The Encircling Sea

XV

THE PLACE OF the kings was vast, stretching for miles between great monuments raised long ago. Several tracks led towards the sacred hill at the heart of it all, and as they came closer the land filled with people. Most were warriors, following their chieftains, who in turn followed petty and greater kings. They wore bright tunics, tartan cloaks, helmets of polished bronze with high nodding plumes and here and there shirts of mail or scale. Many rode in chariots, first dozens, then scores and finally hundreds thundering across rolling fields awash in a sea of wildflowers. Ferox had never seen so many, or such fine teams of ponies, even though his own tribe had dearly loved such things.

‘It is like the Iliad sprung to life before our eyes,’ Ovidius said in genuine wonder. Philo was close enough to overhear the comment and showed obvious delight. Ferox was often surprised at how well read the young slave was. All the more because they had spent little time in cities or towns, let alone near libraries. Bran was simply wide-eyed, for the Novantae were not a numerous people and never gathered in such numbers.

‘It must have been like this in the old days at home,’ Vindex said softly. ‘Before the Romans came and brought us peace, of course.’ He had spoken in Latin, but did not bother to hide his wistfulness. This was a world of proud kings and folk who seemed much like his own kin. No doubt his father, or certainly his grandfather, had seen great gatherings of all the Brigantes, which must have looked much the same.

‘Were the old days always so noisy?’ Crispinus asked and grinned. Alongside the chariots and the warriors walking on foot there were trumpeters everywhere, carrying the same tall bronze trumpets they had seen at Aballava. The long curving tube came apart, so that it could be screwed up as one great curve or as an S-shape. Either way the musicians played long, throbbing notes, each taking turns to lead the group so that the sound never ceased.

It was like seeing an army gathering, save that none of the warriors carried spears or standards. A lot of men had scabbarded swords at their belts, and all carried brightly painted shields, but there was a truce for three times seven days and for the same number of miles in all directions for this festival and the raising of a new high king. Much of the time Epotsorovidus and Brennus rode in their chariots on either side of Crispinus, and bands of warriors had come to swell their following so that the Romans were part of a much bigger procession, thousands strong.

Epotsorovidus said little, his already meek spirit shattered by his wife’s abduction. If word had come asking for something in ransom, then he had not shared it with his new Roman allies. From what Brennus said and he overheard from others, Ferox suspected that without Brigita by his side, Epotsorovidus was now unlikely to be named as high king. That in itself might explain her abduction, and perhaps the Harii or Usipi, or whatever the men of the night now called themselves, were in league with a rival.

The different approach roads merged together close to where a great mound rose out of the plain, surrounded with a grassy rampart and ditch. It was a lot like many he had seen all over Britannia, although bigger than most. Men said that they were tombs of great kings of long ago or of giants, and were filled with silver and gold, but bound by terrible curses. He did not know if this was true or when they were built, but he had never seen so many close together, for others lay across the plains ahead of them, leading to the biggest of all, unless it was a real hill, even though it seemed very round and was surrounded with a similar rampart.

Even Crispinus seemed to sense something of the awe of this place, which did not stop him cursing at how long everything took. At the spot where the main paths met, lines of men dressed as animals danced to the beat of wooden drums and the blasts of the great horns. After two hours of this, a black bull and a white calf were led round and round in a circle for some time, before they were sacrificed by priests.

‘Druids?’ Crispinus whispered to Ferox.

‘Like druids,’ was the best answer he could give. He did not know why, but it had been many generations since men from Hibernia had travelled to Mona to learn the lore of the druids.

It was a little after noon, but they went no further that day and camped near the place of sacrifice. Ferox guessed that there were more than twenty thousand people in tents or lying under the stars, with the scent of the burned sacrificial animals mingling with that of many meals being prepared. He saw Vindex sniff in distaste.

‘I know,’ Ferox said, his mind dragged back to the place where Claudius Super and his men had died, ‘I know. But you have to eat.’

Probus was already known to quite a number of the chieftains and kings. He explained that he had twice sailed to Hibernia on trading ventures. ‘Horses,’ he replied when Crispinus asked what it was he wanted from the tribes. ‘You only have to look around you to see how fine their horses and ponies are. I sell mounts to the army, and this looked to be a good place to pick up plenty of fine animals at a very good price. They don’t really use money much over here, but the kings will give you a lot for wine, spices and silks.’

