The Encircling Sea

VI

THE WIND GREW stronger as the tide turned, plucking at Ferox’s hat, so that he took it off and tucked it into his belt. His hair blew in front of his eyes and he realised that he ought to give in and let Philo trim it. He laughed, startling Vindex and the two scouts who rode with him for he had not spoken for a long time, and then he gave the mare her head and she bounded up the hill towards the tower, racing at a pace none of their ponies could match. They followed, flecks of water spraying from the animals’ legs, and the two warriors exchanged glances because they were new men not yet used to the centurion’s strange ways.

Ferox reached the top some way ahead of the others and reined the grey in. The watchtower was to his left on the highest point of the ridge, a hundred paces away from a cluster of roundhouses where a family lived and farmed. The tower’s timbers were rendered so that they gleamed white even on this dull day. It had a black-painted wooden platform projecting so that men could walk out and see in all directions, and a shingle roof shaped like a low pyramid. Around it was a circular rampart and ditch. He could see a sentry outside the entrance, another pacing the walls and a third on the platform veranda. Such vigilance was admirable, although it did make him wonder whether the little garrison knew that there was a party of senior officers on the loose. This was Aballava, the last crossing of the great winding river before it opened into the sea, and he was here to meet with Crispinus, Cerialis and others to help them select a site for the camp they were to build.

Ahead of him the land fell away, fields turning into salt marshes and dunes and then the sea itself, more blue than grey even in this dim light. Ferox took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of salt and old seaweed. Seagulls circled overhead, seeming almost to hover as they floated on the currents of air. One swooped low, not far in front of him, and he watched it, marvelling at the elegance as it climbed again and soon was soaring away, screaming.

‘Nasty creatures,’ Vindex said. Earlier in the day one had dived down and snatched a piece of bread from his hand.

Ferox ignored him, lost in memories of long ago. The sea here was bluer, the hills across the water closer, but the scents on the wind and the gulls overhead were the same as the coast of his homeland.

‘Bleak, isn’t it,’ Vindex added when his friend did not reply. His two warriors caught up, glanced at the view, and remained unimpressed. One walked his horse round and stared southwards.

‘That’s a pretty sight,’ Vindex said. There was a herd of cattle in the distance, at least a hundred big brown cows and bullocks grazing in the fields, with herdsmen riding around and among them. There were a few farmsteads dotted across the plain, each with their own little collections of animals, five or six cows, a few pigs and goats, tended by each family.

‘Must be a big chieftain of the Romans to have so much,’ the other scout said admiringly.

‘That lot belong to this Probus?’ Vindex asked, and at last Ferox dragged himself away from the sea and joined them as they looked south.

‘Reckon so. He’s got the right to grazing all along this coast and for miles inland.’ In the last weeks Ferox had learned that Genialis’ father supplied the army with a lot of animals, from cattle for meat and hides, to mules and ponies for pack and draft, and remounts for the cavalry.

‘Who gave him the right?’ Vindex asked, his tone implying that he guessed. ‘I’m guessing no one asked these folk here whether they minded.’

‘There’s enough grass for everyone,’ Ferox said, hoping that it was true. Probus had gone to someone working for the procurator who had gone to someone working for the legate, who had gone to someone higher up and so on. A lot of gifts would have been given, a lot of favours promised, and then suddenly a great swathe of land was opened to a big investor. Probus had a dozen or more herds like this one, apart from all his other animals, and that was just his stock up here. From what he heard the man owned more herds near Eboracum and Deva, helping to feed the demands of the big legionary bases, and sold to the towns and villages as well. He also owned ships and traded back and forth between the Germanies and Britannia, especially up the east coast. Here in the west there were fewer ports, at least this far north.

‘He’s an ambitious man,’ Crispinus had told him back at Vindolanda. ‘Knows how to make his money work for him.’ That much was certain, but an air of mystery clung around him. ‘He’s supposed to have been a soldier, and certainly still looks like one,’ the tribune had explained, ‘but no one is quite sure when and where he served. Cannot have served the full term so must have been discharged, presumably honourably, and a decade or so ago he pops up in Londinium with a lot of money. Claimed to be a Nervian, and did not get the franchise until later, when a rich freedman adopted him and made him his principal heir. The freedman died soon afterwards,’ the tribune said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Just coincidence apparently.’ His tone suggested that he did not believe a word of it. ‘Ever since then he’s kept on growing. I will say this, though, the animals he supplies are pretty good, so he’s better than a lot of contractors.’

‘Are these folk Carvetii?’ Ferox asked, knowing the answer but preferring not to discuss the injustices of imperial administration with the Brigantian.

‘They are and they aren’t,’ the scout said. ‘They’re kin of ours, of course, and often they join with us at the great gatherings and stand beside us in battle.’ He paused. ‘That was in the old days, before we were good allies of Rome.’

