Brigantia

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 fate 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.

Fuscus had broken his oath to the princeps, that was clear, and at least that might make his service to Sulpicia Lepidina easier. If it was shown that the man was a traitor then killing him became a duty, not a crime. Ferox was less sure about the one who had arrived just as he was discovered. There had been no mistaking that shock of prematurely white hair, or the face that refused to lose its calm even when people were shouting about being seen and betrayed. Crispinus was there, no doubt about it, and would make a powerful ally. Two years ago Ferox had wondered whether the young aristocrat was part of another plot against Trajan and was still not sure that he was altogether innocent. Neratius Marcellus had once said that he was confident his nephew would always emerge on the winning side. Was he working for the governor now or making sure of his own future one way or another? His instincts told him that the legate was loyal to Trajan, but instinct was not always right and ambition stirred in many an unlikely heart.

A new smell reached him. Ferox had once tried to explain to Crispinus that Romans and Britons smelled different. The tribune had curled his lip as if dirt was so natural to barbarians that this should occasion no surprise. You could often tell a man’s trade by his scent, and not just the obvious ones of tanners and butchers. There was also a different scent to a tribesman, or at least one who lived mostly in the old ways, a faint smell that was somehow earthy, even damp. Crispinus had claimed to be deeply offended when Ferox told him that many Romans were followed by a vague odour of olive oil, sour wine and onions. Even with his nose covered Ferox could tell that there was a Briton or Britons in the room and that seemed strange, for the conspirators’ allies sounded like chieftains who lived in the Roman way these days.

A far more powerful stink overwhelmed everything else, and Ferox felt something warm and rough rubbing his chin, lifting the cloth slightly. He knew that smell and the scruffy dog that dwelt in its midst, even if he had never thought to meet them here. Suddenly the animal yelped and was jerked away, no doubt kicked by its master.

‘Well, boy, will you thank me for keeping you alive this far?’ Acco rarely shouted or even raised his voice, and yet when he spoke men fell silent around him. There was menace in his soft words, a barely veiled power that made warriors and kings blanch.

‘Thank you,’ Ferox said. ‘For this far.’

‘Good, at least your few wits have not been knocked out of you. Not yet. So tell me why I should let you live any longer?’

‘Your dog likes me.’

Acco’s laugh was more of a cackle, louder than anything he ever said. ‘So who speaks to me this night? Is this the Roman centurion or the prince of the Silures? Do you even remember your own kin any more?’

‘I remember.’ It was hard to speak through the cloth bound around his face, for the dog had only shifted it a little. ‘I remember my oath too.’

The druid spat, although Ferox did not feel any land on him. ‘Oath to a Roman? Why should I care if one man or another wears the purple?’ That meant that Acco knew about the conspiracy, must even have known what Ferox had been doing. It was not really a surprise. Acco always seemed to know everything and his understanding of Rome and the empire never dented his loathing for them. ‘See how they plot and betray each other so readily. They are filth and pollution on our lands, and it is almost time to scour them away.

‘Would you not wish to be part of it, to see your people strong again, the wolf folk, living free and fearing no one? You could lead them, boy. Your cousins are weak fools, so jealous of each other that they fawn on the Romans for the slightest favour. At least you are a true warrior, even in a bad cause. You could become Lord of the Hills, just like your grandfather, even now, even after all these years and all you have done.’

Ferox heard the scrape of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. A moment later the cold metal tip touched his arm and then his throat.

‘This is a good sword you have.’ Acco took the blade away and there was a thrumming as he dealt strokes to the air. ‘The smith who forged it knew some of the old lore and not just the skills of Rome. How many have you slain with it?’

‘Too many to count,’ Ferox said. When young he had thought that he would always remember the men he faced and killed and feared their faces would haunt his dreams. Some did, but as the years passed most faded from memory. It was better that way, although he wondered whether part of his own soul died each time and followed them to the Otherworld.

‘You are a true warrior.’ It was a statement of truth and the druid did not seem to judge one way or the other. ‘Killing is natural for you, even more than your kin and they are the wolf people. Do you know the story of this sword? It is a long one and took many lives before you saw it, let alone learned to wield it.’

‘My grandfather took it from a Roman officer,’ Ferox said. ‘And gave it to me when I was not yet strong enough to hold it steady.’

‘He did, and I was the one who told him to do it, though in truth he needed little urging for you were his favourite, more even than your father, the son he lost in his prime.’

Ferox flexed his legs, bending them at the knee, for they were starting to feel numb. Acco did nothing to stop him. ‘I felt his hand often enough,’ Ferox said after a while. ‘And he was a stern lord and sterner still with me.’

‘That is because he loved you. I remember your birth, seeing your mother’s whole spirit spent as it gave life and power to you. I was the one who gave you your name, your true name, that I will not speak. Did you know that?’

