‘Is this a tomb?’ Gannascus’ deep voice broke in.
‘Yes and no,’ Ferox explained when Vindex obviously did not want to speak. The Brigantes were his close kin. ‘It is a place to remember. Her remains are not here, but some of her spirit and power lingers. She died near here.’
The German touched fingers to his lips, then his forehead and then bowed towards the pillar.
‘I should like to see the house,’ Vindex said. ‘If there is time.’
They rode away. It was more than two decades since any Brigantes had fought against Rome and some like their high queen had always been friends. Yet they remained a people apart from the rest of the province, the old ways and old pride just beneath the surface. In her last years the Legate Agricola had allowed Cartimandua to return to live among her people and she had chosen this place. It was a few miles from the great dun where she had held court in the days of glory and wealth, the ramparts now overgrown and only a few small farms dotted around the inside. They had built a home for her here, close enough to Bremesio to be protected by the garrison if need be. As they came over the next rise they saw it, just below them on the flat land where the brook flowed into a larger branch of the river.
The villa was modest by the standards of the south, let alone the grand country residences of the wealthy in Gaul or Italy. Yet it was built of stone, rectangular with two floors and a high roof of red tiles. On each of the long sides of the house was a roofed veranda leading onto a garden with gritted paths, well tended and organised beds of flowers and vegetables. Yet beyond the gardens were wooden fences forming pens for animals, a number of simple timber huts around a big barn. More striking was the other house, close to the Roman-style building, for this was round and thatched and built on a scale befitting the hall of a great chief, perhaps three times the size of the big house in Eburus’ farmstead. At the moment half a dozen figures were clustered around it, slapping fresh clay, no doubt to repair damage to the wall.
Half to his own surprise, Ferox nudged the gelding into a canter down the slope towards them. He was not sure why, or really sure why he had come here at all. It simply felt right. One of the little figures ran towards him, waving his arms and shouting. The words were faint, but the tone was not one of welcome.
‘You must leave!’ the man was still running towards him, close enough now to be understood. He was tall and lean, with a checked tunic, striped trousers and a drooping moustache and long brown hair. Suddenly he stopped and froze, before lowering his arms, and simply waiting for Ferox to reach him.
‘Greetings, centurion.’ The man must have seen the crested helmet. ‘Forgive my rudeness, for you are welcome.’ Close up Ferox saw the heavy silver torc around the man’s neck, and that his hair was brushed and clothes clean and well woven. Clearly this was a man of some importance. He was also surprised. ‘How did you know?’
Ferox introduced himself and then Vindex as the scout caught up.
‘Our kin are welcome here,’ the man said, before introducing himself as Cunovindus, servant to the old queen and keeper of this place.
His story was simple enough, and did not really come as a surprise for it fitted with everything else. During the night a guard had been struck on the head, knocked unconscious, and then had his throat cut. It looked as if he had heard or seen someone chipping at the wall of the great hall and had gone to investigate. The only other man awake was tending to a flock of sheep at some distance from the house and saw nothing. ‘We don’t really expect trouble here,’ Cunovindus explained. ‘Our people would not dare take from us, and the fort protects us from bandits and common thieves.’ Yet someone had come, killed the guard and dug their way through the wall. They must have known about the secret chamber in the hall, and not wanted to risk waking anyone inside. ‘There were only a handful of old women there, but they were not to realise. They dug through the wall, and into the chamber.’ Cunovindus’ eyes flicked nervously, but the presence of Vindex appeared to reassure him. ‘It was where she passed into the Otherworld, and it has been sealed ever since some of her things were buried there.’
‘And these thieves dug up these valuables and took just one thing?’ Ferox said softly.
The Brigantian nodded. ‘I cannot tell you what it was, for I am bound by an oath. Those who could tell you are not here.’
Ferox did not force the issue. ‘You must keep your word.’ He was remembering the stone pillar and the carving of the mirror and was sure he knew what had gone. ‘Do you wish me to assist you, or send word to the fort?’
‘Leave us to deal with our own, my lord.’
‘As you wish.’
VI
‘SEEN IT BEFORE. It stinks.’ Vindex’s verdict on Eboracum did not surprise Ferox, who knew that the scout was not fond of towns and cities. The fortress of Legio VIIII Hispana was ten times bigger than Vindolanda and its vicus on the same scale. ‘Stinks of shit,’ he added later, once Crispinus was not around, since he knew the tribune had learned some of the language of the tribes. With sewers from the fortress opening into the river it was hard to argue at this time of year. No doubt anyone spending a long time here became used to it.
‘A lot of people,’ Gannascus said over and over again. ‘Why would they want to live here?’ Ferox tried to explain that many were warriors oathbound to Rome’s high king and their families and that he ordered them to be here. This satisfied the big German for the moment.
The colonia at Lindum was no more appreciated. ‘Stinks of old leather and shit.’ There were fewer men in uniform in the city, but a lot of old men who, whatever they wore, carried themselves like the legionaries they had been until a few years ago. Begun under Domitian and officially founded under the far more acceptable Nerva, when the legion was posted away, this place was reborn as a colony for discharged soldiers. The military feel of the place was all the stronger because use had been made of many of the existing buildings. They passed row after row of little houses, obviously built as barracks and now converted so that a family occupied a pair of rooms. At least these each had their own hearth. Ferox wondered who was now living in the big praetorium and the houses once made for tribunes and senior centurions, and wondered how many officers had taken their discharge here to become local worthies. It sometimes must have seemed like the same old service, albeit less crowded. Still, the huge principia with its assembly hall made a serviceable basilica for the town council, with space for courts and public records. Among the timber military buildings the newer ones of stone stood out. They were paving a square near the principia and surrounding it with temples – something you never saw in an army base. Statues of Nerva and Trajan were mounted on high plinths in the centre of the square.
‘Who are they?’ Gannascus asked after he had stared at them for a while. There were stalls set up over much of the open area, traders yelling, customers bartering and all the loafers, idlers, and groups of unruly children you always found in markets such as this. The thieves and whores were there as well, if you knew where to look.
‘They are the emperor and his son,’ Vindex said, and Ferox was glad that he did not have to answer. ‘The high kings of Rome.’
‘Is that one a war chief?’ the German asked, pointing at Trajan, who was depicted in cuirass with a sword at his hip and pointing as if he was ordering soldiers into battle.
The scout turned to Ferox for help. ‘They say he is. A brave one.’ Crispinus had confirmed the rumours that the princeps planned to lead a big attack on Dacia next spring. Ferox had fought the Dacians and their allies before, and reckoned it would be a tough task. Depressingly that probably meant more detachments and whole units being withdrawn from Britannia. He hoped that the legate’s summons did not mean that his services were required, for he had work to do here.