The rain was a lot worse by the time he was back up on the roof, and he slipped a couple of times on the shingles as he made his way all along the row of buildings. Each warehouse pretty much butted onto the next, so only once did he have to make another leap. The one he wanted was almost at the far end, and once he was close he could see the crane sticking out from its wall. According to the slave, all he had to do was lower himself off the roof, swing and grab onto the crane, turn and then use one foot to lift the catch closing the loading door, hook it around the edge, open the door and swing in. The man claimed to have done it a fair few times on business of his mistress. Ferox thought it better not to ask what such business might have been, neither did he ask if the fellow had ever done it in this sort of weather.
He wiped the rain out of his eyes. The alley was a good twenty-five feet below so he might not be killed outright if he missed his jump and fell. Someone had left a cart full of hay that must be getting very wet, but selfishly they had left it too far for him to reach if it went wrong.
Ferox jumped, for an instant thought he would be too short, then the crane was there and he grabbed it, body complaining of this fresh mistreatment. Whether the catch was stiff or his feet in his boots less agile than the slave’s, it took a while to get the doors open. Finally he was inside, on an almost empty platform covering two-thirds of the space in the building. There was the dim light of a lamp from down below. Closing the door behind him as gently as he could, he waited. There was a series of muffled greetings. No one sounded agitated, so he lay down and crawled towards the edge.
‘I’m sure I was followed,’ a voice said. It was faint, and he had to strain to catch the words.
‘Imagination. They may be suspicious, but they can know nothing for certain.’ The second voice sounded more excited than afraid, and clearly had no fondness for his companion. ‘At least, as long as all of us remain true to our oath.’
‘For my part. I cannot speak of the others.’ The first voice sounded even more nervous.
A door opened. There were greetings, too low to catch, and Ferox doubted any names were used, but at least two more conspirators had arrived.
‘What news?’ It was the first man again, and his voice cracked as he spoke, so that he had to repeat his words. ‘What news?’
‘Matters are going well, my lords.’ That was Domitius, no doubt about it, and sounding mightily pleased with himself.
‘The centurion escaped.’ This was a new voice, brusque and sounding vaguely familiar. Ferox edged a little closer, wondering whether he would be able to see over the edge without them noticing.
‘A small matter. He is of no consequence.’
‘Indeed.’
‘But surely he may find out?’ It was the first voice again. ‘We are taking too many risks. To kill him was bad enough, but to botch it… Unforgivable.’
There was silence and Ferox imagined the cold stare before Domitius replied. ‘The risks were always there, but the prize is almost within our grasp. The fires worried people. The fall of the statue frightened them. Tomorrow we shall terrify them. It is the same in the other towns and cities.’
‘So you say.’ The second man did not sound convinced. ‘How can we know?’
‘I know,’ the brusque one cut in. ‘I get regular reports from all over the province. That at least is working. Everyone talks of bad omens and trouble coming.’
‘But the legate must realise this is not chance.’ The nervous man was almost pleading for his fears to be confirmed.
‘Perhaps, perhaps not, but what can he do about it?’ Ferox almost snapped his fingers as he realised that the brusque voice was the procurator. ‘No one has broken their faith, so our secret is safe. If not, I would know and I would not be here – or if I was it would only be to make sure none of you ever left this building.’ Ferox could imagine the face jutting forward, the pale eyes glaring around as the threat was made. ‘Most of our august governor’s officers have shit for brains. Even if they are suspicious they would not know what to do.’
‘Well, we have people frightened.’ Ferox wondered whether the second man glanced at the first as he spoke. ‘That is something, but will not matter if the risings do not occur. Will they?’
‘As soon as the word is sent,’ Domitius answered. ‘It is almost time.’
‘And who will rise?’ Cornelius Fuscus was as rude as ever. ‘They must know the cost of failure.’
