The Encircling Sea

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  As Ferox searched for any hint of the druid he saw the upright stone marking the grave of Titus Annius, the commander of the Tungrians who had died from wounds suffered back in that same grim autumn. He had been a good man and a fine soldier. The inscription proclaimed that his daughter had erected the monument to him. That was a fiction, since the centurion had no children, but he had left his money to benefit his soldiers and their widows and children. One lass of eight had lost her mother to fever weeks before the fight and became an orphan when her father was hacked down, standing protectively over the wounded Annius. By some legal trickery, it was arranged for the dead centurion to have adopted the girl. Cerialis and his wife were now supervising her education and she might enjoy a far better life than was usually open to a soldier’s daughter. That is, if she was lucky.

  Ferox sighed, wondering once again whether he had made the right choices in that straggling fight amid the burning heather and whether it was his fault that Annius had died. He rode on, for the past was the past and could not be undone. Ahead of him the road joined on to the main east to west route between Coria and Luguvallium, and for once he decided to follow it for a while before heading off for Syracuse. He glanced back once, just before the fort disappeared into a fold of the ground, and saw tiny figures by the carriage. He thought he glimpsed a flash of golden hair, but could not be sure. Ferox rode on, trying to leave his memories behind. The rain started again, growing heavier and heavier as the clouds closed in until it was hard to see far in any direction.

  *

  At Syracuse there was a man waiting to complain that a neigh­bour was stealing the best of his new lambs. He named the culprit, swearing that he was to blame. Ferox knew that more people would come in to make similar charges over the days to come. It was always the same at this time of year, as the weather grew warmer and animals were let out to pasture. The next day the accused turned up alleging intimidation and blows from the first man. Beside him waited a grey-haired woman who often came to Syracuse or to other Roman authorities. Her family had perished five years ago from a sickness that had swept through the lands at that time. Only a little boy survived, and he fell into a river and drowned a year later. Since then she travelled around the countryside searching for him. Often people gave her food and shelter for a night or two. Sometimes they drove her away because they were afraid that she brought bad luck.

  ‘Lord, please find my lost boy,’ she called as Ferox rode into Syracuse. ‘He’s tall for his age, lord, and good looking. He’s all I have.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ he said, forcing himself to pause for a moment. ‘If I find him I will send word.’

  ‘Thank you, lord, thank you. He’s all I have left.’

  Ferox went through the gateway. He saw Crescens and beckoned him to come over. ‘See that she gets some food,’ he told the curator. ‘And treat her gently.’ The old woman had visited so often that even the sympathetic found their patience and tempers fraying. Last time one of the milder soldiers had hit her because she clung to his leg begging him to help. ‘Tell the men to treat her as if she was their own mother.’

  There were other visitors, bringing petitions or complaints. Apart from thefts there were feuds and the arguments that often spilled over after the winter months when families and kin were cooped up together for much of the time. A husband had struck his wife after their latest row, but this time she fell and hit the iron guard around the fire, cracking her skull so that she died three days later. The headman from her old farmstead wanted the centurion to come with him so that the killer would grant a proper blood price to her family. Ferox was tired, but knew that if nothing was done quickly then more killing was likely, so he got a fresh horse and rode out with the man. There was not much for him to do, but his presence was a reminder that it was better to settle everything quietly rather than let the Romans intervene. The husband was in mourning, sleeping in the open away from the houses to cleanse himself of the deed, and agreed to the price of a cloak, two sheep and the best lamb born from his remaining flock in each of the next five years.

  *

  It took a day and a half to deal with it all, for the farms were on the very edge of his territory. By the time he returned to Syracuse a messenger from a chieftain was waiting with news of another death. This time it was no accident, for a wife who had been beaten again and again over the years had finally snapped and smothered her husband while he lay in a drunken stupor. No one at the settlement blamed her, but blood was blood, and the dead man had family who were likely to seek vengeance. The chieftain wanted the woman taken away somewhere safe, so that she could start a new life and there would be no need for a feud.

