The Encircling Sea

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The wind picked up, hissing through the grass. As a child, he had been told that the winds sometimes carried the voices of those who had gone on to the Otherworld and now walked in shadow. He listened hard, for a moment longing for his grandfather to speak to him, but if there were words he could not catch them or the message was for someone else. Perhaps he was now too Roman to understand, for his people also said that running water carried the echoes of old magic and old tears, the words of gods and spirits reaching back to the start of all things, and yet all he could hear was the soft roar of the stream. He was a long way from his homeland, and a long way too from the army. Ferox was regionarius, a centurion charged with keeping Rome’s peace in the region near the fort of Vindolanda, but he and the scouts had come far from his territory.

  The eagle dived, swooping down fast, and Ferox followed it until it vanished behind the hills above him. The raven was still there, flying in lazy circles, and he imagined its cold black eyes watching him. Well, the bird must wait and so must he, for there was nothing else to do. Opening a pouch, he checked that the leather thong of the sling was still supple and hefted the two lead shot, wondering once again why they were cast in the shape of acorns. For a moment he considered practising with it, but he had just the two lead shot and did not trust pebbles to fly as true so did not want to risk losing them. He tried to remember when he had last used a sling and could not, which meant that it was long ago and he wondered whether he had lost the knack. He thought of this and other things he wished that he had done or not done. Otherwise he just waited, trying to think as little as possible.

  If Vindex was right and he was playing at being a hero then waiting at the crossing of a stream was fitting. In the stories, heroes like the Hound were always guarding fords against invading armies, challenging each warrior to face them one at a time, killing them and taking their heads. Sometimes they died and the place was named after them. It was hard to imagine anyone in this part of the world caring about him let alone remembering his name or what would soon happen. That shepherd would not bother and his boy was more likely to remember the ghostly grey horses.

  The raven gave its harsh call just as the horsemen appeared, riding out from one of the shallow gullies into the valley almost a mile away. They came steadily towards him, trotting their horses once they reached the flatter land. Ferox did not need to stand up to see them and so stayed by the fire and spooned up some of the broth, revelling in the smell as he blew on it to cool it.

  There were seven horses, one of them a big chestnut and the rest small shaggy ponies. They were closer now, heading straight towards him. The ponies were ridden by men in hooded cloaks, four of them carrying spears. Two smaller figures were perched on the tall horse. The one in front had long hair, blowing wildly in the wind, and even though it looked dark he knew that this was only the dirt and damp of the journey and that it was the vivid red of the girl’s whole family.

  Half a mile away they stopped and he guessed that they had noticed him. A couple of the horsemen clustered together to talk. Ferox sipped the broth, grimaced at the taste, which failed to live up to the promise of its scent, but knew that this was the least of his problems. Let them hesitate, let them delay, he thought, and Vindex would come a little closer so that he might arrive in time to find a corpse that was still warm.

  They started forward again, one riding out on either side of the main group, looking to see if he was alone. Their hoods were thrown back and he saw that the warriors all had the hair shaved on the crown of their heads and plaited into a long pigtail at the back. These raiders were northerners, men from the farthest reaches of Britannia, which meant that the stories he had heard from frightened farmers were true. They were strange folk in the north, and some said that they were descended from the Old Folk, the workers of flint and makers of the great stone circles. They also said that they worshipped cruel gods, long since forgotten in other lands, but still powerful in their dark magic near the edge of the world.

  They were closer now, within a long bowshot, although bows were rare in these parts and Ferox was glad to see that none of the warriors carried one. He could see that one of the men had his hands tied together in front of him, just like the two girls on the chestnut. He did not recognise him, but he looked fairly young and his hair was short like a Roman’s. It explained the odd tracks he had found in the last weeks, of a horse ridden badly and sometimes being led. He had wondered whether the rider was a captive, but the heavy prints showed a pony well laden and raiders rarely took men as prisoners, because they needed to be watched more closely and would not bring as high a price as a slave, so he had guessed that the horseman was one of their own, but injured.

