Адриан Голдсуорти - The Encircling Sea

For a while, the queen rested on her elbow, seemingly uncaring, for she could surely have not been oblivious that one whole breast was on view. Ferox wondered whether it was deliberate. As the evening went on Epotsorovidus and Brennus began to speak a little more freely.

‘This summer is the time for the tribes of Hibernia to choose a high king over all the high and lesser kings,’ he explained to Crispinus. ‘They say all the tribes, but I’m guessing it is their own peoples and perhaps some of the others in the north. The choice has not been made, but the noble Epotsorovidus…’ he nodded a head to honour the man since he would surely hear his name mention ‘… is favoured by many.’

‘And they think a message of support from us would help swing it all in his favour.’ The young aristocrat spoke slowly, toying with the ideas as they came to him. ‘Or do they want gold to help make friends? I should think both of those are possible, if they will act in a friendly way in return.’

Ferox spoke to the kings for a while. The men smiled when he spoke of gifts and friendship. After a while he turned back to the tribune.

‘They want that, my lord. They also want something more.’

The tribune waited. He glanced at their guests, smiling. The queen shifted again, and yanked the edge of her dress up so that she was properly covered. It made Crispinus flinch, as if fearing that it was his gaze that had made her aware of her revealing pose. ‘What else do they want from us?’

Ferox asked the kings again, just to be sure. One of Sulpicia Lepidina’s arms rested just beside him, a slim bracelet on her wrist. She had delicate fingers, the nails immaculately trimmed, and a ring on only one finger. Just once, earlier in the meal, he had brushed against her skin. That light touch, and the subtle scent she wore, kept him on edge and he longed for the meal to be over.

‘My lord,’ he began, ‘I think they want a legion.’

IT TOOK SIX slaves to drag the bear away, while more were scattering fresh sand to cover up its blood, and the blood and entrails of the venator who had misjudged his attack on the animal and come too close. The other hunters would have soon have finished the beast off, but the crowd of soldiers and civilians from Luguvallium had cheered when a lithe Hibernian warrior had jumped down into the arena and grabbed the dying man’s spear. They cheered even more when he dodged the bear’s attacks, wounding it time and again, gradually weakening it. Even the venatores had urged him on, instead of resenting his intrusion, and joined in the great roar of triumph when he vaulted into the air and stabbed down, using his own weight to drive the heavy spear deep into the animal, pinning it to the ground.

In the great Flavian amphitheatre at Rome they sprayed perfume into the air to smother the reek of blood and death. Here in northern Britannia, in a temporary arena where the tiers of seats were raised so that all could see over the seven-foot-high timber wall down onto the sand, there were few such refinements. Over the course of the morning, the venatores had killed four bulls, five bears, a dozen wolves, two lions and four panthers, so that the place stank like a slaughterhouse.

Most of the time the Hibernians kept a polite silence, and he suspected that they were bored. It had always struck him that these beast fights took away all the excitement of hunting and kept only the final butchery. The Hibernians had shown a lot of curiosity when they saw the big cats, asking a lot of questions about where they came from and whether or not they hunted people. Ferox answered as best he could. The queen was not there, for the Roman ladies had decided that the blood of the arena was not fitting for ladies to attend, and had stayed at Alauna with her, planning an excursion of their own. Brigita’s absence took a good deal of the spirit out of the kings, so that little of importance was said. Her husband seemed rudderless when she was not by his side, even if the queen spoke so rarely.

Ferox suspected that she might have enjoyed the gladiatorial fights to be staged in the afternoon, and was a little surprised that they had all not come along. In his experience women – some supposed to be fine ladies – were usually among the most enthusiastic members of the audience, baying for blood, aroused almost to frenzy by the muscle-bound men hacking each other to pieces. In some strange way, on the days women were excluded, it somehow all seemed less violent to him, but he wondered whether this was simply his imagination.

There was little for him to do as the kings on their own were not inclined to talk of great matters. The day after the dinner further conversations had made their request clearer. They asked for an army. He had translated the word as legion because it was often used in that way, and he thought it more likely to get the attention of Crispinus and the others. ‘They say army,’ he explained later, ‘but I think they just mean a force of soldiers. Fifty or sixty, maybe even a hundred.’

‘A token of support?’

‘Something like that,’ Ferox said. ‘Big enough to look impressive and led by someone important.’

Crispinus rubbed his chin. ‘You mean me.’

‘I’m only a centurion, my lord, I don’t mean anything at all. You brought me here to translate.’

‘And give advice.’ The tribune made up his mind. ‘I believe the legate will agree to this. There is no harm in winning the loyalty of neighbours, so that they respect our power. Could stop any more raids on the coast.’

Ferox said nothing.

‘You do not agree? And please do not give me any more nonsense about knowing your place and not having an opinion. Would you agree to these terms?’

‘Hibernian raids are rare, my lord. Whatever we agree here will not stop the Novantae, or the tribes like the Creones from further north.’

‘But it will do no harm, surely?’

Ferox sensed that the tribune liked the idea of leading an expedition to the mysterious isle of Hibernia, where he could claim that the locals had submitted to the majesty of Rome and the emperor – in the person of a young aristocrat. Along with the recommendation to receive the corona civica, which he would most likely be awarded in due course, it would conclude a spectacular term as tribune with the legions.

‘Tell me why you are worried,’ Crispinus demanded.

Ferox was not sure what to tell him. When he was growing up his people always said that Hibernia was an unlucky place, ill-omened and full of ancient terrors. Perhaps that helped to make him suspicious, but he was sure it was something else.

‘They are hiding something,’ he said at last.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ Crispinus laughed. ‘Tell me you do not believe the stories of cannibals and monsters. That is what I read about Hibernia – of course all written by people who have never seen the place.’

‘I just do not trust them, my lord. She is…’ He hesitated, but he knew that it was the silent, beautiful queen who worried him the most. ‘She is up to something.’

‘I should be greatly surprised if she was not. She’s a woman after all – and a queen at that – and every Roman knows that you cannot trust royalty. Look at Cleopatra. But I often find it is easier to deal with people you do not trust. It’s just a question of working out what they really want, and then making sure that it does not get in the way of you getting what you want. Untrustworthy people tend to be selfish, which makes them simple to understand.’

Ferox gave up, for it was obvious that the tribune had made up his mind. ‘You are always asking me to trust you, my lord.’

‘Indeed I am, and I wish you would. But you are a truly unusual man, so the rule does not apply. Do not worry, it will all work out well, and we shall come back safely.’