The Encircling Sea

VII

THE HOUSES WERE burning, the smoke whipped by the wind towards the tower. They risked riding up onto the ridge because the only Novantae they could see were on foot. Most of the warriors were clustered in the ditch or on the slope of the earth rampart surrounding the watchtower. With so few men, it was too large a circuit for the garrison to defend against the thirty or so tribesmen attacking it. He could not see any dead or injured warriors, but at least one of the Romans was dead, lying outside the gate where he must have been surprised by the attack. There really ought to have been time for him to flee through the entrance, so Ferox wondered whether the man had frozen and been caught. That would leave just five men to hold the place, so the legionary had wisely drawn back into the tower. The warriors would have to expose themselves to javelins and other missiles if they tried to break in, but the Romans were trapped, and if the attackers could use the fire from the burning houses to set light to the tower itself, then they would be left with the choice of choking, burning, or running out to be cut down.

‘Is this where we run away, very fast?’ Vindex asked.

It was the wise thing. They had one spear between them, for the lancea’s shaft had snapped when he had tried to free it from the dead warrior. With more missiles and the speed of their horses, they might have been able to nip at the band of tribesmen, bringing one or two of them down while keeping out of harm’s way. Two of them could not hope to do much more than die with the garrison if they charged in.

‘Hello,’ the Brigantian added, a moment later, ‘he’s made good time.’ The warrior riding the captured horse came streaking across the hilltop, heading for the men clustered around the rampart of the tower. ‘This’ll make ’em angry.’

Ferox grinned. ‘You mean they weren’t already? They’re Novantae, they were born angry.’

‘Time to go, then?’

A trumpet blared and a lone horseman came up over the lip of the hill, his deep green cloak billowing behind him as the tall black horse pounded across the turf towards the fort. The high red crest of his glittering helmet rippled as he sped towards the tower, sword raised high. A moment later another man came, riding a dark bay horse, wearing a yellow-brown cloak and with a spear held underarm like a hunter. Then there were six or seven more, all galloping, and one was the tubicen, still sounding the charge, the notes on his thin bronze trumpet ragged as they surged forward. He and most of the others had green shields and the tops of their helmets were dark.

‘Heroes,’ Vindex said wearily. The leader was Crispinus, with Cerialis and his Batavians close behind. ‘I’m guessing we can’t run away any more.’ Ferox set Snow into a canter and was off. ‘No,’ the Brigantian added, ‘I guess not,’ and followed.

Snow was tired, and Ferox had to reach back and slap her to force the mare into a gallop. A few of the Novantae saw them and turned, but most were looking at the main charge. For a moment Ferox hoped that they were just the leaders, and that behind the tribune and prefect was a turma or two sent from Luguvallium. There was not, and there were only the officers and their escort. He noticed Claudius Super with the leading Batavians, the high transverse crest of his helmet marking him out as a centurion. It would have been better if the horsemen had kept their distance, using their javelins, but it was too much to expect prudence and good sense when three officers were together.

Crispinus was several lengths ahead of the others. A spear was thrown at him and passed harmlessly overhead. The tribune headed straight for the entrance to the circular rampart, hacking at a warrior as he passed, but the man flung himself to the ground before the blow struck and the young aristocrat kept going. Then Ferox saw him drop his sword and grab hold of his horse’s mane. The animal tensed and jumped and he realised that the garrison must have drawn the spiked timber barricades across the gap in the rampart. Crispinus’ black stallion seemed to sail through the air, and then vanished into the little outpost. Behind him, Cerialis had seen the danger. He leaned to the side to drive his spear into the back of the warrior on the ground, pinning him to the earth, and then put his bay at the barricade. Warriors were rushing towards him. His horse stuttered in its rhythm, and then Ferox wondered whether he had jumped too soon, before it flew up and over.

Claudius Super was not so well mounted, or as fine a horseman, or perhaps it was just that his gelding was disconcerted by the warriors swarming around him. The animal stopped, rearing as a spear was thrust into its chest, and the centurion was flung down. One of the Batavians threw his javelin and spitted the man who had wounded the animal, but he and the other troopers had all halted, milling around outside the ramparts. Another horse was struck, another rider down in the grass, and two warriors were on him in a moment, slashing with their long, blunt-tipped swords.

Ferox saw that the mounted warrior was coming for him. He nudged Snow so that the mare shifted a little to bring him up on the man’s left side. They were closing fast, but the captured horse was tired or did not trust its rider and began to swerve away. Snow barged against its rear, nearly unseating the warrior, and Ferox slashed with his gladius, opening the man’s throat.

