‘Help me!’ she yelled. ‘She’s hurt.’
Vindex came over the lip, followed by the cavalryman, long sword drawn. There was one Batavian trooper in the bottom of the gully, waiting with spear ready to support the rest, and two spilling over the far edge, until the horse of one of them was killed and the rider flung down.
Ferox urged his horse over to the carriage to help the woman. It was narrower than he had thought, so that the side was not much higher than his chest. He sheathed his sword, feeling his anger deflate as he did so, and then he pushed off the front horns of the saddle and jumped on to the overturned coach. The fair-haired woman was struggling to lift another, younger and smaller than her, her black hair unpinned and hanging down on one side.
‘Let me.’ Ferox knelt on top of the open door as it lay flat and took the girl underneath her arms. She had delicate features, but her face was strained and as he hauled her up she hissed in agony and went limp. If she had not been so light he doubted that he could have managed it. There was a heavy gold necklace at her throat.
There were two cavalrymen still up the far bank who turned at bay and for a moment held the Britons back. The third man, and the one who had acted as rearguard, watched their flanks from the flat bottom of the gully.
‘Give her to me!’ Vindex had ridden to the far side of the coach and waited, arms raised to take the unconscious girl. The centurion passed her to him.
‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian said, looking back past them, the way that the two men had come.
Ferox followed his gaze and saw eight horsemen coming quickly towards the gully. Several had mail, a few helmets, but the leader wore only trousers, his broad chest covered in intricate tattoos, his hair washed in lime and combed up into spikes. They must have been hidden in the grove of oaks, waiting their moment.
‘That way!’ Ferox pointed. ‘Down the gully.’ He pointed southwards. ‘Go!’ The ground was steeper that way, turning into a little ravine, the banks above it lined with trees. They might manage to get some way down before the Britons caught them, and at least they could make it difficult for them. Apart from that, there was nowhere else to go.
‘You two!’ he shouted at the Batavians in the gully. ‘Watch your rear!’ The nearest man looked back, saw the threat and nodded. ‘Give us as long as you can, then follow.’ He pointed down the gully. One of the men up on the far bank tumbled down the side, his dying horse following.
The fair-haired woman screamed as a javelin stuck into the wood beside her, throwing up splinters. The gelding was done, its long tongue lolling out, and the centurion knew that it would be hard to ride far down the gully as after a while it turned into scree.
The lone Batavian up on the far bank was making his horse rear, almost dancing it back and forth as he drove at the warriors. Ferox heard him laugh, taunting them, and when one of the Britons came close he saw the trooper’s long spear take him in the throat, coming back bloody as the Batavian held it poised to thrust again or throw. The other two troopers urged their horses up the other bank and with a whoop charged at the oncoming horsemen.
Ferox jumped down on the far side of the carriage, his foot catching a bronze statuette of one of the Muses on the corner of the roof, so that he landed awkwardly, rolling in the mud churned by wheels and hoofs.
‘Come on, you silly girl!’ He was up again, yelling at the woman to follow him. ‘Come on!’ He lifted his hands to catch her.
She glared at him, blue eyes angry, then crouched and sprang off. The same little bronze statue snagged the hem of her blue dress and tore it again. Ferox caught a glimpse of whitened sandals, pale green stockings and smooth calves before he caught her, slipping back a little in the mud.
‘Go!’ he ordered, spinning her round and shoving her down the slope. ‘After your mistress, girl!’ He guessed that no wealthy Roman woman would wait to help her maid, so this one must be the slave of the girl Vindex was carrying, the one with the golden necklace. A spoilt attendant with ideas above her station by the look of it, for she did not run, but looked back over her shoulder as if to argue.
‘Run!’ he shouted as loud as he could and slapped her hard on the rump, making her stagger forward and at last follow her mistress. Hitching up her skirts to reveal long elegant legs, she ran.
