Адриан Голдсуорти: The Encircling Sea

‘Well then,’ Ferox said out loud and at once despised himself. As a boy he had been taught the value of silence and calm. The Silures were the wolf people, hunters of animals and men alike, predators who knew that the slightest movement or sound could betray an ambush, so they schooled their boys to make stillness the greatest pleasure and idle talk the worst vice. Ferox had spent too many years among Romans who chattered away, weeping or laughing freely, seeming to need noise to reassure themselves that they were still alive. Yet he had left his people long ago, sent as one of the hostages when the chieftains of the Silures had surrendered to the Roman Empire. In truth, he had been Titus Flavius Ferox, centurion, oath sworn to serve Rome and its emperor, for longer than he had been anything else, but in his soul he was still of the Silures, grandson of the Lord of the Hills, the man who had fought the Romans longer and harder than anyone else before making peace.

The wind picked up, hissing through the grass. As a child, he had been told that the winds sometimes carried the voices of those who had gone on to the Otherworld and now walked in shadow. He listened hard, for a moment longing for his grandfather to speak to him, but if there were words he could not catch them or the message was for someone else. Perhaps he was now too Roman to understand, for his people also said that running water carried the echoes of old magic and old tears, the words of gods and spirits reaching back to the start of all things, and yet all he could hear was the soft roar of the stream. He was a long way from his homeland, and a long way too from the army. Ferox was regionarius , a centurion charged with keeping Rome’s peace in the region near the fort of Vindolanda, but he and the scouts had come far from his territory.

The eagle dived, swooping down fast, and Ferox followed it until it vanished behind the hills above him. The raven was still there, flying in lazy circles, and he imagined its cold black eyes watching him. Well, the bird must wait and so must he, for there was nothing else to do. Opening a pouch, he checked that the leather thong of the sling was still supple and hefted the two lead shot, wondering once again why they were cast in the shape of acorns. For a moment he considered practising with it, but he had just the two lead shot and did not trust pebbles to fly as true so did not want to risk losing them. He tried to remember when he had last used a sling and could not, which meant that it was long ago and he wondered whether he had lost the knack. He thought of this and other things he wished that he had done or not done. Otherwise he just waited, trying to think as little as possible.

If Vindex was right and he was playing at being a hero then waiting at the crossing of a stream was fitting. In the stories, heroes like the Hound were always guarding fords against invading armies, challenging each warrior to face them one at a time, killing them and taking their heads. Sometimes they died and the place was named after them. It was hard to imagine anyone in this part of the world caring about him let alone remembering his name or what would soon happen. That shepherd would not bother and his boy was more likely to remember the ghostly grey horses.

The raven gave its harsh call just as the horsemen appeared, riding out from one of the shallow gullies into the valley almost a mile away. They came steadily towards him, trotting their horses once they reached the flatter land. Ferox did not need to stand up to see them and so stayed by the fire and spooned up some of the broth, revelling in the smell as he blew on it to cool it.

There were seven horses, one of them a big chestnut and the rest small shaggy ponies. They were closer now, heading straight towards him. The ponies were ridden by men in hooded cloaks, four of them carrying spears. Two smaller figures were perched on the tall horse. The one in front had long hair, blowing wildly in the wind, and even though it looked dark he knew that this was only the dirt and damp of the journey and that it was the vivid red of the girl’s whole family.

Half a mile away they stopped and he guessed that they had noticed him. A couple of the horsemen clustered together to talk. Ferox sipped the broth, grimaced at the taste, which failed to live up to the promise of its scent, but knew that this was the least of his problems. Let them hesitate, let them delay, he thought, and Vindex would come a little closer so that he might arrive in time to find a corpse that was still warm.

They started forward again, one riding out on either side of the main group, looking to see if he was alone. Their hoods were thrown back and he saw that the warriors all had the hair shaved on the crown of their heads and plaited into a long pigtail at the back. These raiders were northerners, men from the farthest reaches of Britannia, which meant that the stories he had heard from frightened farmers were true. They were strange folk in the north, and some said that they were descended from the Old Folk, the workers of flint and makers of the great stone circles. They also said that they worshipped cruel gods, long since forgotten in other lands, but still powerful in their dark magic near the edge of the world.

They were closer now, within a long bowshot, although bows were rare in these parts and Ferox was glad to see that none of the warriors carried one. He could see that one of the men had his hands tied together in front of him, just like the two girls on the chestnut. He did not recognise him, but he looked fairly young and his hair was short like a Roman’s. It explained the odd tracks he had found in the last weeks, of a horse ridden badly and sometimes being led. He had wondered whether the rider was a captive, but the heavy prints showed a pony well laden and raiders rarely took men as prisoners, because they needed to be watched more closely and would not bring as high a price as a slave, so he had guessed that the horseman was one of their own, but injured.

Who this prisoner was would be a mystery for later – if there was a later – and for the moment it meant that he had five enemies and not six. He could almost hear Vindex making some arch comment like ‘Easy then’ and tried not to smile at the thought. The warriors riding on each flank went back to join the others, sure that the man sitting by the fire was truly alone, for there was nowhere to hide in this gentle grassland. One of the others shouted at them and they galloped up to look down over the banks of the burn.

Ferox stood up. He had the sling held tight inside his right fist and the two bullets in the other hand. He did not hurry and stretched his back as if he was stiff before strolling towards the ford.

‘Who are you, stranger?’ one of the nearest warriors called out. Like the other he had a stout spear and small square shield, the boards unpainted, but dotted with iron studs.

Ferox ignored him. He reached the place where the bank on this side dipped down and became no more than a little slope a couple of feet high leading into the ford.

‘Give us your name,’ the warrior shouted again.

Ferox stopped. His broad-brimmed hat was the sort peasants wore in the lands around the Mediterranean, something rarely if ever seen in these parts. Back in his region everyone recognised it, but he doubted that these men had spent long enough there to hear of it or him. He smiled at the man and did not reply.

‘Just kill him!’ the second warrior to ride up to the burn screamed at his companion, hefting his own spear, but making no move to throw it.

The other warrior bared his teeth, hissing and waving shield and spear towards the Roman. Both men were in their early twenties, and Ferox doubted this was their first raid. They looked handy enough, but reminded him of Vindex’s two scouts – dangerous only when they followed others.