Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

Ferox waited. The song made him think of Sulpicia Lepidina, and of Galla lying beside him. Such thoughts helped to keep away the cold, but he could not let them distract him or make him drop his guard. The moon rose and the stars turned as the hours passed, and it was not until sometime in what must have been the third watch that he heard a low scraping sound. He waited, eyes just above the lip of the gully, head covered by the dark hood. There were shapes moving up the slope of the hill. Three shapes, crawling slowly and with care. The leader stopped and hissed something back at the men behind. One shifted, sitting up, and Ferox guessed that he was adjusting the scabbard, which had scraped on the ground.

Three men meant that there were two more out there somewhere, but he could not see them and had to trust that Vindex could cope if they attacked from another direction. Ferox ducked back into the gully and edged his way along it, trusting to the chuckling of the water to mask any sounds he made. After a while he stopped, but could hear nothing apart from the brook, so peered over the bank. He was level with the hillock and could see Vindex sitting next to the fire, humming to himself. The horses shuffled and shifted in the way resting horses always did, and he could just make out the saddles wrapped in blankets that were supposed to imitate his own sleeping form.

One of the men was lying on the crest of the rise, while the other two crept around the side. These men were far more skilful than the ones he had met outside the camp weeks ago. Yet they were not Silures. The two men crawled along next to each other, making a larger, darker shape on the grass than if they had spread out. Metal glinted in their hands, which meant that they were carrying weapons, probably knives. Vindex sat still, now and then stirring up the fire. It must have taken a lot of willpower for him not to turn and notice the men creeping towards him.

Something moved, far beyond the camp, and Ferox saw the taller outline of horsemen, walking slowly forward. There were two long spears in their hands, their sharp points gleaming. Vindex pretended not to see and started to sing in a low voice. He did not have a good voice, and the sound was harsh and discordant. Ferox heard one of the crawling men snigger. They were level with him now, little more than twenty paces from the little camp, and he began to ease over the lip of the gully.

The attack came sooner than he expected. Up on the hillock the warrior rose into a crouch, swinging his arm around above his head. Something cracked as it hit the fire, sending up a shower of sparks. The horsemen surged forward, letting out high-pitched screams as they charged. Vindex sprang to his feet, raising the spear that had lain beside him. To his flank the crawling men pushed up and ran at him.

Ferox copied them, unclasping his cloak and letting it fall. He made no sound, and as he ran drew his pugio in his left hand and his gladius in his right. Only when the nearest warrior saw him did he start to yell. The man turned, dagger raised, and Ferox let him block a slash from the gladius, catching it on the blade of his knife, so that he could thrust his left hand into the warrior’s throat. The stubby army-issue pugio punched through his windpipe and into his spine. Blood jetted over Ferox, the liquid warm on his hand, and he let the knife go and went for the next man.

In the firelight Vindex stood, spear raised and poised to throw. He waited and waited, until Ferox feared that it was too late, and then flung it at the nearest horseman. There was a grunt as it hit the rider full in the chest and pitched him out of the saddle. Then something whipped through the fire and the Brigantian cried out, clutching his leg, and was not ready when the second rider spurred at him, jabbing down with his spear. Vindex fell as the warrior’s horse carried him past.

The man facing Ferox threw his knife at the centurion’s face and he only just had time to swat it away with his gladius. The man drew his own sword, a long slim blade, and stamped forward, thrusting it out. Ferox jumped back because there was no time to parry, then had to go back again because the man followed, lunging.

Vindex was struggling to get up, drawing his own sword, while the horseman reined in hard to stop his mount, and then tugged to turn back and attack the Brigantian again. Another rider appeared, coming from the same direction as the others, galloping straight towards the camp, and it was all going badly wrong.

Ferox feinted a cut at the man’s head and kicked him on the shin. The man gasped in surprise as much as pain, so the centurion jabbed the dome-shaped pommel at his face, just as he had hit Venutius, hitting him squarely on the forehead, where there was a dark mark that was surely a tattoo. The warrior was reeling, and Ferox slashed at his neck, felt the steel edge bite, wrenched it free and slashed again with all his strength. More blood sprayed across his face.

The Brigantian faced two horsemen and did not know which way to turn. Ferox saw him hesitate, and then raise his sword at the newcomer, who was already close.

‘Get down you fool!’ someone shouted in Latin and Vindex dropped to the ground. The rider went past, ignoring him, and then neatly chopped the other warrior from his horse. Momentum carried him past until he turned, heading towards the hillock. The man at the crest flung another stone from his sling, but missed, and then made the mistake of running. Ferox heard the horse’s hoofs pounding across the turf, and saw the animal bound up the slope before he and the rider vanished after the fleeing man.

The centurion ran over to Vindex, who was pushing himself up and feeling his leg.

‘Don’t think it’s broken,’ he said. Ferox could see a gash along the scout’s arm near his shoulder, but his mail had taken the force of the blow above that. ‘It’s nothing.’ Vindex took a deep breath. ‘At least we’re alive.’

‘So far,’ Ferox replied, and then came a long scream of bubbling agony.

‘We’re better off than him, any road.’

The centurion began to bind up Vindex’s arm.

‘You in the camp.’ It was the same voice in its accented Latin. ‘I’m coming in.’

HE WALKED TOWARDS them, leading his horse by the reins, his other hand empty and held up to show that he was unarmed. ‘I want to talk,’ he said, stopping five paces out from the fire. His cloak was back to show a cuirass of scale armour, the gladius at his right hip, with army-issue belt, tunic, breeches and boots. He was bareheaded and his dark hair was shaggy, his beard thick. ‘I am a soldier of the First Cohort of Tungrians and I want to talk to the regionarius. Will you hear me out?’

‘I’m Ferox. Come in and talk. I don’t think there are any more of them about.’

‘I killed the last one.’ The soldier’s tone was matter-of-fact. ‘But I’ll stay here until I am sure. My name is Gannallius. Some say I am a deserter and some say worse. I am neither.’

It was the missing man from the tower, the Trinovantian. Titus Annius had said that he was a steady man and had not believed the accusations.

‘Tell me what happened. Stay there if you want, but I promise that if you come over to the fire you will be free to go unhindered if that is what you want.’

Gannallius tethered his horse next to the others and came over to sit by the fire. Vindex offered him some of their food.

‘Never thought that I would get to miss army biscuits,’ Gannallius said as he broke a piece off and swallowed it. ‘I have not had much to eat for days.’

Close up they could see that he was dirty and his face – or what little could be seen behind his beard – looked thin and drawn.

‘I am true to my oath,’ he told them, eyes earnest as they stared at each man in turn, but especially at the centurion.