Ferox turned, drawing his sword once more. This time he did not feel the same thrill, although it was still so very natural. The sword was at least a hundred years old, a proven blade when his grandfather had taken it from a Roman to give to him. It was longer than the sort the army issued these days, but the perfect balance showed that the smith who had made it was a man of genius.
He began to walk backwards, ready to call the Batavians to follow. He could no longer see the pair who had charged the horsemen, but so far none of those barbarians had spilled over the bank. On the other side the lone cavalryman still held most of the barbarians back, wary of his deadly spear and the thrashing hoofs of his horse. Two warriors had slipped past now that there was no one left to guard the bottom of the gully. They came on in a crouch, warily, until one saw him.
The centurion kept going back, waiting for the right moment to stop. The two Britons were barefoot and bare-chested, and had their hair washed with lime to make it stiff and white so that it stood out like a wild halo. There was something dark on the foreheads, but otherwise no sign of the painted symbols worn by many tribes. Each had a small square shield with a central dome-like boss. The first had a knife at his belt and hefted a spear. The other had a long-bladed sword, without a point, but made heavy to add weight to the edge.
The two men split, so that they could take him from two sides. Ferox kept going back. The spearman was to his left and the swordsman to his right. They came slowly at first, watching him, until without visible signal both men yelled and ran at him.
Ferox charged, going to the left. He dodged when the warrior tried to punch at him with his little shield, took hold of the spear shaft with his left hand, pushing it aside, and raked the long triangular point of his gladius across the man’s stomach, letting the shape of the blade slide in and pull free easily. Just inches away, he saw the man’s snarl of anger and fear turn into one of agony, noticed that he had the lines of a horse tattooed on his forehead, and then he was past.
The swordsman came at him, blade held high ready to chop down. Ferox had no shield to block the blow, so he waited until the last moment and then dived to the side, rolling, and stabbed up into the Briton’s groin, twisting the blade free. The warrior was shrieking, a high-pitched wail, doubling up with pain as Ferox pushed himself up and used the motion to thrust again, this time into the man’s throat. Blood gushed out as the scream ceased and the man died. This one had the same tattoo.
Ferox pulled the blade free and let the body fall. He went back to the other man, sitting and trying to hold in his innards as they spilled out of the great gash across his stomach. The palm of the warrior’s hand was tattooed as well, but with all the blood he could not be sure of the design. The centurion took careful aim and jabbed once into the back of the man’s neck. With a sigh as the air left him the man slumped forward. It was unlikely that the enemy would not know where they had gone, but at least this one would not be able to tell them.
There was a great shout, and he saw that the lone Batavian had been shot in the chest with an arrow. The man’s horse was bleeding from several wounds, and there were gouges on the rider’s legs. Half a dozen warriors closed around him, some of them big men with long shields, and as the horse sank to its knees the Batavian was pulled down. Ferox could not see over the bank of the gully and had no idea what had happened to the other two.
He ran. The slave girl had helped Vindex lower her mistress down before he also dismounted. The Brigantian struck his horse to make the beast ride off, and then slung the still unconscious girl over his shoulder. He waved at the centurion to hurry, before lumbering on with his burden, pushing his way through a mass of brambles. The slope must have dropped sharply, because
Ferox lost sight of them before he had gone a few more paces.
When he reached the brambles he stopped and looked back. There was no sign of any Batavians, but warriors on foot and horseback were swarming around the coach, yelling in their victory. One man had a tall carnyx-trumpet and raised it over his head with both hands. The tattooed rider was standing on top of the coach, waving a severed head in one hand. He was haranguing them, pointing down the gully, and then he swung his hand and let loose a cloud of powder so thick that it looked like smoke. He must be the priest, the man who had violated the sacred stones by drawing on them.
Ferox started to push his way through the brambles and bracken, unclasping the brooch and letting his cloak fall because he knew it would just keep snagging.
The carnyx sounded again and the yelling stopped. They were coming.
