Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Crassus had given Arviragus a chance, and unless he was badly hurt, the prince was the sort of man to seize it with both hands. As high king his words would carry even more weight, and there was only one thing left that stood in his way. Ferox rode off to find his wife.

THE CLANS ASSEMBLED at Brigantum in fields around the sacred grove of the goddess some called Brigantia, but most knew by other names never to be spoken aloud. Thirty days before the solstice, the chiefs of all the tribe and their kin were called to gather here for council, to discuss the matters of the day, reaffirm their oaths of friendship and service, and make sacrifices. In the old days, when Rome was a distant friend and not a presence in the north, the meeting went on for days, with feasts and warriors fighting duels to settle disputes that could not be agreed in any other way. Then all had come, unless too infirm to travel and then they had sent someone to speak for them. Lately so many chose not to attend that some of the chiefs there spoke on behalf of a dozen others. Usually they had little to decide, for Roman courts dealt with more and more matters each year. This time there was the question of naming a new leader for the tribe, even before Arviragus had announced that the emperor was dead and it was time to support his true successor.

‘They are all here,’ Vindex said wonderingly, before bowing to an old man with a thin face whose long moustache drooped far down past his chin.

‘I’d never realised how much you look alike.’ Ferox had never before seen the scout’s father at so close a distance. As one of the main chiefs of the Carvetii, Audagus was accompanied by a dozen warriors. Lesser men had fewer, while the heads of the main Brigantian clans each had a score or more

‘Always thought I was prettier.’

‘Prettier than what?’ Longinus wondered. The Batavian and the scout were the only escort allowed to Ferox, and Gannascus and the others were forced to camp outside the meeting place for the council. Enica was attended by thirty warriors, although Ferox could not help noticing that most of them were elderly. ‘Their words will count for more in council,’ she assured him, ‘and this is a place where wisdom matters more than swords.’ Ferox had heard similar pronouncements too often in too many places to find them very convincing. He tapped the pommel of his gladius for reassurance.

The journey here had been difficult, dodging bands of horsemen in case they were loyal to her brother. They had gone through the hills, along paths rarely taken at this time of year, and as the days passed the rain turned to sleet, and the icy wind cut through them. They slept in shepherds’ huts abandoned for the winter and once just jammed together around a fire, sharing each other’s warmth. There were few army posts along these roads, and they avoided the ones there were in case of awkward questions. Ferox even feared a few of the garrisons might have joined the prince.

‘Happens quicker than you think,’ Longinus had told him one day when they rode ahead along the heights and found themselves above the dark shape of a fort. ‘Once one or two take the plunge others follow. Fools like company. I know I did.’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘You just think it’s bound to turn out all right because it’s you and you’re the hero. Then once you’ve taken that first step you cannot turn back. If I was Arviragus I’d be sending riders out to all the praesidia, telling them that Trajan really is dead and there will soon be a new emperor, but it won’t be Neratius Marcellus and anyone who obeys him will soon be in hot water. Then if he turns up with a thousand men and they get the choice between joining him and standing siege in some bleak place where help may never come, well, sacramentum or not, it’s no more than a flip of a coin. Some will spit in his eye and dare him to fight, but others will believe because they’re afraid and they’ll march out and hail him as their leader. Seen it before. In fact, I’ve done it before. They’re not joining a rebel, you see. He will be a Roman in their eyes, an eques and a former prefect, who speaks their language and knows how to flatter them.

‘I’m droning on. Thought all those days were a distant memory, until folk started raking it up. Now it’s like seeing it all play out again before my eyes. Actors on a stage, but real, and me in the chorus.’

‘Who raked it up?’

The single eye had stared at him for a long while. ‘Does not matter now,’ Longinus said eventually.

The veteran was silent for most of the rest of journey, saying only what was necessary. The one patrol they stumbled across late one afternoon consisted of three troopers, none of whom wanted to challenge a man who said he was a centurion. When they came closer to Brigantum, it was Enica’s name that got them through. A few of the chiefs and their warriors fell in with them, although most were reluctant to commit themselves at this stage and merely bowed and let them pass.

‘Pity I have been away for so many years,’ Enica said sadly, after yet another nobleman had excused himself from joining them.

‘Have you become too Roman?’ Ferox asked.

‘I fear that they have.’ The chief who had refused her was around thirty, clean shaven, with short hair, so that even though he was dressed in tartan trousers, a heavy tunic and wore a checked cloak, he looked as if he would be more comfortable in a villa or even a city than the round houses arranged in a circle outside the grove. There were twenty of them, the two in the centre facing each other much bigger than the rest. ‘Those are for the king and queen,’ she explained, and after they had dismounted she led them to the one on the south side of the circle. Inside it smelled damp and musty, for these houses were occupied only for this festival, even though the nearest tribesmen followed tradition and kept them all in good repair.

The other large hut was empty. ‘My brother is not here yet.’ Most of the other houses were occupied, although a few clans were still arriving. The sleet had stopped, but an icy wind buffeted them as Ferox and Vindex took a look around.

‘Why do this at this time of year?’ Ferox complained.

‘We’re northerners,’ the scout replied.

Enica spent the rest of the day seated beside the fire, as in turn the chiefs came to greet her. ‘I wish I had the mirror,’ she said before the first arrived. For want of anything else, she was wearing the dress Crassus had given her, but had her hair unbraided so that it fell past her shoulders. A rider had come bringing her a package, and from it she had produced a slim gold torc, bracelets, and a brooch shaped like a galloping horse. There were more bulky objects wrapped in the cloth, but for the moment she left them there. The man had also brought a long sword, its handle shaped like a man and with a blunt tip. ‘Clumsy,’ Enica said as she drew it and gave a few cuts. ‘More like reaping barley.’

‘Have you ever done that, wife?’

‘Be quiet, husband. This sword was carried by my great-great-grandfather in the battle where he fell.’

‘Encouraging.’

On the next day the chieftains met around a fire in the centre of the circle. Enica stayed in the house. ‘It is the tradition,’ she explained. ‘First they must decide that the tribe needs a high queen.’

‘Or king?’

‘Now why would they want that, husband?’

‘Romans fear powerful women, and these men grow more Roman by the day. They’ve even had latrine pits dug.’

‘We are not Silures,’ Enica said, wrinkling her nose, ‘and do not live like swine.’ She sighed. ‘But you are right. The old ways are dying, and the leadership of mystical women is one of the old ways. If they are good Romans they may not want a queen any more.’