Адриан Голдсуорти - The Encircling Sea

Ferox told the Red Cat and his brother to watch the trader. The order did not seem to surprise them and they simply nodded, not asking for an explanation.

‘Do we kill him if he runs?’ Segovax asked. He was sitting down, rubbing his leg. The break had healed well given the time, although he limped a little.

‘Not unless I tell you to. Just make sure you know where he has gone.’

The great gathering did not go far on the next day, simply advancing to a grove of oak trees. There were more dances, and a sacrifice of a stallion and a mare. The trumpets rarely stopped, and the different leaders set up another camp and cooked another meal. As the day wore on they drank beer from barrels and wine from amphorae.

People were always moving around the camps and after a while Ferox began to see a pattern. Individual warriors went to other encampments, greeting men they knew with simple verses of praise, for everyone seemed to know everyone else. Later some of the chieftains did the same thing, but they went to men of similar rank and the compliments were fuller and took far longer.

On the third day they processed along a path lined with holly bushes, which led past another mound. The priests appeared again, although this time there were no dances. Three ewes and three sows were sacrificed by an ancient woman dressed wholly in black. Crispinus glanced at Ferox when he saw her, but the centurion shook his head because he was sure that her dark garb was coincidence and not anything to do with the Harii.

That afternoon and evening the senior chiefs started to visit each other, each one accompanied by a bard to sing praises of his master and the men he visited. A little after sunset a few of the kings rose from their own campfires and went out. Brennus was one of the first to do this, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he strode through the camp, followed by a young bard. A priest was waiting for him and led him away. Epotsorovidus sat by a fire, staring into the flames and said nothing, but he seemed to shrink in on himself.

‘Ah, this is politics,’ Crispinus said softly to Ferox. ‘That is something I understand.’

An hour later a king came to them. Epotsorovidus looked up, hunger in his eyes, but the ruler, his bard and one of the priests ignored him and went to where Crispinus sat on a folding camp chair. The praises took a while, and Ferox did his best to translate the flowery language. He was surprised at how well they had prepared verses about the young tribune, praising his birth, courage, prowess in battle, and his hair, which marked wisdom exceptional in one so young. A second king arrived after the first had left, and this one’s bard even knew the name of Crispinus’ father and praised him as a great warrior and leader of warriors.

‘They do not ask for anything,’ Crispinus said afterwards. ‘So I presume that it is the visit that is important. Like a candidate being seen with influential men in the Forum. It is a mark of support.’

Ferox had spoken to some of the chieftains and felt that he understood. ‘It takes a long time. Those who choose to call on another show their willingness to support him. The more visitors a leader has, then the greater his influence and importance. Everyone is watching what is going on. Usually they predict whose opinion matters, but sometimes there are surprises and it shifts. As one leader’s prestige rises, then the rest must decide whether they will adhere to him or try to build up another to counter him.’

‘As I said, politics.’ Crispinus smiled. ‘It is not so very different. Brennus has gone to call on someone else, so that means he does not expect our friend over there to become high king. And so far no one has come to visit Epotsorovidus. Is he finished?’

‘My lord, he was finished the moment he lost his wife.’

‘She was the steel in the partnership, there is no doubt of that,’ Crispinus said.

‘That is true, my lord. But how can a man who cannot keep his own woman keep a kingdom? Let alone rule over other kings and tribes?’

‘Poor devil, no wonder he looks so down.’ The tribune’s sympathy did not extend beyond words. ‘So if he is no use to us, how do I judge where our support will be best placed? Is the matter already decided?’

Ferox shook his head. ‘No, not yet. As far as I can tell there are three or four being considered. There is still a lot of time. Tomorrow night more of the kings will call on each other. They are paying you a compliment by treating you as a monarch.’

‘I’m the son of a senator, how else should they treat me?’ Crispinus said, but his pleasure was obvious. ‘We shall have to find out as much as we can about the rivals, so that we can best judge what is to our advantage.’

Ferox said nothing.

‘I have not forgotten our main purpose,’ the tribune assured him. ‘But until we hear from these pirates there is little we can do. Do you not agree?’

‘Sir.’

‘Go away, Flavius Ferox.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bran was waiting for him outside his tent. Ferox had asked the boy to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of the men of the night, for no one was likely to pay much heed to a servant boy looking after the horses.

‘It is an island, further north, off the coast of Caledonia. Not big, but near a larger one and very close to a smaller one. The small one is ringed by cliffs and hard to reach, but someone special lives there. Warriors go there to learn.’

That was an old legend, known even among the Silures. It was said that far to the north an old woman lived who knew more about weapons and killing than anyone else. Whenever she died she was succeeded by another chosen woman. Only the best were accepted as pupils, and only the very best lived through the ordeals she set them. Quite a few heroes of the old tales were said to have honed their craft on that distant island, but Ferox had never heard of a man who had been there.

‘And the bigger island?’

‘It has more people. The chieftains are scared of the men of the night and pay them tribute. So do some on other islands. That is how they live.’

‘Who spoke these things?’

‘A young lad who sails with a merchant. He saw the island once, and heard the master of the ship and the sailors talking. They were scared because they had come closer than they intended during the night. There were stories that the pirates were preying on those who strayed too near, something they had not done for many years.’

Ferox wondered whether the Harii had managed to repair their old trireme. He doubted that they could have built one from scratch and it had been a long while since any of the classis Britannica’s ships had gone missing.

‘Could the lad find this island?’

Bran frowned in scorn at such a suggestion. ‘He’s just a lad. None too bright either.’ Ferox suspected the ‘lad’ was a fair bit older than his servant.

‘Do you know who the merchant is? No. Well, find out.’

The next morning was grey, and before long rain started to fall on them as the great gathering walked on, the main hill now coming close and looming over them. This was the first break in the weather after days of warm sunshine, and perhaps this was why the trumpets went silent. Neither were there drums when the dancers reappeared, and the lines of men in their animal skins and head-dresses whirled and stamped, and circled in an eerie silence. For hours the dance went on, and the dancers paid no heed when two priests led a young man into the middle of the circle. He had a halter around his neck and a thin circlet of gold on his head. For a while the two priests circled him, not dancing but pacing slowly. They were joined by two more and the old woman in black. No one held on to the lead of the halter, and the man wearing it stood and stared up, arms raised so that the rain spattered onto his face and left his long brown hair dark and wet. He wore a bright white cloak that reached to the ground.