They went out through the big arch. Vindex was waiting with the scouts, as well as a dozen singulares with their deep blue cloaks. There was a tall black horse saddled and waiting for Ferox.
Crispinus was impressed. ‘One of my uncle’s own,’ he said, nuzzling the animal until it tried to bite him. ‘Shame about Claudius Super. Do you know that he recommended that I be awarded the corona civica? Yes, of course you do. He told me. Not sure it’s much of a rescue if the poor devil gets killed so soon afterwards.’
‘It happens, my lord.’ Ferox grabbed a horn on the saddle and leaped, just managing to swing up. He guessed that the diminutive legate must need a mounting block or someone to lift his leg to climb onto the back of this huge animal. ‘Do not worry, my lord. The recommendation has gone in and it doesn’t matter whether the man who sent it is still alive. I dare say you’ll get the crown.’
‘Oh yes, I will.’ It was not a boast, merely a statement of fact.
‘Then you had better stay alive to receive it.’ A thought struck him, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. ‘My lord, are the games to continue tomorrow?’
‘To be quite honest, I have not the slightest idea. They might be delayed, I suppose.’
‘There are a couple of prisoners awaiting execution – two northerners Vindex and I brought in earlier in the year. I’d be glad if they could be kept alive until we return.’
‘I shall see what I can do. Good fortune, Flavius Ferox. You too, you old rogue.’ The tribune waved to Vindex.
‘Cheerful little sod, isn’t he,’ the scout said, as soon as they were out of earshot. ‘So just how badly are we humped this time?’
XII
VINDEX SUCKED THE breath in through his teeth, seemed to be about to say something and then decided against it. All of the men, Brigantes and cavalrymen alike, were just as stunned, so that they said little as they worked. It was the smell that was the worst, seeping into them until nothing else, not even the traces of smoke, the heady blossom or the faint hint of salt was left. There was just the half sweet and half sickly smell of cooked meat starting to rot.
The centurion had not died quickly. Many of the soldiers had been hacked or stabbed as the wave of attackers flooded over the little camp. There had been a lot of attackers. Ferox reckoned fifty or more men had come against Claudius Super and his escort, and they had got very close. The two Roman sentries had died without giving the alarm, so the attackers had crept up on them like men who knew how to use the night. Ferox no longer doubted that they were men, for he could see the prints of their boots, softer and smooth in outline, unlike the hobnailed footwear of the soldiers. Most of the prints were big, but no bigger than his own, and if these were large men, then they were not giants.
With the two sentries gone, there was no warning as the attackers came out of the night and caught the soldiers cleaning equipment, grooming horses and starting to cook. There was a cruel irony there, he supposed, for after they had killed or captured everyone in the camp, the men in the soft boots had taken three of the soldiers and butchered them as if they were pigs, cooking the meat in the great fire they had built. He was not quite sure whether all three men were dead when this was done. There were some innards still on the ground that had been chewed while raw, but that might have been by a dog or other scavenger. Claudius Super was certainly alive when they began to cut him. They did not want food, not at that stage, and the wounds to his arms and legs suggested someone with a good knowledge of how to inflict pain – even some of the Emperor Domitian torturers would have had little to learn. Candidus and the other cavalrymen may well have heard the centurion screaming, along with the other men, even though he was not yet being put on the fire. They burned him later on, and unless they just relished his agony, Ferox could only think that they wanted to ask him questions.
Ferox stood up. Claudius Super spoke no more than a few words in the language of the tribes, relying instead on interpreters. That suggested the attackers had someone able to speak Latin, unless they tortured a man without realising that he did not understand what they were asking. They had taken a long time about it, and for all his stubbornness by the end he would have told them anything to stop the pain. After that they had killed him, cutting out his heart and other organs and cooking them. Like the other human meat they had taken, they had only eaten some of it and left the rest for the carrion beasts and birds. It was almost as if they needed to taste something of their enemies, because they were not so desperate for food and had ignored the tethered horses. All but one of the animals had broken free, galloping away from the fire and the stench of blood and cooking flesh. The last one still stood just outside the camp, cropping the grass.
‘Poor bastard,’ Vindex said, coming over to look at the remains of the centurion. ‘Didn’t like him, but this… Never seen anything like this.’ His words sounded loud after the long silence. ‘Come on, the trail leads towards the sea, as you expected.’
The weapons were gone from the camp, as were the helmets, shields, and armour. Almost all the dead had been stripped naked, except when their clothes were so torn or thick with blood that they were not worth taking. Yet that was all, apart from a few trinkets. They had not taken cooking pots, food, let alone the horses, saddles and the blankets. Neither had they taken anyone with them, slitting the throats of all the prisoners they had not decided to eat.
They left most of the men to finish laying the bodies out as tidily as they could and covering them with blankets or the unburned panels from the leather tents. There were no tools to dig proper graves, so that would have to wait for a burial party to arrive. Ferox took Vindex and two of the scouts, just in case he missed something, and left the duplicarius in charge.
‘I do not think that we will be long. Then we can all leave this benighted place.’ The relief on the senior soldier’s face was obvious and no one could blame him. Men had done this, not monsters or ghosts, but that did not make it any less evil.
The trail was easy to follow, going almost straight and with no attempt to conceal their passing. For men so obviously skilled at moving stealthily in the dark, that seemed odd and made him nervous. Ferox led them carefully, riding ahead of the other three, searching for any sign of ambush. There was none. After ten minutes he came onto the sand dunes behind the beach. This time his mood was too dark to be lifted by the old smells and sounds of the sea. The gulls seemed sinister, and he wondered how many of the ones circling over them had pecked at the corpses.
‘That’s it, then,’ Vindex said. ‘Bastards did come from the sea. Got clean away too.’
‘Not all of them,’ Ferox said and sped towards what looked like a pile of dark boulders with a gull perched on the largest. Up close, it was not a rock, but the corpse of a man, his body covered in a dark cloak. Ferox jumped down, and pulled the cloak away. One of the scouts hissed an oath as they looked at the body. The man was dressed wholly in black, his face daubed in black apart from a few streaks where it had washed off. He was tall, his dark hair streaked with grey, although it was hard to tell his age with his face painted. He wore a loose tunic, but it was slashed over his stomach, so that they could see that he was wearing an iron mail shirt, the rings split where a sword had punched through. It was a bad wound, and someone had stabbed him through the back of the neck to end his suffering.
‘At least they got one,’ Vindex said. ‘Wonder why they carried him all this way, only to leave him here?’
For the moment, Ferox was more interested in the man’s belt, of heavy leather decorated with plates of much tarnished brass, with a few traces of silver decoration on some of them. There was a sword on his right hip, a gladius like hundreds or thousands of others made for the army.