The Encircling Sea

V

A VISIT TO the prisoners proved fruitless. There was a range of buildings behind the granaries, mostly used as workshops and for storing equipment, but at one end it was divided into a dozen cells, each fitted with heavily barred windows and a solid door. Most were empty at the moment for there was only a handful of soldiers confined for various delinquencies. The brothers were on their own, Segovax lying out on the straw and rush carpeting, muttering and twitching in a fevered sleep.

‘Medicus says they’ll know in a day or two whether or not he makes it, sir,’ the guard told him, in a tone of utter indifference to the outcome.

The Red Cat sat on his haunches beside his brother, chanting too softly to catch the words. There was no window in their cell, and with just the light through the little opening in the door Ferox could see no more than his outline. He did not need to see it to sense the man’s hatred and knew at once that there was no point asking any questions.

‘Which one is posted to me?’ he asked the guard.

‘In the corner cell, sir. He’s got twenty days, breaking and carrying rocks at the quarry starting from tomorrow. Do you want to see him, sir?’

‘It can wait.’ Men detached from their units as stationarii were occasionally sound men, keen and eager. More often they were ones their units did not want, the drunks, the undisciplined, the incorrigible brawlers, the thieves, the queers and the lazy. He would have to wait and see what this one was like, and the other, if the man ever recovered consciousness.

Ferox wanted to be away from Vindolanda, so returned to the principia and asked for Frost to be brought to him. Tomorrow was the eighth day after the Ides of April and the birthday of the City of Rome, which meant the sacrifice of a pale, well-fattened cow and other ceremonies. It did not matter that there was scarcely anyone from Rome or Italy in the fort, and that apart from Cerialis and a few of the other officers, the Batavians were not Roman citizens, still they would parade and hear prayers and make offerings for the growth and harmony of the city. It was the way of the army, wherever it was based, but Ferox was eager not to be invited to stay, for Cerialis was bound to host a dinner and there was a risk that he would be invited.

The horse arrived quickly, and apart from a short conversation about nothing with one of the centurions of the cohort, he saw no one else he knew. It had rained overnight, so the main roads of the fort were even muddier than usual, and there was a fatigue party of soldiers out filling in runs left by carts and packing the earth down flat. He rode off, aware that his horse was leaving fresh prints in the mud. He noticed one of the workers rolling his eyes and gave the man a nod in response for he remembered fighting alongside him against the Stallion’s men. The soldier recognised him and grinned. The party were all Tungrians, part of the small rump of cohors I Tungrorum left at Vindolanda, with the records of a much-depleted unit that was scattered in small detachments all around the province.

Riding out of the gate always brought a moment of relief for any soldier, at least when times were peaceful, but Ferox kept Frost at a brisk walk as he made his way through the narrow-fronted shops, bars and houses of the canabae. A fine rain started to fall, even though the sun was bright ahead of him, and it turned swiftly into a heavy shower. People scattered, running for shelter where they could find it. Ferox pulled his broad-brimmed hat down more tightly and checked that the brooch held his cloak securely. The rain did not last long, and by the time he was at the edge of the settlement it had stopped. One of the last buildings was unique because it was built partly from stone and had two storeys, and even more because it was the most expensive brothel for well over fifty miles in any direction. It was run by Flora, an old friend, but she did not like anyone to call on her without an appointment so he rode past. On his right was the temple of Silvanus, a tall square building surrounded by a veranda on each side. The entrance was a simple archway, and in front of it a four-wheeled raeda carriage waited.

Frost must have sensed her rider shift in the saddle for the mare stopped. The raeda was owned by Cerialis. It was the same one Sulpicia Lepidina had been travelling in when she had been ambushed on the road to Coria. Once before he had seen it in this place, when the lady visited the temple to make an offering and to spend time in its silence. On that occasion, she had appeared just as he and Vindex were passing, and he had spoken to her and as always felt himself struggling to keep his balance.

Ferox kicked the horse angrily in the sides. She snorted, shook her head, and lurched into an ungainly canter. He recovered, calming her, and brought her back to a brisk walk. Lingering here might seem suspicious, while hurrying past might appear equally odd as well as rude. He tried not to stare at the temple as he passed. The lady’s maid waited in the shade and shelter of the veranda, just as she had done when they had met here the first time. The girl saw him, and bowed her head respectfully. It was good Vindex was not here, for he was bound to have leered or called out, or worse still wanted to wait. There was no sign of Sulpicia Lepidina. The horse walked on, leaving the temple behind. There were the usual beggars and vagrants clustered by the road, some even in the cemetery on the left. He scanned the hunched, filthy and crippled figures as he always did these days. Acco had travelled among them in years gone by, but he was not there.

