by Ian Ross
He drew back his arm to strike, but the man raised a hand, imploring.
‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Please… you’re mistaken!’
‘Mistaken how?’ Do it now, Castus told himself. Strike, and get it done. But then he remembered the renegade’s words at the parley before the besieged fort. The empire has betrayed you… Don’t die for emperors who despise you!
‘I…’ Decentius said, kneeling now. ‘I am a loyal servant of Rome.’
‘You’re a renegade and a traitor. Now you’ll die.’
‘I’m not a traitor, no! I’ve been an exile for ten years, that’s true. But my loyalties have always been to the emperors.’ He was speaking quickly. His eyes still flickered towards the sword. ‘I have… I’ve been in communication, these last two years, with agents of the imperial government, a very highly placed officer of the Notaries, from Treveris…’
Castus felt his brow cool suddenly. His arm ached from holding the sword. He remembered the strange subtle man in the praetorium at Eboracum, months before. His questions about the loyalties of the army. Nigrinus.
‘He came here?’
‘No. No, we communicated by messenger. I have documents, coded documents – if you’ll allow me to show you…’
‘I’ve got no use for documents. Explain quickly.’
‘I was promised,’ the man said. ‘Promised a full pardon, the restoration of my military rank and honour, my ancestral lands… I would have done anything for that, centurion. All these years exiled in this place, living in a hovel surrounded by savages. What would I not have done?’
‘What did you do?’ Castus growled. He stepped closer and seized the man by the shoulder. Decentius hung limply from his fist.
‘I was ordered… to provoke the tribes into an uprising against Rome. To arrange the deaths of the king and his supporters.’
‘Balls! Why would Rome want a Pictish uprising?’
‘So the new emperor could bring an army to Britain, and his son too. The emperor… is a sick man. He needs military victories, acclamation for his son, before he dies…’
‘Don’t believe you,’ Castus said. He flung the man down, and stood breathing hard above him.
‘Oh, it’s true.’ Decentius was smiling now, that same sickly grin Castus had seen before. He remembered the renegade calling out his offer of surrender to the besieged soldiers in the fort. His arm tightened.
‘I am a Roman soldier, just like you,’ the renegade said. ‘We will do what we are ordered… But, you see, once you light a fire it is hard to control. This uprising… is greater than I’d anticipated. I have done my work too well, you could say!’
‘You could say that.’ Castus felt doubt pooling inside him like cold oil. The urge to strike, to kill, was almost instinctive. But he could not – the man’s words had gouged at his determination. What could he believe now? Decentius stared up at him, mouth open, his face sick with fear but emptying now, resigned.
Keeping his eyes on the crouching man, Castus moved carefully around the hearth. He took the cavalry sword from where it was leaning against the wall and threw it down before Decentius.
‘If you’re a Roman,’ he said, ‘die like one.’
He stepped back, and Decentius picked up the weapon and reversed it with trembling hands.
‘Thank you, brother,’ he said quietly. He lowered the pommel until it rested on the floor, and placed the point beneath his breastbone. ‘Could you look away for a moment while I do this? It’s hard to die well.’
Castus turned only slightly. From the corner of his eye he caught the sudden movement, the man on the floor springing up with the blade turning in his hand. He wheeled, bringing his own weapon up to block the attack. Iron clashed and whined as Castus parried the blow, then Decentius collided with him, pinning his sword arm against his side. He could feel the renegade trying to turn his blade and stab it into his back. They wrestled together, standing, feet scuffing.
‘Bastard!’ Decentius hissed through his teeth. Castus dropped his sword and shoved against him. Reaching blindly with his left hand, he found the hilt of the iron knife in his waistband, pulled the blade free and punched it between Decentius’s ribs. The man jerked, let out a single cry. Then his legs gave beneath him and the sword fell clattering from his hand. Castus hurled the dead man backwards, and he fell sprawling into the hearth, scattering sparks.
