Ian Ross - The War at the Edge of the World

Time passed, unguessable. One by one the chiefs got up to speak, their harsh gargling voices blending together in Castus’s mind. He closed his ears to it, concentrating on taking in the details of the scene around him. Again and again his eyes strayed to the strong-featured woman at the back of the room. She was near his own age, he guessed. Somebody’s wife – had Marcellinus not told him that? But whose? Her red-brown hair, the colour of a fox pelt, hung down her back in a thick plait. She wore a green sleeveless dress of heavy weave and a chequered cape secured at her breast with a massive silver brooch. A chain of thick silver links hung around her neck, and heavy silver clasps shaped like snakes circled her powerful arms. Staring at her, Castus willed the woman to look his way again, but her attention was held by the conference around the fire.

Talorcagus was on his feet, speaking in a low angry tone, stabbing his fingers. His orange brush of hair and long goat shy;like beard gave him the look of a fierce satyr, carved on a village gatepost. He sat down and Marcellinus spoke, his voice measured and slow, but Castus could hear the anger in the envoy’s words.

Then, suddenly, the conference was at an end. The chiefs got up, flinging their cloaks around their shoulders, and stalked one by one out of the hall. Marcellinus followed them out, then Strabo, and Castus was just about to leave when he felt a touch on his arm. The renegade stood at his side, still wearing that cold, corrupt smile.

‘Greetings, centurion,’ the renegade said. ‘My name is Julius Decentius. I believe you may be a countryman of mine.’ He spoke with the trace of a Pannonian accent, and Castus felt a brief flare of nostalgia. But he stayed silent, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet a Roman soldier so far from home,’ the man went on, his hand still on Castus’s arm. ‘We should talk soon, you and I, when we have the chance.’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Castus said, trying to keep his voice level, his expression neutral. The man let his hand drop and took a step back.

‘I was once a senior officer in the Roman army,’ he said quietly. ‘You should show more respect to me. We might have a lot in common, you know.’

‘We have nothing in common,’ Castus said. He gripped the hilt of his sword. ‘I want nothing to do with you. And if you try and speak to my men or even approach them, you’ll get a good Roman javelin through the gut.’

The renegade’s expression shifted, his lips tightening. ‘That would be very unwise,’ he said, but Castus could see that he was shaken. Before the man could say another word, Castus ducked his head and strode out of the hall into the welcome chill of the night air.

Plunging his head down into the basin of cold water, Castus breathed out through his nostrils and then straightened. He shook his head and wiped the water from his eyes, then he scrubbed a palm over his wet scalp. It was morning, and the low hillock and the sheepfold were surrounded by a drift of mist that covered the Pictish encampment on the far slope. He had slept badly, dreaming of dog-headed yelping men capering around a fire, and a woman with fox-coloured hair who was trying to push him into a vat of foul scummy liquid.

Marcellinus had already left with Strabo for the day’s con shy;ference, but Castus was glad he was not with them. Another session of incomprehensible ranting in the choking smoke-filled hall was more than he could endure. Besides, he had other things to worry about.

‘Who were they?’ he asked, rubbing a towel over his face and bare torso.

‘Atrectus and Genialis,’ Timotheus said. ‘They went out with the water party at first light, but got separated down at the stream and haven’t returned yet.’

Castus grunted. Typical that Atrectus and his slow-witted friend should be the ones to vanish.

‘There were women down there, at the stream,’ Timotheus said with a grimace of distaste. ‘The others said that Atrectus was trying to talk to them.’

‘I can imagine.’ Castus pulled his tunic on over his head and buckled his belt. He wondered what effect a punishment flogging might have on the watching barbarians. Then again, the two men might not have gone off of their own free will…

‘I’ll mention it to the envoy when he returns, and he can ask the Picts to look out for them. Until then I want this camp under siege discipline. Nobody leaves without armed escort, and then only for essential duties. Double the watch at the perimeter, and keep another ten men under arms at all times in case of emergencies.’

‘It’s done,’ Timotheus said. He saluted and strode away towards the wall. Sighing heavily, Castus noticed two of the sentries apparently talking to somebody on the lower slopes. Their voices carried: British words with a Roman accent. A moment later, and the optio’s yell silenced them.

Slinging his swordbelt over his shoulder and lacing his helmet straps, Castus began his morning tour of inspection. Many of the men appeared glum, wary now of the land outside the perimeter. Good , he thought, that’s how it should be . But fear and suspicion worked against discipline, gnawing away at unity. The sooner he discovered what had happened to Atrectus and Genialis the better.

A watery sun was burning away the mist, and revealing the swell of the hills. Scanning the surrounding country, Castus saw Picts everywhere, groups of them with spears over their shoulders, some heading out into the hills and others returning. Many more just stood, as close to the Roman camp as they dared, watching the soldiers at the low wall. Castus suppressed a brief wish for a ballista or two. That would send them running back to their hovels quickly enough.

Along the valley, he saw a chieftain’s party setting out on a hunting expedition, the nobles riding shaggy ponies with their dogs loping and yelping after them. With some surprise, he noticed the renegade Julius Decentius riding with them. Anger tightened his shoulders. If ever a man deserved crucifying…

‘Centurion! Chariots coming!’

Castus marched quickly across the enclosure to join the sentry over by the gateway. He placed one foot up on the low stone wall and gazed down the slope towards the road. There were three of the little carts down there, the ponies drawing them along at a jog trot. The rear two carts held warriors with spears and javelins. In the leading vehicle was the woman Castus had seen at the gathering the night before. She stood up tall and straight in the rattling cart, her loose hair tumbling behind her. Her body looked sturdy, womanly but strong. She was staring back at him.

‘Do you think they want to come up here?’ the sentry asked.

‘No, they’re just scouting our position. They’ll get as close as they can, though. Run back and tell Timotheus to send the reserve over. We might at least try and look formidable.’

The ten men came running back, clattering their shields and spears, and Castus formed them up along the wall and around the gateway. Below them, the chariots slowed at the base of the slope. Then the tall woman called out to the warriors in the other carts, and they turned again and headed for the ford across the stream.

Castus eased his foot down from the wall. He realised that he had been holding his breath.

Strabo returned early that evening, leaving Marcellinus back at the gathering.

‘I couldn’t stay,’ he told Castus. He looked hollow, and had a haunted look in his eyes. ‘There was some talk of… of bringing in a sorcerer, a witch doctor, to communicate with the shade of the dead king. They still think, you see, that he was murdered by poison, and cannot vote on a new ruler until his spirit is appeased.’

Castus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stir, and sup shy;pressed a shiver. It was a warm evening, but darkness was closing in, and the spirit world felt almost tangible.