They waited.
‘Maybe they’ve killed each other,’ Vindex said cheerfully.
Light spilled from the low doorway in the main hut. They could see a dark shape lurking there.
‘Go away! You are not welcome.’ It sounded like a boy’s voice.
‘Ah, the fabled warm hospitality of the Selgovae,’ Vindex whispered, the words dripping with irony.
Ferox ignored him. ‘Come forth, Eburus! We must speak.’ He thought he heard some discussion.
‘Who are you?’ the boy called out.
‘Ferox, the centurio regionarius. We must talk.’
‘I have guests already and no room for more.’ This voice was deeper and heavy with petulance. There was movement in the doorway, blocking most of the firelight, and then a spare figure unfolded to its full height. It swayed a little as it walked towards them. ‘Be quick. My fire is warm and the night is cold.’
Eburus was more than fifty and looked a good deal older. He was taller by a head than Vindex, but thinner than seemed reasonable, his bare arms like sticks and his neck immensely long and wrinkled like a lizard’s. The head of the household walked to the inner side of the causeway. ‘Speak! And be quick!’ He fumbled with his trousers and began to urinate into the ditch.
‘You know me, Lord Eburus.’ Ferox spoke over loud splashing that seemed to go on and on. He had met the man several times over the years, and once received the shelter of his roof and the warmth of his fire for the night. The house and its occupants were dirty and sullen, the hospitality sparing even by the thrifty standards of the Selgovae, except for the rich, deep flavoured beer that came in great bowls. Ferox was counting on the potency of that beer.
The old man seemed to consider before he replied, and all the while the flow of urine kept coming. The white-faced pony was back at the fence, watching and no doubt impressed.
‘I know you,’ Eburus conceded at last.
Ferox glimpsed movement in the doorway and raised his voice so that it would carry. ‘I have come for your guests. For Cistumucus and the Roman once called Rufus and their companions. I shall slay them tonight or take them as prisoners to face just punishment. They are murderers.’
Eburus blinked several times, eyes peering from his wrinkled face as if he struggled to understand. At last the flow of liquid stopped. ‘They are guests at my hearth.’
Ferox turned away and waved the torch. In answer the lights in the valley dipped once more. Banno repeated the short fanfare and this time Philo produced a louder, if wavering call.
‘I have nine Batavian horsemen with me,’ Ferox announced, facing back towards the old man. ‘You know their fame as warriors. You also know the fame of Vindex of the Carvetii, who stands beside me. Six of his warriors wait in the valley below.’ In truth there was only Banno, Philo and just one of Vindex’s scouts. Philo barely knew enough to pick up a sword the right way, and the scout had injured his leg earlier in the day and could hardly walk. Some of the Selgovae were bound to have seen them. He had to hope that the ill-tempered old man had not spoken to his neighbours in the last few hours.
‘They are my guests.’ Eburus sounded more puzzled than anything else.
‘And I must take them or kill them.’
‘They are under my roof.’ Eburus’ temper was starting to fray and his words were slurring. ‘Do you not know what that means?’
‘He is a Roman,’ Vindex said. ‘They understand nothing except iron to kill and gold to hoard.’
‘I make this offer to your guests.’ Ferox shouted the words. ‘Come out and fight the two of us. My men will not intervene. If they kill us, then I swear by the gods of Rome and by Sun and Moon that my men will let them go free and wait for two days before they chase. It is a fair offer.’
‘The gods of Rome.’ Eburus spat and then remembered to pull his trousers up properly and tighten his belt. He was unarmed and it was only now that Ferox noticed he was barefoot. ‘What if they will not come out? They are guests and have my protection until the sun rises tomorrow.’ The old man took a step onto the causeway. ‘I shall not command them to leave. What if they will not come?’
Ferox admired the old man’s pride and determination, and wondered whether Eburus knew or sensed that he was bluffing. ‘They must come out!’
‘Why?’ the old man said.
Ferox thought he caught Vindex’s muttered ‘Why indeed?’
‘Because if they do not come out and face us, then I shall put your farm to the torch and kill every man, boy and beast inside, and sell your women as slaves.’
Eburus spluttered with rage. ‘You would not dare! You would not!’
‘He is a Roman,’ Vindex explained for a second time. ‘They have no honour. Worse still, he is a Silure. Everyone knows the wolf people never let honour get in the way of vengeance.’
‘The gods will curse you!’ Eburus took another pace forward. Ferox simply shrugged. The old man was quivering, his hands twitching. ‘My kin will hunt you down and kill you.’
‘Plenty have tried,’ Ferox told him. ‘A few more will make no difference and it will not save you tonight. Ask your guests. Either all of you die in the flames or on our swords or they come out and face us. Then they will die or we will die, but you and your house will live.’
Eburus spat again, and Ferox felt some of it strike his face. He wiped it away with his free hand. ‘Ask them.’
The old man walked off, murmuring a thorough and highly specific curse involving the Roman’s blood, bones and guts. Finally, he crouched and went through the low door of the main house. Light spilled from the smaller hut on the left as someone watched them, but did nothing. Ferox transferred the torch to his left hand and gripped his sword, which as a centurion he wore on the left. It slid easily from the scabbard and he felt the familiar joy at its perfect balance. His grandfather had taken it from a Roman officer and given it to him when he was too small to lift it. The blade was an old one even then, for it was longer than the army issue gladius, of a pattern rarely seen since the days of the Divine Augustus. Holding this sword and knowing that he would soon have to use it brought a rare simplicity to life.
Vindex sighed and drew his own weapon, a longer and slimmer blade, and hefted the small square shield in his left hand. ‘What if they don’t come out?’ he asked.
‘We try to set the thatch on fire and then kill them one at a time as they come out.’
‘Easy as that.’
‘Not so easy. It will take a fair time and we’ll get tired.’
A bulky shape emerged from the main house. As the man stood, light shone off his shaven head and glinted on the blade of the axe he carried. It was a woodsman’s tool, not a warrior’s weapon, but this was Cistumucus, and he liked to fight with the great axe, though he was happy to kill with anything, including his huge hands. He was not tall, but his chest was wide and looked dark, and, even though neither Ferox nor Vindex had ever seen the killer from the north, they knew that he was bare-chested, for his body was covered in thick hair. There were plenty of stories about the northerner and all were dark. Men called him the bear because he was so hairy and because of his appalling rages. They spoke of how he cut the head off anyone he killed, boiling the flesh away until only bone was left. It was told that he liked to take the skulls to the far west and cast them into the sea, and some said that this gave him power or that he had taken a vow and if he did this he could not die. Men said many things and some were true and some were not.
A taller man appeared, and then two more beside him. Each carried a long sword of the style beloved of the tribes, end heavy to give appalling force to a downward cut. One had a small shield like the one Vindex carried. Behind them came a warrior with a spear, and finally one who was bearded unlike the others and wearing a shirt of small bronze scales that took on a red tinge from the firelight. He paused and wrapped a cloak tightly around his left arm. In his right he held an army issue gladius, of the modern pattern with a shorter blade and point than Ferox’s old sword.