The Fort

XI

THE HORSEMAN WAS silhouetted on the top of the hill, watching them. He had his arms folded, a common gesture among his kin, and the horse, its mane and tail braided with colourful ribbons, simply stood there, now and again leaning down to crop the grass. The man wore loose trousers, a long sleeved, long hemmed tunic and boots, all of them a deep grey, and had an orange-brown cloak.

Ferox had halted the column. ‘Where there’s one, there’s always more,’ he said. They had caught up with the scouts he sent ahead, pleased that they had obeyed his orders and waited after bumping into anything strange. Not that this was all that unexpected, for the spring was properly here now and this was a good place for grazing and hunting. Seeing the warrior brought back a lot of memories.

‘He’s a Sarmatian,’ Sabinus said.

‘A Red Alan,’ corrected the decurion in charge of the twenty auxiliary horsemen who had joined the fifty Carvetii and Brigantes on this ride.

Ferox gave a slight nod. He was one of the Roxolani, of the Stag clan, unless he was mistaken, although in truth it was hard to be sure when warriors often moved their tents from one band to the next. Unless the sun had stopped rising and setting, they were a tough bunch, good friends and really bad enemies, and you never quite knew which way they would go.

Vindex was less impressed. ‘Ugly beast he’s got.’ The Roxolani, like most Sarmatians, liked small horses, thick legged, rather snub nosed, but strong and able to run for hours.

‘Bet your horse says the same about you,’ the decurion suggested.

‘Cheeky bugger.’

Sabinus ignored them. ‘He doesn’t look out for trouble.’

‘They’re all thieves,’ the decurion said.

‘Aren’t we all,’ Vindex muttered. ‘Although the Romans do it in style and steal the world.’

‘Nonsense, we spread peace and enlightenment,’ Sabinus snapped, then scanned the horizon. ‘Cannot see any others, sir. Shall we press on?’

‘Yes, take the column on for another two hours and then camp – and keep a close watch, especially on the horses. We should meet the legatus and his men tomorrow. I will re-join you as soon as I can, but until then you are in charge. If I am not back by the time you meet the legatus, then offer him my sincere apologies and say that I will return within three days if I am able, if not… Ah, told you there would be more.’ A second rider appeared beside the first one, with a third hovering behind.

‘If not, sir?’ Sabinus asked.

‘What? Oh, if I’m not back in three days then I’m dead. They don’t torture anyone longer than that.’

‘Sir?’ Sabinus said, but Ferox was already walking his horse away. ‘Are you sure about this, sir?’

Ferox glanced back at Vindex. ‘Coming?’

‘Oh bugger,’ the scout said, and followed. Sabinus watched them go, saw the three Sarmatians turn and canter out of sight, but Ferox and Vindex did not check and followed them over the brow of the hill.

‘Better go, sir,’ the decurion said after a while.

‘Yes, I suppose we should.’ Sabinus had seventy men under his command and had rarely felt so alone.

Ferox and Vindex rode for a few miles. The valley was wide, the fields open, rolling up and down with little hills, and they gave the horses their heads, letting them run. There were farms dotted around, wheat and barley growing well and they avoided the cultivated patches. Now and then they saw the three Roxolani. From one of the higher hills they could see the road and the little figures of Sabinus and his men trotting along, before they dipped down again. Up ahead was a longer, higher ridge and one of the horsemen had stopped on the crest.

‘That’s where they’ll be,’ he called to Vindex and pointed. ‘They like to surprise you.’

‘How big a surprise?’

‘Well, some of them hate me.’

‘I like ’em already.’

Their horses surged as they reached the ridge, racing up the slope, hoofs pounding on the turf. The lone rider waited until they were almost there before spinning his mount and galloping away.

‘Keep going!’ Ferox shouted as he saw Vindex begin to rein in. They reached the top, wide and empty and suddenly it was filling with riders, spilling up over the crest ahead, cantering around them. There were about twenty, and all had bows or javelins in hand.

‘Now we stop,’ Ferox said as the Roxolani formed a circle around them. ‘And don’t worry.’

‘Really.’

‘No point, it wouldn’t do any good.’

The riders had weapons, but the javelins were held upright and none had placed an arrow on their bows. Many were of strange design, held not in the middle as usual, but two-thirds of the way down so that the lower arc was much smaller than the one above their hand. They were horseman’s weapons, awkward until a man trained himself to use one, but then far more powerful at short range than an ordinary bow.

Ferox placed his right hand, palm flat, against his left shoulder, and kicked his horse while holding the reins tight, so that its hind legs stayed where they were and the front made the beast turn a full circle.

The riders watched, saying nothing. To Vindex’s surprise, one was a young woman, her face decorated with tattoos, but dressed like a man and carrying a bow.

