Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘The Carvetii will,’ Vindex said firmly. ‘Audagus is for you, lady, and he is a tough old bird. Not Roman where it really counts.’

‘I know. Your father is a good man, but the rest… Tell me, husband, why are men such fools?’

‘Practice,’ Ferox suggested.

Longinus snorted with amusement. ‘Aye, true enough. Why is your brother not here, lady?’

‘Arviragus likes to be dramatic. He must be here by sunset to make a claim, so he will come at sunset or slightly before, just when the chieftains are wondering whether or not he will come at all.’

A dozen horsemen arrived just as the sun started to slip beneath the hills to the west. The prince was at their head, armour and helmet gleaming, riding a dark horse with a white star on its forehead. His red cloak streamed out as he cantered towards the ring of chiefs. Beside him one of the royal guards carried a standard with a bronze figure of a rearing horse on top. The other ten all had spears, each one with a severed head driven onto the point. More heads dangled from their horses’ manes. Each trophy had a yellow, waxy look, and some were missing eyes or showed other scars from the beaks of carrion fowl. Arviragus himself held up a chain in one hand, and behind his horse ran a scruffy, white-haired and bearded figure in a tinned cuirass.

‘Dramatic,’ Enica said as she peeked through the doorway. ‘Even a stallion with the same mark as Venutius’ favourite. And he led a tribune in chains just as he now has Crispinus.’

They rode round the seated chieftains three times. Then the escort peeled away and the prince walked his mount over to the remaining royal house, accompanied only by his standard-bearer and his captive. Some of the chiefs cheered.

‘Vindex.’

‘Yes, lady.’

‘Go to the chieftains and tell them that this night they shall come and share my meal. Tell my brother, as well.’ She noticed their questioning looks. ‘It is the custom. A royal lady must feed the gathering. Servants from the royal house will come soon with wine, beer, bowls and platters, and with some provisions. It is up to us to make the meal.’ Just for once the lady looked uncertain. ‘Can any of you cook?’

In the end Longinus took over, after swearing that Ferox would poison them all if he was not careful. The old veteran made a stew in a cauldron brought by the servants, and it certainly smelled appealing, which at least was something. Three wooden chairs with high, intricately carved backs were brought and placed on one side of the iron guard around the central fire.

‘You will sit on my left, husband, and you will wear these.’ Enica had unwrapped the bundle to produce a helmet and armour. The cuirass was simple mail, but obvious repairs with slightly smaller rings showed where rents had been made in past fights. The helmet was even older, perhaps centuries old, bronze, with triangular cheek pieces, a shallow neck, and high dome topped by a tall diamond-shaped plate. There were dents in the metal, and one of the cheek pieces was held on by wire, but both were surprisingly light and comfortable for all their age and hard use.

‘Venutius was a warrior,’ his granddaughter said, ‘and so are you. Sit beside me and keep silent unless you have no other choice. A Silure should be good at that.’

‘May I scowl at them?’

‘By all means.’ Enica sat in the central chair, having made sure that it stood on a pile of turves so that she would be higher than anyone else. Ferox felt oddly proud as he sat beside her. At times she was magnificent, and he was finding that part of him dreamed that this marriage was not a sham. Another part of him wondered whether any of them would leave here alive.

Audagus was the first to arrive, clad in cloak, tunic and trousers, and with a sword at his belt.

‘Greetings to the Carvetii,’ Enica said. ‘Come, sit, and dine with me.’ The old man bowed. A warrior was with him, his face strikingly similar to Vindex’s, and probably another son and perhaps legitiame. The chief unclasped his belt and handed it and his sword to his attendant.

As the chief took his seat, the warrior stepped back to stand by the wall. Enica leaned down to whisper to Ferox. ‘Bet I know what he’s thinking, the old devil. Look at her, nice ti—’ Another chieftain appeared, and she jerked upright. ‘Greetings to the Setantii. Come, sit, and dine with me.’

So it went on, each man greeted by his clan and not his name. The house soon became very full, the air growing warmer by the minute. When the last had taken his seat, there was just a narrow lane left between the sitting men, leading to the open space closest to the fire. No one spoke. Ferox noticed that Enica was flexing the fingers of her right hand as they rested on the arm of the chair. That was the only sign of impatience.

Arviragus appeared last, and unlike the chieftains, he too wore armour and helmet, as well as the gold torc brought from Mona. He led in Crispinus, still chained around the neck, and strode past the chieftains. In the space by the fire, he dropped the chain. ‘Sit,’ he commanded the tribune, who obeyed, eyes fixed on the floor. The prince turned to Enica.

‘Sister.’

‘Brother,’ she replied.

Arviragus stared for a moment at the central chair, then strutted across to the empty one on her right and sat down.

‘I have news,’ he announced. ‘Wondrous news that the council must know in full. Do I have your leave to speak?’

‘Aye,’ chorused the ring of chieftains.

‘Brigantia is at war and must fight. Trajan is dead without an heir. Neratius Marcellus falsely claims the purple, but is doomed to defeat once the Senate chooses the real princeps. We cannot declare for a traitor, and because I defied him he sent a legion against us. I met this legion and scattered them as doves flee the hawk. This man is Crispinus, tribune of II Augusta and nephew of Marcellus. He will tell you. Speak, worm!’

There was silence. The chieftains must have known about the battle already, and as yet they were not ready to acclaim or condemn him.

‘I said, speak.’

Crispinus staggered to his feet. ‘It is as he says,’ he said, eyes still staring down. Ferox could see none of the aristocrat’s usual restless confidence. ‘The prince is at war.’

‘Sit, dog.’ Arviragus swept the room with his gaze. ‘There is more. For months, there have been omens of war and chaos. The priests here have seen them.’ Several men nodded. ‘You others have heard of them.’ He reached for a cord around his neck, squeezing fingers past the torc, and pulled out a small pendant, shaped like an egg. Two of the chieftains gasped for this was a charm of the sort made by the druids. None doubted its potency, but all knew that to wear such a thing broke the laws of the emperors. Arviragus had their attention. ‘You all know of the last druid – the last true druid.’ Ferox saw a man frame the word ‘Acco’. They knew, even the most Roman of them, of the survivor of the old days, the one man who knew the old wisdom. ‘Acco gave me this armour and helm.’ There were louder gasps at the mention of the name. Arviragus raised a hand. ‘I speak of Acco, because now it is permitted. He gave me this torc, once worn by Cunobelinus, father of Caratacus. Acco spoke of the end of all that was past and the beginning of all that is new. Acco is dead.’

There was silence, until Audagus spoke. ‘You know this for certain?’

‘I know this, although I was not there. I am guessing my sister was there and saw it.’

Enica nodded.

‘You ask what this means?’ Arviragus shouted over the nervous questions. ‘The last druid has passed into the Otherworld. Such a thing cannot happen without unleashing a great magic – his magic. The old will perish and the new will rise. The new world ordained by the gods. We can resist and wither, or embrace the storms of change and fly on their wings.’ He snapped the cord of the pendant, raised it high, hesitated and then flung it into the fire. Something flared into bright green flame before it vanished. ‘This is old magic and now it must do its work.