‘And the pig Vindex beside him.’
They were too far away to make much out. Both were tall men by the look of it, even compared to the long-limbed Britons who made up half of the patrol. They must have been higher up the valley, which meant that it had been right to stay in the trees and walk rather than ride. The Briton had resented that, saying that it was easy to ride amid a forest like this, but had obeyed. He was being tested and he knew it. If Ivonercus ever wanted to be more than just a soldier for Decebalus then he needed to demonstrate that he was useful in other ways. So Brasus had brought him to help scout the Roman fort at Piroboridava – and brought two of his most trusted warriors along just to be sure. Fifty more men were waiting back at the tower and soon there might be more. The walls were to be rebuilt and the king’s presence in these lands restored. There was a plan. Brasus knew a little of it, and understood that the king wanted to learn more before he gave orders. The time was not yet right, but the first preparations were under way.
‘How many men does he command?’
Ivonercus showed a flash of anger. ‘As I have told you before, between five and six hundred. Maybe a quarter cavalry. Half of the rest are legionaries.’
‘You do not remember more?’
‘How can I? As I have said again and again, I never reached the fort. We tried to kill Ferox outside, but failed and I escaped with my servant.’
‘Ah yes, your servant.’ Brasus wondered whether that was true, as the men seemed very familiar with each other. The Britons said that this was from hard labour together in the mines and the custom of his folk. They had left the man behind at the tower and he would be killed if they did not all return. Ivonercus knew this and if he did not understand the words he must also have appreciated the sense of Brasus’ orders to the warriors with them. ‘Kill him if he does anything suspicious. Anything at all. A wrong look, a wrong gesture, and this Briton dies. He can be useful to us, but this is all too important to risk discovery. One day we will fight, perhaps here. That is not today. Today we are the eyes and ears of the king.’ He had regretted the phrase immediately. Yet this was his duty. Fate or calculation would guide Decebalus, and his part was simply to obey and live or die as one of the faithful should.
‘So tell me again about this Ferox.’ The Roman patrol was heading down towards the bridge and the fort. Brasus could see a cluster of houses and buildings outside the walls, and one big one almost beside the river. He had seen something similar at Sarmizegethusa where the Romans had a garrison outside the walls of the king’s fortress. That one was even bigger and fires were stoked all the time so that the Romans could pamper themselves with baths. Odd how a people who neglected their souls wished to scrub their bodies.
‘He is one of the Silures,’ Ivonercus said the name as if it should mean something. ‘The wolf people, the cruel people. One of their royal house, though they do not have kings. When his tribe was beaten by the Romans they took him and raised him in their ways. He has been Roman longer than he was a Silure, but the wolf still lurks in his soul.’ Ivonercus’ Latin was good, in spite of his thick accent, and they had found this the easiest way to speak. The Briton knew no more than a word or two of Greek.
‘Wolves hunt in packs,’ Brasus said. He was studying the fort as best he could from this distance. The ramparts were earth and timber, the towers quite high – with the highest over the main gates – but after the Roman fashion they were set back into the walls. Outside was a double line of ditches, and though he could not see them there were bound to be the usual traps and stakes. All in all it was like most Roman forts he had seen – not laid out with cunning, not impossible to take, but not easy either. He could see no spot obviously weaker than the rest. The fort was quite big, especially for six hundred men and that would stretch the defenders thin.
‘Mostly,’ Ivonercus conceded. ‘Ferox is like the lone wolf, and they are dangerous. He is a ferocious and merciless fighter. He will not give in, even if the cause is lost, so that you must wonder whether he despairs of life. They say he had everything and yet threw it away because he does not value life or happiness. The queen…’
Brasus grabbed the Briton’s arm to silence him, although the man had already stopped in mid flow. One of the warriors had hissed a warning and they waited and listened. There were steps approaching.
Ivonercus had not spoken like this before, and part of Brasus wanted to know more. If the man had been speaking his true thoughts then it did not matter. Ferox was beginning to sound interesting. Perhaps he was one of the creatures who was different. Not a pure man, since that could not be, but a stranger who sensed or by chance followed something of the right path. That would not matter to the king, who would only care that this was a commander who would fight hard and by the sound of it skilfully. So be it. Such knowledge might change the way things were done rather than the plan itself. Brasus was beginning to think that it could work.
There was the sound of a man singing softly, his rather nasal voice wandering either side of a tune that was as old as the hills. One of the warriors smiled, for it sounded like one of the Getae.
Brasus drew his curved dagger and showed it to the warrior. The smile died, but the man nodded in understanding. They knew the instructions. If the wanderer did not find them then he was free to pass. Even seeing their tracks would not matter. Yet if he saw warriors, men he would guess were men serving the king, then he must die. The folk in this valley had sometimes been loyal and sometimes not. He might tell the Romans deliberately or by accident and for the moment the secret needed to be kept.
The warrior crept until he was leaning against the thick trunk of a beech tree. His own knife was in his hand.
