Frost shied and reared, nostrils flaring and teeth bared as a runner stumbled and fell into one of the fires, throwing up a fountain of sparks, and it took force to calm her as the soldier rolled away from the flames. Comrades rushed to throw a blanket over him and staunch the flames from his burning tunic, but they were laughing too much to do a good job. The man kept rolling until the fire went out and his tunic was in rags. His friends doubled over, unable to speak, while the scorched man started to sing tunelessly as he lay on the ground.
‘Wonder he didn’t go up like a barrel of oil with all that he’s drunk,’ Vindex said, but the centurion was not listening and instead drove the grey to jump across the line of fires, making the flames surge and wave as she passed.
‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian muttered, and let go of the horses he was leading so that he could use both hands to force his own mount over the fires. ‘Oh bugger, oh bugger, oh bugger!’ he yelled as the beast fought him and then finally bounded awkwardly across, throwing him out of the saddle before he slammed back down hard and just managed to regain his seat.
Ferox was looking for an officer, or anyone else who looked sober and responsible. He could not see one, apart from a centurion who was being carried along in a blanket by four soldiers. The little procession lurched this way and that, but if the men were barely sober it was obvious that nothing could be hoped for from the centurion for many hours.
Some children, the oldest a girl of no more than seven or eight, came over to stare at the two riders.
‘Have you seen the prefect, little lady?’ Vindex asked in Latin and then in his own tongue. The children just watched them until the Brigantian stuck his tongue out and a little boy giggled. The child cupped his hand around his mouth and did the same thing back at the tall, fierce-looking scout, until the girl cuffed him and started to chivvy them all away. Vindex chuckled and then realised that the centurion had galloped off again. Along the roadside were groups of soldiers preparing big effigies that they would carry in a procession out of the fort. They were made from timber, straw, wickerwork, cloth and anything else ingenuity could devise, and most were shaped like cows or deer. There were also a few shaped like people, two or three times life size, including one in armour, with a high plumed helmet and bright red hair, riding a mule deliberately made to look small and ugly. The whole thing was mounted on a cart with a dozen soldiers waiting to haul it along. Vindex grinned because it was obviously meant to be Cerialis, and he saw the centurion shout something to the men before spurring away when they just pointed at the effigy.
Ferox pounded along the via principalis, the horse’s tread flinging up water and mud because this was Vindolanda and the ground was always wet. He swerved to the right when he reached the junction with the other road, ignoring the principia and riding straight up to the commander’s house. He sprang down and ran to the main door. It was locked and he pounded on the heavy oak.
‘Open up!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s urgent! I need to see the master and mistress now!’ There was no reply, although since the sound of the festivities rumbled on behind him he could not be sure whether or not anyone responded. It was almost the third watch of the night, so late without being so very late, and he could see light from behind some of the shutters on the upstairs rooms. It was hard to believe that the household was asleep. Who could sleep with all this going on around them?
Ferox pounded on the door, using his clenched fists like hammers. ‘Open up!’
Vindex went past him along the side of the house to the alleyway and the entrance to the servants’ quarters and working area of the praetorium. The door hung open, leaning at an angle because the top hinge had been ripped out of place.
‘Here!’ he screamed at the centurion. ‘This way.’ The Brigantian swung out of the saddle, wincing because his feet were cold and numb after so many hours riding and that made the ground feel harder than usual. He went to the door, one hand on the hilt of his sword, and waited to listen. He could hear nothing apart from the shouts, and started in shock when there was a great raucous blare of trumpets and horns. Someone began to beat on what sounded like drums made from tree trunks, a deep sound, pounding on and on. Before the Brigantian could lean around to look inside Ferox pushed past him, sword drawn and his face so full of cold fury than the scout hesitated before he followed.
The drums throbbed in their ears. The corridor was long, with doors opening off on either side. One was open a little, light spilling from it, and Ferox pulled off his cloak and wrapped it around his left arm to use as a primitive shield. His sword was up, ready to thrust, but he was fighting the despair that told him he had failed, and that brought an urge to charge ahead and hack into pieces anyone he met. He tried to breathe and to think, but it was hard. They had failed, the drums went on with the same relentless rhythm, and then he smelled the blood and the rage took over. He kicked the door in and screamed as he burst into the room and the stench of blood and butchered meat was overwhelming.
There was blood everywhere, dark pools staining the earth floor where the liquid had gushed out so quickly that it could not all drain away at once. A man lay on his back, but little of the blood was his because he had died from a neat wound that had gone under his ribs and into his heart. Whoever had done it was well practised, but there was no hint of skill in the rest. Ferox guessed that there had been three dogs – three of the big hounds the prefect loved so much – but it was hard to tell, because whoever had come here had chopped them into so many fragments. There were heads, paws, limbs, cuts of bone and flesh from a butcher’s shop strewn all over the room. Amid them were a few fragments of torn clothes, and no doubt the hounds had given a good account of themselves, but they had faced cruel men with sharp blades and the temper of madmen. It was almost like angry children tearing their toys apart.
Ferox’s rage eased, and it helped that the drums stopped amid another blare of trumpets. He guessed that the corpse was a slave, taken by surprise, but the slaughter of the enraged dogs must have made a noise and he had to hope that they had warned the rest of the household.
Vindex looked into the room and whistled in dismay. He was fond of dogs. Ferox went past him, calm again, and gestured for the scout to follow. Most of the doors along the corridor were locked, and the few that were not opened on to rooms that held tidily stored sacks of grain, amphorae and barrels. When they turned the corner they came to the places where slaves and freedmen lived, and the floors were covered in a mat of heather and straw just like the barracks. There was another corpse, this one slashed across his stomach and then cut several times on the head. There were scratches in the white plaster on the wall beside the dead slave.
Further along was the underside of wooden stairs leading to the upper storey, and Ferox sensed that this was the way the attackers had gone because the heather around them looked scuffed up by running feet. Someone had also gone further along the corridor and that made him wonder whether he should follow them or even whether he and the Brigantian should split up. Then he remembered Sulpicia Lepidina saying how much she preferred the upper rooms for their sense of space. She would be there and so would the children, and whatever had happened he must see because it was his fault for failing them and not returning in time.
The centurion stepped quickly past the foot of the stairs and turned, so that he faced up the stairs, left arm ready to ward off a blow, but there was no one waiting at the top. He started to climb, each creak as he placed his weight on the next step sounding as loud as a slammed door. He wondered if someone was waiting, arm poised to throw a spear as soon as he appeared up the stairs. He wished that he had put on his helmet rather than kept on the felt hat as its broad brim made it harder to see up to the side where the ceiling opened to lead on to the upper floor.