by Ian Ross
Castus grunted. Typical that Atrectus and his slow-witted friend should be the ones to vanish.
‘There were women down there, at the stream,’ Timotheus said with a grimace of distaste. ‘The others said that Atrectus was trying to talk to them.’
‘I can imagine.’ Castus pulled his tunic on over his head and buckled his belt. He wondered what effect a punishment flogging might have on the watching barbarians. Then again, the two men might not have gone off of their own free will…
‘I’ll mention it to the envoy when he returns, and he can ask the Picts to look out for them. Until then I want this camp under siege discipline. Nobody leaves without armed escort, and then only for essential duties. Double the watch at the perimeter, and keep another ten men under arms at all times in case of emergencies.’
‘It’s done,’ Timotheus said. He saluted and strode away towards the wall. Sighing heavily, Castus noticed two of the sentries apparently talking to somebody on the lower slopes. Their voices carried: British words with a Roman accent. A moment later, and the optio’s yell silenced them.
Slinging his swordbelt over his shoulder and lacing his helmet straps, Castus began his morning tour of inspection. Many of the men appeared glum, wary now of the land outside the perimeter. Good, he thought, that’s how it should be. But fear and suspicion worked against discipline, gnawing away at unity. The sooner he discovered what had happened to Atrectus and Genialis the better.
A watery sun was burning away the mist, and revealing the swell of the hills. Scanning the surrounding country, Castus saw Picts everywhere, groups of them with spears over their shoulders, some heading out into the hills and others returning. Many more just stood, as close to the Roman camp as they dared, watching the soldiers at the low wall. Castus suppressed a brief wish for a ballista or two. That would send them running back to their hovels quickly enough.
Along the valley, he saw a chieftain’s party setting out on a hunting expedition, the nobles riding shaggy ponies with their dogs loping and yelping after them. With some surprise, he noticed the renegade Julius Decentius riding with them. Anger tightened his shoulders. If ever a man deserved crucifying…
‘Centurion! Chariots coming!’
Castus marched quickly across the enclosure to join the sentry over by the gateway. He placed one foot up on the low stone wall and gazed down the slope towards the road. There were three of the little carts down there, the ponies drawing them along at a jog trot. The rear two carts held warriors with spears and javelins. In the leading vehicle was the woman Castus had seen at the gathering the night before. She stood up tall and straight in the rattling cart, her loose hair tumbling behind her. Her body looked sturdy, womanly but strong. She was staring back at him.
‘Do you think they want to come up here?’ the sentry asked.
‘No, they’re just scouting our position. They’ll get as close as they can, though. Run back and tell Timotheus to send the reserve over. We might at least try and look formidable.’
The ten men came running back, clattering their shields and spears, and Castus formed them up along the wall and around the gateway. Below them, the chariots slowed at the base of the slope. Then the tall woman called out to the warriors in the other carts, and they turned again and headed for the ford across the stream.
Castus eased his foot down from the wall. He realised that he had been holding his breath.
Strabo returned early that evening, leaving Marcellinus back at the gathering.
‘I couldn’t stay,’ he told Castus. He looked hollow, and had a haunted look in his eyes. ‘There was some talk of… of bringing in a sorcerer, a witch doctor, to communicate with the shade of the dead king. They still think, you see, that he was murdered by poison, and cannot vote on a new ruler until his spirit is appeased.’
Castus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir, and suppressed a shiver. It was a warm evening, but darkness was closing in, and the spirit world felt almost tangible.
‘So I had to leave,’ Strabo went on. ‘Communicating with ghosts and devils is a terrible sin, and I could not be a party to it. I advised Marcellinus to retire with me, but he insisted on staying. He seemed… curious about what this witchcraft would accomplish.’
‘His curiosity might become dangerous before long,’ Castus said. The envoy’s relish at being back among the native tribes had been obvious for several days now.
‘I agree entirely,’ Strabo said, and took another sip of chilled wine. For a while they sat in silence, listening to the muffled roaring from the Pictish camp, and the stamp and shout of the sentries calling out the change of watch.
