‘Something like that. They said a Briton would best understand other Britons, but that’s just because they can’t tell the differences between the tribes. And they promoted me to pilus prior of cohors VII.’ There was no enthusiasm in Ferox’s voice.
‘That will make you senior here,’ Macer said. His mind was made up, even if he was not quite sure why. The orders brought by Ferox stated that he was relieved of command at the fort. He was free to leave as soon as he chose, and could take an escort of up to fifty men – including a dozen specified by name and intended for other duties – with him. The rest were to stay, and come under Ferox’s command. His annoyance at the man was replaced by a fair bit of sympathy, but it seemed clear that hanging around would risk Ferox getting murdered before he was gone. The orders would stand and he could – and officially should – leave and let command pass to Sabinus, who was the next in seniority. Yet people would talk as they always did, and they were bound to say that he had run from responsibility. He knew that it would bother him, even far away on his farm, revelling in the African warmth, so he would go first, as ordered, before anything else could happen. It would mean a hard journey because of the weather, but a day ought to take them down the valley far enough to ease the cold.
Macer’s intent gaze fixed on Ferox. ‘Why are you still alive? And don’t bother to say that you have no taste for philosophy. You know what I mean. A lot of your men want you dead – and this Vindex – and there is always the dark of night and the quiet moment in camp or on the march. If these men were truly as determined as Britons can be – or any men consumed by hate – then we wouldn’t be having this conversation and you’d be floating down the Ister or cold in a ditch somewhere.’
‘Two tried right at the start, but I was faster.’ Ferox rubbed his chin where new stubble was already forming. He sighed. ‘That made the others think, and I am careful and maybe it is just luck, but I know what you mean. There would always be a chance if they did not mind too much the risk of arrest and death. Reckon the ones who are left would prefer to live.’
Macer nodded. ‘So here, where they can run off to a cushy billet with Decebalus, they’re more willing to remember their oath and their hatred.’
‘That’s how I see it.’
Macer made up his mind. ‘I’ll go the day after tomorrow at dawn,’ he announced. It could not be sooner, for he needed to assign the men and make sure that they drew rations, tents and baggage animals. Only a storm would stop him. ‘We can carry out the formal handover tomorrow. Will the rest of your men have arrived by then?’
Ferox shook his head. ‘I expect that they will cross your path as you make your way to Dobreta. That’s the half of the unit already in province, of course. The rest won’t be here for a month or so.’
Privately the praefectus was relieved, since no more assassination attempts were likely until the others arrived. There did not seem any reason to expect these Brigantes to be hostile to him and his party. He had not cared much for Britannia during the time he had spent there, although the campaigns had at least gained him a step in rank. The Britons were odd folk, even for barbarians. Ferox’s Latin was perfect, better indeed than his own, for all his family had struggled to give him as good an education as they could afford and for all his efforts to fit in. Yet there was an air about him, something not quite right, not quite civilized. Macer had learned that he came from the Silures, a tribe of the south west with a reputation as vicious bastards, and perhaps blood still told after all these years. They were supposed to be hard to kill, and it had taken the army more than twenty years to batter them into submission. For a moment, he wondered whether there was a grain of sense and purpose in the plan of sending Ferox and this ragbag of rebels, bandits, deserters and rival tribesmen to this place. Probably not, he decided, and it was just the army being even more like the army than usual.
‘You have told me how, my dear Ferox, and for that I thank you, but I confess that I am still baffled as to why you and your men are coming here.’
‘A friend truly learned in philosophy said to me more than once that there is much in life to convince you that the gods have a sense of humour. Or that they just don’t like some people.’ He shrugged again. ‘The Brigantes are good fighters. They’re of more use to Rome fighting its enemies than dead. Killing them would just be a waste of resources, so the idea is to make use of them and only kill them if that does not work. … But that’s only part of the story and the rest is political, so beyond a mere centurion. Aviragus’ sister is eager to be queen of her people and confirm that her family will rule for as long as their line lasts, so they say that she begged the legatus to release the prisoners and make them soldiers, and pressed for a unit to be formed combining the different factions of the tribe.’
‘What are her chances? A decision like that would have to be made by the emperor, but he would surely listen to the legatus.’
‘No idea,’ Ferox lied. He was not about to start discussing Claudia Enica with a stranger. ‘I’m not paid enough to have an opinion.’
IV
Near Vindobona, Province of Upper Pannonia
Thirteenth day before the Kalends of March
IT WAS LATE for travelling, especially for such a fine coach, a fashionable, well-sprung and expensive raeda pulled by four mules, and the tall man grunted in satisfaction from his hiding place a few hundred paces away. He had feared a few armed escorts and he needed to be quick for this was too far within the empire for his liking.
‘Told you,’ Sosius said, crouching beside the tall warrior in the ditch running next to the road. ‘No guards. Just an old man driving, a boy to help with the horses and a couple of other slaves.’
‘Not the brightest, is she?’ Quiet country roads were rarely safe, let alone at night. ‘Any cutpurse could take her.’
‘She’s discreet and married, as is her lover. He’s waiting a couple of miles down the road in the farmhouse. Expect she’s all dressed up for him. You know what these fashionable ladies are like.’
