Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘A few years is a long time, and not our problem,’ Crispinus declared. ‘I may be envious of your good fortune last night, but you should not doubt my satisfaction with your conduct, centurion.’

Later in the day, the wind dropped and the Romans took a stroll around the high king’s stronghold. People stared at them, but were generally friendly and obliging. Children, too young to remember the days when the Romans were here, followed them about, curious to see these strange creatures from the south. Ferox heard a little girl explaining to a younger brother that a Roman was made from stone fashioned to look like a man and that is why they were happy around stone and lived in high stone towers that reached up to the sky. He whispered an explanation to the tribune. The boy did not seem convinced, but was a bold lad and crept up behind Crispinus. Vindex nudged Ferox and they watched as the child took a big swing and kicked the tribune on the ankle. To his credit the aristocrat did not react, save to turn very slowly around as if his whole body were stiff. The boy scampered away howling in fear.

Gannascus and several dozen warriors were practising in an open space, throwing javelins and fencing with each other. All were big men, if only one or two as big as their giant of a leader, and they were markedly thicker set than the local tribesmen. A lot of them were blond or red-haired, but that was not uncommon in these parts, even if it was unusual to sport such thick beards and long hair. Every man had an army-issue sword at his belt.

‘I understood that it is against the law to trade in weapons beyond the frontier,’ Crispinus observed, sticking to Latin so as not to cause offence.

‘It is, but people find a way.’ Ferox thought back to the Treviran merchant they had met at Trimontium, and how the man had not wanted to say what he had sold to Tincommius. ‘A lot of stores of all kinds went missing when we pulled out of the bases up here. It always happens. People make mistakes, or they try to cover them up, and there’s always someone up to making a quick profit by selling contraband to the locals.’

‘Why, think of that,’ Vindex added sarcastically. ‘A dishonest Roman, whatever is the world coming to?’

‘Or someone is giving arms to the king already,’ Crispinus suggested, ignoring the Brigantian.

‘Perhaps,’ Ferox said. ‘Then there’s always deserters. A man who goes over the wall with all his gear is a man likely to find a welcome up here. You saw the posts?’ Earlier on they had passed another open patch and seen two posts like the one outside Syracuse. Army methods of training suggested former soldiers serving the king – no doubt men who chose to keep out of sight while the Roman envoys were here.

As they watched, a few more Germans appeared carrying a crude straw figure of a man strapped to an upright stake, which they drove into the ground at the foot of the rampart. The effigy was dressed in an old Roman helmet and the segmented cuirass sported by legionaries. A pair of tall warriors carrying bows as tall as themselves came to stand near them, while the rest moved to either side to watch. Each planted five arrows in the grass at their feet, before stringing their bows. They were simple, made from a single piece of timber, but Ferox saw the men strain to hook the strings in place. The army used smaller bows, with several types of wood glued together and reinforced with animal horn, and these looked crude by comparison.

One of the warriors plucked an arrow from the ground, drew back his bow and loosed, sending the missile straight into the target and there was a dull clang as it punched through an iron plate of the cuirass. The other archer fired a moment later with the same effect. Ferox thought back to the ambush and the Batavians shot down by hidden archers. He had never seen arrows fly with such force unless they came from a ballista . The next arrows went higher, the first clattering off the helmet to the mocking applause of the crowd. Then there was a cheer as the next one drove into the bronze and stuck there.

‘This doesn’t look too friendly,’ Vindex said.

Gannascus acted as if he had not noticed them until now. ‘Roman!’ he called to Ferox. ‘Want to try?’

The Silures were not archers. As a boy Ferox learned how to use a sling, but it was not until he went to Rome and trained with the Praetorians that he had been taught to shoot a bow. He had practised a little since then, especially when he was on the Danube, but had not even held a bow for years.

One of the Germans grinned as he handed him a bow. The warrior was taller than he was and so was his bow, but Ferox was surprised at how light and well balanced it felt. There were two arrows in the ground beside him, and after feeling the taut string, he reached down and plucked one. He nocked it, began to pull and felt the appalling strength holding the string back. Grunting, he used all his might to draw it. His left arm was straining to keep straight, his right hand juddering with the effort. He tried to steady it, breathing out before he loosed, but it all felt wrong and he was not surprised when the arrow went high and wide over the rampart and outside.

‘Some poor bastard of a shepherd’s probably having a bad day!’ Vindex commented.

The Germans roared with laughter. Ferox reached for the second arrow, nocked it and drew all in one motion, doing his best not to think and just letting his muscles take over. One thing he had learned long ago was that if a shot felt right then it flew true and to the mark. As soon as he had the string to his chest he loosed and if the aim was not perfect it was better than before. It missed the armour and drove deep into the post on which the straw figure was mounted, piercing the straw just where it divided to form the legs.

‘Ooh, that’s nasty,’ Vindex said and the Germans laughed again, but this time they were amused rather than scornful and they made squealing noises as if the target were a real man hit in the crotch. Gannascus came over and pounded the centurion on the shoulder in delight. The blow added to the ache in his arms and the sense that his ribs had almost been pulled apart.

‘Now show us what you can do with a sword,’ the big German demanded and to Ferox’s surprise they produced wooden swords and heavy wickerwork shields. As he hefted the training equipment he could see that they were not army issue, but close copies. Gannascus’ warriors were used to handling them, and to simple versions of the standard drills, and he guessed that the deserters recruited by the high king had brought with them ideas as well as their own weapons.

The Germans were good – not up to the level of a truly well-trained unit, but still better than he had expected, at least when they fought as individuals. He put his first opponent down quickly, surprising him with an immediate attack that knocked him off balance. The second man did better, but kept his shield too high, wanting to protect his face, and after feinting high, Ferox was able to slice low and hit him hard behind the knee, scooping the man’s leg from under him. Gannascus cheered, but pounded the warrior on the back for doing well and grinned at Ferox.

Crispinus lost interest after a while, and took Vindex away with him in case he needed an interpreter, leaving Ferox to fight on. The Germans were enthusiastic and he knew that each man desperately wanted to be the one to beat the Roman officer. He was glad Gannascus stood back and watched, for he did not relish facing his speed and strength, at least not now that he was tired.

The third man was older, with streaks of grey amid his brown hair, and there was a good deal of watching and waiting in between each rapid attack. Ferox thought that he could beat the man, but reckoned that it was better to declare a draw and do him honour. The Germans cheered that, especially when he put down his sword and clasped the man’s hand. After that he took a break, calling for water.