THE ENCIRCLING SEA
Adrian Goldsworthy
Start Reading
About this Book
About the Author
Table of Contents
www.headofzeus.com
About The Encircling Sea
AD 100
A FORT ON THE EDGE OF
THE ROMAN WORLD
Flavius Ferox, Briton turned Roman centurion, is charged with keeping Rome’s empire intact. But from his base at Vindolanda on the northern frontier of Britannia, he feels enemies closing in on him from all sides. Ambitious leaders await the chance to carve out empires of their own. While men nearer at hand speak in whispers of war and the destruction of Rome.
And now new threats are reaching Ferox’s ears. Stories about the boat-dwelling men of the night, who have cursed the land and only come ashore to feast on men’s flesh. These are just rumours for now. But Ferox knows that rumours stem from truth. And that no one on this isle is safe from the great, encircling sea…
Contents
Welcome Page
About The Encircling Sea
Dedication
Britannia at the Start of the Emperor Trajan’s Reign
Place names
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Epilogue
Historical Note
Glossary
About Adrian Goldsworthy
The Vindolanda Series
Non-fiction by Adrian Goldsworthy
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
For Kevin, with many thanks
Britannia at the Start of the Emperor Trajan’s Reign
Place names
Alauna: Maryport in Cumbria
Aballava: Burgh by Sands
Baiae: now underwater in the Bay of Naples
Bremenium: High Rochester
Bremesio: Piercebridge
Coria: Corbridge
Corinium: Cirencester
Deva: Chester
Eboracum: York
Gades: Cádiz in Spain
Londinium: London
Lugdunum: Lyon in France
Luguvallium: Carlisle
Maia: Bowness-on-Solway
Magna: Carvoran
Mona: Anglesey
Thule: A mysterious island in the far north, whose identity is uncertain. The Romans may have applied it to one of the Shetland Islands, or even Iceland or Norway.
Tomi: Constanta in Romania
Trimontium: Newstead
Uxellum: Ward Law, although the identification is uncertain
Prologue
SHE HAD GIVEN very precise instructions about her grave. Those last days were wracked with pain, and the lines on her face grew so sharp that she looked twice her thirty-nine years. Yet always she was lucid and precise, and when the end came he had done as he had been told, even though he did not understand why this stunted tree and this headland were so important.
It had often been like that in all their years together. She told him what to do and he obeyed, for his trust was complete. She saw things and knew things hidden from other mortals. That was simply the way of it and it was her power and wisdom that had kept them alive and allowed them to thrive in this place so far from their home. The others had not listened and had died or become slaves again. Only his men had survived and found a new place to live, where their neighbours feared them and brought tribute. None had dared to attack them for more than ten years, and that was her doing, for word of her magic had spread, and people feared her even more than they feared the savagery and steel of his warriors.
She looked very small now, and such was her power that he had often forgotten that her body was so tiny. They had dug the grave as a square, a spear’s length on either side and as deep. It had been hard, for the ground was stony, and sparks flew as the blades of the pick-axes struck against the rocks. He had begun the work, but all of the brothers from those first days, the men of the oath, had taken a hand and before the sun rose the next day it was done. They carried her, wrapped tight in white linen they had taken from a merchant ship. Her face was uncovered, and her hair coiled up on either side of her head. Perhaps it was the pale light of the new morning, but he could no longer see the streaks of grey. She seemed young again, and at peace, her white skin smooth like a child’s. It was over, the agony as her innards had rotted away was done. She had held on for months through sheer will, not expecting to win the fight, but waiting for a sign. He would never forget the smile spreading across her face when the news reached them. She had told him what he must do and then her spirit had left, leaving only the clay of her body.
They covered her with a blanket before they began to shovel earth over her remains. He stood, black shield in one hand and spear in the other. When they finished he remained. It was hard to judge time, but whenever he thought an hour had passed he would walk seven times around the low mound. Sometimes others came and shared the vigil, but never for long, and when the sun set he was alone.
At dawn they came back, three warriors in mail with swords at their belts, leading the master of the merchantman they had taken.
‘You know why you are here?’
The man nodded. He was a Briton from the far south, one who had adapted to the ways of Rome and eked out a living carrying goods along the coast. A storm had blown him off course, and they had found him.
It was not chance. They had taken their ship out to sea for the first time, testing it after repairs that had taken many years to complete, because it was hard to find good timber here in the wilds. A year ago their boats had rowed out to take a becalmed trading vessel that happened to be carrying a cargo of oak.
Since then everything had slotted as neatly into place as if each piece was the work of a great craftsman.
‘Your son knows what he must do?’ The merchant’s son was to be released and to keep their little ship and the rest of the crew, but only after he had sworn to help arrange matters.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Kneel.’
The man obeyed. He had auburn hair, thinning on top, and one of the warriors grabbed the long pigtail at the back and lifted it out of the way.
