Brigantia

XVII

THE BRIDGE GAVE way slowly, the rotting main beams breaking under the weight so that the rest sank down into the roaring torrent. It was roughly made, wide enough for one man or beast at a time, and spanned the high chasm over the stream, the waters brimming over from yesterday’s storm. They had crossed slowly, a man at a time, each leading a horse, warily taking each step, unable to hear the creaking over the noise of the rushing water, but feeling every sag in the timbers underfoot.

Crispinus had gone first. ‘All right for him,’ Longinus had shouted into Vindex’s ear, ‘look how light he is.’ The Batavians followed, one by one, and then Sepenestus. Gannascus hesitated, and no one could blame him. Sepenestus came back and offered to lead over the other man’s mount. The giant shook his head, so the archer took a pony over instead. As soon as they were across Gannascus spat for luck and strode onto the bridge. The rest watched, at once horrified, fascinated and a little amused. Halfway across a piece of wood broke away and fell, and they waited for more, but it did not come, and then with half a dozen more steps the warrior reached the bank, his horse following. Some of the Batavians clashed their spears against their shields in approval, and the German shook his fist at the stream. The scout went next, got his horse over without trouble and then came back for the pony.

Vindex did not see any sign until the bridge began to collapse. The last pony reared and screamed, until the planks lurched down and it slid into the water.

‘Let go!’ Vindex screamed at the scout who was leading the animal. The man gaped, and must have wound the lead around his arm as he had tried to drag the skittish beast over the widely spaced planks of the little bridge. As the pony fell he was yanked down after it. Both disappeared into the foam. A couple of times Vindex glimpsed the head of man or beast as they were whisked away, slamming into boulders, until they vanished over the top of the waterfall a long bowshot away.

Ferox heard the shout and galloped down to the bank.

‘Poor bugger,’ Vindex said as he arrived. They were the only ones still on this side, Crispinus having ordered the centurion as next most senior officer to bring up the rear of the little column. He had also suggested that perhaps Ferox might disguise their tracks, in the hope of throwing off pursuit. There had been little point in explaining the impossibility of hiding the passage of so many heavy riders across spongy soil thoroughly soaked in the storm.

‘Can you hear me?’ The tribune had cupped his hands around his mouth and was yelling across the chasm.

Ferox raised his thumb and shouted that he could.

‘Longinus thinks there should be another way across about three miles to the south, and maybe twice that to the north! You know where we are going! Catch up when you can! Understand?’

Ferox raised his thumb again.

‘Simple as that.’ Vindex spoke loudly and Ferox was beside him, but still strained to hear. ‘Humped again.’

They headed south. The land dropped sharply, making it a difficult route, so they led their horses down little paths clinging to the mountainside or along rocky defiles. It drizzled, making the ground even more slippery, and they went slowly. If one of the animals fell and broke a leg then they would be in even more trouble.

After three hours they had gone less than a mile from the bridge as the raven flew. They kept close to the stream, not in any hope of finding the scout alive; at best they would see his corpse and Vindex could say words over it. It might be a small comfort to the man’s wife and parents. They found a path above a thirty-foot fall. It got ever steeper as it led down until it reached the narrow gap between two bluffs. There were piles of sheep droppings in the little track winding along, all hard so weeks old at least, and once Ferox saw the print of a boot that was more recent, although at least a few days old. People came here, even if it was hard to know why.

‘That’s that, then,’ Vindex said as they stared at the fallen rocks blocking the defile. There was no way around. ‘Looks fresh.’

‘Probably yesterday. Oh well, back we go.’ It took even longer retracing their steps, for they were getting tired, and they were halfway back to where they had started by the time they stopped and rested. This was also the first good path heading away from the ravine once crossed by the broken bridge.

‘Come on.’ It was Vindex who urged them to move, for Ferox was enjoying the freedom of being away from the others. Still, there was another hour or two before this gloomy day would turn to night and he knew they must go. So far the Ordovices had been wary of seventeen well-armed Roman cavalry. They might not prove so cautious when it came to two riders on their own, although the pair on the greys seemed to have got away with it. By now those two could be at the bridge, perhaps even starting to follow them south.

He got up. ‘Follow me then.’ Both men wore mail and Vindex wore his old-fashioned helmet. Ferox left his crested helmet tied to the back of his saddle and in spite of the drizzle he kept his hood down to see and hear better. The sword at his side was a regulation gladius, slimmer and with a shorter point than his own lost blade. It would serve, although as he tapped the oval pommel he once again missed the feel of his own weapon. He had given up wondering how much of what Acco had said was nonsense, but the druid was right in one thing. It was a true killer’s sword, and lucky with it. Vindex had a spear light enough to throw if he needed and a small round shield, the dark blue paint on it so faded it looked black and the white figure of a galloping horse only visible if you stared hard. The locals would think them well worth killing to steal such equipment, apart from wanton malice.

