‘Hercules’ balls, what’s going on?’ A centurion had run up, a dozen soldiers following more warily. They were Tungrians, rather than Batavians, the tops of their helmets bare bronze rather than decorated with fur.
Ferox pushed himself to his feet, struggling for breath. ‘That man is a deserter and under arrest.’ Rufus, if it was Rufus, lay on his back, absolutely still, and Ferox did not like the angle of his neck and head.
The centurion went over and pulled off the mask from the helmet. ‘Yes, I remember this one. Always trouble.’ He leaned down and listened. ‘Not any more, though. Not ever.’ He straightened back up. ‘You four, strip this man of equipment and put the body out of the way. You … ’ he pointed to another ‘ … run to our praetorium and say that the deserter Rufus turned up and is now dead. Ask what they want us to do with him now.’ He grinned. ‘No one will shed any tears over that bastard.
‘You all right, Ferox?’
Ferox just nodded.
V
The carriage rocked as its wheels skipped over gaps in the road’s surface. Crispinus stirred, muttered something, before going back to sleep, resting his head on a pillow jammed up against the back of the seat. Ferox was glad, for when he was awake, the noble tribune seemed utterly incapable of silence. After three days of questions, gossip in which he had no interest, and parades of the young aristocrat’s education, wit and insight, a few hours of peace and quiet were a blessed gift from the gods. The prospect of many more days cooped up with the garrulous tribune weighed heavily upon his soul. There was little choice, for they had assured him that he was not yet well enough to ride, at least not as far and fast as they needed to go.
‘We are summoned to Londinium, young Ferox,’ Crispinus had announced the morning after Rufus’ attack. ‘So it is a chance to see what passes for civilisation in this land.’
‘Do you really need me, my lord? I have work to do up here.’
‘Bad news?’ The aristocrat was immediately serious. ‘Is it that rogue Acco?’
Perhaps it was a lucky guess, but word had come of the old druid. ‘Yes, my lord.’ Ferox shrugged. ‘Probably. And of other signs of trouble to come.’
‘Well, that cannot be helped. My uncle, the noble legate, has sent for you.’ Crispinus was a small man and had to stand on tiptoe to grab the centurion by the shoulders. ‘Note that, Flavius Ferox. He has sent for you by name. One might have thought that his first instinct would be to ask for his nephew, a gallant, dashing young officer of great promise, who constantly displays wisdom beyond his years although no less than would be expected from someone of his distinguished ancestry.
‘No, centurion, this time it is not you coming along with me on the vague chance that you might be useful. I am tagging along with you, because this offers a splendid opportunity for seeing my uncle and enjoying his generous hospitality.’ He grinned, taking his hands away. ‘I am sure my uncle merely forgot to add this instruction to his order.’
‘Will II Augusta manage all this time without you, my lord?’ Ferox said, staring a few inches over the tribune’s head. Crispinus was the senior, senatorial tribune of the legion, his rank marked by the broad reddish band around his cuirass. The legion was stationed at Isca Silurum, back in the homeland of Ferox’s people, but since his arrival in Britannia more than two years ago, Crispinus had spent little time with his unit.
‘The Second Legion has managed for a hundred years before I arrived, and will no doubt continue to serve its emperor very loyally for a few more months even without my inspiring presence.’ The white-haired aristocrat smirked. ‘They have coped without your assistance for a great deal longer, have they not?’ Ferox had never served with the legion at all, except on a few occasions when he had fought alongside detachments sent to the north. No one had ever shown any enthusiasm for seeking his recall from detached service.
‘Well, Ferox, however you feel about it, you are ordered to Londinium and I intend to make sure that you arrive there swiftly and in one piece. Given recent events, that appears enough challenge for any man. Or may I take it that you have never spent enough time down south for anyone there to want to kill you! Sure it won’t take you long. So, this Rufus appears seeking vengeance, and simply rides onto the training field as bold as brass. Well, I suppose that is easy enough to do for a former soldier. You have been going there for days so it was a fair bet you would be there today. Surely a risk, though, coming back and hanging around in an inn when there could be soldiers who might recognise him, even with his beard shaved off, as you say. Why go to the trouble?’