He rode on, straight at the confused mêlée outside the entrance. The tubicen was leaning against the neck of his horse, his scale armour punctured by a spear that had driven deep into his belly. Hands reached up and pulled him down. Another Batavian’s face was a mass of blood from the blow of a sling stone. Claudius Super was on his feet, helmet gone, his back against the sloping rampart and sword flicking from one opponent to the next.

A man flung himself down in front of Ferox, spear held ready to thrust up into the horse or ram between its legs to trip it. Snow was galloping too fast to stop or avoid him, so he copied the other officers and gripped the mare’s mane, urging her into the jump. He felt that wonderful power as the horse leaped, heard a dull thump as one of her feet struck something and then she was over, running on, uninjured as far as he could tell, and there was a scream as Vindex came on slowly and speared the man as he lay stunned.

The three uninjured Batavians had all sprung down from their horses, which ran away from the noise and the fighting. They stood protectively round the blinded man, keeping the warriors at bay for the moment, until one wearing mail and a bronze helmet jumped forward, pushed a spear aside with his shield and thrust with his sword into a trooper’s face. Other warriors were scrambling up the rampart and climbing over the parapet. Someone was shouting, the words lost amid the chaos of men and horses.

Two warriors were in Ferox’s path, their stout spears levelled, and Frost would not face them but skidded to a stop. Vindex arrived, making the men flinch, and Ferox was able to urge the mare past the tip of one man’s spear and cut down hard, missing his head but biting into the warrior’s bare shoulder. The warrior cursed and thrust at him one-handed, the spearhead hitting him in the side without breaking through his mail. He slashed down again, the blade slicing across the man’s face, so that his nose and a flap of skin from his cheek hung down. The warrior swung his spear like a staff, hitting the Roman across the belly, and Frost was startled, pulling away, so that Ferox lost his balance and fell, slamming hard into the ground.

For a moment, the horse was between them, but the grey leaped away and the warrior came at him, his face a ruin, shoulder bleeding, and spear held firmly in both hands. Ferox rolled, the spearhead sinking into the turf where he had lain, and then rolled again, as the man yanked it free and stabbed again. The centurion was on his front and somehow he still held the bone grip of his gladius so he flailed with the sword, hitting the man above the ankle, shearing through muscle and bone to cut through the leg. Vindex was leaning down from the saddle, reaching to help haul Ferox to his feet, his own opponent lying sobbing on his back, clutching at the great gash in his stomach.

Ferox saw that Snow was too far away to catch and ran alongside the Brigantian’s horse as he headed for the tower. Most of the warriors were still clustered around the Batavians. One threw a spear at Vindex, hitting his horse on the shoulder, and the animal quivered, sinking down on its front knees. The scout jumped down, but the warrior fled as Ferox charged towards him.

Outside the entrance another Batavian was down, jabbed in the belly by the mail-clad warrior. The legionary in command of the outpost appeared, which meant that they had pushed the spiked barricade open to create a gap. The man punched a warrior with the boss of his heavy shield, making him rock back, so that a thrust took him in the throat. The gladius stuck, and a moment later the tribesman in mail cut with all his strength, slicing through the legionary’s wrist so that his hand was left clutching the blade as the stump pumped blood across the warrior.

The last of the Batavians hustled his wounded comrades in through the entrance, Claudius Super shouting that he would protect them. The senior regional centurion went for the mail-clad warrior, jabbing low and making the man jump back. Ferox saw that Vindex was with him and pushed forward, grabbing the shaft of a spear to push it aside and rolling his wrist to thrust over a warrior’s little shield into his chest. The wound was not deep, but the man gave back, gasping for breath and letting go of his spear.

Claudius Super tried to grab the mail-clad leader’s arm with his left hand and punch at his face with his sword, but the Novantian was too strong and fast for him. He slammed his small round shield into the Roman’s face, breaking his nose, and then brought it down and then up under his chin. The centurion fell, and the warrior steadied himself and then raised his sword to jab down.

Ferox charged at the man, screaming, and the noise made the leader turn before he struck. The Roman cut down, because there was not time for a properly aimed thrust and he felt his arm jar as the blade hit the man’s shield. Vindex was beside him, facing another man with a long sword and a heavy silver torc around his neck.

The man in mail stepped back, so that the stunned Claudius Super was just behind him, and levelled his shield. His sword was an army issue spatha, the long blades used mainly by the cavalry, and he knew how to use it. Ferox knew that it was only a matter of moments before other warriors closed around him and it would be hard to beat a man with the longer reach, so he jumped, hurling himself at the tribesman just as his mare had cleared the warrior on the ground. It took the man by surprise and he cut down too late because Ferox was already past the main force of the blow, his whole weight slamming into the Novantian’s body. His feet were against the downed Claudius Super, and the man was pitched over, Ferox on top of him, pounding at his head with the pommel of his gladius.

