The Encircling Sea Page 3

  ‘Still haven’t heard much about Acco,’ Vindex added, once he realised that his companion was not going to say any more. Acco was a true druid, one with the old knowledge, and he had supported the Stallion and then inflicted the triple death when the man was beaten.

  ‘One day, we will.’ Ferox worried that Acco had vanished for he feared what the man was doing. The Stallion had been a wild dog, unthinkingly angry, his beliefs a mishmash of old ideas and exotic rituals taken from half the religions of the empire. Acco was different, one of the last of the true druids, a man who had seen the groves at Mona before they were burned, and if his loathing of Rome was just as strong it was cold and calculating. It was he who had sacrificed the Stallion, giving him slow poison and then slicing at his flesh with a flint knife as the noose had slowly strangled the man. The triple death of a magician was meant to propitiate the gods for his failure, and brought immense power to one who performed it.

  ‘Maybe he’s died,’ Vindex suggested without conviction. ‘He must be getting on a bit.’

  ‘Huh,’ Ferox grunted. Acco was out there somewhere, waiting, plotting, and they must keep searching for any news of the man because otherwise it might be too late when he appeared.

  ‘Yes.’ Vindex decided that he would get no more from the centurion and instead turned his horse to leer at their captives. He pointed up at the two empty stakes on the tower. ‘Look at that, boys, they must have known you were coming!’

  Segovax and the Red Cat ignored him, but that was nothing new. In the two and a half weeks they had spent travelling back, the brothers had said almost nothing. Segovax did his best to hide his discomfort, and Ferox could not help admiring the man’s strength and determination. Vindex had wanted to kill them both.

  ‘Best for him,’ he claimed. ‘Poor bugger will be in pain all the way and there won’t be anything nice waiting at the other end. And the other one swears that he’ll kill you – and me as well – so why not sort him out now? Don’t fancy sleeping with one eye open all the way home either.’

  The Red Cat was fitted with shackles to the wrist and another pair for his legs whenever they dismounted. Vindex had brought them. ‘Just in case,’ he said, and wanted to do the same to Segovax.

  ‘Reckon he’d can’t do much with a leg and arm bust,’ Ferox insisted.

  Vindex was unconvinced. ‘If that one had no legs and no arms he’d still try to bite you.’

  They compromised on using a shackle to fasten the man’s good arm to tree or log whenever they stopped for the night. Each time they fitted it, Segovax said nothing, just staring into their eyes. Almost the only time he spoke was to tell them that the boy stabbed to death by their captive was the Red Fox’s son. Like his brother, he swore to kill Ferox as soon as he got the chance.

  ‘You’re good at making friends, aren’t you?’ Vindex said. ‘Still sure you don’t want me to finish them both?’ Ferox did not answer.

  It was easier in the first week when they were accompanied by the high king’s men. These were the friends Vindex had encountered, a dozen big warriors led by a German exile called Gannascus. The first time they had met, the big man had almost killed Ferox, but since then respect had grown to friendship, at least as far as their different loyalties allowed.

  ‘Give them to me,’ the big warrior said. ‘I’ll take them back to Tincommius. The high king has been wanting their heads for years. The sly little one has taken too many of his best horses.’

  ‘They are my prisoners, and I’m taking them back,’ Ferox insisted.

  ‘Huh. Twelve of us, four of you, and our home a lot closer.’ Gannascus looked grim and even more massive than usual. ‘We could take them if we wanted.’ He held Ferox’s gaze for a moment and then threw back his head to roar with laughter, something he did very often. He patted the Roman on the shoulders, laughing even more when Ferox winced because of the graze to his side.

