Адриан Голдсуорти: The Encircling Sea

‘Good,’ Ferox said. ‘Well, I had better stop dawdling and report to the principia .’ He nudged Snow forward along the main road of the fort, the via praetoria , which ran straight towards the other main road of the fort, behind which stood the great buildings of the base – the principia where the administration went on, and the praetorium where Cerialis and his household lived. Both were big, with four ranges around a central courtyard, and their walls were rendered and painted white so from this distance they looked to made of stone and not timber. For sheer size they were dwarfed by the pair of granaries next to them, their roofs towering over the rest of the fort. Yet the barracks on either side of the road were big enough buildings.

‘Like a nest of ants.’ The Red Cat had broken his silence for the first time in days, and was staring around at the whitewashed buildings with their shingle and slate roofs. A party of soldiers marched past, not carrying spears or shields but in mail and wearing helmets and marching in step to orders bellowed at them by the old sweat in charge. The thief stared at them. He did not understand the words, but the tone was obvious.

‘How can a man submit to that?’ he asked his brother, his tone genuinely baffled. ‘How can they live like this?’

Vindex snorted with laughter. Ferox knew that the scout’s own views were similar. Vindolanda was a fair-sized fort, built to accommodate the large Batavian cohort and various other detachments as well as details passing through, and it must seem huge to a man used to lone houses, farmsteads or villages with no more than a couple of dozen huts at most. The base for a Roman legion was some ten times bigger, while the cities of the empire, let alone Rome itself, made any army outpost look tiny.

‘Is this Rome?’ Segovax asked.

‘No, brother, they say that lies a week or more to the south. This must be the dun of one of their greatest chiefs.’

‘Huh. Why live here, surrounded by so many? It’s like an ant’s nest.’

The Red Cat nodded. ‘They are strange folk.’

Vindex rode up to join Ferox. ‘Most they’ve said for weeks.’

‘Yes. They may talk a bit more when they realise what they’re facing.’ Ferox had hoped to learn more on the journey home and had failed to get anywhere with the captive brothers. There had to be a reason why they had come so far from their own lands. The horse was a good one, but the Creones and other peoples of the north generally preferred the smaller native ponies because they were so hardy and sure-footed in the rugged country. It was true that Brigita and Aphrodite could be traded or kept as slaves, and yet they need not come so far to abduct a couple of young girls. Genialis seemed the key to unlocking the mystery, for as far as Ferox could tell the others had all been incidental captures. The northerners had come to take him – or maybe someone like him – and Ferox could not understand what they had hoped to gain. The sulking youth was no help. Perhaps he was telling the truth and his father was rich, so might pay a ransom. Yet what would men from the far north want with so much coin?

‘Perhaps when they come face to face with their deaths they’ll talk a bit more freely,’ Ferox said, without conviction.

Vindex was not impressed. ‘Why should they?’

‘There are different ways to die.’

‘You really think you’re going to frighten that one?’ Vindex nodded back at Segovax. ‘Or the other one. I think that you should have let me kill them quick and clean.’

Ferox wondered whether he was right. He had to admit to grudging respect of the brothers, and did not much relish the thought of them ending up on crosses or in with the beasts in the arena.

‘Too late now,’ he said. They were almost at the junction of the two roads. ‘You stay here and watch them while I go in and make the arrangements.’ He jumped down and strode across towards the archway of the principia. The ground was hard packed, but spongy underfoot. It always seemed to be wet at Vindolanda. As he walked he tried to work out what day it was. Must be sometime after the Ides of April, he reckoned. While they were in the far reaches of Britannia it had not mattered. As they had headed north he had known that Beltane was weeks ago, the snows were melting, lambs being born, lengthening days and spring approaching. Now that he was back with the army, he was entering another world, which set everything down in writing. At least he knew which year it was. Our Lord Trajan was consul for the third time with Sextus Julius Frontinus, also holding the office for the third time.

‘A tough bastard, that one. Clever too.’ His grandfather’s description of Frontinus suddenly came into his mind and he guessed that he was grinning. The Lord of the Hills had fought the Romans for many years and held them off. Then Frontinus came as legate to govern Britannia, and made crushing the Silures his priority. He did it, too, taking heavy losses, but inflicting even more and overrunning more and more of their territory. After the surrender, by that strange custom of the Romans, he became their patron, arranging much of Ferox’s education, securing him citizenship and a commission as centurion. If afterwards the young Silurian’s career turned sour, that was his own fault, from his obsession with the truth and the freedom with which he spoke his mind. Frontinus had been a good patron and no Roman aristocrat ever forgot past services they had done for someone or his obligation to them.

Ferox returned the salute of the sentry and went through the arch into the courtyard. The main offices were ahead of him, just next to the shrine housing the cohort’s standards. There was more than the usual bustle about the place, although that could simply be the season. In winter, most of a unit was often at its base, but as soon as the spring arrived a lot of large and small detachments would march away to train, work on some building project or for other tasks.

Cerialis was not there, so Ferox dealt with Rufus, the centurion on duty for the day, aided by the prefect’s cornicularius who made notes of everything. As usual with the army it took longer than he expected or was truly necessary. Half a dozen Batavians were despatched to take the captives to where they would be held.

‘May be a while before due process can be done and they’ll be nailed up,’ Rufus told him.

‘In that case, get them to have a look at the bigger one’s injuries.’

The Batavian centurion raised a bushy eyebrow at this mark of concern. ‘No sense killing someone unhealthy, I suppose.’ In the meantime, the cornicularius was writing a note on a wax tablet to Privatus, the freedman head of the prefect’s staff, to send people to look after Aphrodite and stable the horse. Word was to be sent to Brocchus to inform him of their rescue. Genialis would also go to the legate’s house, to be held in the servants’ quarters until his identity was established.

‘Tell them to watch him,’ Ferox said. ‘He might be a runaway.’

‘Yes, a lot of them like to talk big. What about the other lass?’ Rufus was as red-faced as his name suggested, although his hair was an undistinguished brown.

‘I’ll take her back to her people.’

‘Not stopping with us? I am sure that the Lord Cerialis would wish to thank you on behalf of his friends.’

Ferox shook his head. ‘I want to get her home. Her folk are good people.’

‘As you wish.’

‘I shall come back soon to have a word with the prisoners.’

Rufus grinned. ‘I am sure we can assist in making them cooperate.’

As Ferox left he saw the captives already being led away. He glanced at the big two-storey praetorium, unable to stop himself, but apart from the messenger running to carry the note to Privatus there was no sign of anyone. As he turned away he thought he saw movement in one of the upper windows. There was no sign of anyone when he looked back.