‘Sir.’ Ferox saluted and Hadrian gave a wave in return as he put his horse into a trot.
‘Come on, lad, they can catch us up!’ he called to the other cavalryman and headed away up the valley. Ferox stood on the bridge and watched them pass – twenty-nine troopers, half a dozen mules, and five civilians, one of them the surly freedman, Sosius. He stared at Ferox, eyes cold and confident. If anyone on Hadrian’s staff knew more about the fire, the dead Brigantian and unconscious tribune it was surely him, but he was going and Ferox suspected that it would take a lot of coercion to break a man like that even if he had the chance.
Once across the bridge they broke into a canter to catch up with the already distant legatus. Ferox stared at the little column as the figures grew smaller, revelling in a solitude that was unlikely to be repeated for a long time. When he was young he might have thought of riding away in the opposite direction, although he would not have done it. Now, not even the thought occurred because he knew that he had to go wherever the army sent him, for he had no other life or home. Finding a pebble, he tossed it into the water. Then he took a deep breath and prepared for the first great battle.
A wood-gathering party passed him on his way up the slope, with forty men and three waggons, making him wonder whether he needed to increase the size of such detachments, or at least the proportion fully equipped to fight if necessary. Probably this was too soon, but it might do no harm to err on the side of caution. Ephippus already had plans, and most would require more timber. There was also the question of repairing the demolished ends of the barracks and finding space for all the stores they had saved.
Sabinus was waiting for him behind the gateway, as was Petrullus, the centurion who had come up with the newly arrived contingent of Brigantes. He was tall and slim like most Brigantes, with a lean, sneering face, and hair and moustache so blond that they were almost white. He was the eldest son of an important chief, head of a clan which had stayed loyal to Rome and to Claudia Enica, and he was said to be brave and capable. Ferox had met the man for the first time that morning and already found him irritating. Therefore it was no surprise that Petrullus had come to complain, for he had done as much and more to Hadrian, then complaining about the billeting of men and horses in the belief that the existing garrison held more than its fair share of the barracks and stables.
‘There are no servants,’ Petrullus said. ‘My warriors were promised servants when they arrived at the garrison.’
‘Not by me,’ Ferox said flatly. There was no sense in letting his anger spill out. ‘Nor at any time to my knowledge. They can keep anyone that they have brought with them, but otherwise no slaves to be brought or purchased while they are here.’ He just stopped himself from adding families to the restriction, not because it was not also true, but because Enica was now here. While it was unlikely that any sane woman would travel all the way from northern Britannia to drag herself and her children to be with her man, you never knew. If any appeared, then they would deal with the problem at the time. ‘No more slaves. And while you are here and under my command, everyone works – everyone.’
‘My men are warriors not labourers.’
‘They’ll be dead warriors if we don’t all work our hands to the bone.’ He sighed. ‘I will meet with your warriors as soon as I am able, but know that they must train as hard as the rest of us for the fight that is to come.’ Ferox noticed Sabinus’ doubt, but could deal with that later. ‘Tell them that this is now their dun. Here we will live or die, but I have no doubt that the blue shields of the Brigantes will ring with new honours whichever it is.’
‘We will serve the queen,’ Petrullus said, apparently sincere.
‘And she will be proud and generous,’ Ferox replied, knowing that the first was certainly true and wondering about the second. He left them and pressed on down the via praetoria. Ephippus was taking a reading from a groma, the staff resting on the road and one of the four arms with its lead plumb weights pointing at the left-hand tower of the gateway. He wondered what the Syracusan was up to, but there was no time for that. He nodded affably, and asked the engineer to see him in two hours’ time.
‘Yes, my lord.’
Ferox was a little early reaching the praetorium. It still did not feel like his house, but at least now it felt and sounded like a home as he caught the excited shouts of the children, no doubt playing in the open garden in the centre. Philo was waiting for him, with that predatory look that suggested he was poised to brush at his clothes and make a fuss.
‘She’s seen me before,’ Ferox barked. ‘She isn’t about to be fooled if I’m clean.’
‘It cannot do any harm, my lord,’ Philo replied, and as expected raised a little brush.
‘No. And you do not have to call me, my lord. Sir will do, and none too often.’
‘It will not, my lord.’ Ferox had long since grown used to the boy’s disappointment in him. ‘The queen will see you in the afternoon room. You are a little early.’
‘This is my house – or was anyway. And I know the way, so be about your business.’ Ferox went through the porch, continued through the reception room and out into the garden. It was a glorious afternoon, the sun already warming up, so that the shade was welcome.
An arrow whizzed noisily past his head. A second followed, wobbling in the air because it had a blunt tip and flights made deliberately too heavy. Ferox snatched it as it passed and pressed it to his chest before reeling in mock agony. A deluge of children swamped him, screeching with excitement. There were three boys, the youngest a dark-haired and blue-eyed ruffian, and all three grabbed him around the waist. Ferox staggered, taking them all with him and then let himself be borne down onto the ground.
‘You are a shockingly bad influence, Flavius Ferox, as I have said many times before.’ Sulpicia Lepidina had her hands on her hips, but was smiling. They had been lovers, briefly and secretly, years before and the dark-haired boy was her child and his, unlike the other step-children, although she loved them all. She was a senator’s daughter, beautiful and intelligent, as well as another man’s wife, so they had never had any future, and then later she had sent him to what could easily have been his death. None of that seemed to matter, and he felt her to be a true friend as well as the devoted mother to his son.
‘Better not linger,’ she said. ‘So you must all let him go until later!’ With some reluctance, the children broke free.
Ferox stood up, brushing himself down and glad that Philo could not see. He looked at Lepidina, her hair gleaming in the sunlight and wearing one of the pale blue dresses she favoured. ‘What do you think are my chances?’ he asked.
The clarissima femina held up her right arm, thumb outstretched and wavering like the president at the games deciding the fate of a fallen gladiator and trying to gauge the crowd’s mood. After a moment she spread fingers and thumb wide and smiled. ‘What do you think?’
Ferox did not know, so with a mock scowl back at the children to make them giggle, he walked to the far side, under the veranda and found the room. Two low stools were in it as well as a little round table, and he was not sure whether or not this was an encouraging sign. This was one of the better decorated rooms, although the painter shared the obsession with fauns and nymphs and the rooftops of distant towns.
The note passed to him by Philo that morning had said the fifth hour of the day and he knew that he was a little early, so he sat on one of the stools, finding it too low for comfort. There were two doors in this room, one leading to the garden and the other to a corridor and he guessed that she would come that way. He also guessed that she would be late and make him wait, so he waited and wondered whether being treated in this way was another unexpected aspect of commanding a garrison. After a long while, he stood up, and studied the paintings as there was nothing else to do. He had never looked that closely before, and noticed for the first time that wherever there was a nymph or group of such beauties exercising, playing or bathing, they were always watched from cover by a satyr, just visible from his horns or hoof as he hid behind a bush, tree or wall.