Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘You’re to go in straightaway, sir,’ the optio in charge of the Batavians told Ferox as soon as he rode up. ‘Provincial legate’s orders,’ he added, evidently relishing the prestige of their visitor. As Ferox went into the headquarters, a soldier led him to the room normally used as a classroom. Inside were Cerialis, Rufinus, Claudius Super and the Tribune Flaccus as well as a dozen senior officers he did not know. An even greater surprise sat near the back.

‘Glad you are back,’ Crispinus whispered as Ferox took the camp chair beside him.

‘Surprised to see you, my lord.’

The young aristocrat grinned. His face was dirty, the grime giving it lines so that in his tiredness he looked twice his real age, and more like a man who ought to have grey hair.

‘If you do not mind me saying, sir, you look terrible.’

‘Better than the horses I rode, I can tell you. I’ve killed two getting here.’ There was a pride in his voice that the centurion disliked. ‘Only got here an hour ago. Didn’t expect such exalted company.’

‘Then why did you hurry?’

‘Thought you might need my help.’

‘Silence there!’ The voice was deep and the speaker had not shouted, but even so it carried to the back of the room. Lucius Neratius Marcellus, Legatus Augusti, vir clarissimus and former consul, was not a big man. He was thin-faced, thin-limbed and Ferox guessed that he was barely five feet tall, yet he dominated the room. Appointed to the post at the start of the year, the new governor had not set foot in Britannia until the autumn, but the impression this had created of lethargy vanished as the little man paced up and down, never still for a moment and always talking. He spoke first of the situation in the wider empire, of the hard work the princeps was doing to ensure peace and stability throughout the provinces. With the deified Nerva taken from us far too soon, his son would secure his legacy by his strength, justice and virtue. There would be no chaos, no civil war.

Then he turned to Britannia and most of all these lands in the north. Ferox was surprised to find great chunks of his own reports repeated, if admittedly in more rhetorical and elegant language. Some of this came from things he had written last year, a good deal from more recent reports, while some was astonishingly up to date.

‘Bet you thought no one was listening,’ Crispinus whispered.

Marcellus paused. He had reached the aftermath of the punitive expedition against the Selgovae, and begun to speak of the embassy to Tincommius. He beckoned to Crispinus, asking the tribune if he would be kind enough to tell them the outcome. With feigned reluctance the young aristocrat went to the front, and was soon recounting their journey north and the encounter with the high king, explaining the agreement they had reached.

‘Good,’ the provincial legate declared once he had finished. ‘That is eminently sensible and I approve your decisions. I am sure that the princeps will confirm that judgement as soon as the matter is brought to him. Flavius Ferox,’ he said. ‘Stand up, sir.’

He did so, feeling awkward and unkempt and aware that the rage was seething within him and could burst out at the slightest provocation. There was something about the manner of this new governor, the self-confidence exceptional even for a distinguished senator, that annoyed him.

‘Many of you know that the regionarius acted with the tribune on this mission. Do you have anything to add to his account?’

‘No, my lord.’ He wanted to shout out that a war had begun and that they should not be talking, but doing. Instead he said nothing.

Marcellus arched one eyebrow to show his surprise. ‘Very well, perhaps as we proceed. Continue, my dear Crispinus, and tell us what happened after you left the king’s stronghold.’

Ferox listened, and had to admit that the tribune gave an accurate report, including the provision of an escort and discovery of the murdered merchants. ‘The yew tree is sacred to druids,’ he said, and, if that was not quite the way Ferox would have explained it, it was good enough for this audience. The tribune spoke of how and why Ferox and Vindex left them, then described his journey to Trimontium, shadowed and then harassed by warriors on horseback. The garrison had lost a number of men to ambushes as detachments moved through the country. One wood-gathering party was long overdue and no news had come of them.

‘They are dead,’ Ferox cut in. ‘We found the bodies and the burned carts.’

‘I suspected as much,’ Marcellus said, his tone one of mild regret. ‘Continue please, Crispinus.’

The tribune did not have much more to say. Trimontium’s garrison was well enough provisioned to survive a blockade for some time. At the moment the chieftain from the hill fort and other local elders were assuring the Romans of their goodwill. ‘It is hard to be sure how long that will last,’ he finished.

‘As long as we show ourselves to be strong, and good friends.’ Neratius Marcellus had forced himself to keep still while listening to the report, but once it was over he resumed his pacing. He spoke of the attack on the praetorium here at Vindolanda, ignoring the attempt to murder the trooper Longinus. Ferox wondered whether the provincial legate knew who the old soldier really was. As Marcellus told the story it was part of the greater conspiracy led by the two priests, men who wanted to rouse loyal provincials as well as allied tribes to turn against Rome. There were soldiers – or men dressed as soldiers – as well as some warriors among the attackers and they knew a lot about the fort. It was not known whether the Britons serving with the Tungrians were deserters, traitors or had been killed by the attackers and their bodies hidden.

‘The aim was to kill or take the prefect and his esteemed wife, the clarissima Sulpicia Lepidina,’ Marcellus said, his face grim. ‘This prophecy of theirs, which relied upon a disgusting sacrifice of a distinguished man and woman, led them to carry out this impudent and vicious raid.’

Although he was used to it after all this time, Ferox was still surprised by the tendency of wealthy Romans to launch into rhetoric and turn everything into an oration.

‘They failed.’ Marcellus slapped his fist into his palm. ‘The prefect and his wife are safe due to the courage and quick thinking of the garrison and the timely warning of the Tribune Crispinus with the aid of the regionarius. Alas, an innocent woman was abducted. We suspect in error. May I presume, Flavius Ferox, that there is no good news of the unfortunate victim?’

‘We found Fortunata, the wife of the imperial freedman Vegetus, my lord.’ Ferox may not have liked her much, or thought about her at all, but the dismissal of her abduction as a small thing fed his anger. The dead slaves did not appear to matter to them at all.

He took a deep breath. One of his tutors at Lugdunum had told him that the divine Augustus used to recite the alphabet in his head whenever he felt rage coming and did not wish to speak words he might regret. Ferox tried it now, and it did not help much. ‘Fortunata is dead, my lord.’

Marcellus sighed. ‘I had little hope. Such murderous hate made mercy of any sort unlikely. The poor thing.’ He shook his head, his voice full of the well-practised sorrow of an orator. ‘All we can hope is that she did not suffer.’

‘It was a grim death, my lord,’ Ferox said, struggling not to shout. ‘A slow one and painful.’

There were murmurs from the assembled officers. This was not how anyone, let alone a centurion, was supposed to address the legate of the province. Crispinus gestured for him to calm down.

‘The poor child.’ Marcellus showed no sign of surprise or offence.