Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

He wiped the rain out of his eyes. The alley was a good twenty-five feet below so he might not be killed outright if he missed his jump and fell. Someone had left a cart full of hay that must be getting very wet, but selfishly they had left it too far for him to reach if it went wrong.

Ferox jumped, for an instant thought he would be too short, then the crane was there and he grabbed it, body complaining of this fresh mistreatment. Whether the catch was stiff or his feet in his boots less agile than the slave’s, it took a while to get the doors open. Finally he was inside, on an almost empty platform covering two-thirds of the space in the building. There was the dim light of a lamp from down below. Closing the door behind him as gently as he could, he waited. There was a series of muffled greetings. No one sounded agitated, so he lay down and crawled towards the edge.

‘I’m sure I was followed,’ a voice said. It was faint, and he had to strain to catch the words.

‘Imagination. They may be suspicious, but they can know nothing for certain.’ The second voice sounded more excited than afraid, and clearly had no fondness for his companion. ‘At least, as long as all of us remain true to our oath.’

‘For my part. I cannot speak of the others.’ The first voice sounded even more nervous.

A door opened. There were greetings, too low to catch, and Ferox doubted any names were used, but at least two more conspirators had arrived.

‘What news?’ It was the first man again, and his voice cracked as he spoke, so that he had to repeat his words. ‘What news?’

‘Matters are going well, my lords.’ That was Domitius, no doubt about it, and sounding mightily pleased with himself.

‘The centurion escaped.’ This was a new voice, brusque and sounding vaguely familiar. Ferox edged a little closer, wondering whether he would be able to see over the edge without them noticing.

‘A small matter. He is of no consequence.’

‘Indeed.’

‘But surely he may find out?’ It was the first voice again. ‘We are taking too many risks. To kill him was bad enough, but to botch it… Unforgivable.’

There was silence and Ferox imagined the cold stare before Domitius replied. ‘The risks were always there, but the prize is almost within our grasp. The fires worried people. The fall of the statue frightened them. Tomorrow we shall terrify them. It is the same in the other towns and cities.’

‘So you say.’ The second man did not sound convinced. ‘How can we know?’

‘I know,’ the brusque one cut in. ‘I get regular reports from all over the province. That at least is working. Everyone talks of bad omens and trouble coming.’

‘But the legate must realise this is not chance.’ The nervous man was almost pleading for his fears to be confirmed.

‘Perhaps, perhaps not, but what can he do about it?’ Ferox almost snapped his fingers as he realised that the brusque voice was the procurator. ‘No one has broken their faith, so our secret is safe. If not, I would know and I would not be here – or if I was it would only be to make sure none of you ever left this building.’ Ferox could imagine the face jutting forward, the pale eyes glaring around as the threat was made. ‘Most of our august governor’s officers have shit for brains. Even if they are suspicious they would not know what to do.’

‘Well, we have people frightened.’ Ferox wondered whether the second man glanced at the first as he spoke. ‘That is something, but will not matter if the risings do not occur. Will they?’

‘As soon as the word is sent,’ Domitius answered. ‘It is almost time.’

‘And who will rise?’ Cornelius Fuscus was as rude as ever. ‘They must know the cost of failure.’

‘There are men in half the tribes of the south,’ Domitius declared. ‘Among the Durotriges, Dobuni, Atrebates and Corietauvi. Others will join soon enough if it prospers, from the Catuvellauni, and even the Iceni.’

‘What of the western peoples?’ the second man cut in. ‘The Silures and Ordovices have been peaceful for less time than all of those others.’

‘Your answer?’ Fuscus demanded when no reply came.

‘The Silures will never follow anyone else’s lead. Who knows what they will do?’ Ferox smiled with pride at this judgement on his kin, and with some relief for he was glad they were not involved. ‘The Ordovices are still cowed by defeat, and their chieftains not bold enough to have run up the debts that make so many others eager for change. They are a little people, of no account.’ Ferox knew he was grinning broadly. The Silures held their northern neighbours and traditional enemies in contempt.

Fuscus did not sound impressed. ‘You mention many tribes, but not the one we all know matters the most.’

‘The Brigantes will rise.’ Domitius remained unruffled. ‘Some of them at first, and then more and more. You have sent the grain?’

‘Yes, Two-thirds lies in ships already within the mouth of the Abus. The rest is travelling north, or already stored in villas and towns. I am still waiting for full payment.’ The first man’s voice did not squeak when he spoke of money.

Ferox reached the edge of the floor. The conspirators were closer than he expected, little more than eight feet below. They stood in a circle, only heads visible behind ranks of big amphorae. He saw Fuscus nod to Domitius.

‘You will be paid in full by sunset tomorrow,’ the merchant said.

A sturdy, broad-shouldered man with a thick black beard nodded. Ferox had not expected the nervous one to look like this.

‘Who will lead the Brigantes?’ Fuscus demanded. ‘That is still uncertain, and…’ They all went silent and heads snapped around as they heard a door open. There was a whistle, obviously a signal, and they relaxed.

‘He is here then,’ Fuscus said. He shook his head. ‘Shit for brains, all of them.’

Ferox craned to see the new arrival, saw the hooded figure, then someone was shouting and the bearded man was pointing.

‘There! Upstairs!’ Ferox just glimpsed the new arrival, saw the hood of his cloak fall back as he was startled, then he pushed himself to his feet and ran for the loading door. As he reached it, he heard someone pounding up the rungs of the ladder. The door came open and he leaped for the arm of the crane, narrowly missing hitting his head on a heavy wooden block hanging just underneath.

‘Kill him!’ That sounded like Fuscus.

Ferox got one elbow on top of the arm, hauled and swung until he managed to get onto it. Someone grabbed at his foot and he stamped back as hard as he could.

‘Bastard!’ the man hissed.

Ferox was up, facing the wrong way, and the crane juddered as a man jumped out, missing the arm, but grabbing onto the dangling rope. Rather than try to turn, Ferox leaped across the alleyway, saw the roof opposite coming at him, knew he was low and then his waist slammed into the edge of the curved tiles. He grabbed, felt one loose tile give way and fall to shatter noisily below, but his other hand fastened around the ridged top of another tile. The rain was driving down, soaking through his tunic and breeches, and the baked clay slippery. His fingers closed around a higher tile and he pulled. This time the tile held and he climbed, swung up one leg, slipped, swung again and this time gripped. There were cuts on his hands, and even more bruises, but he was up and risked a glance behind. The man who had caught the rope was struggling to get up onto the arm of the crane. Another man, the bearded merchant who was supplying the rebels with grain, was in the doorway, a wild look in his eyes.

Leaning, one hand often pressed against the sloping roof, Ferox started to work his way along, heading back towards the brothel. That must be four buildings away at least. His pursuer was up on the crane. With hair so close cropped he was almost bald, he was not one of the main conspirators so presumably was a bodyguard or servant. He wore a drab tunic, closed boots and had a knife tucked into his belt.