  While they rode with Gannascus and his men they were too formidable a band to attract the attention of casual attackers. It also meant that it was easier to guard their prisoners. Ferox was still surprised to have met the German so far to the west. Tincommius’ influence was spreading wider than he had thought. The high king was a friend to the Romans, an ally, at least while it suited him, which merely meant that he treated the Romans just as they treated him. Yet his strength kept growing, while the garrison in Britannia was weak and likely to get weaker soon enough. Ferox had heard rumours that Trajan was planning for a big campaign on the Danube. At best that would mean few new drafts coming to keep units up to strength, and at worst it would mean more troops being posted away from Britannia. The tribes all knew that Rome was weaker than in the old days when the Romans had first came to the north. That sense of retreat was something the Stallion had used to inspire his supporters. Acco did the same and he was still out there. In the past, the druid and high king had been friends and they could easily join together again. It would be a dangerous combination because both men were as clever as they were ruthless. Ferox feared that one day he would face them and Gannascus in battle. Maybe that would be the end of his story.

  For the moment he was glad to have the big man’s company, and sorry when the German and his warriors left them to go east. That left four of them to share the watches. He ignored Vindex’s fresh suggestion to kill the prisoners. ‘Or at least let me slice up that vicious little bastard.’ He meant the young Roman they had freed from captivity, who claimed to be called Marcus Claudius Genialis and swore that he was the son of a very rich and powerful man called Claudius Probus. Ferox had heard of neither of them, but the sixteen-year-old carried himself with an arrogance that suggested someone used to being obeyed in every whim.

  ‘Don’t seem very grateful for being rescued,’ Vindex com­mented in the language of the tribes after watching the angry youth scream at Ferox and demand that he execute the two brothers. The centurion refused, never raising his voice, and after a while turned his back and walked away. Genialis then went to Gannascus, promising gold if he killed the men. The big German had only a little Latin, but seemed to understand. He smiled, bellowed his great laugh and then knocked the boy flat.

  After that Genialis brooded in silence until the German and his men left them when he made a new attempt to make the centurion obey him. When Ferox refused, the sixteen-year-old told him that he would rue the day, before stalking off to sit on his own. Every now and again he glared at the prisoners, or at Ferox.

  ‘Who’d miss him?’ Vindex asked. ‘I mean, put it this way, if you were his father would you really want him back? After all, no one knows we found him. Except Gannascus and no one will ask him. Those two certainly won’t care.’ He gestured at the two girls. Brigita was the snub-nosed redhead, thirteen years old and the one who really ran her family’s farm, making sure that her sick father and vapid mother did nothing too foolish. The other girl was fifteen, but small for her age, a slave in the household of Aelius Brocchus, commander of the cavalry ala at Coria to the east, who was also the owner of the tall chestnut horse.

  A couple of days ago Genialis had lured her away from their camp into some woodland. Ferox had heard the slave’s screams and arrived to find her thrown down, her already ragged dress torn open. He had not been gentle with the youth. Genialis was still sporting a raw black eye along with some other bruises, and it had taken all his willpower for Ferox not to kill him then and there.

  ‘It would be a pleasure,’ Vindex pleaded. ‘Who would ever know?’

  ‘Just tie him up and keep him tied until he is off our hands. You never know, he might be a runaway pretending to be freeborn. Then they’ll whip him or kill him. Perhaps both.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope,’ the Brigantian said dubiously.

  There had been more complaints, more promises of vengeance and dire punishment for them all, but when the scout raised his hand Genialis fell back into his sullen silence and did not break it for the remainder of their journey. He rode behind the two captives, one of the Brigantians
beside him, watching all of them for any false move. Brigita and the slave girl, Aphrodite, with the other scout brought up the rear.

  As they had ridden through the civilian settlement or canabae outside the fort, Ferox had felt the army’s grip closing around him once more. There had not been time to stop off at his own little outpost, as he wanted the trip over and them all off his hands as soon as possible. He had toyed with the idea of taking Brigita back to her family, which would have meant a diversion of no more than five miles, but had decided against it. It would be too cruel to bring her home with two of her abductors still in tow.