III
FEROX CAUGHT UP with the others quickly, following the trail trampled by the tall Brigantian.
‘Just us?’ Vindex asked as he reached them.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ He pushed on, using his sword to beat down the clinging brambles and then stamping on them to make a path. The blonde slave girl followed him, her dress torn even more by the thorns and with patches stained green. ‘Nearly through,’ Vindex said. ‘Then it’s easier.’
The ground was getting steeper. Ferox looked back, but the crest of the slope was not far away and he could not yet see anyone closing with them. Trees reared up above the steep banks as the gully narrowed. They were thick, and at least it meant no one could ride quickly to cut them off, or even run at any speed through the woods.
Ferox’s foot caught in a thick stem bent round and hidden by leaves and he stumbled, barging into the slave, who was knocked forward and nearly lost her balance.
‘Who are you?’ she hissed angrily.
‘Quiet,’ he whispered. ‘Just keep going.’
‘What are you?’ she said in reply.
‘Move!’
They pushed on, the thorns inflicting even more ruin on the pale blue dress and the darker tunic underneath, and then they were out, into rocky ground that soon turned into scree. Vindex was some way ahead, slipping and sliding as much as walking, stones tumbling away ahead of him. Gusts of wind caught them, and there were more clouds in the sky, running in ever faster from the west.
Ferox wiped his sword on the skirt of his tunic. Most of the blood had gone as he had beaten the path through the brambles, but he cleaned the rest off before sheathing it. His hands were covered in scratches, his woollen trousers holed and dirty.
‘What are you waiting for?’ he whispered at the woman, who had watched him in obvious distaste. He set off, and as always it reminded him of childhood expeditions along the rocky shores of his homeland. The trick was not to put too much weight anywhere, and always to keep going, springing, almost dancing, from stone to stone. He was rusty, sliding and starting a minor rock fall, before his confidence grew and he went rapidly down the slope. Behind him, the slave girl picked her way more gingerly, the hem of her ragged dress held in one hand and the other arm up high for balance. The hillside was too steep for any tree cover, but the gully’s sides were still high and he could not see out. Ahead of them the slope eased and opened out. There was a lake, fringed probably with soft bog, and beyond that straggling woodland. If they could make it to the shelter of the trees then they might just stand a chance. In a few hours the first patrols ought to get here from Vindolanda and begin to search. Their trail was an easy one to follow, which at the moment was not a comforting thought. There were no farms in sight, and the ones he knew were further on, in the valley of the Tyne, and too far for them to reach before they were caught.
‘Come on!’ he called back at the slave, already a good twenty paces behind him. ‘Go faster, you’ll find it a lot easier.’
The woman ignored him, her eyes searching the stones ahead of her to find the safest footing. It was all far too slow. The Britons could not be far behind, too many for him to fight, and if their archers got to the crest up there then he doubted any of them would make the cover of the wood.
‘Do you want me to carry you?’ he said angrily, speaking louder than was wise. Ferox started back towards the woman, but the stones slid away under his right boot and he fell, arms out just in time to stop his face slamming into the ground.
The woman laughed, a rich joyous sound, and the centurion silently hoped that her mistress gave her regular beatings.
He got up, and she was closer now so that he heard the snort when he told her to watch him and copy the way he moved, but they went quicker from then on, so perhaps she copied or had worked it out for herself.
Vindex was waiting at the bottom, crouching beside the girl, who was moaning and moving her head from side to side. One hand clutched the heavy necklace.
‘Reckon something’s broken,’ he told them. ‘And it’ll be me if I go on, so you can carry her for a bit.’
‘Wait.’ The slave girl knelt beside her mistress, feeling her left arm. At the touch the young woman’s dark eyes opened and she gasped in pain.
‘Quiet now.’ The slave spoke with all the tenderness of a mother. ‘I know it hurts, but you must be brave.’
