Адриан Голдсуорти: The Encircling Sea

As Ferox searched for any hint of the druid he saw the upright stone marking the grave of Titus Annius, the commander of the Tungrians who had died from wounds suffered back in that same grim autumn. He had been a good man and a fine soldier. The inscription proclaimed that his daughter had erected the monument to him. That was a fiction, since the centurion had no children, but he had left his money to benefit his soldiers and their widows and children. One lass of eight had lost her mother to fever weeks before the fight and became an orphan when her father was hacked down, standing protectively over the wounded Annius. By some legal trickery, it was arranged for the dead centurion to have adopted the girl. Cerialis and his wife were now supervising her education and she might enjoy a far better life than was usually open to a soldier’s daughter. That is, if she was lucky.

Ferox sighed, wondering once again whether he had made the right choices in that straggling fight amid the burning heather and whether it was his fault that Annius had died. He rode on, for the past was the past and could not be undone. Ahead of him the road joined on to the main east to west route between Coria and Luguvallium, and for once he decided to follow it for a while before heading off for Syracuse. He glanced back once, just before the fort disappeared into a fold of the ground, and saw tiny figures by the carriage. He thought he glimpsed a flash of golden hair, but could not be sure. Ferox rode on, trying to leave his memories behind. The rain started again, growing heavier and heavier as the clouds closed in until it was hard to see far in any direction.

At Syracuse there was a man waiting to complain that a neighbour was stealing the best of his new lambs. He named the culprit, swearing that he was to blame. Ferox knew that more people would come in to make similar charges over the days to come. It was always the same at this time of year, as the weather grew warmer and animals were let out to pasture. The next day the accused turned up alleging intimidation and blows from the first man. Beside him waited a grey-haired woman who often came to Syracuse or to other Roman authorities. Her family had perished five years ago from a sickness that had swept through the lands at that time. Only a little boy survived, and he fell into a river and drowned a year later. Since then she travelled around the countryside searching for him. Often people gave her food and shelter for a night or two. Sometimes they drove her away because they were afraid that she brought bad luck.

‘Lord, please find my lost boy,’ she called as Ferox rode into Syracuse. ‘He’s tall for his age, lord, and good looking. He’s all I have.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said, forcing himself to pause for a moment. ‘If I find him I will send word.’

‘Thank you, lord, thank you. He’s all I have left.’

Ferox went through the gateway. He saw Crescens and beckoned him to come over. ‘See that she gets some food,’ he told the curator. ‘And treat her gently.’ The old woman had visited so often that even the sympathetic found their patience and tempers fraying. Last time one of the milder soldiers had hit her because she clung to his leg begging him to help. ‘Tell the men to treat her as if she was their own mother.’

There were other visitors, bringing petitions or complaints. Apart from thefts there were feuds and the arguments that often spilled over after the winter months when families and kin were cooped up together for much of the time. A husband had struck his wife after their latest row, but this time she fell and hit the iron guard around the fire, cracking her skull so that she died three days later. The headman from her old farmstead wanted the centurion to come with him so that the killer would grant a proper blood price to her family. Ferox was tired, but knew that if nothing was done quickly then more killing was likely, so he got a fresh horse and rode out with the man. There was not much for him to do, but his presence was a reminder that it was better to settle everything quietly rather than let the Romans intervene. The husband was in mourning, sleeping in the open away from the houses to cleanse himself of the deed, and agreed to the price of a cloak, two sheep and the best lamb born from his remaining flock in each of the next five years.

It took a day and a half to deal with it all, for the farms were on the very edge of his territory. By the time he returned to Syracuse a messenger from a chieftain was waiting with news of another death. This time it was no accident, for a wife who had been beaten again and again over the years had finally snapped and smothered her husband while he lay in a drunken stupor. No one at the settlement blamed her, but blood was blood, and the dead man had family who were likely to seek vengeance. The chieftain wanted the woman taken away somewhere safe, so that she could start a new life and there would be no need for a feud.

‘I’ll come,’ Ferox told the man, and gave orders for two of the cavalrymen among the stationarii to accompany him in case of trouble. ‘If Vindex and any of the scouts arrive, tell them to join me,’ he told Crescens. The Brigantian and his men were already a day late, and he wished that the gaunt warrior was with him, because he would have to ask his clan to take the woman and find a place for her somewhere.

It was another long ride, made worse because the rain was constant and blown into them by a strong, gusty wind. A council was held in the chieftain’s hall, which was a roundhouse only a little larger than the others at the farmstead. It was an angry meeting, with supporters of the woman recounting all that she had suffered and asserting that the dead man received no more than long overdue justice. ‘Who will miss him?’ they claimed, while the woman said nothing, and appeared stunned by the whole business. Against her, the man’s cousin repeated that a death called for vengeance and punishment.

‘Cut her to show her shame,’ he insisted, and the men with him bellowed their approval. ‘We are Textoverdi,’ he went on, ‘and we do not kill our own without punishment. Mark her to show her disgrace!’ He drew a thin dagger. The old custom was to slice a woman’s nostrils and ears, and scar her cheeks as a permanent sign that she had been faithless to her husband.

The chieftain was a kind man but not a bold one and did not stand up. Ferox clapped his hands hard. It was not a gesture these people used, and the sound echoed around the house, bringing silence. He stood, and his hand went to the hilt of his dagger, for he knew this was sharp and he did not like the look of the man’s knife.

‘Let one who has no tie or kindred to either husband or wife settle this. Come, woman.’ He beckoned to her. She came without hesitation, used to obedience. When she came closer he could see the fading marks of old bruises on her cheeks and arms. With one hand Ferox brushed her hair back to uncover her left ear. ‘This is justice,’ he said, not believing it, but wanting to make a show for her enemies. He pulled the lobe of her ear taut and sliced it off. The woman barely winced, showing that she was very familiar with pain. ‘Let her be exiled from these lands.

‘Do you have children, girl?’ he whispered.

‘A girl, lord.’

‘Let her take her child and I will send her far away, so that the shame is gone from the people’s eyes. That is justice.’

The chieftain raised his arms and yelled in acclamation of the judgement. The dead man’s cousin looked sullen, but Ferox thought that he could sense the man’s relief at avoiding a blood feud. The daughter, a babe in arms, was swaddled and passed to the mother and they left straightaway, even though there were only a few hours of dull light left, because he did not want to give the cousin time to think it all over. At least the rain had stopped, and the chief loaned them a pony for the girl, for he wanted her off his hands as soon as possible.