The Encircling Sea

XVI

THE PIRATE WAS young, no more than sixteen, with thick black hair and olive-coloured skin. He did not look like any German Ferox had ever seen, and he guessed that this was the son of one of the sailors or marines who had joined the mutineers. The navy was the only branch of the army open to men who were not freeborn, so perhaps the father was a former slave from Syria or Egypt. His son spoke Latin peppered with a few Germanic words, and it was easy to follow the sense if not every detail. He hissed something that sounded like a curse when Probus was brought over, so must have been given a good description of the merchant because he was too young ever to have met him.

Probus did not react, and the meeting was short and without incident. They were to meet on the next night, an hour after sunset. Ferox thought how odd it was for a man who came from a remote Caledonian island to speak of so Roman an idea as an hour. They would bring all that they had promised to the mound where the first sacrifice had occurred. By the time they met, the high king would have been named, the celebrations under way. The peace reigning over this place during the festival would last for another day and a night, so they had better not think about trying to seize back the captives by force.

‘Would the crowd turn against us on behalf of these folk?’ Crispinus did not hide his scorn or lower his voice.

‘Yes,’ Ferox said. ‘This time and this place is sacred and cannot be polluted.’

‘The punishment?’

‘I believe being torn apart by wild horses.’

‘We shall honour our pledges,’ the tribune proclaimed. ‘And expect you to do the same.’

‘We will bring the captives,’ the young warrior said. ‘None of your high folk have been harmed in any way. They will only be hurt if you do not give us what we want.’

‘Do you trust them?’ Crispinus asked after the man had gone.

‘They’re bandits, pirates, kidnappers and cannibals,’ Ovidius said, ‘and you wonder whether they are honest!’

Ferox ignored them and strode away, pretending not to hear the tribune when he called.

Vindex was waiting with a pair of horses. ‘The Red Cat has gone ahead to keep an eye on the lad. His brother is keeping an eye on Probus.’ Segovax was a lesser tracker than the famous thief, but still better than almost anyone else they had with them.

They led their horses until they were beyond the cluster of camps. Vindex had watched the northerner head to the north west, and after they had circled around two more big groups of tents and figures hunched under damp blankets they came into the open and found his trail. The only people out here were those defecating, none of whom were bothered by riders unless they came too close. They pressed on, catching up before long.

‘He is not worried about being followed,’ the Red Cat told them, and Ferox could see that the youth was riding straight across the fields, his horse leaving obvious prints. They followed for a while, and the path still led towards a line of low hills beyond yet another old mound.

Ferox reined in beside a copse. ‘Wait for me in there. Keep a good watch, because these are men who know how to move at night. If you have to kill anyone, make sure no sees you do it.’

The centurion dismounted and walked off into the darkness, heading at an angle to the trail left by the young warrior. Ferox guessed that they were camped somewhere among the hills, relying for safety on the rules of the festival. At first he walked, for the rain made it hard to see or hear any distance. Every now and again he would stop and crouch, watching and listening. By the time he could see the mound a long bowshot away to his right, he was still more than he moved. The rain came on even harder, making it difficult to see because his eyes and eyelids were filled with water. Gambling on this as cover, he jogged ahead, slipping on the wet grass more than once.

At the last fall something told him to keep still. Like any Silurian boy he had spent hours learning to move with stealth at night and he knew that a man’s fears could conjure up all sorts of dangers. He also knew that a man’s instincts kept him alive. Ferox lay flat on the sodden ground.

The rain slackened and he saw movement less than ten paces away. A man walked into view, moving slowly and stiffly. He was little more than a shape, darker than the sky, and as he walked there was a soft bump with every second step. Ferox guessed that it was a scabbarded sword patting his thigh whenever he moved that leg. It was a sloppy mistake, but he forced himself not to relax or do anything foolish. This wanderer might be nothing to do with the pirates, although he doubted that. More likely he was young and inexperienced. He wondered how many of the true Harii were left, and whether they had taught the rest all their tricks.

Ferox waited for the man to wander off, waited a little longer, and then began to crawl through the grass. Above him the clouds parted and a bright moon shone down, turning the landscape silver. He froze again, lifting his head as little as possible to look round. The man he had seen was a good hundred paces away, and there was another sentry a similar distance away in the other direction. Both men paced up and down. If they were clever they would have posted a few men a little back, lying on the ground and watching. Ferox went slowly forward for a dozen paces, stopped, waited, and did the same again. He was making for the lip of a low rise, up ahead. As he came closer he started to hear voices in muffled conversation. There was a dim light, which grew, and someone had got a fire going because there was a glow beyond the rise. It seemed that they were not clever.

It took a long time, perhaps an hour or a little more, to reach the crest. The camp was just below him, so close that he could see individual faces around the fire and smell the bacon or pork they were cooking. At least he hoped that it was bacon or pork, and could not help feeling hungry.

Ferox watched them for some time, making a careful count. There were forty-seven men with anywhere up to another dozen or so out on guard. There were no women. He scanned the scene again to make sure that he was right, but no one was asleep and all were clearly visible. He could see Cerialis, his hands bound, so that one of the Harii was leaning over and helping him to eat. Genialis was not there, and there was no sign of any other captive apart from the prefect of the Batavians.

Edging back on his elbows, Ferox went down the slope. He had seen all that he could and needed to get back. Turning around, he stared out across the slope and could only see one of the sentries. Staying on his belly he crawled and slithered on. The second time he stopped he saw the other warrior, squatting on the ground. It was an odd posture for watching and then he heard the man groaning and straining. Ferox crawled forward, taking almost as much time as he had during his approach, until he decided that he was far enough out to get up and walk.