Half a dozen leaders came to visit Probus that evening. He rose to greet each one, led them back to sit with him around a campfire and eat roasted meat. Each chieftain was accompanied by a warrior, while Falx, the gladiator, stood silent and motionless behind the merchant, a gladius on his hip. He was taller than Ferox and a good deal broader, with the massive arms and legs that came from years of weight training of the sort only done by wrestlers and gladiators. His nose had been broken more than once, one of his ears was a mangled remnant, and there were scars on all his visible skin. The man almost never spoke, and rarely let any noise escape his surprisingly small and thin lips. When Probus gave an order it was instantly obeyed. With anyone else he was slow to the point of surliness. The falx was a two-handed sword favoured by the Dacians, curving forward like a sickle and ending in a heavy point. A skilled warrior could lop off a man’s arm, head, or even both legs with a single blow, and the name was an apt one. Falx’s eyes were small, with all the emotion of well-wrought iron. He was a weapon, and nothing else, and he was in the hands of Probus.

Ferox had been surprised when he learned that the gladiator was to accompany them, and even more surprised that once they were on the ship there was no sign of Probus being held against his will – or being closely protected for his own good, as Neratius Marcellus might have said.

‘He wants his son back,’ Crispinus assured him when Ferox raised the matter. ‘As I said weeks ago, the gods alone know why, but that’s a father’s love for you. He will do anything to bring the boy home.’

‘Anything?’

‘Be surprised if he is keen on sacrificing himself, especially given all that Ovidius has said. Doubt these pirates have anything too pleasant planned for him. He’ll try to free Genialis and get away, and I doubt that he will care too much about the prefect and his wife if it comes down to a choice. With his sort of money, he can always disappear somewhere in the empire, or even beyond it.’

‘What is to stop him slipping away from us, my lord?’

‘Too soon for that. Reckon he will want our protection for a while yet, so I should not think that he will wander off until word arrives about the exchange. Even then, he might decide that he is better off sticking with us and trying to plan his way out at the last minute. I’d be much obliged if you kept a close eye on him. At least that great lump of a fighter shouldn’t be able to vanish too easily.’

Ferox told the Red Cat and his brother to watch the trader. The order did not seem to surprise them and they simply nodded, not asking for an explanation.

‘Do we kill him if he runs?’ Segovax asked. He was sitting down, rubbing his leg. The break had healed well given the time, although he limped a little.

‘Not unless I tell you to. Just make sure you know where he has gone.’

The great gathering did not go far on the next day, simply advancing to a grove of oak trees. There were more dances, and a sacrifice of a stallion and a mare. The trumpets rarely stopped, and the different leaders set up another camp and cooked another meal. As the day wore on they drank beer from barrels and wine from amphorae.

People were always moving around the camps and after a while Ferox began to see a pattern. Individual warriors went to other encampments, greeting men they knew with simple verses of praise, for everyone seemed to know everyone else. Later some of the chieftains did the same thing, but they went to men of similar rank and the compliments were fuller and took far longer.

On the third day they processed along a path lined with holly bushes, which led past another mound. The priests appeared again, although this time there were no dances. Three ewes and three sows were sacrificed by an ancient woman dressed wholly in black. Crispinus glanced at Ferox when he saw her, but the centurion shook his head because he was sure that her dark garb was coincidence and not anything to do with the Harii.

That afternoon and evening the senior chiefs started to visit each other, each one accompanied by a bard to sing praises of his master and the men he visited. A little after sunset a few of the kings rose from their own campfires and went out. Brennus was one of the first to do this, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he strode through the camp, followed by a young bard. A priest was waiting for him and led him away. Epotsorovidus sat by a fire, staring into the flames and said nothing, but he seemed to shrink in on himself.

‘Ah, this is politics,’ Crispinus said softly to Ferox. ‘That is something I understand.’

An hour later a king came to them. Epotsorovidus looked up, hunger in his eyes, but the ruler, his bard and one of the priests ignored him and went to where Crispinus sat on a folding camp chair. The praises took a while, and Ferox did his best to translate the flowery language. He was surprised at how well they had prepared verses about the young tribune, praising his birth, courage, prowess in battle, and his hair, which marked wisdom exceptional in one so young. A second king arrived after the first had left, and this one’s bard even knew the name of Crispinus’ father and praised him as a great warrior and leader of warriors.

‘They do not ask for anything,’ Crispinus said afterwards. ‘So I presume that it is the visit that is important. Like a candidate being seen with influential men in the Forum. It is a mark of support.’

Ferox had spoken to some of the chieftains and felt that he understood. ‘It takes a long time. Those who choose to call on another show their willingness to support him. The more visitors a leader has, then the greater his influence and importance. Everyone is watching what is going on. Usually they predict whose opinion matters, but sometimes there are surprises and it shifts. As one leader’s prestige rises, then the rest must decide whether they will adhere to him or try to build up another to counter him.’

