Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

There was a reminder the next day, when Longinus reined in as they came to a ford across the stream bubbling along the bottom of a valley. ‘This is where the last of ala Indiana died,’ he said, solemnly. ‘There were nearly two hundred of them when they started, maybe ten miles that way.’ He pointed in the direction they were heading towards high peaks on either side of an ever-narrowing vale. ‘The prefect was hit in the face with a sling stone early on. The Gauls tried to carry him, and got him halfway here, but were losing horses and men every few paces. And if a man lost his horse, thetatus. Must have been thousands of warriors, nibbling away. They’d flee at each charge, but this is not cavalry country, and they always came back, throwing javelins, slinging stones, in some places just rolling boulders down from the heights. We found about twenty bodies on the far side of the stream. They were the ones who had kept together. None had horses by this time, and there had been fifty troopers when they started marching in an orb from that hillock over yonder. The rest of the Gauls didn’t make it. Maybe they were too tired to go on, maybe the stream was too high with winter rain, but they stopped and they died here. We found the bodies a week later. These ones by the stream were the only ones the Ordovices hadn’t mutilated. Even left them their heads and just stripped them naked and left them near enough where they had fallen.’

Crispinus curled his lip up at the corner. ‘A cheerful story, and no doubt an inspirational reminder of discipline and loyalty.’

‘Begging your pardon, my lord, it’s a reminder of what happens when a bastard procurator gets too greedy and ramps up the levy from a tribe for no reason. He wasn’t here, was he? Course he wasn’t. Fat bugger was a hundred miles away in Deva, surrounded by walls and half a legion. Useless prick. Fine to order other poor sods to do the dirty work and die.’ Ferox noticed that Longinus spoke more like an old sweat than usual and wondered whether he was determined the tribune should never guess at his past as an eques and prefect of auxilia, let alone as leader of the Batavian revolt.

Arcanus nodded. ‘Procurators, I’ve shit ’em,’ he muttered, and then realised that he was beside a senior officer. ‘Sorry, sir, didn’t mean anything.’

Crispinus smiled. ‘Well, the past is the past. Agricola avenged them all – with your help, Longinus.’

‘Aye, my lord. A lot of them died for what happened here. Some more of our lads too, to get it done. And all because one man got greedy.’

‘They make a desolation and call it peace.’ Crispinus intoned the words as if they were a quote, although it was not one Ferox recognised. ‘The consularis Publius Cornelius Tacitus has lately written a book about his father-in-law.’ Seeing Ferox’s blank expression, the tribune explained. ‘Agricola himself. You should keep a closer eye on the breeding arrangements of the senatorial class, you really should. Anyway he gives those words to Calgacus, commander of the Caledonii at Mons Graupius.’

‘We killed a lot there as well,’ Longinus said in a low voice.

‘Indeed you did, most gallantly, and in loyal service to the empire.’ Crispinus kept his tone flat. ‘Well, let us hope we can get on for the moment without any more killing or making desolations.’

At noon the next day they reached the top of a high pass. It had taken hours to climb the slope, in the end leading the horses and ponies by hand and going single file, Ferox, Vindex and Longinus finding the best path. They rested and ate a little at the top. Ahead and behind the views were magnificent, a few clouds in the blue sky casting shadows over the grey and purple mountains. Down in the valley behind Ferox spotted two tiny white-grey dots. Some way behind, at the very edge of vision, he half saw, half sensed the bigger group.

THE BRIDGE GAVE way slowly, the rotting main beams breaking under the weight so that the rest sank down into the roaring torrent. It was roughly made, wide enough for one man or beast at a time, and spanned the high chasm over the stream, the waters brimming over from yesterday’s storm. They had crossed slowly, a man at a time, each leading a horse, warily taking each step, unable to hear the creaking over the noise of the rushing water, but feeling every sag in the timbers underfoot.

Crispinus had gone first. ‘All right for him,’ Longinus had shouted into Vindex’s ear, ‘look how light he is.’ The Batavians followed, one by one, and then Sepenestus. Gannascus hesitated, and no one could blame him. Sepenestus came back and offered to lead over the other man’s mount. The giant shook his head, so the archer took a pony over instead. As soon as they were across Gannascus spat for luck and strode onto the bridge. The rest watched, at once horrified, fascinated and a little amused. Halfway across a piece of wood broke away and fell, and they waited for more, but it did not come, and then with half a dozen more steps the warrior reached the bank, his horse following. Some of the Batavians clashed their spears against their shields in approval, and the German shook his fist at the stream. The scout went next, got his horse over without trouble and then came back for the pony.

Vindex did not see any sign until the bridge began to collapse. The last pony reared and screamed, until the planks lurched down and it slid into the water.

‘Let go!’ Vindex screamed at the scout who was leading the animal. The man gaped, and must have wound the lead around his arm as he had tried to drag the skittish beast over the widely spaced planks of the little bridge. As the pony fell he was yanked down after it. Both disappeared into the foam. A couple of times Vindex glimpsed the head of man or beast as they were whisked away, slamming into boulders, until they vanished over the top of the waterfall a long bowshot away.

Ferox heard the shout and galloped down to the bank.

‘Poor bugger,’ Vindex said as he arrived. They were the only ones still on this side, Crispinus having ordered the centurion as next most senior officer to bring up the rear of the little column. He had also suggested that perhaps Ferox might disguise their tracks, in the hope of throwing off pursuit. There had been little point in explaining the impossibility of hiding the passage of so many heavy riders across spongy soil thoroughly soaked in the storm.

‘Can you hear me?’ The tribune had cupped his hands around his mouth and was yelling across the chasm.

Ferox raised his thumb and shouted that he could.

‘Longinus thinks there should be another way across about three miles to the south, and maybe twice that to the north! You know where we are going! Catch up when you can! Understand?’

Ferox raised his thumb again.

‘Simple as that.’ Vindex spoke loudly and Ferox was beside him, but still strained to hear. ‘Humped again.’

They headed south. The land dropped sharply, making it a difficult route, so they led their horses down little paths clinging to the mountainside or along rocky defiles. It drizzled, making the ground even more slippery, and they went slowly. If one of the animals fell and broke a leg then they would be in even more trouble.

After three hours they had gone less than a mile from the bridge as the raven flew. They kept close to the stream, not in any hope of finding the scout alive; at best they would see his corpse and Vindex could say words over it. It might be a small comfort to the man’s wife and parents. They found a path above a thirty-foot fall. It got ever steeper as it led down until it reached the narrow gap between two bluffs. There were piles of sheep droppings in the little track winding along, all hard so weeks old at least, and once Ferox saw the print of a boot that was more recent, although at least a few days old. People came here, even if it was hard to know why.