  ‘I’ll come,’ Ferox told the man, and gave orders for two of the cavalrymen among the stationarii to accompany him in case of trouble. ‘If Vindex and any of the scouts arrive, tell them to join me,’ he told Crescens. The Brigantian and his men were already a day late, and he wished that the gaunt warrior was with him, because he would have to ask his clan to take the woman and find a place for her somewhere.

  It was another long ride, made worse because the rain was constant and blown into them by a strong, gusty wind. A council was held in the chieftain’s hall, which was a roundhouse only a little larger than the others at the farmstead. It was an angry meeting, with supporters of the woman recounting all that she had suffered and asserting that the dead man received no more than long overdue justice. ‘Who will miss him?’ they claimed, while the woman said nothing, and appeared stunned by the whole business. Against her, the man’s cousin repeated that a death called for vengeance and punishment.

  ‘Cut her to show her shame,’ he insisted, and the men with him bellowed their approval. ‘We are Textoverdi,’ he went on, ‘and we do not kill our own without punishment. Mark her to show her disgrace!’ He drew a thin dagger. The old custom was to slice a woman’s nostrils and ears, and scar her cheeks as a permanent sign that she had been faithless to her husband.

  The chieftain was a kind man but not a bold one and did not stand up. Ferox clapped his hands hard. It was not a gesture these people used, and the sound echoed around the house, bringing silence. He stood, and his hand went to the hilt of his dagger, for he knew this was sharp and he did not like the look of the man’s knife.

  ‘Let one who has no tie or kindred to either husband or wife settle this. Come, woman.’ He beckoned to her. She came without hesitation, used to obedience. When she came closer he could see the fading marks of old bruises on her cheeks and arms. With one hand Ferox brushed her hair back to uncover her left ear. ‘This is justice,’ he said, not believing it, but wanting to make a show for her enemies. He pulled the lobe of her ear taut and sliced it off. The woman barely winced, showing that she was very familiar with pain. ‘Let her be exiled from these lands.

  ‘Do you have children, girl?’ he whispered.

  ‘A girl, lord.’

  ‘Let her take her child and I will send her far away, so that the shame is gone from the people’s eyes. That is justice.’

  The chieftain raised his arms and yelled in acclamation of the judgement. The dead man’s cousin looked sullen, but Ferox thought that he could sense the man’s relief at avoiding a blood feud. The daughter, a babe in arms, was swaddled and passed to the mother and they left straightaway, even though there were only a few hours of dull light left, because he did not want to give the cousin time to think it all over. At least the rain had stopped, and the chief loaned them a pony for the girl, for he wanted her off his hands as soon as possible.

  It was almost dark when one of the two troopers came up alongside Ferox. It was the Thracian, the man with only a few months left to serve in the army.

  ‘We’re being followed, sir,’ the old soldier said.

  ‘I know. One of them, over on the right, keeping pace, but a little ahead.’ Ferox did not add that he was sure whoever it was had come from the south and not followed them from the farmstead.

  ‘You’ve better eyesight than me, sir,
’ the Thracian said. His name was Sita, but no one ever used it. ‘Want me to ride ahead and try to loop back?’

  ‘Good idea. Don’t make it too obvious and don’t take any chances.’

  The Thracian grinned. ‘Not me, sir.’ He trotted off, going straight ahead as if riding to find the path or look for a campsite. Ferox brought Snow to a halt and turned back to smile at the woman. ‘We’ll rest soon.’

  Something whipped past just inches from his head. ‘Stay with her,’ he called to the other trooper. ‘Keep her safe.’