  Who this prisoner was would be a mystery for later – if there was a later – and for the moment it meant that he had five enemies and not six. He could almost hear Vindex making some arch comment like ‘Easy then’ and tried not to smile at the thought. The warriors riding on each flank went back to join the others, sure that the man sitting by the fire was truly alone, for there was nowhere to hide in this gentle grassland. One of the others shouted at them and they galloped up to look down over the banks of the burn.

  Ferox stood up. He had the sling held tight inside his right fist and the two bullets in the other hand. He did not hurry and stretched his back as if he was stiff before strolling towards the ford.

  ‘Who are you, stranger?’ one of the nearest warriors called out. Like the other he had a stout spear and small square shield, the boards unpainted, but dotted with iron studs.

  Ferox ignored him. He reached the place where the bank on this side dipped down and became no more than a little slope a couple of feet high leading into the ford.

  ‘Give us your name,’ the warrior shouted again.

  Ferox stopped. His broad-brimmed hat was the sort peasants wore in the lands around the Mediterranean, something rarely if ever seen in these parts. Back in his region everyone recognised it, but he doubted that these men had spent long enough there to hear of it or him. He smiled at the man and did not reply.

  ‘Just kill him!’ the second warrior to ride up to the burn screamed at his companion, hefting his own spear, but making no move to throw it.

  The other warrior bared his teeth, hissing and waving shield and spear towards the Roman. Both men were in their early twenties, and Ferox doubted this was their first raid. They looked handy enough, but reminded him of Vindex’s two scouts – dangerous only when they followed others.

  ‘I want to talk,’ he said at last as neither man came at him. ‘But I don’t talk to children.’

  The warrior on his right twitched his spear at the insult. He still did not throw and after a moment spat towards the Roman.

  Ferox said no more, and two more riders came forward to stand their horses between the other two. These were the ones that mattered and he could see the livid blemish covering cheek and chin of the smaller man. Along with the wildcat’s tail woven into his pigtail, it marked him as the Red Cat, a stealer of horses and cows whose fame stretched far beyond his own people in the north. Ferox had never seen him before, but once or twice he had come across his track and that of the animals he had stolen. They said no one ever caught the Red Cat or even knew his right name. It meant the burlier man beside him was his older brother, Segovax. His eyes were so dark that they made Ferox think of Morrigan’s raven and that was fitting for he was known as a killer without mercy for man, woman or child.

  The fifth warrior was the youngest and stayed back with the captives.

  ‘Speak, Roman.’ Segovax had a rasping voice.

  ‘You know who I am?’ Ferox said.

  ‘Should I care?’

  ‘I am Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, and I have come to trade with you on behalf of our great lord and princeps Trajan, the ruler of the world.’ Ferox was slightly surprised to find himself invoking the emperor, but decided that it could do no harm.

  Segovax did not appear impressed. ‘Again, should I care abou
t you or your pox-ridden emperor? He does not rule here, and you are alone.’

  ‘I would trade for your captives.’ Out of the corner of his eye Ferox saw the raven circling, much lower down than before.

  ‘No trade. Give us the path, Roman.’

  ‘Help me!’ The shout came from the young captive, who kicked his horse so that it ran away from the others towards the ford. ‘Save me, I am a Roman and demand your protection!’ he screamed. The young warrior followed him, and swung the shaft of his spear, slamming it against the captive’s head and knocking him to the ground. The man fell heavily, but started to push himself up with his tied hands. Another blow, this time from the blunt butt of the spear, struck his head and he slumped back down.

  Segovax had not even turned and neither he nor Ferox showed that they had noticed the escape attempt.

  ‘I want your captives,’ Ferox said. ‘I offer much in return.’

  For the first time, the Red Cat spoke. ‘You have nothing we want.’ He was the only one not carrying a spear, and Ferox saw the hilt of a long knife on his right hip.

  ‘Nothing we cannot take if we want,’ his brother added.

  ‘What about your lives?’

  Segovax spat, unimpressed. ‘You are a long way from your Rome. Is one of the girls kin to you? We’ll trade either of them for one of your horses.’ His brother gave him a sidelong glance. The Red Cat was not used to buying any animal.