‘No.’ A man’s name was a sacred, secret key to his soul, hidden from all save the closest family. Ferox had never known his mother and was barely walking when his father fell in battle against the Romans. Acco had appeared at times while he was a child, like a harsh wind that blew for a few days and then vanished. The Lord of the Hills took guidance from the druid as he did from no other man – save, it was said, Caratacus in the old days.

‘I know your name, boy, and it is not Flavius or Ferox, or even Comus as the boys called you. With your true name and a little of your blood I could make you do my bidding, but the cost would be high for your soul and I will not destroy you in that way. I see inside you, boy, I have always seen inside you and I know your destiny.’ There was another swish as the sword slashed through the air. ‘This sword was meant for you, but it was not made for you. The day we took it I spoke to that Roman before he died. He was a prisoner and a brave man, refusing to bow or beg for mercy as many of the others did. They knew the skill of your kin in inflicting pain and so did he, but it did not unman him. I really think he understood.

‘That blade was forged by a smith from Avaricum, a man famous throughout the tribes of Gaul. Caesar’s men had stormed the town, slaughtering everyone in their hatred, but a prefect of cavalry sought out the smith and ringed his forge with soldiers who were sober and still obeyed his will. The prefect was from Narbo, his mother of the Allobroges, and he knew of the sword-maker’s renown. Amid the screams as a town died, he offered the smith protection at the price of making the finest sword he had ever made. So he worked, putting all his skill and essence into that blade, mouthing spells to make it strong, yet flexible, keen and yet light, and hammering at the iron to save his life and keep his daughter from violation.’

‘Were you there?’ Ferox asked flippantly, and received a violent kick in the stomach.

‘When the task was done the town was in ruin and the smith wept because he knew that he would never again make anything so perfect, and he melted his hammer and other tools in the fire knowing that he would not wield them again. In the days that had passed his daughter and the tribune became lovers and married, and a year later she was made a Roman. Caesar was generous to his followers, and with that sword in his hand the prefect led charge after charge. At Alesia he slew two kings, and when Romans turned on Romans he cut down many of the famous men who dared to oppose Caesar. Later he went back to Gaul, became a great man in the new province, and his son and grandson each in turn buckled on the sword and served Augustus, Drusus, Tiberius, Germanicus and a host of lesser commanders, until the great-grandson came to Britannia. With this sword he slew your father on the shore, and it was not that day your kin caught him, but only after many stern fights.

‘All this he told me, and for all that he was Roman the blood of Gaul still flowed in his veins. The others the wolf people killed, slowly as only they know how, but I took the tribune with me to Mona.’

‘Did his blood flow there?’ Ferox gasped as he was kicked again. How much of this was true? His father had died years after Suetonius Paulinus went to Mona.

‘Fool. We talked a good deal on that journey, and he called me brother and willingly bowed for the knife by the end. There, between the two lakes where only a thin sapling grew where once there had been a hundred sacred oaks, I killed him as an offering to the gods. A quick death and one with meaning, and I have no doubt that one day he shall greet me again as brother in the Otherworld.’

Ferox heard another thrum as the blade cut through air and even though he could not see, he could sense the long tip was close to his face. ‘Tell me, boy, do you deserve a quick death?’

‘I no longer know what I deserve.’

Acco cackled. ‘That is something, at least. This is a fine blade, a killing blade, and it does not care whose hand wields it. I am old, but have no doubt that I could drive this through your eye. It might need both hands and my weight behind it. Yet, for your grandfather’s sake and yours, I should prefer to let you live. Will you join me? Become Comus instead of Ferox, a prince of the Silures and no mere centurion, and lead your people to freedom? I will help you at every stage, help you to find the true power within you and draw strength from your ancestors back to the first man.’

‘Why do you want me?’ Ferox expected another kick, but instead there was silence. He sensed the sword was withdrawn.

‘For many reasons, and because it is your destiny. I read the signs when you were born and have never seen the like. Your story is a strange one, great and not great, true to your soul and not true, and you are fated to do something no one else could do. It came to me in a dream that night after you were born, a message from the gods as clear as any I have ever heard. It is your fate to kill me.’ The cackle was louder this time. ‘Who am I to question the will of the gods, strange though it may seem? I will fall by your hand – perhaps even by this very blade. So be it, that is the prophecy, but if my death is to have meaning I should die at the hand of one who is true to his blood, a leader of his people and not a lackey of Rome.’

Ferox lay there, unable to see or move his limbs, and unsure what to believe. He wondered whether to pretend to agree, in the hope of escape. Yet Acco would know the truth, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps if he spoke the truth about the prophecy then it would not end here. The dog returned, slobbering over his chin for a moment. Then it drew back, but he felt the warm, wet spray on his tunic as it urinated over his chest. It seemed to go on for a very long time before he heard the animal pant as it wandered away.

‘Come, boy, what is your answer?’

