The Encircling Sea

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Ferox watched them as they went down the slope, saw them wading into the ford, but then the rain came, heavier than before, and the cloud was so low that he could not see them anymore. The scent of salt was even stronger, and the circling gulls were joined by carrion birds.

  The patrol from Luguvallium arrived half an hour later. There were just fifteen of them, and Ferox wondered what fool had sent so few. Crispinus insisted on taking the horse from one of the troopers and leading the rest in pursuit, berating the decurion in charge who insisted that he had been sent to reconnoitre and not to chase barbarians. The appearance of Cerialis left the man overwhelmed with forceful senior officers, and he gave in. Ferox doubted that they would catch up, and hoped that the two officers would have the sense not to fight unless the Novantae were careless and vulnerable.

  ‘What about us?’ Vindex asked him. He had calmed down once the enemy left, and was surprised not to be going with the cavalry.

  ‘I’m going back to the boats.’ Ferox did not explain, and the scout may have sensed that he did not really know why he wanted to go.

  *

  It was getting dark by the time they had walked to the beach. On the way, they found the headless corpse of the cavalryman sent out from the tower. The dead man looked very pale in his nakedness. There were slashes across his thighs, arms, and chest, as well as the deep wound to the stomach that had brought him down. That was the way of the Novantae, the injuries meant to weaken the man so that he would not become a danger to his killers in the Otherworld.

  They cut off a couple of branches from a tree, sharpened the ends and drove one into the ground on either side of the dead man so that it would be easier for the burial party to find him.

  When they got to the beach the fires had long since died down, and the carcases of the three boats looked black in the fading light. The good boat had gone, but on the beach lay the two corpses, and the little boy sitting beside the old man. He was staring out to sea, clutching the dead man’s cold hand. The older lad, the one the centurion had knocked out, was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Why did you not go with them?’ Ferox asked.

  ‘They did not want me,’ the lad said in a flat tone. He squeezed the corpse’s hand even more tightly. ‘My uncle was the last who cared. The others are gone.’

  ‘How old are you, boy?’

  ‘They say I have nine summers or maybe ten.’ He was small for his age, but up close Ferox thought that to be about right.

  Ferox sat down on the sand beside him. ‘If you wish, we will set you on your way, give you food, and you may walk home.’

  The boy said nothing, still gazing out to sea.

  ‘Or, if you give me your word, I will take you into my service for seven years. Then you may go wherever you will.’

  ‘I hear the Romans take boys as if they were women.’

  ‘Some fools do,’ Ferox said, ‘but I do not. No one will do that with you.’

  ‘Good,’ the boy said. ‘When I am a few years older I want a wife with pale skin and long black hair that she can wrap around me to tie us together for all time.’

  Ferox wondered whether the child was even older, and thought again how the words of poets settled in the mind even of the young. ‘It will be up to you to find her.’

  ‘I will do it.’ At last the boy turned to face him. ‘What will you want as service? I can fight if you give me a sword.’

  ‘In time,’ Ferox said, managing not to smile. ‘For the moment you will look after the horses. Do you know much about horses?’

  ‘Not as much as I know about boats.’ It was a boast, but Ferox sensed real knowledge behind it. He ignored Vindex’s muttered ‘Well, can you use a shovel?’

  Ferox stood up. ‘Will you swear to serve me for seven years, swear by the gods your tribe swears by and by moon and stars and the cold wind?’ He thought that was the way the Novantae took an oath.

  The boy got up. ‘I swear.’

  ‘Good. Then what is your name, child of the sea?’

  ‘Some call me Bran.’

  It did not sound like any name he had heard, but if the boy wanted to hide his real name then that was up to him. ‘Then come with us, Bran, unless you have more to do for your uncle.’

  ‘It is done. The sea and the birds will take him and the others.’ The boy’s eyes were glassy, but he did not break down.

  ‘Come, Bran.’ Ferox held out his hand and the boy took it. They walked off the beach. Vindex waited for a moment, and kissed his wheel of Taranis before he followed, wondering about the future.