Distracted for a moment, Vindex’s opponent gave him an opening and the Brigantian cut down, his sword ringing where it hit the man’s torc, but knocking him down with the sheer force of the blow.

‘Come on!’ Crispinus had appeared, a long spear in his hands. Ferox hit the warrior in the face once more and pushed himself up. The downed man was not moving, and the centurion grabbed the shoulder doubling of Claudius Super’s mail cuirass and started dragging him into the shelter of the rampart. Vindex faced the other warriors, who for the moment were hanging back and he taunted them, begging them to come and be killed. None of them did.

‘Come on, you fool!’ Ferox screamed at his friend and pulled the unconscious Super through the slim gap into the enclosure. There were two dead Novantae inside, and another bleeding out his life from cuts to the body and legs, as well as the tribune’s black horse lying on its side, a broken spear deep in its belly. Cerialis stood, wild-eyed, his cuirass and face stained red and the blade of his sword dirty. For the moment, the other warriors had retreated to the far side of the parapet. A stone rattled against the side of the tower next to the prefect and he jeered at the man who had thrown it. The legionary was being helped inside the tower itself.

‘Stop pissing about!’ Ferox yelled. ‘Get inside, you pillock!’

Vindex spat and then strolled through the entrance. Ferox watched to see that no one came at him from behind, but for the moment the enemy seemed cowed. He guessed that the man in mail was the main leader, and saw that another man was kneeling beside him, helping him to sit up.

A stone struck his side, at the same spot where he had been grazed the previous month and Ferox knew that it would be sore tomorrow. He helped the last of the wounded men into the tower. Vindex followed, and they dropped the heavy bar to hold it shut and followed the others up the ladder to the next storey, the fit struggling to lift the injured. Once they were there the room was crowded, but they managed to pull the ladder up after them.

‘That should hold them,’ Crispinus said, his attempt to sound calm ruined when his voice cracked into a squeak. ‘I mean that should hold them,’ he said in a deep bass and smiled.

Ferox pushed through the crowd to the other ladder, which led up to the top. There was an auxiliary up there, lurking in the doorway so that he could see out but was not exposed on the veranda.

‘What have you got to throw?’

‘Just that, sir,’ the man replied, judging from his tone that the newcomer was someone senior. He gestured at a basket half-full of stones from the beach. They were rounded, chosen to fit into the palm of a man’s hand, and from this height they could give a nasty blow, and even crack a skull or break a bone if they hit just right.

Vindex’s cadaverous face appeared through the trapdoor. He was grinning, filled with that strange exhilaration that came sometimes in battle. Ferox knew the mood well, although he did not feel it today. It made a man feel that he could do anything.

‘Help me,’ he said, grabbing one of the handles on the basket. The Brigantian took the other and they dragged it over to the doorway. Ferox took one stone, hefting it, but before he could do anything else, Vindex plucked up a stone in each hand and strode out onto the balcony. He raised his right arm and threw in one motion, and Ferox heard a cry from down below. By the time the Brigantian shifted the other stone into his right hand and flung it down, Ferox was outside and saw the missile strike a warrior full in the face, snapping his head back. The man dropped behind the parapet. Ferox looked for a target, saw a man bob up over the rampart, whirl a sling, and ducked. The stone clipped against the fence rail on the edge of the platform and pinged harmlessly up. He rose, threw his own stone, but the man had vanished and it hit the parapet a good few feet away from where he had aimed.

‘Mongrels!’ Vindex yelled, and seemed to be enjoying himself. Ferox wondered about trying to wrestle him back inside the room and decided against it. It would be a hard struggle considering the mood the Brigantian was in, and for the moment the danger was not so very great. Instead he handed him a couple of stones.

Crispinus appeared, pulling himself up through the trapdoor and then drawing breath. ‘That’s a steep climb,’ he said, grinning.

‘Worse for the man coming next,’ Ferox said before he could help himself. The tribune frowned, and the next man up was Cerialis. ‘Old joke in the legions,’ Ferox explained. ‘Back from the days before they wore breeches. A man’s climbing up the ladders in an assault tower and says, “Phew, this is hard work.” The man coming after replies, “Maybe, but it’s better than staring at your arse.”’

