Brigantia

PROLOGUE

THE TWO MEN followed the path as it meandered up from the valley floor towards the lone farmstead. They were big men, one just slightly taller and the other broader at the shoulders. Each wore mail armour and helmet and had a sword on their left hip, and few among the Selgovae of these parts could boast such a fine panoply. The thicker set man also carried a torch held high in his right hand. There was no moon, but the heavens were an endless field of bright stars, and they did not need the torchlight to find their path. Instead it warned anyone who cared to watch that they were coming, two warriors well armed and grim.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ the taller man said. His face was long, the skin drawn taut over the muscles, giving him the air of a leering horse. His companion ignored him and trudged on. Now and again the gentle breeze picked up and made the flame gutter and wave.

There was no sign that anyone in the farm had noticed them. It was much like the others dotted along the valley, indeed throughout much of Britannia, with a main house, its conical roof a little higher and broader than the round huts on either side. Below all was deep shadow, with the odd hint of movement as the livestock in the fenced enclosures shuffled and fed. Higher up the thatch was pale in the starlight. The Selgovae did not care to live too close to their neighbours. Men felt the need for room around them, so families lived apart and got on with the business of keeping their own flocks or herds and tending fields. Eburus, the old man who lived here, disliked company more than most, for the nearest homestead was nearly two miles away, and his own farm was perched on a narrow shelf halfway up the eastern side of the valley. Beyond the shallow ditch surrounding the three houses the slope steepened and then turned into high cliffs that were dark and brooding even on this bright night. No one could approach from that direction – or escape.

‘I mean,’ the taller man said, ‘we could wait. Catch ’em tomorrow or the next day.’ He spoke in Latin, the words clear and carefully chosen, albeit with the gruff accent of his people. Vindex was one of the Carvetii, a northern people who were close kin to the Brigantes, the biggest tribe anywhere in Britannia. For the last seven years he had led the scouts sent by his chieftain to serve alongside the Roman army.

Still his companion did not reply or stop. They were a good halfway up the slope, where the path reached a broad grey boulder and then made a loop around the mound behind it. There were two more big stones beyond the mound.

‘Guess it could be a woman,’ Vindex mused as they reached the pair of stones, round and evenly matched. ‘Just lying there, waiting.’ Someone must have thought the same, for the name of this place was the Vale of the Mother, or sometimes the Vale of the Queen, and perhaps a goddess had set her mark here as a blessing, for the barley in the fields around the farm was high and thick. ‘Harvest soon,’ he added. ‘Although that lazy old sod Eburus will probably wait longer. Serve him right if a storm blows it flat.’ He stopped and caressed one of the stones that might be breasts and smiled. He was fond of women, and had mourned two wives and not long ago taken a third. Before he left she had wondered whether she was with child. The thought was an exciting one, albeit salted by fear for her.

His companion continued to ignore him and trudged up the slope. He wore an iron helmet, with deep and wide neck guard, broad cheek pieces and a high transverse crest of feathers, which made him look taller. It was the way the Romans marked out their centurions, making it easier for friend and foe alike to see them in the chaos of battle. Flavius Ferox belonged to Legio II Augusta, but was on detached service as regionarius, the man tasked with keeping the peace and the rule of law in the area near the fort at Vindolanda. A few months ago the senior regionarius in the north had died an especially nasty death, and since then Ferox had acted in his stead. Even so they were a long way further north than any district formally organised by Rome or under his responsibility. No one but Ferox would have come this far in pursuit, especially with so few men. It was not the first time he had led Vindex off in this way and the scout doubted that it would be the last. In truth, given the odds they faced this night, he had to hope that it would not be the last time.

Vindex gave the stone one last pat and followed. Ferox was already a fair way ahead, climbing a little bank rather than following the path as it wound around it. He stood for a moment at the top, and a gust of wind hissed through the barley, rippling the feathered crest and making the torch flicker wildly. Ferox turned his back to the breeze and lowered the branch so that the flame recovered and did not go out. The wind slackened, and once he was sure that the torch was burning well, the centurion looked past the muttering scout down into the valley floor. The three points of light from torches like the one he carried were where they should be. Ferox grunted in approval.

‘You’re awake then,’ Vindex said, staring up at him. ‘Well, nearly.’