‘I do not know, my lord.’
‘You provoke strong sentiment in others, even if it is not obvious why.’ The legate’s orders were brief, specific and included no explanation. ‘I believe it is not compulsory for the governor of a province to explain his actions at every stage,’ Crispinus had said when he showed Ferox the tablet containing the order. It was written by a cornicularius, and added that all military and civil authorities were instructed to assist the centurion and his party in their journey. ‘There you are, Ferox, it makes me one of “your” men’.
They set out the next morning, in a four-wheeled raeda borrowed from Oppius Niger, with a ten-man escort. Philo insisted that he could not ride in the carriage and was perched on a seat up on the roof, his back to the driver. Fewer men would have been beneath the dignity of a senior tribune, while many more would most likely have slowed them down. Vindex and one of his scouts were part of the escort, along with five Batavian troopers. Ferox had also asked for young Cocceius to join them, and the lad had been given a mount and told that if he did well he might be promoted to eques in the cohort. So far he seemed to be managing to handle the horse well enough. The last two members of the escort were the strangest, and each time he looked out of the carriage window, Ferox felt a moment of surprise. When Vindex had come back from Syracuse he had not come alone, but had brought an old friend. Gannascus was a German, a refugee from his homeland across the great grey sea, and now in the service of Tincommius, High King of the Venicones to the far north.
‘This big ox had come looking for you,’ Vindex explained. ‘Not sure they liked the look of him at Syracuse, but thought that if they shut the gate he’d only tear it down.’ Gannascus was a giant of a man, almost a head taller than Ferox, with huge limbs and hands that belied his quickness as a fighter. He had brought a papyrus written either by Tincommius, or probably one of his household, the Latin letters large and straight like an inscription rather than the flowing marks of a normal letter, assuring the Romans of his friendship and sending the warrior as proof.
‘I help you,’ he rumbled, after grabbing Ferox in a hug that almost crushed the life out of him. ‘My king sends me.’ Even after years with Tincommius the German spoke the language of the Britons slowly and with a thick accent. His companion was a warrior called Sepenestus, who would have been considered huge in any other company, and was clearly a man the big German trusted, although his slim face marked him as a Caledonian rather than a German. Apart from a gladius – perhaps one of the ones Crispinus had arranged to be supplied to the high king – and a small shield, he carried a tall bow of the sort used by some of Gannascus’ followers. Ferox had seen the force of the arrows shot by these weapons and was all the happier to have him, for the news in the king’s letter was worrying.
‘Acco has promised the end of Rome before Samhain comes next year,’ Ferox told Crispinus. ‘Fire will sweep Rome from Britannia and leave it free forever.’ The tribune was dismissive, for such prophecies were nothing new. For the moment he did not say anything about the rest of the king’s message, for he needed time to think, and that was hard with the tribune’s unending chat.
On the first day they went no further than Coria, Crispinus and Ferox dining with Brocchus, who greeted them with great warmth. ‘Shame about that poor fellow,’ was his only comment about Narcissus, save to conclude that it was a nasty business. Far more than Cerialis, he was clearly pining in the abse
nce of his wife. Ferox stayed in the praetorium, but no slave girl came to his room in a display of her owner’s hospitality and after the jolting ride he was quite happy with this. They kept talking about laying down a proper road over the existing track running west from Coria to Luguvallium, but no one had yet actually done anything.
From Coria they took the great south road, and progress was swifter, even though a fair few stretches had suffered from the weather and were in need of substantial repairs. On the second night they stopped at Longovicium, once a busy fort like Vindolanda, but now maintained by a holding unit. The centurion acting as commander was grudging of his hospitality until he realised who Crispinus was, after which he was transformed into unctuous attention.
