‘Samhain,’ Ferox said, and already sensed an inevitability about the course of the meeting.
Crispinus turned to him with a smile.
‘Your local knowledge will be invaluable as usual, Flavius Ferox.’
‘Ah. Of course, sir.’ Orders were orders, and there was also the oath binding him to the tribune’s family.
Rufinus gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Talked your way into that one, boy,’ he said. At most he was a year or so older than Ferox, but he was an equestrian and so the air of superiority came easily.
‘I shall take a decurion and twenty-four of your Batavians, prefect, if that is acceptable to you.’ Cerialis nodded assent. ‘Good. We will also want Vindex and four or five of his scouts. Our job is to talk, see if this man can be dealt with, and most of all to find out as much as we can about him and these priests. If all goes well we shall be back in time to celebrate this Samhain.’
‘I shall lay on the best food we can find,’ Cerialis said, ‘although Batavians have their own festival that begins at dawn.’
‘We shall look forward to it with keen interest, and experience of your table leaves me with no doubt that it will be a dinner to remember.’
‘If you like eggs,’ Rufinus said under his breath. ‘Just hope friend Cerialis won’t be eating it all on his own.’
They were all invited to dinner at the praetorium that evening, and with Claudia Severa visiting along with her husband, there was a determined effort to avoid serious talk. Sulpicia Lepidina wore a dark dress and Ferox hoped that this was not a bad omen for their journey. Yet the sight of her lifted his spirits, as did the ease with which she helped steer the conversation and involve him in it to a degree appropriate to his status without ever making him feel awkward. In the lamplight she seemed to glow, enriching them all merely by her presence, and he thought how strange it was that fully clothed she was far more arousing than the naked twins, for all their smooth beauty. He was disappointed that Cerialis did not ask his wife to play and sing for them. Instead, the prefect invited the men to bathe, apologising for the poor facilities.
‘My predecessor did not consider a proper bath necessary, and there was a limit to what could be done in the house.’ The timber praetorium did not lend itself to the underfloor and flue heating possible in a stone house, so the prefect had had a work party of his soldiers dig a circular pool reinforced with stone and lined with concrete, a deep shelf raised up from the floor so that bathers could sit and soak. A broad pipe brought heated water from a collection of big coppers hanging over open fires, and another pipe could be opened to let it drain. Ten people could cram into the pool, and with just five it was comfortable. Steam filled the air, but did not make the first shock of the hot water any less and Ferox let out a hiss and blew out. The others stared at him in amusement – the barbarian centurion reverting to type.
Once he was used to it, Ferox sat, arms outstretched on the lip of the pool, and let the warmth seep into him. He had last had a bath at Flora’s, and he could see that this was very similar, apart from inoffensive paintings of dolphins and other sea creatures on the plastered walls and ceiling. There were three slaves, and Cerialis insisted that they wait to be oiled and scraped clear rather than doing it for themselves.
‘There is a cold shower in the next room, for afterwards,’ he told them, but Ferox did not plan to use it. He felt drowsy and content and had forgotten how refreshing so simple a thing could be.
Two nights later they were at Coria, and were given several hours when the big bath-house outside the fort’s ramparts was set aside for their exclusive use.
‘I’ll be so glad when we finish building our one at Vindolanda,’ Cerialis said as they went into the raging heat of the caldarium. There was plenty of building going at his garrison, but Ferox could tell that the greatest enthusiasm and effort was being lavished on the long stone bath-house outside the rampart and down the slope.
‘It is less convenient having to take our turn,’ Aelius Brocchus replied. ‘I wish the pool in our house were as fine as yours.’
This was the full experience, throwing leather balls to each other and exercising in the high, echoing hall, before going from warm to raging hot, then to a plunge into the cold pool, and repeating the circuit several times. It was invigorating, although for Ferox could not compete with the ease and comfort of a long soak in decently hot water.
They set out along the Eastern Road an hour before dawn on the next day. There were twenty-four Batavian horsemen under the command of a decurion named Masclus, a quiet, steady man. Each rider had a heavy cloak and a blanket rolled up and tied behind his saddle, and a pair of sacks filled with barley grain slung over the horse’s back. Two galearii rode mules and each led a string of four more with provisions and tents. Vindex had brought four of his best men, including the stolid and reliable Brennus, and the scouts watched the heavily laden troopers with curiosity and a hint of disdain.
‘What do they want all that lot for?’ the gaunt Brigantian asked Ferox. ‘Thought we were just going to talk to the man?’
‘An ambassador of Rome needs to look the part. And these Batavians are handy lads, so we’ll be glad of them if it comes to a fight.’
‘If it comes to a fight we’re humped, and they won’t make any difference.’ They were speaking in the language of the tribes, waiting as the escort checked their harness and equipment. Cerialis and another forty horsemen watched. He was not coming any further and would return to Vindolanda later today.
‘So we’re going to talk to this Tincommius, which means that you’re doing the talking. Why is the dandy coming along?’ He smiled at Crispinus who gave an affable nod in return.
Ferox did not know the answer. Regionarii like him usually dealt with negotiations of this sort, even with the kings of major tribes, and it was odd for a young aristocrat to be sent. It seemed a needless risk, and he was not sure whether Crispinus had lobbied to go or been picked for the task. He would make a valuable hostage – perhaps a great sacrifice – and the thought that there might well be senior men trying to engineer disaster on the frontier made him afraid that they were walking into a trap.
‘Reckon he fancied an adventure,’ he said.
‘Oh, good.’ Vindex sniffed and wrinkled his long nose. ‘You smell funny.’
‘It’s called being clean.’
A trumpet sounded, harsh and brazen in the still air. Masclus gave orders for his men to mount up.
‘Bet they don’t even crap unless they’re told,’ Vindex said.
Ferox ignored him and walked his horse over beside Crispinus. The decurion saluted the tribune and then went to his prefect and saluted again.
‘Third day after the Nones of October. Report of the detachment of the Ninth Cohort of Batavians. All who should be are at their duty stations, as is the baggage. Masclus and his men are ready to depart, and ask permission from his king and lord to set out.’
‘Permission granted.’ Cerialis was wearing his high plumed helmet. ‘Ride to good fortune and a successful return.’
‘My lord!’ Masclus saluted again and went back to the head of the little column. ‘Prepare to march!’ he bellowed. ‘Forward at a walk.’
Crispinus nudged his mare to follow. Ferox stayed back with Vindex, ready to send his scouts ahead once they were properly clear of the fort and canabae. The civilian settlement at Coria, including a number of official buildings, spread far wider than at Vindolanda so that soon it would earn the more formal status of a vicus, but it was early and the few people up and about were not inclined to pay them much attention. On the edge of the village, he heard shouts and saw three small boys lobbing stones at the white-haired beggar as he walked down a lane on to the road. Their aim was not good, but the sight annoyed Vindex.