‘Huh,’ Ferox grunted again. The Carvetii talked a lot even compared to the rest of the Brigantes. Both made the Romans seem reserved.

Vindex came up to join him. ‘How are they supposed to hold a torch and blow a horn at the same time?’ he asked. ‘Can you tell me that, centurion?’

The wind gusted again and Ferox turned and leaned over to protect the flame. He ignored the question because it was one of many he could not really answer. They had begun the chase three days ago. One of the scouts dropped out early on when his horse became badly lame. The day before last, their quarry met a lone rider who then rode off to the east while the others continued north and Ferox had sent another scout and one of his Roman troopers after whoever this was. The scout was not a true fighter, and the soldier a big Tungrian who would get lost inside a fort if left on his own, so the two would together make one capable man. The tracks suggested the fugitive was small, perhaps a youth, so hopefully the two should manage if they caught up, although anyone willing to meet the men they were chasing was bold at the very least. That was one more mystery in the bigger mystery, and Ferox was not sure why he wanted that lone rider caught save that he did not like loose ends. This whole business was odd, and something told him that it mattered and that nothing was quite what it seemed, so he had listened to his instincts and told them to bring the rider back, alive or dead, with everything he carried.

‘That’s if the buggers don’t just go out before anyone has seen them.’ Vindex spoke loudly over the wind, interrupting his thoughts, especially when the breeze dropped suddenly so that it sounded as if the scout was shouting. They both glanced up at the farm, but there was still no sign that anyone was paying attention.

‘They’ll hear.’ Flavius Ferox spoke at last.

‘They will, will they?’ Vindex said once it was clear that nothing more was forthcoming. After all these years, he was used to his friend’s ways. Not that that made them any less infuriating. ‘Sure that little Greek can even blow a trumpet?’

‘Philo talks all the time.’ Ferox’s tone implied that this well qualified his slave when it came to making noise. ‘And he gave me the idea. Told me a story once about a hero of his people who crept at night with just three hundred warriors and surrounded the camp of a vast host of enemies. Each of them had a torch and a trumpet and they all blew at the same moment and waved the torches. Scared the enemy so much they panicked, killed each other by mistake and fled. A god clouded their minds.’

Vindex pulled up the wheel of Taranis that he wore around his neck and kissed the bronze. ‘Have we got a god on our side tonight?’ he asked.

‘What do you think?’

‘I’d settle for three hundred warriors.’ Vindex sighed. ‘If we wait, a patrol may catch up. The trail is clear. I could follow it with just one eye, half-open. You could follow it in your sleep.’

‘And the girl?’

‘If she isn’t dead already, then why would they kill her now? They’d have to slaughter Eburus while they’re at it. He may be a mean old sod, but he wouldn’t have killing under his roof unless he’s the one doing it.’

‘Cistumucus would slaughter the world without blinking.’ Ferox spoke bitterly. ‘Rufus would do it with a big grin as long as he thought he could escape afterwards. One old man and his family wouldn’t bother them or slow them down.’ He paused, lifted the torch and gently waved it from left to right and then back again three times. Down in the valley the three points of light dipped in answer.

‘And Rufus is there?’

‘He’s there.’ Rufus was an army deserter who had left a trail of blood ever since he ran from his cohort eighteen months ago. Cistumucus was an outcast from one of the far northern tribes. Both were feared as truly bad men even in these hard lands, and it was clear that the rumours were true and they had banded together. ‘They’re both there along with a couple of warriors and the girl.’ The tracks were plain, even with the ground hard after a month with unusually little rain.

‘Now killing your host might not be something even those bastards will do lightly,’ Ferox went on, ‘but our horses are spent and apart from us we’ve only got the tubicen fit to fight, and I wouldn’t count much on him. So we probably won’t catch them tomorrow and if we do, the odds wouldn’t be good in the open. If we wait for the others then they’ll have too big a lead and they’ll get away or kill the girl once they see us coming on behind.’ He said no more and simply set off along the path.

‘You ever met her?’ Vindex asked once he had caught up.

‘Met who?’

‘This slave girl?’

‘What’s that got to do with it? You saw what they did.’

