Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘They did to her what Boudicca’s men did to the aristocratic ladies they captured.’ There was a gasp of horror from the audience – someone who must have known the stories. ‘She will have screamed as they began to cut her,’ he went on, and took a step towards the small senator. ‘Screamed as they sliced the ends off her breasts. She would only have stopped screaming when they started to sew the pieces of flesh on to her lips. After that she could only have moaned as they took her to the sharpened stake. If you wish I shall draw you a picture.’ At that moment he hated them all, these great men who sat here secure in their power, worse than the crowd in the arena because at least spectators were interested in the fate of the people who died before their eyes.

Marcellus’ skin was deeply tanned, and he had eyes so deep brown that they looked black. His dark hair was slicked down with oil so that not one strand was out of place. He looked up at the centurion as the big man loomed over him and he did not seem at all intimidated. Instead he reached out and patted Ferox on the arm, as a man would calm a horse.

‘This shows us the inhuman cruelty and evil of our enemies,’ the legate said, stepping past Ferox so that his audience could see him once again. ‘It is our duty to our Lord Trajan to defeat his enemies. It is our duty as pious men who fear the gods and the laws of heaven and this world to wash this evil from the earth.

‘Men always believe that a new governor will move slowly and be cautious. Today is the Kalends of November, and so men will also expect the campaigning season to be over until the spring. Most men will think these things and be wrong.’ The legate had stopped pacing and stood very still, his right hand clasping his left wrist. Only his head moved, scanning the audience, looking at each man directly and then moving to the next. Ferox was behind the governor and could see the faces all focused on the little man.

‘From the reports I received before I arrived I suspected that a show of force would prove necessary before the year was out. Therefore orders were sent to gather food and transport and to prepare a force to take the field.

‘If these fanatics appear to be winning then others will join them. We must strike quickly and with all the force we can command to show the tribes and our allies that the prophets are liars, and their magic a fraud. Tomorrow we go to Coria to join the rest of the army. I want as many men as can ride or march and can be stripped from the garrison to accompany us. Detailed orders to be issued in an hour. Gentlemen, there is much to do and to arrange and I shall not detain you any longer. Thank you for your attention. Let us prepare to scour the land clean of this sickness.’

As the meeting broke up and the officers left the room, Neratius Marcellus pointed at Ferox, the gesture much like commanding a dog to stay. Crispinus glanced at the legate, looking puzzled, but the small man waved a hand for him to leave as well. Only one officer remained, a round-faced old man whose bronze cuirass did not fit him well and was traced with the lines of muscles that he clearly did not possess. His hair was white, but remained only as a thin fringe surrounding his dome-like bald head.

‘I wish to speak with you, centurion, and I wish you to speak to me frankly and conceal nothing.’

‘My lord.’ Ferox stiffened to attention.

‘Sit man, sit.’ The legate waited until he obeyed, placing himself on one of the folding camp chairs. ‘That is better,’ he went on. ‘This will take a while so you may as well be comfortable. Now Crispinus has told me about the gifts someone has been sending to Tincommius – the money and weapons. He suspects the same people encouraged the high king to lend his aid to this Stallion’ – he said the world with distaste – ‘and the druid. It was better that he not include such detail when he spoke to the other officers, but he told me the truth. It is also clear that the people who snatched that unfortunate lady and murdered her and the slaves – and who wanted to kill my wife’s cousin, the Lady Sulpicia, and her husband – knew a good deal more than they should have done about this garrison. Without your warning they might well have succeeded.’

The legate paused and stared at his face. Ferox did not think that the man could have any idea that he and Sulpicia Lepidina were more than junior officer and commander’s wife, but the announcement of a family connection was a surprise. For all its size, for all that senators – and now the princeps himself – had origins all over the world, the aristocracy of Rome still lived in a village where everyone knew everyone else and was related to almost everyone.

Ferox said nothing, and after a long silence Neratius Marcellus resumed.

‘This attack followed the one on her carriage, and all that your report said about that incident – as well as much it did not say – shows that our enemies know our every move even before we make it. The massacre of the men stationed at the beacon confirms it. Only someone of high rank would know enough to give them so much information. That means at least one traitor. Perhaps there are several, and certainly others who follow their orders. My nephew has spoken to you about this and says that you have told him most of what you know and some of what you think.’ The legate must have seen a trace of confusion. ‘The Tribune Crispinus is my nephew,’ he explained, and Ferox thought about the village again.

‘There are men who wish our princeps to fail. I am not one of them. He is a decent man and the empire needs stability above all else. I serve the good of Rome and so I shall do everything in my power to serve Rome and serve him. That means that I must prevent this traitor or traitors from doing any more harm, and I cannot do that without your help. We must find this man and punish him.’

Ferox thought back to Domitian’s rage at the conspirators who had backed Saturninus, of that mottled red face ordering him to seek them out, and his soul shuddered at the memory of the trials and deaths that followed. The men he found were all guilty, all oath-breakers, but the cruelty of the emperor’s vengeance and the way it reached out to claim victims from the condemned’s families and friends haunted him. It made it hard to trust yet another Roman demanding the truth.

The provincial legate seemed to sense his doubt, and again patted him on the arm. ‘You saw that poor girl and what they did to her. Whoever helped them needs to suffer.’

The old man coughed. Ferox had almost forgotten that he was there for he had said nothing at all.

‘I have not forgotten,’ the legate said with a broad smile. ‘I do not believe you have met Quintus Ovidius. He’s a philosopher and a poet, but you must not hold that against him for he is a sensible enough fellow most of the time. He is also a very old friend of someone you know, whereas I can boast no more than acquaintance – if a very fond acquaintance, at least on my part.’

‘He asked me to give you this,’ Ovidius said, holding out his bony arm, his fingers enclosing a small leather bag. ‘There is a message as well, but he insisted that you first see this token. Even I do not know what it is.’

There was something hard in the bag, but until Ferox opened it and tipped the contents on to the palm of his hand he could not guess what it was. When he saw it he gasped out loud, regretting it immediately and yet unable to restrain himself for he had not seen the necklace for many years. It was a simple leather thong with one stone hanging from it, a rich blue apart from a thick white stripe. A friend had worn it – a friend of his youth who had died in his arms, coughing up blood after a Sarmatian had run one of their great spears right through his body.