  Instead he drove them hard to reach Vindolanda quickly. It was hardest on Aphrodite, sitting uncomfortably astride the chestnut wearing a borrowed tunic far too big for her and an old and stained cloak. It was even harder on Segovax, although the man had such an iron will that he did his best not to show it. The two brothers kept their faces impassive after the manner of the northern tribes – and Ferox’s own people. Their eyes stayed cold and full of hate.

  ‘Halt!’ The sentry outside the gateways bawled out the regulation challenge.

  ‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, with three scouts, two prisoners and three others requests entrance to the fort.’

  ‘Sir!’ The Batavian stiffened to attention, spear straight on his shoulder and shield close into his body. Ferox was surprised at the precision, but as he led them all under the gateway he saw two ranks of soldiers paraded inside. He guessed that they were not waiting for him.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’ There was an optio in command of the detachment, and as Ferox searched in his memory for the man’s name it came to him just in time.

  ‘Good morning, Arcuttius,’ he nodded. ‘Expecting visitors?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re late, though.’

  Ferox was tempted to ask, but he knew the optio as someone who applied regulations to the letter. Arcuttius was not given to chatter, especially not to someone outside cohors VIIII Batavorum. He would have to make it an order if he wanted to get an answer, and saw no reason to go that far. The Batavians were a clannish bunch, and even though he had fought alongside them quite a few times he remained an outsider.

  ‘Is the Lord Cerialis in residence?’ Ferox asked instead.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Flavius Cerialis commanded the Batavians. He was young, eager and ambitious, and after a year and half in Britannia was getting the feel of the place. He and his wife were also close friends to Aelius Brocchus and his wife, which should make it easier to restore to them their horse and their slave. Aphrodite had said very little during the journey home, only to confirm that she had strayed from their house and met up with one of their grooms, also a slave, who was exercising the chestnut. Ferox guessed that it was not the first assignation, but this one turned sour when the northerners appeared, speared the groom, and stole her and the horse. The raiders had come across Brigita the day before, as she was walking towards Coria to sell a goat at the market and to buy an axe if she could find a decent one at a good price.

  ‘Good,’ Ferox said. ‘Well, I had better stop dawdling and report to the principia.’ He nudged Snow forward along the main road of the fort, the via praetoria, which ran straight towards the other main road of the fort, behind which stood the great buildings of the base – the principia where the administration went on, and the praetorium where Cerialis and his household lived. Both were big, with four ranges around a central courtyard, and their walls were rendered and painted white so from this distance they looked to made of stone and not timber. For sheer size they were dwarfed by the pair of granaries next to them, their roofs towering over the rest of the fort. Yet the barracks on either side of the road were big enough buildings.

  ‘Like a nest of ants.’ The Red Cat had broken his silence for the first time in days, and was staring around at the whitewashed buildings with their shingle and slate roofs. A party of soldiers marched past, not carrying spears or shields but in mail and wearing helmets and marching in step to orders bellowed at them by the old sweat in charge. The thief stared at them. He did not understand the words, but the tone was obvious.

  ‘How can a man submit to that?’ he asked his brother, his tone genuinely baffled. ‘How can they live like this?’

  Vindex snorted with laughter. Ferox knew that the scout’s own views were similar. Vindolanda was a fair-sized fort, built to accommodate the large Batavian cohort and various other detachments as well as details passing through, and it must seem huge to a man used to lone houses, farmsteads or villages with no more than a couple of dozen huts at most. The base for a Roman legion was some ten times bigger, while the cities of the empire, let alone Rome itself, made any army outpost look tiny.

  ‘Is this Rome?’ Segovax asked.

  ‘No, brother, they say that lies a week or more to the south. This must be the dun of one of their greatest chiefs.’

  ‘Huh. Why live here, surrounded by so many? It’s like an ant’s nest.’

  The Red Cat nodded. ‘They are strange folk.’

  Vindex rode up to join Ferox. ‘Most they’ve said for weeks.’