  Snow surged forward with only a gentle touch of his feet, and he steered the mare to the right, heading for the darkness under a patch of trees. He could see the even darker shape of a horseman. A second arrow came at him, and he ducked so that it flicked his shoulder and bounced off his mail armour. The Thracian was galloping, shield up and spear ready as he closed on the man. He was closer, but the third shaft was still aimed at Ferox. He swerved, sending Snow to the left, but a sudden hollow in the long grass caught both of them by surprise and the horse stumbled, flinging him against her neck, the saddle horns driving into his legs. The arrow scarred the grey horse’s back and she tried to turn away from the pain.

  The horseman turned, shooting another arrow as he fled into the trees. It thudded into the Thracian’s shield.

  ‘Bastard!’ Sita yelled as he closed the distance on the man.

  ‘I want him alive!’ Ferox yelled. The man tried another shot, but the shaft went high and his own horse was going too slowly to escape his pursuer. The horseman dropped his bow and tried to drive his horse on.

  The Thracian aimed his heavy spear with all the care and skill of a veteran, driving it into the square of the man’s back with such force that it came out through his chest. The man did not cry, and all Ferox heard was a grunt as the breath was knocked out of him. He knew before he got there than their attacker was dead.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ the Thracian said in the flat tone of an old sweat who was not remotely apologetic, but knew that he could not be punished for it.

  ‘I wanted him alive.’

  ‘Think he wanted you dead, sir.’ A man with only a few months until discharge was not about to run the risk of trying to take someone alive. ‘Reckon he’s a deserter, sir?’ The dead man was dressed like a Roman in tunic, trousers and cloak, and his hobnailed boots were the sort worn by soldiers, and quite a few other people. On top of that, Ferox had never heard of any horse archers in this part of the world, or anywhere in Britannia, unless they were trained by the army.

  ‘Maybe.’

  Ferox saw the Thracian looking warily behind them at the sound of approaching horses, but he had already seen the riders approaching and did not turn. Instead he examined the corpse. The man was of middle age, thicker set than most Britons – a Rhinelander perhaps?

  A horse stopped a few yards away.

  ‘You’re late,’ Ferox said without getting up or looking around.

  ‘I got married,’ Vindex said happily, and that did surprise him. When he turned the scout was grinning broadly. ‘You trying to be a hero again?’

  Ferox smiled. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Someone just tried to kill me.’

  ‘Nothing new then.’

  VI

  THE WIND GREW stronger as the tide turned, plucking at Ferox’s hat, so that he took it off and tucked it into his belt. His hair blew in front of his eyes and he realised that he ought to give in and let Philo trim it. He laughed, startling Vindex and the two scouts who rode with him for he had not spoken for a long time, and then he gave the mare her head and she bounded up the hill towards the tower, racing at a pace none of their ponies could match. They followed, flecks of water spraying from the animals’ legs, and the two warriors exchanged glances because they were new men not yet used to the centurion’s strange ways.

  Ferox reached the top some way ahead of the others and reined the grey in. The watchtower was to his left on the highest point of the ridge, a hundred paces away from a cluster of round­houses where a family lived and farmed. The tower’s timbers were rendered so that they gleamed white even on this dull day. It had a black-painted wooden platform projecting so that men could walk out and see in all directions, and a shingle roof shaped like a low pyramid. Around it was a circular rampart and ditch. He could see a sentry outside the entrance, another pacing the walls and a third on the platform veranda. Such vigilance was admirable, although it did make him wonder whether the little garrison knew that there was a party of senior officers on the loose. This was Aballava, the last crossing of the great winding river before it opened into the sea, and he was here to meet with Crispinus, Cerialis and others to help them select a site for the camp they were to build.

  Ahead of him the land fell away, fields turning into salt marshes and dunes and then the sea itself, more blue than grey even in this dim light. Ferox took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of salt and old seaweed. Seagulls circled overhead, seeming almost to hover as they floated on the currents of air. One swooped low, not far in front of him, and he watched it, marvelling at the elegance as it climbed again and soon was soaring away, screaming.

  ‘Nasty creatures,’ Vindex said. Earlier in the day one had dived down and snatched a piece of bread from his hand.

