Brigantia

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Tread lightly, lady, and where I point. First tread in the prints.’

  Enica glared at him with the assurance of a noblewoman who gave rather than received orders. Then she obeyed. Although wider than before, the passage was still little more than two feet broad so that she would have to squeeze along. Enica was just behind him now. She thrust his sword into the earth so that he could take it back when ready.

  ‘Step high, and watch my hand.’ He half expected another joke, but there was none and the lady did as she was told. The torch was in front of him, over the cord and he waved it until Enica nodded to show that she had seen the danger. He arched his hand over to point to where she must tread. She was close, the hem of her tunic brushing against his face. Her hands held her two swords up high to stop them snagging, and she lifted her leg up and across to plant it firmly beyond the cord. So close, it was hard not to admire her legs and Ferox had to bite back a comment. He must have spent too much time with Vindex.

  ‘Now very carefully,’ he said, and gently touched her other leg. She shivered, and that surprised him, but they both needed to concentrate. Foolish though it sounded, it was so easy to set off a trap like this by relaxing too soon. Enica stepped forward and he steered her other leg across, pushing a little so that she kept it higher for just a little longer. ‘There,’ he said. A moment later he took his hand away. The air was growing thicker, and she coughed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I would have walked into this.’

  Ferox retrieved his sword and with great care stepped over the cord. On the wall around the corner was a heavy frame of wood mounting long spikes. He saw ropes and guessed the cord was connected to them, intended to shift the big stone used as a counterweight and swing out with force to strike anyone in the passage. Although it looked old, someone had taken care to repair it and he had little doubt that it would have worked.

  It was getting harder to breathe and the air felt thick. The dripping was louder, almost like voices coming from the rows of skulls set into both walls. Ferox blinked. It was getting harder to see clearly, as if they were walking through a cloud. He went in front, searching the ground, but raising the torch to look at the walls and ceiling as well. The floor was once again a mass of prints, which was encouraging. The passage wound and twisted, and they turned sharp corners, going slowly and carefully. He started to feel that the skulls were mocking him. They must have passed hundreds of them by now and the power of this place was growing so great that he feared it would crush him.

  There was light ahead, and as they came closer he saw faint clouds of vapour drifting in it. The stench was overwhelming and he wondered whether he would ever be free of the taste. Enica stumbled beside him, and when he lifted her he swayed.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, her words slurred. She pushed him aside and rushed towards the light.

  ‘Wait!’ Ferox wanted to shout, but it came out as a croak. He went after her, almost panicking because he feared she would vanish. The skulls laughed louder. He ran, and then burst into a large chamber, with doors opening in the walls and a floor made from little stones pressed into the earth. In the centre a fire burned, giving off the vapour. Enica was on her knees in front of it, panting hard. As he came in the smoke almost choked him. He staggered, but pushed on and dropped the torch to grab her by the shoulder, dragging her away from the fire. It felt cooler to the side, the air clearer, and although she tried to push him away, he pulled her hard, sliding her across the floor until they were both on the far side. Then he fell beside her, struggling for breath. The air was fresher and he managed to push himself up on his arms.

  The old man moaned. There were manacles on his arms and a slave chain around his neck, although neither were really needed. He was naked apart from a dirty loin cloth, and had no feet, just stumps, the wounds clumsily closed with fire not long ago. Ferox stared at him for a long time, his thoughts grinding slowly and with difficulty into place at first. The old man did not look back, because his eyes were gone, the wounds older than those on his legs. There were scars all over his face, body and limbs, some fresh and some healed.

  ‘Who are you?’ Enica gasped.

  The old man muttered something that did not sound like words. Ferox managed to stand. His mind was clearing. When they had opened the trapdoor the raught had sucked the smoke from whatever was burning down along the passage. Now he was behind the fire he was breathing more easily. Beyond the fire, laid out in a circle around the tortured man, were objects. There was a cauldron, its sides decorated with scenes of war and sacrifice, and a spear lying on the ground to point at the man. Next to it was a skull, then a torc, a shield, a mirror and a helmet placed on top of a scale cuirass. Above them all, set in the wall, was a stone carved so that the three projecting sides each had a face. The Treasures of Britannia, and as the memory came he realised who the old man was.