Ferox led his horse and did not hurry as they followed the path away from the stream. After half an hour they came across another shepherd’s track, looping as it went up a hard rocky slope. He took them up it, the horses needing to be coaxed and threatened. The top of the hill was long and low, with outcrops of dark rock at either end, and he remembered looking up at it from the far side as they had climbed towards the bridge that morning. On the far side the valley was shallower.

Vindex muttered curses all the way up, and when they were near the top Ferox raised his hand to halt.

‘Wait,’ he said, handing the other man the reins of his horse. The centurion went up on foot, moving carefully and crouching as he got nearer. As he went he imagined warriors squatting among the rocks, hefting javelins, waiting for the fool to come close so they could spit him with ease. He was almost at the crest now, and flinched when a black shape leaped out into the air. Wings flapped and a harsh voice called as the raven brushed against his hair. Ferox was breathing hard with more than the exertion of the climb. The Morrigan’s bird was here, watching the world with its black, beady eyes, and in his heart he knew that warriors would soon spill their blood.

No tribesmen waited for him at the top, but they had been here, not long ago at all, at least three of them from the prints. Perhaps they had watched as the Romans rode past early that day, and then sometime later they had jogged off towards the bridge. Ferox kept low and went to the far end of the hilltop, where the land sloped down and even on this gloomy day you could see for a couple of miles. There was no sign of the main body of cavalry, and even from up here he would have seen their tracks in the valley below if they had already passed.

Ferox went back to help Vindex with the horses. ‘A few warriors were up there,’ he explained. ‘They’ve gone now, but could be they are following those boys riding the grey horses. I’ve a mind to take a look.’

‘Just look?’

‘We’ll see.’ The raven circled above them and gave another cry. Vindex grimaced.

They crossed down into the valley. Ferox did not want to risk leaving the horses, at least not yet, and they could not be led along the top of the crest. Down on the main path the prints of two small horses were clear and fresh, overlying the marks of Crispinus and the rest of them.

‘So by now they’re at the bridge,’ Vindex said. ‘Can’t go on, but how about they follow the two idiots who went south, and the Ordovices follow them, and then we come up behind. Do you see we might end up going in circles for days!’ There was no response. ‘Well, it will keep us all amused.’

The thin rain stopped and there was a glimpse of the sun as it came under the clouds, bathing the mountains in warm light and setting the sky afire in reds and pinks. Ferox tried to picture the land ahead and work out what each group was most likely to do.

‘Do you remember that hollow not far from the bridge?’

Vindex sucked on his long teeth for a moment. ‘Aye, rock behind you, a few in front to give shelter from the wind, and space for the horses behind those bushes. Decent campsite, only the tribune wanted to push on. Bit big for two, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. Anyone could get above you with a couple of men. You’d be easy meat for a man with a good eye and a handful of javelins. And with a few friends to box you in from the front. Thetatus.’ Vindex had heard Longinus and liked the sound of the word. ‘These two have been smart enough to follow and stay alive so far. Why should they turn dumb now?’

‘Only a thought. Hold a minute.’ Ferox stared at the ground until he was sure. ‘Five of them or maybe six. All Ordovices.’ He could tell that from the shape of their boot prints. ‘Came down from up there and crossed the path.’ He followed for a few paces. ‘Two went on up the far side. The other three, no, I’m right, four, kept going along the path. An hour ago, give or take. Come on, hurry.’ He swung up into the saddle and prodded the horse into a trot.

‘Oh bugger,’ Vindex moaned, and then vaulted onto his bay and followed.

The path wound around a corner and for a good half-mile the slope rose gently and, weary or not, the horses surged up it joyfully. After that it became more difficult and they slowed back to a walk. Ferox patted the neck of his gelding. He had never seen the animal until they left Londinium, and had only grown fond of it on the journey. A little further on and he needed only a slight tug on the reins to halt. He gave it another pat.

‘We leave them here,’ he said. ‘Hobble them and hope for the best.’

‘Trust to luck? On a day a bridge fell down in front of us.’

‘Well, how can it get worse after that?’

Vindex undid the chin strap of his helmet and pushed his fingers over his face to rub his eyes. ‘Dying springs to mind.’

