Brigantia

XXI

‘WE SHALL NEED another boat,’ the tribune decided, and the prince readily agreed, but the wind had picked up as they had battled their way against the tide, and the senior soldier refused to try going to Segontium during the hours of darkness.

‘Not in this weather, sir, begging your pardon.’

Ferox sensed Arviragus was itching to send them anyway, but for once the tribune stood up to his ‘captor’ and talked him round. The storm that blew in an hour later proved that this was the right decision, and the wind did not drop until the third hour of the day. Ferox sensed the inevitability of it all, since this meant at least a couple of hours before they returned with the second boat, and hopefully with a small punt he had requested. By the time the rowers had taken a little rest and parties been organised, the afternoon was well advanced. If they got there in daylight they would be lucky, and he knew they would not get back.

At least the delay gave him a chance to have a quiet word with Vindex and Gannascus, for it was no surprise that none of his men were to accompany him. Only Brigantian guards would go, apart from Crispinus, young Cocceius and the soldiers needed to row the boats, although half of these were replaced by the prince’s men. As they were getting ready to leave, Claudia Enica appeared, swathed in her heavy cloak, and strode towards the boats. The bodyguard looked questioningly at Arviragus, who just nodded and then held out his hand to his sister

‘As you wish, my lord.’

Enica did not acknowledge him in any way. Neither did she even glance at her brother, but instead waded to where Ferox sat in the other boat and reached out her hand. He took it, and helped her aboard. She was barefoot, and as her cloak parted he saw that she was wearing a tunic much like the one she had worn to fight. Cocceius stared wide-eyed at her legs as they came over the side. Once she was in, she took her boots from where they had been tied round her neck and pulled them on.

‘Thank you,’ she said. They were the only words she spoke during the journey, and the rest of the time she stared fixedly out to sea, watching the gulls as they swooped and dived. Ferox found her uncharacteristic stillness and silence vaguely unnerving. Cocceius spent the trip in smiling worship, perhaps helped along by memories of their first encounter back at Vindolanda.

There was much more of a swell today, and before long all the Brigantes were suffering, faces deathly pale or touched with green, so that the soldiers cursed them whenever they missed a stroke. Arviragus sat next to Crispinus in the other boat, and although he did his best to look unconcerned, his hand gripped the side of the boat tightly. Cocceius grinned as he so often did, at least whenever he could prise his eyes away from the lady, for now and then the wind parted her cloak and showed off her legs. Then his gaze reminded Ferox of the squirrel. The lady paid no heed to anyone, and showed no sign of any sickness.

Ferox’s boat led the way upstream, towing the punt. As they went between the reeds, they entered a world of shadows, for the later afternoon sun was already low in the sky. They went quicker across the smooth water, winding round a path they knew. Ferox had made sure that his was the same boat with the same steersman and some of the rowers who had made the journey yesterday. At times the second craft struggled to follow.

The light lasted, if barely, and they reached the thin line of reeds between the stream and the lake. Ferox and Cocceius stripped again, the boy self conscious and blushing this time because the lady was there. She ignored them. The two men waded back to the punt and unfastened it. With some effort, and the help of two Brigantes who had joined them in the water, they managed to drag it up and through the reeds onto the lake.

Claudia Enica pulled off her boots and then stood up, still paying no attention to the men around her. She unfastened her cloak and dropped it, undid her belt with its weapons and then pulled the tunic off over her head. Cocceius gasped, eyes wide and mouth gaping. Underneath she wore a wide calfskin breast band and two soft leather triangles tied together with thongs around her hips. Ferox had seen outfits like this on the beach at Baiae, and sometimes even in the baths, but they appeared a revelation to the young Batavian, although it was hard to tell whether or not he was disappointed or thrilled that she was not quite naked. He blushed a violent red and crouched, then turned and dived into the lake. Ferox laughed and did the same.

‘You should cross with us, lady,’ Crispinus called.

‘Or wait for the second trip,’ her brother suggested.

Enica’s only answer was to hand the bundle she had made by wrapping her things up in her cloak to one of the guards. ‘Have them take this across for me.’

The punt was long enough for five, but one needed to take it back again for the next party, so it would carry the tribune, the prince and two of his guards across on the first trip. With some reluctance Ferox let them take his sword, belt and boots as well. Cocceius had brought an old shield, and they piled their clothes and a dry blanket on top. The lad exaggeratedly showed the hilt of the pugio he had slipped in at Ferox’s request. Thankfully the two Brigantes were too busy watching Enica as she climbed over the bank and then dived gracefully into the water. Without waiting for the others, she swam straight out towards the hill ahead of them.

‘Come on, boy,’ Ferox said and they followed.