‘What sort of religion do these people have anyway?’ Castus asked. ‘Do they worship the same gods as the rest of us?’ He caught himself, and felt an embarrassed flush on his face, but thankfully it was too dark for Strabo to notice.
‘The same gods as some of us,’ the other man corrected him dryly. ‘To me, all of your various deities are at best myths, at worst devils. But we must not dwell on such things.’
Castus cleared his throat. He had almost managed to forget Strabo’s own strange beliefs. Now the insult of them returned to him freshly. How could he talk that way? It was dangerously disrespectful, almost criminal… Then again, wasn’t the man’s religion actually a crime anyway?
‘The Picts, though…’ Strabo said, musingly. ‘They are true heathens, of the worst sort. Their religion, if we can dignify it by that name, is nothing but childish superstition and bloody savagery. They worship certain groves and pools of deep water, and picture their gods as men with the heads of beasts and birds.’
Castus’s skin prickled as he remembered his dream of the night before. He suspected that Strabo was enjoying his obvious discomfort.
‘One of their gods, I believe, is the carrion crow that eats the enemy slain. Another is a faceless old hag who throws the valiant dead into a cauldron and brings them back to life. Such ideas are sent by the Devil, and grow in the minds of uncivilised men.’
‘They don’t scare me.’
‘No? Even from my tent I heard you muttering and crying out in your sleep last night. Perhaps this place is affecting your spirits, for all the strength of your body.’
‘Is it not affecting yours?’ You are the one who ran away from the witch doctor, Castus thought.
‘My faith is stronger than any barbarism,’ Strabo said. He clenched his fist and pressed it to his heart. ‘The Lord Jesus Christ watches over me and protects me. As He would protect you too, if you wished it.’
‘I don’t need your god,’ Castus said.
It was nearly midnight by the time Marcellinus returned, and the envoy was in a grim rage. He summoned Castus and Strabo to his tent; the episode with the witch doctor had not gone well.
‘And how do you think it looked,’ he said, spitting the words, ‘when this one, supposedly my assistant, went running off at the mere mention of divination?’ He jutted a finger at Strabo, who sat in speechless anger on the far side of the tent. Castus was between them, his sheathed sword across his knees, saying nothing.
‘They already think, most of them, that Rome was somehow behind the death of Vepogenus. The fact that this is entirely against our interests here seems to escape them! But then, when they call in their sorcerer, brother Strabo makes a quick exit! And what do you think the sorcerer said, after a great deal of moaning and shaking? The killer was here with us, but is no longer! Who does that suggest if not one of you two?’
‘But that’s absurd!’ Strabo said angrily. ‘None of us were here when the old king died! How can they think that any of us—?’
‘Oh, you don’t understand how these people’s minds work. They believe that poison can be sent by magic using bird droppings, or insects. I could tell them that Eboracum is thirteen days’ hard march from this place and you were there all along, but why should they believe that? You’re here now – so you could have been here then too, in some other form…’
Strabo t
hrew up his hands, exasperated, and then slapped them down on his thighs.
‘If that’s how it is, I suggest we prepare to leave at once,’ Castus said. ‘Pull back to Votadini territory and wait to see what happens. There’s nothing for us to gain here.’ Except a cruel and sudden death, he thought.
‘No, we stay,’ Marcellinus declared. ‘I still think I can bring the majority round. Ulcagnus is true to the king’s memory, and our treaty. Even if he steps aside, the king’s nephew Vendognus could be voted in. I need to be here to put what pressure I can on them.’
‘What about the woman, the tall one who was at the gathering?’ Castus asked. At once he wished he had stayed silent.
‘What about her?’ Marcellinus had a look of suspicious enquiry. ‘Her name’s Cunomagla, the wife of Vendognus. Ambitious in her own way, but mainly for her son to succeed rather than her weak husband. Has she spoken to you?’
‘No. How could she?’
