‘They made me join,’ Ivonercus said. ‘And I only stayed as long as I did to get a chance to kill him.’ He nodded towards the prostrate Ferox.
‘Do it, lad, we won’t say anything.’
‘My orders,’ Ivonercus insisted. ‘Bring him to Diegis. Maybe once they’ve beaten some truth out of him, they’ll let me have what is left.’
‘Why wait? He’s here. We’ll say he tried to escape and it had to be done.’ He grinned. ‘Look at the way the bastard’s lying still and not moving? That’s a bugger trying to escape if ever I saw one.’
Ferox sat up.
‘Even worse, he’s about to make a break for it. Evil-looking bastard, isn’t he.’
Ivonercus stood up and his hand went to the hilt of his spatha. ‘You don’t mind?’ The sword scraped on the bronze top of the scabbard as he pulled it free.
‘Why should we? Kill the bastard.’
‘That’s not what we were told to do,’ Vepoc said doubtfully, but he stood and also drew his sword.
‘Shall I do it?’ the leader asked. ‘Be a pleasure.’
‘No,’ Ivonercus said. ‘My oath, my revenge.’ He swished the blade through the air, hefting the weapon in his hand. ‘I have waited a long time for this.’
‘If you are sure, lord?’ Vepoc hefted his own sword.
‘Lord?’ the leader asked. ‘Just who are you?’
Lightning sprang down from the clouds and just a few moments later the great booming roar of thunder rolled over them. Big drops of rain pattered on the leaves above their heads.
Ivonercus spun and drove the spatha through the man’s beard and into his throat. Vepoc swung down, hacking into the skull of another deserter, who fell forward into the fire. Sparks flew and the other three were shouting and reaching for their weapons. Two died quickly, the Brigantes cutting them down, and the last tried to run past Ferox, who stuck out his legs to send the man sprawling. Vepoc wandered over and thrust down into the deserter’s back, twisting the blade until the man stopped moving. His hair was slicked down by the driving rain.
‘I don’t think anyone has seen us,’ he shouted to Ivonercus to make himself heard. Lightning flashed again, and for an instant he saw hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Dacians plodding up the valley.
Ferox managed to get up, hands still tied and the two Brigantes moved to be on either side of him. The thunder boomed out again, a little further away. Ivonercus wiped his spatha on his trousers and sheathed the sword only to draw a knife.
‘Do you trust us now, centurion?’ he called as he cut the bonds, using the language of the tribes.
‘You are Brigantes,’ Ferox shouted. ‘The Brigantes keep faith. This I have always known. You are held by your oath.’
‘We are, but the queen is queen and if I doubted her before I do not now. We are her people and will follow her and obey, wherever it leads us.’
‘That is why I have trusted you,’ Ferox said. ‘And have been pleased to have you by my side.’
Vepoc nodded. All of their eyes were stinging from the rain.
‘You have done more than enough if you wish to leave me,’ Ferox said. It was two nights since they had left Piroboridava, Ferox creeping ahead of the others to kill two guards. Apart from that, it had been easy getting away, for almost all of the attackers were marching down the valley and the ones left behind were deep in exhausted sleep. Sosius had slipped off almost immediately, and although Ferox did not trust the man, he felt easier in his mind not having him with them. Perhaps the slave was dead or perhaps he would reach the Roman army before them, but none of that was up to him.
It was much harder getting through the Dacian army, and for a long time they had stuck to the woodland on the south slopes of the valley, going slowly and keeping out of sight. In the first day they went barely seven miles, having to hide more than once when bands passed nearby. The second morning their luck had turned when they saw a pack mule, which must have got loose and strayed to the edge of the forest, and soon afterwards two horsemen searching for it. Ferox had suspected that the men were less than enthusiastic about the battle, so taking their time about their errand. The ambush was quick and easy and Ivonercus had suggested that they pose as deserters in the king’s service, bringing a prisoner to Diegis, for that would mean that they could ride in the open and go faster. They had talked their way past everyone they encountered, until they had fallen in with the deserters who had clung to them for the rest of the day.
