Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

‘They say I am a Roman.’

‘So they say.’

There was a murmur from the scouts, making Vindex turn in the saddle. ‘Beacon’s lit,’ he said.

Ferox was not really listening. Not far away was a herd of cattle being driven alongside the road, and a few travellers all going west. Passing them on the main track were ten or twelve cavalrymen followed by a mule-drawn carriage. It was not as large as many coaches, but such vehicles were rare in this part of the world, and the escort showed that it carried someone or something of importance.

The centurion touched the big wooden pommel of his sword, feeling the runnels carved into it. He wore his sword on the left as a mark of his rank, and also because it was an old-fashioned long blade and was easier to draw from that side.

‘I need you to take the scouts up to the top of the ridge.’ He pointed ahead, to the hilltop above the broken country. ‘The sight of you may worry them if they are waiting to strike. There are too many of them for us to take, so you watch what happens. We need to know who they are and where they’ve come from. Follow them when it’s all over. Catch one if you can, but do not take any daft risks. What you can learn is more important than anything you can do. Understand?’

Vindex nodded. ‘And what will you be doing?’

‘Taking a closer look.’

The Brigantian grunted and walked his horse over to his men. Ferox pulled off the felt hat and tossed it away. Twisting around in the saddle, he unfastened the helmet from where it was tied. As usual Philo had left the woollen hat inside. He pulled it on, put the helmet on top and tied up the leather thong to hold the ends of the cheek pieces together. It had been weeks since he had last worn it, but after thirteen years with the legions the heavy helmet still felt as naturally a part of him as his hair.

Ferox walked his horse downhill towards the road. His mind felt clear and calm, though easy because the decision was made and that was that. He had left the alarm too late, and this was his region. All his warnings in the past would not help because they could not change his mistake now. There was probably someone important in the carriage, and he could not let whoever it was die without trying to warn them. Even that might not be enough, and it would be all his superiors needed to recommend his dismissal.

His head no longer throbbed, and when he drained the last of the posca from its skin his mouth felt moist and fresh. When they had forced him awake and made him ride out he had felt as if the world was about to end. The black mood of the last days engulfed him once more and he no longer cared that much if it did. Ferox rode down the hill.

‘You forgot your hat,’ Vindex said cheerfully, coming alongside, holding the battered old hat in his hand.

‘I gave you orders.’

‘No one gives orders to the Carvetii.’

The two men kept at a steady pace.

‘It is important,’ the centurion said. ‘We will need to learn as much as we can.’

‘I told Brennus to take charge. He will do what he’s told.’

‘I thought no one gave orders to the Carvetii?’

Vindex grinned, his face more skull-like than ever. ‘Brennus’ mother is from the Parisii. Anyone can order those earth-eating buggers about.’

Ferox did not laugh, but his mood lifted a little.

They rode on. The carriage and its escort were out of sight, hidden by a grove of tall oaks.

‘Do you have a plan?’ the Brigantian asked after a while.

Ferox said nothing.

‘Well, that’s good.’ Vindex raised the wheel of Taranis to his lips and murmured a prayer.

‘No one asked you to come,’ Ferox told him.

‘I know. Some people are so unfriendly.’

For the first time the centurion looked his companion in the eye. ‘No shame in going back. It’s not too late.’

Vindex laughed. ‘Just what my uncle said to me before I took my first wife!’ The Brigantian suddenly looked grim, but then he usually did. Only men like Ferox who knew him well also knew his hidden sadness. Vindex had lost both his wives, the first to fever and the second bearing a stillborn son. The sorrow was deep, but had not dampened his enthusiasm for the pleasures of life.

Ahead of them, the escort and the little carriage emerged from behind the trees. They were close enough now for Ferox to see the cavalrymen’s green-painted oval shields, which meant that they were most likely Batavians out of Vindolanda. Their helmets looked strangely dark and only the cheek pieces gleamed in the afternoon sun. One man at the head of the little column wore brightly polished scale armour that shimmered, and there was an air of formality about the soldiers. Most men would not have bothered to take the shields out of their leather covers for an ordinary journey.

‘Maybe we were wrong?’ Vindex suggested, as the riders and carriage went briskly on their way on this warm afternoon. He reached down to swat a horse-fly settling on his mare’s neck. Now that they were lower down the insects swarmed around them, drawn by the rich smell of horse sweat.

A horn sounded, harsh and braying, and Ferox kicked his horse on savagely to draw on its last strength and lumber into a canter.

‘Oh bugger,’ Vindex said, and followed him.

THE BATAVIANS WERE hot and stiff and knew that they still had more than half their journey to go to reach Coria. There was an ala based there, one of the all-cavalry units whose troopers were better paid and better mounted than the horsemen serving with an infantry cohort. The Batavians were determined to show those arrogant Gallic and Thracian bastards just what real horse warriors looked like. Anything metal, from spear points to armour, belt buckles to helmets, and the fittings and round phalerae on the harness of their horses had been polished until it shone, and then polished again to make sure. There had been a lot of competition to get selected for this detail, and the men who were chosen had swapped equipment with the unlucky ones if their own was no longer perfect. The horses’ coats gleamed almost as bright as the iron and bronze from being brushed, manes were neatly parted and tails combed. Shields were repainted, the red of the central star and the white rosettes made bright on the green field. Every man was big, even in a cohort known for the height and breadth of its soldiers, and although the horses were some of the largest available they were dwarfed by their riders. The decurion in charge wore a cuirass where alternate scales were tinned or gilded, and with his new yellow cloak looked like a god of war come to earth. He had a matching yellow plume on his silvered helmet decorated with figures of animals and hunters. The other eleven soldiers had bearskin glued to the bowls of their bronze helmets, the fur brushed so that it stood up. That was a mark of a Batavian, a sign that enemy or fellow soldier alike should treat him with respect.

They kept to a slow pace, trotting only occasionally because otherwise the mules drawing the carriage could not keep up. That meant that they could not stop the flies from tormenting the horses, and holding shield and reins in one hand and spear in the other meant that there was no free hand to swat them away. So the horses suffered and pressed close behind the ones in front to let their swishing tails give some protection. It was all worth it. The job was a lot easier than doing fatigues back at Vindolanda. It was an honour to be chosen, and to guard the occupant of the coach, but more pleasant was the prospect of at least one night at Coria, which was a much bigger base, with taverns and a proper bath-house. They would drink and bathe, eat and drink some more, and if a brawl or two broke out then so much the better.