At first Sabinus had put this down to the overactive imaginations of superstitious soldiers but, after Claudius’ departure, he led his legion further inland for the final month of the campaigning season and had felt something that he had never been aware of anywhere else. He could only describe it as an ancient presence. That — and the disembodied howls and cries that plagued their nights — had convinced him that there was a power here that he did not understand; a power that was linked to the land where, no matter how strongly he was protected by the light of his lord Mithras, he was an interloper.
The following year they had carried on moving slowly inland, investing hill-forts one by one and fighting off raids on their supply lines and ambushes on their columns by Caratacus’ warriors. The further they went the greater grew his feeling of unease and it was almost with relief that he withdrew his legion back south to their winter quarters on the Tamesis at the end of that season. He had brought up the subject with Vespasian last month, when the legates had met with Plautius at Camulodunum to discuss the next season’s campaign, but his brother had dismissed his fears as soldiers’ yarns; and yet there had been a look in his eyes that had led Sabinus to believe that he too felt a similar unease.
Sabinus tried to put his worries to one side as the column rode on slowly across the plain studded with tufts of rough grass. The breeze strengthened, shifting the fog, tugging it this way and that in wispy tendrils so that occasionally visibility improved enough to see the way ahead until, a few moments later, another gust would cause their view to be clouded again.
To force his mind away from the superstitious depths that the eerie conditions had taken it to, Sabinus glanced sidelong at Alienus and studied him. He noticed a ruddiness to his cheeks and a certain stubbiness to his nose and, although his face was quite slender, he thought that his family must have some Celtic blood. That would explain his cognomen, Alienus: foreigner. But then, he reflected, what family from northern or, for that matter, central Italia did not? His own roundish face and bulbous nose could hardly be described as classically Latin. ‘Are your people from the north of Italia, Alienus?’
‘Hmm?’ The young tribune blinked his eyes as if emerging from a private reverie. ‘I’m sorry, sir, what did you say?’
Sabinus repeated the question.
‘No, sir; I’m from the south coast of Britannia. I’m the grandson of Verica, King of the confederated tribes of the Atrebates and the Regni. My Britannic name is also Verica after my grandfather.’
Sabinus was surprised. ‘Your Latin is excellent.’
‘Thank you, sir. My grandfather fled to Rome five years ago, after Caratacus had dispossessed him of his kingdom, and he took me with him. Like all Britannic princes in the south, I’d already had a good education in Latin and so I soon became fluent.’
‘And Claudius granted you citizenship?’
‘Yes, and equestrian rank. I took the name Tiberius Claudius and then added the cognomen Alienus because it amused me and so I became Roman as my grandfather wanted. General Plautius took me onto his staff as a favour to him so that I could begin to make my way up the various offices and perhaps even become a senator. I’d be the first Briton to do so.’
Sabinus nodded his approval at this thoroughly Roman ambition. ‘I was sorry to hear of Verica’s death. Just last month, wasn’t it?’
‘He was old and expected to die; he had no regrets. He’d reclaimed his kingdom, been made a formal client-king of Rome and had ensured a strong heir in his nephew, Cogidubnus.’
‘Why not his grandson?’
Alienus smiled. ‘He said I was too young, the people wouldn’t accept me and I understand that: how could a nineteen-year-old who hasn’t been seen by his people in five years rule? Cogidubnus is also seen as a man who stood up to Rome before he was subdued by her; I on the other hand am seen as a man who voluntarily joined Rome’s legions.’
‘So you’ll go to Rome after you’ve …’ A freshening gust cleared the fog around them, momentarily unveiling a burial mound not ten paces away to the left; the words died in Sabinus’ throat as the breeze blew the vapour back, shrouding the tomb once again but leaving its image burnt in his mind.
Dark murmurs and muttering came from the column behind — clearly he had not been the only one to witness the ill-omened sight. When he glanced back he saw more than a few of the troopers had their thumbs clutched in their right hands and were spitting on the ground to avert the evil-eye. A barked order from decurion Atilius brought his men back to order but the damage to their already fragile morale was done and they cast nervous looks to either side as the thinning fog billowed around them, fearful as to what it might reveal next. Amongst the Romans only Alienus seemed unruffled by travelling so close to the mound, which struck Sabinus as odd seeing as he had shown a natural disinclination to remain too long in the vicinity of the Lost Dead.
Another swirl in the fog, up ahead, drove that thought from Sabinus’ mind; his heart skipped a beat. A giant’s leg, solid and broad, appeared in their path as if the monster had taken a great step towards them and planted it there that instant — yet there had been no trembling of the earth and no booming report of the footstep. Then the second leg materialised through the miasma, equally silent. Shocked troopers hauled on their mounts’ reins, causing many to rear and whinny, shattering the silence. Sabinus looked up in alarm; the lower torso was becoming visible but above the waist was still lost in the fog. Another leg on either side emerged; there were at least three of the monstrosities lined against them.
Sabinus drew his sword and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Atilius, form two lines. Stay together!’ he bellowed at his escort as panic mounted. Turning back to face the threat, he gasped; the breeze stiffened; more legs appeared to either side and they were all connected by one long lower abdomen that was not flesh and bone but stone — cut and shaped stone slabs of great magnitude. Sabinus realised that he was gazing at a henge, a stone henge; the biggest that he had seen.
Calming his horse he turned to the guide to find him missing. ‘Shit! Alienus?’ He could see no sign of the young tribune either. Behind him the decurion was managing to restore some order amongst the troopers. Then, to his left, Sabinus glimpsed two horses galloping away through the mist; as they disappeared, spectral figures materialised, moving towards them, now visible, now not. He felt cold dread rise in his belly; that glimpse of movement had not been a figment of a wild imagination. He looked the other way; scores more of the ethereal shapes, indistinct in the eddying mist, seeming to glide over the veiled ground, were heading their way.
They were surrounded.
When the first slingshots cracked into the turma from both sides, Sabinus felt an illogical relief: it was not the Lost Dead that faced them but men, live men who could be fought and killed.
The screaming started; but it was bestial, not human. The slingers were aiming low, at the horses’ legs; they had not come to deal out death, Sabinus realised, but to take captives.
‘Atilius!’ Sabinus roared, pointing his sword north, back the way they came. ‘Our only chance is to ride through them together.’
Atilius yelled at his men to turn; the turma struggled to form line in the hail of shot thwacking in from both sides. Five horses were already down, writhing in shattered-bone agony, their dismounted riders, screaming, struggling to clamber up behind one of their comrades. Two more horses fell thrashing to the ground, hurling one trooper clear but crushing the other; he lay still, his head at an unnatural angle. The unseated man rose shakily to his feet to be punched back, with a sharp howl, arms flailing, body arced over buckled knees, crashing to the ground with a pulped hole where his nose had been.