Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘The “tall tree that sways in the wind, but does not break”’ – Ovidius intoned the phrase he must have practised – ‘sends his greetings and asks that you trust his friends as you trust him. He would have written, but his eyes are weak these days.’

That was not surprising, for Caratacus was well over ninety and he had seemed frail years ago when Ferox had met him in Rome. One-time king of the great tribes of the south, long-time enemy of Rome and ally and friend of his grandfather, the war leader had lost in the end and been betrayed. The divine Claudius had spared him, keeping him in comfortable captivity near Rome. His grandson was a citizen and a soldier just like Ferox, and they had become friends and comrades in those grim days on the Danube, when the Dacians and Sarmatians had cut an army to ribbons.

Ferox began to talk. He could not refuse this request and no one else could have persuaded him so readily. ‘A man does not easily say no to Caratacus,’ his grandfather had often said. There was a power about the man that made anyone feel flattered to have his attention. Ferox told the legate and his friend everything, from the first doubts about the ambush, all that he had seen at the tower and everything that had happened since then. He talked for a long time and they did not interrupt, except once or twice when the legate asked short, direct questions to make matters clearer. Ferox spoke of Gannallius, his story and the man’s death, and of what had happened when he and Vindex had reached Vindolanda, of his regret at thinking all was over once he had made sure that Sulpicia Lepidina was safe.

Most of the hour went as he told his story, and when he finished the legate asked his friend to fetch the sentry from outside the room. ‘Say that the orders will be delayed, but not by long,’ he told the man, and then asked Ovidius to stand by the door and make sure no one disturbed them.

Neratius Marcellus began to pace up and down, and had crossed the room half a dozen times before he spun around. ‘A tribune?’

‘Yes, my lord. Or at least someone pretending to be one. My guess is that the soldiers who slaughtered the men at the tower were real soldiers. Perhaps deserters, but they sound too well equipped for that. No doubt they were bribed, but to commit so great a crime there must have been more. The man giving the orders was able to convince them that they were safe from arrest and execution. Must have made them think that they were on the winning side and that rewards would come, and that he was well enough connected for them to trust him.’

The legate crossed to the wall and came back again. ‘Who?’ he asked, stopping and staring at the centurion, dark eyes hard.

‘The evidence points towards Legio II Augusta, and hence your nephew.’ Ferox had little doubt that the legate had already made the connection. ‘He was there or at least nearby every time something happened, even when the Tungrians were left stranded on the day Titus Annius was cut down.’

‘He is a man who will always want to be on the winning side.’ Neratius Marcellus gave a thin smile as he quoted the centurion, and did not dismiss the suggestion. ‘It is harder to say whether he thinks the tide has turned against our princeps.’

‘My lord, would it change your actions if it proved to be him?’

‘Not for a moment.’ The face was now as hard and cold as the legate’s black eyes.

‘It may be him. I cannot be sure, not yet. But any tracker worth the name will tell you that it is not always wise to follow so obvious a trail. The Tribune Flaccus of the Ninth Hispana is also well placed to be our man, and he has been here in the north longer.’

‘I hear he is a fool?’

‘My people have a saying that a foolish man will never be lonely,’ Ferox said and heard Ovidius laugh from the far side of the room. ‘How clever does a traitor have to be? Especially if he is not alone.’

The legate came over to him and placed a hand on each shoulder. ‘Find out. Whoever it is I must know. Find out the truth and bring it to me. Will you do that, Flavius Ferox, centurion of Rome and Prince of the Silures?’

‘I will find him, my lord.’ Ferox meant it. No doubt men got away with far worse every day, but they did not do it on his patch.

‘Good.’ Marcellus smiled and stood back. ‘In the meantime we have a garrison to relieve and priests to hunt down. I need the rebels to fight me and fight me soon, and not fade into the hills and force me to chase them as the weather turns worse and my food runs out. What is the best way to make them risk battle?’

‘Give them a chance,’ Ferox said. ‘Make a mistake and let them scent victory.’

‘I am glad to see that honesty is becoming a habit in your speech with me. A mistake? Not too big a mistake, I assume.’ The legate’s eyes softened just a little. ‘I see we think alike. Well, let me explain that the force I plan to march north is not as big as it might be. Will that do the trick?’

‘Perhaps, my lord.’

‘A prudent answer, if not helpful. Well, like Caesar I plan to take fewer tents and pack the men in, while making our camps smaller than normal. That will make them think our numbers are even fewer.’

‘Perhaps, my lord.’

Neratius Marcellus grimaced. ‘Didn’t Caratacus tell you that Silures gave nothing away?’ he shouted to Ovidius.

‘Run, my lord,’ Ferox said, and saw the legate frown. ‘What hound can resist a chase? If the right moment comes, order a retreat and they will follow. Then you can turn with the whole pack and tear them to shreds.’

‘We shall see. For the moment I am drafting an order placing you in command of the exploratores. You will be my eyes and ears.’

‘My lord.’ That was another reminder of Dacia, when he had had the same job. He clutched the bead of the necklace tightly and prayed that this army would march to better fortune. Back then no one had believed him when he had reported that the enemy had massed and was waiting in ambush. He hoped Neratius Marcellus was as shrewd as he seemed.

‘Let’s kill these bastards.’ The legate spoke with surprising vehemence. ‘The traitors and the ones who torture women to death. I hear she was a dancer.’ He shook his head. ‘Such a waste of life.’ Noticing the centurion looking at him he went on. ‘The Lady Sulpicia told me a little about the poor girl. She blames herself. Still, I think it better that the details of what happened be kept from her. At least I do not have to write a letter to my wife telling of the death of her niece. That is something. Do not blame yourself for what has happened. You saved the lady Sulpicia Lepidina and she is worth saving. No reward could be too high for that deed.’

Ferox was not sure whether there was a sparkle of amusement in the legate’s gaze.

‘Well then, get some rest and be ready to have no more for as long as this task takes.’

Ferox stood up. ‘My lord,’ he said, and saluted.

IT TURNED COLD overnight, and the next morning the grass crunched underfoot from the heavy frost and the breath of men and beasts steamed as they tried to stamp life into their bones. That night the stars were a vast field of tiny lights, made more bright because there was no moon to challenge them. Far too many soldiers had gathered at Coria to fit into its fort, so the bulk of the army slept in a camp beyond the civilian buildings. Neratius Marcellus had concentrated almost four and a half thousand men – over five thousand including the servants – and planned to lead all save five hundred of them up the Eastern Road the next morning. That plan changed when late in the day a contingent marched up from Bremesio and reported seeing buildings burning and small groups of mounted British warriors shadowing them. Four hundred additional soldiers, half of them cavalry, were instructed to stay at Coria and be ready to confront any signs of trouble in the area in case this threatened communications with the main force.