Ferox jerked upright in his seat before he could stop himself and banged his knee against a table leg, hissing with the pain.
‘Dear me no, that’s the wrong note,’ Crispinus said as the others roared with laughter. ‘It is Caius Julius Similis. My apologies, friend Ferox, of course no one would ever imagine that you would behave in so shameful a manner. Will you forgive me?’
‘Of course, my lord,’ he said, laughing along with the others because it would have been odd if he had not joined in. Junior officers were obliged to share the humour of their superiors.
The consilium finished on this cheerful note. Ferox left, heart still pounding, and trying to convince himself that it was all just coincidence. Crispinus was a clever man, a politician to the bone, who loved intrigue. The year before last Ferox had wondered whether he was one of the men conspiring to replace Trajan with another emperor. The tribune’s uncle, Neratius Marcellus, had been willing to consider the possibility, believing that his nephew was the sort of man to end up on the winning side, whichever side it might me. Ferox was still not sure that the young aristocrat was wholly innocent, and suspected the governor also harboured a few doubts. Could Crispinus know about his night with Sulpicia Lepidina? Was all this long oration meant as a hint, just like their earlier conversation? The tribune was a man to store knowledge, keeping it for when it might be useful.
Ferox left the principia, thinking that everything had been so much simpler when he was far off in the north away from Rome and Romans.
V
A VISIT TO the prisoners proved fruitless. There was a range of buildings behind the granaries, mostly used as workshops and for storing equipment, but at one end it was divided into a dozen cells, each fitted with heavily barred windows and a solid door. Most were empty at the moment for there was only a handful of soldiers confined for various delinquencies. The brothers were on their own, Segovax lying out on the straw and rush carpeting, muttering and twitching in a fevered sleep.
‘Medicus says they’ll know in a day or two whether or not he makes it, sir,’ the guard told him, in a tone of utter indifference to the outcome.
The Red Cat sat on his haunches beside his brother, chanting too softly to catch the words. There was no window in their cell, and with just the light through the little opening in the door Ferox could see no more than his outline. He did not need to see it to sense the man’s hatred and knew at once that there was no point asking any questions.
‘Which one is posted to me?’ he asked the guard.
‘In the corner cell, sir. He’s got twenty days, breaking and carrying rocks at the quarry starting from tomorrow. Do you want to see him, sir?’
‘It can wait.’ Men detached from their units as stationarii were occasionally sound men, keen and eager. More often they were ones their units did not want, the drunks, the undisciplined, the incorrigible brawlers, the thieves, the queers and the lazy. He would have to wait and see what this one was like, and the other, if the man ever recovered consciousness.
Ferox wanted to be away from Vindolanda, so returned to the principia and asked for Frost to be brought to him. Tomorrow was the eighth day after the Ides of April and the birthday of the City of Rome, which meant the sacrifice of a pale, well-fattened cow and other ceremonies. It did not matter that there was scarcely anyone from Rome or Italy in the fort, and that apart from Cerialis and a few of the other officers, the Batavians were not Roman citizens, still they would parade and hear prayers and make offerings for the growth and harmony of the city. It was the way of the army, wherever it was based, but Ferox was eager not to be invited to stay, for Cerialis was bound to host a dinner and there was a risk that he would be invited.
The horse arrived quickly, and apart from a short conversation about nothing with one of the centurions of the cohort, he saw no one else he knew. It had rained overnight, so the main roads of the fort were even muddier than usual, and there was a fatigue party of soldiers out filling in runs left by carts and packing the earth down flat. He rode off, aware that his horse was leaving fresh prints in the mud. He noticed one of the workers rolling his eyes and gave the man a nod in response for he remembered fighting alongside him against the Stallion’s men. The soldier recognised him and grinned. The party were all Tungrians, part of the small rump of cohors I Tungrorum left at Vindolanda, with the records of a much-depleted unit that was scattered in small detachments all around the province.
Riding out of the gate always brought a moment of relief for any soldier, at least when times were peaceful, but Ferox kept Frost at a brisk walk as he made his way through the narrow-fronted shops, bars and houses of the canabae. A fine rain started to fall, even though the sun was bright ahead of him, and it turned swiftly into a heavy shower. People scattered, running for shelter where they could find it. Ferox pulled his broad-brimmed hat down more tightly and checked that the brooch held his cloak securely. The rain did not last long, and by the time he was at the edge of the settlement it had stopped. One of the last buildings was unique because it was built partly from stone and had two storeys, and even more because it was the most expensive brothel for well over fifty miles in any direction. It was run by Flora, an old friend, but she did not like anyone to call on her without an appointment so he rode past. On his right was the temple of Silvanus, a tall square building surrounded by a veranda on each side. The entrance was a simple archway, and in front of it a four-wheeled raeda carriage waited.
Frost must have sensed her rider shift in the saddle for the mare stopped. The raeda was owned by Cerialis. It was the same one Sulpicia Lepidina had been travelling in when she had been ambushed on the road to Coria. Once before he had seen it in this place, when the lady visited the temple to make an offering and to spend time in its silence. On that occasion, she had appeared just as he and Vindex were passing, and he had spoken to her and as always felt himself struggling to keep his balance.
Ferox kicked the horse angrily in the sides. She snorted, shook her head, and lurched into an ungainly canter. He recovered, calming her, and brought her back to a brisk walk. Lingering here might seem suspicious, while hurrying past might appear equally odd as well as rude. He tried not to stare at the temple as he passed. The lady’s maid waited in the shade and shelter of the veranda, just as she had done when they had met here the first time. The girl saw him, and bowed her head respectfully. It was good Vindex was not here, for he was bound to have leered or called out, or worse still wanted to wait. There was no sign of Sulpicia Lepidina. The horse walked on, leaving the temple behind. There were the usual beggars and vagrants clustered by the road, some even in the cemetery on the left. He scanned the hunched, filthy and crippled figures as he always did these days. Acco had travelled among them in years gone by, but he was not there.
As Ferox searched for any hint of the druid he saw the upright stone marking the grave of Titus Annius, the commander of the Tungrians who had died from wounds suffered back in that same grim autumn. He had been a good man and a fine soldier. The inscription proclaimed that his daughter had erected the monument to him. That was a fiction, since the centurion had no children, but he had left his money to benefit his soldiers and their widows and children. One lass of eight had lost her mother to fever weeks before the fight and became an orphan when her father was hacked down, standing protectively over the wounded Annius. By some legal trickery, it was arranged for the dead centurion to have adopted the girl. Cerialis and his wife were now supervising her education and she might enjoy a far better life than was usually open to a soldier’s daughter. That is, if she was lucky.