A wind came from the west, sighing and hissing over the grass. Ferox was wet and weary, and shivered when the first cold blast bit into him. It no longer felt like summer. He tried to tell himself that the Harii had brought the prefect because they wanted to extort more for the rest of the hostages. They would make new demands for the release of Sulpicia Lepidina, thinking that handing over the prefect showed the Romans that it was worth paying in the hope that they would be given the lady next time. Ferox did not honestly care much about Genialis, and from what Ovidius had said they may anyway want the lad to join them, assuming he was the child of one of their priestesses. Brigita’s own kin may be ransoming her, or not, given the fall of Epotsorovidus, and that was not his main concern. Ferox tried to make himself think of the slaves and others they had abducted, but the vision of Sulpicia Lepidina filled his mind and his fears pictured her in torment or dead. She was not here, which meant that he must go to where they kept her. He hoped that Bran had found out more.

The man sprang up from the grass and came at him, hurling himself at Ferox’s waist. There was not time to curse himself for letting his mind wander, and all he could do was brace his feet and then twist as the man slammed into him. They both fell. Ferox was struggling for breath, but managed to strike with his knee and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. The man’s fingers reached for his throat. They rolled, Ferox on top for the moment, and he jabbed down with his elbows, breaking the lock the warrior had on him and staring into the black-painted face. Then they rolled again, and the warrior was on top. A shout came from somewhere else, and someone was running over to them.

Ferox punched. He had no real room to swing, but the blow caught the man under the chin and that made them turn over again. Ferox butted with his forehead, felt the savage impact and dull pain as bone met bone. The man groaned, and the Roman hit him again, full in the face, and his elbow pressed onto the warrior’s windpipe. Someone ran up, then gasped as the breath was knocked from him and he fell on top of them. Blood was wet on Ferox’s face, but the man who had fallen was dead weight, sliding rather than attacking, so he hit the man beneath again and again until he lay still.

The corpse was dragged off him. Beside him the Red Cat nodded, and the gesture somehow conveyed his bafflement at the centurion for letting himself be surprised. The man on the ground moaned softly, and the northerner readied his sword.

‘No. We take him back. This one too.’ He gestured at the dead man. ‘We’ll hide him in the trees.’

The Red Cat hooted like an owl. Vindex rode up a few moments later, leading the other horses. They went back to the little patch of wood, their captive still unconscious. Ferox told the others where they were to join him, and by the time he reached the camp he had the rest of the plan in his mind. The tribune was asleep, and he toyed with the idea of going ahead without his permission, before deciding that it would take longer to persuade anyone without his orders. Crispinus would have to know, but first he went to see Bran, who had the ‘lad’ and his master in tow.

‘Five thousand denarii,’ the man demanded. He was of average height, broad and thick limbed with the weather-beaten skin of a man who had lived through many a gale.

‘You will have it,’ Ferox promised.

His next visit was to Probus. The merchant was angry at being disturbed, but listened to what he had to say.

‘Very well. We’ll be ready.’

Crispinus was harder to persuade. ‘You want to leave us?’

‘They only have Cerialis, so they will want more from us. Get him back, my lord, and in the meantime I will go and see if I can rescue the others. We know where their island is, I have arranged for a merchant ship to carry us, and I have one of their men who will tell me what I need to know. You free the prefect and then come after us. We will leave a sailor who can guide you, so send him to the legate and Aelius Brocchus’s force. You can all come and rescue us in case we cannot get away and before the rest of the Harii return.’

Crispinus was dubious. ‘What makes you sure they have not brought the other captives, but simply are keeping them in another camp?’

‘Why should they?’

‘That’s not a real answer. And why do you assume their warship is at a harbour here in Hibernia with most of their fighters. You may find their island and be faced with hundreds of warriors.’

‘They need to take the ransom home. Better not to trust that to a hired merchant ship. My reckoning is that the galley came here after the raid, dropped off Cerialis and this band, and then took the others north to their lair. Why should they fear us chasing them or coming to find them, when we have no idea where to go?’ He tried to explain his reasoning, knowing that there were a lot of guesses.

‘What if you are wrong, centurion?’

‘My lord, what difference will it make to what happens here if we are wrong? Show your open support for Togirix and he will help you. If they try to cheat you at the exchange, it will be hard for them to get away if the high king turns against them.’

There were more questions, but in the end the tribune gave his assent. ‘How many men will you take?’

‘Not many, as we must not diminish your escort too much. I’ll take Vindex and all but one of his scouts. You can keep the one who speaks decent Latin. Then Probus and his gladiator, Segovax and his brother, and I should like half a dozen Batavians if you are willing. Volunteers for choice.’

‘I make that fifteen, including you.’

‘Sixteen, my lord. I am taking my servant boy as well, although I should be grateful if you kept Philo here. I’m not including the sailors and crew, because I am not expecting them to fight.’

‘Sixteen, one of them a boy.’ Crispinus fought to stop himself from yawning. ‘Are you sure this is wise? Why not ask Epotsorovidus for some of his warriors? They look handy enough, and would surely fight for their queen.’

‘He is unlucky, and I’d rather not be buried with him.’

‘Fortuna,’ Crispinus said softly. ‘She’s a fickle enough goddess at the best of times. I just hope that you are lucky, centurion.’

Ferox shrugged, then wondered whether he ought to say something to invoke the Roman goddess or any other power who might favour them. The moment had passed and it was too late.

‘I had better get everything organised, my lord. Best if we leave before dawn.’

‘Very good, centurion.’