  ‘Yes. They may talk a bit more when they realise what they’re facing.’ Ferox had hoped to learn more on the journey home and had failed to get anywhere with the captive brothers. There had to be a reason why they had come so far from their own lands. The horse was a good one, but the Creones and other peoples of the north generally preferred the smaller native ponies because they were so hardy and sure-footed in the rugged country. It was true that Brigita and Aphrodite could be traded or kept as slaves, and yet they need not come so far to abduct a couple of young girls. Genialis seemed the key to unlocking the mystery, for as far as Ferox could tell the others had all been incidental captures. The northerners had come to take him – or maybe someone like him – and Ferox could not understand what they had hoped to gain. The sulking youth was no help. Perhaps he was telling the truth and his father was rich, so might pay a ransom. Yet what would men from the far north want with so much coin?

  ‘Perhaps when they come face to face with their deaths they’ll talk a bit more freely,’ Ferox said, without conviction.

  Vindex was not impressed. ‘Why should they?’

  ‘There are different ways to die.’

  ‘You really think you’re going to frighten that one?’ Vindex nodded back at Segovax. ‘Or the other one. I think that you should have let me kill them quick and clean.’

  Ferox wondered whether he was right. He had to admit to grudging respect of the brothers, and did not much relish the thought of them ending up on crosses or in with the beasts in the arena.

  ‘Too late now,’ he said. They were almost at the junction of the two roads. ‘You stay here and watch them while I go in and make the arrangements.’ He jumped down and strode across towards the archway of the principia. The ground was hard packed, but spongy underfoot. It always seemed to be wet at Vindolanda. As he walked he tried to work out what day it was. Must be sometime after the Ides of April, he reckoned. While they were in the far reaches of Britannia it had not mattered. As they had headed north he had known that Beltane was weeks ago, the snows were melting, lambs being born, lengthening days and spring approaching. Now that he was back with the army, he was entering another world, which set everything down in writing. At least he knew which year it was. Our Lord Trajan was consul for the third time with Sextus Julius Frontinus, also holding the office for the third time.

  ‘A tough bastard, that one. Clever too.’ His grandfather’s description of Frontinus suddenly came into his mind and he guessed that he was grinning. The Lord of the Hills had fought the Romans for many years and held them off. Then Frontinus came as legate to govern Britannia, and made crushing the Silures his priority. He did it, too, taking heavy losses, but inflicting even more and overrunning more and more of their territory. After the surrender, by that strange custom of the Romans, he became their patron, arranging much of Ferox’s education, securing him citizenship and a commission as c
enturion. If afterwards the young Silurian’s career turned sour, that was his own fault, from his obsession with the truth and the freedom with which he spoke his mind. Frontinus had been a good patron and no Roman aristocrat ever forgot past services they had done for someone or his obligation to them.

  Ferox returned the salute of the sentry and went through the arch into the courtyard. The main offices were ahead of him, just next to the shrine housing the cohort’s standards. There was more than the usual bustle about the place, although that could simply be the season. In winter, most of a unit was often at its base, but as soon as the spring arrived a lot of large and small detachments would march away to train, work on some building project or for other tasks.

  Cerialis was not there, so Ferox dealt with Rufus, the cen­turion on duty for the day, aided by the prefect’s cornicularius who made notes of everything. As usual with the army it took longer than he expected or was truly necessary. Half a dozen Batavians were despatched to take the captives to where they would be held.

  ‘May be a while before due process can be done and they’ll be nailed up,’ Rufus told him.

  ‘In that case, get them to have a look at the bigger one’s injuries.’

  The Batavian centurion raised a bushy eyebrow at this mark of concern. ‘No sense killing someone unhealthy, I suppose.’ In the meantime, the cornicularius was writing a note on a wax tablet to Privatus, the freedman head of the prefect’s staff, to send people to look after Aphrodite and stable the horse. Word was to be sent to Brocchus to inform him of their rescue. Genialis would also go to the legate’s house, to be held in the servants’ quarters until his identity was established.