Адриан Голдсуорти - The Encircling Sea

‘The punishment?’

‘I believe being torn apart by wild horses.’

‘We shall honour our pledges,’ the tribune proclaimed. ‘And expect you to do the same.’

‘We will bring the captives,’ the young warrior said. ‘None of your high folk have been harmed in any way. They will only be hurt if you do not give us what we want.’

‘Do you trust them?’ Crispinus asked after the man had gone.

‘They’re bandits, pirates, kidnappers and cannibals,’ Ovidius said, ‘and you wonder whether they are honest!’

Ferox ignored them and strode away, pretending not to hear the tribune when he called.

Vindex was waiting with a pair of horses. ‘The Red Cat has gone ahead to keep an eye on the lad. His brother is keeping an eye on Probus.’ Segovax was a lesser tracker than the famous thief, but still better than almost anyone else they had with them.

They led their horses until they were beyond the cluster of camps. Vindex had watched the northerner head to the north west, and after they had circled around two more big groups of tents and figures hunched under damp blankets they came into the open and found his trail. The only people out here were those defecating, none of whom were bothered by riders unless they came too close. They pressed on, catching up before long.

‘He is not worried about being followed,’ the Red Cat told them, and Ferox could see that the youth was riding straight across the fields, his horse leaving obvious prints. They followed for a while, and the path still led towards a line of low hills beyond yet another old mound.

Ferox reined in beside a copse. ‘Wait for me in there. Keep a good watch, because these are men who know how to move at night. If you have to kill anyone, make sure no sees you do it.’

The centurion dismounted and walked off into the darkness, heading at an angle to the trail left by the young warrior. Ferox guessed that they were camped somewhere among the hills, relying for safety on the rules of the festival. At first he walked, for the rain made it hard to see or hear any distance. Every now and again he would stop and crouch, watching and listening. By the time he could see the mound a long bowshot away to his right, he was still more than he moved. The rain came on even harder, making it difficult to see because his eyes and eyelids were filled with water. Gambling on this as cover, he jogged ahead, slipping on the wet grass more than once.

At the last fall something told him to keep still. Like any Silurian boy he had spent hours learning to move with stealth at night and he knew that a man’s fears could conjure up all sorts of dangers. He also knew that a man’s instincts kept him alive. Ferox lay flat on the sodden ground.

The rain slackened and he saw movement less than ten paces away. A man walked into view, moving slowly and stiffly. He was little more than a shape, darker than the sky, and as he walked there was a soft bump with every second step. Ferox guessed that it was a scabbarded sword patting his thigh whenever he moved that leg. It was a sloppy mistake, but he forced himself not to relax or do anything foolish. This wanderer might be nothing to do with the pirates, although he doubted that. More likely he was young and inexperienced. He wondered how many of the true Harii were left, and whether they had taught the rest all their tricks.

Ferox waited for the man to wander off, waited a little longer, and then began to crawl through the grass. Above him the clouds parted and a bright moon shone down, turning the landscape silver. He froze again, lifting his head as little as possible to look round. The man he had seen was a good hundred paces away, and there was another sentry a similar distance away in the other direction. Both men paced up and down. If they were clever they would have posted a few men a little back, lying on the ground and watching. Ferox went slowly forward for a dozen paces, stopped, waited, and did the same again. He was making for the lip of a low rise, up ahead. As he came closer he started to hear voices in muffled conversation. There was a dim light, which grew, and someone had got a fire going because there was a glow beyond the rise. It seemed that they were not clever.

It took a long time, perhaps an hour or a little more, to reach the crest. The camp was just below him, so close that he could see individual faces around the fire and smell the bacon or pork they were cooking. At least he hoped that it was bacon or pork, and could not help feeling hungry.

Ferox watched them for some time, making a careful count. There were forty-seven men with anywhere up to another dozen or so out on guard. There were no women. He scanned the scene again to make sure that he was right, but no one was asleep and all were clearly visible. He could see Cerialis, his hands bound, so that one of the Harii was leaning over and helping him to eat. Genialis was not there, and there was no sign of any other captive apart from the prefect of the Batavians.

Edging back on his elbows, Ferox went down the slope. He had seen all that he could and needed to get back. Turning around, he stared out across the slope and could only see one of the sentries. Staying on his belly he crawled and slithered on. The second time he stopped he saw the other warrior, squatting on the ground. It was an odd posture for watching and then he heard the man groaning and straining. Ferox crawled forward, taking almost as much time as he had during his approach, until he decided that he was far enough out to get up and walk.

A wind came from the west, sighing and hissing over the grass. Ferox was wet and weary, and shivered when the first cold blast bit into him. It no longer felt like summer. He tried to tell himself that the Harii had brought the prefect because they wanted to extort more for the rest of the hostages. They would make new demands for the release of Sulpicia Lepidina, thinking that handing over the prefect showed the Romans that it was worth paying in the hope that they would be given the lady next time. Ferox did not honestly care much about Genialis, and from what Ovidius had said they may anyway want the lad to join them, assuming he was the child of one of their priestesses. Brigita’s own kin may be ransoming her, or not, given the fall of Epotsorovidus, and that was not his main concern. Ferox tried to make himself think of the slaves and others they had abducted, but the vision of Sulpicia Lepidina filled his mind and his fears pictured her in torment or dead. She was not here, which meant that he must go to where they kept her. He hoped that Bran had found out more.

The man sprang up from the grass and came at him, hurling himself at Ferox’s waist. There was not time to curse himself for letting his mind wander, and all he could do was brace his feet and then twist as the man slammed into him. They both fell. Ferox was struggling for breath, but managed to strike with his knee and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. The man’s fingers reached for his throat. They rolled, Ferox on top for the moment, and he jabbed down with his elbows, breaking the lock the warrior had on him and staring into the black-painted face. Then they rolled again, and the warrior was on top. A shout came from somewhere else, and someone was running over to them.

Ferox punched. He had no real room to swing, but the blow caught the man under the chin and that made them turn over again. Ferox butted with his forehead, felt the savage impact and dull pain as bone met bone. The man groaned, and the Roman hit him again, full in the face, and his elbow pressed onto the warrior’s windpipe. Someone ran up, then gasped as the breath was knocked from him and he fell on top of them. Blood was wet on Ferox’s face, but the man who had fallen was dead weight, sliding rather than attacking, so he hit the man beneath again and again until he lay still.