‘I have sworn an oath.’

Ferox was not quite sure whether or not he heard a sigh.

‘So be it,’ the old man said.

There were footsteps of two or three people and what smelled like a burning torch.

‘It is done.’ A woman spoke in Latin, with an odd accent he did not recognise.

‘Good. Then give me the torch.’ To Ferox’s surprise it was Domitius who replied. Did the merchant know who Acco really was or fear him as he should? The man was a Gaul, but all the Gauls had been peaceful provinces for many years. He did not sound or look like anyone’s fool, so perhaps there was profit for him in raising rebellion, or he was confident of controlling the druid so that all served the purpose of creating a new emperor. ‘Did you have to kill anyone?’

‘Two, and one more who will most likely die.’

‘You should have finished him,’ Domitius snapped. ‘He may talk.’

The woman did not sound overawed. ‘What can he say and what harm will it do now? We have brought what you wanted and have our payment.’

‘Then go.’ There was no warmth in the merchant’s voice. ‘If you are wise you will be on the ship and leave before dawn. In case he does talk and they are looking for you. Go. We will deal with this one.’

Footsteps departed and for a while there was only silence.

‘I will leave your sword here on the floor,’ Acco said. ‘You may manage to reach it and cut your bonds or you may not. Soon this place will be on fire. The timbers will burn slowly, but when the amphorae start to crack the oil inside them will…’ The soft voice trailed off. Ferox heard the sword drop and knew it was not close.

‘You have chosen your path, boy, and the gods will decide. Farewell.’

‘What of your prophecy?’ Ferox tried to inch across the floor.

‘It was a dream,’ the druid said. ‘Dreams can be wrong.’

Ferox heard the dog whimper as it was kicked and the tread of the druid as he left, by the sound of it climbing down creaking wooden stairs. He tried rolling over and that moved him a little more until he was on his front. He shifted his shoulders to turn again, managed to do it, but it was awkward now that his hands were under him. Halfway through the next roll his knees hit something hard and solid. There was a box or barrel in the way. He caught the scent of smoke. Pushing hard failed to shift whatever was blocking his path. Ferox rolled back and then brought up his knees and shifted his weight to edge clear. It took a while, and then finally he rolled again and this time it worked. Then his head struck another crate.

It was getting warmer and through his blindfold he saw a faint glow. As he rolled again it grew stronger and he coughed because smoke was filling the room. Two more rolls and he felt a shape digging into his chest. It was the pommel of his sword. He rolled away, so that his tied hands were towards it, and then shifted his weight again and again to edge back towards it. He felt the wooden pommel, wriggled with his fingers, trying to get them around the grip. Instead the sword moved away from him. He tried again, ever more desperate because the glow of the fire was stronger and he could hear the flames roaring below. He felt the sword, but it skidded and banged as it fell down the stairs.

Someone else coughed and he froze, then realised the folly of that so shouted. ‘Help! Up here!’ More coughing, a hint of a shape against the orange glow of the flames and cold steel brushing his ankles and a weight on his feet. A boot was planted on him to hold the rope steady as it was cut. It seemed to take an age.

‘Thank you,’ he gasped, but the only response was more coughing. His legs were free at last and he tried to stand, but would not have managed if his rescuer had not helped lift him. ‘My hands,’ he begged. ‘Please, cut the rope.’ The smoke was worse now that he was standing, and although the cloth over his head was a shield he began to cough and could not stop.

A hand took his shoulder, turned him, so that he must have had his back to the stairs and gently pulled him backwards. He followed the lead, almost slipping on the first step, but thankfully they were wide. They were both coughing and the heat was like a furnace, bright even through the blindfold. If it reached the olive oil then all of this would be for nothing. Sparks fell on him, and then they were down. The hand turned him, it seemed to push him towards the heart of the fire, but he decided to trust and ran straight ahead. His boot hit a beam on the dirt floor, and that was lucky because something bigger crashed down just in front. He was shoved again, to the right this time and he ran and suddenly the air was colder and the smoke starting to thin.

‘Thank you,’ Ferox gasped, and was hit hard in the middle of the back with what felt like the pommel of his own sword. He staggered, struggling for breath, and sank down onto to his knees in the mud. Somehow he managed to stand and ran, pelting across an alley until he slammed into a wall. With a great roar the fire burst up through the roof of the warehouse behind him and a hot wave of air pushed him against the wall. There were shouts now and he ran towards them, until someone grabbed him by the arm.

‘Watch yourself, sir.’ He heard the clink of sword and decorated belt that surely meant a soldier. ‘Been playing games, have we?’ The cloth hood was yanked off his head and he saw a round, leathery face staring at him.

‘Let me free. I am Flavius Ferox, centurion of II Augusta.’

‘Well, I’m buggered,’ the soldier said. ‘Hear that, Celsus? This is the one we’ve just been ordered to arrest.’