Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

‘We will be at the ferry soon, will we not?’ Crispinus had ridden up to join him.

‘Two hours, my lord, but I do not think we shall have to go that far. “Some leaves do not fall, some trees do not die.”’ He sang the words softly.

‘I am too cold and wet for mysteries, my friend.’ The tribune was pale and looked truly miserable.

‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had not come, my lord.’

Crispinus smiled. ‘I had to be here at the end.’

‘Not long now,’ Ferox said. Under his cloak he felt for the bone handgrip of his gladius.

The trail ran straight the last few miles, and when they came to the spot it was easy to see in his mind’s eye what had happened. They had unharnessed the two ponies from the chariot and then burned the car. The remains were scorched a deep black by a great heat, for they must have used oil to get the wood and leather to burn in all this rain. The ponies lay dead, throats cut and made to lie down on either side of the pyre.

‘The Legate Marcellus was right,’ Crispinus said, patting his horse to calm it as it tried to pull away. ‘A prophet cannot fail.’

The Stallion’s corpse swung gently in the breeze, suspended from one of the main branches of the yew tree. Ferox imagined Acco the druid supervising, probably placing the noose around the priest’s head himself, then watching as the others hauled him up and made the rope fast. The naked priest would have jerked and twitched, struggling for breath, choking slowly as his own weight dragged his body down. They had cut him about the body, cut him time and again, and Ferox saw a broken flint blade on the ground, which meant that they had not used ordinary knives. A great scar ran across his stomach, sewn up and starting to heal a little, which was the wound the centurion had given him during the battle. It did not look as if it would have proved fatal. All the other cuts were neater, less deep, and the rain had fallen, washing away the blood, so all that was left was slice after slice cut into his white skin. It would have taken a long time and traces around his lips told Ferox that the man had been given poison as well. The triple death, the sacred death of a willing victim sacrificed to appease the anger of the gods.

Flaccus gave a nervous laugh. ‘These Britons really don’t like failures.’

Ferox did not bother to answer. The Romans would never understand.

Flaccus jumped down. ‘You men,’ he ordered the escort. ‘Help me cut this fellow down. My Lord Crispinus, perhaps you would like to do the honours and take his head?’

The tribune seemed surprised, but realised that there would be something for him to boast about and shock his friends with when he returned to Rome, so got down.

Ferox gestured to Vindex to dismount as well. ‘Do you trust me?’ he whispered to the Brigantian.

‘No.’

‘Then just do what I ask. Have your blade ready. When I look away and say that I’m expecting someone to join us, that will be the signal.’

Crispinus had thrown his cloak back to get at his sword. He drew it, just as one of the legionaries rode over to the tree and sawed through the rope. The corpse thumped on to the soggy ground and somehow looked even whiter.

‘Little bloke, wasn’t he?’ one of the soldiers joked.

Ferox drew his gladius and in the same motion brought it so that the tip quivered an inch from Crispinus’ throat. ‘Drop the sword,’ he said.

‘Have you gone mad, centurion?’

Flaccus looked baffled.

‘My Lord Flaccus, I must ask you to place the noble Crispinus under arrest on charges of treason.’

‘What?’ Crispinus’ eyes flicked from side to side. ‘This is absurd.’

‘Drop the sword.’ Ferox pressed so that the tip of his gladius touched the skin of the tribune’s neck. ‘Drop it.’ Crispinus let the weapon fall.

‘What is the meaning of this?’ Flaccus was confused, but he gestured to one of the legionaries and the man came and took away the tribune’s sword.

‘I am acting on orders of the Legate Marcellus,’ Ferox said, his eyes fixed on Crispinus. ‘And I regret to say that the tribune has plotted with other senators to damage the majesty of the republic and our princeps, the glorious Trajan.’

The legionaries had all stopped and were watching and listening. Gannascus frowned and then shrugged, and his men sat on their horses showing only mild curiosity at the Romans talking in a language they did not understand.

‘You!’ Ferox nodded to one of the legionaries. ‘Get some rope and tie the tribune’s hands behind his back.’ The soldier looked at Flaccus, who waved a hand to show that he was to obey the order.

‘That is better,’ the centurion said, even though the man had not yet returned, for Crispinus held his arms down and waited meekly for the bonds. ‘Now I can lower my arm.’

Ferox stepped away and began to walk in a circle, waiting until he was behind Crispinus before he started to speak again. Two of the legionaries crouched down beside the dead priest, waiting for orders. One was next to Flaccus, another fetching the rope, and the last man, the one who had cut the dead priest’s corpse down, sat on his horse, watching.

‘The tribune wanted to start a war,’ Ferox began, ‘so he sent weapons and money to kings among the tribes, men who encouraged that fiend.’ He pointed his blade at the corpse. ‘With a priest preaching hatred and promising victory, the tribes were stirred up. He well knew that the garrisons up here are weak, so that we are seen as vulnerable as well as loathed. That’s never good.’

Ferox gave a thin smile. ‘When you look back it was really all so easy. The tribune had friends. He’s the son of a senator with lots of connections, and he is an up-and-coming man, someone to watch and someone well worth doing a favour to earn his gratitude. There is all that even before he helps break one emperor and raise up another. Plenty of people were eager to help the noble Crispinus. Some were already tied to him or his family.’

Ferox had gone right round and was level with the tribune. The legionary came back with a piece of hemp rope cut from the one that they had used to hang the Stallion. He tied the young aristocrat’s hands together.

‘I recall an oath,’ Crispinus said in a low voice, his words bitter. ‘One willingly taken to my father.’

‘You should,’ Ferox said, glaring at him, ‘because it’s the only reason you are still alive. That oath is a burden, but I have a higher oath, a sacred oath that all soldiers take.’ The sacramentum to obey and serve the princeps and the Senate and People of Rome was sworn when a man joined the army, taken in front of the standards, and then renewed at the accession of each new emperor.

‘I serve Rome,’ the tribune claimed. ‘Always Rome.’

‘But not Trajan!’ Ferox yelled and twitched his sword up before putting his other hand on his wrist to push his arm back down. ‘Noble Crispinus, I will not kill you unless I have to, but will leave that task to others. My oath to your father holds that far.’

‘You have no evidence.’ There was doubt in Flaccus’ voice. ‘It is no light matter to arrest a senior officer.’ The protest came after he had let one of his men bind the tribune. ‘How can I be sure you are right?’

‘He has not denied anything, has he?’ Ferox realised his tone was sharp – too sharp for words to a senior officer. ‘My apologies, my Lord Flaccus, but treason is a dirty business and it is hard not to feel rage, especially since I am pledged to this man. But let me explain. Back in the summer the noble Crispinus met with men from the procurator’s staff and arranged for them to demand a higher levy from the Selgovae, and demand it sooner than usual.’