Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘No. At least nothing has been reported. Why do you ask?’

The door opened and Ovidius was ushered in, his tufts of hair wilder even than usual.

‘The legate’s apologies, but it will be a while before he is done. The worthies of Londinium are nervous and need reassurance.’

‘I don’t blame ’em.’ Crispinus was even more full of cheerful self-assurance than usual. Perhaps it was being in a town after so long or enjoyment of the crisis, or both, but he even stood a little taller. ‘But, noble Ferox, you were about to explain your question. Why Silvanus and not any of the other shrines dotted around the place? Come on, man, speak up.’

Ferox told them about Domitius and Kopros, and how he had followed them on their tour. Then he spoke about the ambush last night, not saying why he had believed the messenger or making any mention of Sulpicia Lepidina.

At the end of it all Crispinus let out a low whistle. ‘And there was I too polite to mention that Philo had made a pig’s ear of shaving you this morning!’ Ferox sensed that much of his story was already known to the young tribune, who liked to play these little games, always exploring others’ openness and trust. He knew there were bruises and scratches on his face. The cuts were light and would soon heal, but the bruises and broken ribs would take longer.

‘You killed a lion, single-handed?’ Ovidius was impressed. He patted Ferox on the arm and then looked guilty as the centurion winced. His whole body was sore.

Crispinus laughed. ‘Sounds as if inspiration for a work art is forming as we speak. A five-book epic perhaps?’

‘At least, my boy, at the very least. Why, this is a feat for Hercules himself!’ said Ovidius.

‘It was not a very big lion, my lords, and I was lucky, very lucky.’ That was true and he knew it. Chance had made the animal land at just the right angle, impaling itself on his sword, its own weight driving the blade deep. ‘The poor thing was a female, part of their stock, and not an animal trained to kill.’

Ovidius beamed at him. ‘You really do need a poet to tell your tale, friend Ferox!’ he said. ‘You wish to hide your glory. Why, I could make you a new Achilles.’

‘Well, he’s taller and better looking than Claudia’s whisperer.’ Crispinus grinned. ‘Well, in a good light, at least. Shall I call a slave and see if we can find a good enough light?’ He slapped the centurion hard on the back and with great effort Ferox managed not to react. ‘Splendid, splendid. Now, let us return to Silvanus. Do you think his house was spared because the god is from Britannia?’

‘What about Mars Camulos?’ Ovidius asked. ‘He sounds rather local.’

‘He comes from Gaul,’ Crispinus replied, not taking his eyes off Ferox. ‘A god of the Remi, I believe.’ He smiled when Ferox gave a slight nod. ‘Unlike Silvanus Vinotonus.’ He paused. ‘At this point a flood of praise for my knowledge would be nice. No? Oh well, in truth the explanation is simple, and more than the blind chance that Archimedes would tell us will eventually mean that even I can be right now and again. I’ve hunted enough with Cerialis to know the north’s god of the chase. But to return to the point. Was Silvanus deliberately spared?’

‘I believe so,’ Ferox said. ‘But it may have more to do with the billeting of some of the legate’s mounted singulares in the next street. No soldiers live as close to any of the other shrines.’

‘Hmm. We shall have to check, but that sounds plausible. Well done. We must assume they did not want a general conflagration, since that would have been easy enough to arrange, even in this damp weather. Kopros is dead, and since that is unlikely to have been his objective, we must consider what this Domitius wants.’

‘Nervous people,’ Ovidius said, in the tone of a schoolmaster impatient for a pupil to get to the point. ‘No one likes the houses of the gods destroyed. They see it as a sign of displeasure, and an omen of worse to come. You could see it in the faces of half the legate’s callers this morning. Speaking of which, I will go and see whether he is ready for us. If you will both excuse me.’

After the old man had hurried away, Crispinus chuckled fondly. ‘Well, he came with the legate because his life was dull. We have done a good job of changing that!’

‘He is a good man, my lord.’

‘Yes, he is. And a good friend to my uncle. No, I do believe he is thriving in his new life.’ The tribune chuckled again. ‘And how about you, centurion? Are you truly all right?’

Ferox shrugged and wished he had not as his body complained. ‘I’m alive, my lord.’

‘And what do you want from this life, my friend? You know the legate thinks most highly of you. We all do.’

The sudden change of topic caught Ferox by surprise. ‘I do my job, my lord,’ he said for want of anything better.

‘Such devotion is admirable, and deserves reward. No doubt promotion will come, but as well as a loyal officer of the princeps you are a prince of your own tribe. Do you ever think of going back?’

‘Doubt I’d be welcome, my lord.’ Ferox still found the conversation baffling. ‘Reckon I’ll just keep on serving. Be good to get back to my region.’

The tribune ignored the hint. ‘Then do you ever think of marriage?’

‘Marriage?’ Ferox repeated the word before he could stop himself.

‘Well, perhaps you should think on it. From all I understand, being mauled by a lion would be considered admirable practice for that hallowed bond between man and woman!’

The door swung open and Ovidius’ head appeared. ‘Time to go.’

‘You should think on it,’ Crispinus said quietly as Ferox stood to let him leave the room first. ‘Might be time to settle down.’

Neratius Marcellus, the legatus Augusti of the province of Britannia, was still, which was never a good sign. He stood behind a chair, gripping the back so hard that his knuckles were white. The room was large, with the wall panels painted in cityscapes and the wooden floor of well-laid and highly polished timbers.

‘About time,’ he snapped, as they were announced. ‘Centurion, you look a mess.’

‘You should see the lion,’ Crispinus whispered.

Philo had done his best, but an accident had left Ferox with most of a plate of porridge over his best tunic. In its place he now wore the same garment he had worn yesterday, hastily darned and cleaned as well as the short time had allowed. The blood stains remained obvious.

‘Never mind, sit down, all of you.’

Cornelius Fuscus watched with obvious amusement. The procurator was around fifty, his hair kept black with dye, eyebrows neatly plucked and tunic, toga and shoes immaculate and obviously expensive. His face was very large and flat, the nose crooked from an ancient break, a scar on his chin, the skin leathery and lined, and it did not fit the clothes. His hands were massive, on short, obviously powerful arms. Ferox thought he looked more like a short gladiator or wrestler than the emperor’s chief financial representative in the province.

‘Are you sure about this, my dear Cornelius?’ the legate asked.

‘Yes, my lord. Word came two hours ago. Two days ago there were fires in Camulodunum. The temples of Mars Ultor, of Diana, and of the Divine Claudius were all destroyed. It is unlikely to be a coincidence. It makes a man question whether the destruction of the temple of Mars at Verulamium last week was mere accident, as was first thought.’

The legate grunted.

‘I am sure I have no need to remind my lord that all three places were razed to the ground by Boudicca.’

Ferox wondered whether the wooden top of the chair was going to snap. After a moment, Neratius Marcellus managed a smile. ‘Indeed you do not. Thank you for expressing your concerns with such rare frankness. I should not detain you any longer, procurator.’