As Ferox searched for any hint of the druid he saw the upright stone marking the grave of Titus Annius, the commander of the Tungrians who had died from wounds suffered back in that same grim autumn. He had been a good man and a fine soldier. The inscription proclaimed that his daughter had erected the monument to him. That was a fiction, since the centurion had no children, but he had left his money to benefit his soldiers and their widows and children. One lass of eight had lost her mother to fever weeks before the fight and became an orphan when her father was hacked down, standing protectively over the wounded Annius. By some legal trickery, it was arranged for the dead centurion to have adopted the girl. Cerialis and his wife were now supervising her education and she might enjoy a far better life than was usually open to a soldier’s daughter. That is, if she was lucky.

Ferox sighed, wondering once again whether he had made the right choices in that straggling fight amid the burning heather and whether it was his fault that Annius had died. He rode on, for the past was the past and could not be undone. Ahead of him the road joined on to the main east to west route between Coria and Luguvallium, and for once he decided to follow it for a while before heading off for Syracuse. He glanced back once, just before the fort disappeared into a fold of the ground, and saw tiny figures by the carriage. He thought he glimpsed a flash of golden hair, but could not be sure. Ferox rode on, trying to leave his memories behind. The rain started again, growing heavier and heavier as the clouds closed in until it was hard to see far in any direction.

At Syracuse there was a man waiting to complain that a neighbour was stealing the best of his new lambs. He named the culprit, swearing that he was to blame. Ferox knew that more people would come in to make similar charges over the days to come. It was always the same at this time of year, as the weather grew warmer and animals were let out to pasture. The next day the accused turned up alleging intimidation and blows from the first man. Beside him waited a grey-haired woman who often came to Syracuse or to other Roman authorities. Her family had perished five years ago from a sickness that had swept through the lands at that time. Only a little boy survived, and he fell into a river and drowned a year later. Since then she travelled around the countryside searching for him. Often people gave her food and shelter for a night or two. Sometimes they drove her away because they were afraid that she brought bad luck.

‘Lord, please find my lost boy,’ she called as Ferox rode into Syracuse. ‘He’s tall for his age, lord, and good looking. He’s all I have.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said, forcing himself to pause for a moment. ‘If I find him I will send word.’

‘Thank you, lord, thank you. He’s all I have left.’

Ferox went through the gateway. He saw Crescens and beckoned him to come over. ‘See that she gets some food,’ he told the curator. ‘And treat her gently.’ The old woman had visited so often that even the sympathetic found their patience and tempers fraying. Last time one of the milder soldiers had hit her because she clung to his leg begging him to help. ‘Tell the men to treat her as if she was their own mother.’

There were other visitors, bringing petitions or complaints. Apart from thefts there were feuds and the arguments that often spilled over after the winter months when families and kin were cooped up together for much of the time. A husband had struck his wife after their latest row, but this time she fell and hit the iron guard around the fire, cracking her skull so that she died three days later. The headman from her old farmstead wanted the centurion to come with him so that the killer would grant a proper blood price to her family. Ferox was tired, but knew that if nothing was done quickly then more killing was likely, so he got a fresh horse and rode out with the man. There was not much for him to do, but his presence was a reminder that it was better to settle everything quietly rather than let the Romans intervene. The husband was in mourning, sleeping in the open away from the houses to cleanse himself of the deed, and agreed to the price of a cloak, two sheep and the best lamb born from his remaining flock in each of the next five years.

It took a day and a half to deal with it all, for the farms were on the very edge of his territory. By the time he returned to Syracuse a messenger from a chieftain was waiting with news of another death. This time it was no accident, for a wife who had been beaten again and again over the years had finally snapped and smothered her husband while he lay in a drunken stupor. No one at the settlement blamed her, but blood was blood, and the dead man had family who were likely to seek vengeance. The chieftain wanted the woman taken away somewhere safe, so that she could start a new life and there would be no need for a feud.

‘I’ll come,’ Ferox told the man, and gave orders for two of the cavalrymen among the stationarii to accompany him in case of trouble. ‘If Vindex and any of the scouts arrive, tell them to join me,’ he told Crescens. The Brigantian and his men were already a day late, and he wished that the gaunt warrior was with him, because he would have to ask his clan to take the woman and find a place for her somewhere.

It was another long ride, made worse because the rain was constant and blown into them by a strong, gusty wind. A council was held in the chieftain’s hall, which was a roundhouse only a little larger than the others at the farmstead. It was an angry meeting, with supporters of the woman recounting all that she had suffered and asserting that the dead man received no more than long overdue justice. ‘Who will miss him?’ they claimed, while the woman said nothing, and appeared stunned by the whole business. Against her, the man’s cousin repeated that a death called for vengeance and punishment.

‘Cut her to show her shame,’ he insisted, and the men with him bellowed their approval. ‘We are Textoverdi,’ he went on, ‘and we do not kill our own without punishment. Mark her to show her disgrace!’ He drew a thin dagger. The old custom was to slice a woman’s nostrils and ears, and scar her cheeks as a permanent sign that she had been faithless to her husband.

