Bran must be about sixteen by now, and it was an effort to see in the confident young warrior much trace of the boy they had captured on that desolate beach almost six years ago. He had grown, not so much in size or breadth, for he was still small even by the standards of the Selgovae. His tribe were not large people, but they were slim and much stronger than they looked in both spirit and strength. The Selgovae thought highly of themselves and did not bother to hide it, and he saw some of that in the boy, but far more, for his assurance was as much the mark of knowing his own skill. Bran moved like a cat, always careful, always balanced, his eyes steady and unblinking. If the lad drew the gladius on his belt then Ferox had no doubt that it would move as an extension of his hand, every cut and thrust fluid and practised. That was the training he had received in the last few years, taught by the Mother, that head of the strange cult living on one of the smallest islands far to the north west of Britannia. She taught a select few, boys and young women from the tribes, who passed her tests and survived the hardships of getting there and winning her respect, showing them how to use sword, spear or whatever came to hand as a weapon.
‘The Mother is pleased with my brother,’ Enica said, giving Bran a smile. Interrupting her education as a good little Roman, her parents had sent her to the island to become a warrior. ‘As she is of my sister.’ Bran had come with a woman a few years older than him, a Hibernian whose family had all been slaughtered in a power struggle within her tribe so that she had no home left to her. She had raven black hair, today coiled under a bronze helmet, and a beguiling, pale face utterly misleading in its softness. Her name was Minura and she did not say much, or at least had not done so far in Ferox’s hearing. There was a hardness in her eyes and the hint of great sorrow.
Vindex gave the woman another encouraging smile. ‘Aye, bound to be proud of you both.’
‘So am I,’ Enica continued, for once not indulging the scout. Minura and Bran both touched their chests, where Ferox knew the members of the cult had a tiny scar given by a blade. Enica had the same mark between her breasts and a moment later she pressed her fingers against the mail rings above it.
‘We have travelled and we have fought,’ she added, and it sounded like a quote, but Ferox did not recognise it so wondered whether it was from a song of the Brigantes or verses special to the Mother and her children. So far the queen had said little about their activities in the last few months. He suspected that it was all part of her scheme to secure the rule of her tribe once and for all. As things were, there was little point in prying, for they had little time alone and then she was not forthcoming in any way. He hoped that the knowledge was not dangerous, or that if it was she would tell him in time. That it involved death he did not doubt. The Mother taught remarkable skill at arms, but her children did not kill during their time with her and some never managed to do that well. A mere glance at Bran and Minura revealed to eyes willing to see that they had already walked that path. There was simply an extra edge to their bearing.
The man with them, whose horse had bucked when the missile struck nearby had fallen, was not helped by having his hands tied. Landing badly, his neck had snapped and he had been dead before anyone reached him. Neither Bran nor Minura would say much about him, apart from the obvious fact that he was their prisoner, and that they were bringing him here as instructed.
‘Later,’ was all that Enica would tell him, for she clearly knew all about it, but later had not yet arrived. Ferox had looked at the body, seen the hair dyed red and tied into a knot on the right-hand side of the man’s head, the thick beard and the pale grey eyes and the little tattoo on his left wrist. With his dark, almost black trousers and the striped tunic, he was clearly one of the Quadi from across the Danube near Pannonia. Yet he wasn’t just that, for there was the look of a soldier about him, something hard to pin down, but obvious even before he pulled up the man’s sleeve and saw another tattoo, this one of the she-wolf suckling the twins on his arm. That was the relic of some drunken furlough outside an army base. Too young to have served his full stipendia and too hale to have been invalided out, this one was surely a deserter turned bandit or trader or both. Whether originally one of the Quadi who had crossed into the army and stayed as long as it suited him or a soldier who had gone over the rampart and found a new life among the tribes was hard to say. He thought of the former slave they had met with the Roxolani. People ended up in odd places – like a good Silurian boy turned Roman centurion and stuck out here in charge of a fort, he thought grimly. Bran and Minura had not chosen this captive by chance, that was for sure, and must have been sent to fetch him and bring him here. Ferox had overheard the young warriors asking Enica whether ‘he’ was here, seen her shake her head and say, ‘Ah well, it does not matter now.’
There were mysteries aplenty, but for the moment the dangers they might pose were distant, and there could well be a real enemy waiting for them up ahead, so there was no sense in thinking about anything else.
‘Is Brigita well?’ Ferox asked. He had fought alongside the children and seen one Mother die to protect her pupils. She had been succeeded by Brigita, once queen of an Irish tribe, who had trained on the island in her youth.
‘The Mother cares for her children,’ Bran replied.
‘Sister, have you given the Lord Ferox the Mother’s message?’
Minura shook her head just slightly, and for the first time seemed abashed.
‘Come, it is what she asked of you.’
Minura kicked her horse so that she caught up with Ferox and rode alongside, staring straight at him, reins loose.
‘The Mother asks you to remember,’ she said, still gazing into his eyes. Then her left hand shot out and grabbed his shoulder, her right went to his chest, and for all his surprise his arms moved to grab her, until she kissed him full on the lips. Ferox pulled her body towards him, as he kept his mouth pressed to hers.
Minura started to pull away. Ferox held her for a little longer before letting her slip free. Her cheeks were red, although he doubted with passion so much as embarrassment.
‘The Mother said that I might be curious. Now I am curious no longer.’
Vindex roared with laughter, and Ferox smiled as he remembered Brigita saying much the same to him all those years ago. He was relieved to see that Enica was as amused as the rest.
‘Does that mean you’re going to hit me again?’ he asked, grinning.
‘I probably shall not waste the energy,’ Enica replied. ‘One of the soldiers can do it for me when it becomes necessary.’
‘Always happy to oblige, lady,’ Vindex announced. ‘Want him beaten up, just say the word.’
Ferox hissed for silence and raised his hand. One of the outriders was holding his spear above his head as a signal.
‘Wait here!’ Ferox told them and urged his gelding into a canter. He heard the hoofs coming up behind him as Vindex came up on one side and Enica on another. The bright green silk of her trousers shimmered in the sunlight.
‘You should not be here,’ he told her.
‘Neither should you, husband.’
‘It is too much of a risk,’ he said, ‘and it is unnecessary.’
‘No more than the commander of the garrison galloping headlong into trouble.’