‘There are men who wish our princeps to fail. I am not one of them. He is a decent man and the empire needs stability above all else. I serve the good of Rome and so I shall do everything in my power to serve Rome and serve him. That means that I must prevent this traitor or traitors from doing any more harm, and I cannot do that without your help. We must find this man and punish him.’
Ferox thought back to Domitian’s rage at the conspirators who had backed Saturninus, of that mottled red face ordering him to seek them out, and his soul shuddered at the memory of the trials and deaths that followed. The men he found were all guilty, all oath-breakers, but the cruelty of the emperor’s vengeance and the way it reached out to claim victims from the condemned’s families and friends haunted him. It made it hard to trust yet another Roman demanding the truth.
The provincial legate seemed to sense his doubt, and again patted him on the arm. ‘You saw that poor girl and what they did to her. Whoever helped them needs to suffer.’
The old man coughed. Ferox had almost forgotten that he was there for he had said nothing at all.
‘I have not forgotten,’ the legate said with a broad smile. ‘I do not believe you have met Quintus Ovidius. He’s a philosopher and a poet, but you must not hold that against him for he is a sensible enough fellow most of the time. He is also a very old friend of someone you know, whereas I can boast no more than acquaintance – if a very fond acquaintance, at least on my part.’
‘He asked me to give you this,’ Ovidius said, holding out his bony arm, his fingers enclosing a small leather bag. ‘There is a message as well, but he insisted that you first see this token. Even I do not know what it is.’
There was something hard in the bag, but until Ferox opened it and tipped the contents on to the palm of his hand he could not guess what it was. When he saw it he gasped out loud, regretting it immediately and yet unable to restrain himself for he had not seen the necklace for many years. It was a simple leather thong with one stone hanging from it, a rich blue apart from a thick white stripe. A friend had worn it – a friend of his youth who had died in his arms, coughing up blood after a Sarmatian had run one of their great spears right through his body.
‘The “tall tree that sways in the wind, but does not break”’ – Ovidius intoned the phrase he must have practised – ‘sends his greetings and asks that you trust his friends as you trust him. He would have written, but his eyes are weak these days.’
That was not surprising, for Caratacus was well over ninety and he had seemed frail years ago when Ferox had met him in Rome. One-time king of the great tribes of the south, long-time enemy of Rome and ally and friend of his grandfather, the war leader had lost in the end and been betrayed. The divine Claudius had spared him, keeping him in comfortable captivity near Rome. His grandson was a citizen and a soldier just like Ferox, and they had become friends and comrades in those grim days on the Danube, when the Dacians and Sarmatians had cut an army to ribbons.
Ferox began to talk. He could not refuse this request and no one else could have persuaded him so readily. ‘A man does not easily say no to Caratacus,’ his grandfather had often said. There was a power about the man that made anyone feel flattered to have his attention. Ferox told the legate and his friend everything, from the first doubts about the ambush, all that he had seen at the tower and everything that had happened since then. He talked for a long time and they did not interrupt, except once or twice when the legate asked short, direct questions to make matters clearer. Ferox spoke of Gannallius, his story and the man’s death, and of what had happened when he and Vindex had reached Vindolanda, of his regret at thinking all was over once he had made sure that Sulpicia Lepidina was safe.
Most of the hour went as he told his story, and when he finished the legate asked his friend to fetch the sentry from outside the room. ‘Say that the orders will be delayed, but not by long,’ he told the man, and then asked Ovidius to stand by the door and make sure no one disturbed them.
Neratius Marcellus began to pace up and down, and had crossed the room half a dozen times before he spun around. ‘A tribune?’
‘Yes, my lord. Or at least someone pretending to be one. My guess is that the soldiers who slaughtered the men at the tower were real soldiers. Perhaps deserters, but they sound too well equipped for that. No doubt they were bribed, but to commit so great a crime there must have been more. The man giving the orders was able to convince them that they were safe from arrest and execution. Must have made them think that they were on the winning side and that rewards would come, and that he was well enough connected for them to trust him.’
The legate crossed to the wall and came back again. ‘Who?’ he asked, stopping and staring at the centurion, dark eyes hard.
‘The evidence points towards Legio II Augusta, and hence your nephew.’ Ferox had little doubt that the legate had already made the connection. ‘He was there or at least nearby every time something happened, even when the Tungrians were left stranded on the day Titus Annius was cut down.’
‘He is a man who will always want to be on the winning side.’ Neratius Marcellus gave a thin smile as he quoted the centurion, and did not dismiss the suggestion. ‘It is harder to say whether he thinks the tide has turned against our princeps.’
‘My lord, would it change your actions if it proved to be him?’
‘Not for a moment.’ The face was now as hard and cold as the legate’s black eyes.
‘It may be him. I cannot be sure, not yet. But any tracker worth the name will tell you that it is not always wise to follow so obvious a trail. The Tribune Flaccus of the Ninth Hispana is also well placed to be our man, and he has been here in the north longer.’
‘I hear he is a fool?’
‘My people have a saying that a foolish man will never be lonely,’ Ferox said and heard Ovidius laugh from the far side of the room. ‘How clever does a traitor have to be? Especially if he is not alone.’
The legate came over to him and placed a hand on each shoulder. ‘Find out. Whoever it is I must know. Find out the truth and bring it to me. Will you do that, Flavius Ferox, centurion of Rome and Prince of the Silures?’
‘I will find him, my lord.’ Ferox meant it. No doubt men got away with far worse every day, but they did not do it on his patch.
‘Good.’ Marcellus smiled and stood back. ‘In the meantime we have a garrison to relieve and priests to hunt down. I need the rebels to fight me and fight me soon, and not fade into the hills and force me to chase them as the weather turns worse and my food runs out. What is the best way to make them risk battle?’
‘Give them a chance,’ Ferox said. ‘Make a mistake and let them scent victory.’
‘I am glad to see that honesty is becoming a habit in your speech with me. A mistake? Not too big a mistake, I assume.’ The legate’s eyes softened just a little. ‘I see we think alike. Well, let me explain that the force I plan to march north is not as big as it might be. Will that do the trick?’
‘Perhaps, my lord.’
‘A prudent answer, if not helpful. Well, like Caesar I plan to take fewer tents and pack the men in, while making our camps smaller than normal. That will make them think our numbers are even fewer.’
‘Perhaps, my lord.’
Neratius Marcellus grimaced. ‘Didn’t Caratacus tell you that Silures gave nothing away?’ he shouted to Ovidius.