The sword hissed through the air, and the finely-honed edge cut through flesh, muscle and bone. With a thump the severed head dropped onto the earth, and a jet of blood sprayed across the grave, the soil sucking it away in a moment.
‘Is everything ready?’
‘Yes.’ The tallest of the warriors, a man with long blond hair and a thick beard, answered.
‘Then do not wait a moment,’ he said. He could feel her power surrounding him. Their tale was not over. New strength would be brought to him to guide him in the years to come. For all the sorrow of this loss he felt renewed, almost young again. He had warriors, he had a fine ship, and soon he would see new power at work, leading them all on. It was a time for blood and a time for vengeance.
The others left and he returned to his vigil. Then he smiled, because he knew her s
pirit had come to him. ‘Not long, now,’ it seemed to whisper in his ear.
I
FLAVIUS FEROX PATTED Frost fondly on the neck, took off her bridle and let the grey horse wander free. Snow, another mare so like the first that they might have been twins, was already cropping the grass, and he trusted the animals not to run away. Neither of them looked tired, even though he had driven them hard during the night, riding up high where the patches of grubby snow became an unbroken field of white. Some of the time he had led them, taking a steep and rugged path to come down into this valley beside the dark lake, relieved to find that his memory was good. The stream was where he remembered, rushing down the slope, chattering noisily and swollen with melted snow, so that there was only one safe place to cross on this side of the loch. He had come to this place only once before, some five years ago, but the brooding presence of the lake had stuck in his mind as if he had known that one day he would return.
This was his last chance. If they had not turned north then they would have to come this way and he would meet them here and perhaps he would die or perhaps not. If they got past him, then by tonight they would reach their own lands and be safe among their tower-building kin. Ferox did not know these lands and its chieftains well enough to think that any would aid him, and with the nearest Roman outpost more than two hundred miles away they were unlikely to fear the empire. For the moment, the power of the emperor and Rome came down to one centurion. Ferox doubted either the emperor or Rome would ever know what happened here or care if he turned around and rode away, letting the raiders escape. No one would blame him, and he had taken no oath to the poor family who scratched a living on their little farmstead. All he had done was promise to do his best to find their little girl and bring her home, and that was enough to make him chase the raiders for seventeen days and had brought him to this place. It was also enough to keep him here. By noon or soon after he would know whether or not he had guessed right and the raiders were coming this way.
Ferox took some of his dry kindling from a bag, gathered as many sticks as he could find and lit a small fire on the high bank above the ford. The burn provided water, and he used a flat stone and the pommel of his dagger to grind up some army biscuits, tipping the crumbs into a bronze pan, before adding slices of onion and the last of his salted bacon. He laid it down beside the fire and decided to wash and shave before he cooked.
The mist was thinning, burning away in the early morning sun, so that the shepherd and his boy saw him before they were close. He was a big man, dark of hair and grim of face, wearing just trousers and boots, his broad chest bare as he crouched beside the stream, scraping at his chin and upper lip with a razor.
The shepherd was old, his hair and beard long, white and filthy, suggesting that neither water nor razors had figured much in his experience. Yet it was the size of the lone man, the scars on his chest and the scabbarded sword lying within reach that made him wary. Together with the horses and the mail shirt draped over a pile of bags, they made it clear that this stranger was a warrior.
Ferox waved a hand and went back to his task without paying them any more attention. After a while, the shepherd whistled and came forward, a shaggy dog beside him, while the boy chivvied the half-dozen sheep they had with them. The warrior nicked himself and cursed, making the dog growl and keep growling, even when the tall man shrugged and rubbed his face with a rag.
‘Good morning, father,’ he said, touching a hand to his brow. That was the custom in these parts, but his accent was strange.
‘Roman?’ the shepherd said after a while. He knew little of the iron race from the south, for they had never come in great numbers to these high glens.
‘Aye,’ the tall man said. He was standing now, and made no move to pick up his sword. ‘My name is Ferox and I mean you no harm. I’ve a broth boiling, if you and the lad have a mind to join me.’
The old man looked uncertain, at least as far as it was possible to tell behind the wild hair and dirt. No doubt he feared to give offence while wanting to get away from the warrior as fast as he could. The dog growled again, and the shepherd prodded the animal with his foot to silence it.
‘Thank you, lord, but we are in haste.’ He stared for a moment. ‘Will you give us the way?’ His voice was nervous.
Ferox made a sweeping gesture. ‘These are your lands, father, not mine.’ He stepped back away from the sword to show that he meant them no harm. Even so the old man was nervous as he hurried through the ford, the dog barking to urge the sheep through the rushing water. Two were heavily pregnant ewes, and another a lamb from the first to arrive a few weeks ago. The boy was more curious than frightened, staring at the stranger with wide eyes. Only the grey horses unnerved him.