Crispinus was about to say something when a sling stone banged loudly against the wall. Vindex had ducked just in time. He sprang up. ‘Bastards!’ he yelled, and hurled both the stones in his hand. ‘Serves you right!’

Crispinus had flinched and did his best to appear relaxed. ‘Everything in hand, centurion?’

‘For the moment, my lord.’

‘Good, good.’ The tribune decided that he must go out onto the veranda, which meant that Cerialis was obliged to follow. The taller man hunched slightly as he came through the door, and stayed like that, no doubt keenly aware that he presented a much bigger target than the short aristocrat. Ferox followed, offering each man a stone.

‘We shouldn’t bunch up, my lords,’ he said.

‘Of course.’ Crispinus did not move. He was tossing the stone from hand to hand, searching for a target. ‘We should have no trouble holding them off until help comes from Luguvallium.’

‘If they don’t smoke us out, my lord,’ Ferox said. He had seen that a couple of the warriors were carrying torches lit from the burning farm. ‘We need to keep them back, but we are running out of missiles.’

‘I see.’ Crispinus tossed the stone he was holding back into the basket. ‘Better not waste this then. Do you think they will keep attacking?’

‘They’ve lost a lot of men,’ Ferox explained. ‘Down!’ he yelled, for a couple of warriors had popped up above the parapet. A sling stone gave a dull clang as it hit the top of Crispinus’ helmet, yanking it sideways so that one of the cheek pieces drove into his skin and drew blood. A javelin sank into the fence around the platform and stuck there.

Vindex had not ducked and flung a stone, hitting one of the warriors on the shoulder before he vanished behind cover. Cerialis told the auxiliary to help Crispinus back inside. The tribune’s eyes were glassy, but Ferox doubted that the blow was serious.

‘Will they try to burn us out?’ Cerialis asked, crouching behind the fence with Ferox.

‘Depends on their pride,’ he said. ‘It might be we’ve stung them and they feel they must kill us in vengeance. Be another hour at least before anyone comes from Luguvallium, so they’ve got time.’

If the prefect was nervous he did not show it. He glanced down at the stone in his hand.

‘Then again, they’ve lost a lot of men.’ He saw the question in the prefect’s eyes. ‘Oh, I know they’ve still got plenty, but seven or eight of them are down, and that’s a lot of people to lose on a raid. We’ve burned their boats, so most will have to find another way home.’ Cerialis looked surprised, and Ferox realised that he had not had a chance to report what he and Vindex had done. ‘So what they really need now is horses to get away. They’ve picked up some from us. Yours and mine, my lord, I’m sorry to say, as well as the ones from the troopers.’ Cerialis’ horse had vanished from the enclosure while they were climbing the tower, so a warrior must have sneaked inside and led it out.

Ferox stood up. Vindex was prowling up and down the platform, stone in hand, waiting for the next warrior to appear, but he did not look at him. The centurion pointed, and the prefect stood up beside him so that he could see properly. Five warriors were riding up past the burning farm, leading another half-dozen horses.

‘I thought that might happen,’ Ferox said. ‘There didn’t seem to be quite as many of them as there should have been.’ He stared past the riders out onto the plains. The neat herd of a few hours ago was scattered, the little shapes of brown cows spread over the fields in ones, twos and small clusters.

‘You will have to explain, centurion.’

‘There was a herd of cattle out there, belonging to Probus, I’m guessing. Cows are not much good to these lads – how would you get one in a boat? – but the herdsmen had horses.’ Now that they were closer Ferox could see the severed heads dangling from the spears of the riders.

‘Poor devils,’ Cerialis whispered, half to himself.

‘Aye. Still, I’ll not pretend I’d rather it were us than them,’ Ferox said. ‘They may have given that bunch a chance to get home and us a chance to live.’

A warrior swung over the top of the parapet and dropped onto the walkway of the rampart. He had a burning torch in each hand, and had waited until the restless Vindex was on the opposite side of the platform. Ferox shouted a warning, snatched the stone from the prefect and ran to the fence, but by the time he reached the spot the warrior had run underneath them and was out of sight. Another man bobbed up, spear ready, so the centurion flung his stone. The man ducked back.

‘Come on out and fight in the open!’ Vindex was even wilder than before, and for an instant Ferox was afraid that he would swing his legs over the fence and try to jump down from the top of the tower. The warrior appeared again, sprinting for the entrance this time. ‘Got you!’ the Brigantian yelled. His first stone went high, the second was flung in a rage and hit the barricade instead. The warrior ran out and vanished.

‘Brave man,’ Cerialis said. Ferox was trying to lean out and look down towards the door of the tower. He could not see smoke, and the smell of burning might be no more than the torches. Suddenly he was dragged back just as a sling stone bounced off the rail where he had been. Cerialis had him around the waist.