  VIII

  NERATIUS MARCELLUS, legatus augusti pro praetore of the province of Britannia, sat on a folding chair on the raised platform and waited for the blaring trumpets to cease. There were a dozen cornicines on either side of the dais, eight from each of the three legions represented at this parade, and as they repeated the rising scale the blare was enormous, drowning the warbling sound of the high Hibernian horns, shaped liked the letter S. One of the chieftains covered his ears.

  The last hanging note of the fanfare ceased, and there was silence, apart from the gentle rippling of flags and cloaks in the breeze. Three officers stood behind the legate, and next to them was the aquilifer of II Augusta, holding aloft the precious standard of the legion, the gilded bird with wings upraised and clutching a thunderbolt in its claws. The eagle did not normally leave a legion’s base unless most of the unit took the field, but the legate had wanted one of Rome’s eagles to witness the scene, so had given specific orders. To guard it II Augusta had sent their first cohort, twice the size of the other nine cohorts in the legion, and drawn from the biggest and most experienced soldiers, who stood in eight ranks behind the podium. The other two legions stationed in Britannia had each sent two cohorts, with VIIII Hispana parading on the right of the legate and XX Valeria Victrix on the left. Altogether there were almost two and a half thousand legionaries, and over three thousand auxiliaries, a third of them cavalrymen, standing at an angle to the legionaries to form three sides of a square. The standards of all the units, more than seventy of them, were divided into two parties formed beside the trumpeters. This was the field force that the legate had assembled for the summer’s manoeuvres, but it was also a grand show of strength for receiving the Hibernian rulers.

  Ferox stood in front of the platform to act as interpreter. It took a while for the ringing in his ears to stop after the fanfares. The chieftain who had covered his ears shook his head a few times after the noise stopped. Otherwise, neither the kings nor their nobles and escorting warriors showed any reaction at all. They would see an army parading, shields uncovered to show their elaborate insignia, metal of armour, weapons, and fittings polished to a high sheen, leather brushed and wooden shafts oiled. Ferox would make sure that in the days to come the visitors were told that this was but a fraction of the army of the province, and that Britannia’s garrison was an even smaller part of the mighty army of the emperor. It was possible that they would believe him.

  Neratius Marcellus began his oration, and Ferox was relieved that the legate spoke in short, direct sentences, giving him plenty of time to translate. The Hibernians had brought a man with them who whispered an explanation to the kings, but there was no harm in making the meaning clear to all. It was bland enough stuff. Neratius Marcellus welcomed them in the name of Trajan, spoke of the great majesty, power and kindness of the emperor who ruled the world, and of his desire for friendship with all those who showed suitable respect.

  Epotsorovidus, king of the Darinoi, made answer on behalf of them all, speaking of the great fame of the emperor and their desire to be good friends and allies of Rome. The king was happy for Ferox to convey his words to the legate. He spoke of the fame of his own people, their courage and faithfulness to friends, and their great desire for peace. The king was tall and very thin, his neck long with a protruding Adam’s apple, and he slurred his words as he spoke. He must have been forty and looked far older, his moustache and long pigtails dyed red, b
ut even so showing flecks of grey. His right hand waved in the air whenever he spoke, looking weak rather than emphatic, and his voice lacked spirit. He wore armour of gilded scale, a long sword on his right hip and carried a high pointed bronze helmet under his left arm. His tunic reached to just below the knees, and beneath it his legs were thin and bony.

  His queen was half his age, and just as tall, and with her raven-black hair bound in a long tress and coiled on top of her head like a tower she loomed over him. Her dress was a bright scarlet, and must have been new, for no dye would last in so bright a shade for very long, but she had covered it in a checked cloak so that only a little showed through. It was also enough to reveal the hilt of a sword, much like the one her husband wore. Her face was slim, her eyes as grey as his yet filled with a force that her husband utterly lacked. There was a hardness there, a cruelty even, at least if she felt it necessary, that almost took the edge off her beauty. Ferox had struggled not to smile when he was told that her name was Brigita. The chase to the north and rescue of the little girl seemed an age ago now, and he hoped that she was getting over the terror of capture, and going back to terrorising her family into looking after their animals and crops properly.