There was a man beside her, his beard dyed bright red, but showing grey hairs where drink had washed the colouring away. He lowered his bow back into the case fastened to the rear of his saddle, made the same gesture as Ferox and walked his horse forward. He came close, saying nothing, face impassive. Ferox took off his centurion’s helmet with its tall crest – a replacement for the one he had broken on his first day at the fort.

The rider stared at him. No one said anything, and even Vindex had the sense not to crack any jokes, although he did wink at the young woman. She ignored him, and all of the warriors had the same impassive stare. For a long while they sat on their horses.

‘It is you,’ the bearded man said at last, using strongly accented Greek.

‘Yes,’ Ferox replied.

‘Flavios Kakos.’

‘Yes.’

‘We thought you dead.’

There was not really an answer to that, so Ferox said nothing.

‘Then come.’ The warrior turned and raised a hand to the others. A moment later they were streaking away down the far side of the ridge.

Vindex was puzzled.

‘He said to follow,’ Ferox called, forgetting that Vindex spoke no Greek, and then set off in pursuit. The scout followed and caught up after a few hundred paces.

‘Talkative buggers, aren’t they?’

‘When they are riding they only speak when they have something worth saying.’

‘Oh aye,’ the scout said, ‘that could take some folk a lifetime. And what’s this about cack.’

‘It’s what they call me.’

Vindex roared with laughter, and said no more. The path was easy to follow, and more riders appeared to look at them before riding off. None came close enough to speak, although now and again they called out ‘Kakos!’ Vindex laughed a lot.

The camp was not a large one, with about a dozen waggons, some tents, and a few hundred horses and ponies, with half that number of goats, the bells on their collars tinkling as they moved. There was a great fire burning in the centre of the main ring of waggons and tents, and at the head a canopy beneath which rugs were spread and three people sat in high-backed chairs.

‘Do as I do,’ Ferox said and put his helmet back on. This one had been made in the workshop at the fort and had crosspieces over the bowl and the crest holder above that. He dismounted, so Vindex copied. A servant, clad in simple tunic and trousers and barefoot, appeared and led the animals away. A lot of people stood in their path, mainly warriors, but women and children as well, all with the same rigid stare.

Ferox walked straight towards the canopy. Men, and one or two young women, barred his path, sometimes sticking out their tongues, but he did not check or slow. At the last moment they moved out of the way, apart from one fair-haired youth, and the centurion barged him out of the way with his shoulder, and pressed on.

Two men and a woman sat under the canopy. All three were in armour, the men a shirt of bronze scales and the woman in mail, there were swords at their sides and conical helmets resting on their laps. The woman looked about forty, black hair streaked grey, skin lined, jaw firm and grey blue eyes clear and cold as the sea. The man on her right was older, bald apart from a fringe of grey hair, but with a thick beard dyed red, and the one on the left was younger, with fair hair and beard. None of them smiled.

‘It is true then,’ the older man said, again using Greek. ‘I did not believe it when I was told.’

‘I did.’ The woman had a deep voice. ‘I saw it in the stars.’ She changed to Latin. ‘The Bad Flavius has returned.’ Like the young woman, her face was dotted with little markings, as were the backs of her hands.

Ferox could almost feel Vindex stifling a laugh.

‘I do not come in vengeance or anger,’ Ferox said, using Greek since it was more likely that they understood enough. Since arriving here he had started to use the language more than for many years, but his speech was slow and careful, matching his hosts. ‘I leave to you whether there is anger or vengeance in your hearts. If there is, then I will face it, but this man is my friend,’ he indicated Vindex, who understood not a word, ‘and I ask that he be allowed to do what is necessary afterwards.’

‘That is for the dawn after next,’ the older man said and the other two nodded. ‘Now you are our guest.’

The feast was already in preparation, the smell of roast meat growing as carcases were roasted over the fire – sheep, goats and cattle. There were blankets on the ground around the long fire, and guests came and went, sitting for a while, talking, eating and drinking. Few spoke to Vindex in any language he could understand, but laughter and gesture made him welcome. Ferox was with the leaders, sitting on a stool only a little lower than theirs and whenever Vindex glanced in that direction they were deep in talk.

‘It is fitting,’ a man said to him in Latin, and flashed a broad grin, the whiteness of his teeth all the brighter because his skin was a deep shade of brown unlike any of the others in the camp. ‘Chieftains talk and tell stories and will ask the Bad Flavius where he has been and what he has done.’

