Something whipped past just inches from his head. ‘Stay with her,’ he called to the other trooper. ‘Keep her safe.’
Snow surged forward with only a gentle touch of his feet, and he steered the mare to the right, heading for the darkness under a patch of trees. He could see the even darker shape of a horseman. A second arrow came at him, and he ducked so that it flicked his shoulder and bounced off his mail armour. The Thracian was galloping, shield up and spear ready as he closed on the man. He was closer, but the third shaft was still aimed at Ferox. He swerved, sending Snow to the left, but a sudden hollow in the long grass caught both of them by surprise and the horse stumbled, flinging him against her neck, the saddle horns driving into his legs. The arrow scarred the grey horse’s back and she tried to turn away from the pain.
The horseman turned, shooting another arrow as he fled into the trees. It thudded into the Thracian’s shield.
‘Bastard!’ Sita yelled as he closed the distance on the man.
‘I want him alive!’ Ferox yelled. The man tried another shot, but the shaft went high and his own horse was going too slowly to escape his pursuer. The horseman dropped his bow and tried to drive his horse on.
The Thracian aimed his heavy spear with all the care and skill of a veteran, driving it into the square of the man’s back with such force that it came out through his chest. The man did not cry, and all Ferox heard was a grunt as the breath was knocked out of him. He knew before he got there than their attacker was dead.
‘Sorry, sir,’ the Thracian said in the flat tone of an old sweat who was not remotely apologetic, but knew that he could not be punished for it.
‘I wanted him alive.’
‘Think he wanted you dead, sir.’ A man with only a few months until discharge was not about to run the risk of trying to take someone alive. ‘Reckon he’s a deserter, sir?’ The dead man was dressed like a Roman in tunic, trousers and cloak, and his hobnailed boots were the sort worn by soldiers, and quite a few other people. On top of that, Ferox had never heard of any horse archers in this part of the world, or anywhere in Britannia, unless they were trained by the army.
‘Maybe.’
Ferox saw the Thracian looking warily behind them at the sound of approaching horses, but he had already seen the riders approaching and did not turn. Instead he examined the corpse. The man was of middle age, thicker set than most Britons – a Rhinelander perhaps?
A horse stopped a few yards away.
‘You’re late,’ Ferox said without getting up or looking around.
‘I got married,’ Vindex said happily, and that did surprise him. When he turned the scout was grinning broadly. ‘You trying to be a hero again?’
Ferox smiled. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘Someone just tried to kill me.’
‘Nothing new then.’
VI
THE WIND GREW stronger as the tide turned, plucking at Ferox’s hat, so that he took it off and tucked it into his belt. His hair blew in front of his eyes and he realised that he ought to give in and let Philo trim it. He laughed, startling Vindex and the two scouts who rode with him for he had not spoken for a long time, and then he gave the mare her head and she bounded up the hill towards the tower, racing at a pace none of their ponies could match. They followed, flecks of water spraying from the animals’ legs, and the two warriors exchanged glances because they were new men not yet used to the centurion’s strange ways.
Ferox reached the top some way ahead of the others and reined the grey in. The watchtower was to his left on the highest point of the ridge, a hundred paces away from a cluster of roundhouses where a family lived and farmed. The tower’s timbers were rendered so that they gleamed white even on this dull day. It had a black-painted wooden platform projecting so that men could walk out and see in all directions, and a shingle roof shaped like a low pyramid. Around it was a circular rampart and ditch. He could see a sentry outside the entrance, another pacing the walls and a third on the platform veranda. Such vigilance was admirable, although it did make him wonder whether the little garrison knew that there was a party of senior officers on the loose. This was Aballava, the last crossing of the great winding river before it opened into the sea, and he was here to meet with Crispinus, Cerialis and others to help them select a site for the camp they were to build.
Ahead of him the land fell away, fields turning into salt marshes and dunes and then the sea itself, more blue than grey even in this dim light. Ferox took a deep breath, drawing in the scent of salt and old seaweed. Seagulls circled overhead, seeming almost to hover as they floated on the currents of air. One swooped low, not far in front of him, and he watched it, marvelling at the elegance as it climbed again and soon was soaring away, screaming.
‘Nasty creatures,’ Vindex said. Earlier in the day one had dived down and snatched a piece of bread from his hand.
Ferox ignored him, lost in memories of long ago. The sea here was bluer, the hills across the water closer, but the scents on the wind and the gulls overhead were the same as the coast of his homeland.
‘Bleak, isn’t it,’ Vindex added when his friend did not reply. His two warriors caught up, glanced at the view, and remained unimpressed. One walked his horse round and stared southwards.
‘That’s a pretty sight,’ Vindex said. There was a herd of cattle in the distance, at least a hundred big brown cows and bullocks grazing in the fields, with herdsmen riding around and among them. There were a few farmsteads dotted across the plain, each with their own little collections of animals, five or six cows, a few pigs and goats, tended by each family.
‘Must be a big chieftain of the Romans to have so much,’ the other scout said admiringly.
‘That lot belong to this Probus?’ Vindex asked, and at last Ferox dragged himself away from the sea and joined them as they looked south.
‘Reckon so. He’s got the right to grazing all along this coast and for miles inland.’ In the last weeks Ferox had learned that Genialis’ father supplied the army with a lot of animals, from cattle for meat and hides, to mules and ponies for pack and draft, and remounts for the cavalry.
‘Who gave him the right?’ Vindex asked, his tone implying that he guessed. ‘I’m guessing no one asked these folk here whether they minded.’
‘There’s enough grass for everyone,’ Ferox said, hoping that it was true. Probus had gone to someone working for the procurator who had gone to someone working for the legate, who had gone to someone higher up and so on. A lot of gifts would have been given, a lot of favours promised, and then suddenly a great swathe of land was opened to a big investor. Probus had a dozen or more herds like this one, apart from all his other animals, and that was just his stock up here. From what he heard the man owned more herds near Eboracum and Deva, helping to feed the demands of the big legionary bases, and sold to the towns and villages as well. He also owned ships and traded back and forth between the Germanies and Britannia, especially up the east coast. Here in the west there were fewer ports, at least this far north.
‘He’s an ambitious man,’ Crispinus had told him back at Vindolanda. ‘Knows how to make his money work for him.’ That much was certain, but an air of mystery clung around him. ‘He’s supposed to have been a soldier, and certainly still looks like one,’ the tribune had explained, ‘but no one is quite sure when and where he served. Cannot have served the full term so must have been discharged, presumably honourably, and a decade or so ago he pops up in Londinium with a lot of money. Claimed to be a Nervian, and did not get the franchise until later, when a rich freedman adopted him and made him his principal heir. The freedman died soon afterwards,’ the tribune said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Just coincidence apparently.’ His tone suggested that he did not believe a word of it. ‘Ever since then he’s kept on growing. I will say this, though, the animals he supplies are pretty good, so he’s better than a lot of contractors.’