Ferox looked at the mother’s warriors, some toiling at the oars, while the others sat between them. She trained them hard, of that there was no doubt, and they were fit and strong and knew how to handle the weapons they carried. As she said, she also taught them to fight on their own, for among the tribes a nobleman needed to beat opponents in single combat if he was to make a reputation. A little to his surprise he was less worried by the women, who were all that bit older, but apart from Brigita he was not really sure how they would fight. The queen had explained that the mother was bound by sacred oaths to teach those who were worthy enough to reach the island and survive the tests she imposed without favour to anyone’s family or tribe. She could not fight, for she was also bound never again to kill or be with a man.
‘It is a hard climb,’ Brigita told him as they came around the headland. She pointed at the next promontory, but they were so close that he could not see what was on top, apart from a tall thatched building above the highest cliffs. ‘I did it once and brought back an egg from the birds who nest in the crannies.’
‘Is there a beach?’
‘At this time of day there should some ground at the foot of the cliffs.’
The queen’s memory was true, although the little landing place was even smaller than Ferox expected. The cliffs towered overheard around the little inlet. Gulls cried out from their nests above them, but when Ferox looked up it seemed a long way.
‘I can do this.’ Bran’s confidence surprised him.
‘Then you come with me,’ he said.
‘No, I go first.’ The boy gave one of his rare smiles. ‘I do not want you falling on top of me.’
Ferox had climbed a lot when he was young, for that was expected in his tribe, but it had been many years since he had attempted anything even half as difficult as this. Still, he wanted to be the first – or now the second – up, because he was not sure what they would meet and trusted himself more than any of the others to cope. He had a rope coiled over one shoulder and had pulled his gladius around so that it hung on his back.
The first stretch was easy, sloping in rather than fully vertical. Bran bounded up it, and Ferox followed the boy as he got onto a ledge, worked along it, and then started to climb. The rock was dark, with a rough, pitted surface, but there were plenty of little outcrops, so that for a while it was not hard to choose the next step.
Yet Ferox had forgotten how hard work this was, and soon his fingers were bruised. He had little cuts from gripping onto jagged holds, while his knees were battered and scratched. He glanced down and noticed that one leg of his trousers had a big tear. Faces stared up at him eagerly, still nearer than he had expected, and he felt a flash of anger because they struck him as impatient.
Bran was a fair way ahead. Ferox forced himself on, but when he grabbed at the next crack, some of the stone came away in his hand and his raised foot slipped back to a ledge a few inches down. His heart was pounding. He took things slowly for a while, trying to remember how the lad had done it. His arms and legs were aching with the effort, he felt hot and he had a strange urge to relax and drop backwards, imagining himself splashing into the cool water. He shook his head, and was cheered when the next few feet were straightforward.
There was still a long way to go, but Bran was no more than fifteen feet from the top. Perhaps he should have given the rope to the boy in the first place. It was too late for that, and Ferox made himself keep climbing. The cliff was sheer now, and his foot crushed a nest as he stepped on a ledge. The birds were circling, calling out in alarm. He could feel the beat of their wings as some swooped close behind him. Something hot, wet and stinking spattered against his cheek. With white-ish stains of bird excrement all over the rocks it did not take imagination to work out what it was.
Ferox worried about the noise. It must be nearly noon, and he had no idea when the Roman attack would be launched. If the defenders were not distracted, then there seemed no reason at all why someone might not wonder what had upset the seabirds and take a look over the edge of the cliff. Bran was almost at the top, and the boy had stopped. Ferox hoped that it was simply to let him catch up and not because he had heard or sensed danger. He imagined black-clad warriors with spears, peeking from cover, watching him toil up the rock face and waiting to kill him because it was funnier to let him suffer first.
The last twenty feet seemed to take an age. Aches were now a stark pain in his arms and legs, every movement an effort. Bran smiled at him, the indulgent smile reserved for infants or the elderly and infirm doing the simplest thing. Ferox struggled on. The whole right leg of his trousers had split and hung open, his skin grazed and cut by sharp edges.
Bran moved, climbing the last couple of feet and peering over the lip. Then he scampered up and over and was lost from view. Ferox followed, muttering curses under his breath, blaming Trajan, Crispinus, damned women, and all the gods and goddesses for bringing him here. The stern silence of the Silures no longer mattered so much to him compared to venting his rage and frustration. He climbed on, the top seeming no closer, and suddenly the boy appeared, staring down and smiling.
At last Ferox scrambled over the edge. He was breathing like a hound after a long chase, and moving like an old man. Bran was crouched behind a wattle fence that crossed the grass in front of them. Beyond was the building, long and broad, but a lot lower than he had expected. There was no sound apart from the angry gulls, the wash of the sea and his own panting. He pushed up on all fours and crawled over to some boulders, where he sat, resting his back. The boy was puzzled and came over.
‘Shall I tie the rope?’ he whispered. There were some low rocks, but none were big enough to hold the weight. ‘You will have to move.’ Ferox realised that the only place was where he was resting. He smiled and forced himself up. Once he was standing it was easier. He drew his sword and went over to the fence. Peering over the top, he saw a patch of cultivated ground around the house and a couple of pigs rooting around for food. There was no door in the building on this side, and no sign of anyone, but the house blocked his view. He moved along to the end and could see more buildings dotted around the slopes below, and he ducked because a couple of women came out of one. They did not seem to have noticed him.
While the others started to climb he rested. Brigita was first, then the boy with the thin moustache, and next the brown-haired woman. With the aid of the rope, none of them seemed to have picked up as many cuts and scars on the way as the Roman.
The others frowned when they heard the shouting getting louder, but Ferox knew the barritus. ‘They are just starting,’ he whispered, but it was frustrating because from up here they could not see what was going on. At least it should keep the defenders busy, but as the rest of them came up the cliff the noise grew indistinct and certainly drew no closer. Between them they brought a helmet, cuirass and shield, which the mother had provided for him. It was a scale shirt, clumsy and a little tight, but better than nothing. The helmet was an iron legionary one, with studs on the cheek pieces, a deep and broad neck guard, and embossed shapes meant to look like eyebrows in front. He tied it in place, wishing he had the woolly hat as padding. The shield was small and square, and had a black eagle painted on it.