Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

Ferox’s eyes kept closing. He was breathing deeply, but was finding it hard to stand. Nearby Terentius knelt by Longus, weeping over his dying friend, as an archer staggered past, his right arm missing below the elbow. The snow turned to sleet that somehow seemed colder and the centurion began to shiver. Most of II Augusta had stopped, exhaustion claiming them, and over their heads Ferox could see the cavalry riding among the enemy, killing at will, but there were so many thousands of Britons even after all this slaughter and the cavalry were few. He saw the tall figure of the Stallion being supported by several warriors. They were past the main crowd, and none of the cavalry seemed to have seen them. There was a chariot waiting, and a dozen horsemen, and one of them had long white hair and even though it was so far away he knew that it must be the great druid. The men lifted the priest into the chariot and it drove off, protected by the riders.

Ferox looked around for a horse, knowing that he must chase and finish the priest off while they had the chance. He saw one, the same one he had ridden to join the cohort, and it was standing amid the corpses, cropping at a tussock of grass.

Ferox tried to run and could not. He walked a few steps, but could not keep in a straight line. His eyes were heavy, wanting to close. He lurched a few more paces until the darkness came and he fell.

THE TRAIL WAS faint, sometimes vanishing among so many other tracks of men fleeing from the defeated army, but the direction was clear and each time they lost it, Ferox was able to pick it up again. On the first day he suspected their purpose. By the second day he was sure. He had been unconscious for only a short time, before waking with a fierce headache. The medicus ordinarius , the doctor in charge of all the medical orderlies, had given him something to drink and he had slept through the night, until the legate’s men roused him before dawn.

Neratius Marcellus was pleased with his victory, and was sensible enough to know how close they had come to disaster, and shrewd enough to write a report that would show how everything had gone to plan. They were saved by the high king, and the other princes and chieftains who had sent men to answer the Stallion’s call to arms even though they did not go in person. All of those contingents were with the northern force, and they had not hurried to join the battle, but let the Stallion and his main force win or lose on their own. Even when they came in sight of the fighting, they had tarried, and their influence made many other warriors cautious. Only the most fervent, led by the tattooed fanatics, had pressed on in spite of this. Perhaps twelve or fifteen hundred Britons had attacked the improvised Roman line, and VIIII Hispana and the others in that hasty line facing north had fought these to a standstill and were starting to drive them back when the panic spread from the rest of the army and they broke. Tincommius’ men and the other real warriors had watched from a distance.

‘Our embassy to Tincommius has borne splendid fruit,’ Crispinus told Ferox as they rode out on the morning after the battle. ‘The high king proved true to his pledges.’

Ferox could not help thinking that the high king had kept a foot in each camp until the very last moment. He had sent Gannascus and several hundred warriors to join the Stallion. If the Romans had blundered into that force instead of retreating when their cavalry were routed then it was hard to believe that the German and the rest would not have fought against them, especially if the Stallion’s bands had come round from behind and trapped them according to plan. The same was surely true if things had gone worse for the Romans in the battle. Tincommius’ men were cautious, but either way they would have ended up on the winning side. Ferox suspected that the legate sensed this truth, but was happy to ignore it since everything had turned out well. He was less sure that the tribune understood, for Crispinus was a harder man to read.

Neratius Marcellus had ordered Ferox to hunt down the wounded priest and bring him back as a captive or his head as a trophy. ‘Either way I want his head on a stake over the gates at Vindolanda,’ he told them. ‘That seems the right place, and it would be better if he was executed there, but it does not matter too much if you cannot bring him in alive.’ He had nodded to Flavius Cerialis, who was nursing a nasty wound to the side. The prefect winced as he smiled at the compliment.

‘The men would appreciate it, my lord. As would I.’

Ferox wondered whether the prefect was thinking about his murdered lover. Cerialis ought to recover as long as the wound did not turn bad. The centurion tried to dismiss from his mind a wild fantasy where the prefect died, leaving his widow free to remarry. It was nonsense and he knew it, for a senator’s daughter could condescend to marry an eques , but never a man of lower rank and far less means. Sulpicia Lepidina was as far beyond him as the stars in the heavens and in truth he could not really wish her husband ill. Cerialis had fought well, leading his Batavians even after he had taken the cut to his thigh and a heavy blow to the chest.

Aelius Brocchus was also among the wounded, although not so seriously, and none of the senior officers had been killed. The centurions had suffered more, as they always did, for their place was in front. A quarter were dead, half wounded, and the remainder struggling to run the units. Overall there were one hundred and fifty-two dead and almost double that number wounded. The Britons had lost a thousand dead, and another thousand too badly wounded to crawl or be carried away, who would be killed as soon as they were found by the parties of soldiers sent out on that grim duty.

Ferox was glad to leave the stench and the cawing of ecstatic crows behind. Vindex came with him, refusing to stay in spite of a nasty cut to the head.

‘If I leave you on your own you’ll only get into trouble,’ he insisted, and Ferox was pleased to have his company, for he chattered away and kept Crispinus occupied. There was also Flaccus and an escort of five legionary horsemen, the number agreed with Gannascus, who with ten of his warriors would accompany them.

‘A prophet cannot survive when his miracle fails,’ the Legate Marcellus assured them. ‘You should not have any trouble, but the sight of the king’s men will make you doubly safe.’

Ferox was much less certain, but was proved wrong for they met no parties of fanatics determined to kill any Roman they saw. The lands seemed unnaturally quiet, and for all the trails left by men going back to their homes they saw few people abroad, although since rain fell steadily from the very start it was rarely possible to see far.

Gannascus was in good spirits, seemed pleased to see him, and made jokes about how they were lucky his Germans had not led the attack on the Roman line. Ferox did not let himself be drawn, and was glad that the constant downpour dampened spirits so that most of the time they rode in silence. He did not want to speak, needing to think because he was not sure how to obey the legate’s last, secret order.

‘One of those tribunes is a traitor,’ the legate had said, once again with only his intimate friend Ovidius as witness. ‘Whoever it is, even if it is my nephew, I want you to make sure that he does not come back.’

Much of the time he rode ahead of the rest, claiming that he needed to search for tracks, and even Vindex left him alone. Ferox thought he knew the answer to all the riddles, was almost sure, but the battle had drained much of his hatred and anger, taking the hard edge off his desire for revenge. Instead he felt listless and empty. If he had been back at Syracuse he suspected that he would have got drunk, so maybe it was better that he had something to do, unpleasant though the task was.