‘The queen will count your service more than fulfilled, and see your families restored to lands and honour,’ Ferox said.
‘We have come this far,’ Vepoc called.
‘And done it well, but getting to our army will not be easy, and we may well fall at the hands of our own men. If I am killed, they may not believe that you are loyal to Rome and treat you as traitors and deserters.’
‘Hold up your arm, prince of the Silures,’ Ivonercus said. Both he and Vepoc were rolling up their right sleeve.
‘This is an honour,’ Ferox told him, and his face was lit up by another flash of lightning. He took the knife and ran it across his skin, making a line of blood that instantly washed away. Vepoc took the knife and did the same, then held up his arm so that Ferox pressed his against it. The knife went to Ivonercus.
‘Before I do this, I must ask whether the king died well.’
‘He did,’ Ferox shouted. ‘Aviragus fought like a prince and a man, and it was a fair fight for he had more warriors on his side than we did.’
‘So be it.’ Ivonercus drew blood and joined it to the centurion’s cut. ‘The old oath is no more, and a new one binds us to you and you to us. It is done.’
Drenched to the skin, the three men stood, arms pressed together until the two Brigantes, as if on a signal, stepped back.
‘Remember this, Roman or Silure or whatever you call yourself. This is a bond of warriors, a pledge always to fight at the other’s side whatever the cost.’
‘I understand.’
‘Then we should go,’ Ivonercus said. ‘If we run across Dacians I shall talk. If they are Romans, then it is up to you.’
‘Fine,’ Ferox agreed. ‘But one last time I beg you to stay here and wait for me. There is no need for you to take this risk, so I beg you as brothers to wait. If the Romans come this way and you have not heard from me then ride to them and tell your story if you wish, but let me try on my own first.’
Vepoc put his hand on Ferox’s shoulder. ‘We will come with you, whatever you say.’
‘The Brigantes are a stubborn people.’
‘And the Silures rarely give their word, but when they do, they keep it, is that not so?’ Vepoc said.
It was strange to hear the same proverb twice within a few days.
‘Then if we fall, it will not be your fault,’ Ivonercus told him. ‘Nor will we live and wonder whether we might have saved you had we not stayed behind.’
‘We’re coming, brother, whether you like it or not,’ Vepoc said, and his tone reminded Ferox of Vindex and made him wonder once again whether the scout and all the others were still alive.
‘Let’s go then,’ Ferox said.
The fort at Piroboridava
The next day a little before noon
THE STORM left the air far clearer, and during the morning the clouds fled to leave a sky that was a brilliant deep blue and a sun that blazed down. Brasus sensed that the end was close and felt nothing, neither joy nor fear. Diegis was beaten, the army shattered in spirit and with a quarter of its warriors dead, captured or left on the field wounded and at the enemy’s mercy. The commander had ridden hard in flight, reaching the bridge many hours before the other fugitives, accompanied by only a few dozen warriors as escort. His temper was poor, as he roundly blamed everyone but himself for the disaster and bawled at Brasus for not yet having overrun the entire fort as he had been told.
‘You had five hundred men and a simple task to complete and you have failed,’ Diegis had almost screamed the words at him.
Brasus sat cross-legged on the ground while the commander had a stool. He wondered whether the king would chide the defeated commander as bluntly. Diegis had lost battles before, if never one as big and important. Afterwards he also wondered whether he should have argued and whether that might have made a difference. He doubted it. Diegis was lashing out, giving way to rage and bitterness without regard to the truth in a way that was shameful for a man supposed to be one of the pure and honoured as such. Brasus listened in silence, disgusted by the whole display, even when Diegis took this as insolence and threatened to have him flogged.
His warriors began to murmur at this, humming like bees. Sixty or more of them had gathered, sufficient to outnumber the commander’s escort.
‘Silence!’ Diegis’ voice had become shrill. ‘Silence at once!’
The humming grew louder and men started to stamp their feet in rhythm. More of his men began to gather from their tents.
