Ferox did not bother to comment, but was reassured that the young aristocrat had some sense of the folly of it all. It had been very, very close. Luck mattered, but too many mistakes had been made by the senior officers. Crispinus’ column ought to have moved sooner to drive into the main valley and cut off the Selgovae’s retreat, and Titus Annius ought to have withdrawn much sooner. Flaccus claimed that his orders had allowed the centurion to make his own decision when to pull back to the main force, and blamed him for hesitating. So far Annius was in no state to reply.
Flaccus always seemed to be around when mistakes occurred and the man might be no more than a fool. There were always plenty of them serving in the higher ranks, and most had the knack of being just where they could cause the most harm. Yet the tribune might also be a friend or a relative of someone of greater importance, the sort of man Crispinus claimed wanted the emperor to fail.
‘You should trust me, Flavius Ferox,’ Crispinus said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You really should.’ They were riding ahead of the main column as it marched back south, and far enough ahead of their escort to be able to speak freely.
Ferox hesitated, balancing the risk, and then decided that at most he would be fishing with a brass hook, and Crispinus might just be honest and able to help. If someone did not do something, then there was the risk of war and ruin here in the north and spreading afield. This was his patch, and it was his job to keep the peace. He told the young aristocrat of his suspicions of Flaccus and perhaps others working to start a war and wanting failure and defeat. The tribune listened, occasionally asking questions that were precise and to the point. Ferox talked for a long time, speaking of the priests and the tattooed warriors, many of whom came from far afield and some from inside the empire, and of the great druid who was able to change shape and make Roman fight Roman, and the men murdered at the tower back on the day of the ambush.
‘The tribes always know a lot about us, but lately they know too much,’ he said. ‘It all points to someone helping them, and someone senior enough to know the big things as well as the small.’
Crispinus let out a long breath. ‘That is a lot to think about.’ He stared at the centurion. ‘You do not strike me as the sort of man who starts at shadows. Still, I doubt that Flaccus would be working on his own. He was recommended for his first post by the legate of Syria whose resignation came as such a surprise to us all,’ he added drily.
‘Then why is he still here, and promoted to legionary tribune?’
‘Any senator of importance, let alone a former consul and provincial governor, recommends scores of men every year – hundreds probably. It would be hard to dismiss them all and not worth the effort. Flaccus is not a clever man, or very important – or ever likely to be. He might just be covering up his mistakes, or one of those people convinced that every mistake they make must be bad luck or someone else’s fault.’
‘Typical senior officer.’
Crispinus ignored the sarcasm. ‘Yet I suspect you are right and he is acting deliberately. But what matters is who is giving him his orders. Someone much more imaginative, I suspect. Do you have any suspicions?’
‘Plenty, my lord, but I have learned that it is prudent to treat everyone as a fool or an enemy until their deeds show them to be something else.’
Crispinus grinned. ‘If your friend Vindex were here he would no doubt make some comment about Silures. I do hope that your present company is not included in your suspicions – or have I shown myself to be trustworthy?’
‘Early days, sir, early days. And I have been wondering just what you and the prefect were doing on the day when his wife was ambushed.’
The tribune frowned for a moment, then slapped his thigh and threw back his head to laugh. ‘The truth really does matter to you, doesn’t it? Well, in this case it is mundane. We were hunting, as you well know.’
‘That was a strange place to choose, especially if you were after boar, as you claim.’ Ferox paused before adding, ‘Sir.’
‘You must seek that answer from the Prefect Cerialis. I was merely the guest. As far as I know it was all just coincidence – a fortunate one for you, let alone the Lady Sulpicia.’
‘As you say.’ Ferox did not care for too many coincidences, and at that moment a rider came with orders summoning the tribune to a conference with the legate.
‘I meant what I said about trusting me,’ he said in parting.
‘My lord, I am sure that you did.’ It was far too early for that, but it would be interesting to see what the young aristocract did.
Crispinus sniffed and kicked his heels to put his horse into a canter.
That was the last day of good weather, and from then on driving winds brought in rainstorm after rainstorm. The track was churned into mud by marching boots and the ruts left by carts, and the better road connecting the forts was not much better. It took a week to return to Luguvallium, and then a long day for the Batavians and Tungrians to reach Vindolanda. Titus Annius clung to life, and Ferox could only imagine the agonies the man must have endured in the back of a lurching army wagon.
‘He’s a tough one,’ Vindex said, when he went with Ferox to pay their respects. The centurion seemed to recognise them, and gave a weak smile. His face was pale, tinged with yellow, and there was a bandage strapped over his ruined eye. The medicus told them that most of the time he was unconscious, taking only a little thin broth prepared under the orders of the seplasiarius.
The centurion was in a fever when they reached Vindolanda, babbling nonsense and now and again shouting commands or giving orders to an imagined parade. They kept him in his house rather than the hospital, and off-duty soldiers clustered around the side entrance hoping to hear news of their commander for he was well respected by all and liked by most. Perhaps the realisation that he was in his home helped for he revived a little, enough to eat several meals. For a while his doctor dared to hope.
Crispinus brought the news, stopping at Syracuse accompanied by a patrol of twenty cavalrymen from II Augusta, meant to exercise the horses and keep the men in trim more than to gain useful information. It was strange to find so senior an officer joining so small and routine an activity, and Ferox could tell that it made the decurion in charge very nervous. The tribune did not appear to care.
‘I ought to learn as much as I can about how the army does things,’ he said. ‘And I cannot do that sitting in the principia reading endless lists and reports.’
‘Endless lists and reports are what the army does best,’ Ferox told him.
‘Why Syracuse?’ The tribune swept an arm to encompass the little courtyard of the wooden outpost. ‘I cannot say that I see a resemblance.’ His horse was drinking from the trough, while the tribune was drinking posca from a dark, locally made cup. He grimaced at the taste, but drained it and held his cup out for more. Philo, immaculate as ever, took great pleasure in tending to such an important visitor.
‘Why not Syracuse?’ Ferox replied mildly.
Crispinus shook his head, but let the matter drop. ‘We were told that some deserters had been seen in the area. It would be good to find that Briton – the one from the tower.’
‘As long as he is in a state to talk.’
‘Have you heard anything in the last few days?’ The tribune lowered his voice.
‘Not much,’ Ferox said. ‘Venutius’ men are lifting herds from far and wide, so we should get paid in full. Apart from that people are talking more about the Stallion and his great power. It seems he was up a mountain in a trance receiving messages from the gods while the fighting was going on.’
‘He must have been so disappointed when he heard.’