‘Only from a distance. They’d never have looked at a common soldier like me.’ The tall man grunted again. ‘Doesn’t matter if she’s dumb, Catualda isn’t after brains. You sure she’s pretty?’
‘A goddess. Twenty-five, skin still like alabaster, and everything where it should be. Knows how to use it too, well broken in by husband and lovers. And fancy, if that’s what he wants, then he couldn’t find a fancier, unless he wants to send you to go to Rome itself.’
‘Hair? The king believes all Roman ladies have black hair.’
‘Redhead, but if he’s that keen on dark hair there’s always dye. What does it matter if all he wants is to hump a fancy Roman lady?’
That was why the tall man was here, hired by the king of a clan two hundred miles beyond the limes, far enough out of Rome’s reach if he could only find one and get her past the army’s outposts and far enough away before anyone found out or could catch them. He had been hired because he had once been a soldier of Rome, and a good one too, until a decurion wanted his woman and he had killed the man and run. Twelve years on, he could barely remember the woman’s face, let alone her name, but he had survived, first in Dacia and now among the Marcomanni, Quadi and the peoples to the east. He sold his sword, killing as he was bidden, with half a dozen good men at his side. Catualda liked the silver dishes and the pale blue glass of the empire, and listened with fascination to traders’ tales of the greater wonders of Rome. He was rich by the standards of the tribes, for his clan controlled large salt beds and lived in hill country hard for others to attack, but through which one of the best of the old trade roads passed. For whatever reason, Catualda wanted a Roman lady to add to his wives, and had promised them plenty of gold if they brought her. The king reckoned that a one-time soldier of Rome was best suited to the task – and since the tall man was known as a bandit and raider, no one was likely to ask too many questions if he was caught. Even if he revealed the secret, the Romans had never come as far as the King�
��s lands and were not likely to start now.
A man came running out of the woods on the far side of the road.
‘Help! Help!’ he shouted, waving his arms. ‘Please help me!’ The carriage was fifty paces away and no one seemed to be paying any attention to the man.
‘They’re not going to stop,’ the warrior hissed. ‘Why in Hercules’ name should they?’
‘They will,’ Sosius whispered. ‘She’s a kind lady.’
‘If you think so much of her why are you selling her to me?’
‘Business,’ Sosius said. ‘Only business.’ They had been lucky to come across Sosius, the freedman of a rich Roman who acted as his agent inside and well beyond the province. He traded in luxuries, favours and information, and for the right price it was said that he could find anything someone wanted. The truth of that rumour was about to be tested.
The driver shouted something and a woman they could not see replied from inside the raeda. Hauling hard on the reins, the team slowed from trot to walk and then halted. Sosius and the warrior slid back down in the ditch so that they could not be seen, even by the driver and the boy sitting on top of the carriage.
‘Thank you, lords, thank you,’ the man who had called to them said. ‘May Minerva and Vesta bless you and your families.’ They heard a scrabbling sound as he went down into the ditch and came up on the road.
‘Ask him what this is about?’ a woman’s voice said. It was a nice voice, refined and yet caring, and if the warrior had still had a conscience he might have felt a doubt. Instead he waited for the right moment, trusting his men to follow the plan.
‘What do you want, fellow?’ the driver shouted.
‘Protection, sir and noble lady. I was set upon by bandits, beaten up and robbed of money, most of my clothes and my donkey. My friend is hurt far worse, and I wish to go and find help so that I can return to him. Are we near an inn or village? We got lost, you see, and no longer know where we are. There would be someone who might help if you would carry me that far, I am sure of it. I beg you to help.’
‘Lady, he wants a ride,’ the coachman shouted. ‘But I don’t believe him. Bandits often tell such tall tales. We should have waited for the cavalry to reach us, as I said.’
‘Never speak to me like that!’ The kind voice was shrieking, and the warrior half smiled. Good luck to Catualda bringing this one into his hall. ‘Don’t you dare!’
‘Hoy! Let go of that harness!’ The coachman ignored her and was yelling. His long whip cracked and there was a yelp. ‘I said let go, you mongrel!’
‘Now!’ the warrior shouted and began to push up the side of the ditch. Something hit him hard on the leg, knocking it from under him and he slid down the muddy bank. Sosius was over him, and his cudgel struck again, striking the warrior on the wrist so that he dropped his sword. He tried to get up and this time the blow was on his head and knocked him flat again.
‘Lie still, you dumb bastard!’
There were shouts, a woman’s scream, a brief clash of steel and the dull thunks as blade sank into flesh.
‘Enjoy the moment, slave,’ the warrior said, not caring that the man had been freed, for his men were good and would soon deal with the travellers. He had told them that the lady was not to be marked, let alone touched in any other way. The slave girl was another matter, although he wanted a good look at her before he decided whether they could have some fun with her. If she was a virgin and pretty, then she might command a high price if they kept her that way. What mattered now was to grab the mistress and the girl if they could and get away as soon as they could. If they were lucky, they could sneak through the line of towers along the frontier before the sun rose the day after tomorrow, and be safe from pursuit if they rode hard for another day.