‘Of course.’ The Carvetii were one of the big clans, like the Textoverdi, and both were and were not Brigantes, depending on what was going on, and in the past had fought with and against each other. ‘In the old days,’ he repeated. ‘Well, let’s not waste time staring at wealth we’ll never have, and have a word with them at the tower.’ He set off, fishing out his vine cane from the rolled blanket behind his saddle. As he came closer he twitched his cloak back so that the sentries would see his mail and the rest of his uniform. With the cane of office it ought to show them that he was a Roman and a centurion.

The soldier brought his oval shield up and raised his spear in challenge. He was wearing a black tunic, which marked him out as one of the Vardulli from Magna on detached service at the tower.

‘Halt!’ he called. ‘Announce yourself.’

‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, with three scouts.’

‘Sir!’ The spear came upright as the auxiliary stamped to attention. ‘Advance, friend.’

A legionary was in charge of the seven men currently stationed there, and came out from behind the tower as they rode into the little outpost. As was usual, the door to the tower was on the opposite side from the main entrance, so that no one could rush straight in. There was no gate, but beside the rampart there were a couple of wooden beams mounting sharpened stakes that could be lifted and set down to block the entrance.

‘Have you come from Luguvallium, sir?’ the legionary asked him. He was a stocky man, and his segmented cuirass made him look even broader and more powerful. Yet Ferox could sense that he was nervous and was not someone who liked to make decisions.

He shook his head. ‘No, we came from the north. Trouble?’ he asked.

‘Might be, sir. One of the tribesmen came in this morning, saying that he had seen boats on a beach a couple of miles away. Three or four of them. I sent a man out to look – one of my best. But he hasn’t come back.’

‘Gone long?’

‘Long enough, sir. He took the only horse we have,’ he added gloomily. There was no beacon outside the tower, nothing to light and give warning to the countryside or bring help from the troops four or five miles away at Luguvallium. ‘I was about to send one of the lads on foot with a report.’ He held up a tablet sealed with wax.

Ferox told one of the scouts to carry the message. ‘Go to the fort and tell them to send out at least forty men.’ With a dozen or so warriors in each boat, there could be a significant band of raiders nearby, so better to be prepared. ‘If you meet anyone on the way warn them of the danger.’ He sent the other man with him. ‘Ride together, but your job is to find the Lords Crispinus and Cerialis and make sure they know of the danger. Suggest they come here if this is the closest shelter.’

‘Have you got any dry kindling, anything that will burn?’ He turned to the legionary.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m going to look for these boats, and if I find them, then I will see if I can burn them, so I want to be able to start a fire.’

The man understood, and rushed off, shouting to his men.

‘So, we’re going to set light to some boats?’ Vindex asked.

‘That’s the idea.’

‘And you think their owners might not be keen on the idea.’

‘Probably not.’ Ferox patted him on the shoulder. ‘You don’t have to come. After all, I have to keep you safe now that you’re a responsible married man.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Ah, good man.’ This was to the outpost commander who had returned with a sack of straw and twigs and two torches, the heads soaked in tar.

‘We use them to light up the top of the tower at night,’ he explained. ‘Is that enough? We have got a couple more.’

‘That will do splendidly. I’d be grateful for the loan of a lancea if you have one.’ The legionary beckoned to one of his men, who handed his slim spear to the centurion. Ferox hefted it and felt the balance. ‘Thank you.’

‘Look!’ The shout came from the man at the top of the tower. He was leaning on the rail of the balcony, pointing, but the rampart blocked their view. ‘Farm on fire!’

‘There’s a beacon anyway,’ Ferox said to the legionary as they slung the sack over his blanket roll. He took one of the torches and gave the other to Vindex. ‘Time for us to go.’

‘Good luck, sir!’

‘And to you.’ Raiders willing to burn a house were not worried about hiding, and it probably meant that they had come to take heads. A few dead villagers might satisfy young warriors hungry to prove themselves, but they might try to win even greater fame by killing the little garrison here – or better yet a tribune, a prefect and the half-dozen troopers escorting them if they happened to stray across them. Ferox was not sure whether he was riding away from or into danger, but he did know that the raiders would need their boats to get home, or face a very long walk through country where it would be easy for the Romans to find them.

‘How many do you reckon?’ Vindex asked.

