Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Ferox still had hold of the spear and spun it around so that the point was towards her. Vindex, breaking free of his happy stupor, drew his sword.

‘I don’t want to kill you.’ The woman’s voice was distorted by the small mouthpiece in the mask. She spoke in the language of the tribes.

‘That’s nice,’ Vindex said. ‘Can we be friends?’

‘Why are you following us?’ Ferox asked. ‘What do you want?’

‘To help.’ She stood, balanced perfectly on the balls of her feet, ready to take her sword against either of them. ‘I could have managed all four if you hadn’t shown up.’ It was hard to tell her tone because of the mask, but she sounded matter-of-fact. Ferox saw a small darker mark on the skin between her breasts.

‘All four?’ Vindex asked mockingly.

‘They were only men.’ She was slim, fairly tall and had dark hair tied in a ponytail hanging down from the back of her helmet. It swung every time she switched her guard to face the other man.

‘Did the Mother send you?’ Ferox asked. He had seen that mark before, just this summer, a little scar between the breasts, a sign that a woman was one of the initiates of a cult of fighters who lived far away on a tiny island off the Caledonian coast. Boys and young women from Hibernia and the northern tribes went there for three years or more to be taught by the Mother, a woman who had been a skilled warrior, but was now sworn not to kill or to lie with a man and instead devoted her life to training her charges. A few months ago he had seen one Mother killed and another take her place.

‘No.’

‘That’s my sword.’ Ferox had just realised that she was carrying his gladius.

The woman swung the blade so that it hummed through the air. ‘It’s a good one,’ the oddly muffled voice conceded.

Ferox lowered his spear, though not so much that he could not easily bring it up to parry or attack. ‘Take off your helmet and tell us your name.’

‘No.’

‘Come on, love.’ Vindex gave the leering smile that was his only smile. ‘Let us see you. Judging from your tits you must be a rare beauty.’

The woman used her left hand to snatch up the torn front of her tunic.

‘Pity,’ Vindex said.

There was an odd noise. Ferox wondered whether she had tried to spit in contempt, forgetting that she was wearing the mask.

‘Drop the sword,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk.’

‘Yes, come on, love. There’s two of us and one of you. The odds aren’t good.’

‘Do you want me to wait for another ten to join you?’

Vindex snorted with laughter. ‘I like her. But look, lass, we did just save your life.’ He took a pace closer. The woman darted forward, thrusting the sword so that the point was at eye level. Vindex jumped back, tripping over the corpse of the man he had killed and sprawling onto his back. ‘Bugger!’ he gasped as he landed. The woman turned back, sword facing Ferox.

‘I have saved your life twice, centurion. So we are still not even.’

‘You saved me from the fire,’ he said, and it all seemed so obvious now. ‘And stole my sword. That’s once.’

‘In the amphitheatre. I threw the spear down to you.’ She had switched to Latin, the words fluent and vaguely familiar, although it was hard to be sure.

‘I thought you threw it at me.’

‘If I had, we would not be having this conversation. You offer a big mark. I would not need to be Camilla to strike you at that distance. Your frame is a large one.’ The words were precise, well chosen and correct, so that the mention of the Volscian warrior maid from the Aeneid sounded entirely natural.

‘Fat arse,’ Vindex said softly, and started to laugh.

‘Show some respect,’ Ferox said, and thrust his spear into the ground. He raised his hands to show that they were empty. ‘This lass might well be your next high queen.’

‘ Salve , Flavius Ferox.’ She reached up with her left hand, letting the front of her tunic flap down.

‘Lovely,’ Vindex said.

She fumbled with the straps to undo one side of the face mask, the first time any motion had been clumsy, but it was a hard thing to do one handed. Persisting, it came loose and the chin strap followed. There was more of her usual grace as she plucked mask and helmet off with one motion and let it fall onto the grass. Claudia Enica smiled. ‘You have taken a while to work that one out.’ Hand now free, she covered her chest again with her torn tunic. She took a step towards him, until the tip of her sword pressed lightly against his mail shirt. He did not move back. ‘You really did. You were almost a disappointment, Flavius Ferox, after all that I had heard. And would not that be terrible, disappointing a lady. Of course it would.’ Her voice changed, and even in the firelight so did her face, and it was easy to imagine the ornate hairstyle and heavy makeup of Claudia, the Brigantian princess raised as a Roman noblewoman.

‘Oh shit,’ Vindex said, the truth sinking in and no doubt remembering what he had just said.

‘Why are you here, lady?’ Ferox used one arm to nudge the sword away from his stomach. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Blunt as ever.’ Her voice took on a harsher air and she switched back to the language of the tribes. ‘And still slow to catch up. Try not to disappoint me again after all the trouble I have gone to. Well, among other things, I am trying to stop a war.’ She stepped closer, staring up at him challengingly. ‘Is that enough for the moment?’

Vindex sat up and sucked in his breath. ‘Sounds like we’re hum…’ He stopped, remembering whose presence he was in. ‘ Omnes ad stercus ,’ he said instead. ‘I mean,’ he spluttered, realising that the lady spoke Latin. ‘I mean to say, that is… We are at your service, my lady.’ He stood and bowed. ‘My sword is yours, my life at your service.’ It was an old oath among the Brigantes and their neighbours.

‘Thank you, Carvetian. Your service is accepted.’ She did not turn and kept her eyes staring straight at Ferox. ‘And I suspect you are right. We probably are humped.’

Vindex laughed so much he had to sit down again.

ENICA RODE WELL.

‘She’s Brigantian,’ Vindex said, as if that should be clear to anyone. ‘Of the royal house, granddaughter of Cartimandua and Venutius – of course she can ride. Bet she can drive a chariot too. They say Cartimandua was better than any man, rivalling the heroes of legend. The women of that line are special.’ Ferox had never heard his friend speak in such admiring tones of anything, let alone anyone.

She did not dress for the journey like a Brigantian or a Roman. After sending Vindex to fetch their horses and telling Ferox to drag the body of her servant out of the fire and carry him to the chasm, she had vanished behind the rocks. When she joined him by the river she was wearing baggy trousers and a long-sleeved tunic, with another short-sleeved one over the top. She had kept her felt boots, and girded the tunics with a wide leather belt.

‘I suppose you had better have this back,’ she said as she handed him his sword in its scabbard. She had the sica on her left hip and a plainer gladius on the right.

‘Thank you.’ If she had the blade, then she must either have been in the warehouse and led him out or known who did. Ferox nodded at the corpse. He had rolled the man up in a blanket, leaving only his face exposed. ‘I have seen him before.’ It was the scarred man who had brought the first message that night he had been ambushed in the amphitheatre.

‘I know.’

‘We should talk.’

‘Later.’ Enica put two fingers to her lips and kissed them, then leaned over and pressed them to the dead man’s forehead. ‘Give him to the river. It is the best we can do.’