‘And the bigger island?’
‘It has more people. The chieftains are scared of the men of the night and pay them tribute. So do some on other islands. That is how they live.’
‘Who spoke these things?’
‘A young lad who sails with a merchant. He saw the island once, and heard the master of the ship and the sailors talking. They were scared because they had come closer than they intended during the night. There were stories that the pirates were preying on those who strayed too near, something they had not done for many years.’
Ferox wondered whether the Harii had managed to repair their old trireme. He doubted that they could have built one from scratch and it had been a long while since any of the classis Britannica’s ships had gone missing.
‘Could the lad find this island?’
Bran frowned in scorn at such a suggestion. ‘He’s just a lad. None too bright either.’ Ferox suspected the ‘lad’ was a fair bit older than his servant.
‘Do you know who the merchant is? No. Well, find out.’
*
The next morning was grey, and before long rain started to fall on them as the great gathering walked on, the main hill now coming close and looming over them. This was the first break in the weather after days of warm sunshine, and perhaps this was why the trumpets went silent. Neither were there drums when the dancers reappeared, and the lines of men in their animal skins and head-dresses whirled and stamped, and circled in an eerie silence. For hours the dance went on, and the dancers paid no heed when two priests led a young man into the middle of the circle. He had a halter around his neck and a thin circlet of gold on his head. For a while the two priests circled him, not dancing but pacing slowly. They were joined by two more and the old woman in black. No one held on to the lead of the halter, and the man wearing it stood and stared up, arms raised so that the rain spattered onto his face and left his long brown hair dark and wet. He wore a bright white cloak that reached to the ground.
‘Is he a slave or a priest?’ Crispinus asked, his own cloak drawn tightly around him and water dripping from the rim of his plumed helmet.
‘He is both,’ Ferox said, ‘and he is king of the feast.’ He had heard of such things among the Dobuni, the neighbours of the Silures, but never seen the ritual.
‘Oh,’ Ovidius said in surprise. ‘Like at Massilia?’ His tone was one of curiosity more than anything else.
Ferox nodded, while the younger tribune looked puzzled as well as damp and weary. ‘Is there a sacrifice today?’ Once the sacrifice was done they crowd dispersed and there was the prospect of shelter and warm food.
Two of the priests went to the man and took the cloak from him. He was naked underneath, his skin pale, but shiny with oil. As well as being tall he was slim and well muscled. The man knelt.
‘Hercules’ balls,’ the tribune gasped as he realised, and then was embarrassed by his own lack of composure.
As he kneeled the man swayed his body from side to side, arms still up and face staring at the heavens. A priest carrying a club carved from wood so dark that it was almost black came up behind him. The old woman drew a bronze knife from its sheath.
The dancers stopped. There was silence apart from the pattering of the rain. Crispinus went rigid, mouth hanging open.
‘Say nothing. Do nothing,’ Ferox whispered to the tribune.
The priest swung the club and struck a glancing blow against the side of the man’s head, who was pitched over onto the grass. He rose, shaking his head, and the woman slashed the knife across his throat. Blood spurted out, splashing onto the man’s white skin where the rain washed it away. He staggered forward, spluttering and choking. Another priest followed him, matching his steps.
‘Say nothing, my lord,’ Ferox whispered softly.
The victim fell to his knees, and the priest grabbed the rope of the halter and tightened it, bracing himself by placing one foot on the man’s back.
Crispinus looked as pale as the dead man’s flesh.
The dancers started to gyrate once more, and the drums began, softly at first, but gradually growing louder and louder.
*
That night five kings came to see Crispinus, who received them in his tent, its front flaps held open so that the visits could be witnessed. The tribune was happy to be dry, and his horror of the sacrifice of the young man had had time to fade. Ovidius had found it amusing. ‘The noble Crispinus is a devotee of the arena, and yet finds this shocking,’ the philosopher and poet had said.
‘And you do not?’ Ferox asked him.
‘Horrible. Truly horrible. But I am an old man and have seen too many foul things in my time. And as a man of letters I have read of acts of appalling cruelty – I would call it inhuman cruelty if that made sense, but it cannot because it was done by men and not monsters.’
Ovidius sat in on the meetings, as did Probus, who was known to most of the visitors. Brennus had returned, and pitched his tent close to the tribune. Epotsorovidus sat alone, for most of his chieftains had left him. His warriors stayed, but had a hopeless air about them.
By the end of the evening it was clear that most men now expected Togirix of the Woluntioi to be named by the priests as high king.
‘He is the stallion,’ more than one of the visitors declared. Ferox wondered whether another old ritual would be performed, with the king joining his earth as a stallion mounted a mare, but decided against trying to explain it to the tribune. If it happened, there would be time enough to tell him. After all were gone the tribune held a council.
‘My impression is that Tigorex—’
‘Togirix, my lord,’ Ferox said.
‘Thank you, centurion. My impression is that this Togirix is likely to win because no one hates or fears him as much as the others.’
‘Now where have we heard that before,’ Ovidius said happily. Ferox presumed that he was thinking about the elderly Nerva, chosen as emperor by the Senate after the murder of Domitian four years ago. Nerva had then adopted Trajan and died before two years was out. ‘I am guessing they hope to avoid war.’ They both looked at Ferox.