  King Brennus of the Rhobogdioi was far shorter, with a great round belly, made all the bigger by the loose-fitting mail that hung around him like a tent lifted in the wind. He had a thick beard, and if he had a wife or wives he had not brought them along. There was cunning in his eyes, the cleverness of a child who thought only of himself and how to get what he wanted. He said nothing, content to let others speak on his behalf, and his gaze flicked around. Often he stared at the queen, and his desire was obvious, and no doubt shared by most of the soldiers who could see this tall woman.

  Afterwards, the legate withdrew, and Crispinus led the Hibernians to a meal prepared for them in a large tent, big enough to accommodate a hundred people. An officer was detailed to accompany each of the chiefs and other leaders, while soldiers from the legate’s singulares, a bodyguard picked from all the auxiliary units in the province, matched the number of their warriors. There was no woman to accompany the queen, for this was a day for the army and the rules of the camp applied. Brigita did not appear to mind, but she said nothing, letting the men do all the talking. It was not a great feast, but slaves brought in delicacies and the first gifts of many. There were Roman swords and finely engraved helmets for the kings, a yellow silk dress for the queen, who barely looked at it, and made Ferox wonder whether a sword might have been a better choice.

  By this time, the parade had reformed and each unit was ready to march past in all their finery. Crispinus bade his guests walk out and stand in front of the pavilion. Legio II Augusta led, eagle at its head. The Hibernians said nothing, and simply watched the soldiers marching past. Ferox noticed one or two of the warriors thought it funny to see so many men in neat rows, marching in step. The other legions followed, then the auxiliary infantry. Several of their prefects were with the guests and he sensed each man become more alert as his own unit approached, nerves and pride mingling, since they did not want the slightest blemish to appear among their own soldiers.

  ‘They must be marching round in a circle,’ Brennus said before the parade was even half way through.

  The cavalry brought up the rear, always a wise precaution on a day like this, for they left behind them a field dotted with piles of manure. Ferox thought of Bran, who was in the army’s tented camp under Philo’s supervision and tasked with caring for Frost and the new horse he had bought to replace the stolen Snow.

  ‘No chariots,’ Brennus muttered when the last horsemen had passed. His tone suggested a degree of pity for the Romans as well as satisfaction in his own might.

  An escort took the guests to some roundhouses hastily con­structed for them in an annex of the main camp, and Ferox breathed a sigh of relief that his task was over for the day. Tomorrow, Crispinus would take the Hibernians to a farm near Alauna. It was owned by Probus, and said to be large and comfortable, and would house the visitors during the negotiations to come. The merchant had offered it to the legate and tribune, presumably in the hope of general or specific favours. Cerialis and Sulpicia Lepidina were to join them, as was Aelius Brocchus and his wife.

  Ferox walked away from the camp to be alone and to think. Neratius Marcellus had his main force in a low ramparted marching camp near the foot of the hill of Aballava, and after a while Ferox turned to look back at the smoke of cooking rising from the tent-lines. A more permanent fort was to be built a little further away, to house a reinforced cohort, but work had not yet begun on its construction. Up on the hill, the silhouette of the watchtower was dark against the skyline. The legate also planned to demolish the outpost and replace it with a proper fort. During the coming months, the army would train and build, and build and train, as the army always seemed to do whenever senior officers were worried that the soldiers might become idle. In the meantime, he was bound to meet Sulpicia Lepidina, and he did not know what to say to her, or what he should not say.

  A horseman trotted towards him. It was Claudius Super, still bandaged around the arm and head but riding well, and in these open plains Ferox could not vanish or pretend that he had not seen the man.

  ‘Ferox, my dear fellow, I have been looking for you.’

  ‘Just stretching my legs, sir.’

  ‘Don’t blame you.’ The senior regionarius jumped down, wincing a little when he struck the ground. ‘Being here, and seeing that tower, does take me back to our battle.’

  It had scarcely been a battle, which did not mean that those who fell were any less dead than the men at Cannae or Arausio.

  ‘I am glad to see that you are recovering,’ Ferox said, because it was what he ought to say. In truth, since the skirmish Claudius Super had been openly grateful, praising his courage and skill. It was a change from the contempt he had so often shown in the past.

