‘Aye,’ Vindex said. The Latin was awkward, though probably this time because there were not the right words. ‘Freedom and courage are great things.’
Shouts interrupted them. They had come over the brow and scattered a herd of pigs. The man and boy watching them showed no surprise or fear and merely watched as ponies reared or bolted away from the sudden burst of squeals.
The moustached warrior was carrying one of the tall spears and took it now in both hands, driving his mount into a canter, forcing it towards the scattering herd. He lowered the spear, point reaching out ahead and down, closing fast with one of the smaller pigs which fled in front of him. The horse balked, tried to pull away, but he checked it and went forward again, leaning to the right in his saddle as he drove the spearhead straight through the beast and then lifted his prize into the air and galloped on. All of the Roxolani whooped with delight, and the herdsmen just watched.
‘Do you want to try?’ Ardaros asked, as the fair-haired warrior offered his lance to Vindex.
‘Fonder of mutton really,’ he said, and was pleased when the translation prompted more merriment. He reached out for the spear and was surprised at its lightness. The shaft was slim, wobbling a little as he held it, and he tried to remember how the other man had done it. His mare was not keen, but Vindex had had her for years and they knew each other well, so that it did not take much tightness on her bit or more than a few taps with his heels to push her on. For the moment he had the spear upright in his right hand and kept the left for the reins. Singling out one of the larger pigs, which was slower than the rest and a big target, he swerved towards it, lowering the spear. One-handed it was awkward and end heavy, but with great effort he managed to hold it, arm bent at the elbow.
The pig was gathering pace, squealing in alarm, but he was close now. Vindex looped the end of the reins over one of his saddle horns and grasped the spear with his left hand as well. The mare was steady, keeping straight, and he lowered the spearhead, knowing that it would need less of a thrust than a steady hand to let the speed drive the iron into the beast.
The pig swerved to the right. Vindex reached, point chasing it, then his mare stuttered in her run, he felt his legs slipping from the grip of the saddle horns, and the point of the spear rammed into the ground. The shock flung him off and to the side to crash onto the soft turf.
There were more whoops of delight and amusement. Ferox passed him, a pig neatly skewered on the lance he held up.
‘Having fun?’ the centurion asked and then trotted away.
‘Bastard.’
Ardaros and the man whose lance he had taken appeared.
‘I told you I prefer mutton,’ Vindex said, and when the warrior translated his words the nearest riders cheered. The scout rose, sore, but nothing broken.
‘That’s a good horse,’ Ardaros said, for the mare had gone no more than a few yards and stopped, waiting for him.
‘That’s one mean pig.’ Vindex reached the mare and jumped up. The herdsman and his boy remained where they were, watching and saying nothing.
‘Do we pay them for these?’ he asked.
‘We do,’ Ardaros said. ‘For we do not kill them or plunder their homes. None will starve because of what we take.’
Vindex did not bother to say anything. These were not his people or his lands, and soon they were riding again, leaving the pigs and their owners far behind, apart from the bloody carcases slung behind a few saddles. ‘So tell me why they call the centurion Flavius the Bad?’ Vindex asked after they had ridden for some time.
Ardaros shrugged. ‘Because there was already a good Flavius when he arrived.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘And he is a life-taker. A taker of many lives.’
‘He’s a proper bastard all right,’ Vindex conceded. ‘But he’s a warrior and we all must kill to live.’
‘There are stories. Most must have happened when I was a slave, if they happened.’
‘Knowing the centurion they probably happened.’
‘One day five warriors swore an oath to avenge the death of their cousin and kill Flavius or die in the attempt. This was far to the east, near the mouths of the great river.’
‘I’m guessing it didn’t work out for them.’
‘Flavius was alone, and they thought they caught him unaware, sitting by his fire at night. He killed two when they attacked. The third he killed the next morning and the fourth that night, and each time he cut off the man’s head. The head of the fifth man was found within bowshot of his people’s encampment on top of a stake driven into the ground.’
Vindex nodded. It was easy enough to believe. The Silures were skilled at using the night, and Ferox was good even by their standards. The moustached warrior asked Ardaros what they were talking about, and as he explained the fair-haired one joined in the discussion and a couple of others rode over to join them.
‘He says that there were six of them – and another man says that he heard that there were eight,’ Ardaros said after a while. ‘Many tell the tale and much changes in the telling.’
‘Except that they all died.’
‘Yes.’
‘So,’ Vindex said, ‘your folk don’t have much cause to love him, do they?’
‘We used to know him. Some hate, some trust and all fear him. That is how it is and how it should be. Tomorrow morning any with a grudge may challenge him to fight and kill him if they are able. That is our way. If they do not challenge, then none may attack him for one moon after he leaves as our guest. The same applies to him. Flavius must challenge anyone or leave us in peace for the same time.’
‘What about me?’
‘What about you?’ For the first time there was impatience in Ardaros’ voice. ‘You are his sworn brother. You must fight if he refuses, do what is necessary if he dies, and then decide whether or not to avenge him.’
‘Just me?’
‘That is the duty of a friend.’
Vindex did not have more to say and nor did the others. They chased some deer, shooting several down, and soon after noon stopped to eat. The older chieftain drew his sword, shouting something as he spun around, arms wide, and then drove the blade into the earth. All of the warriors went in turn to the sword and bowed.
‘It is the symbol of their god of war, the greatest of their gods,’ Ferox said, appearing at Vindex’s side. ‘They revere the wind which blows wherever it wills as the breath of life in all living things. The air gives life and the iron sword rips it away, so they offer to both for good fortune.’
Already the pigs were cooking, the smell rich and making Vindex hungry.
‘Is this what you planned?’ he asked the centurion.
‘More or less. We’ll see in the morning. There might be trouble, so be wary, although you should not be at much risk. Should be fine as long as no one really wants to kill me.’
‘Oh shit,’ Vindex whispered. He was about to introduce Ardaros, until the man saw that Ferox was beside him and turned away.
‘He’s one of theirs, but still wary lest they think he is a spy of the empire,’ Ferox said, as if he knew or guessed who the dark warrior was. ‘No one is sure whose side anyone is on these days.’
‘Is that good?’
‘It’s how it is.’ Ferox clapped him on the shoulder, making Vindex wince from the pain. The aches were growing now that they had stopped. ‘I’ll see you in the morning. Probably anyway.’