‘They probably want to avoid a really big war between all the tribes. A weak high king will let them raid and murder each other on a smaller scale, but stop any one leader becoming too strong. Epotsorovidus might have been more forceful, at least with Brigita telling him what to do. They might either have kept the peace or started an even bigger war.’
‘Given the consequence,’ Ovidius mused, ‘are we sure that some or more of the leaders here did not help the pirates snatch the queen? Or at least promise reward for their deed?’
‘It does seem likely,’ Ferox said. ‘Which one is harder to say.’
‘In my extensive experience…’ Crispinus beamed at them ‘… it is always worth considering those apparently closest to a leader. They see his frailties close up, and are very aware that he is just a man and yet has such power. Tempting to consider that you are also a man, no different in most respects from the ruler. Could you not have what they have?’ He glanced out of the still-open tent as Brennus passed, returning from a visit, his bedraggled bard trudging along behind him.
‘He will not get the power.’ Ovidius spoke quietly, and before the others could say anything he explored the thought. ‘But he might get more power than he had.’
‘And the woman,’ Ferox said.
‘She’d eat him alive,’ Crispinus snapped. ‘Sorry, poor taste.’
‘It is one of their greatest crimes for a wife to kill a husband or husband to kill wife. If she were compelled to marry him, he might be safe.’
‘All true, although does that not also mean that the wife is closest than anyone else to the leader? Perhaps she did not want him to succeed? After all, Ferox, you were the one who said that she was up to something.’
Ferox was not listening, for a figure was moving through the camp towards them. The man was tall, with a gladius hung from a red leather belt over his shoulder. That was the only splas
h of colour on him, for boots, long trousers, long-sleeved tunic and cloak were all black or so dark that they seemed black.
‘They’re here,’ he said.
XVI
THE PIRATE WAS young, no more than sixteen, with thick black hair and olive-coloured skin. He did not look like any German Ferox had ever seen, and he guessed that this was the son of one of the sailors or marines who had joined the mutineers. The navy was the only branch of the army open to men who were not freeborn, so perhaps the father was a former slave from Syria or Egypt. His son spoke Latin peppered with a few Germanic words, and it was easy to follow the sense if not every detail. He hissed something that sounded like a curse when Probus was brought over, so must have been given a good description of the merchant because he was too young ever to have met him.
Probus did not react, and the meeting was short and without incident. They were to meet on the next night, an hour after sunset. Ferox thought how odd it was for a man who came from a remote Caledonian island to speak of so Roman an idea as an hour. They would bring all that they had promised to the mound where the first sacrifice had occurred. By the time they met, the high king would have been named, the celebrations under way. The peace reigning over this place during the festival would last for another day and a night, so they had better not think about trying to seize back the captives by force.
‘Would the crowd turn against us on behalf of these folk?’ Crispinus did not hide his scorn or lower his voice.
‘Yes,’ Ferox said. ‘This time and this place is sacred and cannot be polluted.’
‘The punishment?’
‘I believe being torn apart by wild horses.’
‘We shall honour our pledges,’ the tribune proclaimed. ‘And expect you to do the same.’
‘We will bring the captives,’ the young warrior said. ‘None of your high folk have been harmed in any way. They will only be hurt if you do not give us what we want.’
‘Do you trust them?’ Crispinus asked after the man had gone.
‘They’re bandits, pirates, kidnappers and cannibals,’ Ovidius said, ‘and you wonder whether they are honest!’
Ferox ignored them and strode away, pretending not to hear the tribune when he called.
Vindex was waiting with a pair of horses. ‘The Red Cat has gone ahead to keep an eye on the lad. His brother is keeping an eye on Probus.’ Segovax was a lesser tracker than the famous thief, but still better than almost anyone else they had with them.
They led their horses until they were beyond the cluster of camps. Vindex had watched the northerner head to the north west, and after they had circled around two more big groups of tents and figures hunched under damp blankets they came into the open and found his trail. The only people out here were those defecating, none of whom were bothered by riders unless they came too close. They pressed on, catching up before long.
‘He is not worried about being followed,’ the Red Cat told them, and Ferox could see that the youth was riding straight across the fields, his horse leaving obvious prints. They followed for a while, and the path still led towards a line of low hills beyond yet another old mound.
Ferox reined in beside a copse. ‘Wait for me in there. Keep a good watch, because these are men who know how to move at night. If you have to kill anyone, make sure no sees you do it.’
The centurion dismounted and walked off into the darkness, heading at an angle to the trail left by the young warrior. Ferox guessed that they were camped somewhere among the hills, relying for safety on the rules of the festival. At first he walked, for the rain made it hard to see or hear any distance. Every now and again he would stop and crouch, watching and listening. By the time he could see the mound a long bowshot away to his right, he was still more than he moved. The rain came on even harder, making it difficult to see because his eyes and eyelids were filled with water. Gambling on this as cover, he jogged ahead, slipping on the wet grass more than once.