The chieftain was a kind man but not a bold one and did not stand up. Ferox clapped his hands hard. It was not a gesture these people used, and the sound echoed around the house, bringing silence. He stood, and his hand went to the hilt of his dagger, for he knew this was sharp and he did not like the look of the man’s knife.

‘Let one who has no tie or kindred to either husband or wife settle this. Come, woman.’ He beckoned to her. She came without hesitation, used to obedience. When she came closer he could see the fading marks of old bruises on her cheeks and arms. With one hand Ferox brushed her hair back to uncover her left ear. ‘This is justice,’ he said, not believing it, but wanting to make a show for her enemies. He pulled the lobe of her ear taut and sliced it off. The woman barely winced, showing that she was very familiar with pain. ‘Let her be exiled from these lands.

‘Do you have children, girl?’ he whispered.

‘A girl, lord.’

‘Let her take her child and I will send her far away, so that the shame is gone from the people’s eyes. That is justice.’

The chieftain raised his arms and yelled in acclamation of the judgement. The dead man’s cousin looked sullen, but Ferox thought that he could sense the man’s relief at avoiding a blood feud. The daughter, a babe in arms, was swaddled and passed to the mother and they left straightaway, even though there were only a few hours of dull light left, because he did not want to give the cousin time to think it all over. At least the rain had stopped, and the chief loaned them a pony for the girl, for he wanted her off his hands as soon as possible.

It was almost dark when one of the two troopers came up alongside Ferox. It was the Thracian, the man with only a few months left to serve in the army.

‘We’re being followed, sir,’ the old soldier said.

‘I know. One of them, over on the right, keeping pace, but a little ahead.’ Ferox did not add that he was sure whoever it was had come from the south and not followed them from the farmstead.

‘You’ve better eyesight than me, sir,’ the Thracian said. His name was Sita, but no one ever used it. ‘Want me to ride ahead and try to loop back?’

‘Good idea. Don’t make it too obvious and don’t take any chances.’

The Thracian grinned. ‘Not me, sir.’ He trotted off, going straight ahead as if riding to find the path or look for a campsite. Ferox brought Snow to a halt and turned back to smile at the woman. ‘We’ll rest soon.’

Something whipped past just inches from his head. ‘Stay with her,’ he called to the other trooper. ‘Keep her safe.’

Snow surged forward with only a gentle touch of his feet, and he steered the mare to the right, heading for the darkness under a patch of trees. He could see the even darker shape of a horseman. A second arrow came at him, and he ducked so that it flicked his shoulder and bounced off his mail armour. The Thracian was galloping, shield up and spear ready as he closed on the man. He was closer, but the third shaft was still aimed at Ferox. He swerved, sending Snow to the left, but a sudden hollow in the long grass caught both of them by surprise and the horse stumbled, flinging him against her neck, the saddle horns driving into his legs. The arrow scarred the grey horse’s back and she tried to turn away from the pain.

The horseman turned, shooting another arrow as he fled into the trees. It thudded into the Thracian’s shield.

‘Bastard!’ Sita yelled as he closed the distance on the man.

‘I want him alive!’ Ferox yelled. The man tried another shot, but the shaft went high and his own horse was going too slowly to escape his pursuer. The horseman dropped his bow and tried to drive his horse on.

The Thracian aimed his heavy spear with all the care and skill of a veteran, driving it into the square of the man’s back with such force that it came out through his chest. The man did not cry, and all Ferox heard was a grunt as the breath was knocked out of him. He knew before he got there than their attacker was dead.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the Thracian said in the flat tone of an old sweat who was not remotely apologetic, but knew that he could not be punished for it.

‘I wanted him alive.’

‘Think he wanted you dead, sir.’ A man with only a few months until discharge was not about to run the risk of trying to take someone alive. ‘Reckon he’s a deserter, sir?’ The dead man was dressed like a Roman in tunic, trousers and cloak, and his hobnailed boots were the sort worn by soldiers, and quite a few other people. On top of that, Ferox had never heard of any horse archers in this part of the world, or anywhere in Britannia, unless they were trained by the army.

‘Maybe.’

Ferox saw the Thracian looking warily behind them at the sound of approaching horses, but he had already seen the riders approaching and did not turn. Instead he examined the corpse. The man was of middle age, thicker set than most Britons – a Rhinelander perhaps?

A horse stopped a few yards away.

‘You’re late,’ Ferox said without getting up or looking around.

‘I got married,’ Vindex said happily, and that did surprise him. When he turned the scout was grinning broadly. ‘You trying to be a hero again?’

Ferox smiled. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Someone just tried to kill me.’

‘Nothing new then.’