Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

More warriors were appearing, some of them Germans, but also local men and a few wearing long tunics and bare-legged who were most likely Hibernians. Talking to the men, he learned that the high king had more than a thousand warriors in his household, although half lived at other settlements. These thousand were the best men, the ones who had no real occupation other than war, and they included the exiles. For a month before Lughnasadh, the great summer festival, each clan sworn to the high king sent him fifty men, along with all the lads who had turned fifteen. For four weeks they trained for war or laboured to restore the defences of this fort or helped to tend his cattle, then they shared in a great feast before returning home, ready to muster again in time of war. One of the Germans boasted to him of the storerooms full of shields and good spears ready to be given to men answering the king’s call to arms. Tincommius was creating an army of a sort never seen before among the tribes of the north, and that raised more questions about what he planned in the longer run.

Soon – too soon – Ferox was forced to duel again, and he wondered whether Gannascus had deliberately saved his better warriors until the Roman was tired. Soon he had to start pulling out all the dirty tricks he could remember. He beat the fifth man by punching with the boss of his shield at the top of his opponent’s shield, then slamming it up so that the edge caught the man on the chin. The warrior bit his lip and was left dazed and bloodied.

The sixth man was not a German, but was clearly in Gannascus’ band. It seemed that he had bolstered his numbers with a couple of dozen eager local men, so that these days he led almost a hundred men, eleven of them archers. The new recruits were slighter than the Germans, but several sported beards instead of moustaches. The one facing Ferox had gone further, tying his hair in a knot on top of his head in imitation of some of Gannascus’ best men. He was quick in his movements and wily, so Ferox let him probe his defence for a time while he looked for a weakness. He noticed a raven tattooed on the man’s right wrist, which was a mark of one of the clans of the Venicones.

Trumpets blared, the sound a mix of the harsh carnyxes and softer horns, and the Briton’s eyes flicked towards the gateway. Ferox pounded him with his shield, forcing the man back, and the warrior’s guard dropped for a moment allowing the centurion to thrust with his practice sword. He stopped the blow with the tip just short of the man’s throat.

Gannascus clapped the man on the back. ‘Watch the man you fight. Forget everything else,’ he bellowed, but looked pleased that his warriors were doing better when they faced the Roman.

The trumpets announced the return of the high king, who thundered through the gateway at the reins of a chariot. The car was painted bright red, and the harness on the two grey ponies pulling it was of red leather. Seeing the Roman, he turned on a denarius and galloped towards the training area, slewing the chariot to a halt at the last minute. ‘So, are you teaching my warriors?’ he called happily.

‘And learning from them.’ Compliments were rarely wasted and this one made Gannascus’ men cheer. Ferox had to admit that he liked them. He had always felt most at ease among fighting men, finding them easier to understand than Romans like Crispinus, for whom the army was merely one short step as they climbed the political ladder.

‘Talk with me,’ the high king said and began walking off. Ferox followed.

‘Did the hunt go well?’ he asked.

‘Well enough, although I lost a fine horse.’

‘Boar?’ Ferox had seen plenty of mounts brought down and gored by the tusks of a cornered animal.

‘Spear,’ said the high king. ‘We were hunting men who dared to steal my cattle. I had thought yesterday’s executions were sufficient warning, but these rogues must have thought that I would be too busy feasting to watch my own property. They were wrong, as I am sure they realised when my hounds found them.’

They were near the great hall and in a burst of yapping half a dozen puppies ran up to greet Tincommius, their tails wagging furiously.

‘Ah, my children.’ The high king scooped up one of the animals in each hand. They were only a few months old, and their legs looked too long for their bodies. ‘You must leave tomorrow.’ The abrupt change of subject took Ferox by surprise. ‘Speak to your tribune, and we will have a council tonight and agree matters.’ The high king made it clear that he expected the Romans to accept his offer.

‘I will speak to the Lord Crispinus.’

‘Good. You must go quickly and I will send some of my men with you as escort.’ Tincommius’ tone suggested that this was more than a courtesy. ‘There may be danger.’

‘The Stallion?’ Ferox asked and the high king looked surprised at his directness.

‘You do not like dogs, do you?’ He offered one of the puppies to the centurion, and the animal stopped barking and stared at him with scepticism ‘No, I thought not. They call the Silures the “Wolf People” so perhaps you do not care for creatures broken and trained. I hear that the Silures are queer folk. Yet there is an old saying that you cannot trust a man who does not like dogs, but I trust you so perhaps the saying is wrong or I am wrong. I like dogs because they are simple and the best ones are more loyal than any man. My hounds are like family to me and it gives me sorrow when I lose one.’ He put the other dog down and held the puppy he had offered to Ferox up to his own face. A little pink tongue licked the king with great energy and enthusiasm.

Ferox said nothing, sensing that there was a point to all this.

‘We had to kill one of my hounds today. She was a bitch, strong, sharp-nosed and fearless. Two years ago she saved me when I was trapped under a fallen horse and a boar charged at me. The bitch fought him alone until men came to help, and she was sorely hurt. I had her tended and nursed back to health. Her courage was undaunted and she continued to serve well until she became subject to rage. She bit a servant, and today she would not be called off and kept mauling one of the thieves until she got at the man’s throat and tore it out. The man was no loss, but a hound like that cannot be kept. The madness and rage will grow and one day she will turn on a servant or a child and she will kill. So I killed her before that could happen. It was’ – he struggled to find the Latin – ‘necessary.

‘There are men who have served me well in the past, men who boast that the gods love them and speak through them.’ Tincommius nuzzled the puppy against his face.

‘The Stallion and the great druid.’

Tincommius nodded and there was sadness in his voice. ‘The one is his own man and not to be commanded by any chieftain or king. He will do what he will do, but I do not fear him. The Stallion is different and has made promises to those who follow him.’ The high king sighed. ‘It is a shame, for the man has persuaded many to accept my leadership. It was he who won me the druid’s blessing.’

The high king turned the puppy on its back, and one hand closed around its neck. It struggled, but could not break free.

‘You can be very fond of something that is simple, or someone who sees the world in a simple way,’ he went on. ‘I do not know where the Stallion came from, or who he really is, but there is a fire in his soul. He believes utterly, so that when he is cruel or savage he does not understand. It is simply his nature and that cannot be changed. This creature in my hands was born to hunt. You could not stop it from hunting even if you tried. If it is put in chains it will hunt as far as the chain stretches. The only way to stop him would be to break him.’