‘She speaks a little Latin. A few of them do – they were taken as hostages when they were young. Drustagnus, the nephew of Talorcagus, does as well. Actually, they spent a few years at Eboracum. But don’t imagine the experience made them love Rome any more. Personally I don’t trust the woman, and neither should you.’
Castus nodded. But the envoy’s words had covered some deeper uncertainty, he was sure of that. Marcellinus was hiding something.
‘The decision of the tribal council is due the day after tomorrow,’ Marcellinus said. ‘So we only need stay until then. Courage, brothers – with luck we can pull victory from this yet!’
But the next day brought no luck. The two missing men, Atrectus and Genialis, did not return. Worse, one of the mounted scouts, a man named Bodiccius, also vanished. His five comrades appeared shamefaced and uncomfortable as they made their report: Bodiccius had gone off alone to hunt in the hills – perhaps he got lost? Perhaps his horse threw him? But Castus could read their faces: the missing man had deserted, most likely, and the rest of them knew it.
Standing at the wall, Castus looked out over an uncannily empty landscape. The native warriors and hunters who had filled their side of the valley and the surrounding slopes for the last two days had vanished, and there was only bare grass and silent woods to the west. But it was clear where they, at least, had gone: the great encampment of the Pictish muster on the far slope, where the chiefs would choose their new high chieftain that evening. All of them wanted to know which tribe, which family, would have the honour of leading their people, whether in peace or in war.
Marcellinus was already there, in the main council hut with Strabo. Castus had tried to talk him out of it: he did not get a vote in the council, and would learn of their decision quickly enough without needing to be present in the heart of it. But Castus had already realised that the envoy was acting under a strong personal compulsion, and could not bear to be absent when the decision was made. Marcellinus had also refused to take a bodyguard with him, saying that the chiefs trusted him now, and to bring guards would suggest that the trust was not returned.
Staring across the valley in the late afternoon sunlight, Castus wondered just how far the envoy’s confidence had turned to dangerous hubris.
‘Do you still want to take the midnight watch?’
Castus turned as his optio spoke. Both of them knew that whatever was going to happen would probably not begin until the night was well advanced.
‘Best get some sleep if you do, brother.’
Timotheus was right; Castus slapped him on the shoulder and paced towards his tent. He tried to avoid glancing back at the Pictish camp. There was nothing more he could do now. Darkness, perhaps, would bring answers.
In the tent he stretched out on his bedroll, fully dressed, boots on. He had the ability, common to soldiers, to sleep at any hour of the day of night, whatever tumultuous noise was going on around him. Four hours, into sleep and then out again, without needing to be woken. Now, though, he lay awake staring at the leather of the tent above his head, listening to the subdued sounds of the camp outside. Nothing to be done, he told himself, and closed his eyes.
What was his friend Valens doing now, back at Eboracum? And Modestus, the shirker he had left in the hospital? He tried to picture the familiar route from the barracks to the bath-house, guiding his mind along it towards sleep. The Blue House appeared to him. Afrodisia coming down the stairs with a jug of wine. Then he saw another woman, her face a pale oval in darkness. Promise me you’ll protect him and bring him home safely… No, he did not want to think about that. He thought of a bare white wall, the cracks in the plaster. The wall of his sleeping cubicle when he was a boy. His father’s voice… Where was the old man now? Living or dead? But his mind wandered, deeper into sleep. He was walking across a dark landscape. Then there was a stag’s head set on a pole, and it was talking to him…
‘Centurion! Centurion, get up, quick!’
A hand on his ankle, pulling at his leg. Castus sat up, grabbing for the sheathed sword at his side. One forward lurch and he was out through the tent flap and staggering to his feet, swaying as the sleep flooded out of him. It was dark, and there was a strange noise, a buzzing and roaring carried on the breeze. He snatched the arm of the man beside him, pulling him almost off his feet.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Look over there – it’s the Picts!’
Throwing his swordbelt over his shoulder, Castus crossed to the eastern wall of the enclosure. Timotheus was there, with most of the rest of the century.