‘There are men in half the tribes of the south,’ Domitius declared. ‘Among the Durotriges, Dobuni, Atrebates and Corietauvi. Others will join soon enough if it prospers, from the Catuvellauni, and even the Iceni.’
‘What of the western peoples?’ the second man cut in. ‘The Silures and Ordovices have been peaceful for less time than all of those others.’
‘Your answer?’ Fuscus demanded when no reply came.
‘The Silures will never follow anyone else’s lead. Who knows what they will do?’ Ferox smiled with pride at this judgement on his kin, and with some relief for he was glad they were not involved. ‘The Ordovices are still cowed by defeat, and their chieftains not bold enough to have run up the debts that make so many others eager for change. They are a little people, of no account.’ Ferox knew he was grinning broadly. The Silures held their northern neighbours and traditional enemies in contempt.
Fuscus did not sound impressed. ‘You mention many tribes, but not the one we all know matters the most.’
‘The Brigantes will rise.’ Domitius remained unruffled. ‘Some of them at first, and then more and more. You have sent the grain?’
‘Yes, Two-thirds lies in ships already within the mouth of the Abus. The rest is travelling north, or already stored in villas and towns. I am still waiting for full payment.’ The first man’s voice did not squeak when he spoke of money.
Ferox reached the edge of the floor. The conspirators were closer than he expected, little more than eight feet below. They stood in a circle, only heads visible behind ranks of big amphorae. He saw Fuscus nod to Domitius.
‘You will be paid in full by sunset tomorrow,’ the merchant said.
A sturdy, broad-shouldered man with a thick black beard nodded. Ferox had not expected the nervous one to look like this.
‘Who will lead the Brigantes?’ Fuscus demanded. ‘That is still uncertain, and…’ They all went silent and heads snapped around as they heard a door open. There was a whistle, obviously a signal, and they relaxed.
‘He is here then,’ Fuscus said. He shook his head. ‘Shit for brains, all of them.’
Ferox craned to see the new arrival, saw the hooded figure, then someone was shouting and the bearded man was pointing.
‘There! Upstairs!’ Ferox just glimpsed the new arrival, saw the hood of his cloak fall back as he was startled, then he pushed himself to his feet and ran for the loading door. As he reached it, he heard someone pounding up the rungs of the ladder. The door came open and he leaped for the arm of the crane, narrowly missing hitting his head on a heavy wooden block hanging just underneath.
‘Kill him!’ That sounded like Fuscus.
Ferox got one elbow on top of the arm, hauled and swung until he managed to get onto it. Someone grabbed at his foot and he stamped back as hard as he could.
‘Bastard!’ the man hissed.
Ferox was up, facing the wrong way, and the crane juddered as a man jumped out, missing the arm, but grabbing onto the dangling rope. Rather than try to turn, Ferox leaped across the alleyway, saw the roof opposite coming at him, knew he was low and then his waist slammed into the edge of the curved tiles. He grabbed, felt one loose tile give way and fall to shatter noisily below, but his other hand fastened around the ridged top of another tile. The rain was driving down, soaking through his tunic and breeches, and the baked clay slippery. His fingers closed around a higher tile and he pulled. This time the tile held and he climbed, swung up one leg, slipped, swung again and this time gripped. There were cuts on his hands, and even more bruises, but he was up and ri
sked a glance behind. The man who had caught the rope was struggling to get up onto the arm of the crane. Another man, the bearded merchant who was supplying the rebels with grain, was in the doorway, a wild look in his eyes.
Leaning, one hand often pressed against the sloping roof, Ferox started to work his way along, heading back towards the brothel. That must be four buildings away at least. His pursuer was up on the crane. With hair so close cropped he was almost bald, he was not one of the main conspirators so presumably was a bodyguard or servant. He wore a drab tunic, closed boots and had a knife tucked into his belt.