‘Acco tells me I’m destined to kill him,’ Ferox said. It was the first time he had told anyone else and oddly enough speaking the words made it all seem possible. ‘Haven’t done that yet, so I’m all right.’

‘Oh, thank you very much.’ Vindex lifted off the helmet and shook his long hair, then carefully donned the helmet again. ‘Truly?’

‘That is what he said.’

Vindex whistled. ‘Could be a weight on a man’s soul, something like that. Even with what he is and what he’s done. Might bring a whole storm of bad luck.’

Ferox laughed. ‘Or it might explain why my life has been like this up to now!’ He remembered Longinus saying something about needing to do the deeds to earn the punishments he’d suffered. Something else was fighting for attention in his thoughts, but there was not time now. ‘You know you don’t have to come.’

‘One day, I won’t, you old bastard.’

‘Dumb after all,’ Vindex whispered.

Ferox put his fingers to his lips. Sound carried so easily at night, which was why the Silures were schooled from childhood to cherish silence. Use the quiet, use the darkness, they were taught, and wait, wait, wait for the right moment. Yet he had to admit that the two riders had been most unwise. They were in the hollow just as he had thought they might be. That much was obvious, even in the darkness, for they had lit a fire, and their two pale horses cast flickering shadows against the rocks of the cliff. Neither of the men was on guard, and he could plainly see all of one dark shape asleep by the warmth of the fire and glimpse the end of the other. At this distance he could not see whether it was the head or the feet.

Their two pursuers were either very foolish or this was a trap, although probably not for them. Ferox had led them up the slopes on the opposite side of the valley, and then close to the chasm, going slowly and often stopping to listen. The thick cloud meant that it was a dark night, but after a while his eyes became used to it. Vindex sounded like a cavalry charge following behind, even though he knew the scout moved stealthily enough. It was just that he was not a Silure. For a while they were so close to the stream that its unceasing roar covered any noise they could make. Once near the posts where the bridge had stood, it was easy enough, keeping the track on their right and crouching, then crawling pace by slow pace over the folds in the ground. It led them to a couple of boulders where they rested and watched. He could sense Vindex getting restless as at least an hour passed and nothing happened.

Ferox tapped the scout on the shoulder and pointed up to the bluff above the camp. The firelight was dying down with no one awake to feed it, and its light did not reach so high. Even so, the crest was darker than the sky, and he had spotted a shape moving on top. Vindex shifted slightly, nodding to show that he had seen, and then Ferox pointed again, this time at a less clear figure near the other one. He started to scan the ground in front of the camp, and happened to be staring at the spot just as a warrior stood up. The man had a spear and shield, the weapon held up ready to throw or thrust. Again Ferox tapped the scout and pointed, wondering why it was that his friend needed help to spot things in the dark. Another of the Ordovices rose from the tussocky grass, to the right of the first man, no more than twenty paces from the camp. Ferox looked to the left and one, then a second man appeared, all armed like the first. Spear points glinted faintly red in the firelight. Without a sound the four warriors started walking forward, closing in on the sleepers.

Vindex moved to get up, but Ferox pressed his hand on the scout’s shoulder to wait. Another dark shape appeared, indistinct in the shadows because it was between them and the warrior on the far left. Ferox smiled.

A javelin flickered as it was thrown down from the bluffs and struck the fire, scattering sparks high. The four warriors yelled and dashed forward, but neither of the sleeping forms stirred. Behind them, the fifth, darkest figure strode silently after them, but none turned to see it. Before they reached the camp another missile came from above, driving into one of the sleeping shapes.

Run now, Ferox thought, but knew they would not and he tapped Vindex. ‘Come on,’ he whispered, and stood, drawing his sword. The Ordovices were in the camp, jabbing with their spears and then one shouted, yanking back the blankets and then tipping up the log they concealed. One of the men on the bluffs screamed and fell, limbs thrashing like a speared fish and the shaft sticking out of his back. The four warriors in the camp yelped and scattered to avoid him.

The dark figure behind them threw off his dark hooded cloak and in the same gesture raised a sword in one hand and a curved blade in the other. The steel gleamed, as did the polished helmet he wore. He started to run. There were shouts from the top of the cliff.

Then the man in the helmet shrieked an unearthly cry, high-pitched and appallingly loud even over the distant roaring of the water. Ferox drew his sword as he ran and heard Vindex tramping across the grass beside him. He had explained the plan at length. Deal with the Ordovices first, then try to get at least one of their pursuers alive and find out who they were. ‘So whose side are we on?’ the scout had asked.

