Ferox stared at the ceiling. He did not want to talk, for he knew that voice all too well and usually it was the harbinger of some fresh ordeal. Why did the Romans have to jabber so much? Among the Silures every man was a warrior at heart, and a warrior knew the strength and the sheer joy that came from silence and stillness.
‘Do you not wish to ask where you are or what day it is?’ the voice went on. ‘I do believe it is customary on these occasions.’
‘I am in the valetudinarium at Vindolanda,’ Ferox said, still staring at the ceiling and making no effort to rise. He was stiff and his leg ached. One of the rooms in the fort’s hospital seemed the most likely place for him to be. ‘And I presume that my Lord Crispinus has a task for me.’
Someone snorted with laughter, and Ferox gave in and sat up. Atilius Crispinus, the senior tribune of Legio II Augusta, was the son of a senator and would in due course join that council of elder statesmen. He was a small man, whose hair had already turned almost wholly white even though he was in his early twenties. Beside him sat a tall, very handsome man with reddish hair and a warm smile. Flavius Cerialis was the prefect commanding cohors VIIII Batavorum, the main garrison of Vindolanda.
Crispinus stared at Ferox, who stared back. At last the young aristocrat smiled. ‘Surly and awkward as ever,’ he said. ‘Splendid. If you ever mellowed, I fear that you might turn into a far less capable officer, and that would never do. At least this way we can easily have you dismissed the service in disgrace if you go too far.’
‘Easily,’ Cerialis agreed. ‘Even exiled. There must still be plenty of tiny rocks in the Mediterranean that do not yet have a prisoner lodged on them.’
‘Dozens at least.’
Ferox waited. He noticed Philo hovering behind the two seated officers, standing beside Vindex and a man who was presumably the doctor or one of his staff.
‘Well, since you lack the manners either to laugh at our wit or the decency to ask questions, then I suppose that I must shoulder the burden of this conversation,’ Crispinus said with mock weariness. ‘Such is the lot of the nobleman.
‘Yes, you are indeed at Vindolanda among the injured and sick. You have been here for six nights. When you arrived you were in a bad way, shivering from fever and your wound stinking and full of muck. I shall spare you the gruesome medical details, but there was talk of taking off the leg. This fellow…’ he jerked his head towards Vindex ‘…threatened to fillet anyone who tried and had to be arrested. It was fortunate that the noble Cerialis and I returned from a hunting expedition at just the right time. We felt that it was better for you to take your chance and either die or live whole.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’ The gratitude was genuine for the thought of losing a limb terrified him. If he was not regionarius then there was little left for him in life.
The tribune spread his hands. ‘You would be of little use as a cripple. So the good medicus was persuaded to try other means. He cleaned the wound and kept cleaning it and applied his potions and sacrifices. Mostly he doped you up with the juice of the poppy to stop you from thrashing about so much. At times they strapped you to the bed. You babbled for days.’
That was worrying, and not simply because it showed weakness.
‘Like Marius in his illness you shouted out commands and war cries, striking at foes no one else could see.’ Flavius Cerialis sounded amused, and as always pleased to parade his knowledge of Rome’s history. The prefect was an equestrian, thus second only to a senator in matters of prestige. Yet he was always conscious that his father was the first in his line to become a Roman citizen, and although the family were part of the Batavian royal house that meant little outside the tribe.
‘At times I am told that you were less fierce,’ the tribune said, ‘calling out softly for your mother.’
Ferox tried to read their faces. He liked Cerialis, admiring the man for his courage. The prefect was married to Sulpicia Lepidina, daughter of a distinguished if impoverished senator, by far her husband’s social superior, and the union was a sign of the Batavian’s immense ambition. Apart from her nobility and connections, she was witty, intelligent and beautiful. Venus or not, the face and form of the naked goddess in his dream were those of Sulpicia Lepidina, clarissima femina. She and Ferox had been lovers, and he was the father of her only child, young Marcus. It was a foolish, impossible love, and he could still not understand why she had taken such a risk. Deep down he knew that it made no sense, any more than a goddess choosing to lie with a mortal. Again his dream came into his mind and he knew that no mortal could resist, whatever the cost.
‘I never knew my mother,’ Ferox said after what felt like a very long pause. Crispinus always looked half-amused, as if he had seen the joke. Was there anything more behind the sparkle in his eyes? It was hard to be sure.
‘Well, that is one of life’s many sorrows,’ the aristocrat said solemnly. The prefect was shifting restlessly on the folding stool. ‘Yes, my dear Cerialis, I realise that time is pressing and you should go. We will join you very soon.’
The prefect stood, and smiled warmly down at Ferox. ‘It is good to see you restored. My wife will be delighted when I send her the news.’ There seemed no hint of irony or bitterness. A few years ago Ferox had saved Sulpicia Lepidina from an ambush, and only this summer had rescued her when she was abducted by a band of deserters and carried off to a distant island. ‘She always says that whenever you are around her life turns into something out of a Greek novel!’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter, for the moment looking far more the Batavian king than Roman officer. ‘We both owe you so much.
‘Well, I shall go, and make sure that everything is ready.’
‘We will join you very soon,’ Crispinus assured him. He snapped his fingers in the direction of Philo. ‘Boy, bring boots and a cloak for the centurion.’
‘Shall I shave him, my lord?’
‘No time now.’ The tribune grinned. ‘He’ll want a thorough clean afterwards, so no point wasting time now.’
Philo frowned. ‘My lord?’ The boy had firm opinions on matters of dress and cleanliness. ‘It will not take long. And perhaps a clean tunic.’
Crispinus glanced at the slave for only a moment. Philo went pale and bowed. ‘At once, my lord.’
‘And fetch my hat!’ Ferox called as the slave bustled out of the room. Philo hesitated for just a moment at the unwelcome request. ‘Bet he won’t be able to find it,’ Ferox muttered, knowing just how much the boy disapproved of his battered old broad-brimmed hat
A nod from the tribune to Vindex and the medicus was enough sign for them to follow.
‘You should have that boy beaten more often. Either that or free him, although perhaps the world is not ready for such passion for order.’
‘My lord,’ Ferox said flatly. In truth he had often considered both options.
‘Still refusing to ask questions? We rouse you from deep slumber, prepare to drag you from your sick bed and you express not even the slightest curiosity as to why.’
Ferox pulled back the blanket and swung his legs out of bed, wincing when his thigh complained. He felt weak and filthy. Someone must have put him in a spare army tunic of the sort usually reserved for fatigues, and so off-white that it was nearly brown.
‘At your command, my lord.’
Crispinus shook his head. ‘You look terrible, but at least you remember your sacred oath to the emperor.’ The tribune emphasised the last word, no doubt as a reminder that Ferox had also once taken an oath to the aristocrat’s family. ‘However, since you refuse to display the slightest curiosity, then I shall ask a few questions. You just happened to stumble across these corpses?’