‘As I said, politics.’ Crispinus smiled. ‘It is not so very different. Brennus has gone to call on someone else, so that means he does not expect our friend over there to become high king. And so far no one has come to visit Epotsorovidus. Is he finished?’

‘My lord, he was finished the moment he lost his wife.’

‘She was the steel in the partnership, there is no doubt of that,’ Crispinus said.

‘That is true, my lord. But how can a man who cannot keep his own woman keep a kingdom? Let alone rule over other kings and tribes?’

‘Poor devil, no wonder he looks so down.’ The tribune’s sympathy did not extend beyond words. ‘So if he is no use to us, how do I judge where our support will be best placed? Is the matter already decided?’

Ferox shook his head. ‘No, not yet. As far as I can tell there are three or four being considered. There is still a lot of time. Tomorrow night more of the kings will call on each other. They are paying you a compliment by treating you as a monarch.’

‘I’m the son of a senator, how else should they treat me?’ Crispinus said, but his pleasure was obvious. ‘We shall have to find out as much as we can about the rivals, so that we can best judge what is to our advantage.’

Ferox said nothing.

‘I have not forgotten our main purpose,’ the tribune assured him. ‘But until we hear from these pirates there is little we can do. Do you not agree?’

‘Sir.’

‘Go away, Flavius Ferox.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bran was waiting for him outside his tent. Ferox had asked the boy to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of the men of the night, for no one was likely to pay much heed to a servant boy looking after the horses.

‘It is an island, further north, off the coast of Caledonia. Not big, but near a larger one and very close to a smaller one. The small one is ringed by cliffs and hard to reach, but someone special lives there. Warriors go there to learn.’

That was an old legend, known even among the Silures. It was said that far to the north an old woman lived who knew more about weapons and killing than anyone else. Whenever she died she was succeeded by another chosen woman. Only the best were accepted as pupils, and only the very best lived through the ordeals she set them. Quite a few heroes of the old tales were said to have honed their craft on that distant island, but Ferox had never heard of a man who had been there.

‘And the bigger island?’

‘It has more people. The chieftains are scared of the men of the night and pay them tribute. So do some on other islands. That is how they live.’

‘Who spoke these things?’

‘A young lad who sails with a merchant. He saw the island once, and heard the master of the ship and the sailors talking. They were scared because they had come closer than they intended during the night. There were stories that the pirates were preying on those who strayed too near, something they had not done for many years.’

Ferox wondered whether the Harii had managed to repair their old trireme. He doubted that they could have built one from scratch and it had been a long while since any of the classis Britannica’s ships had gone missing.

‘Could the lad find this island?’

Bran frowned in scorn at such a suggestion. ‘He’s just a lad. None too bright either.’ Ferox suspected the ‘lad’ was a fair bit older than his servant.

‘Do you know who the merchant is? No. Well, find out.’

The next morning was grey, and before long rain started to fall on them as the great gathering walked on, the main hill now coming close and looming over them. This was the first break in the weather after days of warm sunshine, and perhaps this was why the trumpets went silent. Neither were there drums when the dancers reappeared, and the lines of men in their animal skins and head-dresses whirled and stamped, and circled in an eerie silence. For hours the dance went on, and the dancers paid no heed when two priests led a young man into the middle of the circle. He had a halter around his neck and a thin circlet of gold on his head. For a while the two priests circled him, not dancing but pacing slowly. They were joined by two more and the old woman in black. No one held on to the lead of the halter, and the man wearing it stood and stared up, arms raised so that the rain spattered onto his face and left his long brown hair dark and wet. He wore a bright white cloak that reached to the ground.

‘Is he a slave or a priest?’ Crispinus asked, his own cloak drawn tightly around him and water dripping from the rim of his plumed helmet.

‘He is both,’ Ferox said, ‘and he is king of the feast.’ He had heard of such things among the Dobuni, the neighbours of the Silures, but never seen the ritual.

‘Oh,’ Ovidius said in surprise. ‘Like at Massilia?’ His tone was one of curiosity more than anything else.

Ferox nodded, while the younger tribune looked puzzled as well as damp and weary. ‘Is there a sacrifice today?’ Once the sacrifice was done they crowd dispersed and there was the prospect of shelter and warm food.

Two of the priests went to the man and took the cloak from him. He was naked underneath, his skin pale, but shiny with oil. As well as being tall he was slim and well muscled. The man knelt.

