All this Ferox learned later, as they rode north, driving the animals as hard as they dared.
‘Where are we going?’ Enica asked, breaking the solemn silence that seemed to envelop them all.
‘My people have a saying,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow for mourning, today for revenge.’
‘Charming, although I suppose it is apt.’
‘Let’s get back to the army and be with them when they take that revenge.’
‘Aye,’ Vindex growled. ‘Blood calls for blood. Where will the army be?’
‘Let’s head home and find out.’
Enica frowned. ‘Home?’
‘Close enough anyway,’ Ferox said, meaning Syracuse and he guessed Vindolanda, and soon they lapsed back into silence. The death of Longinus bothered him less than he expected, and not simply because the man had confessed to helping Sulpicia Lepidina betray him. As the veteran had said, he had survived, and it was done. There was no going back for any of them.
Ferox spent most of his time riding ahead of the rest, searching for the best route and trying to pick up any rumours from the few folk he saw. The murder of Audagus, the attempt on Enica’s life and the bloodshed at the tribal council was spoken of in whispers, and some went on to speak of Acco and the end of times. ‘Brother set against sister, friend against friend and kin against kin. It is not good.’ Everyone he met was armed, even if it was simply with a wooden club or stave sharpened into a crude spear, and many openly carried swords, shields and spears. Without the conspicuous helmet, the rest of his clothes covered by his cloak, Ferox could have been any traveller, at least when he was on foot. His horse with its brand and harness was too obviously an army mount. Several times he walked down to farms to speak to the occupants. They eyed him nervously, for a hard-faced man wearing a sword at his belt could mean danger at the best of times, let alone now. The call to war had gone out, and he was sure some would soon walk or ride away to muster under their chief, who in turn would lead them to a greater lord. Few seemed sure whether they would then serve brother or sister or someone else. That was not their place to decide.
Ferox saw no Romans, let alone soldiers, but since they kept away from the roads and the better paths that was not so surprising. On the third morning they woke to find snow covering all the fields, stiffening their blankets for they no longer had any tents. There was food for them for another day, perhaps with a little left, but the last of the grain was given to the horses that morning. The ride was hard, for they climbed to yet another high pass and the snow grew deeper and deeper until it reached the horses’ bellies. Most of them got down and led the beasts, half dragging them through some of the drifts. Gannascus walked ahead of Enica, stamping a path through so that she could ride. The German gave every appearance of enjoying the whole thing.
Around noon they saw a dark shape moving behind them. It was steadily catching up, until Ferox could make out the little figures of horsemen, with bronze helmets, heavy cloaks and blue shields. As they climbed into the snow, the riders slowed down, and for the rest of the day no longer gained.
Ferox pushed ahead once again, although the snow forced him to keep to the main track. The path led down, and gradually the going grew easier, taking him through patches of fir trees, still green amid the white. Rounding a corner, he saw two troopers walking their horses towards him. They both were on bays, had drab cloaks and shields covered in calfskin to protect the painted design.
‘Halt!’ one called. Both riders levelled spears.
Ferox stopped, and his hand slid underneath his cloak and checked that his gladius was ready to draw. It should not have been cold enough for it to freeze in place, but it was better not to take a chance.
One of men trotted towards him. The other came more slowly, riding around between the trees to come at him from the side.
‘Who are you, and what is your business?’ The man’s breath steamed as he spoke. A thick black beard peeked between the cheek pieces of his helmet and he did not look much like one of the Brigantes. ‘Centurio regionarius at Vindolanda.’
‘It is too.’ The other trooper had come out of the trees and was staring at Ferox. ‘Served alongside him two years ago. And saw him when he called on the prefect.’
Ferox sighed with relief. ‘You’re with Petriana?’ He guessed, for the man did seem vaguely familiar and so did the size of the horses. Ala Petriana was one of the finest alae in the province, the proud command of Aelius Brocchus. They were based at Coria, a good few days’ ride to the north. ‘What are you doing here?’
The one with the black beard glanced at his comrade who nodded. ‘We’re marching south, sir. With the legate. Going to sort out the rebels.’
‘Which legate?’
‘The governor, sir. They say he came by sea and just popped up. Someone’s certainly been lighting fires under everyone’s arse ever since.’ His comrade coughed. ‘Sorry, sir, forgetting myself. We’d better take you in, sir. The turma is back a short way, and the main force a couple of miles on from that.’
Ferox finally brought his hand away from the handle of his sword. He smiled. ‘First I have to fetch some friends.’
Brocchus pumped his hand so hard that Ferox wondered whether the arm would come out of its socket. He beamed even brighter when Claudia Enica was introduced.
‘An honour, a true honour. My wife has told me so much about you, my dear.’
‘Indeed it is,’ Neratius Marcellus agreed. ‘Especially as we had heard that you were dead. In fact, that you were all dead, even if we were more concerned about some than others!’ He arched his eyebrow as he nodded to Ferox. ‘Though I confess I might almost not have recognised you. A princess of the Brigantes in truth as well as a fine Roman lady.’ Enica was in breeches, heavy tunic and her Thracian boots, with her long hair loose around her shoulders.
The provincial legate had a bandage just above his right knee, and scars on his left hand, but neither seemed to slow him down. As the trooper had said, the governor had come north by sea eleven days ago, landing at the tiny fishing port of Arbeia with an escort of twenty of his singulares and half as many officers and staff. They had ridden hard for Coria, and on arrival the legate sent gallopers off with orders for all the posts to the west and south. They were to muster every man able to march, issue hard tack, wine and smoked bacon for fourteen days and bring them to Coria by the third day after the Nones of December.
Some four and a half thousand fighting men had marched south from Coria at dawn on the next day.
‘If the Selgovae or Novantae decide to be lively, we could be in trouble,’ the legate said cheerfully as a tribune summarised the situation for the benefit of the newcomers. Around the folding table in the legate’s grand tent were Brocchus, Cerialis, Rufinus, commander of cohors I Vardulli, who had shaved off his beard since their last meeting, and three more prefects he did not know. The tribune was from Legio XX, while the vexillation of II Augusta was commanded by its newly promoted princeps posterior, who nodded affably.