‘Our own, of course. Don’t kill either of them unless we have to. Not until we know why they have followed.’

The warriors spun as the awful shriek echoed around the dell, but the man in the helmet was fast and the nearest one seemed frozen with surprise. He feebly thrust out his spear as the man came at him. The curved blade hooked the spearshaft aside, the man spun with the motion and drove the gladius in his right hand into the warrior’s throat. Thetatus, as Longinus and now Vindex would say. The man in the helmet spun again, moving fast with the grace of a dancer and dodging the enemy’s attacks, even though he was now in the middle of the three of them, no longer shrieking as he faced each in turn. His face shone, and Ferox realised that he wore a cavalry helmet with a face mask. Apart from the helmet he had no armour and wore a short tunic, his bare arms and legs pale.

Ferox went to the left, Vindex to the right, and one of the tribesmen must have seen them because he shouted a warning. Two of the men turned to face them, leaving the other to fight the man in the helmet, who jumped nimbly back, avoiding a spearshaft swung like a club. A cry of pure fear came from up above and Ferox saw two men falling, locked together, one with his arms around the other’s neck. They slammed into the fire itself, flinging burning branches as well as sparks. The man in the helmet was closest and stumbled back, only just managing to block a savage swing from the spear at the price of losing his curved sica, which clattered against the cliff face. He grabbed his other wrist to add strength to the gladius. Then Ferox realised that he was a she, wearing high Thracian boots just like the woman in the arena.

The shock nearly cost him dear as a warrior stamped forward and jabbed with his spear. Ferox had no shield, something he kept meaning to acquire, and leaped back, but slipped and fell. Vindex was busy with his opponent, and before he could get up the spear point thrust again, and he rolled to dodge it, losing grip of his sword. He rolled again, pushed with both hands and bounded up, but the warrior was standing over the lost sword, teeth bared in a grin. Ferox ripped off the brooch holding his cloak and swung the garment, the wool heavy from all the rain. The warrior kept his distance, watching and waiting for the right moment.

The warrior facing the gladiatrix threw his spear. She batted it away with her sword, and it struck sparks off the rock behind her, but the man had flung himself at her and with a clang and a weird, distorted cry, she was driven against the cliff. She pounded the top of his skull with the pommel on her gladius, striking again and again and drawing blood, and yet still he clung to her, trying to wrestle her to the ground. Ferox swung the cloak again, snapping it with the motion, and hoped the man facing him would throw his spear for that might give him a chance. Instead the next time he swung the cloak the man tried to catch it on his shield and pull it away.

Vindex drove his spear through his opponent’s stomach. At the same time the one struggling with the woman succumbed to repeated blows to the head and collapsed, one hand still gripping her tunic which tore away as he fell, exposing her breasts.

‘Bugger me!’ Vindex’s amazement was clear, but not enough to distract Ferox’s opponent, who lost his shield in the process, but plucked the cloak free from the Roman’s grip. The man grimaced again and thrust. Ferox grabbed the shaft, but his fingers slipped over the damp wood and came loose. Vindex was transfixed, and it was the woman who moved first, running as lightly as at the start of the fight, even with the front of her tunic hanging down over her belt. The warrior realised she was coming, must have been surprised when he turned his head and saw a silver mask and bare breasts, and Ferox grabbed his spear firmly this time. A moment later, the woman stabbed the long point of her gladius into the man’s eye. She twisted the blade, slipping it free as the warrior dropped forward onto his knees, and then she danced back a few places, glancing down at the two men who had landed in the fire. They were both obviously dead.

Ferox still had hold of the spear and spun it around so that the point was towards her. Vindex, breaking free of his happy stupor, drew his sword.

‘I don’t want to kill you.’ The woman’s voice was distorted by the small mouthpiece in the mask. She spoke in the language of the tribes.

‘That’s nice,’ Vindex said. ‘Can we be friends?’

‘Why are you following us?’ Ferox asked. ‘What do you want?’

‘To help.’ She stood, balanced perfectly on the balls of her feet, ready to take her sword against either of them. ‘I could have managed all four if you hadn’t shown up.’ It was hard to tell her tone because of the mask, but she sounded matter-of-fact. Ferox saw a small darker mark on the skin between her breasts.

‘All four?’ Vindex asked mockingly.

‘They were only men.’ She was slim, fairly tall and had dark hair tied in a ponytail hanging down from the back of her helmet. It swung every time she switched her guard to face the other man.

