‘Never heard of them,’ Festus grunted. ‘Are they some of your Britons?’
‘No,’ Cunicius replied.
‘We won’t take just anyone,’ Vindex added.
Ferox did not bother to say anything. For most Romans, even those who had served there, anyone from Britannia was a Briton. There was simply no point trying to explain that many peoples lived there and all were different. Vindex was leering at him, and not simply because that was his natural expression. It was hard to tell whether he was fishing for the answer or really knew that Ferox had been the first to steal the statuette.
The days passed and the laughter helped leaven the constant complaining. A couple of times men let things fall during their work whenever an officer, and especially Ferox, passed by. He was spattered a few times by dirt or sand, and narrowly missed by a pile of heavy shingles which had slid off the high roof of one of the granaries. They missed, if narrowly, and perhaps had fallen by accident. The men working up on the roof were only using ladders, not full scaffolding for Festus had declared the job an easy one, and the two Brigantes up there were not men he expected to risk killing him in public.
Ferox was more wary on the patrols out of the fort, although he loved those days for the sense of space that they gave him and the freedom from lists and reports. He went out more often than anyone else, usually with the cavalry, so that he could range further afield and get a sense of the wider area. Contrary to Sabinus’ verdict, there were people all the year around living not so very far away and more would come as the weather improved. Ferox had come up this valley almost twenty years ago on a long patrol, albeit in the summer, and now and again there was a view that he remembered. Memories were coming back, and he tried to fit them into place and learn all that he could about the locals. None of the officers at the fort showed much curiosity, let alone knowledge of these people. They were Saldense, as Sabinus had told him, and were not Dacians at all, but Getae, although few Romans would bother to note the distinction. The closest were the tough ones, the ones who lived in the area throughout the winter and they were neither hostile nor friendly. For the moment, his smattering of half-remembered words and the locals’ even thinner knowledge of Greek meant that the few encounters were short and conversation simple. Still, it was a start.
They had to build up gradually whenever a patrol included horses from the garrison, working on them to make them stronger and fitter each time. In March they did not go far up the valley, and instead tended to go down, where the slopes were gentler and the snow less. There were more farms down there, although the people were not much more forthcoming. Instead they remained wary, as such folk always were when any bands of armed men arrived, let alone strange soldiers come from far away.
A few horses went lame, and Ferox doubted that all would recover, while another bolted for no reason anyone could see and plunged into the river, smashing through the thick ice and being swept away by the current. The rider had leapt and landed well, but the animal was a pitiful sight when they found it, lying on the bank a mile downriver, forelegs broken and ribs smashed. They put the poor beast out of its misery and then cut off a foot as proof that army property had been destroyed – a practice followed by the cavalry in Moesia which Ferox had forgotten.
One man died on the next patrol. Sabinus said that the cavalryman had been showing off, and put his mount at the low wall encircling a ruined farm. The horse balked at the last minute, and the rider kept going, sailing over to slam into the ground. It was luck, simply bad luck, but he fell badly and broke his neck. In the days that followed there were more accidents, with a couple of falls and the mistakes with ladders, pulleys and other tools that were always a risk when you set soldiers to building and especially when you made them work quickly. One of the Brigantes even managed to drive an eight-inch nail through the hand of a comrade who was holding a beam in place.
A day after that Ferox took out another patrol and at one point led a dozen horsemen away from the main column to practise searching through the fir woods. Soon they lost each other, as was bound to happen. He was taking a chance and knew it, but his instincts were good and the man’s aim was bad. Some sense warned him and he twitched at the reins, making his horse lurch into a canter going to the left moments before the javelin whisked past and hit the trunk of a tree. The animal stumbled, almost fell, throwing his weight hard against the front horns of the saddle, and by the time he had recovered and turned the mare around all he could see was the darker shape of a horseman vanishing into the shadows.
There was the soft thud of hoofs on years of dried pine needles from behind and he turned again as one of the Brigantes appeared, a man named Vepoc, one of those who had been sent to the mines. He had a javelin in his hand and his face was impassive. Ferox’s cloak was around him, and he gripped the hilt of his sword.
Then Vindex appeared, from off to the side.
‘Hullo, who lost that?’ The thrown javelin had not driven deeply into the wood and was hanging down limply.
‘Not mine,’ Vepoc said, lifting his up as proof.
Ferox walked his horse over until he could grab the shaft and pull the weapon free. ‘No harm done,’ he said. ‘But time we went home.’
‘Home?’ Vindex muttered. ‘Oh, you mean the fort.’
Ferox let Vepoc ride behind them and before long they were back with the rest. None of the Brigantes or anyone else with the patrol was missing a javelin and no one had deserted. Rain started to fall and for two hours they rode back, gusts of wind blowing the drops hard against them. No one said very much and by the time they rode up the track to the main gates they all felt numb with cold.
Sabinus was waiting for him, and let the hood of his cloak fall back as he hurried over to see Ferox. The news was not good.
The ape was dead.
-
‘THAT IS FEROX,’ the Briton said and spat.
Brasus could see the centurion at the head of a couple of dozen riders. He was no longer surprised by Ivonercus’ hatred of his former commander. The Briton did not appear to feel much resentment to Rome, and his hatred was deeply personal. According to him the centurion and his friend had killed Ivonercus’ king and destroyed his family, taking lands from his father so that the broken man died in poverty.
‘And the pig Vindex beside him.’
They were too far away to make much out. Both were tall men by the look of it, even compared to the long-limbed Britons who made up half of the patrol. They must have been higher up the valley, which meant that it had been right to stay in the trees and walk rather than ride. The Briton had resented that, saying that it was easy to ride amid a forest like this, but had obeyed. He was being tested and he knew it. If Ivonercus ever wanted to be more than just a soldier for Decebalus then he needed to demonstrate that he was useful in other ways. So Brasus had brought him to help scout the Roman fort at Piroboridava – and brought two of his most trusted warriors along just to be sure. Fifty more men were waiting back at the tower and soon there might be more. The walls were to be rebuilt and the king’s presence in these lands restored. There was a plan. Brasus knew a little of it, and understood that the king wanted to learn more before he gave orders. The time was not yet right, but the first preparations were under way.
‘How many men does he command?’