  ‘Prasto?’ he asked.

  The man stirred, making an odd gurgling sound.

  ‘Well done, centurion.’ Domitius came out of one of the inner chambers. Ferox blinked because he had not expected the trader. ‘It is indeed what is left of the druid who joined the Romans. Well, the one who did it openly, at least. But he cannot answer, because he has no tongue any more.’

  Ferox picked up his sword, but as he leaned forward his head started to swim again. Standing straight, he went for the man until his knees gave way beneath him.

  Domitius laughed. ‘It will take a while for you to recover.’

  A scream echoed from behind them down the passage and the merchant laughed again. ‘It seems we shall soon welcome our other guests.’

  The smell was less strong here, and then another stale odour replaced it, as a scruffy little dog trotted out to stand by the merchant’s feet. Ferox stared at the animal as he began to realise what a fool he had been.

  Domitius did not appear to move, and yet somehow his face and posture were different. Acco laughed. ‘Welcome, prince of the Silures. Welcome, princess and queen of the Brigantes. You are both most welcome.’ There was a flint knife in his hand. He strode past Ferox, ignoring a feeble attempt to stop him, and entered the circle. Four warriors appeared. One was small and wiry with dirty red hair, carrying a torch in one hand and a club in the other. The others were not local, for they were taller, their hair stiffened into spikes with lime and their faces and bare torsos covered in tattoos. Two went to the cauldron, lifted it with some effort and then poured out water over the fire, which hissed and threw up a last thick plume of smoke.

  The other two went to Ferox and one was carrying manacles like the ones binding Prasto’s arms. He scrabbled for his sword until they kicked it out of his reach. Then they kicked him twice, knocking him down as he tried to rise. He rolled away, and as he lay on his chest a boot pressed hard down onto his back. His arms were wrenched back behind him, making him grunt with pain. He felt the weight of the manacles and heard the snaps as they closed shut. The man standing on him pressed down harder, grinding his face into the floor.

  ‘Enough!’ Acco barked, and the boot was lifted away. Ferox struggled to breathe. Beside him he saw that Enica was trying to sit up, but her limbs lacked strength and she kept slipping. A warrior appeared on either side of her and she was dragged to her feet, arms pinned behind her back. Her belt was unclasped and it and the two swords clattered onto the floor.

  ‘Sit him up.’ Ferox was turned over and then lifted. His head was clearing and it was getting easier to see and think again. Enica’s head kept nodding and her eyes blinked again and again. She did little to resist when one of the men produced a rope and tied her hands behind her back. The same man then tied Ferox’s ankles together.

  ‘You must think I am very dangerous,’ he croaked. The warrior ignored him.

  Acco knelt beside the blinded and mutilated Prasto. ‘Did you ever think that you could escape punishment? Was it just jealousy?’ He spoke softly, his tone was that of a parent disappointed in a child who kept on failing. ‘You know it was not, don’t y
ou? This was your fate. You just thought that you were being clever. Yet for all your wealth you were never free, for in the end you had to suffer. You know that, don’t you? You cannot betray the gods and escape. This is merely the start, for the curse will follow your soul in the Otherworld. Sightless and footless, you will crawl along and all will know what you did.’

  The druid stood up, knife ready. There was a shout and one of the Brigantes leaped into the chamber. He carried no shield, but his slim spatha was held low, ready to thrust. Arviragus came behind him, blood spattered on his face.

  ‘Stay!’ he shouted. He lifted his own sword, as his eyes flicked around the chamber. Crispinus came next. A warrior held a blade to Enica’s neck and the men went still.

  ‘It is true,’ the prince said, staring at the circle of objects.

  Acco ran his hand through the old man’s thin and dirty hair, the gesture surprisingly tender. He neither looked up nor answered the prince. His fingers touched the empty eye sockets and the scars on the man’s face.

  ‘Drop your swords!’ Arviragus shouted. None of the warriors moved.

