‘We are summoned to Londinium, young Ferox,’ Crispinus had announced the morning after Rufus’ attack. ‘So it is a chance to see what passes for civilisation in this land.’
‘Do you really need me, my lord? I have work to do up here.’
‘Bad news?’ The aristocrat was immediately serious. ‘Is it that rogue Acco?’
Perhaps it was a lucky guess, but word had come of the old druid. ‘Yes, my lord.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘Probably. And of other signs of trouble to come.’
‘Well, that cannot be helped. My uncle, the noble legate, has sent for you.’ Crispinus was a small man and had to stand on tiptoe to grab the centurion by the shoulders. ‘Note that, Flavius Ferox. He has sent for you by name. One might have thought that his first instinct would be to ask for his nephew, a gallant, dashing young officer of great promise, who constantly displays wisdom beyond his years although no less than would be expected from someone of his distinguished ancestry.
‘No, centurion, this time it is not you coming along with me on the vague chance that you might be useful. I am tagging along with you, because this offers a splendid opportunity for seeing my uncle and enjoying his generous hospitality.’ He grinned, taking his hands away. ‘I am sure my uncle merely forgot to add this instruction to his order.’
‘Will II Augusta manage all this time without you, my lord?’ Ferox said, staring a few inches over the tribune’s head. Crispinus was the senior, senatorial tribune of the legion, his rank marked by the broad reddish band around his cuirass. The legion was stationed at Isca Silurum, back in the homeland of Ferox’s people, but since his arrival in Britannia more than two years ago, Crispinus had spent little time with his unit.
‘The Second Legion has managed for a hundred years before I arrived, and will no doubt continue to serve its emperor very loyally for a few more months even without my inspiring presence.’ The white-haired aristocrat smirked. ‘They have coped without your assistance for a great deal longer, have they not?’ Ferox had never served with the legion at all, except on a few occasions when he had fought alongside detachments sent to the north. No one had ever shown any enthusiasm for seeking his recall from detached service.
‘Well, Ferox, however you feel about it, you are ordered to Londinium and I intend to make sure that you arrive there swiftly and in one piece. Given recent events, that appears enough challenge for any man. Or may I take it that you have never spent enough time down south for anyone there to want to kill you! Sure it won’t take you long. So, this Rufus appears seeking vengeance, and simply rides onto the training field as bold as brass. Well, I suppose that is easy enough to do for a former soldier. You have been going there for days so it was a fair bet you would be there today. Surely a risk, though, coming back and hanging around in an inn when there could be soldiers who might recognise him, even with his beard shaved off, as you say. Why go to the trouble?’
‘I do not know, my lord.’
‘You provoke strong sentiment in others, even if it is not obvious why.’ The legate’s orders were brief, specific and included no explanation. ‘I believe it is not compulsory for the governor of a province to explain his actions at every stage,’ Crispinus had said when he showed Ferox the tablet containing the order. It was written by a cornicularius, and added that all military and civil authorities were instructed to assist the centurion and his party in their journey. ‘There you are, Ferox, it makes me one of “your” men’.
They set out the next morning, in a four-wheeled raeda borrowed from Oppius Niger, with a ten-man escort. Philo insisted that he could not ride in the carriage and was perched on a seat up on the roof, his back to the driver. Fewer men would have been beneath the dignity of a senior tribune, while many more would most likely have slowed them down. Vindex and one of his scouts were part of the escort, along with five Batavian troopers. Ferox had also asked for young Cocceius to join them, and the lad had been given a mount and told that if he did well he might be promoted to eques in the cohort. So far he seemed to be managing to handle the horse well enough. The last two members of the escort were the strangest, and each time he looked out of the carriage window, Ferox felt a moment of surprise. When Vindex had come back from Syracuse he had not come alone, but had brought an old friend. Gannascus was a German, a refugee from his homeland across the great grey sea, and now in the service of Tincommius, High King of the Venicones to the far north.
‘This big ox had come looking for you,’ Vindex explained. ‘Not sure they liked the look of him at Syracuse, but thought that if they shut the gate he’d only tear it down.’ Gannascus was a giant of a man, almost a head taller than Ferox, with huge limbs and hands that belied his quickness as a fighter. He had brought a papyrus written either by Tincommius, or probably one of his household, the Latin letters large and straight like an inscription rather than the flowing marks of a normal letter, assuring the Romans of his friendship and sending the warrior as proof.
‘I help you,’ he rumbled, after grabbing Ferox in a hug that almost crushed the life out of him. ‘My king sends me.’ Even after years with Tincommius the German spoke the language of the Britons slowly and with a thick accent. His companion was a warrior called Sepenestus, who would have been considered huge in any other company, and was clearly a man the big German trusted, although his slim face marked him as a Caledonian rather than a German. Apart from a gladius – perhaps one of the ones Crispinus had arranged to be supplied to the high king – and a small shield, he carried a tall bow of the sort used by some of Gannascus’ followers. Ferox had seen the force of the arrows shot by these weapons and was all the happier to have him, for the news in the king’s letter was worrying.
‘Acco has promised the end of Rome before Samhain comes next year,’ Ferox told Crispinus. ‘Fire will sweep Rome from Britannia and leave it free forever.’ The tribune was dismissive, for such prophecies were nothing new. For the moment he did not say anything about the rest of the king’s message, for he needed time to think, and that was hard with the tribune’s unending chat.
On the first day they went no further than Coria, Crispinus and Ferox dining with Brocchus, who greeted them with great warmth. ‘Shame about that poor fellow,’ was his only comment about Narcissus, save to conclude that it was a nasty business. Far more than Cerialis, he was clearly pining in the absence of his wife. Ferox stayed in the praetorium, but no slave girl came to his room in a display of her owner’s hospitality and after the jolting ride he was quite happy with this. They kept talking about laying down a proper road over the existing track running west from Coria to Luguvallium, but no one had yet actually done anything.
From Coria they took the great south road, and progress was swifter, even though a fair few stretches had suffered from the weather and were in need of substantial repairs. On the second night they stopped at Longovicium, once a busy fort like Vindolanda, but now maintained by a holding unit. The centurion acting as commander was grudging of his hospitality until he realised who Crispinus was, after which he was transformed into unctuous attention.
Bremesio remained a busy fort surrounded by an extensive vicus, and the prefect in command was readier and far more generous with his hospitality, at least as far as the tribune was concerned. Ferox decided that no one would much mind if he took some exercise in the remaining hours of daylight.