At the last fall something told him to keep still. Like any Silurian boy he had spent hours learning to move with stealth at night and he knew that a man’s fears could conjure up all sorts of dangers. He also knew that a man’s instincts kept him alive. Ferox lay flat on the sodden ground.
The rain slackened and he saw movement less than ten paces away. A man walked into view, moving slowly and stiffly. He was little more than a shape, darker than the sky, and as he walked there was a soft bump with every second step. Ferox guessed that it was a scabbarded sword patting his thigh whenever he moved that leg. It was a sloppy mistake, but he forced himself not to relax or do anything foolish. This wanderer might be nothing to do with the pirates, although he doubted that. More likely he was young and inexperienced. He wondered how many of the true Harii were left, and whether they had taught the rest all their tricks.
Ferox waited for the man to wander off, waited a little longer, and then began to crawl through the grass. Above him the clouds parted and a bright moon shone down, turning the landscape silver. He froze again, lifting his head as little as possible to look round. The man he had seen was a good hundred paces away, and there was another sentry a similar distance away in the other direction. Both men paced up and down. If they were clever they would have posted a few men a little back, lying on the ground and watching. Ferox went slowly forward for a dozen paces, stopped, waited, and did the same again. He was making for the lip of a low rise, up ahead. As he came closer he started to hear voices in muffled conversation. There was a dim light, which grew, and someone had got a fire going because there was a glow beyond the rise. It seemed that they were not clever.
It took a long time, perhaps an hour or a little more, to reach the crest. The camp was just below him, so close that he could see individual faces around the fire and smell the bacon or pork they were cooking. At least he hoped that it was bacon or pork, and could not help feeling hungry.
Ferox watched them for some time, making a careful count. There were forty-seven men with anywhere up to another dozen or so out on guard. There were no women. He scanned the scene again to make sure that he was right, but no one was asleep and all were clearly visible. He could see Cerialis, his hands bound, so that one of the Harii was leaning over and helping him to eat. Genialis was not there, and there was no sign of any other captive apart from the prefect of the Batavians.
Edging back on his elbows, Ferox went down the slope. He had seen all that he could and needed to get back. Turning around, he stared out across the slope and could only see one of the sentries. Staying on his belly he crawled and slithered on. The second time he stopped he saw the other warrior, squatting on the ground. It was an odd posture for watching and then he heard the man groaning and straining. Ferox crawled forward, taking almost as much time as he had during his approach, until he decided that he was far enough out to get up and walk.
A wind came from the west, sighing and hissing over the grass. Ferox was wet and weary, and shivered when the first cold blast bit into him. It no longer felt like summer. He tried to tell himself that the Harii had brought the prefect because they wanted to extort more for the rest of the hostages. They would make new demands for the release of Sulpicia Lepidina, thinking that handing over the prefect showed the Romans that it was worth paying in the hope that they would be given the lady next time. Ferox did not honestly care much about Genialis, and from what Ovidius had said they may anyway want the lad to join them, assuming he was the child of one of their priestesses. Brigita’s own kin may be ransoming her, or not, given the fall of Epotsorovidus, and that was not his main concern. Ferox tried to make himself think of the slaves and others they had abducted, but the vision of Sulpicia Lepidina filled his mind and his fears pictured her in torment or dead. She was not here, which meant that he must go to where they kept her. He hoped that Bran had found out more.
The man sprang up from the grass and came at him, hurling himself at Ferox’s waist. There was not time to curse himself for letting his mind wander, and all he could do was brace h
is feet and then twist as the man slammed into him. They both fell. Ferox was struggling for breath, but managed to strike with his knee and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. The man’s fingers reached for his throat. They rolled, Ferox on top for the moment, and he jabbed down with his elbows, breaking the lock the warrior had on him and staring into the black-painted face. Then they rolled again, and the warrior was on top. A shout came from somewhere else, and someone was running over to them.
Ferox punched. He had no real room to swing, but the blow caught the man under the chin and that made them turn over again. Ferox butted with his forehead, felt the savage impact and dull pain as bone met bone. The man groaned, and the Roman hit him again, full in the face, and his elbow pressed onto the warrior’s windpipe. Someone ran up, then gasped as the breath was knocked from him and he fell on top of them. Blood was wet on Ferox’s face, but the man who had fallen was dead weight, sliding rather than attacking, so he hit the man beneath again and again until he lay still.
The corpse was dragged off him. Beside him the Red Cat nodded, and the gesture somehow conveyed his bafflement at the centurion for letting himself be surprised. The man on the ground moaned softly, and the northerner readied his sword.
‘No. We take him back. This one too.’ He gestured at the dead man. ‘We’ll hide him in the trees.’
The Red Cat hooted like an owl. Vindex rode up a few moments later, leading the other horses. They went back to the little patch of wood, their captive still unconscious. Ferox told the others where they were to join him, and by the time he reached the camp he had the rest of the plan in his mind. The tribune was asleep, and he toyed with the idea of going ahead without his permission, before deciding that it would take longer to persuade anyone without his orders. Crispinus would have to know, but first he went to see Bran, who had the ‘lad’ and his master in tow.
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