‘I’d guess at least one for each boat. Either youngsters or older men who aren’t as nimble as they used to be. Doesn’t sound as if there are many patrols along the coast, so they probably would not leave more and weaken the band.’ The Silures used to sail and row across the Channel to raid the northern Durotriges and even the Dumnonii further west, until the Romans stopped them by putting little outposts near some of the best landing places. When he was seven he had hidden under some sacks and sailed on one expedition, and still remembered the terror when he was discovered and the crew joked about throwing him overboard. Instead they left him with the older boys and an old boat wright to look after the boats. It seemed weeks before the men returned with two captive women and began the voyage home. He doubted that the Novantae did things that differently. They would be sensitive about their boats, but would also want all their best men with the main raiding force.

Vindex thought about it for a while. ‘So we need to kill three or four, maybe more?’

‘Or just drive them away.’

‘Oh yes, of course, easy as that. What if the rest of them turn up while we’re there? They’ve hit that farm, might be enough for them to think of going home to boast.’

‘That’s fine, I have it all planned out. In that case we run away, very, very fast.’

Vindex laughed. ‘Just wanted to hear you say it.’

They kept inland. The man had claimed to see the boats further along, a least a couple of miles away, and Ferox led them along the slope of the low hills so that they could see some way inland. There was no more sign of the raiders, apart from the column of dirty smoke rising from the burning farm.

‘That’s where I’d land,’ Ferox said, pointing ahead, and he led them up the slope. Near the crest he stopped the mare and jumped down, creeping forward until he could peer over to scan the beach. The tide was coming in, covering the pale sand, and at first he saw nothing. ‘There.’ A lone figure stood flicking pebbles into the water, having to walk quite a way to find each one because there were few on the beach. A little way behind him was a high bank covered in scrub and a few stunted trees. In front of the bank were dark shapes, covered in brush. He counted three, but suspected another was out of sight behind the bank. He showed Vindex their quarry, and then the two men headed back behind the crest and rode along the hillside. They came to a defile, leading towards the beach. It meandered down, so that for a while they wondered whether it would take them away from the hidden boats, and then suddenly the beach was in front of them, the lad flicking another stone into the waves.

‘Come on,’ Ferox said quietly. There was no sense in stealth so speed was their only choice. The grey mare responded instantly, as if she was as fresh as the dawn, and shot down the gentle slope, feet quiet on the sand. Vindex followed.

The lad turned, bent to pick up a stone and then straightened up, staring in horror. Closer, another young tribesman loomed up from behind one of the bushes, a javelin in his hand. Ferox threw first, the lancea quivering in flight and striking lower than he had aimed, driving into the lad’s stomach. He folded over, screaming in agony. The boy who had been searching for stones reached for a dagger at his belt, then though better of it and turned to run. Ferox had drawn his gladius by now, and when he drew level was about to cut, then changed his mind and jabbed down with the pommel. The youth dropped like a sack of old clothes.

Frost kept going, and it was a moment before he could wheel her round to face the boats. The youth was still down and not moving. An older man and a very young boy were with the boats. Each had a spear, although in the boy’s case this was no more than a sharpened stick. Suddenly he ran straight at Ferox, and the older man cursed and came after him. The boy was fast, sprinting across the sand, his crude spear held low. Vindex was faster, cantering down behind the two Novantae. He hurled his spear, a heavier shafted weapon than the light lancea, and it was starting to drop from sheer weight when it hit the old man in the thigh.

‘Drop it, boy!’ Ferox yelled, swerving his mare out of the way. Vindex was on the other side, and the boy stopped, turning to each of them, jabbing with his spear even though they were out of reach. The old man was sitting on the sand, spear still in his leg. He was groaning loudly as the blood pooled around him, and suddenly the boy noticed him and screamed words they did not catch. He let the sharpened stick fall to the ground, dodged when Vindex tried to grab him, and ran to the old man.

Ferox dismounted. ‘Let me look,’ he ordered. The wound was bad, the old man’s leathery face already paling from loss of blood. ‘Find me rope or cord, boy. Quickly.’ The lad nodded and ran off to the nearest boat. ‘Give me a hand,’ he called to Vindex. There was a dagger in the man’s belt and Ferox drew it and tossed it away.

‘This is going to hurt, father,’ Ferox said as softly as he could. He nodded to the Brigantian. ‘Now.’ Ferox held the old man as tightly as he could while Vindex yanked the spearhead out of the man’s leg, bringing another great gush of blood.

‘Bollocks,’ Vindex hissed as the blood soaked his trousers. The boy had brought rope and Ferox tied it hard above the wound. ‘Get moss, or anything to stuff in there,’ he said to the lad.

‘Thank you,’ the old man said, but his eyes were hard and suspicious. ‘Brigantian?’

‘He is,’ Ferox told him. ‘I am a Silure.’

‘Never heard of them.’ The old man’s breath was coming in gasps. He might live long enough for his friends to find him or he might not. It was doubtful that they would be able to move him.

‘Tell me, father,’ Ferox asked him as gently as he could, ‘what do you know of the men of the night, the black men?’ He could see Vindex frowning, but ignored him.