‘Aye.’ The woman was a slave, married to a slave, and both of them and their little boy were owned by an imperial freedman who had once been a slave, but Vindex had long since given up seeking reason in the ways of the Romans. The man was driving a cart full of goods belonging to his master when it was ambushed, and the solitary soldier who was presumably their escort could do no more than die with them. Pure chance had brought Ferox and Vindex to the spot half a day later. They had seen the corpses, wished they had not, and followed the trail for three days, riding hard. Ferox had sent a trooper back to Vindolanda asking for support, with little hope that it would arrive in time, and that began the depletion of the tiny band.

‘They need killing,’ Ferox said, his normally musical voice flat, which was always a sign that it was no use trying to persuade him otherwise.

‘Aye, they do.’ Vindex glanced at the other man. ‘And there’s plenty more out there like them.’

Ferox turned and smiled. ‘You do not have to come with me.’

Vindex stopped and watched his friend stride on, his crest bobbing as he climbed the path. The iron helmet glinted red in the flames, as did his mail shirt. He did not look back.

Vindex sighed. ‘That is true because it is not.’ The words were no more than a whisper, for he knew that they did not matter. Brigantes were renowned for sticking with friends whatever the cost, and the Carvetii were known as faithful even compared to their kin. Ferox was his friend, whether the Roman liked it or not, and that meant Vindex would go with him now and always, as long as there was breath in his body. He raised the wheel of Taranis to his lips again, pressed it to them, and then slipped it down the top of his own mail cuirass. He patted the bronze dome of his old-fashioned army issue helmet to check that it was tied on securely and then gripped the handle of his long sword and gave a slight tug to make sure that it was loose in the scabbard. Then he shook his head. ‘Bastard.’ He said the word with great fondness, and followed Ferox.

The farm was close now, no more than a hundred paces away, and there was a brief jab of red firelight as someone pulled open the door of the main house and went in or out. Yet there was still no sign that anyone was paying them any attention. They were past the barley fields and into the open patch of ground in front of the farm. In spite of the long dry spell the path grew muddy from the passage of animals day after day. One of them, a pony with a broad white mark on its face, stared over the wattle fence of one of the animal pens alongside the huts. The ditch around the farm was shallow and from the smell filled with the waste of the family who lived inside. The Selgovae did not use their own dung on their fields, but tended to toss it aside and then forget about it. It added an extra layer to the odour of pigs, sheep, goats, ponies and rotting food.

There was a single causeway across the ditch, although that was rather a grand name for the earth they had simply not bothered to dig out. The ditch, like the fences around the animal pens, was there to stop the livestock from straying, and make it just a little harder for thieves to steal them without anyone noticing.

Ferox and Vindex stopped in front of the causeway. The centurion turned, and waved his torch for the second time. Down in the valley the three red lights dipped in answer. A bronze trumpet sounded a rising scale, then sounded it again.

‘The lad’s good,’ Vindex muttered, knowing that this was Banno, the tubicen from Vindolanda. The last note faded and they waited for what seemed an age before there was a brief, high-pitched snort, then nothing, and then a thin, rasping note. ‘Not so good.’ That was Philo, a slave who waged merciless war against dirt in his master’s quarters and with less success on his clothes. ‘The music is not in him,’ Vindex added sadly.

No one stirred in the farm, and even the white-faced pony turned away from them.

‘Eburus!’ Ferox shouted, so loud that Vindex flinched. For a man prone to brooding silence, the centurion had a voice of surprising power. ‘Eburus! We are at your gates, my lord, and ask to speak with you!’ The old man was neither a lord nor did he have any gates, but courtesies were important. Ferox spoke in the language of the tribes, and after more than a decade in the north, there was only a slight trace of the accent of his own people. Although a Roman and a centurion of Legio II Augusta, Ferox was born a prince of the Silures, a tribe who had fought Rome for twenty years and lost in the end. In his early teens he had been sent as hostage to the empire, educated like a good Roman, made a citizen and an officer. Vindex always felt that two different, even hostile, spirits battled for the soul of his friend.

They waited.

‘Maybe they’ve killed each other,’ Vindex said cheerfully.

Light spilled from the low doorway in the main hut. They could see a dark shape lurking there.

‘Go away! You are not welcome.’ It sounded like a boy’s voice.

‘Ah, the fabled warm hospitality of the Selgovae,’ Vindex whispered, the words dripping with irony.

Ferox ignored him. ‘Come forth, Eburus! We must speak.’ He thought he heard some discussion.