‘Apologies, centurion, but it seemed necessary.’

The door did not burn, and once the Novantae realised this they began to leave. Ten loped off towards the boats. The rest waited for a short while and rode off towards the ford. Two rode double, supporting wounded comrades, and two more had captive women slung across the necks of their horses, and Ferox felt flat as he saw them because he knew that for the moment there was nothing he could do. They must have come from the farm or another settlement. With their other trophies, the heads, the horses, and weapons including Crispinus’ fine sword, there might be enough marks of victory for the leader to claim that their losses were worth it.

Ferox watched them as they went down the slope, saw them wading into the ford, but then the rain came, heavier than before, and the cloud was so low that he could not see them anymore. The scent of salt was even stronger, and the circling gulls were joined by carrion birds.

The patrol from Luguvallium arrived half an hour later. There were just fifteen of them, and Ferox wondered what fool had sent so few. Crispinus insisted on taking the horse from one of the troopers and leading the rest in pursuit, berating the decurion in charge who insisted that he had been sent to reconnoitre and not to chase barbarians. The appearance of Cerialis left the man overwhelmed with forceful senior officers, and he gave in. Ferox doubted that they would catch up, and hoped that the two officers would have the sense not to fight unless the Novantae were careless and vulnerable.

‘What about us?’ Vindex asked him. He had calmed down once the enemy left, and was surprised not to be going with the cavalry.

‘I’m going back to the boats.’ Ferox did not explain, and the scout may have sensed that he did not really know why he wanted to go.

It was getting dark by the time they had walked to the beach. On the way, they found the headless corpse of the cavalryman sent out from the tower. The dead man looked very pale in his nakedness. There were slashes across his thighs, arms, and chest, as well as the deep wound to the stomach that had brought him down. That was the way of the Novantae, the injuries meant to weaken the man so that he would not become a danger to his killers in the Otherworld.

They cut off a couple of branches from a tree, sharpened the ends and drove one into the ground on either side of the dead man so that it would be easier for the burial party to find him.

When they got to the beach the fires had long since died down, and the carcases of the three boats looked black in the fading light. The good boat had gone, but on the beach lay the two corpses, and the little boy sitting beside the old man. He was staring out to sea, clutching the dead man’s cold hand. The older lad, the one the centurion had knocked out, was nowhere to be seen.

‘Why did you not go with them?’ Ferox asked.

‘They did not want me,’ the lad said in a flat tone. He squeezed the corpse’s hand even more tightly. ‘My uncle was the last who cared. The others are gone.’

‘How old are you, boy?’

‘They say I have nine summers or maybe ten.’ He was small for his age, but up close Ferox thought that to be about right.

Ferox sat down on the sand beside him. ‘If you wish, we will set you on your way, give you food, and you may walk home.’

The boy said nothing, still gazing out to sea.

‘Or, if you give me your word, I will take you into my service for seven years. Then you may go wherever you will.’

‘I hear the Romans take boys as if they were women.’

‘Some fools do,’ Ferox said, ‘but I do not. No one will do that with you.’

‘Good,’ the boy said. ‘When I am a few years older I want a wife with pale skin and long black hair that she can wrap around me to tie us together for all time.’

Ferox wondered whether the child was even older, and thought again how the words of poets settled in the mind even of the young. ‘It will be up to you to find her.’

‘I will do it.’ At last the boy turned to face him. ‘What will you want as service? I can fight if you give me a sword.’

‘In time,’ Ferox said, managing not to smile. ‘For the moment you will look after the horses. Do you know much about horses?’

‘Not as much as I know about boats.’ It was a boast, but Ferox sensed real knowledge behind it. He ignored Vindex’s muttered ‘Well, can you use a shovel?’

Ferox stood up. ‘Will you swear to serve me for seven years, swear by the gods your tribe swears by and by moon and stars and the cold wind?’ He thought that was the way the Novantae took an oath.

The boy got up. ‘I swear.’

‘Good. Then what is your name, child of the sea?’

‘Some call me Bran.’

It did not sound like any name he had heard, but if the boy wanted to hide his real name then that was up to him. ‘Then come with us, Bran, unless you have more to do for your uncle.’

‘It is done. The sea and the birds will take him and the others.’ The boy’s eyes were glassy, but he did not break down.

‘Come, Bran.’ Ferox held out his hand and the boy took it. They walked off the beach. Vindex waited for a moment, and kissed his wheel of Taranis before he followed, wondering about the future.