  ‘I want them all.’

  The Red Cat laughed.

  Ferox flicked the sling so that it hung down, dropped one of the acorn-shaped bullets onto the leather patch, and brought it high, whirling.

  ‘Bastard!’ Segovax shouted and the four warriors urged their mounts forward. Ferox loosed, aiming for Segovax, but his horse was nervous of the rushing water and pulled away, its head up so that the heavy lead missile smashed into its teeth. The animal reared, screaming and slipping on the muddy slope. Segovax was thrown forward and he screamed as the pony rolled over onto him and bones broke.

  One of the warriors swerved away from the falling man and horse, but the other one and the Red Cat splashed into the ford. Ferox slipped the second bullet into the sling, raised it, swung and released the lead acorn with such force that it drove into the shaven forehead of man next to the famous thief, flinging his head back. The man dropped into the stream, water splashing high.

  The Red Cat was nearly across, but then his horse reared, foot bloody from a caltrop, and Ferox wished he had picked up some suitable stones because he would have been able to get off at least one more shot. Instead he dropped the sling and grabbed the bone handgrip of his sword. It slid smoothly from the scabbard, the long, old-fashioned blade so perfectly balanced that it was a delight to feel it in his hand. The Red Cat was down, thrown from his horse as it bucked in agony, the man beside him was dead or dying, and the other warrior leaped from his horse to wade through the ford, sensing that there was some unseen danger. Ferox drew his pugio dagger in his left hand and went down the little bank to the edge of the ford.

  ‘Come on, you mongrels,’ he yelled.

  The Red Cat was up, a long knife in one hand, and he paused to wrap his cloak around his left arm because he had lost his shield. The other warrior went to the right, wanting to take the Roman from two sides. He had his spear up, and Ferox trusted him not to throw it because he saw that he had only a little dagger at his belt, and like most of the warriors of the far north did not possess a sword.

  The Red Cat swung his cloak, feinting, and then cut with the knife, just as the other man stamped forward, lunging. Ferox slipped in the mud, slashing with the gladius and feeling it bite on the thief’s right arm. He tried to push the spear thrust aside with his left hand, but as he stumbled there was no force in the move and the spear head hit him on the side. He felt the heavy blow, knew that some of the mail rings had broken and that the tip had driven through the padded coat underneath.

  Ferox staggered back, trying to regain balance, and hissing because his side hurt. The Red Cat swirled his cloak, flinging it at the Roman, but the wool was wet and heavy and it fell short. He switched his knife into his left hand because his right arm was bleeding. The warrior followed up, stamping forward to thrust again with the heavy spear, but then yelped. There was blood flowing in the water by his foot and Ferox guessed that he had found another of the caltrops. The man looked down, puzzled and angry, lifting his foot, the iron spike still stuck fast in his boot.

  The warrior’s guard had dropped and Ferox lunged with the gladius, going over the top of the man’s little shield and driving into his throat. The Red Cat came at him, so as he twisted the blade to free it he punched with the fist holding his dagger, knocking the dying man into the thief.

  A horseman was up on the far bank, driving his horse down into the stream, spear held high and yelling in high-pitched rage. It was the youth they had left with the prisoners, and he only saw Segovax under his still writhing horse at the last moment, but managed to urge his mount into a jump and sail over, landing with a great splash in the water. The animal stumbled, and the lad nearly lost his balance, but recovered and kept going.

  ‘Run!’ the Red Cat screamed at the boy.

  Ferox tried to shuffle through the stony ford, wary of caltrops, and slashed at the thief, making him jump back.

  ‘Run, boy!’ the Red Cat shouted again, but the youth ignored him, riding straight at Ferox, who stepped aside and jabbed at the horse’s head with his dagger. It reared and the young warrior fell into the stony water, his spear flying from his grip. Yet there was fight in the youth still, and he pushed up, trying to grab the Roman’s legs.

  The centurion slid back, keeping his balance, and prepared to jab down with his sword.