‘Who are you?’ the boy called out.

‘Ferox, the centurio regionarius. We must talk.’

‘I have guests already and no room for more.’ This voice was deeper and heavy with petulance. There was movement in the doorway, blocking most of the firelight, and then a spare figure unfolded to its full height. It swayed a little as it walked towards them. ‘Be quick. My fire is warm and the night is cold.’

Eburus was more than fifty and looked a good deal older. He was taller by a head than Vindex, but thinner than seemed reasonable, his bare arms like sticks and his neck immensely long and wrinkled like a lizard’s. The head of the household walked to the inner side of the causeway. ‘Speak! And be quick!’ He fumbled with his trousers and began to urinate into the ditch.

‘You know me, Lord Eburus.’ Ferox spoke over loud splashing that seemed to go on and on. He had met the man several times over the years, and once received the shelter of his roof and the warmth of his fire for the night. The house and its occupants were dirty and sullen, the hospitality sparing even by the thrifty standards of the Selgovae, except for the rich, deep flavoured beer that came in great bowls. Ferox was counting on the potency of that beer.

The old man seemed to consider before he replied, and all the while the flow of urine kept coming. The white-faced pony was back at the fence, watching and no doubt impressed.

‘I know you,’ Eburus conceded at last.

Ferox glimpsed movement in the doorway and raised his voice so that it would carry. ‘I have come for your guests. For Cistumucus and the Roman once called Rufus and their companions. I shall slay them tonight or take them as prisoners to face just punishment. They are murderers.’

Eburus blinked several times, eyes peering from his wrinkled face as if he struggled to understand. At last the flow of liquid stopped. ‘They are guests at my hearth.’

Ferox turned away and waved the torch. In answer the lights in the valley dipped once more. Banno repeated the short fanfare and this time Philo produced a louder, if wavering call.

‘I have nine Batavian horsemen with me,’ Ferox announced, facing back towards the old man. ‘You know their fame as warriors. You also know the fame of Vindex of the Carvetii, who stands beside me. Six of his warriors wait in the valley below.’ In truth there was only Banno, Philo and just one of Vindex’s scouts. Philo barely knew enough to pick up a sword the right way, and the scout had injured his leg earlier in the day and could hardly walk. Some of the Selgovae were bound to have seen them. He had to hope that the ill-tempered old man had not spoken to his neighbours in the last few hours.

‘They are my guests.’ Eburus sounded more puzzled than anything else.

‘And I must take them or kill them.’

‘They are under my roof.’ Eburus’ temper was starting to fray and his words were slurring. ‘Do you not know what that means?’

‘He is a Roman,’ Vindex said. ‘They understand nothing except iron to kill and gold to hoard.’

‘I make this offer to your guests.’ Ferox shouted the words. ‘Come out and fight the two of us. My men will not intervene. If they kill us, then I swear by the gods of Rome and by Sun and Moon that my men will let them go free and wait for two days before they chase. It is a fair offer.’

‘The gods of Rome.’ Eburus spat and then remembered to pull his trousers up properly and tighten his belt. He was unarmed and it was only now that Ferox noticed he was barefoot. ‘What if they will not come out? They are guests and have my protection until the sun rises tomorrow.’ The old man took a step onto the causeway. ‘I shall not command them to leave. What if they will not come?’

Ferox admired the old man’s pride and determination, and wondered whether Eburus knew or sensed that he was bluffing. ‘They must come out!’

‘Why?’ the old man said.

Ferox thought he caught Vindex’s muttered ‘Why indeed?’

‘Because if they do not come out and face us, then I shall put your farm to the torch and kill every man, boy and beast inside, and sell your women as slaves.’

Eburus spluttered with rage. ‘You would not dare! You would not!’

‘He is a Roman,’ Vindex explained for a second time. ‘They have no honour. Worse still, he is a Silure. Everyone knows the wolf people never let honour get in the way of vengeance.’

‘The gods will curse you!’ Eburus took another pace forward. Ferox simply shrugged. The old man was quivering, his hands twitching. ‘My kin will hunt you down and kill you.’

‘Plenty have tried,’ Ferox told him. ‘A few more will make no difference and it will not save you tonight. Ask your guests. Either all of you die in the flames or on our swords or they come out and face us. Then they will die or we will die, but you and your house will live.’