Bremesio remained a busy fort surrounded by an extensive vicus, and the prefect in command was readier and far more generous with his hospitality, at least as far as the tribune was concerned. Ferox decided that no one would much mind if he took some exercise in the remaining hours of daylight.
‘You up for a ride?’
Vindex rolled his eyes. ‘Sits in a cart all day and now he wants to get on a horse. Do I get a choice?’
‘The usual. You know where we are?’
‘Yes.’ The tone was patient, since the question was such an obvious one.
‘Want to take a closer look?’
Vindex lifted the wheel of Taranis to his lips. ‘Aye, I do.’
Gannascus joined them as they went to the fort gate. ‘Too many people,’ was all he would say.
Ferox’s rank was sufficient to persuade the sentries to let them pass. He had donned his plumed helmet and was holding his vitis to make sure that no one could mistake him for anything else. ‘We will be back before sunset.’
Ferox was on an old gelding he knew to be well behaved and able to keep going all day. His thigh was still stiff at times, and after the jolting carriage ride, he decided to do without a saddle. Vindex merely shrugged.
‘Amazing how Silures think they can ride.’
They walked their horses through the settlement, still busy in the later afternoon.
‘Is this Rome?’ Gannascus asked.
‘No, brother, this place is tiny.’
‘The people are small,’ the big German conceded, ‘but there are a lot of them.’
Men were hard at work fixing the timbers to make a frame for a house near the bridge. A convoy of carts led by galearii, the slaves owned by the army, and a few tired and fed-up legionaries were approaching, so they urged their mounts to canter over the planking before it blocked their path. The slave leading the first cart had to hit the oxen and yell to stop them and let the riders past. A legionary screamed at the slave, cuffing him round the head until Ferox glared down. Once he had passed he just caught a string of muttered insults, but decided to ignore them.
There were only a few buildings on the south bank of the river and once they were past they left the road heading east into rolling hills. Ferox had a fair idea of where they were going. His horse, fresher than the others since it had not carried a rider all day, rushed at the first slope and he let it canter freely, heading for the marker at the top of the hill. As he reached it, the animal saw something it did not like in the grass and pulled to the side. Ferox slipped, knew his weight was dragging him down, so grabbed the mane and just managed to loop his left leg up so that he slid down to the ground almost under control.
Gannascus had a big grin, while Vindex simply nodded. ‘Guess you wanted a closer look?’
The figure was about four foot high, carved from dark oak and weathered by the years to be almost black. It was roughly human, with stubby arms and legs, and more obvious breasts and the V slit lower down. Such figures had marked the edge of clan and tribal lands for longer than anyone could remember. Some were truly ancient and over the years the carving faded as the wood rotted so that any detail was lost altogether. This one was newer, perhaps half a century old.
Ferox stared at it. They had come less than a mile from the road and yet he felt that the empire was fading away and they were walking into the old world. The Brigantes were the most northerly people to use such markers, keeping them a little away from the stamp of Rome, and it had been a while since he had seen one. He felt its draw, for these were more than simple statues, far more than the perfect yet somehow lifeless bronze and marble images beloved of Greeks and Romans alike. This had power, and he found his hand reaching forward.
‘Best not to touch, Silure,’ Vindex said with surprising sharpness. Ferox nodded and went over to the gelding.
‘Wooden tits not much use,’ Gannascus grumbled in a whisper that must have carried a hundred paces.
Ferox led them across the hilltop, down into a valley and up the other side, saw the willow trees by the bank of a stream and headed towards them. They found the stone monument on the far side of the water. It was on a little rise that may have been there forever or may have been crafted by hand. Three rusty spearheads were thrust into the earth around the stone, their shafts almost wholly rotted away apart from little stubs. Fresher were offerings, flowers, newly mown heads of wheat, eggs and little birds, their necks broken. The air was still and warm like a summer’s day, the murmur of the flowing brook fading to the very edge of sound.