  Ferox ignored him, lost in memories of long ago. The sea here was bluer, the hills across the water closer, but the scents on the wind and the gulls overhead were the same as the coast of his homeland.

  ‘Bleak, isn’t it,’ Vindex added when his friend did not reply. His two warriors caught up, glanced at the view, and remained unimpressed. One walked his horse round and stared southwards.

  ‘That’s a pretty sight,’ Vindex said. There was a herd of cattle in the distance, at least a hundred big brown cows and bullocks grazing in the fields, with herdsmen riding around and among them. There were a few farmsteads dotted across the plain, each with their own little collections of animals, five or six cows, a few pigs and goats, tended by each family.

  ‘Must be a big chieftain of the Romans to have so much,’ the other scout said admiringly.

  ‘That lot belong to this Probus?’ Vindex asked, and at last Ferox dragged himself away from the sea and joined them as they looked south.

  ‘Reckon so. He’s got the right to grazing all along this coast and for miles inland.’ In the last weeks Ferox had learned that Genialis’ father supplied the army with a lot of animals, from cattle for meat and hides, to mules and ponies for pack and draft, and remounts for the cavalry.

  ‘Who gave him the right?’ Vindex asked, his tone implying that he guessed. ‘I’m guessing no one asked these folk here whether they minded.’

  ‘There’s enough grass for everyone,’ Ferox said, hoping that it was true. Probus had gone to someone working for the procurator who had gone to someone working for the legate, who had gone to someone higher up and so on. A lot of gifts would have been given, a lot of favours promised, and then suddenly a great swathe of land was opened to a big investor. Probus had a dozen or more herds like this one, apart from all his other animals, and that was just his stock up here. From what he heard the man owned more herds near Eboracum and Deva, helping to feed the demands of the big legionary bases, and sold to the towns and villages as well. He also owned ships and traded back and forth between the Germanies and Britannia, especially up the east coast. Here in the west there were fewer ports, at least this far north.

  ‘He’s an ambitious man,’ Crispinus had told him back at Vindolanda. ‘Knows how to make his money work for him.’ That much was certain, but an air of mystery clung around him. ‘He’s supposed to have been a soldier, and certainly still looks like one,’ the tribune had explained, ‘but no one is quite sure when and where he served. Cannot have served the full term so must have been discharged, presumably honourably, and a decade or so ago he pops up in Londinium with a lot of money. Claimed to be a Nervian, and did not get the franchise until later, when a rich freedman adopted him and made him his principal heir. The fr
eedman died soon afterwards,’ the tribune said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Just coincidence apparently.’ His tone suggested that he did not believe a word of it. ‘Ever since then he’s kept on growing. I will say this, though, the animals he supplies are pretty good, so he’s better than a lot of contractors.’

  ‘Are these folk Carvetii?’ Ferox asked, knowing the answer but preferring not to discuss the injustices of imperial administration with the Brigantian.

  ‘They are and they aren’t,’ the scout said. ‘They’re kin of ours, of course, and often they join with us at the great gatherings and stand beside us in battle.’ He paused. ‘That was in the old days, before we were good allies of Rome.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Carvetii were one of the big clans, like the Textoverdi, and both were and were not Brigantes, depending on what was going on, and in the past had fought with and against each other. ‘In the old days,’ he repeated. ‘Well, let’s not waste time staring at wealth we’ll never have, and have a word with them at the tower.’ He set off, fishing out his vine cane from the rolled blanket behind his saddle. As he came closer he twitched his cloak back so that the sentries would see his mail and the rest of his uniform. With the cane of office it ought to show them that he was a Roman and a centurion.

  The soldier brought his oval shield up and raised his spear in challenge. He was wearing a black tunic, which marked him out as one of the Vardulli from Magna on detached service at the tower.

  ‘Halt!’ he called. ‘Announce yourself.’

  ‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, with three scouts.’