Eburus spat again, and Ferox felt some of it strike his face. He wiped it away with his free hand. ‘Ask them.’

The old man walked off, murmuring a thorough and highly specific curse involving the Roman’s blood, bones and guts. Finally, he crouched and went through the low door of the main house. Light spilled from the smaller hut on the left as someone watched them, but did nothing. Ferox transferred the torch to his left hand and gripped his sword, which as a centurion he wore on the left. It slid easily from the scabbard and he felt the familiar joy at its perfect balance. His grandfather had taken it from a Roman officer and given it to him when he was too small to lift it. The blade was an old one even then, for it was longer than the army issue gladius, of a pattern rarely seen since the days of the Divine Augustus. Holding this sword and knowing that he would soon have to use it brought a rare simplicity to life.

Vindex sighed and drew his own weapon, a longer and slimmer blade, and hefted the small square shield in his left hand. ‘What if they don’t come out?’ he asked.

‘We try to set the thatch on fire and then kill them one at a time as they come out.’

‘Easy as that.’

‘Not so easy. It will take a fair time and we’ll get tired.’

A bulky shape emerged from the main house. As the man stood, light shone off his shaven head and glinted on the blade of the axe he carried. It was a woodsman’s tool, not a warrior’s weapon, but this was Cistumucus, and he liked to fight with the great axe, though he was happy to kill with anything, including his huge hands. He was not tall, but his chest was wide and looked dark, and, even though neither Ferox nor Vindex had ever seen the killer from the north, they knew that he was bare-chested, for his body was covered in thick hair. There were plenty of stories about the northerner and all were dark. Men called him the bear because he was so hairy and because of his appalling rages. They spoke of how he cut the head off anyone he killed, boiling the flesh away until only bone was left. It was told that he liked to take the skulls to the far west and cast them into the sea, and some said that this gave him power or that he had taken a vow and if he did this he could not die. Men said many things and some were true and some were not.

A taller man appeared, and then two more beside him. Each carried a long sword of the style beloved of the tribes, end heavy to give appalling force to a downward cut. One had a small shield like the one Vindex carried. Behind them came a warrior with a spear, and finally one who was bearded unlike the others and wearing a shirt of small bronze scales that took on a red tinge from the firelight. He paused and wrapped a cloak tightly around his left arm. In his right he held an army issue gladius, of the modern pattern with a shorter blade and point than Ferox’s old sword.

‘Didn’t think they’d come,’ Vindex said softly.

There was more movement in the doorway as two more men emerged.

‘Bugger, they must have had friends,’ the scout hissed.

‘Must have met up with them here,’ Ferox said.

‘Still think this is a good idea?’ Another man appeared, swatting away the assistance of a boy. Vindex sighed as he recognised the very tall, terribly lean figure. ‘Silly old sod. Must be one of his boys.’

Ferox nodded. ‘Only kill them if you have to.’

He was interrupted by a scream of rage as one of the warriors pelted towards them, little shield in front and long, blunt-tipped sword held high ready to sweep down. Some of the others came on steadily, but there was no time to watch them closely as the attacker was on the causeway. He was heading for Ferox, his high-crested helmet drawing attention as it always did.

Ferox and Vindex both took a pace back as the man stamped his left foot down and swept his sword at where the Roman had been. He recovered before the blade went too low, and that showed some skill, but then the centurion thrust the torch at him, the motion making the fire blaze dazzlingly bright. The warrior dodged, saw Vindex coming at him from the side and switched his shield in that direction just as Ferox jabbed with his gladius. The long, wickedly sharp point drove easily through tunic, skin and muscle, sliding into the ribcage from below. Gasping for breath, the warrior let his sword fall and staggered as the centurion twisted the blade and yanked it free. He sank to his knees, a trickle of blood coming from his lips, and tried to speak, but no sound came. Ferox kicked the dying man into the ditch.

‘They should have rushed us then, while they had the chance,’ he said, his tone almost disapproving of his enemies’ mistake. He heard Eburus shouting something about a spear and shield, his tone as aggrieved as ever, and then his lad trotted over to the far hut. A deep voice protested, then spat a curse at the old man, and the other five came on, the bald axeman in the centre, two warriors on his left and the other on his right. The deserter hung back a couple of paces, sword held low in one of the standard guards approved by the divine Augustus in his regulations for the army. There was no hurry, or any sign that they had drunk too much of the old man’s beer, which had surely prompted the other warrior’s lone assault.

