‘Roxolani?’ Sabinus asked, holding the arrow in his hands. The medicus had managed to extract it in the hospital and claimed to be optimistic about saving the leg.
‘No, Dacian.’ Ferox took it from him and fingered the fletches. Their shape was as distinctive as the bare wood of the shaft. ‘I think we may be in for some trouble.’
-
THE ARCHERS WERE still young, the oldest barely twenty, and all three had spent the whole of the last war in a garrison in the far north west of the kingdom. There they had watched over a gold mine, and that was an important service to the king whose gold it was, but months passed, one year faded into the next and the Romans never came near. One of the men had shot an arrow at a bandit trying to steal a donkey. He missed. The rest of the time they watched and they trained for a war that never came. That was something the king believed could be learned from the Romans, who were so formidable in war because they spent the peace practising. Warriors called up to serve him from the clans were expected to train, learning to use their weapons, to stand together in line and prepare for the clash of battle, much of the time taught by Roman deserters. This was not the discipline of the pure, where all of life was devoted to excellence, but Brasus had to admit that it had great value. The biggest problem was that you could not train eager young men forever while denying them the chance to use what they had learned. So when the time came and enemies wandered into range, the archers had shot.
Brasus had known about the Romans soon after they rode to within a few miles of the tower, for he kept sentries along the treeline, all told to remain out of sight and some perched in the high branches. His men were keeping a good watch and in most respects they were obedient and thorough. The watcher had seen the riders and noticed that they had brought a dead man and were treating the body with reverence. To make sure and to try to understand better these men he must one day fight, Brasus had gone the next day, although since Ivonercus struck him as too clumsy, he had watched from the undergrowth on the edge of the forest. The Briton had confirmed what seemed obvious; this was a funeral of a friend or relation. They were not close enough to recognise them, other than to say that there were more Brigantes, more of Ivonercus’ kin. With great care they built a platform of wood they had brought and branches they cut. The warrior who had watched them said that they had gathered a great deal, and it seemed that they had enough for they did not return to the edge of the forest during the day.
There was no pyre, as Brasus had expected, and Ivonercus told him that his kin did not burn the dead, but raised them to the Heavens. That was interesting, and Brasus watched for longer than he had intended, given that these men presented no real threat at the moment. He watched as they fashioned the platform, saw them lift the corpse onto the top.
‘The soul must be freed,’ the Briton told him. ‘Then it can find its path to the Otherworld.’
‘Do they leave him there?’
Ivonercus was reluctant to talk about it, but when pressed at last gave an answer. ‘There are places in our homeland, places touched by the gods, where the boundaries between worlds are thin. No man visits such a place unless bringing the remains of kinsman or friend, so the treasures given to the dead rest undisturbed. Here it is different. They will let the sun rise and fall twice, and before the next dawn they will dig a hole and put him in it.’
‘So he will be buried?’
The Briton looked at him as if he was a fool. ‘By then he will have gone on his journey. All that is left is the empty shell and that has no value. They may just scrape a hole and chuck it in.’
Brasus sensed that there was more, much more to this, but did not press. The ways of the unenlightened were a curiosity and no more, so he fought down the urge to stay any longer or return and contented himself by sending men to pay particular attention in case these Britons wandered anywhere they should not or showed an inclination to defect. He sensed that Ivonercus guessed who they were, but when questioned the Briton had simply shrugged.
‘They might come over,’ he said. ‘Or they might not.’
So warriors had watched them, and two of the archers had used the excuse of a hunting trip to join their friend who was on watch. The Britons had let their horses stray near to the forest, trusting the animals not to run. Their faith was justified, but when they wandered over to collect them, the warriors had not been able to resist using the bows given them by the king against human targets. Each was a beautiful creation, the two arms curving deeply. When unstrung the arms bent forward and then when strung they bulged back, so that when a nocked arrow was released it was driven with great force and speed. To hold one was to wish to loose a dart, and for eager young warriors the chance to shoot at a real enemy was too great a temptation to resist.
At least they had practised well. All three of the first arrows they shot found a mark, two in the flanks of one horse and the other in the throat of one of the riders. Then it got messy as men panicked in surprise and animals bolted.
Brasus had told his men that there were situations when they must kill if it would prevent their presence being revealed. If this happened, then he had also told them again and again that no one must escape, for one mouth could tell as much as a dozen, just as two eyes could see as much as hundreds.
The three warriors had tried. More arrows brought down a mule and another horse, throwing its rider badly.
‘After that it was as if they were blessed,’ the oldest warrior explained. ‘They came back to save their man and we shot, but it was as if the arrows flew wide by some magic or if they struck did no harm.’
Or your aim wavered when the targets were not helpless, but coming at you, Brasus thought to himself.
‘One, an older man, scooped up the one on foot and set him behind him. The other threw a javelin at us – he was that close. He missed and so did we, until as he was almost out of range an arrow struck his horse on the leg.’ The warrior licked his lips nervously. ‘There was one horse still grazing, so I ran to it and jumped up to give chase. It proved a good one, and though they rode like Sarmatians I began to catch up. Closer and closer.’ He was warming to his theme again, recalling the thrill of the chase. ‘I reckoned that I had a chance so reined in and jumped down. I only had three arrows with me – the others had spilled from my bag – but I nocked the first and let fly. Missed with that, but the second hit the horse with two men on its back. Beast must have been turned for I skewered the neck and it dropped, throwing them.’
Brasus had not said anything, and simply waited.
‘Well, I was a long way out and on my own. And it was getting dark. Had one arrow and a dagger and there were still three of them left. So I…’ He hesitated.
‘You were wise to come back,’ Brasus told him, almost saying prudent until he judged that this might come across as a rebuke and drive the warrior to fresh recklessness in the future. Nor was there much point in telling the man that it would have been wiser still to have left the Britons alone.
The next day Brasus sent men to follow the trail of the Britons. They found both of the horses and not much further on the corpse of one of the soldiers, who had taken an arrow in the thigh. It was strange that none of his archers had claimed to score this hit and reminded him of his own chaotic memories of past fights. So much happened that it was hard to see everything, let alone recall it afterwards. Brasus’ warriors obeyed their orders and did not go any further, for there was too much to do. He had to reckon on the last two men getting back to Piroboridava on foot, which meant that the Roman commanders – this Flavius Ferox that Ivonercus had told him about – would send out patrols to search. With regret Brasus decided to abandon the tower for the moment and set up camp amid the pines up near the pass itself. As far as possible he got them to remove every trace of their presence. Better for the moment that the Romans not know that the king was thinking about this valley and the path down to the river. They would learn soon enough, but the whole plan relied on surprise, catching the enemy on the wrong foot. So today they would copy the archer and do the prudent or wise thing and run away. The men did not like it, but none protested openly. That changed when he told them to wait for him and set out alone. The oldest warrior, a trusted man and one whose past valour granted him licence, wanted to come along, but he was the best man to keep order while Brasus was away. Instead he took the archers, allowing each no more than a knife and a little food, as well as a few loops of rope. Their bows stayed behind and they walked rather than rode, staying always in the treeline.