The pillar was taller even than Gannascus, one of the most expensive tombstones made by a Roman mason anywhere in Britannia. On each of the narrow sides a tiny raven was carved, one with outstretched wings almost like the eagle of Jupiter and the other roosting. On the back was a larger carving of a broad oval with a short handle. The top was fringed with a curving pattern of lines and knots that seemed to cross over and through the oval. Ferox took a moment to see the shape of a mirror, and then could not understand why it had taken so long because it was obvious. On the front, in the very centre of the outlined rectangular panel prepared for a long inscription, was simply the letter C – Cartimandua, Queen of the Brigantes.
Hers had been a long life, coming to an end just seven years ago when she must have been almost eighty. She had been queen when Claudius sent the legions to Britannia and had from the start sought peace and become a loyal ally of Rome. Some called her wise and an oath keeper; others named her craven and traitor. The queen and her first husband never really got on. He was Venutius, the same war leader whose helmet and armour the freedman Vegetus had claimed to have found. There was trouble in Nero’s day when they argued and he led his warriors against her followers, attacking the Romans too when they came to help. Somehow there was a reconciliation and brief peace, until the queen took a second husband, a handsome lad from Venutius’ household. War broke out again, and once again she lost, until the legions intervened in real force. Cartimandua remained queen in name, although she was made to live in the south for many years, and the Brigantes were brought under the direct rule of the legate of Britannia. Venutius did peace a favour by falling from his horse while drunk and never waking up, and his followers never found another leader to unite them. They went back to bickering with each other, and it was easier to do that if they made friends with Rome so did not have to worry about the army turning up.
‘The Carvetii were always the queen’s folk, weren’t they?’ Ferox asked.
‘Aye. She was our high queen. Have more than once heard my chief say that Venutius was too clever a man to trust.’ That chief was also Vindex’s father, but his mother was simply a servant girl, and although he was treated with some favour he had never been acknowledged. It did not appear to bother him. ‘The queen was always there. You knew where you stood with her.’
Her name still commanded awe, and was rarely spoken aloud by the Brigantes or their kin. She was Goddess and witch, mother of life and carrion, one who peered into the souls of others to see their weakness and fear. Fifty years ago she had betrayed Caratacus, the greatest leader of the southern tribes in the war with Rome, handing him over as prisoner after she had given him hospitality. Caratacus was a great hero to the Silures, a friend of his grandfather, and
Ferox had come to know the old man during his years in Rome. It always surprised him that there was no bitterness. ‘You never met her,’ Caratacus said when he had dared to ask. ‘She was special. You felt like a little boy when you were with her. She just had that power. It would be like hating the moon for its beauty. She just was what she was.’
Ferox realised that he had shaken his head as he remembered the strange words. He turned to Vindex. ‘Did you ever see her?’
‘My ma always told me that I did,’ the scout said, his voice unusually sad and serious. ‘But when I asked she said that she lifted me up high to see over the crowd as the queen went past in her chariot. I must have been a bairn and I don’t remember a thing. Ma said she was very beautiful, with hair like shining autumn leaves.’
‘Is this a tomb?’ Gannascus’ deep voice broke in.
‘Yes and no,’ Ferox explained when Vindex obviously did not want to speak. The Brigantes were his close kin. ‘It is a place to remember. Her remains are not here, but some of her spirit and power lingers. She died near here.’
The German touched fingers to his lips, then his forehead and then bowed towards the pillar.
‘I should like to see the house,’ Vindex said. ‘If there is time.’
They rode away. It was more than two decades since any Brigantes had fought against Rome and some like their high queen had always been friends. Yet they remained a people apart from the rest of the province, the old ways and old pride just beneath the surface. In her last years the Legate Agricola had allowed Cartimandua to return to live among her people and she had chosen this place. It was a few miles from the great dun where she had held court in the days of glory and wealth, the ramparts now overgrown and only a few small farms dotted around the inside. They had built a home for her here, close enough to Bremesio to be protected by the garrison if need be. As they came over the next rise they saw it, just below them on the flat land where the brook flowed into a larger branch of the river.
Brigantia Page 7