‘Why the bad?’ Vindex asked, but the man had already gone, called away by a scowling warrior. Another warrior, his sword belt and scabbard a deep red colour, matching his long tunic, offered the scout a bowl filled to the brim with milk, so he took it and drank, before passing it back and smiling in thanks. The young woman appeared and held out a smaller cup, this time filled with a bitter wine. Vindex drank deeply, for this was a welcome change, only handing it back when the giver must have begun to worry that none would be left. He gave the girl a big wink and she ignored him, heading off. A servant brought a platter of cheese and cuts of meat, so he took some and ate for a while. He began to pick up a few of the words for food, but otherwise the talk flowed past him. As the sun set and the stars filled the sky, there was more wine as well as mead and beer and as far as he could tell little of the conversation made much sense anymore. He saw the dark warrior a few times, but never close enough to speak. Ferox was still with the chieftains, and if they had drank as much as the rest it did not seem to have fuddled their wits for they talked on and on.

Vindex must have passed out like so many of the warriors, for he woke the next morning inside a tent. His head throbbed and he had no great urge to get up, so he lay there for some time until Ferox appeared.

‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘There is to be a hunt and we are invited as guests.’

Vindex groaned.

To his relief, the hunt began at a leisurely pace, and seemed more about taking a ride than pursuing game, as forty or so set off. The warriors rode horses decorated with ribbons, and many had donned their armour and wore swords on their hips. All had bows, and some carried quivering spears ten foot or so long.

They went south and west, heading away from the road and saw no sign of Romans. There were plenty of farmers, but none challenged the riders as they crossed over their land. Ferox rode at the head of the party, with the chieftains, while Vindex was gently led to the rear, where he was pleased to see the dark-skinned warrior.

‘How are you feeling?’ the man said, with another broad grin. ‘My head’s like thunder and I ought to be used to it by now.’

Vindex groaned, prompting a big laugh. Two other warriors, one with a golden beard and the other with a long brown moustache joined in, as did Vindex, rubbing his forehead in mock pain.

‘You are honoured, I think,’ the man said.

‘No, I’m Vindex,’ the scout replied, blinking as if still half drunk and confused. The warrior translated and the others roared with laughter once again.

‘My name is Ardaros,’ he said.

‘You don’t look as if you are from around these parts?’

‘This is my home and these are my people. I would not now exchange them for any in the wide world. I have horses and children, a wife and my own tent. And I have brothers and sisters of my clan and they have me.’ Some of the phrases came with difficulty, and Vindex guessed that Ardaros rarely spoke Latin and struggled for the right words.

‘Then you are a fortunate man,’ Vindex said, sensing the pride with which the man had spoken. ‘But I take it that it was not always so.’

Ardaros sighed. ‘The past has faded. Once I was a child and had another family who loved me. The Garamantine slavers came and took me and many others. They sold me to a Roman who sold me to a Greek, who sold me to another Roman – or at least a man who claimed that he was. He sold trinkets to fools, and his path led him – and me – to Moesia and his death. Warriors of the Golden Ox clan were on a raid and they killed him and took me as a slave. My new master was the best I had ever known and one day his tent was attacked while he was away and I fought off the enemies, killing two, though I took great hurt in the deed. My master helped me heal and made me free and his brother, and so Ardaros was born and lives as one of the truly free. The stars have blessed my path and the wind guided me.’

‘Aye,’ Vindex said. The Latin was awkward, though probably this time because there were not the right words. ‘Freedom and courage are great things.’

Shouts interrupted them. They had come over the brow and scattered a herd of pigs. The man and boy watching them showed no surprise or fear and merely watched as ponies reared or bolted away from the sudden burst of squeals.

The moustached warrior was carrying one of the tall spears and took it now in both hands, driving his mount into a canter, forcing it towards the scattering herd. He lowered the spear, point reaching out ahead and down, closing fast with one of the smaller pigs which fled in front of him. The horse balked, tried to pull away, but he checked it and went forward again, leaning to the right in his saddle as he drove the spearhead straight through the beast and then lifted his prize into the air and galloped on. All of the Roxolani whooped with delight, and the herdsmen just watched.

‘Do you want to try?’ Ardaros asked, as the fair-haired warrior offered his lance to Vindex.

‘Fonder of mutton really,’ he said, and was pleased when the translation prompted more merriment. He reached out for the spear and was surprised at its lightness. The shaft was slim, wobbling a little as he held it, and he tried to remember how the other man had done it. His mare was not keen, but Vindex had had her for years and they knew each other well, so that it did not take much tightness on her bit or more than a few taps with his heels to push her on. For the moment he had the spear upright in his right hand and kept the left for the reins. Singling out one of the larger pigs, which was slower than the rest and a big target, he swerved towards it, lowering the spear. One-handed it was awkward and end heavy, but with great effort he managed to hold it, arm bent at the elbow.

