Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Ferox put his fingers to his lips. Sound carried so easily at night, which was why the Silures were schooled from childhood to cherish silence. Use the quiet, use the darkness, they were taught, and wait, wait, wait for the right moment. Yet he had to admit that the two riders had been most unwise. They were in the hollow just as he had thought they might be. That much was obvious, even in the darkness, for they had lit a fire, and their two pale horses cast flickering shadows against the rocks of the cliff. Neither of the men was on guard, and he could plainly see all of one dark shape asleep by the warmth of the fire and glimpse the end of the other. At this distance he could not see whether it was the head or the feet.

Their two pursuers were either very foolish or this was a trap, although probably not for them. Ferox had led them up the slopes on the opposite side of the valley, and then close to the chasm, going slowly and often stopping to listen. The thick cloud meant that it was a dark night, but after a while his eyes became used to it. Vindex sounded like a cavalry charge following behind, even though he knew the scout moved stealthily enough. It was just that he was not a Silure. For a while they were so close to the stream that its unceasing roar covered any noise they could make. Once near the posts where the bridge had stood, it was easy enough, keeping the track on their right and crouching, then crawling pace by slow pace over the folds in the ground. It led them to a couple of boulders where they rested and watched. He could sense Vindex getting restless as at least an hour passed and nothing happened.

Ferox tapped the scout on the shoulder and pointed up to the bluff above the camp. The firelight was dying down with no one awake to feed it, and its light did not reach so high. Even so, the crest was darker than the sky, and he had spotted a shape moving on top. Vindex shifted slightly, nodding to show that he had seen, and then Ferox pointed again, this time at a less clear figure near the other one. He started to scan the ground in front of the camp, and happened to be staring at the spot just as a warrior stood up. The man had a spear and shield, the weapon held up ready to throw or thrust. Again Ferox tapped the scout and pointed, wondering why it was that his friend needed help to spot things in the dark. Another of the Ordovices rose from the tussocky grass, to the right of the first man, no more than twenty paces from the camp. Ferox looked to the left and one, then a second man appeared, all armed like the first. Spear points glinted faintly red in the firelight. Without a sound the four warriors started walking forward, closing in on the sleepers.

Vindex moved to get up, but Ferox pressed his hand on the scout’s shoulder to wait. Another dark shape appeared, indistinct in the shadows because it was between them and the warrior on the far left. Ferox smiled.

A javelin flickered as it was thrown down from the bluffs and struck the fire, scattering sparks high. The four warriors yelled and dashed forward, but neither of the sleeping forms stirred. Behind them, the fifth, darkest figure strode silently after them, but none turned to see it. Before they reached the camp another missile came from above, driving into one of the sleeping shapes.

Run now, Ferox thought, but knew they would not and he tapped Vindex. ‘Come on,’ he whispered, and stood, drawing his sword. The Ordovices were in the camp, jabbing with their spears and then one shouted, yanking back the blankets and then tipping up the log they concealed. One of the men on the bluffs screamed and fell, limbs thrashing like a speared fish and the shaft sticking out of his back. The four warriors in the camp yelped and scattered to avoid him.

The dark figure behind them threw off his dark hooded cloak and in the same gesture raised a sword in one hand and a curved blade in the other. The steel gleamed, as did the polished helmet he wore. He started to run. There were shouts from the top of the cliff.

Then the man in the helmet shrieked an unearthly cry, high-pitched and appallingly loud even over the distant roaring of the water. Ferox drew his sword as he ran and heard Vindex tramping across the grass beside him. He had explained the plan at length. Deal with the Ordovices first, then try to get at least one of their pursuers alive and find out who they were. ‘So whose side are we on?’ the scout had asked.

‘Our own, of course. Don’t kill either of them unless we have to. Not until we know why they have followed.’

The warriors spun as the awful shriek echoed around the dell, but the man in the helmet was fast and the nearest one seemed frozen with surprise. He feebly thrust out his spear as the man came at him. The curved blade hooked the spearshaft aside, the man spun with the motion and drove the gladius in his right hand into the warrior’s throat. Thetatus, as Longinus and now Vindex would say. The man in the helmet spun again, moving fast with the grace of a dancer and dodging the enemy’s attacks, even though he was now in the middle of the three of them, no longer shrieking as he faced each in turn. His face shone, and Ferox realised that he wore a cavalry helmet with a face mask. Apart from the helmet he had no armour and wore a short tunic, his bare arms and legs pale.

Ferox went to the left, Vindex to the right, and one of the tribesmen must have seen them because he shouted a warning. Two of the men turned to face them, leaving the other to fight the man in the helmet, who jumped nimbly back, avoiding a spearshaft swung like a club. A cry of pure fear came from up above and Ferox saw two men falling, locked together, one with his arms around the other’s neck. They slammed into the fire itself, flinging burning branches as well as sparks. The man in the helmet was closest and stumbled back, only just managing to block a savage swing from the spear at the price of losing his curved sica , which clattered against the cliff face. He grabbed his other wrist to add strength to the gladius. Then Ferox realised that he was a she, wearing high Thracian boots just like the woman in the arena.

The shock nearly cost him dear as a warrior stamped forward and jabbed with his spear. Ferox had no shield, something he kept meaning to acquire, and leaped back, but slipped and fell. Vindex was busy with his opponent, and before he could get up the spear point thrust again, and he rolled to dodge it, losing grip of his sword. He rolled again, pushed with both hands and bounded up, but the warrior was standing over the lost sword, teeth bared in a grin. Ferox ripped off the brooch holding his cloak and swung the garment, the wool heavy from all the rain. The warrior kept his distance, watching and waiting for the right moment.

The warrior facing the gladiatrix threw his spear. She batted it away with her sword, and it struck sparks off the rock behind her, but the man had flung himself at her and with a clang and a weird, distorted cry, she was driven against the cliff. She pounded the top of his skull with the pommel on her gladius, striking again and again and drawing blood, and yet still he clung to her, trying to wrestle her to the ground. Ferox swung the cloak again, snapping it with the motion, and hoped the man facing him would throw his spear for that might give him a chance. Instead the next time he swung the cloak the man tried to catch it on his shield and pull it away.

Vindex drove his spear through his opponent’s stomach. At the same time the one struggling with the woman succumbed to repeated blows to the head and collapsed, one hand still gripping her tunic which tore away as he fell, exposing her breasts.

‘Bugger me!’ Vindex’s amazement was clear, but not enough to distract Ferox’s opponent, who lost his shield in the process, but plucked the cloak free from the Roman’s grip. The man grimaced again and thrust. Ferox grabbed the shaft, but his fingers slipped over the damp wood and came loose. Vindex was transfixed, and it was the woman who moved first, running as lightly as at the start of the fight, even with the front of her tunic hanging down over her belt. The warrior realised she was coming, must have been surprised when he turned his head and saw a silver mask and bare breasts, and Ferox grabbed his spear firmly this time. A moment later, the woman stabbed the long point of her gladius into the man’s eye. She twisted the blade, slipping it free as the warrior dropped forward onto his knees, and then she danced back a few places, glancing down at the two men who had landed in the fire. They were both obviously dead.