Ferox tossed the torch onto the causeway. It flickered, but continued to burn. Instead he drew his stubby pugio dagger in his left hand, thumb on the pommel and point downwards. Most legionaries either kept their daggers wrapped up and heavily oiled and polished, producing them only for inspection, or treated them casually for cutting their food. Fighting with one was a skill that took a lot of practice, but since he did not have a shield there was nothing he would rather have alongside his sword.

Cistumucus thrust out his matted chest and roared like a beast, brandishing the long axe above his head. The warrior closest to him held a heavy shafted spear. Ferox could see no sign of a sword, which meant that he was unlikely to risk throwing the spear unless he was sure of his mark. Thankfully none of the enemy had javelins, so perhaps some god was on their side after all.

The spearman was on the bald axeman’s left, facing Ferox. Beside him the warrior jumped down into the ditch to threaten the centurion from the side. Rufus kept back, watching and waiting, ready to pounce. Before the deserter had gone over the rampart he had cut the throat of his decurion while the man was asleep. In battles and brawls he’d shown himself a vicious fighter, but he was not a man to take an unnecessary risk.

Cistumucus bellowed again and as he did stamped forward and swung the axe down so that it hummed through the air. Ferox dodged to the side, and only just had time to parry the thrusting spear point of the warrior in front of him, beating it aside with his gladius. He had to step back to keep his balance, and seeing the man in the ditch coming up the shallow bank he stepped back again. Vindex thrust his blade forward, aiming for Cistumucus’ eyes, but the stocky man flicked the axe back up with staggering speed, blocked the attack, then was poised for another downward blow. The two men were a pace apart, eyeing each other warily, waiting for their chance.

On the axeman’s right, the other warrior went into the ditch, moving warily, small shield up. Vindex’s eyes flicked to watch him, then back to face Cistumucus just as the axe flashed down again. There was no time to raise his shield, so the scout slashed with his sword and swayed so that the blade of the axe glanced against his bronze helmet with a clang weirdly like a bell ringing. Vindex staggered, his helmet twisted round and chin bloodied where the cheek pieces had torn loose. His cut had lacked real force, but had gouged across the hairy belly of his foe. In the light it was hard to see whether he had drawn blood or whether the matted hair really was as thick as a bear’s hide and the man could not be wounded.

Ferox jabbed with his dagger against the spearman, and gave a wild slash at the man coming up this side of the ditch. Both gave way for a moment, but the respite was brief and almost at once they came on again. The warrior in the ditch near Vindex saw the lean man staggering and bounded up the bank, then shrieked as his shoes slipped on piled excrement and he flipped backwards, arms flailing and legs in the air. It was so absurd that even the stunned Vindex snorted with laughter, his helmet falling off with the motion.

Cistumucus gave no sign that he noticed and raised the axe again, but the spearman’s head flicked around to see what had happened. Ferox flung his dagger. The pugio was a heavy, clumsy weapon and he did not have a chance to ready it properly in his hand, but the range was short and all the years of practice made it fly true, the point burying itself into Cistumucus’ great belly, making him grunt like an injured animal. Ferox whipped his empty left hand down and grasped the spear shaft just below the head, yanking it towards him. He swung to the right, putting all his weight behind his gladius so that the long triangular tip drove into the man’s face so hard that it burst out through the back of his head.

The sword was trapped and Ferox let go of the grip just as the man in the ditch cut hard against his side. It was not a perfect blow, and a jab would have been more dangerous save that the warrior’s sword had no point, but still it snapped one or two of the mail rings and felt like the blow of a hammer and he fell to his knees. He still had hold of the spear and he wrenched it free from the dead man’s grip, then let himself fall because the axe was slashing at him. Cistumucus was screaming in high-pitched rage, and Ferox rolled aside an instant before the axe struck the hard ground and bounced up. The warrior in the ditch was crouching as he came up the slope. He dropped his sword and grabbed the centurion’s leg. Ferox lashed out with the other foot, struck the man’s face, and the heavy, hobnailed sole of his boot smashed his nose and drove him away.