The pig was gathering pace, squealing in alarm, but he was close now. Vindex looped the end of the reins over one of his saddle horns and grasped the spear with his left hand as well. The mare was steady, keeping straight, and he lowered the spearhead, knowing that it would need less of a thrust than a steady hand to let the speed drive the iron into the beast.

The pig swerved to the right. Vindex reached, point chasing it, then his mare stuttered in her run, he felt his legs slipping from the grip of the saddle horns, and the point of the spear rammed into the ground. The shock flung him off and to the side to crash onto the soft turf.

There were more whoops of delight and amusement. Ferox passed him, a pig neatly skewered on the lance he held up.

‘Having fun?’ the centurion asked and then trotted away.

‘Bastard.’

Ardaros and the man whose lance he had taken appeared.

‘I told you I prefer mutton,’ Vindex said, and when the warrior translated his words the nearest riders cheered. The scout rose, sore, but nothing broken.

‘That’s a good horse,’ Ardaros said, for the mare had gone no more than a few yards and stopped, waiting for him.

‘That’s one mean pig.’ Vindex reached the mare and jumped up. The herdsman and his boy remained where they were, watching and saying nothing.

‘Do we pay them for these?’ he asked.

‘We do,’ Ardaros said. ‘For we do not kill them or plunder their homes. None will starve because of what we take.’

Vindex did not bother to say anything. These were not his people or his lands, and soon they were riding again, leaving the pigs and their owners far behind, apart from the bloody carcases slung behind a few saddles. ‘So tell me why they call the centurion Flavius the Bad?’ Vindex asked after they had ridden for some time.

Ardaros shrugged. ‘Because there was already a good Flavius when he arrived.’

‘Makes sense.’

‘And he is a life-taker. A taker of many lives.’

‘He’s a proper bastard all right,’ Vindex conceded. ‘But he’s a warrior and we all must kill to live.’

‘There are stories. Most must have happened when I was a slave, if they happened.’

‘Knowing the centurion they probably happened.’

‘One day five warriors swore an oath to avenge the death of their cousin and kill Flavius or die in the attempt. This was far to the east, near the mouths of the great river.’

‘I’m guessing it didn’t work out for them.’

‘Flavius was alone, and they thought they caught him unaware, sitting by his fire at night. He killed two when they attacked. The third he killed the next morning and the fourth that night, and each time he cut off the man’s head. The head of the fifth man was found within bowshot of his people’s encampment on top of a stake driven into the ground.’

Vindex nodded. It was easy enough to believe. The Silures were skilled at using the night, and Ferox was good even by their standards. The moustached warrior asked Ardaros what they were talking about, and as he explained the fair-haired one joined in the discussion and a couple of others rode over to join them.

‘He says that there were six of them – and another man says that he heard that there were eight,’ Ardaros said after a while. ‘Many tell the tale and much changes in the telling.’

‘Except that they all died.’

‘Yes.’

‘So,’ Vindex said, ‘your folk don’t have much cause to love him, do they?’

‘We used to know him. Some hate, some trust and all fear him. That is how it is and how it should be. Tomorrow morning any with a grudge may challenge him to fight and kill him if they are able. That is our way. If they do not challenge, then none may attack him for one moon after he leaves as our guest. The same applies to him. Flavius must challenge anyone or leave us in peace for the same time.’

‘What about me?’

‘What about you?’ For the first time there was impatience in Ardaros’ voice. ‘You are his sworn brother. You must fight if he refuses, do what is necessary if he dies, and then decide whether or not to avenge him.’

‘Just me?’

‘That is the duty of a friend.’

Vindex did not have more to say and nor did the others. They chased some deer, shooting several down, and soon after noon stopped to eat. The older chieftain drew his sword, shouting something as he spun around, arms wide, and then drove the blade into the earth. All of the warriors went in turn to the sword and bowed.

‘It is the symbol of their god of war, the greatest of their gods,’ Ferox said, appearing at Vindex’s side. ‘They revere the wind which blows wherever it wills as the breath of life in all living things. The air gives life and the iron sword rips it away, so they offer to both for good fortune.’

Already the pigs were cooking, the smell rich and making Vindex hungry.

‘Is this what you planned?’ he asked the centurion.

‘More or less. We’ll see in the morning. There might be trouble, so be wary, although you should not be at much risk. Should be fine as long as no one really wants to kill me.’

‘Oh shit,’ Vindex whispered. He was about to introduce Ardaros, until the man saw that Ferox was beside him and turned away.

‘He’s one of theirs, but still wary lest they think he is a spy of the empire,’ Ferox said, as if he knew or guessed who the dark warrior was. ‘No one is sure whose side anyone is on these days.’

‘Is that good?’

‘It’s how it is.’ Ferox clapped him on the shoulder, making Vindex wince from the pain. The aches were growing now that they had stopped. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Probably anyway.’