Authors: N. M. Browne
Chapter Ten
We keep bearing north for Brigantia. I set a brisk pace. We are both exhausted but there’s no point in giving in to it. We need to get away from the Parisi lands.
I’m certain that I can smell people, some distance behind us, but the Chief’s men are not my only worry. I fear that I’m being stalked by a wolf. It is probably only Trista’s wild talk, but I can smell the distinctive musk of a she-wolf.
‘I think we are being followed,’ Trista says after a while.
‘Two men,’ I say, ‘maybe three.’
‘You were not going to say anything?’
‘They were a long way behind.’
We move closer instinctively and check our weapons. Wet and cold weather can play havoc with steel. As she bends down, Trista lets out a cry. I think at first that she’s been hit by a spear, though I heard nothing. She falls and her pack opens and spills with a clatter of copper against iron ground. I can’t see any injury but her face is bloodless, so pale she that looks like an unpainted marble statue. I pull her helmet from her head and her red-gold hair spills around her, like dark mead. Her eyes move beneath closed lids as if she dreams. Her breath is shallow and rapid. She is as tall as I am and weighed down with her heavy mail and shield, but somehow I pull her upright and get her over my shoulder.
I half drag, half carry her to a nearby tree, as the dead are taken sometimes from the battlefield. I know that she has gone to the place of visions, that she is perhaps possessed by the spirits of the gods. I want to run. I can hear the men now and they are not far away. I don’t want anything to do with the uncanny, with the dark spirits of the tribes and their thirsty, blood-craving deities, but I can’t leave her. She is a dead weight and I dump her down too roughly. She doesn’t even respond to my manhandling. Oh, by Mithras’ balls, I can’t defend us both. I unsheathe my sword anyway and plant my spear next to me. I drop my pack next to Trista and ready my shield. I strain my ears and hear fragments of conversation – in Latin. It’s my own people and not the Chief. I almost laugh with relief. Then I remember. I am a deserter from their army and the penalty for that is death. When was I supposed to report? I can’t remember.
Trista groans – the sound is horribly loud in the silence. She struggles to sit up. There’s blood in her hair where her neck snapped back and her head hit the frozen earth. The Romans are almost upon us. I scoop up Trista’s helmet and thrust it back on her head.
‘Romans are coming – pretend you’re ill and cannot speak.’
She nods and I wonder if she needs to pretend. She’s not focusing properly and her face is now the grey-white of the melting slush.
I brush twigs and mud from my cloak and straighten up. I am not a deserter, but an incompetent scout who’s lost his way. Another scouting party comes into view. They smell of fatigue and blood. I don’t think I’m the only one to have run into trouble. They eye me warily. I spot the Decanus, the man in charge, right away. He’s a stocky Lusitanian with the swarthy looks of his countrymen and a reputation as a brawler.
I salute him: ‘Gaius Agrippa Morcant reporting, sir – scout of the Ninth. We ran into a bit of trouble with the natives and Triss here is injured – blow to the head – can’t speak.’ He recognises me too and something in his manner relaxes.
‘Pox-faced Brit-shit tribesmen! You’ve heard about Caratacus and his rebels? They’re all at it now. We’ve all had trouble lately. Can your mate walk? We’re heading back to camp now.’ His small group has been hunting down survivors of the hill fort massacre. The thought makes my stomach sour and I struggle to keep my expression under control. He makes some rapid introductions that I don’t take in and his men help support Trista as she staggers to her feet. At least her height and lean build make her a convincing enough man.
‘Bastards who attacked Julius – we sorted them out,’ he says. I can smell the acrid smoke of the fire still clinging to him and I’m repulsed. Of course that’s why Trista’s hall was attacked! I hadn’t connected the scuffle in which Julius was injured with the punitive raid on the Chief’s fort. I should have done: we are on a war footing and our commander believes in letting the natives know who’s boss. One Roman injury is worth a hundred or more Keltic deaths. It is one way of getting respect quickly – or so the Prefect believes.