Brasus looked again at the fort and wondered about this Ferox and wondered about the queen the Briton had mentioned. He sensed that Ivonercus regretted speaking of her and doubted that he would willingly tell more. The queen must be the sister of the king the man had served and Ferox had killed. The Briton had rarely mentioned her, and only ever with awe, perhaps fear, as if it was unlucky to speak of the royal house.
The singing faded, getting further and further away. Brasus kept them there for a long while, but they heard no more of the wanderer. Night was falling.
‘It’s time to go,’ he said.
VII
Piroboridava
Second day after the Kalends of April
THE STORY WAS simple enough. Manius Sertorius Festus had walked over to the parade ground to watch as some of his veterans marched groups of the Brigantes up and down. The warriors were formed into groups of thirty, mixing the men who had served in the royal cohort or other units with the rest for whom all this was new. After a slow start, progress was good, not least because everyone had realised that this was easier than labouring. Within a few days, they began to drill with weapons, which helped them all to feel more like warriors again. Festus had chosen instructors well, helped by the fact that many of the veterans had done this before and did not need to be watched every moment. They treated the Brigantes with a respect denied to raw tirones in a legion, picked up a few words of their language and taught the Latin commands simply, so that the whole squad and not simply the Latin speakers knew what they were supposed to do. Somehow, they made the warriors laugh, the humour simple and often crude, but enough to make the barked orders and even louder reprimands acceptable.
On this day, for the very first time, they had begun picking men from the squads to take over and drill the rest. They started with the senior soldiers, the experienced ones, and they did not do too badly. Then with the two hours of drill almost at an end, they asked if anyone else wanted to try. There were plenty of volunteers, for Brigantes were rarely short of confidence.
The centurion arrived just as they were starting, with four squads in a line along the long edge of the parade ground and the fifth and sixth formed opposite each other on the shorter edges. Festus came to stand beside one end of the main line, gesturing to the instructors to show that he was
merely there to observe and did not want to take over.
‘Silentium!’ One of the Brigantes chosen to lead had a deep, powerful voice.
‘Siwentium!’ The other one was tall, the most corpulent man in the whole unit and one of the least bright. His voice was high pitched, and as he shouted turned into a squeak as he mangled the command. One of the instructors had picked him to remind the rest that this was not easy, and because a few laughs at the end of two hours of stamping and marching would do no harm.
There were sniggers from behind Festus.
‘Iunge!’* The squad shuffled into close order, doing the manoeuvre well enough.
‘Lungee!’ The second squad was no less proficient in spite of the order. Behind Festus a man laughed, louder than all the others. The centurion glanced and saw that it was a tall, good-looking young recruit.
‘Parati!’†
‘Rapatii!’
There were giggles now, and the youth was cackling, his face red. Festus glared at them and then at the closest instructor, who was not looking in his direction. With an effort, he stopped himself from interfering, but resolved to have a word with the instructors after the parade was over. This sort of behaviour would not do at all.
‘Move!’‡ The first squad stepped forward as one, prompting a satisfied grunt from the centurion. Done well, Festus found drill a very moving, almost spiritual experience.
‘Mole!’ The second squad responded almost as well, although he could see some of the soldiers were grinning. Behind him there was more laughter, the boy closest to him barely able to control himself. Festus gripped his slim vine cane with both hands to stop himself from intervening. The squads were marching towards each other, until they were fifteen paces apart.
‘Sta!’§ The first squad halted, stamping their feet as one, shields and javelins not jostling too much considering how little drill these men had received.
‘Tsss!’ The command was a piercing squeal. Grinning, and fully aware of what they were doing, the second squad ignored him and kept marching forward.
‘The daft bugger’s forgotten the order,’ someone said from the ranks behind him.
‘Quiet there!’ an instructor ordered, although he could not keep the amusement out of his own voice.
‘Transforma!’# The first squad wavered a little, transfixed by the sight of the other group bearing down on them, before managing a ragged about face.
‘Taaa!’ The second squad were no more than eight paces away, still marching. ‘Steeee!’ The man’s voice somehow managed to become even higher. All the men behind Festus were laughing.
‘Move!’ The first squad started marching away, although some of the men in the rear rank were turning their heads to see behind them.
Instead of trying to remember the order, the big man ran in front of his own squad, waving his arms to make them stop. They quickened the pace instead. Sensing or seeing this, the first squad also began to take longer strides, the ranks becoming ragged.
‘Oh, that fat mongrel!’ The boy closest to Festus managed to say before he could say no more for laughter, made worse as the second squad began to run, and everyone else ran to get out of their way.
Then the youth dropped his spear. It fell forward, the point close enough to twitch the hem of Festus’ cloak before it hit the ground. The centurion’s response was a reflex, as he spun around and swung his cane in his left hand, letting go with his right. If he was thinking at all, he probably meant to hit the soldier’s shield. Instead, the lad was already leaning forward, whether from laughter or to pick up his spear. Held wrong way up, the gnarled top of the centurion’s cane slammed into the youth’s mouth, so that he staggered back, blood coming from a split lip.
‘Stand to attention, man!’ Festus yelled. ‘And pick that up!’ He turned away, and his temper rose again because the parade was a shambles, the two squads mingled together, some running, some barging each other with their shields.
