Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Someone else coughed and he froze, then realised the folly of that so shouted. ‘Help! Up here!’ More coughing, a hint of a shape against the orange glow of the flames and cold steel brushing his ankles and a weight on his feet. A boot was planted on him to hold the rope steady as it was cut. It seemed to take an age.

‘Thank you,’ he gasped, but the only response was more coughing. His legs were free at last and he tried to stand, but would not have managed if his rescuer had not helped lift him. ‘My hands,’ he begged. ‘Please, cut the rope.’ The smoke was worse now that he was standing, and although the cloth over his head was a shield he began to cough and could not stop.

A hand took his shoulder, turned him, so that he must have had his back to the stairs and gently pulled him backwards. He followed the lead, almost slipping on the first step, but thankfully they were wide. They were both coughing and the heat was like a furnace, bright even through the blindfold. If it reached the olive oil then all of this would be for nothing. Sparks fell on him, and then they were down. The hand turned him, it seemed to push him towards the heart of the fire, but he decided to trust and ran straight ahead. His boot hit a beam on the dirt floor, and that was lucky because something bigger crashed down just in front. He was shoved again, to the right this time and he ran and suddenly the air was colder and the smoke starting to thin.

‘Thank you,’ Ferox gasped, and was hit hard in the middle of the back with what felt like the pommel of his own sword. He staggered, struggling for breath, and sank down onto to his knees in the mud. Somehow he managed to stand and ran, pelting across an alley until he slammed into a wall. With a great roar the fire burst up through the roof of the warehouse behind him and a hot wave of air pushed him against the wall. There were shouts now and he ran towards them, until someone grabbed him by the arm.

‘Watch yourself, sir.’ He heard the clink of sword and decorated belt that surely meant a soldier. ‘Been playing games, have we?’ The cloth hood was yanked off his head and he saw a round, leathery face staring at him.

‘Let me free. I am Flavius Ferox, centurion of II Augusta.’

‘Well, I’m buggered,’ the soldier said. ‘Hear that, Celsus? This is the one we’ve just been ordered to arrest.’

THE SUN ROSE as they led him through the streets, which were already filling up and noisy. They took him to the principia, and that was something because if they had been attached to the procurator’s staff and under his orders then they would surely have held him at his offices. He did not think that any of the conspirators would have got a good enough glimpse to recognise him, but it was hard to be sure and he had seen Crispinus clearly and the tribune knew him well.

The older soldier was a speculator, a name that had once signified a scout or even a spy, but these days was just another title for a man who spent most of his time reading and writing reports as part of the governor’s headquarters. Celsus was a legionary and young, a big fellow chosen for size rather than brains or experience. They were both kind enough, but firm, and had no explanation.

‘No idea, sir. Orders came through in the fourth hour of the night. You were to be detained and taken under guard.’

‘What if I refused?’ They had cut the bonds on his wrists and life was slowly coming back to his arms.

The speculator tapped the hilt of his gladius. ‘Best you come along, sir.’

Ferox did not have the strength to argue and let himself be led. Prince Arviragus rode past him, accompanied by two troopers and a heavily tanned warrior whose nose had been bent and flattened years before. The prince noticed Ferox enough to sneer.

‘Should have seen that bugger fight,’ the older soldier said after the riders had passed. ‘The ugly one. They used to call him Brigantus in the arena. That was before the prince there bought him. Fastest man I’ve ever seen with a gladius.’

At the principia all was bustle, far more than was normal, and no one on duty had any idea why he was wanted or what to do with him. In the end, a beneficiarius had him locked in one of the side rooms. There was some light from a little window too small to climb through and a stool, so he sat and waited, or sometimes paced up and down and waited. Trumpets sounded the start of the second and third hours of the day and still no one came. Ferox was hungry, sore and so weary that he was tempted to lie on the cold floor and try to sleep.

At last the door opened. A legionary he did not know appeared. ‘You are to come with us, sir.’ Two others were waiting outside.

Ferox did as he was told and again there was no explanation. The soldiers led him out of the principia, which was worrying, until he realised that they were going to the praetorium. Even better was the sight of Vindex, Gannascus and the others, waiting near the entrance, fully equipped and standing by their horses.

‘What’s up?’ the scout asked.

‘I’m under arrest.’ Ferox tried to sound cheerful.

‘About time.’ Vindex nodded to the legionaries. ‘Chain him up, lads.’

There were more armed men than usual standing outside, and guards in the main corridors of the house. None of them saluted as he passed, but neither did they try to stop the escort leading him through. Even more to his surprise they went to the back of the house, which was residential rather than official, where even the corridors were finely painted and had mosaic floors. As they approached a door a slave appeared, his tunic of good quality and his manner suggesting that the legate trusted him with considerable authority. ‘You’re to go right in, sir,’ he said. ‘You will not be needed, soldiers.’

The legionary in charge stared at the slave for a while, just to show that he was only obeying because he chose to do so, and then led his men off.

‘Ah, Ferox, my dear fellow, it seems we have both been in the wars.’ Ovidius was propped up in bed, his face pale, almost grey, in the lamplight. The legate’s own physician, an Alexandrian whose fame almost equalled his self-esteem, worked at a table mixing something in a bowl.

‘The bastards stabbed him.’ Ferox had not seen Crispinus sitting on a stool and working alongside a clerk at a table they had somehow crammed into the room.

‘No need for vulgarity,’ Ovidius said. He coughed and winced because the movement obviously caused him a lot of pain.

‘They stuck a knife in you, old friend,’ the tribune said softly. ‘And murdered two of my uncle’s slaves.’

‘Did they?’ Ovidius frowned with the effort of thought. ‘Yes, of course they did. Bastards.’

Crispinus smiled, but his face betrayed his worry. It was the first time Ferox had seen the tribune with stubble on his chin and a tunic that look crumpled and dirty.

‘And where the hell have you been?’ Crispinus glared at the centurion. ‘The legate wanted you last night and you were nowhere to be found.’ The story came out quickly. A report had arrived of a large band of rebels or bandits threatening the roads near Verulamium and even the town itself. Neratius Marcellus had taken most of his mounted singulares, supplementing these picked men with any other horsemen who could be rounded up and issued supplies in a matter of hours, and ridden off to see what was going on. ‘He wanted you with him, but no one could find you.’

After the legate had gone, someone had broken into the praetorium, getting in by prising open the shutters on one of the top windows. ‘There’s building going on behind the house, so we reckon they took a ladder from there. We do not know who they were or how many.’