‘And they are your men?’ Macer rubbed his chin, an old habit he had never quite shaken off.
Ferox had a surprisingly musical laugh. ‘Would that it were so simple? Most were sent off to one of the cohorts or alae of Britons, as long as the unit was stationed well outside the province. Some settled in, and some were trouble. I have a score of recaptured deserters from that lot, and fifty mutineers. Then I have ninety of the ones from the first batch that were not sent out to a unit – maybe nobody wanted them, as some are old or speak no Latin and seem too dull to learn. I am not especially popular with any of them and none are too keen on army life in the first place. After that it gets really funny, because it was decided after a couple of years to let the ones condemned to hard labour have a chance to rehabilitate themselves through military service.’
Macer whistled softly. ‘Omnes ad stercus.’
‘They added a couple of hundred men from the loyal clans, and just to season the mix all the waifs and strays recruited in Britannia, including a fair few caught thieving and invited to join up. On paper there is a mixed force of two hundred horse and four hundred foot, but in practice they haven’t yet been all brought together in one place. Half were concentrated in Pannonia back in the autumn. Neratius Marcellus’ brother is legatus Augusti there, so was easily convinced of the wisdom of the whole thing. The appointed commander drowned while they were being ferried along the river.’
‘An accident?’
‘I suppose that is at least theoretically possible. … And so they thought of me, and here I am.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘Guess I have tried to bullshit too many senior officers over the years.’
Macer laughed. ‘They probably told you that it was because of your exceptional abilities as a leader.’
‘Something like that. They said a Briton would best understand other Britons, but that’s just because they can’t tell the differences between the tribes. And they promoted me to pilus prior of cohors VII.’ There was no enthusiasm in Ferox’s voice.
‘That will make you senior here,’ Macer said. His mind was made up, even if he was not quite sure why. The orders brought by Ferox stated that he was relieved of command at the fort. He was free to leave as soon as he chose, and could take an escort of up to fifty men – including a dozen specified by name and intended for other duties – with him. The rest were to stay, and come under Ferox’s command. His annoyance at the man was replaced by a fair bit of sympathy, but it seemed clear that hanging around would risk Ferox getting murdered before he was gone. The orders would stand and he could – and officially should – leave and let command pass to Sabinus, who was the next in seniority. Yet people would talk as they always did, and they were bound to say that he had run from responsibility. He knew that it would bother him, even far away on his farm, revelling in the African warmth, so he would go first, as ordered, before anything else could happen. It would mean a hard journey because of the weather, but a day ought to take them down the valley far enough to ease the cold.
Macer’s intent gaze fixed on Ferox. ‘Why are you still alive? And don’t bother to say that you have no taste for philosophy. You know what I mean. A lot of your men want you dead – and this Vindex – and there is always the dark of night and the quiet moment in camp or on the march. If these men were truly as determined as Britons can be – or any men consumed by hate – then we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you’d be floating down the Ister or cold in a ditch somewhere.’
‘Two tried right at the start, but I was faster.’ Ferox rubbed his chin where new stubble was already forming. He sighed. ‘That made the others think, and I am careful and maybe it is just luck, but I know what you mean. There would always be a chance if they did not mind too much the risk of arrest and death. Reckon the ones who are left would prefer to live.’
Macer nodded. ‘So here, where they can run off to a cushy billet with Decebalus, they’re more willing to remember their oath and their hatred.’
‘That’s how I see it.’
Macer made up his mind. ‘I’ll go the day after tomorrow at dawn,’ he announced. It could not be sooner, for he needed to assign the men and make sure that they drew rations, tents and baggage animals. Only a storm would stop him. ‘We can carry out the formal handover tomorrow. Will the rest of your men have arrived by then?’
Ferox shook his head. ‘I expect that they will cross your path as you make your way to Dobreta. That’s the half of the unit already in province, of course. The rest won’t be here for a month or so.’
Privately the praefectus was relieved, since no more assassination attempts were likely until the others arrived. There did not seem any reason to expect these Brigantes to be hostile to him and his party. He had not cared much for Britannia during the time he had spent there, although the campaigns had at least gained him a step in rank. The Britons were odd folk, even for barbarians. Ferox’s Latin was perfect, better indeed than his own, for all his family had struggled to give him as good an education as they could afford and for all his efforts to fit in. Yet there was an air about him, something not quite right, not quite civilized. Macer had learned that he came from the Silures, a tribe of the south west with a reputation as vicious bastards, and perhaps blood still told after all these years. They were supposed to be hard to kill, and it had taken the army more than twenty years to batter them into submission. For a moment, he wondered whether there was a grain of sense and purpose in the plan of sending Ferox and this ragbag of rebels, bandits, deserters and rival tribesmen to this place. Probably not, he decided, and it was just the army being even more like the army than usual.
‘You have told me how, my dear Ferox, and for that I thank you, but I confess that I am still baffled as to why you and your men are coming here.’
‘A friend truly learned in philosophy said to me more than once that there is much in life to convince you that the gods have a sense of humour. Or that they just don’t like some people.’ He shrugged again. ‘The Brigantes are good fighters. They’re of more use to Rome fighting its enemies than dead. Killing them would just be a waste of resources, so the idea is to make use of them and only kill them if that does not work. … But that’s only part of the story and the rest is political, so beyond a mere centurion. Aviragus’ sister is eager to be queen of her people and confirm that her family will rule for as long as their line lasts, so they say that she begged the legatus to release the prisoners and make them soldiers, and pressed for a unit to be formed combining the different factions of the tribe.’
‘What are her chances? A decision like that would have to be made by the emperor, but he would surely listen to the legatus.’
‘No idea,’ Ferox lied. He was not about to start discussing Claudia Enica with a stranger. ‘I’m not paid enough to have an opinion.’
IV
IT WAS LATE for travelling, especially for such a fine coach, a fashionable, well-sprung and expensive raeda pulled by four mules, and the tall man grunted in satisfaction from his hiding place a few hundred paces away. He had feared a few armed escorts and he needed to be quick for this was too far within the empire for his liking.