Snatching up the fallen weapon, Castus dragged the largest brand from the fire and ran from the hut. Panic beat in his head, the fighting energy, the killing energy, powering him now. He took four long strides and hurled the burning brand over the wattle fence into the animal pens. Pigs shrieked and scrambled, butting against the fence as the flames ripped and crackled across the dry straw. Castus was already around the far side of the hut, in the shadow, staring at the parapet of the wall. The sentry had seen the fire: Castus heard his shout, and then saw him jump from the wall and run towards the animal pens. The snap and hiss of the flame was loud now, and the screaming of the pigs was louder still. Castus dropped his head and ran, down the short slope and then up, springing to catch the lip of the wall and pull himself up to lie across the walkway.
Other figures were running towards the fire, and the wall was clear in both directions. The wooden palisade was only chest high here, made of laths woven between timber posts. Castus got up and stuck the sword through his belt. Then he snatched at the top of the palisade and leaped up and over into the darkness.
He turned as he jumped, grabbing the palisade on the far side and letting himself drop, bringing his feet up beneath him. A heavy thud through his legs as he struck the wall and hung, clinging to the outside of the palisade. The wooden laths creaked under his weight, bulging outwards. Men were running in the lower compound, and he hoped they would not look up. Twisting his head against the bunch of his shoulder muscles, he could see the dark humped turf of a hut roof below him. It looked empty; no smoke came from inside.
For a moment more he clung on, then he eased his legs down, kicking his toes at the wall for grip. He released his hands and began to slide, the stones grating against his chest; then he pushed himself away and let himself fall, turning in the air. The turf rushed up beneath him and he crashed down onto his back on the slope of the roof, feeling it creak and give slightly beneath him. Drawing the sword from his belt he scrambled down off the roof and dropped to the ground.
Castus circled around the curve of the hut wall, keeping below the eaves. He vaulted a fence, stumbled through the mud of an animal pen, and then saw the outer wall of the fort before him. A dog leaped up from a hut doorway; he heard the bark, then the snap of the rope halter as it lunged. He pushed himself up and ran for the wall.
Two men appeared in front of him, and he rushed them. The first he caught off guard, slamming into him and knocking him down. He dodged the spear of the second man, and swung the flat of his sword at his face. The man flinched back, and Castus kicked his leg from under him, stabbed down and felt the blade sink into flesh. He slashed the first man over the back of the head and ran.
Swerving between the huts, he reached the wall in six long strides and jumped onto the parapet. No time to glance at the drop on the far side. A flung spear darted past his head as he grabbed at the palisade and pulled himself over it. He was falling at once, the ground yawning away beneath him into darkness. Throwing out a hand, he caught at the rough stones of the wall and clung on for a heartbeat before letting himself drop again. Air rushed around his head. Then the ground punched up at him and drove the breath from his body.
He had fallen onto a slope, and as soon as he got his legs beneath him he toppled forward again, rolling and scrambling. Stones and dry thorny scrub beat at his face and arms. He lost his grip on the sword and caught himself on a grassy outcrop, reaching back until he felt the hilt in the darkness. Shouts came from the wall, and another spear flicked past and buried itself in the turf. Then he pushed himself forward again, half running and half tumbling. The ground levelled beneath
him, and he was on the side of a hill below the fort with the horns blaring above him.
His elbow was skinned and bleeding, his face felt raw and swollen and his chest and flank were covered in bruises and scratches, but he was free and running with the night huge and cold around him. The slope fell away to his left, into the crooked valley that led down to the plain before the estuary. But the track from the gate of the fort led down there – already he could hear the yip and yelp of the hunting dogs from the lower compound, the shouts of the hunters as they spilled forth after him. Ahead and to his right the ground rose towards the high moorland, with mist rolling between the ridges. He began to climb the slope, making an oblique course towards the nearest hillcrest. He held the sword before him, spiking it into the turf and using it to pull himself up. His legs were burning and he was fighting for breath, but the thought of the dogs behind him drove him on.