For the first time, the old man was terrified. ‘Do not speak their name! Please, not now, not now.’ He struggled, and the rope loosened, sending a gout of blood soaking into the sand. The old man flung himself to the side, reaching for his dagger. Vindex drew back his bloodied spear to thrust, but the man collapsed, shook twice and then died.

‘What was that all about?’ he asked the centurion. Ferox was not paying any attention, for the boy had returned and was staring at the dead man. His eyes were glassy, his mouth hung open, but the child made no sound.

‘Come on,’ Ferox said, ‘let’s go and light some fires.’ In the event it was easy, for the Novantae had lit a fire in the shelter of the dunes and the embers were still warm and easily coaxed back to life. Ferox used some of the kindling to get it going again. In the meantime, Vindex piled anything that would burn into the nearest boat. It was long and slim, designed to be rowed, and made from wood planks, as was the boat beside it, and he spread some of the flammable material onto that one as well, smashing a couple of the oars to add to the pyre. The other two boats had wooden frames covered in stretched hides. ‘What are we going to do with those?’ he asked.

‘Cut one up as well as we can,’ Ferox said, wishing now that he had asked for an axe at the tower. For some reason he had just assumed that they would come in wooden boats. ‘Slash any cord you can find and make holes in the hide. Use this,’ he handed over his pugio, for the heavy blade could be punched with some force.

‘Why not the other one as well?’ Vindex asked.

‘Leave it. That way some of them can get away, but most cannot. Should help the harmony of their merry band.’

Vindex shook his head. ‘You really are a vicious bastard, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a Silure.’

‘And a Roman.’ Vindex kissed the wheel of Taranis he wore around his neck. ‘At least you’re on my side.’

Ferox held one of the torches in the fire, turning it slowly as the tarred head caught alight. ‘Here…’ he passed it to the Brigantian ‘… take this.’ He picked up the second torch and repeated the process. It took a while for the fires in the boats to light. The wind was blowing hard off the sea and they had to crouch over the kindling to shelter it. Eventually the flames caught and grew.

‘Good enough,’ Ferox said. Even if the Novantae came back soon and managed to put them out they would not be able to use either boat, especially if the wind remained strong and stirred up the waves.

The boy was still with the old man, sitting next to him and holding his cold hand. Over on the sand, the lad Ferox had knocked out lay still, but they could see that he was still breathing

‘Leave them,’ Ferox said in answer to the unspoken question. ‘Let their own folk look after them. Unless you want a slave for your new wife?’

Vindex ignored the suggestion. ‘Poor kid,’ he said. Ferox was not listening. There was a horseman up on the path they had followed down to the beach. He was a tribesman, his hair washed in lime and combed up in a spiked fringe, his face striped with blue paint. He wore a pale yellow and green checked tunic and dark trousers, and carried a little round shield and a spear. His horse was a warm brown with black legs, mane and tail, and like so many army horses its saddle and harness decorated with round silvered phalerae.

‘Looks like they did get the trooper,’ Ferox said. The man stared at them and at the smoke rising from the boats, before turning and galloping off. That meant his friends were not with him, but did not tell them how far behind they were.

‘We’d better go,’ Vindex said, swinging up into the saddle.

Ferox led his mare over to the boy. ‘Good luck, son,’ he said. ‘The others will come back to get you soon.’ The lad stared up at him, his cheeks wet with tears and stung by the wind. ‘Boy, have you heard of the men of the night?’ He was not really expecting an answer, but found himself asking the question anyway and did not know why. A gull was on the sand, probably drawn by the smell of blood, but contenting itself for the moment with pecking at an old shell. It stopped, its beak a vivid yellow and its wicked eyes staring into his.

‘They say they came long ago as a curse on the lands.’ The words were whispered, so that Ferox had to strain to hear them. ‘They came from the sea to kill men and eat their flesh. Now they sleep under waves, until a storm rouses them to feed again.’ At last the boy looked up, challenging him. ‘They say that it is bad luck even to mention them.’ There was a belligerence in his tone, as if he was willing the curse on the Roman.

‘Good luck, son,’ Ferox said again, and hauled himself onto Frost’s back. The seagull still watched him, and he wondered what god or spirit possessed it.

They rode along the beach, not risking going back the way they had come in case the rest of the Novantae were close. The tide was still coming in, and at times they had to go through the foamy surf, spray flying up from the feet of their horses before they reached another patch of firm sand.

Cloud came in off the sea, bringing a fine drizzle and blotting from sight the far shore. It also meant that they did not see the pillar of smoke until they were closer. The hills blocked their view, but both men knew that it came from the direction of the tower.

‘We’re humped,’ Vindex said as they rode on.