Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘Of course, sir. Happy to do it.’

‘Good.’

They saw no one for most of the next morning, and then only a few groups in the far distance. It might have been a flock of sheep, but they moved with more purpose than that and Ferox was sure that it was a group of warriors. A little later they saw the ravens and other carrion fowl circling up ahead. They were nearing a trackway that could not be described as a road, but was a fairly clear route running east to west and was used by a lot of people, including the army.

The first body was stripped naked, the skin very pale except on the lower legs, arms and neck where the sun had caught it. Its head had been taken, but the man had a Roman eagle and the letters SPQR tattooed on his chest. Gannullius sighed, for it was obvious that the man was a soldier. There was a big wound in his back and at least he had died quickly. There were two more dead soldiers a little further along, their severed heads impaled on stakes next to the naked bodies. Their hands were bound behind their backs, there were scars on their arms and legs, pieces of flesh cut away as if by a butcher, and it was obvious that they had suffered a lot before they were killed.

‘Bastards.’ Gannullius spat the word, and spurred his horse over the low rise to reach the track itself. There were a dozen more bodies around a couple of carts. Two men had been tied to the wheels, spreadeagled and then carved up by their captors. They must have worked slowly, peeling off strip after strip of skin and flesh. Another man lay in the bed of the other wagon, and the priest’s men had set it on fire and let him burn. The fire had been a big one, and there was a lot of newly cut timber strewn around the site of the massacre.

‘Wood-gathering party,’ Ferox said. ‘It’s that time of year.’ Garrisons always needed wood, for building work but most of all for fires, whether to cook food or just keep warm.

A scream split the silence, startling the carrion birds from their meals. Three warriors charged down from the far bank at them.

Gannullius reacted first, slamming his heels into the sides of his tired pony and galloping straight at them. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed.

One of the warriors brandished an army-issue pickaxe as a weapon and was ahead of the others. Gannullius reached him, slashed low and across with the force of rage, and the man dropped, head cut off at the neck and flying through the air so that it struck the chest of the auxiliary’s pony. It reared in terror, pulling away, and the other two warriors were on each side as the soldier fought for balance. One thrust a spear hard into his stomach, breaking through where four scales joined. Gannullius cried out in pain, but cut down, his gladius driving through the man’s skull.

Ferox reached them just as the last warrior hacked at the soldier, nearly severing his left arm. The pony bit the man, ripping off his nose and part of his face, and bucked, throwing its wounded rider. It bounded away, knocking the man aside, so that Ferox’s thrust missed and the centurion was carried past. Vindex finished the job, cutting down twice at the man’s neck.

Gannullius was coughing up blood, gasping for breath as he lay on the grass. The spear point had broken off and was still deep in his belly. The man tried to speak, but Ferox could not make out any words, and then there was more blood pouring from his mouth and the eyes went dead as his soul left the body.

‘Poor sod,’ Vindex said and he sounded sad. ‘I liked him, even if he was a southerner. What now? He was supposed to tell everyone the truth.’

‘Same as before. We get to Vindolanda and hope we are in time.’ Ferox sighed. ‘I doubt they would have believed him – at least not at first. If I cannot persuade them then…’ He trailed off. ‘The only thing now is to get back to the garrison.’

‘Then what?’

‘How should I know?’ Ferox tried to hide his bitterness. ‘If we keep our heads above water maybe we can swim to shore or last a little longer before we drown.’

‘Lost me there.’

‘It’s a saying among the Silures.’

‘Cheerful lot, aren’t you?’

Ferox swung back up into the saddle. ‘What is there to be cheerful about?’ he said, and set Frost off at a canter.

THE BATAVIANS DID not know Samhain, but they had their own festival to herald the approaching winter. It began earlier, at dawn instead of sunset, and the rites continued after the sun went down so that for one night the two festivals overlapped. Ferox and Vindex saw the glow of the bonfires off the low clouds long before they could see the fort. In the settlement outside, several locals gathered to sacrifice a bull in the traditional way. The centurion saw one man had even found a flint knife and watched as he delivered the first cut to the animal’s throat. Other people watched – Romans, Spaniards, Pannonians, and the gods only knew how many other races – curious enough come out and see the rituals and sensible enough to feel that even witnessing them might bring good fortune.

Inside the fort, the Batavians took over. Ferox saw one of the Tungrians he had fought alongside in charge of the guard at the porta praetoria. The man saluted and then offered an acknowledging nod.

‘Any trouble?’ Ferox asked him, raising his voice to be heard over the chants and shouts. ‘Anything odd?’

The auxiliary shook his head. ‘Just this lot trying to deafen the gods!’ He jerked his thumb at a Batavian, his fur-covered helmet tipped low over his forehead as he leaned against the corner post of the tower’s lower platform. The sentry did not move and although there was a glint from his open eyes it was clear that he could see and hear very little. On any other day he would have earned a flogging for being incapably drunk on guard, but this was not any other day or night.

‘If the enemy comes he’ll just have to puke over them,’ the Tungrian said. Vindex laughed, and then followed the centurion as he kicked his weary horse under the gate.

Fires were lit in two rows behind the western rampart of the fort, spaced out every six feet as the length of a man and left with just enough gap between for someone to run with care. If a man could race from one end of the course to the other in bare feet then it was thought lucky, and a good omen for all. If someone scorched himself in the attempt then that was not the end of the world, for it gave onlookers plenty to laugh at. Like most of the celebrations held by cohors VIIII Batavorum, it grew more festive with every mug of beer. Every man not on duty ran or watched and shouted, and tradition in this and every other unit of Batavians meant that very few soldiers were on duty – and even fewer in a fit state to perform their allotted tasks.

Frost shied and reared, nostrils flaring and teeth bared as a runner stumbled and fell into one of the fires, throwing up a fountain of sparks, and it took force to calm her as the soldier rolled away from the flames. Comrades rushed to throw a blanket over him and staunch the flames from his burning tunic, but they were laughing too much to do a good job. The man kept rolling until the fire went out and his tunic was in rags. His friends doubled over, unable to speak, while the scorched man started to sing tunelessly as he lay on the ground.

‘Wonder he didn’t go up like a barrel of oil with all that he’s drunk,’ Vindex said, but the centurion was not listening and instead drove the grey to jump across the line of fires, making the flames surge and wave as she passed.

‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian muttered, and let go of the horses he was leading so that he could use both hands to force his own mount over the fires. ‘Oh bugger, oh bugger, oh bugger!’ he yelled as the beast fought him and then finally bounded awkwardly across, throwing him out of the saddle before he slammed back down hard and just managed to regain his seat.