Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Hold my sword.’

‘What here? Now?’ Sometimes the sense of humour of the Brigantes was tiresome, although he could imagine Vindex cackling at this, especially since such vulgarity was surprising in a lady.

With difficulty and a few grazes he brought his right hand back and held the sword for her to take. She leaned forward, brushing against his left arm as it held the torch. Then he eased that forward and lowered it close to the floor in front of him. There was nothing to see. Ferox edged forward, feeling exposed in the wider passage. He kept the torch low, inching along. The Lord of the Hills always said that to set a trap or escape one you had to outthink the other man. They had just come past the lilies into a passage that was wider and easier. He doubted the philosophers with their logic ever considered such a problem, but to him it was natural to expect them to feel relieved and relax their guard.

There it was. Just before the next corner a cord was stretched across barely an inch off the ground, where someone holding a torch at normal height was unlikely to see it. He knelt down next to it and beckoned to her.

‘Tread lightly, lady, and where I point. First tread in the prints.’

Enica glared at him with the assurance of a noblewoman who gave rather than received orders. Then she obeyed. Although wider than before, the passage was still little more than two feet broad so that she would have to squeeze along. Enica was just behind him now. She thrust his sword into the earth so that he could take it back when ready.

‘Step high, and watch my hand.’ He half expected another joke, but there was none and the lady did as she was told. The torch was in front of him, over the cord and he waved it until Enica nodded to show that she had seen the danger. He arched his hand over to point to where she must tread. She was close, the hem of her tunic brushing against his face. Her hands held her two swords up high to stop them snagging, and she lifted her leg up and across to plant it firmly beyond the cord. So close, it was hard not to admire her legs and Ferox had to bite back a comment. He must have spent too much time with Vindex.

‘Now very carefully,’ he said, and gently touched her other leg. She shivered, and that surprised him, but they both needed to concentrate. Foolish though it sounded, it was so easy to set off a trap like this by relaxing too soon. Enica stepped forward and he steered her other leg across, pushing a little so that she kept it higher for just a little longer. ‘There,’ he said. A moment later he took his hand away. The air was growing thicker, and she coughed.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I would have walked into this.’

Ferox retrieved his sword and with great care stepped over the cord. On the wall around the corner was a heavy frame of wood mounting long spikes. He saw ropes and guessed the cord was connected to them, intended to shift the big stone used as a counterweight and swing out with force to strike anyone in the passage. Although it looked old, someone had taken care to repair it and he had little doubt that it would have worked.

It was getting harder to breathe and the air felt thick. The dripping was louder, almost like voices coming from the rows of skulls set into both walls. Ferox blinked. It was getting harder to see clearly, as if they were walking through a cloud. He went in front, searching the ground, but raising the torch to look at the walls and ceiling as well. The floor was once again a mass of prints, which was encouraging. The passage wound and twisted, and they turned sharp corners, going slowly and carefully. He started to feel that the skulls were mocking him. They must have passed hundreds of them by now and the power of this place was growing so great that he feared it would crush him.

There was light ahead, and as they came closer he saw faint clouds of vapour drifting in it. The stench was overwhelming and he wondered whether he would ever be free of the taste. Enica stumbled beside him, and when he lifted her he swayed.

‘Come on,’ she said, her words slurred. She pushed him aside and rushed towards the light.

‘Wait!’ Ferox wanted to shout, but it came out as a croak. He went after her, almost panicking because he feared she would vanish. The skulls laughed louder. He ran, and then burst into a large chamber, with doors opening in the walls and a floor made from little stones pressed into the earth. In the centre a fire burned, giving off the vapour. Enica was on her knees in front of it, panting hard. As he came in the smoke almost choked him. He staggered, but pushed on and dropped the torch to grab her by the shoulder, dragging her away from the fire. It felt cooler to the side, the air clearer, and although she tried to push him away, he pulled her hard, sliding her across the floor until they were both on the far side. Then he fell beside her, struggling for breath. The air was fresher and he managed to push himself up on his arms.

The old man moaned. There were manacles on his arms and a slave chain around his neck, although neither were really needed. He was naked apart from a dirty loin cloth, and had no feet, just stumps, the wounds clumsily closed with fire not long ago. Ferox stared at him for a long time, his thoughts grinding slowly and with difficulty into place at first. The old man did not look back, because his eyes were gone, the wounds older than those on his legs. There were scars all over his face, body and limbs, some fresh and some healed.

‘Who are you?’ Enica gasped.

The old man muttered something that did not sound like words. Ferox managed to stand. His mind was clearing. When they had opened the trapdoor the raught had sucked the smoke from whatever was burning down along the passage. Now he was behind the fire he was breathing more easily. Beyond the fire, laid out in a circle around the tortured man, were objects. There was a cauldron, its sides decorated with scenes of war and sacrifice, and a spear lying on the ground to point at the man. Next to it was a skull, then a torc, a shield, a mirror and a helmet placed on top of a scale cuirass. Above them all, set in the wall, was a stone carved so that the three projecting sides each had a face. The Treasures of Britannia, and as the memory came he realised who the old man was.

‘Prasto?’ he asked.

The man stirred, making an odd gurgling sound.

‘Well done, centurion.’ Domitius came out of one of the inner chambers. Ferox blinked because he had not expected the trader. ‘It is indeed what is left of the druid who joined the Romans. Well, the one who did it openly, at least. But he cannot answer, because he has no tongue any more.’

Ferox picked up his sword, but as he leaned forward his head started to swim again. Standing straight, he went for the man until his knees gave way beneath him.

Domitius laughed. ‘It will take a while for you to recover.’

A scream echoed from behind them down the passage and the merchant laughed again. ‘It seems we shall soon welcome our other guests.’

The smell was less strong here, and then another stale odour replaced it, as a scruffy little dog trotted out to stand by the merchant’s feet. Ferox stared at the animal as he began to realise what a fool he had been.

Domitius did not appear to move, and yet somehow his face and posture were different. Acco laughed. ‘Welcome, prince of the Silures. Welcome, princess and queen of the Brigantes. You are both most welcome.’ There was a flint knife in his hand. He strode past Ferox, ignoring a feeble attempt to stop him, and entered the circle. Four warriors appeared. One was small and wiry with dirty red hair, carrying a torch in one hand and a club in the other. The others were not local, for they were taller, their hair stiffened into spikes with lime and their faces and bare torsos covered in tattoos. Two went to the cauldron, lifted it with some effort and then poured out water over the fire, which hissed and threw up a last thick plume of smoke.