‘You will be quiet!’
The warriors ignored the shouts and the general’s escort shifted uncomfortably.
At last Brasus had raised his hand in the air and his warriors had stopped and stood still.
‘Take this place!’ Diegis had spoken more softly, but the words still dripped with hatred. ‘Take this place tomorrow and kill or take prisoner all who are inside. Only then may you leave this place and bring your spoils and captives away.’ He had stared defiantly around the gathering of warriors. ‘The king chose me to lead and until he revokes that appointment this order is as one from the lips of the king himself. Take that fort!’
Tired though he was, Diegis had climbed back onto his sweat-streaked horse and led his escort away without resting any longer. After him, the ruins of the great army began to come straggling past. Brasus remained where he was, sitting on the grass, his back rigid, and still said nothing.
‘We should go, lord.’ The old warrior who had been with Brasus from the very start hesitated before touching his shoulder. ‘Diegis is no lord, only a vain fool and he is not the king. The king, were he here, would not order such useless folly.’
Brasus had stared into the distance as if he did not hear. Lightning flashed further down the valley and thunder rumbled.
‘Lord, he has lost this battle, not us. To kill these last few Romans achieves nothing and has no honour now, for they are brave.’
At last Brasus stood up. ‘Tell the men to leave if they wish, but I must stay. Fool or not, his word is the king’s and I serve the king, and it is not for me to question what he bids me to do. Go, all of you. I must do what I must do.’
No one had left during the night, and that convinced Brasus that his path was the one for honour. He would sacrifice neither them nor more than he needed of that pitiful band of survivors who had defied them for so long. Two hours after dawn he had all the men go up to the ramparts and wait. ‘Show yourselves to the Romans, but do not attack or shoot unless they attack you.’
‘Lord?’ The old warrior was puzzled, but obeyed.
When the others had gone Brasus prepared for the last fight, cleaning and oiling his armour, sharpening his falx and a smaller dagger he would take in his belt. When the sun was almost at its highest he walked through the main gate of the fort and paced down the road towards the last stronghold. Brasus did not hurry and he had not asked for trumpeters to herald his coming. The Romans would see him and if this Ferox was the man that he thought him to be, he would know what it meant.
There was a murmur from the warriors up on the walls, and muttering and calls as those who could see him spoke to the ones who could not. Faces peeped over the barricades. The Romans could not have any arrows left by now, but even if they had, he trusted them not to shoot.
Brasus stopped at the junction between the two roads, ahead of him the scarred arch of the principia was filled with a barricade.
‘Come forth, Flavius Ferox!’ he shouted in Latin. ‘Come and fight me. I am Brasus, son of Cotiso, and one of the pure and I swear that if you fight me none of your people will be harmed. Whether you die or I am slain by your hand, you have my word that we will leave you in peace and go on our way. Let us meet as warriors, fight as men, and let the rest go as strangers!’
Brasus turned and shouted the same words back towards the ramparts, this time in the tongue of his own people. The old warrior was up there and raised his hand in acknowledgement. Then Brasus faced the Romans again and spoke to them in Greek.
‘Ferox is gone!’ a man who sounded like one of the Britons called back to him. ‘Will another do?’
Somehow Brasus had not expected Ferox to die, even though so many on both sides had fallen. Doubts filled his mind for this was not as he had felt it should be.
‘I will fight your bravest and best in his place,’ he shouted.
Brasus waited. There were raised voices from within the Roman compound, angry words and complaints.
‘Come, do you accept?’ he called.
‘We do, but please give us time to choose.’
Brasus rested his oval shield against his leg and put the point of his falx on the ground. His armour gleamed, but rather than a helmet he wore the tall cap of his rank to honour his opponent and because it was easier to see, hear and move fast without the heavy bronze helmet.
At last a couple of the barrels forming the barricade were pulled aside and a chill came upon him as the queen stepped through the gap. She wore a gleaming white tunic with a red border, felt Thracian boots and had her red hair coiled on top of her head. A small round shield was held in her left hand, its field dark blue and the stick figure of a running horse painted over it in white, but she wore neither corselet nor helm. In her right hand was a sica, like the ones used by his own people, but there was a scabbarded gladius on her left hip.
