Адриан Голдсуорти - The Encircling Sea

‘Back!’ Crispinus yelled, making up his mind. ‘Back down the ladders.’

They did not want to go. Partly it was because they feared the time it would take for them to climb down, and having to get over the parapet and be vulnerable to missiles, but mainly it was anger and pride. They had taken the wall from a hated enemy and they did not want to give it up.

‘You.’ Crispinus grabbed the closest marine by the arm. ‘Over the wall and back down the ladder. Now!’ The man nodded, then his head jerked to the side as a rock hit his helmet. He sank down.

‘You, lad.’ The tribune pointed at the next man. ‘Over you go.’ A javelin struck the wall near him, but the marine got over and then dropped his shield to make it easier to descend.

‘Go on, all of you.’ Crispinus’ shield rocked in his grip as a javelin struck the wooden boards before falling back. He had decided that he must be the last one down. The marines were moving now, but they seemed slow, so slow. He crouched, sheltering as much of his body behind his shield as he could. He glanced to the side, and now that men were going back he glimpsed the Batavians further along and realised that their attack had stalled in the same way.

Crispinus hoped that Cerialis would have the sense to order a retreat. A stone banged against his shield, and the tribune hoped even more that his life was not about to end here, on an old rampart on an island that seemed to have no name – or at least no name a civilised man would recognise. Up on the higher wall a great chorus of whistles blew and there were mocking shouts.

THE BOAT ROSE over a wave, a spray of cold water drenching the rowers and passengers alike, and Ferox sat in the stern, trying to remember what it was like to be young. As he stared at the taut faces of the warriors, it was their lack of years that he saw more than anything else. They had something of Brigita’s confident assurance, and he could remember that it was so much easier to believe yourself invulnerable and invincible before the world had knocked such nonsense out of you.

They were not soldiers. You could take twenty tirones , looking nervous and lost as they paraded in ill-fitting uniforms and uncomfortable armour, and over time you could teach them their trade. One or two would never be any good, and it was better for all concerned if they deserted or were found some job in the camp that would keep them out of the way. Most would shape up well enough, looking and acting like soldiers and more or less reliable. A few turned into the real fighters, the men who would go first, who had the knack not simply of staying alive but of killing. Anyone who had served in the army for a while and trained recruits would know this, just as they would know that it was not always obvious which of the raw lads would fall into each category. He had heard that it was much the same with gladiators. Even when they had no choice about fighting, some of the most promising looking ones were never any good.

Ferox looked at the mother’s warriors, some toiling at the oars, while the others sat between them. She trained them hard, of that there was no doubt, and they were fit and strong and knew how to handle the weapons they carried. As she said, she also taught them to fight on their own, for among the tribes a nobleman needed to beat opponents in single combat if he was to make a reputation. A little to his surprise he was less worried by the women, who were all that bit older, but apart from Brigita he was not really sure how they would fight. The queen had explained that the mother was bound by sacred oaths to teach those who were worthy enough to reach the island and survive the tests she imposed without favour to anyone’s family or tribe. She could not fight, for she was also bound never again to kill or be with a man.

‘It is a hard climb,’ Brigita told him as they came around the headland. She pointed at the next promontory, but they were so close that he could not see what was on top, apart from a tall thatched building above the highest cliffs. ‘I did it once and brought back an egg from the birds who nest in the crannies.’

‘Is there a beach?’

‘At this time of day there should some ground at the foot of the cliffs.’

The queen’s memory was true, although the little landing place was even smaller than Ferox expected. The cliffs towered overheard around the little inlet. Gulls cried out from their nests above them, but when Ferox looked up it seemed a long way.

‘I can do this.’ Bran’s confidence surprised him.

‘Then you come with me,’ he said.

‘No, I go first.’ The boy gave one of his rare smiles. ‘I do not want you falling on top of me.’

Ferox had climbed a lot when he was young, for that was expected in his tribe, but it had been many years since he had attempted anything even half as difficult as this. Still, he wanted to be the first – or now the second – up, because he was not sure what they would meet and trusted himself more than any of the others to cope. He had a rope coiled over one shoulder and had pulled his gladius around so that it hung on his back.

The first stretch was easy, sloping in rather than fully vertical. Bran bounded up it, and Ferox followed the boy as he got onto a ledge, worked along it, and then started to climb. The rock was dark, with a rough, pitted surface, but there were plenty of little outcrops, so that for a while it was not hard to choose the next step.

Yet Ferox had forgotten how hard work this was, and soon his fingers were bruised. He had little cuts from gripping onto jagged holds, while his knees were battered and scratched. He glanced down and noticed that one leg of his trousers had a big tear. Faces stared up at him eagerly, still nearer than he had expected, and he felt a flash of anger because they struck him as impatient.

Bran was a fair way ahead. Ferox forced himself on, but when he grabbed at the next crack, some of the stone came away in his hand and his raised foot slipped back to a ledge a few inches down. His heart was pounding. He took things slowly for a while, trying to remember how the lad had done it. His arms and legs were aching with the effort, he felt hot and he had a strange urge to relax and drop backwards, imagining himself splashing into the cool water. He shook his head, and was cheered when the next few feet were straightforward.

There was still a long way to go, but Bran was no more than fifteen feet from the top. Perhaps he should have given the rope to the boy in the first place. It was too late for that, and Ferox made himself keep climbing. The cliff was sheer now, and his foot crushed a nest as he stepped on a ledge. The birds were circling, calling out in alarm. He could feel the beat of their wings as some swooped close behind him. Something hot, wet and stinking spattered against his cheek. With white-ish stains of bird excrement all over the rocks it did not take imagination to work out what it was.

Ferox worried about the noise. It must be nearly noon, and he had no idea when the Roman attack would be launched. If the defenders were not distracted, then there seemed no reason at all why someone might not wonder what had upset the seabirds and take a look over the edge of the cliff. Bran was almost at the top, and the boy had stopped. Ferox hoped that it was simply to let him catch up and not because he had heard or sensed danger. He imagined black-clad warriors with spears, peeking from cover, watching him toil up the rock face and waiting to kill him because it was funnier to let him suffer first.

The last twenty feet seemed to take an age. Aches were now a stark pain in his arms and legs, every movement an effort. Bran smiled at him, the indulgent smile reserved for infants or the elderly and infirm doing the simplest thing. Ferox struggled on. The whole right leg of his trousers had split and hung open, his skin grazed and cut by sharp edges.