‘No scent,’ Ferox told him firmly when the lad produced a small bottle of blue-green glass.
‘Very well, my lord,’ the Alexandrian replied, meaning nothing of the sort. ‘But do you not think, my lord, that a slight touch would be beneficial after the rigours of the last days?’
‘You mean to cover the foul reek of filthy centurion?’
Philo said no more, lifting the bottle and reaching for the stopper, convinced of the correctness of his judgement.
‘No.’
‘My lord, please?’ The voice was imploring, tinged with regret.
‘No.’ Ferox sighed. ‘Do you know that the Emperor Vespasian once gave a promotion to a man recommended to him, but when the fellow turned up, in he walked in a cloud of scents and perfumes. Then the emperor – the very wise emperor – rescinded the commission and sent the man packing. Said he’d rather he smelled of garlic if he had to reek of anything.’
‘I see, master, but the Emperor Vespasian is long dead’ – and good riddance to bad rubbish was the implication – ‘while I am sure the other gentlemen will be properly turned out. And there will be great ladies present…’ The boy pulled the stopper from the bottle.
‘No.’ Ferox wondered where the lad had got the stuff, and thought it might be best not to ask. It was obviously expensive and unless the boy had raided his purse he could not have bought it. In the past he had wondered whether Philo had a flexible approach to the concept of property, hence his concern about the ‘borrowed’ toga.
He was glad that Vindex was not there, for the Brigantian would no doubt have found all this very funny. He was out somewhere in the fort, probably at one of the small taverns inside the walls. Ferox had warned him not to go out to the canabae in case the guards were reluctant to let him back in.
‘It must be time by now?’ he asked, rubbing his chin.
‘Almost, my lord. Although if you wish it there would be time for another shave.’
‘It’s fine.’ Ferox ignored the doubting look. He had been shaved this morning and again a few hours ago, so that even his dark stubble ought not to be showing again so soon.
‘As you will, my lord,’ Philo said, bearing another of life’s disappointments with dignity. ‘The rain has stopped and it is a clear night,’ he added with satisfaction. Ferox wondered whether the boy had done some deal with his Jewish god. At least it made the walk to the praetorium more pleasant, following the walkway of laid planks running alongside the buildings. Vindolanda was a damp place and after the rain the roads were muddy. Philo yelped in horror when the centurion stepped in a puddle and dirty water lightly spattered his shoes and legs.
The prefect’s house was large, grander than some of the aristocrats’ houses he remembered from his schooldays in Lugdunum. Only a few cracked patches on the rendering of the outside wall betrayed its construction in timber rather than stone. When he was ushered into the porch it proved to be a large room, with polished plank floorboards rather than the straw-covered earth of the barrack blocks. The walls were plastered and painted in panels showing simple rural scenes. Cerialis was there to greet him with warmth, and the other male guests were also waiting. Philo gave his master a reproving look, before being taken off to wherever he and the other servants accompanying the visitors would wait until the end of the night.
The host and guests walked through a corridor opening on one side to the little square ornamental garden and Ferox caught the scent of flowers on what was now a pleasantly warm evening for the time of year. It always amused him that the Romans insisted on building their houses this way, so perfect for giving shade from the hot Mediterranean sun – something less of a worry here in the north. Flavius Cerialis and his family lived like the gentry of an Italian town, even though they were thousands of miles away and the prefect had not a drop of Italian blood in him. He was a Batavian, like the soldiers he commanded, for the old treaty with the tribe stated that they should serve in units commanded by their own aristocrats.
Crispinus was the only real Roman in this Italian house as they gathered for a quintessentially Roman dinner party. Aelius Brocchus, prefect of the ala stationed at Coria, was slim, hawk-nosed, with thick black hair and piercing dark eyes, and was a long way from his home at Gades in Baetica. It would not have surprised Ferox to learn that the man had Carthaginian as well as Iberian ancestors. Neither could he help wondering whether either he or Cerialis had ever visited Rome. Claudius Super had been there, and liked telling people about it, as had Ferox and the remaining guest, Titus Flavius Vegetus, a very short, very fat Bithynian who had been a slave of the imperial household until given his freedom a few years earlier. Then and now he worked for the procurator, and had clearly done well out of it, with large rings on each of his stubby fingers.
All six men were Roman citizens, including Ferox of the Silures, and each wore a toga carefully draped over his left arm, except Crispinus, the most Roman of them all, who had a light Greek cloak instead. Three of the six were named Flavius, which meant no more than that they or their family had received citizenship from one of the Flavian dynasty, founded by Vespasian, victor in the civil war after Nero’s death thirty years before. Ferox guessed that, like him, Cerialis had become a Roman through a grant of the founder of the dynasty. During the civil war the Rhineland had erupted into rebellion led by Batavian aristocrats backed by Batavian and other auxiliary cohorts. The most important was Julius Civilis, an equestrian prefect just like Cerialis. Up until then he had had a distinguished record, and had been wounded several times and lost an eye fighting for Rome. At first Civilis and his men claimed to be fighting for Vespasian against his Roman rival, but then it all became messier and there was talk of an Empire of the Gauls. That made them rebels, not Romans, and Vespasian had to eradicate the revolt, but some Batavians stayed loyal and others surrendered quickly. In the end the rest were defeated by a cousin of the new emperor, a man named Petilius Cerialis. No doubt the prefect’s father had stayed loyal or switched sides at an opportune moment, and got citizenship and preferment as a reward, taking the emperor’s name and that of the victorious commander.
The ladies were waiting for them in the dining room, standing in front of the triclinia, the three couches surrounding the low table. The room was big, the ceiling above of carved beams, but the walls painted and painted quite well, for they had brought a man up from Corinium in the south. There were scenes of hunting and of stories. In one Hades in his chariot charged towards a mildly shocked – and blonde-haired – Persephone, who did not appear to be making much effort to escape. Others showed a half-naked Leda kneeling by the side of a lake as the swan approached, and Europa astride a great black bull.
‘It does make one wonder about everyday life for aristocratic young ladies in those far-off days,’ Sulpicia Lepidina said softly, having noticed him inspecting the paintings. ‘I have a pair of cats, but they are pets and no more.’
‘I am sure they know their place,’ Crispinus added. ‘Neither would your husband nor any of us wish you to be carried off.’
Cerialis was not paying attention, instead listening with pleasure as Claudius Super and the imperial freedman Vegetus praised the splendour of his house and this room in particular. Their comments were fulsome, but justified, and even Ferox was surprised to find that the floor consisted of well-laid and evenly cut flagstones.
‘I got the idea from Julius Caesar,’ Cerialis explained. ‘He used to carry stones to use as a floor for his tent.’
‘They may become a bit chilly when the winter comes,’ Sulpicia Lepidina added, gently grasping each guest by the hand in more formal greeting. ‘But it does make the place feel more like it is ours.’ She was in a dark blue dress, the shoulders fastened by finely cast brooches, and her hair in its usual bun, this time tied back by a ribbon studded with white gems. She had pearl droplets hanging from each ear and a delicate gold necklace stood out against her fair skin. Her slippers were in pale leather, a single thong between her toes and the soles built up to the heel making her a couple of inches taller. Her husband’s shoes were almost as expensive, the uppers a lattice pattern allowing glimpses of his dark red socks.