‘Kelpies,’ he squealed as one of the mares trotted over. The shepherd cuffed the boy and forced him on. A strange warrior and a Roman was more to be feared than the spirits from the lakes said to take the form of pale horses.
Ferox smiled. Since the snow had cleared few people had left tracks near the ford, and most of them were shepherds like these. There was no sign of any horse passing this way, for this was poor country. No one lived closer than ten miles, and even then only a few huts and farms were dotted around. There were not many people until you got lower, heading towards the coast.
Ferox bent down and splashed more of the icy water onto his face. There was a pouch left beside his sword and he fetched it, reaching inside. He pulled out a caltrop, four iron spikes welded together so that whichever way it fell one of the sharp, two-inch points stood straight up. Stepping into the stream, he dropped this and a dozen more in a couple of rows running across the ford. They vanished, lost in the bubbling water, and he had to hope that they would do their job and not simply be pushed deep into the mud. The last one went in, and once again he reached down and cupped a handful of water to splash across his face. Feeling refreshed, he picked up his sword, walked back to the fire and dressed in his tunic, padded jerkin and shirt of mail. They would not get here for a couple of hours at least, so he sat down cross-legged by the fire and started to cook.
The sun rose and the last of the mist cleared. An eagle circled high overheard, a tiny shape even though Ferox knew that it was a big bird searching the hillsides for newborn lambs. This was a good time for predators and he hoped that good fortune would stretch to cover him. He wondered whether the hunting bird with its sharp eyes could see his prey coming. That is if they were coming, for he might be wrong, even though he was sure that he was not. There were only two ways they could go, and this was the harder route, but it led more quickly to the lands of the Creones and he no longer doubted that that was their destination. Vindex was not convinced, so he and the two other Brigantian scouts had headed north, trusting to the better going to catch up with their quarry. In the meantime, Ferox had taken the high pass so that he could get ahead of them, if they went the other way. There were five or six men – the tracks left by one of the horses were odd and left him unsure whether the rider was a warrior or captive – so that the odds were not good if he was right.
‘Take one of the lads with you,’ Vindex had said. ‘Give you more of a chance if you do meet them.’
‘No.’ Ferox had not needed to look at them to be sure. One of the scouts was too young, too unpredictable, the other reliable enough, but not a killer. ‘Keep them with you. You’ll need them both if I’m wrong.’
The Brigantian had stared at him for a while, the evening shadows making his long face more skull-like than usual. ‘Trying to be the hero again,’ he said at last. ‘They always die at the end of their story.’
‘Don’t we all.’
Vindex sighed. ‘Aye, we do. No sense in rushing though, especially for you these days.’ The tall Brigantian did not say any more and just shrugged. After a moment he had grabbed the horns of his saddle and vaulted up onto his horse. ‘If the trail goes cold once it is daylight we’ll come to you. Least I can do for a friend is burn his corpse. That’s if I can find all t
he pieces.’
‘Liar, you just want to steal anything they leave behind.’
‘That too. Those are nice boots.’
Ferox grinned. ‘Clear off. Maybe you are right and they are going north. In that case I’ll come and pinch your boots.’ He tapped the side of his scabbard, a gesture of Vindex’s people. ‘Ride to good fortune.’
‘We’ll do our best.’
Ferox spat on the grass. ‘Oh well,’ he said, ‘if you’re not even going to try.’
The Brigantians cantered off. ‘Good luck,’ Vindex called back just before he went over the brow of the hill.
That was yesterday, and now Ferox wondered whether the scouts had seen the trail left by the fugitives turn just as he had said it would, heading west towards the coast. Vindex and his men should be coming this way by now, but they would have to ride a good way to reach the pass and then loop around the loch to get here. Unless their horses sprouted wings, they would not arrive in time to make a difference.
Ferox looked up again, blinking as he followed the hovering eagle, for the sun was bright and warm with the promise of spring. Movement caught his eye and he saw another bird some way off, but only after pulling down the wide brim of his hat and squinting did he see that this one was a raven. He was right then, for the Morrigan’s bird never came by chance. The goddess knew that a fight was coming and warriors would shed their life blood in this place.
‘Well then,’ Ferox said out loud and at once despised himself. As a boy he had been taught the value of silence and calm. The Silures were the wolf people, hunters of animals and men alike, predators who knew that the slightest movement or sound could betray an ambush, so they schooled their boys to make stillness the greatest pleasure and idle talk the worst vice. Ferox had spent too many years among Romans who chattered away, weeping or laughing freely, seeming to need noise to reassure themselves that they were still alive. Yet he had left his people long ago, sent as one of the hostages when the chieftains of the Silures had surrendered to the Roman Empire. In truth, he had been Titus Flavius Ferox, centurion, oath sworn to serve Rome and its emperor, for longer than he had been anything else, but in his soul he was still of the Silures, grandson of the Lord of the Hills, the man who had fought the Romans longer and harder than anyone else before making peace.
The Encircling Sea Page 1