‘It started just a few moments ago,’ the optio said. ‘There was a loud shout, maybe a scream, then they started up this wailing and drumming.’
Even from a distance and in moonless darkness, it was clear that the Pictish camp was in uproar. Sparks raced on the hillside: men carrying torches running or riding in carts. The noise was a steady throb, punctuated with wild cries and shouts. Castus grabbed Caccumattus the interpreter and pulled him close.
‘What are they doing over there?’
‘I not know!’ The man shrugged. ‘Maybe bad. Make sounds of anger!’
He didn’t need a translator to tell him that.
‘Brigonius, you and two other scouts ride over there to the Pictish camp and see what you can find out. Don’t take any risks, just check and report back. But if you see the envoy or the governor’s secretary and they’re in trouble, get them out of there. Got it?’
The scout nodded and jogged away towards the horse lines. Castus glanced around him, the situation falling into focus. If Marcellinus and Strabo had managed to get clear of whatever was happening in the Pictish camp, they could be riding back even now and would need support. If not… Castus could hardly bear to imagine. They could be dead, or captured, or fighting for their lives. But he could hardly lead his whole force in battle formation into the heart of the enemy; they would be surrounded and cut off in the open country. Think, he told himself. He felt the pressure of expectation growing around him, the men looking to him for answers. Think, decide…
‘I want sixteen men, fully armed,’ he said, in as firm a voice as he could muster. ‘Culchianus, your section, with Januarius’s. Bradua, go to my tent and fetch my shield, mail and helmet. We’re going down to hold our side of the ford until the scouts return. Timotheus, you have command of the fort.’
‘Let me take the men out, centurion,’ Timotheus said. ‘You should stay here.’
‘No – I need to be down there, not up here.’ Down there, he thought, where I can better decide what to do next. ‘With any luck the envoy and the secretary will be riding back that way soon and we can protect them.’
The runner came back with his kit, and Castus quickly shrugged on the heavy mail shirt, tightened his belts over the top and laced on his helmet. Around him the camp was in motion, men rushing to their own tents and arming themselves.
‘Keep the hornblower at your side,’ Castus told the optio. ‘Sound a long blast every quarter-hour – if we get split up out there we’ll n
eed to find our way back in the dark. I want everyone in battle positions.’
‘Don’t worry, I understand,’ Timotheus said.
The men were formed up, the three scouts already racing away down the slope towards the ford.
‘What’s the watchword?’ the optio said as Castus made for the break in the wall.
‘Fortuna Homebringer. May she protect us tonight!’
Down off the hilltop and away from the circle of fortifications, the night felt heavy and damp. The noise from the Pictish camp was muffled here, only the occasional shout or wail carrying across through the trees. Castus led his men at a rapid pace, the creak and clink of boots and weapons loud in the dead stillness around them.
Promise me you’ll bring him home safely. Swear to me that you’ll look after him and watch over him at all times… How had he failed? How had he managed to let Marcellinus walk unprotected into danger? There were so many things, now, that he knew he should have done. But none of that could change anything. Only the moment mattered, the blood pulsing in his neck, the sweat gathering in the small of his back, the fear of the men behind him like a charge in the air.
‘Halt,’ he called quietly. They were a few paces from the dip in the road that led to the ford, and through the trees he could sense the river flowing over the stones in the darkness. The men exhaled, leaning on their spears, hefting their shields. Not a sound now from the far bank. Only the lights of fires glinting from the hill slopes above them. Faint starlight picking out the glitter of moving water.
Then a cry, close and sudden. The scream of a horse, and the rapid battering of hooves on the packed dirt of the track.
‘Close order – ready javelins!’
The legionaries shifted out of column and into formation, sealing the neck of the road. The sound of horses drew closer, and then seemed to fade.
Suddenly they appeared from the trees on the far bank: two men riding at the gallop, one slumped across the mane of his mount, and a third horse following with an empty saddle. They surged down into the river and the water erupted into spray around them.