‘So they say,’ Ferox answered, and for a while they spoke no more while he tried to work out what it all meant. There were plenty of strange things in the world, but as yet he had never seen a monster, still less one that could arrange for a man to meet the northerners and guide them to their quarry. It all confirmed his suspicion that they had come to take Genialis, and it sounded as if they had been made to come by threats. That permitted a little sympathy, if not enough to make him regret catching up with them. The new moon had risen thirteen days ago, so whoever was being held and threatened was most likely dead by now. Segovax was not an easy man to frighten and was unlikely to have been bluffed by someone who did not plan to live up to their threats.
Ferox sat cross-legged by the fire, surrounded by the boisterous noise of the children as they chattered away, but for all his efforts could not understand why anyone from so far away would be interested in Genialis. Neither Segovax nor his brother were easy men to push around, and yet someone had compelled them to raid so that they could snatch the youth. Something odd was happening, and all his senses told him that it was not over. He wondered whether Acco was involved, but could not see anything that the druid could gain. After a while the sheer joy of the family swept over him and he simply laughed with them, trying to judge how much he must eat not to give offence, while knowing that they were poor and not wanting to take too much meat for his share.
It was dark by the time he was able to make his farewells and leave. Nudged by Brigita, the father presented him with a pale blue stone threaded onto a slim leather thong.
‘It is lucky,’ the man assured him, his eyes a little glassy from the smoke of the fire and the beer he had drunk.
Ferox thanked him, and placed it around his neck. Then he left and rode into the night. It was gone midnight when he reached the burgus, the small square fortlet with its single gate where he spent most of his time when he was not riding out. It was now the closest thing he had to a home and it felt empty and lifeless after the crowded and smoky roundhouse filled with the excited and happy family. The guard in front of the entrance was a little late in challenging him, but otherwise all seemed well. Another man, a Thracian who was almost at the end of his twenty-five years in the army, nodded with the licence granted to old hands and then rang the bell to announce his arrival. Ferox went under the gate, but it was too dark to read either of the painted signs fixed over the entrance, the larger one informing the world that this burgus had been built by Legio II Adiutrix, and the one above with the name Syracuse. Years ago, he had read that the Emperor Augustus had a room in the palace where he would go when he did not want to be disturbed, and that sometimes he would stay there for days on end, speaking to no one, working on great legislation in privacy or just pottering about on little projects for his own amusement. For some reason, the story had stayed with him, and it had been his little joke to dub this unimportant little outpost with the name.
The guard turned out, just two men because there were only a couple of dozen stationarii there these days, less than half the original garrison. The rest were asleep, although no doubt a fair few had just been roused by the bell and were now cursing whichever fool had rung it. The Thracian rang it once and did not keep on, which meant that it was not an alarm, so no need to worry. There rarely was any need to worry up here, for things had been quiet for more than a year.
Ferox dismissed the guard, and as he rode to the far end of the courtyard where his own quarters lay he saw glimpses of lamplight from the cracks in the shutters. There were no petitioners waiting for him at Syracuse, which was not really surprising at this hour, although Crescens assured him that a lot of people had come over the last weeks.
‘The usual things, sir. Cattle, sheep and other livestock allegedly stolen. A shepherd claims to have been attacked and robbed. No killings, though.’ The curator had come to his quarters to report and now held up the writing tablet with a detailed list of the claims. Crescens was in charge of the day-to-day running of the little outpost and the most senior man there whenever the centurion was away. Slightly built and very neat in his appearance, even at this time of night, he was a fussy, unsympathetic cavalryman eager for promotion, but had mellowed in the last two years and now treated the men fairly instead of parading the power brought by his temporary appointment. ‘Most people seemed to know you weren’t here, so didn’t come.’
‘Any news?’
Crescens opened the writing tablet. Although he ran the place efficiently enough, no one was ever likely to accuse him of imagination.
Ferox waved him down. ‘I do not mean the appeals. Is there anything else I should know about?’
The curator frowned. ‘A couple of men were sick with ague at the end of last month. Repairs to the roof of the gate-tower are still awaiting a supply of wooden shingles, supposed to be on their way. Also, the two new men allocated as stationarii have not arrived, but word has come that they are at Vindolanda. One is in hospital and the other under arrest charged with drunkenness, abusive language to a superior officer, and urinating against the wall of the principia. The man in hospital may also be charged if he recovers.’
‘Some high drama, no doubt,’ Ferox said, ‘or perhaps low farce?’
Crescens had read the words without emotion and did not appear to register the centurion’s irony. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, and went on to report other minor digressions or omissions of duty committed by men who were under his charge here at Syracuse. Ferox let his mind wander. He had had little hope of learning anything useful from the curator. Crescens was not the sort of man to sniff the air and sense what the locals or even the soldiers under his command were feeling and thinking.
‘Thank you, curator,’ Ferox said when the man reached the end of his list. ‘There does not seem to be anything urgent in that lot, so I shall bid you goodnight and apologise for having disturbed your rest.’
‘Just doing my duty, sir,’ Crescens assured him. ‘Happy to do it.’
I’m sure you are, Ferox thought to himself as the man stamped out. The curator was very keen to please these days, hoping to be recommended for promotion and sent back to his unit.
Philo had been hovering in the background, and now swept in with a bowl of warm water and a towel and a cup of posca, the rough drink of soldiers and slaves. The little Jewish boy was seventeen and looked younger. If Crescens always strove to be the epitome of military smartness, the young slave far outstripped him in his uncanny neatness. As usual his tunic was spotless and bleached so well that the white wool appeared to shine.
‘Thank you,’ Ferox said to him. ‘And now you can turn in as well. The morning will be soon enough for you to set about cleaning all these clothes.’ He could sense the lad’s disappointment, and after weeks out in the wilds both he and his clothes were a mess. ‘Go to sleep,’ he insisted before the boy attempted to persuade him. ‘I need to think, and I need to be alone. But thank you again.’ Ferox smiled to reinforce the words.
‘I am glad you are back, lord,’ Philo said and obeyed, going to the side room containing his cot and his few worldly possessions.
Ferox sighed once the boy had gone. Philo always made him feel that he was not really good enough to own such a slave, and even that he was so unutterably filthy and irregular in his habits that he was not really fit for human society. A philosopher might say that this was a good reminder that there was no justice in the world. A bone-weary centurion had not the energy to probe such ideas, so he washed, had some of the drink, and then sat on the stool and stared at the bare plaster walls. After a while he took the blue stone from around his neck and stared at that instead.