. Great kings are never afraid, never forced to do anything. Many of his people yearn to take their spears against the Romans and dream of slaughter and spoils. There are chiefs who tolerate his overlordship only because they are afraid of his power. He is like a bear fighting hounds. They fear him, but it will only take one or two to attack and bite and slowly he will weaken.’ She moaned in pleasure, eyes staring up past him.

‘I did not tell you to stop,’ she told him when he thought that he might have gone too far, so Ferox resumed. For a while she panted, her hand back on her own body.

‘The Stallion preaches war, and he is a guest of the high king?’ Ferox said.

‘He has been useful – a way to win over men who would have been more reluctant without the promise of help from the heavens. He wants war and Tincommius does not. The high king will not be ordered about by any man, least of all such as him.

‘The king’s only wish is to rule here, far from your province. He does not seek to challenge, but neither can he be seen as a suppliant.’ Galla – or Tincommius if the words were solely his – understood a good deal about Roman diplomacy. ‘There can be no surrender or subservience. What he wants…’ She lost her thread for the moment and Ferox kissed her again on the forehead, on the neck and then on the lips. Their mouths parted and tongues met, until she pushed him away.

‘This is important,’ she said breathily. ‘It must appear as a friendship between great chieftains. Gifts would help.’

‘What sort?’

‘Gifts fit for a high king. Silver is good, weapons even better. He must be strong if he is to be a useful friend to you. There will be much to gain for you.’