  ‘Your story in this world is over,’ the druid said to Prasto, and cut his throat. Blood gushed. For all his wounds the old man still had plenty and it splashed over him and onto the floor. His mouth opened and closed without sound, until he slumped down.

  At last Acco deigned to notice the new arrivals. ‘You are welcome here, prince of the Brigantes.’

  Arviragus took a step forward, pushing past his guard. ‘Tell your warriors to lay down their arms.’ Another Brigantian trooper came into the chamber, with Cocceius following. The lad’s eyes were wide with fear, but Ferox felt it was the Brigantes who were even more nervous, fearing Acco and his power.

  ‘That is not necessary.’ The druid wiped the flint knife on his clothes and tucked it into his belt. ‘Neither is that.’ He nodded to the warrior threatening Claudia Enica. The man lowered his sword. ‘You have no power here to match mine.’

  ‘We have five swords.’ Crispinus did not sound confident. ‘Even if you slay us you will pay a high price.’ He spoke in the language of the tribes, the words slow, but clear enough.

  ‘You do not understand, Roman.’ Acco’s soft voice somehow carried around the chamber more powerfully than anyone else’s. ‘But let me speak in a way you will understand.’ He had switched to Latin. ‘There are thirty warriors outside. I am guessing you saw them and that is how you found the courage to follow these two.’ He gestured at Enica and Ferox. ‘That is what you will think at least. For the truth is that I summoned you all. You know this, do you not, prince?’

  ‘Ferox, is there another way out?’ the tribune asked.

  ‘I do not think so.’ Ferox’s throat felt thick and it was difficult to talk. The draught had taken the fumes up the tunnel, which meant that it was the only way in, unless another door was sealed tight. He had seen no sign of another entrance when he had searched above the mound.

  Acco paid them no attention, and instead walked towards the Romans. ‘Come, prince. I have what I need. Will you take what you want and go? The warriors outside will not hinder you unless I order it.’

  Arviragus sheathed his sword.

  ‘Can you trust him?’ Crispinus’ whisper came out louder than he had intended.

  The druid spun around slowly, waving his hand around the circle, then turned and walked away. Arviragus licked his lips and took a pace towards it. ‘This is why we came,’ he said. The next step was a little more confident. He rubbed his hands together nervously.

  ‘You may make two choices, prince,’ Acco said. ‘Just as we agreed.’

  Enica frowned, her thoughts still clouded. ‘What is he saying?’

  Her brother stared at the circle of objects and did not even glance towards her. ‘It is meant to be. There is no other way.’ He knelt beside the helmet and cuirass. For a moment he hesitated, then he touched them with the tenderness of a lover. He smiled and lifted them. ‘Take these,’ he told the nearest of his guards.

  ‘One more, prince. Two souls for two things. That is the bargain.’

  ‘What?’ Enica almost spat out the word. ‘What have you done, brother?’ Ferox guessed that he and the lady were the druid’s price.

  Still he did not face her. ‘It is the price of glory.’ For a while he held his hand over the mirror, until he shook his head. Next he stared for a long time at the neatly folded cloak of Claudius and Alexander. ‘No,’ he said in the end. ‘It must be this.’ No longer hesitant he strode over and snatched the torc of Caratacus and the high kings of the south.

  ‘So be it.’ Acco almost shouted the words and they echoed around the chamber.

  ‘Have I been wise?’ Arviragus asked as the sounds died away.

  ‘That is for you to discover. Now you must leave. You will not be harmed.’

  ‘What about them?’ Crispinus asked. ‘My centurion and the lady should come with us.’

  Acco said nothing.

  ‘They stay,’ Arviragus said after a moment. ‘Let us go quickly.’

  Acco nodded to the small warrior. ‘He will guide you and see that you come to no harm. Leave and live with your choices.’

  The prince frowned. He was holding the torc and bent it back so that he could slip it around his neck. He swelled visibly as if it gave him strength. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘We can’t leave them.’ Cocceius stood in the doorway and raised his sword. ‘They must come with us, sir. They just must.’ The lad sounded confused, but very determined.