  ‘For that I owe you my thanks. In fact, that is why I have sought you out. You saved my life.’

  ‘There were others there.’

  ‘There were, and your modesty becomes you, but it does not change the truth. If you and your scout had not come when you did then I doubt that I would have made it into the tower.’ He had a bag hanging from one of the horns of his saddle and reached into it. ‘I’m not much of a craftsman, but it is my duty to give you this, as one citizen to another.’ It was a wreath of oak leaves, woven clumsily, so that a lot of twine was needed to hold it together. ‘The legate is agreeable, and the report will go to the emperor and a proper crown be made when it is awarded formally.’

  ‘You do not need to do this, sir.’ The corona civica was one of the oldest awards, given for saving the life of a fellow citizen.

  ‘Oh, I do. Traditions are important, don’t you think? They are what makes us Romans.’ The tradition was that the saved man make a wreath and give it to his rescuer, although it was a rare custom these days. Claudius Super took the old ways seriously, perhaps because he was so desperately proud of his family name and worried by their lack of great wealth.

  ‘If the noble Crispinus had not come out through the gap in the barricade then I am not sure any of us would have made it. Grateful though I am for you acclaim, is it not fitter that you give this to him? I am sure the legate would acknowledge his claim to the award. He is a brave young man in his first post.’ Ferox did not bother to add that this meant he was likely to rise high, that the corona civica would do his career no end of good, and that such a man was likely to prove a more useful friend in the future than a mere centurion. He could see the other man coming to the same conclusion, a little slowly, for his was not a quick mind.

  ‘I still believe you should have this.’ To his credit, Claudius Super was reluctant to give up his first idea.

  ‘Many years ago, another citizen presented me with a crown. He was killed sixth months later. I would rather not wish such ill fortune on you.’

  ‘Would you not?’ Claudius Super grinned. �
�I have scarcely been a friend to you in the last few years. If it is any consolation, I apologise for my behaviour. You are a fine officer and a good Roman, and I should probably have listened to your advice more often in the past.’

  ‘Then take it now. Give the wreath to the tribune. It will mean so much to him and he is a brave man, worthy of honour.’

  ‘Very well.’ Claudius Super offered his hand and Ferox shook it. ‘At least you have taken that from me. Good fortune as you help the tribune with these Hibernian rascals. Dare say they want gold and weapons from us and will only give us a couple of glass beads. That queen looks a bit of an amazon, though. Did you see her sword? Pretty enough, but not sure I’d fancy meeting her on a dark night. Oh, I don’t know, though.’ He leered at Ferox.

  ‘Good luck, sir,’ Ferox called as Claudius Super rode off, still thinking that he had rarely met a bigger fool.

  IX

  THE HOUSE WAS large and L-shaped, the smaller wing containing a bath. A line of rowan trees grew beyond it on the side facing the sea, and in years to come they might become tall and thick and help to take the bite out of the strong westerly winds, but for the moment they were young and small. The house itself was new, the red-brown tiles still clean with scarcely any patches of moss and dirt to dull the brightness of the baked clay. Its rendered walls gleamed in the sunlight, finished only at the end of the previous summer. One day, it seemed that additional wings would be built to form a square, and a garden was already taking shape in what would become the middle. It had a pond in the centre, although the fountain did not yet work. A short distance away was a barn and stable, as well as a couple of squat, plainer buildings to house the slaves and freedmen who worked here. Two others, a workshop and a big storeroom, remained half-finished, but work on them was suspended in deference to the visitors.

  Ferox got the impression that the Hibernians would have preferred something more familiar, preferably thatched and round, but the distinguished guests accepted rooms in the main house. A few of their servants and warriors stayed with them, while the rest went to the slaves’ quarters. Crispinus was full of praise for the house, which their host modestly declined, saying that the tribune was too generous. It was all a charade and both men knew it, but played their part as civilised men. Compared to many of the villas in southern Britannia, let alone those in Gaul, this was a modest establishment, the inside still heavy with the scent of limewash and new wood. By the standards of the estates in Italy and Spain it was tiny and crude, and it was one of three owned by Probus, the only one up in the north. The other two he had bought rather than built, and his hints implied that they were a good deal grander.