Trista looks at me wild-eyed and suspicious. I can’t translate for her, not here and now. She allows herself to be helped and I hope that they don’t notice the flash of her Keltic longsword under her cloak or the flash of fury in her eyes when two men grab her arms. Does she know these are the men responsible for what happened at the fort? I hope not: I don’t know what she might try to do. We have walked together, fought together and endured together but right now she is a stranger to me. I can only hope she has the wit to keep her mouth closed and her sword sheathed.
Chapter Eleven
I am going to be sick. My guts quake and roil as they always do after a vision. Is Morcant taking me prisoner? He is speaking that guttural gibberish he spoke with Lucius and though I strain to listen I cannot even distinguish separate words. What is he saying about me? Should I draw my sword and end this now? I’m not sure my hand is steady enough. At best I could take the man nearest me, but I would die soon after. Anyway, I can’t fight; instead I turn my head away from the armoured men and vomit into the tree roots.
The hands that grab and brace me are gentle enough and I’m not acting when I slump against one of the soldiers. This vision is hard to forget. It was full of violence, which isn’t unusual, but in this vicious battle Morcant lies bleeding; blood spurts and stains his naked torso. The ghastly pallor of his face, the look in his eyes are both disturbing, but what shocks me most is my distress. He’s not of my tribe – he’s not even fully a man – and I don’t even know if he is on my side, but I can’t shake the terrible sense of loss I felt at this vision of his death.
I try to place the vision in time and space. Will it be soon? Will it be now? Here? I have spent my whole life fearing what I have seen and worrying about what have I not. I did not foresee the death of my tribe, my family, my betrothed – what else have I not seen? My betrayal by Morcant?
The men speak to me and, by their tone, not unkindly. I stare back at them in a daze. Morcant has not betrayed me. Yet.
I let the strange foreign sounds wash over me. It would be good for them to believe that I am all but finished, that I have no strength left: it is not so far from the truth. I fall into something very close to a walking doze and just manage to keep my half closed eyes, fixed on the shadow form of the wolf, wide awake and walking with Morcant.
I notice a change in all the men as we approach their camp. They stand more erect, they hoist me more upright, and the low murmur of their conversation ceases so that I can hear the noise of men labouring, sawing, shouting, bustling. I can even here a female voice high-pitched and raucous, laughing.
Fear rises like a bad taste to my mouth. I’m as sure as I can be that someone will know that Morcant did not leave their camp with a tall man called ‘Triss’. What has Morcant told them about me? I try to catch his eye, but I can see by the tension in the body of the wolf that he is too busy playing the role of the eager young soldier to risk looking my way.
We are waiting at the entrance of a well-constructed timber fort, so new that you can still smell the sawdust in the air. It is surrounded by a deep ditch and a high palisade. It is by far the biggest encampment that I’ve ever seen. Armed men parade on a raised platform behind the wooden walls so that they tower above those of us still on the ground. They could spear us where we stand. Scented steam shrouds a large wooden building outside the palisade. It is larger even than the Chief’s roundhouse and the laughing woman is standing outside it. Her ample bosom is decorated by rows of beads and her thick hair coiled into an improbable tower of plaits upon her head. Our eyes meet and I look away. I don’t know her, but she is Brigante. I am ashamed because I can guess her business here. She shouts something I choose not to hear. I don’t blame anyone for doing what they have to do – the gods do not always bless us with choice – but her evident enthusiasm irks me. These men kill tribesmen.
I keep my head down and stumble as I walk. My face is beaded with sweat. I pray my escort think it is fever, not terror, that troubles me.
There are signs that some kind of walkway is being constructed but for now the ground is muddy, rutted from the passage of many mules and carts and strewn with straw. It is very noisy. There are too many people. The air smells of cooking and the resinous scent of newly cut wood. There are other scents I don’t recognise: alien spices, the taint of elsewhere, perfumes which transform this piece of Parisi country into an outpost of some foreign power. A market is under way. Someone has hung a brace of hares from the timber frame of a wall-less hut and there are shellfish too, past their best, and a couple of plump partridges. All the sound and bustle is hard to take in after the quiet of the last few days. I haven’t seen so many unfamiliar faces since the battle of Ragan’s Field. I can see that the wolf is ready to run and so am I.