  ‘Out of my way, boy!’ Arviragus yelled.

  Crispinus shrugged. ‘Best obey, lad. Or we all die.’

  ‘It’s wrong, sir, and you know it.’ The young soldier sounded surprised at his own defiance.

  Arviragus half turned back. ‘What do you think, my Lord Crispinus?’ Suddenly he plucked a sword from one of the guards, shifted his hand onto the grip and drove it into the lad’s belly, grabbing him by the shoulder to pull him further onto the blade. Cocceius was wide-eyed in surprise, gasping, but the prince merely threw him down. He ripped the sword free and stabbed down again. Cocceius went still. ‘Come on,’ the prince said, tossing the bloodied blade back to his guard.

  Acco laughed softly. ‘Blood of king, blood of queen,’ he whispered as they left. Crispinus turned as if he had heard. ‘Do you remember those words, Flavius Ferox? The one who said them was wrong and yet right for the hour has come. Rest a while, before you both set out on a new path.’

  Again the druid laughed.

  XXII

  ‘What are you doing?’ Claudia Enica’s voice broke the long silence, even though she spoke in a whisper. They were in one of the side rooms off the main chamber, the roof so low that Ferox felt his hair brushing the stones if ever he sat up straight. He could see nothing at all, for without any light they were surrounded by a blackness deeper than any night.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she repeated, her tone angry. They had been placed on the damp floor, back to back and a little apart, before Acco’s men left and took the torch with them. Ferox had listened for what seemed a long while until he was sure they had gone, before sitting up and shuffling towards her. There was no way to unlock the manacles, but they allowed him a little freedom to move his hands and he wondered whether he could untie Enica’s wrists. His fingers felt smooth warm skin. She shuddered, saying nothing at first, and he eased along, pushing up the hem of her tunic until he found a knot. It felt too small, although maybe that was because his fingers were clumsy.

  ‘Trying to get us free,’ he whispered.

  ‘Huh!’ No one could express disgust quite like the Brigantes. To display the same passion as a Roman Claudia would have had to spit on the floor in public. She was silent for a moment. ‘Would you like me to bring my arms to your hands?’

  Ferox remembered the slim thongs tying the young woman’s little bathing pants. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘So are you planning on taking your hands off my arse?’

  ‘S
orry.’ Ferox drew back and with some wriggling Enica thrust her tied arms so that they brushed against his hands. He searched for the knot, found something much larger and felt for an end to the cord.

  ‘Can you tell the difference now?’

  ‘I am sorry.’ There was a piece of rope sticking out of the knot, but it was so tight that at first he could not move it at all.

  ‘Does he mean to kill us?’ Enica asked. ‘The talk of blood was not encouraging. Though I am not yet a queen and you are certainly not a king.’

  ‘Silures don’t have kings. Not really. And I am just a centurion.’

  ‘My brother means to be king. And more in time. He sees his road leading to the Senate and even beyond to the imperial purple. Acco appeared when he was born, or so he claims. Grandmother would not have wanted him, but she was ill, and father always sought to learn about the future. My brother claims that the druid said his destiny was to rise like a burning star in the night sky, climbing higher than any of his ancestors. Big brother believes that includes Caesar himself.’ She shifted slightly and Ferox wondered whether she was shaking her head. ‘He is not very bright. Takes after father.’

  ‘Acco told me that it is my destiny to kill him.’

  She chuckled. ‘Well, it might help us out. He does mean to kill us, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Probably.’ Blood of king, blood of queen. The Stallion and his men had chanted the phrase and used it in their incantations, planning to make a royal sacrifice on Samhain two years ago. ‘Did Lepidina tell you about the attempts to abduct her?’ Her husband was a king of the Batavians as well as prefect of Rome, which meant that the priest had considered her to be a queen. Ferox had managed to protect her, but had failed to save Vegetus’ wife who was mistakenly taken instead.

  ‘A little. Thank you for not hiding the truth.’ She chuckled again, and soon the chuckle became a laugh. ‘Poor brother, he thinks he has the armour of our grandfather.’