‘Did the Mother send you?’ Ferox asked. He had seen that mark before, just this summer, a little scar between the breasts, a sign that a woman was one of the initiates of a cult of fighters who lived far away on a tiny island off the Caledonian coast. Boys and young women from Hibernia and the northern tribes went there for three years or more to be taught by the Mother, a woman who had been a skilled warrior, but was now sworn not to kill or to lie with a man and instead devoted her life to training her charges. A few months ago he had seen one Mother killed and another take her place.

‘No.’

‘That’s my sword.’ Ferox had just realised that she was carrying his gladius.

The woman swung the blade so that it hummed through the air. ‘It’s a good one,’ the oddly muffled voice conceded.

Ferox lowered his spear, though not so much that he could not easily bring it up to parry or attack. ‘Take off your helmet and tell us your name.’

‘No.’

‘Come on, love.’ Vindex gave the leering smile that was his only smile. ‘Let us see you. Judging from your tits you must be a rare beauty.’

The woman used her left hand to snatch up the torn front of her tunic.

‘Pity,’ Vindex said.

There was an odd noise. Ferox wondered whether she had tried to spit in contempt, forgetting that she was wearing the mask.

‘Drop the sword,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

‘Yes, come on, love. There’s two of us and one of you. The odds aren’t good.’

‘Do you want me to wait for another ten to join you?’

Vindex snorted with laughter. ‘I like her. But look, lass, we did just save your life.’ He took a pace closer. The woman darted forward, thrusting the sword so that the point was at eye level. Vindex jumped back, tripping over the corpse of the man he had killed and sprawling onto his back. ‘Bugger!’ he gasped as he landed. The woman turned back, sword facing Ferox.

‘I have saved your life twice, centurion. So we are still not even.’

‘You saved me from the fire,’ he said, and it all seemed so obvious now. ‘And stole my sword. That’s once.’

‘In the amphitheatre. I threw the spear down to you.’ She had switched to Latin, the words fluent and vaguely familiar, although it was hard to be sure.

‘I thought you threw it at me.’

‘If I had, we would not be having this conversation. You offer a big mark. I would not need to be Camilla to strike you at that distance. Your frame is a large one.’ The words were precise, well chosen and correct, so that the mention of the Volscian warrior maid from the Aeneid sounded entirely natural.

‘Fat arse,’ Vindex said softly, and started to laugh.

‘Show some respect,’ Ferox said, and thrust his spear into the ground. He raised his hands to show that they were empty. ‘This lass might well be your next high queen.’

‘Salve, Flavius Ferox.’ She reached up with her left hand, letting the front of her tunic flap down.

‘Lovely,’ Vindex said.

She fumbled with the straps to undo one side of the face mask, the first time any motion had been clumsy, but it was a hard thing to do one handed. Persisting, it came loose and the chin strap followed. There was more of her usual grace as she plucked mask and helmet off with one motion and let it fall onto the grass. Claudia Enica smiled. ‘You have taken a while to work that one out.’ Hand now free, she covered her chest again with her torn tunic. She took a step towards him, until the tip of her sword pressed lightly against his mail shirt. He did not move back. ‘You really did. You were almost a disappointment, Flavius Ferox, after all that I had heard. And would not that be terrible, disappointing a lady. Of course it would.’ Her voice changed, and even in the firelight so did her face, and it was easy to imagine the ornate hairstyle and heavy makeup of Claudia, the Brigantian princess raised as a Roman noblewoman.

‘Oh shit,’ Vindex said, the truth sinking in and no doubt remembering what he had just said.

‘Why are you here, lady?’ Ferox used one arm to nudge the sword away from his stomach. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Blunt as ever.’ Her voice took on a harsher air and she switched back to the language of the tribes. ‘And still slow to catch up. Try not to disappoint me again after all the trouble I have gone to. Well, among other things, I am trying to stop a war.’ She stepped closer, staring up at him challengingly. ‘Is that enough for the moment?’

Vindex sat up and sucked in his breath. ‘Sounds like we’re hum…’ He stopped, remembering whose presence he was in. ‘Omnes ad stercus,’ he said instead. ‘I mean,’ he spluttered, realising that the lady spoke Latin. ‘I mean to say, that is… We are at your service, my lady.’ He stood and bowed. ‘My sword is yours, my life at your service.’ It was an old oath among the Brigantes and their neighbours.

‘Thank you, Carvetian. Your service is accepted.’ She did not turn and kept her eyes staring straight at Ferox. ‘And I suspect you are right. We probably are humped.’

Vindex laughed so much he had to sit down again.