  ‘No!’ the Red Cat called and threw his knife down into the burn. ‘We give in.’ He stepped towards them, left hand clutching his wounded arm, and kicked the boy who was still struggling towards the Roman. ‘It’s over, child.’ He looked up at Ferox. ‘We give in, Roman. Spare his life.’

  Ferox nodded, and up above the bird of Morrigan cried again.

  The two warriors were dead, their blood washing away down the stream towards the loch. Segovax was unconscious, right leg and arm both broken and maybe other injuries as well. Ferox let the youth help the Red Cat by binding his wound and then tied them both at the wrist using the ropes from the captives. The male captive was still unconscious, but the girls sat in silence by the fire, eating hungrily.

  ‘Did they hurt you?’ he asked the red-haired girl as gently as he could. She shook her head, so that when he went to do his best for Segovax he did the job gently and with all the skill he could muster. He dragged the man up onto the bank, cut up one of the spear shafts to make splints, tying them tight. The man was awake, but silent, his eyes cold and full of hate.

  The scream shattered the peace in the little valley, frightening the raven which had settled on one of the corpses. Ferox looked up and saw that the male captive had woken and taken a spear, walking up beside the Red Cat and the boy and driving the weapon into the boy’s back. He fell forward, and the captive jabbed with the spear again and again, grunting with the effort.

  Ferox ran over, drawing his sword. He expected a wild look in the captive’s face, but instead there was just pleasure.

  ‘Bastard!’ The Red Cat spat the word, and then rolled out of the way because the spear was now aimed at him.

  ‘He is mine!’ the young man shouted in Latin, his tone expecting obedience, and Ferox reversed his sword and struck with the dome-shaped pommel against his forehead. The former captive dropped.

  The Red Cat rolled and managed to push himself up on his elbows and then stand.

  ‘You had better kill me,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘Because if you do not, then I swear by Sun and Moon that I will kill you one day.’

  Ferox stared at him, but put his blade back in its scabbard. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn to try.’

  Half an hour later he saw a pair of horsemen dow
n by the loch. He did not recognise them and they kept their distance and watched. An hour after that, a dozen horsemen appeared from the other end of the valley, and the two watchers galloped away. The new group headed straight for him, and one of them cantered ahead.

  ‘I found some friends,’ Vindex said, pointing back at the approaching horsemen, all of them heavily armed. The leader, a huge, bearded man, waved in greeting.

  ‘Didn’t know you had any.’

  ‘You have been busy, I see,’ the Brigantian said, looking around at the debris of the fight.

  ‘Yes.’

  Vindex glanced at the centurion’s side, seeing the rent in his armour. There had not been time to ease the mail shirt off and bind up the injury.

  ‘Bad?’ the scout asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity,’ Vindex sighed. ‘I really could do with a new pair of boots.’

  II

  ‘REMEMBER HIM?’ Vindex asked, jerking his head up towards the top of the tower.

  Ferox glanced up. They were approaching the main double gateway of Vindolanda, the top of the timber parapet some thirty feet high. A pair of sentries peered down. They were mail-clad Batavians with fur-like moss glued to the tops of their bronze helmets, but he knew that the scout was not speaking of them. There were three stakes mounted on the parapet, although at the moment only one was occupied. The head impaled on top of it was black, flesh long withered away and skin shrunken tightly around the skull.

  ‘Aye, I remember.’ Ferox had never learned the man’s name, but his followers called him the Stallion, and he had claimed to be a druid or priest and worker of magic sent by the gods to purge the lands of the Romans. His message was one of hatred and blood and the year before last he had raised an army to make his vision come true. Ferox had warned his superiors of the impending storm and been ignored until it had broken, and then had helped them gamble and somehow smash the fanatics. A lot of people had died, some of them horribly, before they had won, and he still shuddered at the thought of what had happened and what might easily have followed. Ferox had wounded the Stallion in the battle, but the priest had escaped only to be sacrificed by his own allies a few days later. Ferox and Vindex had found his corpse swinging from a yew tree and brought the head back here as ordered.