‘As long as we show ourselves to be strong, and good friends.’ Neratius Marcellus had forced himself to keep still while listening to the report, but once it was over he resumed his pacing. He spoke of the attack on the praetorium here at Vindolanda, ignoring the attempt to murder the trooper Longinus. Ferox wondered whether the provincial legate knew who the old soldier really was. As Marcellus told the story it was part of the greater conspiracy led by the two priests, men who wanted to rouse loyal provincials as well as allied tribes to turn against Rome. There were soldiers – or men dressed as soldiers – as well as some warriors among the attackers and they knew a lot about the fort. It was not known whether the Britons serving with the Tungrians were deserters, traitors or had been killed by the attackers and their bodies hidden.
‘The aim was to kill or take the prefect and his esteemed wife, the clarissima Sulpicia Lepidina,’ Marcellus said, his face grim. ‘This prophecy of theirs, which relied upon a disgusting sacrifice of a distinguished man and woman, led them to carry out this impudent and vicious raid.’
Although he was used to it after all this time, Ferox was still surprised by the tendency of wealthy Romans to launch into rhetoric and turn everything into an oration.
‘They failed.’ Marcellus slapped his fist into his palm. ‘The prefect and his wife are safe due to the courage and quick thinking of the garrison and the timely warning of the Tribune Crispinus with the aid of the regionarius. Alas, an innocent woman was abducted. We suspect in error. May I presume, Flavius Ferox, that there is no good news of the unfortunate victim?’
‘We found Fortunata, the wife of the imperial freedman Vegetus, my lord.’ Ferox may not have liked her much, or thought about her at all, but the dismissal of her abduction as a small thing fed his anger. The dead slaves did not appear to matter to them at all.
He took a deep breath. One of his tutors at Lugdunum had told him that the divine Augustus used to recite the alphabet in his head whenever he felt rage coming and did not wish to speak words he might regret. Ferox tried it now, and it did not help much. ‘Fortunata is dead, my lord.’
Marcellus sighed. ‘I had little hope. Such murderous hate made mercy of any sort unlikely. The poor thing.’ He shook his head, his voice full of the well-practised sorrow of an orator. ‘All we can hope is that she did not suffer.’
‘It was a grim death, my lord,’ Ferox said, struggling not to shout. ‘A slow one and painful.’
There were murmurs from the assembled officers. This was not how anyone, let alone a centurion, was supposed to address the legate of the province. Crispinus gestured for him to calm down.
‘The poor child.’ Marcellus showed no sign of surprise or offence.
‘They did to her what Boudicca’s men did to the aristocratic ladies they captured.’ There was a gasp of horror from the audience – someone who must have known the stories. ‘She will have screamed as they began to cut her,’ he went on, and took a step towards the small senator. ‘Screamed as they sliced the ends off her breasts. She would only have stopped screaming when they started to sew the pieces of flesh on to her lips. After that she could only have moaned as they took her to the sharpened stake. If you wish I shall draw you a picture.’ At that moment he hated them all, these great men who sat here secure in their power, worse than the crowd in the arena because at least spectators were interested in the fate of the people who died before their eyes.
Marcellus’ skin was deeply tanned, and he had eyes so deep brown that they looked black. His dark hair was slicked down with oil so that not one strand was out of place. He looked up at the centurion as the big man loomed over him and he did not seem at all intimidated. Instead he reached out and patted Ferox on the arm, as a man would calm a horse.
‘This shows us the inhuman cruelty and evil of our enemies,’ the legate said, stepping past Ferox so that his audience could see him once again. ‘It is our duty to our Lord Trajan to defeat his enemies. It is our duty as pious men who fear the gods and the laws of heaven and this world to wash this evil from the earth.
‘Men always believe that a new governor will move slowly and be cautious. Today is the Kalends of November, and so men will also expect the campaigning season to be over until the spring. Most men will think these things and be wrong.’ The legate had stopped pacing and stood very still, his right hand clasping his left wrist. Only his head moved, scanning the audience, looking at each man directly and then moving to the next. Ferox was behind the governor and could see the faces all focused on the little man.
‘From the reports I received before I arrived I suspected that a show of force would prove necessary before the year was out. Therefore orders were sent to gather food and transport and to prepare a force to take the field.
‘If these fanatics appear to be winning then others will join them. We must strike quickly and with all the force we can command to show the tribes and our allies that the prophets are liars, and their magic a fraud. Tomorrow we go to Coria to join the rest of the army. I want as many men as can ride or march and can be stripped from the garrison to accompany us. Detailed orders to be issued in an hour. Gentlemen, there is much to do and to arrange and I shall not detain you any longer. Thank you for your attention. Let us prepare to scour the land clean of this sickness.’
As the meeting broke up and the officers left the room, Neratius Marcellus pointed at Ferox, the gesture much like commanding a dog to stay. Crispinus glanced at the legate, looking puzzled, but the small man waved a hand for him to leave as well. Only one officer remained, a round-faced old man whose bronze cuirass did not fit him well and was traced with the lines of muscles that he clearly did not possess. His hair was white, but remained only as a thin fringe surrounding his dome-like bald head.
‘I wish to speak with you, centurion, and I wish you to speak to me frankly and conceal nothing.’
‘My lord.’ Ferox stiffened to attention.
‘Sit man, sit.’ The legate waited until he obeyed, placing himself on one of the folding camp chairs. ‘That is better,’ he went on. ‘This will take a while so you may as well be comfortable. Now Crispinus has told me about the gifts someone has been sending to Tincommius – the money and weapons. He suspects the same people encouraged the high king to lend his aid to this Stallion’ – he said the world with distaste – ‘and the druid. It was better that he not include such detail when he spoke to the other officers, but he told me the truth. It is also clear that the people who snatched that unfortunate lady and murdered her and the slaves – and who wanted to kill my wife’s cousin, the Lady Sulpicia, and her husband – knew a good deal more than they should have done about this garrison. Without your warning they might well have succeeded.’
The legate paused and stared at his face. Ferox did not think that the man could have any idea that he and Sulpicia Lepidina were more than junior officer and commander’s wife, but the announcement of a family connection was a surprise. For all its size, for all that senators – and now the princeps himself – had origins all over the world, the aristocracy of Rome still lived in a village where everyone knew everyone else and was related to almost everyone.
Ferox said nothing, and after a long silence Neratius Marcellus resumed.
‘This attack followed the one on her carriage, and all that your report said about that incident – as well as much it did not say – shows that our enemies know our every move even before we make it. The massacre of the men stationed at the beacon confirms it. Only someone of high rank would know enough to give them so much information. That means at least one traitor. Perhaps there are several, and certainly others who follow their orders. My nephew has spoken to you about this and says that you have told him most of what you know and some of what you think.’ The legate must have seen a trace of confusion. ‘The Tribune Crispinus is my nephew,’ he explained, and Ferox thought about the village again.