They were halfway across the lake before the punt set out, although it had nearly caught them up by the time they reached the far shore. Enica was first, striding up from the waves like Venus. The gracefulness of her movements truly was remarkable, and Ferox felt like some ungainly aquatic monster as he waded ashore. Cocceius was beside him; he rather felt the boy had been polite and kept to his pace, for the Batavians tended to be superb swimmers. They used the blanket to dry themselves a little and then started to dress.

‘Don’t on my account,’ the lady told them. Cocceius’ blush spread again, almost as pink as the clouds around the setting sun. Ferox shaded his eyes against its light. Night was coming. He shivered.

Arviragus bounded off the punt and came rushing up the slope. Crispinus trailed behind with the two guards, one carrying the lady’s bundle.

‘So, where now, centurion?’ The prince was brimming with enthusiasm.

He pointed to the tree. ‘Up there, then the huts on the far side,’ he said, even though he had no real idea what to expect. My lord, has one of your men brought my sword and boots?’

The prince did not bother to ask. ‘Sorry, Ferox. Got left on the boat. They’ll bring it with the next trip.’ The punt was already a fair way out from the shore.

Ferox led them to the tree. Close up, he was no longer sure that this was a hill, for it had an even look, like one of the mounds left by the forgotten people, the users of flint and the makers of the stone circles.

‘I see a yew tree,’ the prince said. ‘I am assuming there must be more.’

They could see the huts now and walked down to them. Enica caught up, dressed again in tunic and boots and with her gladius and curved sica at her belt. The huts were strange, even the roofs made from stone, reminding Ferox of the houses built by the folk in the far north of Caledonia. Perhaps that was no surprise, since by sea Mona was not so very far away. It was often said that the people who lived there were more akin to the northerners and the Hibernians than they were to their neighbours the Ordovices.

The huts were in poor repair, gaping holes in their roofs and walls, but there were tracks by the doors of each one and some of them were fresh, no more than a few hours old. He could not say more in this light and decided not to mention it. None of this felt right. Ferox bent down to go through the door into one. It was dim and all he saw was broken pots and rotting pieces of wood.

‘Be dark soon,’ he said. ‘We will need light. Did you bring the torches?’ The Brigantes had remembered this and when the prince snapped his fingers they set about using a flint to light some kindling.

The second hut had even less inside it. Set in the stone were a number of thick rings, the iron heavily rusted. They might have been meant to tether animals rather than people, but Ferox doubted it. The third hut stank and was full of old sacks, bones and dung. There was a dead fox, belly burst open and covered in maggots, and no doubt the source of the worst smell. Arviragus ducked his head in after Ferox and then pulled back, face screwed up in distaste.

‘Nothing here,’ he said.

‘I need a light,’ Ferox said. ‘And a spear. Come on.’ He kicked at some of the rubbish to clear it. There was no reason for all this to be here unless it was hiding something. Arviragus took a torch from one of his men and came back inside.

‘You,’ Crispinus commanded the other guard. ‘Your spear, man.’

Ferox used the shaft to drag aside some of the filth and debris. There seemed to be bare earth underneath. Then he tapped the butt of the spear down. It did not have a spike and the wood hit the floor and threw up dust.

‘Hollow?’ The tribune crouched down to see better. ‘Hercules’ balls. It is hollow!’

Turning the spear around, Ferox used the head to dig into the earth and scrape it away. It was loose, not packed hard, which made him think that it had not lain very long. He scraped again, and this time it was so easy to push the muck out of the way that he wondered whether it had only been there a few hours. ‘Post a sentry.’

‘Yes, I see,’ Crispinus said. ‘If someone has covered this over they may be around outside somewhere.’

The prince thought, nodded, and gave the order. Four more of his guards had joined them.

‘Have they seen anything?’ Ferox asked.

The Brigantes claimed to have seen nothing untoward, so he kept on clearing the earth and debris aside until the wooden trapdoor was uncovered. It was about two feet square, of thick pieces with almost no gap between them, and with a large iron ring.

‘Stand back,’ he ordered, and used the spearhead to hook under the ring. It needed very little force to lift, confirming his suspicion that they were not the first to come here. As it opened, all he could see below was darkness. ‘Let’s have some light.’ Crispinus came up, holding a torch, and Ferox could see that there was a drop of some four feet to a mud floor of what looked like a long tunnel. There were prints of several people. ‘Someone’s been here within the last day, perhaps even within a few hours, my lords,’ he said, just in case they all continued to ignore the obvious signs.

‘Acco?’ Crispinus suggested. Neither he nor the prince seemed surprised. ‘Has he beaten us to it?’ The tribune frowned. ‘Then why hide this tunnel?’