‘Hercules’ balls,’ the tribune gasped as he realised, and then was embarrassed by his own lack of composure.

As he kneeled the man swayed his body from side to side, arms still up and face staring at the heavens. A priest carrying a club carved from wood so dark that it was almost black came up behind him. The old woman drew a bronze knife from its sheath.

The dancers stopped. There was silence apart from the pattering of the rain. Crispinus went rigid, mouth hanging open.

‘Say nothing. Do nothing,’ Ferox whispered to the tribune.

The priest swung the club and struck a glancing blow against the side of the man’s head, who was pitched over onto the grass. He rose, shaking his head, and the woman slashed the knife across his throat. Blood spurted out, splashing onto the man’s white skin where the rain washed it away. He staggered forward, spluttering and choking. Another priest followed him, matching his steps.

‘Say nothing, my lord,’ Ferox whispered softly.

The victim fell to his knees, and the priest grabbed the rope of the halter and tightened it, bracing himself by placing one foot on the man’s back.

Crispinus looked as pale as the dead man’s flesh.

The dancers started to gyrate once more, and the drums began, softly at first, but gradually growing louder and louder.

That night five kings came to see Crispinus, who received them in his tent, its front flaps held open so that the visits could be witnessed. The tribune was happy to be dry, and his horror of the sacrifice of the young man had had time to fade. Ovidius had found it amusing. ‘The noble Crispinus is a devotee of the arena, and yet finds this shocking,’ the philosopher and poet had said.

‘And you do not?’ Ferox asked him.

‘Horrible. Truly horrible. But I am an old man and have seen too many foul things in my time. And as a man of letters I have read of acts of appalling cruelty – I would call it inhuman cruelty if that made sense, but it cannot because it was done by men and not monsters.’

Ovidius sat in on the meetings, as did Probus, who was known to most of the visitors. Brennus had returned, and pitched his tent close to the tribune. Epotsorovidus sat alone, for most of his chieftains had left him. His warriors stayed, but had a hopeless air about them.

By the end of the evening it was clear that most men now expected Togirix of the Woluntioi to be named by the priests as high king.

‘He is the stallion,’ more than one of the visitors declared. Ferox wondered whether another old ritual would be performed, with the king joining his earth as a stallion mounted a mare, but decided against trying to explain it to the tribune. If it happened, there would be time enough to tell him. After all were gone the tribune held a council.

‘My impression is that Tigorex—’

‘Togirix, my lord,’ Ferox said.

‘Thank you, centurion. My impression is that this Togirix is likely to win because no one hates or fears him as much as the others.’

‘Now where have we heard that before,’ Ovidius said happily. Ferox presumed that he was thinking about the elderly Nerva, chosen as emperor by the Senate after the murder of Domitian four years ago. Nerva had then adopted Trajan and died before two years was out. ‘I am guessing they hope to avoid war.’ They both looked at Ferox.

‘They probably want to avoid a really big war between all the tribes. A weak high king will let them raid and murder each other on a smaller scale, but stop any one leader becoming too strong. Epotsorovidus might have been more forceful, at least with Brigita telling him what to do. They might either have kept the peace or started an even bigger war.’

‘Given the consequence,’ Ovidius mused, ‘are we sure that some or more of the leaders here did not help the pirates snatch the queen? Or at least promise reward for their deed?’

‘It does seem likely,’ Ferox said. ‘Which one is harder to say.’

‘In my extensive experience…’ Crispinus beamed at them ‘… it is always worth considering those apparently closest to a leader. They see his frailties close up, and are very aware that he is just a man and yet has such power. Tempting to consider that you are also a man, no different in most respects from the ruler. Could you not have what they have?’ He glanced out of the still-open tent as Brennus passed, returning from a visit, his bedraggled bard trudging along behind him.

‘He will not get the power.’ Ovidius spoke quietly, and before the others could say anything he explored the thought. ‘But he might get more power than he had.’

‘And the woman,’ Ferox said.

‘She’d eat him alive,’ Crispinus snapped. ‘Sorry, poor taste.’

‘It is one of their greatest crimes for a wife to kill a husband or husband to kill wife. If she were compelled to marry him, he might be safe.’

‘All true, although does that not also mean that the wife is closest than anyone else to the leader? Perhaps she did not want him to succeed? After all, Ferox, you were the one who said that she was up to something.’

Ferox was not listening, for a figure was moving through the camp towards them. The man was tall, with a gladius hung from a red leather belt over his shoulder. That was the only splash of colour on him, for boots, long trousers, long-sleeved tunic and cloak were all black or so dark that they seemed black.

‘They’re here,’ he said.