Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Ferox saw no Romans, let alone soldiers, but since they kept away from the roads and the better paths that was not so surprising. On the third morning they woke to find snow covering all the fields, stiffening their blankets for they no longer had any tents. There was food for them for another day, perhaps with a little left, but the last of the grain was given to the horses that morning. The ride was hard, for they climbed to yet another high pass and the snow grew deeper and deeper until it reached the horses’ bellies. Most of them got down and led the beasts, half dragging them through some of the drifts. Gannascus walked ahead of Enica, stamping a path through so that she could ride. The German gave every appearance of enjoying the whole thing.

Around noon they saw a dark shape moving behind them. It was steadily catching up, until Ferox could make out the little figures of horsemen, with bronze helmets, heavy cloaks and blue shields. As they climbed into the snow, the riders slowed down, and for the rest of the day no longer gained.

Ferox pushed ahead once again, although the snow forced him to keep to the main track. The path led down, and gradually the going grew easier, taking him through patches of fir trees, still green amid the white. Rounding a corner, he saw two troopers walking their horses towards him. They both were on bays, had drab cloaks and shields covered in calfskin to protect the painted design.

‘Halt!’ one called. Both riders levelled spears.

Ferox stopped, and his hand slid underneath his cloak and checked that his gladius was ready to draw. It should not have been cold enough for it to freeze in place, but it was better not to take a chance.

One of men trotted towards him. The other came more slowly, riding around between the trees to come at him from the side.

‘Who are you, and what is your business?’ The man’s breath steamed as he spoke. A thick black beard peeked between the cheek pieces of his helmet and he did not look much like one of the Brigantes. ‘Centurio regionarius at Vindolanda.’

‘It is too.’ The other trooper had come out of the trees and was staring at Ferox. ‘Served alongside him two years ago. And saw him when he called on the prefect.’

Ferox sighed with relief. ‘You’re with Petriana?’ He guessed, for the man did seem vaguely familiar and so did the size of the horses. Ala Petriana was one of the finest alae in the province, the proud command of Aelius Brocchus. They were based at Coria, a good few days’ ride to the north. ‘What are you doing here?’

The one with the black beard glanced at his comrade who nodded. ‘We’re marching south, sir. With the legate. Going to sort out the rebels.’

‘Which legate?’

‘The governor, sir. They say he came by sea and just popped up. Someone’s certainly been lighting fires under everyone’s arse ever since.’ His comrade coughed. ‘Sorry, sir, forgetting myself. We’d better take you in, sir. The turma is back a short way, and the main force a couple of miles on from that.’

Ferox finally brought his hand away from the handle of his sword. He smiled. ‘First I have to fetch some friends.’

Brocchus pumped his hand so hard that Ferox wondered whether the arm would come out of its socket. He beamed even brighter when Claudia Enica was introduced.

‘An honour, a true honour. My wife has told me so much about you, my dear.’

‘Indeed it is,’ Neratius Marcellus agreed. ‘Especially as we had heard that you were dead. In fact, that you were all dead, even if we were more concerned about some than others!’ He arched his eyebrow as he nodded to Ferox. ‘Though I confess I might almost not have recognised you. A princess of the Brigantes in truth as well as a fine Roman lady.’ Enica was in breeches, heavy tunic and her Thracian boots, with her long hair loose around her shoulders.

The provincial legate had a bandage just above his right knee, and scars on his left hand, but neither seemed to slow him down. As the trooper had said, the governor had come north by sea eleven days ago, landing at the tiny fishing port of Arbeia with an escort of twenty of his singulares and half as many officers and staff. They had ridden hard for Coria, and on arrival the legate sent gallopers off with orders for all the posts to the west and south. They were to muster every man able to march, issue hard tack, wine and smoked bacon for fourteen days and bring them to Coria by the third day after the Nones of December.

Some four and a half thousand fighting men had marched south from Coria at dawn on the next day.

‘If the Selgovae or Novantae decide to be lively, we could be in trouble,’ the legate said cheerfully as a tribune summarised the situation for the benefit of the newcomers. Around the folding table in the legate’s grand tent were Brocchus, Cerialis, Rufinus, commander of cohors I Vardulli, who had shaved off his beard since their last meeting, and three more prefects he did not know. The tribune was from Legio XX, while the vexillation of II Augusta was commanded by its newly promoted princeps posterior , who nodded affably.

‘With the legate’s permission, I’ll happily take Ferox here back to Augusta. I’ve only one other centurion, since Pudens went down with fever.’ Julius Tertullianus was a burly man with an incongruously high-pitched voice. ‘I could do with another lad who knows the score.’

Neratius Marcellus raised his a hand and smiled. ‘Peace, my dear fellow, peace. We shall see in due course. Give the poor fellow a chance to rest – and shave – before we set him to new labours.

‘Gentlemen, I shall bid you all good night. Rest, for soon we will have need of all our strength.’ The legate was not the sort of man to give unnecessary reminders to attend to their duties. ‘Orders for tomorrow’s march to be issued at the start of the sixth hour of the night. Good night to you.’ He glanced at Ferox, who understood that he was to stay.

Cerialis and Brocchus stopped on their way out. ‘You have seen our wives?’

‘Yes, my lords, although it is many weeks since I was in Londinium. When I last saw them they and the children were all well.’

‘Thank you. It is a great comfort. No letters have come for some time.’ Cerialis smiled warmly as he spoke. Brocchus said nothing, but there was moistness in his eyes when he patted Ferox on the shoulder.

Claudia Enica hesitated, looking questioningly at the legate. ‘Dear lady, please refresh yourself.’ A slave appeared without any obvious sign of being summoned. ‘Give the lady everything in our power,’ the governor commanded. ‘There is a tent set aside for you with hot water, food and wine.’ Seeing the challenge in her expression, he smiled. ‘We shall speak later. First I must get a full report from the centurion.’

That took a long while, and Ferox sat by the table while the governor of the province circled him, pacing relentlessly. He asked few questions, and mainly listened, apart from a roar of laughter when he spoke of Acco marrying them on Mona.

‘Truly! How extraordinary. The old rogue married you and then planned to kill you straight away! I suppose some would count that as a mercy. Sorry, my dear fellow, one should not be flippant. And do not worry, although it is an offence for a centurion to marry without his commander’s permission, we can let this one by! Please go on.’

Ferox spoke of Acco’s strange hesitation, his suspicion that the druid wanted to be killed, and their rescue, escape and how he had killed the old man.

‘He is dead then,’ the legate grunted, pausing in mid-stride. ‘After all the trouble he has caused it will be a relief, although I suspect a part of me will grieve.’ He saw the puzzled look. ‘With him passes another world. Such things are always sad, whether or not the vanished world was a good one.’ The legate stood still while Ferox told him about who the druid really was. How he had once been a narrow-stripe tribune, was captured by the druids and somehow became one of them. He guessed that he was the red boy Longinus had seen on the beach at Mona.