The young woman nodded, eyes wide and face taut as she held back her cries.
Beside her the slave had both hands around her mistress’s shoulder. As she studied the injury her face was soft. It was a good face, Ferox thought, looking at her closely for the first time. A few faint lines around her eyes hinted at someone closer to thirty than twenty, although the life of a slave brought age quickly so he might be wrong. Some of her fair hair had worked loose from the pins and blew across her face until she brushed it away. She looked kind and capable, and he began to hope that the beatings were rare.
‘We need to move,’ he said.
‘No.’ Fierce anger was back and the face hardened as the slave girl looked up. ‘I need to fix this and you must help. The shoulder is out of joint.’
Ferox shook his head. ‘There is no time.’
‘Make the time!’
Vindex rolled his eyes, but was grinning. ‘Yes, your highness,’ he said.
‘Come next to me, be ready to move her arm as I tell you when I tell you.’ She turned to her mistress. ‘This will hurt, but it will make it better, so you must be brave.’
‘I’ll try.’ The voice was weak.
‘You,’ she said, looking up at Ferox. ‘Hold her down. She needs to be still.’
The centurion obeyed, putting one hand on the girl’s good shoulder and the other across her body. There was fear in her eyes when he loomed over her, and it made him think of Hector frightening the baby because he still had his helmet on. He smiled.
‘Lie still. Soon be over,’ he said softly, while the slave gave short, sharp instructions to Vindex. The girl shrieked, starting to shake, and he pressed down as hard as he could.
‘Good girl, good girl,’ Ferox whispered, staring into her eyes, trying to reassure. A sound of grating bone almost made him flinch and loosen his grip.
‘Now,’ the slave girl said. ‘Push!’
The scream was appalling and seemed to go on forever, the girl trying to arch her back so that it took all his strength to keep her flat and still.
Vindex let out a deep breath, and the scream faded and turned into sobs.
‘Well done,’ the slave said, brushing her mistress’ cheek. ‘Now we can go.’
Ferox eased his grip and started to lift the young woman. Vindex helped and they hauled her on to his shoulder and he set off. She was heavy for her size and he stumbled, making her yell out.
‘Quiet,’ he said as gently as he could and tried to shush her. The necklace was pressing hard against the cheek piece of his helmet. The yelling went on, very loud just next to his ear. He heard a slap and the girl went quiet.
‘Well done, Vindex,’ he said and started out across the mossy ground.
‘Wasn’t me,’ the Brigantian said.
&nb
sp; The slave girl strode past him, her expression blank.
‘Trouble,’ Vindex warned.
Shoulder already uncomfortable from the weight pressing down, Ferox struggled to look back at the little figures high on the crest above them. An arrow arched towards them, coming straight until the wind took it and it veered away.
‘Run!’ he said, and wondered how many times he had given the same order. The ambush had started less than an hour ago, and yet it seemed as though days had passed. He lumbered on as fast as he could, at first over spongy grass, but soon each step sank into soft mud.
‘Bugger!’ Vindex was looking to the west, where four horsemen galloped towards them who were not Romans. One was leading a riderless horse, and the leader carried a long red shield. There were more riders about a quarter of a mile behind them.
An arrow stuck into the soft earth just a yard or so away from Ferox, the missile going deep so that only half of its shaft and feathers were left above the mud. They were level with the lake, its dark waters still for the breeze had gone. Splashes came up with every step, boots sinking deeper and deeper.
‘More of the bastards!’ Vindex called. Other horsemen were coming from the south-west, and were not far off, hidden up to now by the valley. There were half a dozen, perhaps more, and Ferox could see no trace of uniform or anything else to identify them. They did not ride like Britons, but they were heading towards the main group of the enemy.
‘This way!’ The slave girl was pointing at a flat grey stone, the first of a line dotted towards the wood. Her feet and her once white sandals were brown from the mud, and Ferox was surprised that the clinging mire had not pulled them off.
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