‘They think he does not want the expense of more children,’ Philo said with great assurance. ‘He is a gifted man, and going places.’
The boy’s tone reflected the obvious pride shared by Cerialis’ household in their young master. Ferox certainly did not doubt the man’s ambition. Marriage into a senatorial family, let alone such a well-established one, was rare for any equestrian, and surely unprecedented for a Batavian aristocrat, son of the first in his family to become a Roman citizen. There was no sign now that it was so unlikely a thing as a love match, which meant that something had persuaded a former consul to give his daughter in marriage to an upstart from the Rhineland.
Cerialis obviously planned to ‘go places’ and was working hard to that end, cultivating the acquaintance of Crispinus, the other equestrians, and even the imperial freedman. Former slaves of the emperor sometimes climbed very high indeed, reaching the top of the imperial administration and having an influence behind the scenes greater than many a senator. The days of the Emperor Claudius were gone, and Domitian, of damned memory but prudent rule, had replaced some of the freedmen in his staff with equestrians. Even so, there was no knowing how important Vegetus might one day become, for all his humble start in life. Ferox had asked his boy about the freedman and his wife.
‘The Lord Vegetus and his lady’ – Philo was grudging in his use of both titles – ‘stayed at the praetorium rather than returning to the mansio.’ There was a way-station for those travelling on official business in the canabae. ‘They did not receive the best of the guest rooms, but were comfortably accommodated in separate rooms. The Lord Vegetus was feeling ill,’ the Alexandrian added with a knowing look, ‘and sleeps soundly and snores loudly, they say.’
The morning reports complete, Flavius Cerialis picked up his helmet and led the assembled officers out. He was in a bright mood, and perhaps the man was revelling in his good fortune after an energetic night. Slaves knew a lot about their owners – more than the latter cared to admit – but they were inclined to embellish and invent like anyone else.
In the central courtyard of the headquarters building they saw a travel-stained cavalryman walking towards them. He had an oval red shield with the Capricorn symbol of II Augusta, which meant that he was one of the small contingent of horsemen in that legion to serve as escorts to senior officers or as messengers. In his right hand he held a spear with a feather tied just below the head, which showed that he was the latter. Tradition older than anyone could remember and certainly older than they could explain made this the mark of a despatch rider, although it was something of an affectation to carry the symbol when not on the battlefield or at least campaign. The cornicularius took a wooden tablet from the man. It was tied up and sealed.
‘Ah, it looks as if everything is starting sooner than expected,’ Cerialis said, taking it from his cornicularius before the man had a chance to break the seal. Ferox must have missed something, for he had not heard that any major operation was planned. ‘It is probably for the best. I leave you to your duties, fellow soldiers. My dear Ferox, if you would be good enough to come with me?’
A little later they were in one of the side rooms off the courtyard. Crispinus, Brocchus and Claudius Super were there, as was a tired-looking officer with the narrow dark red band of a tribunus angusticlavius, one of the five junior equestrian tribunes in a legion, and another officer who, from his uniform, looked like an equestrian too. There was also a leathery-faced centurion, whom he recognised as Titus Annius, the acting commander of cohors I Tungrorum.
Introductions were soon made and kept brief. The junior tribune was one Julius Flaccus from VIIII Hispana, who had accompanied the despatch rider, and the other man was Rufinus, commander of the auxiliary cohort stationed at Magna to the west, a unit of Vardulli from Spain. Crispinus was senior to the others in status and rank, if not years or experience, but let Cerialis begin the conference by summarising all that was known of the raid earlier in the month and the murder of the soldiers at the tower. It was certain that the missing soldier was the Briton.
‘May I ask from what tribe, my lord?’ Ferox asked.
‘What does it matter? They’re all the same,’ Claudius Super muttered. Ferox suspected that the man had a bad hangover and enjoyed his obvious discomfort.
Cerialis nodded to his cornicularius who fished out a wax tablet from the file. ‘Trinovantes from down south, although enlisted with the Tungrians.’
‘Good record up to now,’ Annius told them, ‘seven years’ service.’ He paused to stare at each of them. ‘I should like to state on record that the man has disappeared and there is no direct evidence of complicity in the attack. It is perfectly possible that he was taken as a prisoner, poor devil.’ Annius was junior to all the equestrians, but he spoke with force and his pride in his own soldiers was obvious.
‘You cannot trust Britons,’ Claudius Super told them, unimpressed by this display of loyalty. ‘Lies and treachery come too naturally to them.’ Ferox ignored the insult, suspecting that the man had forgotten he was there, but worried that the sentiment was a common one. When he had returned to his quarters after the dinner last night he had found a bruised and battered Vindex.
‘Some of the Batavian lads held Britons responsible for the men killed at the tower and in the ambush,’ he explained. ‘I told them that I was Carvetii and a Brigantian, not a Briton, but that didn’t seem to matter. They wanted to show their annoyance and I was there, drinking quietly and talking to a few of their women. All harmless,’ he assured Ferox. ‘Just being friendly, but then it turned nasty, and might have got a lot nastier if that one-eyed old bugger hadn’t turned up and knocked a few of them down. He stopped it all, told ’em I had saved their lady and then they all bought me drinks. They’re mad, the lot of them.’
‘Trinovantes, though,’ Rufinus said as if thinking aloud, and Ferox’s mind returned to the present. The prefect had dark skin and curly black hair, the accent of Africa Proconsularis and an air of competence. ‘That lot were out with Boudicca.’
Cerialis did not sound convinced. ‘That is ancient history, surely. All forgotten after nearly forty years.’
‘People remember, especially down south,’ Rufinus assured them. ‘My father was in the province then and saw what those bastards did. Women impaled, mutilated.’ The Trinovantes had joined the Iceni and other rebels, sacking three cities and massacring everyone they caught, whether Roman or just from another tribe.
‘Well, a one-man rebellion by a soldier sounds unlikely,’ Cerialis concluded. ‘We must hope to find him or at least discover what happened. However, there are concerning signs of priests and magicians stirring up the tribes here in the north.’
Ferox explained what he had seen and heard, speaking of the shadowy figure of the druid, and his guess that the priest known as the Stallion had led the ambush. He did his best to make them understand the difference between the two holy men, and how the tribes feared men of power and magic even if they did not like them. Claudius Super kept interrupting, scoffing at his fears, and Ferox suspected that even the more sympathetic ones in the room did not understand. He pressed on, but kept back his suspicion of treachery in high places. If for the moment they wanted to believe that it was the raiders who had wiped out the men at the tower then let them. He had one surprise, and waited until the end in the hope of shocking them and at least making them cautious. ‘The ambush of the Lady Sulpicia Lepidina was no accident, but part of a deliberate plan, of that I am sure.’