The soldiers start talking excitedly again and I guess that this market is something new. A tall blonde man from one of the southern tribes is sharpening knives while beside him a woman urges my companions, in a variant of my own language, to taste the fine wine she has hauled from across the sea and the barley beer she has freshly brewed. The beer, at least, smells of home. A man is selling crude torques of base metal, bangles and brooches of copper, tinned to look like silver. He taps one of the soldiers on the shoulder and starts trying to sell him a brass wolf’s-head ring. For a moment I can’t breathe. My escort dismisses it, though it is a finer piece than the rest.
When the pedlar turns his attention to me, I just grunt and hope that is enough to send him on his way. I see the faded tribal tattoos snaking up his right arm and my guts churn. He is Parisi, like the Chief, and I want to draw my sword very badly – and let the gods guide my revenge. Nothing good can come from such Parisi scum. He thrusts the ring under my nose. I feel my temper surge out of my control, a wave of fury that carries me with it. I forget that I am supposed to be a sick foreigner, unable to speak our native tongue, and snarl under my breath: ‘You come any closer and I’ll have your arm off, you whelp of a pox-infested cur.’ I see surprise in his blue eyes but he backs away.
Thank the gods my escort aren’t paying me much attention but are concerned with the fort and the men guarding it. The guards’ upper bodies are all encased in polished metal – as if they are not men at all. Although the sun is not strong, it glances off their armoured bodies and I’m dazzled by it. Men speak to me. I close my eyes, affecting confusion. More men come and lift me bodily. I dare not open my eyes. I stay very still until I feel myself being lowered on to some kind of raised pallet.
It is only when I hear the retreating clatter of their hobnail boots on stone that I open my eyes. I am in some dimly lit room that smells pungently of wood, sickness and spices. There is a shelf on the wall and a clay pot of oil burning in offering to the image of a deity. I incline my head to it and ask for its blessing. Local gods can be fierce and it is better not to upset them. Morcant is beside me.
‘Trista?’
‘Where by the triple-headed god am I now?’
‘You are in the valetudinarium.’
‘The what?’
‘It’s where they treat the sick and injured.’
I want to leap from my bed at once. What will these people do when they find out that I am a tribal warrior and, worse, a woman?
‘We’ve got to get away from here.’
Morcant nods his agreement. ‘I’ve got to report to the Prefect later to explain about Lucius. I don’t know what to tell my messmates. They already blame me because for Julius’ injury. ‘What will they do when they know that Lucius is dead?’ He sounds lost. ‘I’ll be back as soon I can get away. We’ll have to make a run for it.’
I don’t point out that the entrance, and I presume the only exit, is guarded. There are no rotten timbers here, I am sure; everything is new. The wolf looks as despondent as I feel. His tail has dropped between his legs and his ears are flattened against his skull. He is as ineffectual here as I am.
‘How have you explained me?’
‘So far I’ve avoided it. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ve told them you hit your head and haven’t spoken since. I must go – just stay still and I’ll come back for you.’
Will he? One look at the wolf confirms it. Morcant cannot stay here within these walls while the wolf is awake. When he leaves, I close my eyes and then the visions come again.
Chapter Twelve
I’m trapped like a shit-house rat in a pipe. I’ve been trained to do as I’m told and it’s hard to stop now. The first thing I need to do is to delay the Capsarius, the field doctor. If he sees Trista, it’ll be over for both of us. I catch him on the way to the valetudinarium. He is white-haired and dark-skinned, hunched a little against the cold. His eyes are very piercing.
‘Sir,’ I begin. My voice trembles. ‘A legionary has collapsed in the baths. I was asked to fetch you. It’s urgent, sir.’
My mouth is dry. I don’t lie well. He sighs. ‘I thought my day had started too easily. No – there is no need to escort me – I can find the baths in this great cosmopolitan city of ours . . .’ He turns round at once and I see that he already has his equipment with him. I don’t believe this ruse will delay him long.