Ferox nodded.
‘I presume the dead soldier made it clear that they were more than just slaves?’
Ferox said nothing. He would have hunted the killers whoever the victims were.
‘And, with hardly any men and little in the way of provisions, you gave chase?’ Another nod. ‘That seems bold. Why?’
‘It is my job.’
‘Did you know whose slaves they were?’
‘Yes, Vegetus. And there was something not right. The warriors who had done this did not bother to search the cart thoroughly. I found a bag each of gold and silver coin, barely hidden under a pile of furs. The furs themselves were worth a year’s pay.’
‘Perhaps they were disturbed?’
Ferox shook his head. ‘They knew what they wanted and took it, along with the girl. She should be able to tell us more once she has recovered. She barely said a word on the journey back.’
‘Swathed in the cloak you so generously gave her.’ The tribune must have spoken to Vindex or one of the others. ‘Leaving you drenched to the skin and shivering from fever. A generous deed, although such kindness was insufficient to persuade her to talk.’
‘They murdered her child and her husband before her eyes. Then took turns with her. She will need some time.’
‘No doubt.’ The tribune’s expression did not change. ‘A ghastly business. So you chased them and killed them. All save this Rufus, who tried to take the girl rather than any other prize, and when you searched the corpses they had nothing of great value. Which suggests that the rider who split away took whatever it was they wanted with him. Did your men catch him?’
‘In a way. The trooper was killed and the scout so badly wounded that he died an hour after he caught up with us.’
‘It seems an ill-omened expedition.’
Ferox hesitated for a moment, and then decided that there was no harm in telling the tribune since he may already have heard from Vindex or one of the others. ‘The rider they chased was a woman.’
Crispinus raised an eyebrow to register his surprise. Aristocrats loved to perform.
‘The scout said that she came from nowhere, her blade moving faster than the eye could see. She killed the trooper almost at once, and he was a hard man. The scout said that she was alone.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Six or seven nights ago.’
‘So it was dark, and perhaps he did not see too clearly.’
If the tribune was unconvinced then that was up to him. Ferox knew the man had told the truth, for it made sense of the tracks he had seen.
‘Well, whatever it was they wanted, we must assume that either this woman or whoever sent her has it now. In time we may learn from Vegetus what his slaves were transporting and understand why they went to such trouble.’
‘The girl may know.’
Crispinus sighed theatrically. ‘She hanged herself two nights ago. It seems that both your pursuit and your kindness was wasted.’ He realised that Philo was at the door. ‘Good, we can go. Put your boots on and come with me.’ The boy shot in, a cloak draped over one arm and the boots held in the other.
‘Go where, my lord?’ Ferox asked as he lifted his feet in turn.
Crispinus smiled. ‘You need to come with me to the latrine.’
II
THE SUN WAS warm on his face as they walked through the fort. Even so, Ferox was glad of the cloak, for it helped to hide the military tunic, which, ungirded by a belt, hung down almost to his ankles. He had to squint as they turned into the sun. Philo had failed to produce his hat. ‘Being cleaned, my lord,’ the boy had explained with unconvincing sincerity.
Summer was over and Vindolanda felt crowded now that so many detachments had returned to their base for the winter. A lot of faces turned to watch the elegant young tribune and the scruffy, bearded centurion limping along beside him. Crispinus ignored them all, and said little as they went down past the main buildings along the via praetoria. As they passed the prefect’s house, Ferox glanced at the high, two-storey building with its rendered walls and tiled roof. He half hoped and half feared to glimpse Sulpicia Lepidina, until he remembered her husband saying that he would send word to her. Presumably she was away.
They turned at the end of the road and followed the track behind the rampart into the far corner, where the ground sloped down towards the steep valley behind the fort. Half a dozen Batavians stood guard outside the timber building standing beside the corner tower. The sentries on the tower were supposed to be watching the land outside against the improbable chance of any threat, but it was clear that they were keeping more of an eye on what was happening inside. A few fatigue parties had found an excuse to watch, and there was more than one face at the windows of the nearest barrack block.
The latrine block was set partly into the earth bank at the rear of the rampart. Ferox could see the tanks on its low roof and guessed that they must be nearly full of water after last week’s deluge. A couple of times a day, someone would open a sluice, and the water would gather speed as it rushed down the channel before flushing out the latrine. Even so the place stank, just as every army latrine stank.
Cerialis was waiting for them by the door and wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Sorry to lure you to this salubrious spot. Hard to think of a more awful place to die, isn’t it?’ He must have sensed Ferox’s surprise. ‘Oh, didn’t you know?’
‘Take a look,’ Crispinus ordered. ‘Take your time, and tell us what you think. The only witness is inside. Once you are done come to the praetorium. Then we can talk properly after you have had a chance to refresh yourself.’
Ferox opened the door, blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dim light of a pair of oil lamps and his nose was assaulted by the reek. Waiting inside was the medicus, and a soldier sitting glumly on one of the wooden seats in the row to his right. It was never very comfortable sitting there unless you were using it. Presumably this was the witness. His shield and spear were propped beside him, and he was wearing a dark cloak, so he must have been on guard. Someone had brought in two coils of rope.
‘He’s in there.’ The medicus pointed to the row of seats along the opposite side of the block.
The row of seats was made up in sections, with three holes cut into a single frame of sanded and varnished wood, except at the corners where the board was angled to shape and each had only a single place. Each was hinged, so that it could be lifted and leaned back against the wall. There was space for fifteen men on either side of the long room, and in the centre two barrels of clean water, another overturned and empty, as well as a pile of fresh sponges, and a dirty trough where used sponges could be dipped before they were put into the buckets to be collected.
Ferox walked over to the middle of the left-hand row of seats. In the dim light it was hard to see much through the neat round holes in the wood. He leaned forward and almost gagged as the stench rose up to meet him. The darkness reminded him of the pool in his dream.
‘This was how you found him?’ He stood up and asked the question, as much to calm his stomach as anything else. He could not see anything definite through the seats, or smell anything apart from the overwhelming reek of filth, but it was clear there was a corpse down there.
‘So he says,’ the medicus answered when the soldier said nothing.
‘Well, boy?’ Ferox asked. The lad looked barely old enough to enlist. A lot of Batavians were like that, covered in freckles and so fair haired that they rarely needed to shave. ‘What happened?’
The young soldier sprang to his feet and stiffened to rigid attention, staring at a point a foot or so above Ferox’s head.
‘Sir!’ His voice cracked and the word came out as a squeak.