Адриан Голдсуорти - The Encircling Sea

Vindex laughed. ‘Just wanted to hear you say it.’

They kept inland. The man had claimed to see the boats further along, a least a couple of miles away, and Ferox led them along the slope of the low hills so that they could see some way inland. There was no more sign of the raiders, apart from the column of dirty smoke rising from the burning farm.

‘That’s where I’d land,’ Ferox said, pointing ahead, and he led them up the slope. Near the crest he stopped the mare and jumped down, creeping forward until he could peer over to scan the beach. The tide was coming in, covering the pale sand, and at first he saw nothing. ‘There.’ A lone figure stood flicking pebbles into the water, having to walk quite a way to find each one because there were few on the beach. A little way behind him was a high bank covered in scrub and a few stunted trees. In front of the bank were dark shapes, covered in brush. He counted three, but suspected another was out of sight behind the bank. He showed Vindex their quarry, and then the two men headed back behind the crest and rode along the hillside. They came to a defile, leading towards the beach. It meandered down, so that for a while they wondered whether it would take them away from the hidden boats, and then suddenly the beach was in front of them, the lad flicking another stone into the waves.

‘Come on,’ Ferox said quietly. There was no sense in stealth so speed was their only choice. The grey mare responded instantly, as if she was as fresh as the dawn, and shot down the gentle slope, feet quiet on the sand. Vindex followed.

The lad turned, bent to pick up a stone and then straightened up, staring in horror. Closer, another young tribesman loomed up from behind one of the bushes, a javelin in his hand. Ferox threw first, the lancea quivering in flight and striking lower than he had aimed, driving into the lad’s stomach. He folded over, screaming in agony. The boy who had been searching for stones reached for a dagger at his belt, then though better of it and turned to run. Ferox had drawn his gladius by now, and when he drew level was about to cut, then changed his mind and jabbed down with the pommel. The youth dropped like a sack of old clothes.

Frost kept going, and it was a moment before he could wheel her round to face the boats. The youth was still down and not moving. An older man and a very young boy were with the boats. Each had a spear, although in the boy’s case this was no more than a sharpened stick. Suddenly he ran straight at Ferox, and the older man cursed and came after him. The boy was fast, sprinting across the sand, his crude spear held low. Vindex was faster, cantering down behind the two Novantae. He hurled his spear, a heavier shafted weapon than the light lancea, and it was starting to drop from sheer weight when it hit the old man in the thigh.

‘Drop it, boy!’ Ferox yelled, swerving his mare out of the way. Vindex was on the other side, and the boy stopped, turning to each of them, jabbing with his spear even though they were out of reach. The old man was sitting on the sand, spear still in his leg. He was groaning loudly as the blood pooled around him, and suddenly the boy noticed him and screamed words they did not catch. He let the sharpened stick fall to the ground, dodged when Vindex tried to grab him, and ran to the old man.

Ferox dismounted. ‘Let me look,’ he ordered. The wound was bad, the old man’s leathery face already paling from loss of blood. ‘Find me rope or cord, boy. Quickly.’ The lad nodded and ran off to the nearest boat. ‘Give me a hand,’ he called to Vindex. There was a dagger in the man’s belt and Ferox drew it and tossed it away.

‘This is going to hurt, father,’ Ferox said as softly as he could. He nodded to the Brigantian. ‘Now.’ Ferox held the old man as tightly as he could while Vindex yanked the spearhead out of the man’s leg, bringing another great gush of blood.

‘Bollocks,’ Vindex hissed as the blood soaked his trousers. The boy had brought rope and Ferox tied it hard above the wound. ‘Get moss, or anything to stuff in there,’ he said to the lad.

‘Thank you,’ the old man said, but his eyes were hard and suspicious. ‘Brigantian?’

‘He is,’ Ferox told him. ‘I am a Silure.’

‘Never heard of them.’ The old man’s breath was coming in gasps. He might live long enough for his friends to find him or he might not. It was doubtful that they would be able to move him.

‘Tell me, father,’ Ferox asked him as gently as he could, ‘what do you know of the men of the night, the black men?’ He could see Vindex frowning, but ignored him.

For the first time, the old man was terrified. ‘Do not speak their name! Please, not now, not now.’ He struggled, and the rope loosened, sending a gout of blood soaking into the sand. The old man flung himself to the side, reaching for his dagger. Vindex drew back his bloodied spear to thrust, but the man collapsed, shook twice and then died.

‘What was that all about?’ he asked the centurion. Ferox was not paying any attention, for the boy had returned and was staring at the dead man. His eyes were glassy, his mouth hung open, but the child made no sound.

‘Come on,’ Ferox said, ‘let’s go and light some fires.’ In the event it was easy, for the Novantae had lit a fire in the shelter of the dunes and the embers were still warm and easily coaxed back to life. Ferox used some of the kindling to get it going again. In the meantime, Vindex piled anything that would burn into the nearest boat. It was long and slim, designed to be rowed, and made from wood planks, as was the boat beside it, and he spread some of the flammable material onto that one as well, smashing a couple of the oars to add to the pyre. The other two boats had wooden frames covered in stretched hides. ‘What are we going to do with those?’ he asked.

‘Cut one up as well as we can,’ Ferox said, wishing now that he had asked for an axe at the tower. For some reason he had just assumed that they would come in wooden boats. ‘Slash any cord you can find and make holes in the hide. Use this,’ he handed over his pugio, for the heavy blade could be punched with some force.

‘Why not the other one as well?’ Vindex asked.

‘Leave it. That way some of them can get away, but most cannot. Should help the harmony of their merry band.’

Vindex shook his head. ‘You really are a vicious bastard, aren’t you?’

‘I’m a Silure.’

‘And a Roman.’ Vindex kissed the wheel of Taranis he wore around his neck. ‘At least you’re on my side.’

Ferox held one of the torches in the fire, turning it slowly as the tarred head caught alight. ‘Here…’ he passed it to the Brigantian ‘… take this.’ He picked up the second torch and repeated the process. It took a while for the fires in the boats to light. The wind was blowing hard off the sea and they had to crouch over the kindling to shelter it. Eventually the flames caught and grew.

‘Good enough,’ Ferox said. Even if the Novantae came back soon and managed to put them out they would not be able to use either boat, especially if the wind remained strong and stirred up the waves.

The boy was still with the old man, sitting next to him and holding his cold hand. Over on the sand, the lad Ferox had knocked out lay still, but they could see that he was still breathing

‘Leave them,’ Ferox said in answer to the unspoken question. ‘Let their own folk look after them. Unless you want a slave for your new wife?’

Vindex ignored the suggestion. ‘Poor kid,’ he said. Ferox was not listening. There was a horseman up on the path they had followed down to the beach. He was a tribesman, his hair washed in lime and combed up in a spiked fringe, his face striped with blue paint. He wore a pale yellow and green checked tunic and dark trousers, and carried a little round shield and a spear. His horse was a warm brown with black legs, mane and tail, and like so many army horses its saddle and harness decorated with round silvered phalerae .