‘Bastard!’ Vindex yelled as he went at Cistumucus, and the screaming man did not seem slowed or weakened by the knife sticking in his stomach for the axe was up and then sliced down. The scout blocked the blow with his shield, but such was the power that the blade shattered the board, which fell to pieces, the boss riven and Vindex’s fist numb. Ferox managed to get his other hand around the thick shaft of the spear and he used all the strength he could muster to jab the point backwards, luck as much as aim driving it into the axeman’s thigh. Cistumucus wavered and Vindex sliced down so that his long sword bit into the bald man’s skull. Blood sprayed as he yanked the blade free and cut down again. The wounded northerner sank to his knees, flailing wildly with the axe so that Vindex had to leap back. Ferox pushed himself up, still clutching tightly to the spear, and ripped it free. Vindex came on again, slashing his sword down two-handed, and when the axe was raised to block the attack its haft was sliced in two. Ferox thrust the spear into Cistumucus’ eye, this time rolling the point so that it came free easily. The two warriors in the ditch were both standing, staring up in disbelief at their dead leader.

A horn blew a ragged note from down in the valley, then the bronze trumpet showed how it was done. Rufus was nowhere in sight.

‘The boys are coming,’ Vindex said to the man who had fallen and was now covered with a reeking skin of manure and other filth. ‘You giving up or do you want me to kill you now?’ When there was no response he went down the bank, almost slipping.

The warrior knelt in submission. ‘Spare me.’

On the other side the man with the broken nose made no effort to pick up his dropped sword. Ferox’s side throbbed with pain and he wanted to know where the deserter had gone. He hefted the spear. The warrior stared at him blankly, neither defiant nor showing any sign of giving in. Ferox flung the spear, his chest screaming in agony with the motion. The iron spearhead had never been very sharp, and had blunted further in the fight, but the weight and sheer force of the throw punched through ribs into the man’s heart. Ferox had turned away before the warrior fell. The centurion grasped his sword, placed a boot on the corpse’s face and wrenched the blade free.

There was a shout of triumph from inside the farm as Eburus, wearing a battered old helmet, brandished his shield and spear in the air. The boy stood beside him, armed with a reaping hook. Then a scream came from one of the animal pens. Ferox ran into the yard, for it was the terrified cry of a woman.

Rufus rode through the open gate of the pen, mounted on the white-faced pony and driving the beast on with the flat of his sword, the other hand guiding the reins and holding down the struggling slave draped in front of his saddle.

‘Coward!’ Eburus yelled at his fleeing guest, while the boy sprinted at the rider, hook raised. Rufus turned the animal on a denarius, and the beast almost bounded at the young lad, who swung his blade wildly and missed. The deserter cut down once, the well-honed blade striking at an angle into the boy’s neck so that the blood jetted high as he fell.

Ferox tried to get on Rufus’ left as the horse reared, hoofs flailing. The woman shrieked and tried to wriggle free.

‘Bitch!’ Rufus hissed and punched down with his left fist. Eburus was on the other side, and the deserter managed to block a thrust from his spear. He kicked hard against the horse’s sides. Ferox’s sword was too low and he dropped it, instead grabbing with both hands for the woman’s arms. The horse surged forward, stumbled, recovered and cantered for the causeway. As it stumbled, Ferox felt the woman’s weight shift and she was falling onto him, and then there was red-hot pain in his thigh. His leg gave way, his hands slipped, he grabbed, felt something tear, then he hit the ground and the weight of the woman smashed into him.

Rufus galloped across the causeway. The kneeling warrior sprang at Vindex, knocking him against the bank. They wrestled, slipping in the filth of the ditch, and the scout pounded the man’s head with the twin-pronged bronze pommel of his sword.

‘Mongrel!’ Eburus screamed. The woman rolled off Ferox, panting, her eyes wild with fear. He tried to push up, his leg screaming in protest. His trousers were slick with blood from the wound made by Eburus’ spear. ‘Why did you get in the way?’ the old man yelled angrily.

Vindex had beaten the warrior to the ground. He kneeled, and drove the sword into the man with such force that it stuck in the earth. Trying to stand, he slipped twice before he managed to get up. One hand wiped dung from his face and he spat several times.

‘Are you still sure this was a good idea?’ he said.