‘You!’ Festus almost screamed at the instructors. ‘Sort that disgrace out!’
There was a thud as the youth dropped his shield onto the grass and the scrape of a sword being drawn. Festus turned, frowning, small eyes staring and saw the youth coming at him, gladius held low, blood on his chin and growling. The centurion raised his cane, while his mouth opened to shout, but it was all so fast, so absurd. He was not wearing armour that day, because for much of the time he had supervised building work and had not wanted to be encumbered. Driven by rage, the triangular point of the gladius slid easily through his two tunics and undershirt into his stomach, angled up to thrust under his ribs. He grunted with the shock, as the boy made more animal noise and grabbed the centurion by the shoulder to pull him onto the blade. The cane fell from Festus’ hand and he gasped.
No one else had moved. There had been no warning and no time. The boy was screaming, trying to wrench his sword free and only then did other men drop their shields and spears and pull him away. Festus slumped, gave a long sigh and died.
‘Oh shit!’ the soldier standing next to the boy said.
*
The facts were simple, and Ferox understood what had happened very quickly; the boy, whose name was Andoco, had been struck by the centurion and had killed him in reply. Even so, he spoke in turn to all the instructors and all the Brigantes who had stood close enough to see and hear what had happened, and then to the medicus from the hospital who had examined the corpse and confirmed the obvious cause of death. Then he saw Sabinus, Dionysius and Cunicius, telling them all that he had learned in case they had anything to add. Cunicius testified that Andoco was a good soldier, too young to have been in the rebellion although sent by a family who had joined Aviragus’ rebels. So far his record was unblemished, and as a well-educated and intelligent lad, there was some expectation that in due course he would be promoted.
Sabinus added that he believed Festus was rather sensitive about his weight, fearing that middle age was turning muscle to fat, so that perhaps the boy’s comment about a fat mongrel provoked him more than usual. ‘Pity he spoke in decent Latin or all he might have got was an order to be quiet.’
‘Perhaps, but how often does Festus – did Festus – use his cane?’
‘Quite often,’ Sabinus admitted. That was common enough, especially in some legions and cohorts, and the only restriction imposed by regulation was that a centurion was not allowed to inflict serious injury without making a formal charge against a soldier.
‘I am sure that you recall my telling Festus how important it was never to strike one of the Brigantes.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sabinus conceded. ‘And I heard him repeat the instruction most forcibly to our men and up until this moment all obeyed.’ The centurion’s round face was worried, but determined. He took a deep breath. ‘Nevertheless…’
Ferox sighed. ‘Nevertheless.’
There was no easy way out, for a soldier could not simply fly into a rage and kill a centurion without being punished, and there was only one penalty for such a crime. An offence to personal honour was no excuse, and the only real question was how it was to be done.
Ferox went to see Andoco, his cell guarded by one of Vindex’s Carvetii and an auxiliary. The boy had chains around his wrists and ankles, and that was necessary, at least for the moment. With effort he stood when Ferox entered, as a proud warrior should in spite of his terror. Andoco had very pale, innocent eyes, adding to his childlike appearance, and Ferox knew from the records that he was eighteen.
‘I was angry, and struck in haste, but he should not have treated me that way,’ was all that he would say when Ferox asked him to explain what had happened.
‘I am not afraid,’ the boy added, lying well enough in the circumstances.
Half an hour later Ferox strolled down to the river, Vepoc beside him, neither man speaking. Vindex and a couple of his men, along with three other Brigantes, followed twenty paces behind. The rain had stopped, the clouds scattered and a crescent moon gave enough light to see with ease. None of t
he men carried shields, though all had a sword in their belt. By now the picket was far behind them and they passed through the dozen or so buildings of the canabae without seeing a soul. They were alone, and Ferox knew that he was taking a risk. Vepoc was Andoco’s older brother, the other men their cousins. At least this way the numbers were equal and whatever happened would be fair.
They reached the bank about twenty paces from the bridge and stopped. Ferox bent down to pick up a stone, hefted it and then lobbed high, hearing a splash when it landed. There was little ice left now. For a while he waited, for he must give Vepoc and the others their chance in case they wanted to take it. His own tribe were raised to cherish silence, so he did not feel uncomfortable, although the rare occasions when Brigantes were silent – and awake – were strange.
‘Blood calls for blood,’ Vepoc said eventually.
‘Aye.’
Vepoc was about Ferox’s age, and had served in the royal ala, rising to the rank of duplicarius, a ‘double-pay man’ second only to the decurion in each turma. There were stories that before that he had been a famous warrior and raider, which in truth meant much the same thing. He had killed warriors from other clans and tribes – and Romans – and lived to tell of it, just as he had lived through the hardships of the mines and kept his pride and his strength.
‘Just as a wrong calls for vengeance,’ he said.
Ferox did not know whether Vepoc spoke of the killing of Festus, or was referring to Aviragus. He had certainly fought for the king, and been considered dangerous enough to be sentenced.
‘If Andoco was a legionary,’ Ferox began, ‘then he would be flogged and beheaded, his head placed on a stake and the rest of his corpse denied proper burial. That is the way of the army, as you know.’
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