Адриан Голдсуорти - The Encircling Sea

‘He’s an ambitious man,’ Crispinus had told him back at Vindolanda. ‘Knows how to make his money work for him.’ That much was certain, but an air of mystery clung around him. ‘He’s supposed to have been a soldier, and certainly still looks like one,’ the tribune had explained, ‘but no one is quite sure when and where he served. Cannot have served the full term so must have been discharged, presumably honourably, and a decade or so ago he pops up in Londinium with a lot of money. Claimed to be a Nervian, and did not get the franchise until later, when a rich freedman adopted him and made him his principal heir. The freedman died soon afterwards,’ the tribune said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Just coincidence apparently.’ His tone suggested that he did not believe a word of it. ‘Ever since then he’s kept on growing. I will say this, though, the animals he supplies are pretty good, so he’s better than a lot of contractors.’

‘Are these folk Carvetii?’ Ferox asked, knowing the answer but preferring not to discuss the injustices of imperial administration with the Brigantian.

‘They are and they aren’t,’ the scout said. ‘They’re kin of ours, of course, and often they join with us at the great gatherings and stand beside us in battle.’ He paused. ‘That was in the old days, before we were good allies of Rome.’

‘Of course.’ The Carvetii were one of the big clans, like the Textoverdi, and both were and were not Brigantes, depending on what was going on, and in the past had fought with and against each other. ‘In the old days,’ he repeated. ‘Well, let’s not waste time staring at wealth we’ll never have, and have a word with them at the tower.’ He set off, fishing out his vine cane from the rolled blanket behind his saddle. As he came closer he twitched his cloak back so that the sentries would see his mail and the rest of his uniform. With the cane of office it ought to show them that he was a Roman and a centurion.

The soldier brought his oval shield up and raised his spear in challenge. He was wearing a black tunic, which marked him out as one of the Vardulli from Magna on detached service at the tower.

‘Halt!’ he called. ‘Announce yourself.’

‘Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, with three scouts.’

‘Sir!’ The spear came upright as the auxiliary stamped to attention. ‘Advance, friend.’

A legionary was in charge of the seven men currently stationed there, and came out from behind the tower as they rode into the little outpost. As was usual, the door to the tower was on the opposite side from the main entrance, so that no one could rush straight in. There was no gate, but beside the rampart there were a couple of wooden beams mounting sharpened stakes that could be lifted and set down to block the entrance.

‘Have you come from Luguvallium, sir?’ the legionary asked him. He was a stocky man, and his segmented cuirass made him look even broader and more powerful. Yet Ferox could sense that he was nervous and was not someone who liked to make decisions.

He shook his head. ‘No, we came from the north. Trouble?’ he asked.

‘Might be, sir. One of the tribesmen came in this morning, saying that he had seen boats on a beach a couple of miles away. Three or four of them. I sent a man out to look – one of my best. But he hasn’t come back.’

‘Gone long?’

‘Long enough, sir. He took the only horse we have,’ he added gloomily. There was no beacon outside the tower, nothing to light and give warning to the countryside or bring help from the troops four or five miles away at Luguvallium. ‘I was about to send one of the lads on foot with a report.’ He held up a tablet sealed with wax.

Ferox told one of the scouts to carry the message. ‘Go to the fort and tell them to send out at least forty men.’ With a dozen or so warriors in each boat, there could be a significant band of raiders nearby, so better to be prepared. ‘If you meet anyone on the way warn them of the danger.’ He sent the other man with him. ‘Ride together, but your job is to find the Lords Crispinus and Cerialis and make sure they know of the danger. Suggest they come here if this is the closest shelter.’

‘Have you got any dry kindling, anything that will burn?’ He turned to the legionary.

‘Sir?’

‘I’m going to look for these boats, and if I find them, then I will see if I can burn them, so I want to be able to start a fire.’

The man understood, and rushed off, shouting to his men.

‘So, we’re going to set light to some boats?’ Vindex asked.

‘That’s the idea.’

‘And you think their owners might not be keen on the idea.’

‘Probably not.’ Ferox patted him on the shoulder. ‘You don’t have to come. After all, I have to keep you safe now that you’re a responsible married man.’

‘Piss off.’

‘Ah, good man.’ This was to the outpost commander who had returned with a sack of straw and twigs and two torches, the heads soaked in tar.

‘We use them to light up the top of the tower at night,’ he explained. ‘Is that enough? We have got a couple more.’

‘That will do splendidly. I’d be grateful for the loan of a lancea if you have one.’ The legionary beckoned to one of his men, who handed his slim spear to the centurion. Ferox hefted it and felt the balance. ‘Thank you.’

‘Look!’ The shout came from the man at the top of the tower. He was leaning on the rail of the balcony, pointing, but the rampart blocked their view. ‘Farm on fire!’

‘There’s a beacon anyway,’ Ferox said to the legionary as they slung the sack over his blanket roll. He took one of the torches and gave the other to Vindex. ‘Time for us to go.’

‘Good luck, sir!’

‘And to you.’ Raiders willing to burn a house were not worried about hiding, and it probably meant that they had come to take heads. A few dead villagers might satisfy young warriors hungry to prove themselves, but they might try to win even greater fame by killing the little garrison here – or better yet a tribune, a prefect and the half-dozen troopers escorting them if they happened to stray across them. Ferox was not sure whether he was riding away from or into danger, but he did know that the raiders would need their boats to get home, or face a very long walk through country where it would be easy for the Romans to find them.

‘How many do you reckon?’ Vindex asked.

‘I’d guess at least one for each boat. Either youngsters or older men who aren’t as nimble as they used to be. Doesn’t sound as if there are many patrols along the coast, so they probably would not leave more and weaken the band.’ The Silures used to sail and row across the Channel to raid the northern Durotriges and even the Dumnonii further west, until the Romans stopped them by putting little outposts near some of the best landing places. When he was seven he had hidden under some sacks and sailed on one expedition, and still remembered the terror when he was discovered and the crew joked about throwing him overboard. Instead they left him with the older boys and an old boat wright to look after the boats. It seemed weeks before the men returned with two captive women and began the voyage home. He doubted that the Novantae did things that differently. They would be sensitive about their boats, but would also want all their best men with the main raiding force.

Vindex thought about it for a while. ‘So we need to kill three or four, maybe more?’

‘Or just drive them away.’

‘Oh yes, of course, easy as that. What if the rest of them turn up while we’re there? They’ve hit that farm, might be enough for them to think of going home to boast.’

‘That’s fine, I have it all planned out. In that case we run away, very, very fast.’