Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

Ferox did not bother to answer so foolish a question but jumped down to look at the ground properly.

‘If he was dead they wouldn’t have bothered,’ Vindex replied when the centurion said nothing.

‘It’s the Treviran,’ Ferox said at last, recognising the dead man’s hands. ‘The one we met at Trimontium.’ There was little left to recognise of the man’s face.

Crispinus glanced at him, obviously wondering how he could tell, but deciding not to ask.

There were three more corpses in the grass, all badly cut about, which meant that whoever did this had kept slashing long after they were dead. Apart from the burned cart there were marks from a dozen mules, which the attackers had taken with them.

‘Whatever they were carrying, the Stallion’s men have it now,’ Ferox said. ‘Come on, we’d better get them down and buried.’ He called to Masclus and his men to help.

‘Won’t do them much good now,’ Crispinus said, unable to tear his eyes away from the dead men, ‘and it will take a lot of time. Why bother?’ Then something occurred to him. ‘How do you know it was the priest’s men?’

‘Who else? They were killed because they were Roman and whoever killed them had a lot of hate. They wanted their goods – whether it was food or weapons it was something of value. And it’s a yew tree. That would have appealed to them.’

‘Weapons?’

Ferox drew his dagger and started cutting the rope tying the Treviran’s corpse above the fire. ‘Someone has been giving or selling swords and other gear to Tincommius.’ He glanced at their escorts, wondering whether any spoke Latin, not that it mattered now. ‘I reckon the priest’s men decided that they could put them to better use. And they’ve started killing any Roman they can find. These two and their slaves were in the wrong place at the wrong moment and this is what happened. We don’t need to leave them up there as proof that Romans can be killed without fear, do we?’

‘I see.’ Crispinus dismounted. ‘Let me help.’

They scraped a long shallow hole and laid all five corpses in it, before covering them with soil and any stones they could find. Gannascus, Venutius and the others watched with mild interest for a while, before attending to their horses and taking a bit of food. Only the young Epaticcus helped, eagerly following Ferox and doing whatever he did.

No one talked much for the rest of the day, and even the Germans were subdued, until the clouds broke up and they saw the sun for the last part of the afternoon. A clear sky meant a cold night, but they found enough kindling and wood to make a couple of good fires. Better still, they were given two sheep by the headman from the nearest cluster of farms. These were quickly killed and butchered, one of Venutius’ men showing great skill in the task. Ferox enjoyed the meal, although part of him wished they had cooked them in the fashion of his own tribe, tossing the entire animal on to a hot fire, and cutting and butchering it after it was cooked. It had been a long time since he had eaten mutton roasted that way and he missed it.

The headman brought news that was not good. The two merchants and their slaves were not the only victims of the Stallion’s rampage. He had heard of other traders caught and tortured to death, some of them local men whose only fault was to do business with the Romans.

‘Men say that we all must choose,’ the headman told them, ‘to join with the gods and cleanse the land or to be slaughtered along with the Roman defilers.’ He was old with leathery skin and little hair left on his wrinkled head. Two fingers were missing on his right hand from some old injury, and his left leg was stiff. ‘I tell them that it is folly, but the young do not understand and they listen too well to the promise of a great magic. A king and a queen’s blood will summon the strength of the gods and an army from the Otherworld to fight alongside them. It will happen at Samhain, so he says, and many believe him.’

Ferox felt a chill as he heard the man’s assurance. The festival began at sunset in three days’ time. As they ate he drew Vindex aside. ‘If the tribune lets me, I want to do something very foolish.’

The Brigantian grinned, the lines of his face even harsher than usual in the glow of the fires. ‘So naturally you thought of me,’ he said. ‘Lovely.’

‘I will not command you to go.’

‘Wouldn’t take a command anyway. I am of the Carvetii. But I’ll come as a friend, if you need me.’

‘We’re not friends,’ Ferox began, and then found that he was laughing.

Crispinus was not keen when he heard that the centurion wanted to leave them and ride hard to get to Vindolanda.

‘I can travel much faster if I leave the main tracks and go as straight as I can. They need to be warned,’ Ferox insisted. ‘Your letter may not be enough.’

‘Letter?’ The tribune looked puzzled and then seemed to remember. ‘Of course, I had quite forgotten. It should have got there, though.’ He began to waver.

‘You do not need me, my lord, and if I can get there in time I might make a difference.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Do you want to see her hanging from a yew tree like those merchants, or burned like this mutton?’

Crispinus stared in sudden distaste at the meat. ‘Very well, centurion.’

They set out an hour later, as the camp began to settle down for the night, and they took Snow and Frost with them as spare mounts. They were close enough to the lands they knew well to find their way without much difficulty and when a waning moon rose the country was easy to see in its silver light. They rode for three hours, changed horses, and then rode for another three before they rested and ate a little food. As a red sun started to rise they set out again.

At first they rode through country dotted with farms, and everywhere there was the smell of blood and fire as flocks and herds were culled to provide meat for the winter. It was the smell of Samhain, the beginning of the lean and cold months, and for the first time Ferox found it to be sinister. People were nervous, and whenever they stopped they spoke of the older boys and younger men leaving to join the great war. They saw plenty of them striding away, heading in the direction of rimontium.

‘Hope the tribune gets through,’ Ferox said.

Vindex snorted. ‘Yes, there’s only fifty or sixty of them.’

‘You did not have to come.’

‘You did not have to ask me.’

Late in the day they realised that they were being followed. There was a lone rider on a shaggy pony, tailing them about half a mile behind. He was bareheaded and wore a drab cloak, but did not come close enough to be seen properly. They changed horses and cantered, flying over the spongy turf, and their lead grew.

‘He might just have been going our way,’ Vindex suggested when they slowed. Frost and Snow were panting, a foam of sweat making them look even whiter than usual.

‘He might.’

An hour before sunset five horsemen appeared on the crest of a hill ahead of them and to the right.

‘Must have had friends,’ Vindex said. Their mounts were too tired to try to outrun them, so they veered a little to the left and pressed on. The riders kept their distance, watching them.

‘Waiting for darkness,’ the Brigantian suggested.

‘That is what I would do.’

It was another clear night, frost adding to the silver light of star and moon. They lit a fire, and tethered the horses to some low birch trees. For a while they talked, knowing that the sound would carry a long way. There was not a farm or village in sight, for this was one of the barren patches used mainly as summer pasture and it was not where anyone chose to live.

As Vindex moved around and stood warming his hands on the fire, Ferox slipped away into the night. He left his mail behind, but kept sword and dagger because he was sure that there was killing to be done. With his face smeared with mud and the heavy hooded cloak around him, he should not be easy to see even on so bright a night. He went away from the camp for some distance, before looping around. They had chosen a site overlooked by a craggy hill because he reckoned that no attacker would ignore such a well-sheltered approach. Slowly and carefully, stopping again and again to lie still, watch and listen, he made his way to a steep-banked little gully on the far side of the hill. At the bottom was a brook, bloated with rain and running along noisily. All the while he could hear Vindex humming. ‘I see a sweet country; I’ll rest my weapon there.’ The tune had become a great favourite with the Brigantian.