‘We’ve come this far, my lord, so we may as well find out. I need my sword and a torch,’ Ferox said. ‘This spear will be no use down there. And my boots.’

The footwear was readily provided.

‘We’ll pass the rest down to you, centurion.’ Crispinus grinned. ‘For a moment I was worried you would suggest the shortest of us should go first.’

Ferox sat on the edge and them jumped. Crouching, he stared into the darkness and reckoned that the tunnel was heading underneath the mound. Stories told of ancient tombs filled with gold and gems, but protected by monsters and terrible spells. At least he would not be the first to visit. He reached up and the tribune gave him a torch. ‘Just the blade, my lord,’ he said, when Arviragus appeared, holding out his belt and scabbarded sword from one of the guards. The tunnel might get smaller, and it was better to carry the gladius in his hand than wear it.

The prince of the Brigantes slid the blade out. He felt it, hefting the sword, and flexing his wrist. His eyes glinted in the torchlight.

‘Beautiful,’ he said, and Ferox sensed a reluctance to hand it down, but if there was, then the prince swiftly got over it. The centurion’s fingers closed around the familiar bone handgrip. He did not trust any of the others, and was sure this was a trap of some sort. He had not expected to be given a weapon, least of all his own sword. Somehow the gesture made him even more suspicious. ‘Wait here until I take a look.’ Hoping they would obey, he ducked his head, thrust the torch ahead of him and walked on.

The floor was soft mud, the passage little more than a foot and a half wide, and so many booted and bare feet had passed along it that it was hard to make out individual tracks. The walls were flecked with stone and slate, and in places carved out of more solid rock. There was a harsh smell faint behind the damp, musty odour.

There was a soft thud as someone jumped down behind him.

‘You should wait, lady,’ he said without looking around.

‘What?’ Claudia Enica tried to make her voice as deep and manly as possible, and Ferox was glad he had guessed correctly. No one else followed her.

‘Come on then.’

The passage went straight for ten paces, then turned left, making a long curve, before turning back to the right. It was higher now, just high enough for him to stand almost upright and only now and then brush his hair against the roof. Just around the first bend a skull grinned at him from a niche carved into the wall. He waited, hoping for a nervous gasp when the lady came around the corner. In the event, it was barely more than a soft hiss of surprise, but he smiled to himself anyway. After the next turn there was another skull. This time he heard no hint of surprise. The smell was getting stronger. He coughed, for it stuck in the throat, like smoke, yet it tasted bitter. Ferox was not sure whether he saw dust or smoke or both in the air. Water dripped from the roof.

It grew narrower, and at times he had to turn sideways and edge along. His torch was in front of him and when he glanced back Enica was a faint shape. Still, he suspected Vindex would have made some comment about it being too narrow for her.

‘Do you want me to go first?’ she said as he paused for just a moment.

‘Wait.’ The floor in front of him was smooth, unbroken by any footprint. With difficulty he swapped his torch and sword. Leaning over, he prodded the earth with the long tip of the gladius. He sidestepped forward and then did it again. The third time the point drove through the thin straw and mud covering a small pit. In the centre was a stake, perhaps no more than six or seven inches, but sharpened to a point and no doubt smeared with filth. The army called a trap like this a lillia, after the vague resemblance to the lily flower. For the Silures they were gnat’s bites. They did not kill, at least not quickly, but a man with a hurt foot was slower and made others cautious.

‘Watch where you tread,’ he whispered.

Ferox found three more lilies, the last where the narrow passage made another sharp turn, but then grew wider before another abrupt corner. He still had the torch behind him and the sword in front. Even with his body masking a lot of the light he could see that there were footprints on the earth; a clear trail, one person walking towards them. Enica stepped over the last of the little stakes and was only just behind him. He glanced back. Her skin seemed very pale in the torchlight and her face was eager.

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Hold my sword.’

‘What here? Now?’ Sometimes the sense of humour of the Brigantes was tiresome, although he could imagine Vindex cackling at this, especially since such vulgarity was surprising in a lady.

With difficulty and a few grazes he brought his right hand back and held the sword for her to take. She leaned forward, brushing against his left arm as it held the torch. Then he eased that forward and lowered it close to the floor in front of him. There was nothing to see. Ferox edged forward, feeling exposed in the wider passage. He kept the torch low, inching along. The Lord of the Hills always said that to set a trap or escape one you had to outthink the other man. They had just come past the lilies into a passage that was wider and easier. He doubted the philosophers with their logic ever considered such a problem, but to him it was natural to expect them to feel relieved and relax their guard.

There it was. Just before the next corner a cord was stretched across barely an inch off the ground, where someone holding a torch at normal height was unlikely to see it. He knelt down next to it and beckoned to her.

‘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 you? 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.