‘Go on!’ shouted the merchant. The other one looked back, then at the gap and hesitated for only a moment. He took two steps along the top of the crane and flung himself across, landing higher than Ferox, and hardly slipped at all. Behind him the merchant leaped and grabbed onto the rope.
The next building was higher by a good few feet, and Ferox managed to haul himself up, helped because this too had ridged tiles and they were easier to grip. By the time he was up the merchant was on the arm of the crane and jumped. He landed badly, scrabbling for a hold until the slave steadied him.
Ferox worked his way along and went higher up the roof, wanting to have a good chance of stopping his fall should he slip. He reached the top, felt around and found what he wanted so stopped, sitting astride the apex. Two of the tiles were loose, and one had a crack he could feel. He got the tips of his fingers underneath the first, prised it up and propped it against his thigh. The next one broke apart as he worked at it, and left him with two handier sized chunks.
‘There he is!’ The merchant’s voice cracked again as he pointed. He and the slave were peering over the edge of the roof. Perhaps the slave was surprised to see their quarry waiting for them, and it was the master who first climbed up, working his way across and upwards, using his hands just like Ferox had done. The slave followed, going slowly and carefully as the rain hammered down even heavier than before.
Ferox waited until he was four or five paces away and threw the first lump of tile. It was about the size of his hand, and a clumsy missile that flew past the merchant’s shoulder. He ducked, slipped a few inches and recovered just as the second fragment, almost as big as the first and more pointed, struck him in the face. If he gasped the noise was lost in the rain, and the involuntary jerk as his head snapped back unbalanced him and he was falling, sliding across the tiles. The slave was reaching for him, mouth wide in a noiseless cry, but he was too far away and the bearded man shot down and vanished over the lip of the roof.
‘You don’t have to die!’ Ferox shouted, trying to be heard over the rain.
The slave did not hear him or did not care, and advanced steadily, now coming as straight as he could towards the perched centurion.
‘I’ll see you’re well treated.’ Still the man came on, saying nothing. Ferox tried to grab another fragment of tile, but the only one that came away was too small to be of use. He lifted the whole piece and slammed it down on the beam underneath. It refused to break. Taking it with both hands, he hurled it at the oncoming slave. The man flung himself upwards, gripping the top of the roof as it flew past, smashing impressively when it landed, and breaking some of the tiles there. His knife must have slipped, for it rolled down until it too dropped into the alley.
‘What is your name?’ Ferox was trying to loosen the closest tiles. He wondered about attacking while the slave was scrabbling up, but did not trust the slippery tiles and still hoped to make the man give in, so that he could at least find out his master’s name. ‘I can help you.’
The slave was on the apex and he stood, his balance impressive on the narrow ridge covering the edges of the tiles. He started walking forward, arms out on either side for balance, going faster and faster. Ferox crouched down, hunching his back, his left arm protectively in front and the right poised to punch. He knew the timing would be crucial, and he still could not believe that the man had not fallen, then the slave hurled himself at the Roman, his arms out in front ready to grab. Ferox punched, felt a good blow connect with the side of the man’s neck, but his weight bore him on and they were both falling, rolling over and over as they sped towards the plunge down. Tiles came loose and slipped away as the struggling men struck them. Ferox butted hard with his head and the man’s grip loosened, then they were at the edge and he just managed to close his fingers around the ridge of a tile, then grasp the top of another, standing proud because the one above had slid away. He jerked to a halt, belly pressed against the edge of the roof, and an awful weight around his legs as the slave clung on. Ferox kicked, and writhed, trying to loosen the hold. The rain helped, for his trousers were soaking and he felt the grip slide down, until the man was hanging with both hands around one of his feet. He slammed the other boot down, felt the impact as the hobnailed sole smashed into the slave’s head. With a wrench that felt as if his other foot was being yanked off, the left boot snapped apart and suddenly the weight was gone. He was not sure whether he imagined the thump of the slave hitting the floor of the alley.