Up the exposed slope, scrabbling for handholds as it steepened, he did not look back. He gained the ridge, and began to run. In the darkness he had no sense of direction, but he could see the smoke and the distant hearth fires of the fort up on the hilltop and kept them behind him. Further along the ridge he dropped down onto the far slope, running in bounding leaps between the tummocks and the thrusting thorn bushes. The ground levelled again and grew wet and soft beneath him, and he was running and stumbling across a boggy valley. Coarse grasses grabbed and swiped at his ankles, and he could see nothing in front of him, only the dim flank of the hills to his right. The wet ground sucked and hissed with every step.
Now he heard the dogs barking away down the valley, the cries of the hunters as they rode in pursuit. How long could a man on foot outrace trained hunting hounds and horsemen? He dared not look back, and flung himself onwards. Something tripped him and he fell face-first into damp earth and black water, but clawed his way up and ran again. He could feel the strength leaking from him like blood flowing from a wound.
He began to climb again, the ground drier and more solid underfoot. Above him, through the mist, he could see a rocky hillcrest lined with trees like the bristles on a hog’s back. Every drawn breath punched at his lungs, and he stared only at the ground immediately ahead of him, trying to force himself on, trying not to think about the beasts racing after him. The sword in his hand was soft iron, the blade blunted and bent where he had used it to pull himself up the slope. It was little more than a metal club now, but it was the only weapon he had. Grabbing at the brambles and thorn bushes, he dragged himself towards the rocks. The mist thinned here, and he could see the bulge of the land, the bare slopes of the moors. He came to a patch of level ground below a wall of exposed rock, black twisted trees hanging over the brink, and turned at bay.
There were two dogs after him, huge grey beasts galloping up the slope. A single rider he could see, some way behind them coming up out of the mist. Castus tried to straighten the blade of his sword against a rock; then he pulled off his leather cape and wrapped it tightly around his left arm.
The first dog was already bounding over the lip of the level ground. It was almost the size of a man, with powerful legs to spring and powerful jaws that could rip out a victim’s throat with one bite. Castus planted his back against the rock. The dog snarled and then crouched back to leap. Castus threw himself forward, feinting with his bound left arm, and as the animal sprang forward he dodged sideways and swung the sword. The flat of the blade smacked against the hound’s snout, breaking its jaw.
The second dog was already springing: Castus turned just in time and the heavy body struck his shoulder, claws gripping the leather cape that wrapped his arm. He shoved against it, keeping on his feet, and for a moment he heard the jaws crunch close to his neck, felt the rank rotten meat-breath filling his face; then he punched low and level with his sword. The dull blade grated against the animal’s hairy ribs, and he struck again and again as the claws mauled at his shoulder. Then he shoved again, knocking the animal back off him. A wheeling stroke with the sword, and he heard the snap of bone and the spatter of blood.
Already the horseman was surging up the last slope towards him, cloak swinging behind him, spear raised in his fist. Castus stamped down on the neck of the wounded hound, scrambled across the level and dropped down onto the stony slope below a thicket of thorn bushes. He heard the pony blowing hard as it cantered up onto the level, the harsh grunts of the rider urging it on. He raised his head a little and saw them standing above him, the rider bare-chested under his cloak, spike-haired, craning from the animal’s back and staring into the darkness. The pony shied as it scented the blood of the dogs, and the rider kicked at it and pulled the rope reins. Around the lip of the level ground they came, until they were almost directly above where Castus lay, only the thorny scrub between them.
Come on, Castus prayed silently. Don’t stop there. Don’t wait for the others. Already he could hear the cries and whoops of other riders down in the valley, the bray of hunting horns. He shrugged his left hand free of the cape and closed his fingers around a fist-sized rock. The horseman above him had no horn, but turned and shouted, waving his arm. His voice was swallowed by the mist.
The pony moved forward again, hooves kicking loose stones down over the lip and through the twisted branches to where Castus lay. He waited, flat on his back, breath held tight in his chest, until the Pictish rider had moved across the level ground above him. Then he tossed the rock out into the darkness down the slope, and heard it thud and crackle through the scrub. At once the rider cried out and urged his mount forward, down over the lip of the level ground and past the thorn bush towards the dark slope where the rock had fallen.
