Vindex had wanted to come, saying that fencing with a real opponent rather than a lump of wood would be more useful, but Ferox needed to think and it was easier to do that on his own. The praetorium was too crowded to be peaceful, and even with the lady of the house, her children and attendants away, there remained a large household who seemed always to be busy. There never seemed to be any peace, even compared to the little outpost where Ferox spent most of his time when he was not riding abroad. He had been there for many years now and it was the closest he had to a home. Soon after arriving he had dubbed the place Syracuse, after the room in the palace where the emperor Augustus had gone whenever he did not want to be disturbed.
Eager for news from the wider world, Ferox had asked the scout to ride over to Syracuse and pick up any fresh reports or rumours. He would have preferred to do it himself, but the tribune was adamant that he was not to leave Vindolanda until the report was completed to his satisfaction. Ferox knew that he must sit down and do it. Hopefully the exercise would help clear his mind and perhaps let him glimpse some answers.
He began with the sword, cumbersome and poorly balanced compared to his own blade, and after some stretching made a series of mock attacks that stopped short of contacting the six-foot-high post set into the ground. There was no one else using the training area and that was good, but a straggle of children appeared and stared at him and this was less good. The oldest, a tall, raw-boned lad with hair so blond it was almost white, must have been nine or ten, the others younger. One, a little girl of four or five clutching the edge of the boy’s tunic, had a squint, which made her steady stare slightly unnerving. All were no doubt children of the cohort, hanging around looking for something to do. Ferox found that he was a good deal more indulgent of all children ever since he had become a father. Even so, he could have done without their silent scrutiny. He could not help wondering whether they knew almost as much as he did about the murder.
For the simple truth was that in six days Ferox had learned almost nothing more. He wondered if everyone else was equally baffled and simply wanted to forget the dead man. The Batavians were a clannish bunch, and even though he had fought alongside them a good few times in the last years, he knew that he remained an outsider and wondered if they were telling him everything. Longinus, the trooper who had once been Julius Civilis, prefect and leader of the Batavian rebellion against Rome and afterwards vanished into the anonymous ranks of the army, might have told him. However, the one-eyed veteran had gone as part of the escort to Sulpicia Lepidina. Presumably he felt that no one would recognise him after almost thirty years, even if he went with the lady as far as Londinium and the big cities of the south. Oddly enough he had not been marked down for this duty, but two troopers had been taken ill with food poisoning early that morning and Longinus and another man assigned to take their places.
Ferox had had enough of mock blows and slammed the hardwood sword into the post strongly enough to leave a dent. He did not like coincidences, although in truth he had come across plenty of them over the years. A letter had come last night from Sulpicia Lepidina, expressing mild sorrow for the death of her guest while saying nothing of importance about him. Narcissus had not spent long this far north, even though he had been in and around Eboracum for over a year. In time Vindex might pick up some rumours about his business with the Brigantian royal family.
It was time to use the shield, and he was pleased to have found one shaped like the rectangular scutum used by legionaries rather than the flat oval type equipping the Batavians and Tungrians here at Vindolanda. He hefted it, testing the weight. In some ways it was easier having something balance the sword in his right hand.
At the far end a horseman walked his dark bay onto the training field. He was fully equipped, with polished scale armour, gleaming bronze helmet, uncovered shield and a long spear. He turned his head, nodding and raising the spear to acknowledge the centurion. Ferox waved his sword in reply, and was surprised to see that the cavalryman had a masked helmet, of the sort used in the cavalry games. He had heard that Cerialis was forming two teams so that he could put on one of these displays, even though they were normally the preserve of the better mounted cavalry alae, rather than mixed foot and horse units like the Batavians. Presumably one of the men was putting in some additional practice, getting used to riding with a mask, which reduced his vision to just a couple of slits. After the wave, he ignored the centurion and began walking his mount in a circle. The children, evidently bored by his ongoing duel with a lump of wood, decided that horse and rider offered better entertainment, and wandered over to watch him instead.
Ferox returned to his practice and his thoughts. Philo had learned far more than he had and the little Jewish lad from Alexandria had obviously enjoyed himself. He had charm when he wanted, and an innocence that seemed to appeal to women young or old. Slaves gossiped. Everyone knew that, although their owners often liked to pretend that they did not. Yet they rarely were so forthcoming to outsiders. In the last few years Philo had become a favourite of quite a few members of Cerialis’ household, even Privatus, the senior steward who recognised a kindred spirit in the boy’s obsession with neatness and cleanliness. It had taken several days, and Ferox did not like to think how many favours or swapped stories, but soon the boy was getting some sense of Narcissus.
‘They are collectors,’ Philo told him, his face brimming with pride. ‘He and his colleague Vegetus. You could call them friendly rivals.’
‘Collectors?’
‘Of antiques, my lord. Jewellery, silver and gold plate, helmets and weapons. They especially like anything associated with the kings and queens of the Britons. Some they keep, but most they hope to sell to wealthier collectors in Gaul and Italy. The profits are said to be substantial, although Narcissus’ man Rivus says that they enjoyed most the thrill of the chase. When the cart owned by Vegetus was attacked, Rivus says that Vegetus’ man joked with him that his master was behind it all!’ He noticed Ferox’s puzzlement. Philo shrugged, ‘Apologies, my lord, I get ahead of myself. The cart carried a tall bronze helmet and a mail shirt said to have been worn by King Venutius of Brigantia when he led his warriors against the legions all those years ago. They had both heard the rumours that they had been given years ago to a chieftain of the Selgovae, and were eager to obtain them. Vegetus won, although not for long. Am I correct in assuming those items were not found with the cart? ’
Ferox nodded, much to the boy’s delight. ‘What did Rivus think of his master?’
‘He was not generous, but nor was he demanding. There is a saying that freedmen make either the very best or the very worst masters.’
‘I have never heard it,’ Ferox said.
‘My lord, you have never been a slave.’
‘No.’ More than once he had wondered about giving the boy his freedom, before Philo’s constant fussing made him dismiss the idea. Perhaps soon.
‘Narcissus did not work Rivus too hard, and kept him even after he lost his arm in an accident.’ That injury was the main reason why no one suspected the slave of the murder, since he could not have lifted the body. ‘Mostly he was decent enough, although now and again he would lose his temper and beat him savagely. Rivus had been a slave of a high chief of the Brigantes and was given to Narcissus in part payment of debt. He wonders a little whether he was part of the collection. His master liked him to strip so that he could look at his tattoos.’