With one last cry of agony, the fight was over.
‘Get up!’ Sosius said, his club held ready, although what he expected to do with that against five good warriors was anyone’s guess. The tall man’s grin of satisfaction changed to shock when he stood, nursing his broken wrist, and stared across the road to see that all his men were dead. A slim boy not yet twenty was wiping the blade of his gladius in the cloak of one of the corpses. Beside him a girl, who was a little older and wearing a short tunic, was feeling the balance of the sword taken from another of the dead men!
‘All done?’ It was the lady’s voice and she appeared from around the mules, clad in a long dress that shimmered in the moonlight. There were dark stains on the material and more on her face and they could only be blood, for she held a curved sica in her hand and the blade was dripping. A short figure pattered up behind her, and the warrior thought it was a child until it spoke with a deep voice.
‘How positively disgusting,’ the dwarf said. ‘I told you we should have gone to the feast instead, but would you listen? A nice girl who likes to play with swords will soon find she doesn’t get any more invitations like that.’ No one seemed to pay any attention to him.
‘All done, my queen,’ the boy said. ‘Five of them, all dead.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Well, Sosius, are you satisfied?’
‘Yes, lady, it is a good start.’
That was Sosius, the warrior thought ruefully, sell anything or anybody if the price was right. He still could not fathom why he would be worth the trouble of catching.
‘There is another one with the horses, about a quarter of a mile back in the trees. Follow the brook and you’ll find him. Bran had better deal with him.’
‘Aye,’ the boy said, striding away, and without being asked the girl in the tunic followed.
‘What now?’ the lady asked – or the woman since the warrior could not help wondering whether this killer was a fighter from the arenas in disguise. She was beautiful though, even with the blood, so Sosius had not lied about that, but it seemed odd that a proper lady would speak with such respect to a slave.
‘He will give me the name of the man I need.’
‘Bugger I will. Why don’t you go hump yourself? I’ll entertain the slut.’
Sosius swung the cudgel against the man’s kneecap, and the warrior dropped.
‘He will tell me,’ Sosius said, ignoring the groaning man beside him. ‘Then as agreed I will take the boy and the lass and we will find that man and learn what we can. If all goes well, we will take him alive and bring him back.’ Almost absent-mindedly, he slammed the club down onto the man’s other knee. ‘Will take a month, perhaps two or more and we should be back. I may send them to you if I am needed elsewhere. Then you should send word to my master.’
‘It is agreed.’
‘My master is a good ally, lady.’
‘I said it was agreed. Now I had better get to the fortress before we are missed.’
‘Are you sure, lady? These roads are not safe and I am taking your two warriors away.’
‘I shall manage with Achilles to defend poor little me. And I do not care to see what comes next.’
‘Very wise, lady.’ Sosius swung the club again. After a little while the coachman’s whip cracked and the warrior heard the wheels grating on the stones of the road as it drove away. Above him Sosius drew a long dagger in his other hand. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Do you want to make this hard or difficult?’
The warrior spat his contempt, so Sosius hit him in the mouth with the club.
‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘We have plenty of time.’
The Tower of the Ox
The next day
BRASUS WAS THE first to see the riders, and they were not the ones he was expecting. They were Romans though, drinkers of wine and unclean of soul, and they were soldiers. He whistled softly and one of his warriors looked up. They were below, two on either side of the gaping hole where the gate and the wall for ten paces on either side had been demolished, hiding behind the mounds of rubble. From down there they could see much less than he could from the window in the tower. The riders were a quarter of a mile away, only just over the brow of the ridge and invisible to the warriors. There w
ere two of them in sight, leading two horses, and so far no sign of any more. They were too far away to hear his whistle, but he did not want to risk gesturing from the window and had to trust that his men would do the right thing now that they were alerted to trouble.
The Romans stopped and Brasus wondered whether to climb down to join his men, before deciding that it was better to watch the enemy. They were staring at the tower and the ruined walls around it. For the moment the driving rain had stopped, and Brasus sensed that the storm had passed and that the night would be dry. He doubted that the Romans understood the land well enough to realise this, and with little more than an hour left before nightfall, they were surely wondering whether the tower offered safety and shelter. Were there more of them? As far as he knew no patrols had come this high up towards the pass since the early autumn, which did not mean that one had not come now.
After an age, with Brasus regretting not having climbed down to join his men, the riders walked their horses forward again. They did not seem agitated, but one had a spear and the other had drawn his sword, and they moved with care.
There was no one behind them, or if there were, they were staying too far back to be of any help. Never before had the man come with soldiers or sent them to carry his letters. Perhaps he would not come today, delayed by the storm or wary if he had seen the cavalrymen. Brasus thought back to the solstice and the sending of the Messenger, when the Roman merchant had knelt as a captive with the two legionaries. For years the man had helped Decebalus, bringing him information, much of it secret and carrying letters back and forth so that the king could speak to Romans of high rank. Their treachery was contemptible, but useful, and perhaps no more than could be expected of such vermin, eaters of red meat and drinkers of wine. The merchant was paid for all this, paid with gold for the risks he ran and the shrewdness with which he performed his tasks.
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