‘Where did he stay?’
‘Castus’ place, so decent, but nothing special. Had a different girl each night and paid extra for the best rooms and the bath.’ Flora’s private bath was one of the great luxuries of her establishment. ‘One of the twins saw him talking to that one-armed slave of Narcissus, and he stood drinks for a lot of soldiers in a couple of the bars. Never went to the fort, though, as far as I know. He was a man who was listening, and not here to buy and sell or I’m a virgin.’
Ferox smiled. ‘You are always as fresh and fair as one.’
‘Liar.’ Flora was pleased, which only made her more gruff. ‘Now go on with you. I have not had a chance to finish it all, but I will send a package to you later today. May be a help, where you are going.’
‘Am I going somewhere?’
Flora smiled. ‘Probably. At least if I’m any judge, but it’s no job of mine to do the army’s work for it and tell you where.’
That was one more mystery to add to so many others, although he had little doubt that she was right. He was still not much wiser about Narcissus, and whether or not his death was something to do with the attack on Vegetus’ slaves. Like it or not, he would have to sit down and write the report, doing the best he could. Frustration led him into a furious assault on the post that left it leaning an inch or so to the side.
Ferox decided that he had had enough exercise, and laid the sword down on the ground with the shield over it so that he could do a few last stretches and exercises before quitting. Just then a woman shouted, yelling at the children to come. When they ignored her, she stamped out from behind a nearby house and called again. She was tall, her round face marking her out as a Batavian even though her hair was a dirty grey and no longer the gold or red it had once been. Life in a camp tended to age a woman. One more shout and the children started moving, shuffling their feet to show small defiance without actually disobeying.
The rider had changed rein again and was cantering a wider circle, the horse tossing its head. Ferox reached up and rubbed his neck with his hands, wondering whether tomorrow he ought to try and do everything wearing mail and helmet as well. He froze as the memory of the fight at Eburus’ farm came flooding back. The sound of pounding hoofs was getting closer. He turned, saw the white face of the horse and knew it was the same one Rufus had taken that night.
Silent apart from the drumming of hoofs and clink of harness and equipment, the masked rider bore down on him like some statue come to eerie life. He was close, coming straight at him, and Ferox flung himself down to the right, hitting the ground hard and rolling. The rider pulled on the reins to follow, coming close so that Ferox was covered in dust thrown up by the horse’s feet. Thrusting across his body to the wrong side, the spear did not have the reach to strike him.
The horseman yelled, an odd distorted sound through the small gap between the tinned lips on the face mask. He was already turning, and the horse reared as it fought against the brutal drag of the bit. Ferox pushed himself up, realising that his dive had taken him away from the shield and sword lying beside the post. Even practice weapons would be better than nothing. He tried to shout for help, but his throat was dry and he managed no more than a croak.
The expressionless mask stared at him and then the horse came at him, slowly this time, the rider taking care. Ferox waved his arms wildly and after a cough screamed a ululating cry, hoping to frighten the beast. It reared, hoofs thrashing near his face and making him jump back, but the rider was still in control and Ferox had to leap back again to avoid the glittering spear point coming for his face.
Another jab, and this time he leaned his body out of the way and tried to grab the shaft of the spear. It jerked back, and grazed his left hand as the edge slipped through his grip. The rider swung the spear, the wood hitting Ferox hard on the side of the head, so that he dropped to his knees. Reeling, he managed to throw himself under the horse and started to scrabble across the ground. One heavy foot landed an inch from his face, dust was in his eyes, and then the animal reared again, and the rider dropped his spear as he struggled for balance.
Ferox pushed up and half staggered, half ran towards the post. The spear was on the far side of the cavalryman and he had no chance of getting there, so he would have to make do. There was a scrape of metal as the rider drew his long spatha. Ferox always winced when he heard the sound, and wondered why the army insisted on a bronze mouth to a scabbard instead of wood, which would not start taking the edge off a blade. Grabbing the shield, he turned. Disturbed by the motion, the wooden sword rolled away and there was no time to reach for it because the horseman was urging his mount into a canter. Someone was shouting and there were figures in armour coming onto the field, but they were fifty paces away and no help for the moment.
Rather than holding the boss, Ferox closed one hand on each of the long sides of the shield and he ran forward shaking it and shrieking. The horseman swerved to come on his left side, sword raised to hack down, and Ferox slammed the heavy shield into the side of the horse’s head. The cut came, but it was wild as the animal pulled away, screaming, and the blade bit into the top of the shield. It must have been old, and after the pounding of the training session, the wicker split. Ferox tried to pull the shield back for another swing, but the boss of the bridle ended in a bronze rosette, which had snagged in the shield. He ducked as the sword slashed down again, hands fast on the shield so that he wrenched it down with him. The animal reared again even more wildly and, tightly drawn by the bridle, the rein snapped, so that the rider slammed back against the two horns on the rear of his saddle. Then the beast rolled sideways and the rider was flung free, shield dropping and limbs flailing to land in a clatter of bronze and iron.
‘Hercules’ balls, what’s going on?’ A centurion had run up, a dozen soldiers following more warily. They were Tungrians, rather than Batavians, the tops of their helmets bare bronze rather than decorated with fur.
Ferox pushed himself to his feet, struggling for breath. ‘That man is a deserter and under arrest.’ Rufus, if it was Rufus, lay on his back, absolutely still, and Ferox did not like the angle of his neck and head.
The centurion went over and pulled off the mask from the helmet. ‘Yes, I remember this one. Always trouble.’ He leaned down and listened. ‘Not any more, though. Not ever.’ He straightened back up. ‘You four, strip this man of equipment and put the body out of the way. You…’ he pointed to another ‘…run to our praetorium and say that the deserter Rufus turned up and is now dead. Ask what they want us to do with him now.’ He grinned. ‘No one will shed any tears over that bastard.
‘You all right, Ferox?’
Ferox just nodded.
V
THE CARRIAGE ROCKED as its wheels skipped over gaps in the road’s surface. Crispinus stirred, muttered something, before going back to sleep, resting his head on a pillow jammed up against the back of the seat. Ferox was glad, for when he was awake, the noble tribune seemed utterly incapable of silence. After three days of questions, gossip in which he had no interest, and parades of the young aristocrat’s education, wit and insight, a few hours of peace and quiet were a blessed gift from the gods. The prospect of many more days cooped up with the garrulous tribune weighed heavily upon his soul. There was little choice, for they had assured him that he was not yet well enough to ride, at least not as far and fast as they needed to go.