‘Don’t do this, lady!’ a Briton called after her.
The queen ignored the man and came on. ‘I am Enica of the Brigantes, called Claudia of the Romans,’ she said in fluent Greek, and her voice was softer than seemed right for a woman armed so well for war. ‘I am queen of my people and descendant of many women – and men – of honour and power though their names would mean nothing to you.
‘I do not wish to kill you, but if that is the only way to save my folk then that is what I will do, Brasus, son of Cotiso.’ She gave a pitying smile. ‘You should make peace with your gods.’
‘Lady, I live to prepare for death and ascent.’
The woman’s eyes never left him as she began to walk in a slow circle. Lightly clad and smaller than her opponent, she must have decided that speed was her best chance. Well, let her think that. There was no honour in killing a woman, but this was no mere woman but a queen, and just the way she balanced each step and held blade and shield poised and ready showed a warrior of rare skill. Her magic had held this place against their attacks, so perhaps this was the most fitting way for it to end. Brasus did not relish killing her, but this was his task and once it was done, he could send his men away and then take his own knife, place it against his throat and free his soul. Thus it would be.
Brasus had his shield up, his falx held one-handed like an ordinary sword. That gave the blows less power while retaining its reach. Still they circled, watching. He took two paces forward, falx high, but she gave way the same distance, then followed as he in turn retreated. She was fast.
Enica glanced to one side, and even when he did not take the bait, came on, slashing with her sword. He parried the blow on his shield, swung the flax, but the queen had danced out of the way and her sica moved as fast as the storm’s lightning and came under his shield to strike low on his armour. A scale snapped, but the tip of the blade did not go through the padded jerkin onto which it was sewn.
They clashed again, twice, with no more than splinters from shields and light blows that did not break through his armour. When they were close Brasus saw that there was a livid red bruise on the queen’s cheek and that one of her eyes was darkened. The sight was oddly unnerving, for such blemishes did not belong to t
he queen, let alone the demon or the witch she had become in his mind.
Brasus’ back was slick with sweat for the day was hot, a day for a man to sit in the shade by a stream and dream of love and long life.
Brasus threw his shield at the queen, forcing her back and making her slash wildly to push it away. He took his falx in both hands and went at her, cutting down and slicing a quarter of her shield from the left side. A great sigh went up from the watching Romans, until she ducked, running towards him, dodging a second strike by the falx and slashing so hard at his side that scales split and he felt the edge bite into his flesh. She was past him and he turned to face her, his thigh wet as the blood flowed down.
The Romans cheered and Brasus roared, falx high, feinted a blow at her shield so that she raised it, then switched to the other side and brought it slamming down. The woman raised her curved sword to protect her head and there was a clang as the blade was snapped by the much heavier falx. Someone screamed from behind the barricade as she only just pulled out of the way. She flung the stump of the blade at his face, but he batted it away with the falx. Many hours of training over many years let him wield the great weapon with the speed of a light stick. He stamped forward, slashing down, and the rest of her shield fell into pieces.
The queen jumped back. Her left arm hung loosely at her side, numbed or even broken, but her right grasped the handle of the gladius and drew it. Brasus’ trouser leg was wet with his own blood, but his strength was still there and the pain seemed to have gone. He went forward, cutting down to the left and then to the right, but always she dodged and he turned too fast for her to reach him with her short sword. He was struggling for breath, sweat in his eyes. She was tired too, her tunic clinging to her body.
The queen lunged at him, ducking under the falx, diving to the ground and then pushing up to hurl herself at his legs. He hissed as the wound throbbed, but she was smaller and lighter and the force did not knock him down, although he was forced back, sliding in the dirt. He let go with his left hand and grabbed hold of her hair to hurl her away. She squealed, an oddly childlike sound, her sword fell and she landed on her back. It was over.
The Fort Page 37
