The old man moaned. There were manacles on his arms and a slave chain around his neck, although neither were really needed. He was naked apart from a dirty loin cloth, and had no feet, just stumps, the wounds clumsily closed with fire not long ago. Ferox stared at him for a long time, his thoughts grinding slowly and with difficulty into place at first. The old man did not look back, because his eyes were gone, the wounds older than those on his legs. There were scars all over his face, body and limbs, some fresh and some healed.
‘Who are you?’ Enica gasped.
The old man muttered something that did not sound like words. Ferox managed to stand. His mind was clearing. When they had opened the trapdoor the raught had sucked the smoke from whatever was burning down along the passage. Now he was behind the fire he was breathing more easily. Beyond the fire, laid out in a circle around the tortured man, were objects. There was a cauldron, its sides decorated with scenes of war and sacrifice, and a spear lying on the ground to point at the man. Next to it was a skull, then a torc, a shield, a mirror and a helmet placed on top of a scale cuirass. Above them all, set in the wall, was a stone carved so that the three projecting sides each had a face. The Treasures of Britannia, and as the memory came he realised who the old man was.
‘Prasto?’ he asked.
The man stirred, making an odd gurgling sound.
‘Well done, centurion.’ Domitius came out of one of the inner chambers. Ferox blinked because he had not expected the trader. ‘It is indeed what is left of the druid who joined the Romans. Well, the one who did it openly, at least. But he cannot answer, because he has no tongue any more.’
Ferox picked up his sword, but as he leaned forward his head started to swim again. Standing straight, he went for the man until his knees gave way beneath him.
Domitius laughed. ‘It will take a while for you to recover.’
A scream echoed from behind them down the passage and the merchant laughed again. ‘It seems we shall soon welcome our other guests.’
The smell was less strong here, and then another stale odour replaced it, as a scruffy little dog trotted out to stand by the merchant’s feet. Ferox stared at the animal as he began to realise what a fool he had been.
Domitius did not appear to move, and yet somehow his face and posture were different. Acco laughed. ‘Welcome, prince of the Silures. Welcome, princess and queen of the Brigantes. You are both most welcome.’ There was a flint knife in his hand. He strode past Ferox, ignoring a feeble attempt to stop him, and entered the circle. Four warriors appeared. One was small and wiry with dirty red hair, carrying a torch in one hand and a club in the other. The others were not local, for they were taller, their hair stiffened into spikes with lime and their faces and bare torsos covered in tattoos. Two went to the cauldron, lifted it with some effort and then poured out water over the fire, which hissed and threw up a last thick plume of smoke.
The other two went to Ferox and one was carrying manacles like the ones binding Prasto’s arms. He scrabbled for his sword until they kicked it out of his reach. Then they kicked him twice, knocking him down as he tried to rise. He rolled away, and as he lay on his chest a boot pressed hard down onto his back. His arms were wrenched back behind him, making him grunt with pain. He felt the weight of the manacles and heard the snaps as they closed shut. The man standing on him pressed down harder, grinding his face into the floor.
‘Enough!’ Acco barked, and the boot was lifted away. Ferox struggled to breathe. Beside him he saw that Enica was trying to sit up, but her limbs lacked strength and she kept slipping. A warrior appeared on either side of her and she was dragged to her feet, arms pinned behind her back. Her belt was unclasped and it and the two swords clattered onto the floor.
‘Sit him up.’ Ferox was turned over and then lifted. His head was clearing and it was getting easier to see and think again. Enica’s head kept nodding and her eyes blinked again and again. She did little to resist when one of the men produced a rope and tied her hands behind her back. The same man then tied Ferox’s ankles together.
‘You must think I am very dangerous,’ he croaked. The warrior ignored him.
Acco knelt beside the blinded and mutilated Prasto. ‘Did you ever think that you could escape punishment? Was it just jealousy?’ He spoke softly, his tone was that of a parent disappointed in a child who kept on failing. ‘You know it was not, don’t you? This was your fate. You just thought that you were being clever. Yet for all your wealth you were never free, for in the end you had to suffer. You know that, don’t you? You cannot betray the gods and escape. This is merely the start, for the curse will follow your soul in the Otherworld. Sightless and footless, you will crawl along and all will know what you did.’
The druid stood up, knife ready. There was a shout and one of the Brigantes leaped into the chamber. He carried no shield, but his slim spatha was held low, ready to thrust. Arviragus came behind him, blood spattered on his face.
‘Stay!’ he shouted. He lifted his own sword, as his eyes flicked around the chamber. Crispinus came next. A warrior held a blade to Enica’s neck and the men went still.
‘It is true,’ the prince said, staring at the circle of objects.
Acco ran his hand through the old man’s thin and dirty hair, the gesture surprisingly tender. He neither looked up nor answered the prince. His fingers touched the empty eye sockets and the scars on the man’s face.
‘Drop your swords!’ Arviragus shouted. None of the warriors moved.
‘Your story in this world is over,’ the druid said to Prasto, and cut his throat. Blood gushed. For all his wounds the old man still had plenty and it splashed over him and onto the floor. His mouth opened and closed without sound, until he slumped down.
At last Acco deigned to notice the new arrivals. ‘You are welcome here, prince of the Brigantes.’
Arviragus took a step forward, pushing past his guard. ‘Tell your warriors to lay down their arms.’ Another Brigantian trooper came into the chamber, with Cocceius following. The lad’s eyes were wide with fear, but Ferox felt it was the Brigantes who were even more nervous, fearing Acco and his power.
‘That is not necessary.’ The druid wiped the flint knife on his clothes and tucked it into his belt. ‘Neither is that.’ He nodded to the warrior threatening Claudia Enica. The man lowered his sword. ‘You have no power here to match mine.’
‘We have five swords.’ Crispinus did not sound confident. ‘Even if you slay us you will pay a high price.’ He spoke in the language of the tribes, the words slow, but clear enough.
‘You do not understand, Roman.’ Acco’s soft voice somehow carried around the chamber more powerfully than anyone else’s. ‘But let me speak in a way you will understand.’ He had switched to Latin. ‘There are thirty warriors outside. I am guessing you saw them and that is how you found the courage to follow these two.’ He gestured at Enica and Ferox. ‘That is what you will think at least. For the truth is that I summoned you all. You know this, do you not, prince?’
‘Ferox, is there another way out?’ the tribune asked.
‘I do not think so.’ Ferox’s throat felt thick and it was difficult to talk. The draught had taken the fumes up the tunnel, which meant that it was the only way in, unless another door was sealed tight. He had seen no sign of another entrance when he had searched above the mound.