With his head turned to his shoulder Castus could see the pony kicking down over the lip, its hooves almost close enough to reach out and touch. He stayed lying still until the animal had almost passed him. Then he rolled up off the ground with the sword in his hand. In one forward lunge he seized the rider’s hanging cloak and dragged him backwards, striking up with the blade of his sword. The rider only managed a single strangled gasp before he tumbled off the pony with the blunt tip of the blade jabbing hard into his kidney. He fell heavily, the cloak flipping over his head, and Castus slammed the sword down over the top of his skull and then flung the bent blade aside. The pony had carried on down the slope a short way, but it tried to rear back as Castus bounded out of the darkness. He paused to snatch up the leather cape and the fallen man’s spear, then he caught the pony’s bridle, dragged its head down and managed to vault up onto its back.
The rider was on his feet again, bleeding from the head, reeling on the slope. Castus pulled back on the reins, turning the pony and kicking at its flanks. As the rider staggered closer, blinded and yelling, he stabbed the man in the chest with his own spear and then booted him down.
‘Yah!’ he said through his teeth, screwing the pony’s head round and directing it at the crest of the ridge to his right. ‘Yah! Come on!’ He kicked his heels into the animal’s flank again, but the pony was terrified, backing and shying. He could hear the pursuing riders coming up the valley behind him, their cries gaining volume as the mist thinned. The pony had no saddle, and Castus felt himself sliding on the coarse blanket across its back. He pulled up his aching legs and slapped the pony’s flank with the shaft of the spear. Still it refused to advance – rather it was trying to turn on the slope and gallop back into the valley. This, Castus thought, is why I was never a cavalryman…
‘Have it your way then.’
He pulled the hood of the leather cape back over his head, swung the pony round and let out the reins. The animal leaped at once, and Castus locked his thighs tight around its flanks and leaned back as it plunged down the slope, hoping that in the gloom he could pass as a Pict. The mist rose around them, and he could see the forms of the other riders coming up from his right. He swung the spear flat, gesturing away to one side; then he kicked at the pony again and let it carry him on across the head of the valley.
The riders cried out in triumph, the
ir dogs bounding along beside them as they cut left up the slope away from him. Hardly daring to believe that his deception had worked, Castus drew in the reins, turning the pony as gently as he could and urging it upwards away from the hunting pack. He kept his head down, hunching against the pony’s braided mane as the land rose again beneath him. Back on the far slope he could hear the shouts and yells of the hunters: they had found the butchered dogs, he guessed, and their speared comrade.
‘Come on,’ he was whispering, ‘come on,’ shunting against the pony’s spine, and this time the animal responded to his commands. They gained the ridge, dropped down the far side, and then the mist swept over them and the sounds of the hunt died suddenly into the silent dark.
12
All night he rode, across the bare hills and the boggy moors, splashing through streams and skirting tangled woodlands. The mist receded as he moved away from the estuary, and between the clouds he saw the moon just past full. At times, when he dismounted to rest his legs and let the pony drink water or crop at the tough spiky grass, he tried to work out the direction he was travelling. Southwards, roughly, he guessed. Now and then he thought he heard the sound of dogs, or the distant horns of the hunters, but he saw nobody. By the time the moon sank and the sky lightened to the east, the shore of a vast body of water lay ahead of him, the far side still lost in night. He secured the pony to a low tree, lay in the grass at the waterside and slept.
Bright sunlight woke him, and he opened his eyes to a clear blue sky. It was soon after dawn, and the lake was ice blue to the black mountains on the far shore. Castus dragged himself to his feet. He felt skinned all over, his bones bruised, his shoulder aching with the welts where the dog had clawed him. Stumbling across the shingle at the edge of the lake, he plunged his face and arms into the cold water.
He rode through the day, hardly daring to stop and rest, keeping well clear of inhabited places. The pony carried him westwards through the hill country, then across into the deep wooded valley of a rushing river. Castus looked down through the trees and saw the white haze of a waterfall, the torrent spraying between high rocks. He found wild blackberries growing along the valley side, and ate until he was sick of the taste and the sweetness.