Breathing hard, he managed to get back up onto the roof. He could dimly see two dark shapes down below and neither was moving. There was no sign of anyone else. Much to his surprise, he realised he still had his sock on, and the wool tore several times as he made his way along the roofs. The slave was waiting for him at the hatch in the roof of the brothel. Once again, his face betrayed no surprise even when Ferox climbed inside, lacking a boot, drenched to the skin, and his face scratched and fingers showing numerous cuts. The slave led him down, and then others tended to him and provided him with dry clothes and a pair of shoes, roughly his size. Once he had his weapons on again and a cloak around him, he was ready to leave, profusely thanking the proprietor of the establishment.
‘I didn’t do it for you,’ she said. ‘I just owe Flora. Sure you are not stopping? This is the best in town. No? Please yourself.’
The rain had stopped, but the cloud was thick and the night dark. Ferox wondered about going back and asking for a lantern and then decided against it. Both men still lay in the alley, but someone was stooping over the merchant. It was hard to see, but the figure was not big and when it stood he saw the sweep of long hair. The woman saw him and ran. Without thinking, he gave chase. There was a little light spilled from the badly closed shutters of a bar in the next street and her shape was obvious in the short tunic and high boots – the same worn by the woman gladiator. He could only see the back of her head, but she had long hair that looked dark in this light. She was also fast, and he was not gaining. She swerved into an alley, and he followed, but once inside it was so dark he could no longer see her. There was a noise behind him and he turned too slowly. Something slammed into the back of his head and he felt the vomit coming as he dropped. Then there was only darkness.
XIV
Ferox opened his eyes and still saw nothing, for there was a bindfold tied fast around his face. He was lying on his side, hands pulled hard behind his back and held there, his feet bound together. His cloak had gone, so had his weapons and belt. The floor was wood, so he was indoors and it did not feel very different from the floors of the warehouses he had been in earlier. It felt as if he was in a small room, but whether that was true or he was among stacked goods was hard to say. There was a faint smell of beer and decaying fruit.
The back of his head throbbed and his mouth was full of bile. Memories came back and he could not believe his own stupidity. No one had known where he had gone even before he went chasing fleeing women down dark alleyways. He ought at least to have sent word to Vindex before he went charging off. The scout was a decent enough tracker out in the wilds, but it was too much to hope that he would somehow scent danger and come to the rescue. If he did he would laugh his head off at the thought of his friend being lured into a trap by a woman.
Ferox tried to move his hands, seeing if the knots were loose, and failed. His legs were just as securely bound and there was nothing left to do but wait for whatever fa
te his captors had in store. The woman had been a fleeting shape in the night and although he was sure it was the one from the arena that did not much help. Probably she served Domitius, and perhaps a woman was a useful killer because few would suspect danger until it was too late. The bearded merchant had not died in the fall and someone, presumably the woman who had been bending over him, had slit his throat. The smell of the blood had been strong and fresh as he had run past in chase.
Ferox had not cared for Cornelius Fuscus. In truth his feelings towards senior officials mattered very little in the great sweep of things and there were plenty in the emperor’s service who seemed cruel, dishonest and half-witted, and often all of those things. It was still a shock to know that someone so highly placed was encouraging rebellion, presumably in the hope that the resulting chaos would discredit the emperor and help another to seize power. That must be the goal, not throwing off the rule of Rome, and he wondered whether the chieftains among the tribes understood this or were being used.
The Romans would win in the end. Even if the garrison of the province was defeated, more legions would come and in the end the Romans would crush all those who stood against them. Before the inevitable end there would be death and destruction, perhaps as bad as in the days of Boudicca, and the coldness with which the conspirators had spoken of this provoked a deep anger. It would have been useful to talk to the merchant, but he felt no regret about the man’s death. He had served his purpose, and was badly injured, so his throat had been slit to prevent him talking. That was a small cruelty compared to what would happen if the conspirators raised their rebellion.
Brigantia Page 16
