Vindolanda

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THE RIDERS CAME from the north, black shapes in the darkness, and the few people who saw them kept out of their way and did not dare to call out a challenge. A band of men abroad at this hour were more than likely warriors or thieves or both. These ones moved with purpose, and that could mean many things. They came suddenly into a dell, scattering the dozen sheep that were grazing there, and the shepherd yelled out in anger before fear made him fall silent. The horsemen rode past, ignoring him and his animals. Half an hour later they came to a shallow valley, and the men urged their tired mounts into a canter. It was nearly dawn.

There was a Roman outpost in the valley, but the sentry standing on the tower over its single gateway did not see them for some time. He was a Thracian, tired at the end of a long watch and not expecting anything to happen because nothing much ever happened here. There might be the odd feud and murder, and the inevitable thefts of livestock, but not any real trouble. With twenty-three years’ service under his belt, that was why the Thracian had applied for the posting. He had two more years left to go before his discharge. That meant becoming a Roman citizen, freedom from the army’s rules, and… After such a long time it was hard to picture life outside the army. He was not quite sure what it would mean, but wanted to live to find out, which meant that quiet was good, and at times it was so quiet here that it seemed the army and the wider world had forgotten all about them.

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