Ferox went half a pace forward, his helmet held firmly in both hands, and slammed the edge of the neck guard into the decurion’s throat, driving into the little gap between his cheek pieces and scarf. The man gasped, head snapping back, eyes wide, and Ferox spun to the left, helmet in one hand and struck at Molacus, a glancing blow on the side of the face as he dodged. The Briton went back, raising his sword high, but Ferox was quicker and swung the helmet again, breaking Molacus’ nose so that blood jetted down his face. The man staggered and Ferox struck again, using all his strength and worrying less about aim. There was a dull ringing sound as his iron helm hit the front of the decurion’s helmet, twisting it to cut the forehead. Molacus went back again, and the next blow produced a crack as a hinge snapped and a cheek piece of Ferox’s helmet flew off. The decurion sank to his knees.
Sabinus realised that his gladius lay beside him and he snatched it up as he stood. The other Briton was clutching at his neck, swaying as he gasped for breath. Ferox had pushed Molacus down and was sitting on him, left hand clamped around the man’s sword arm and the other using his battered helmet to pound his face again and again. The auxiliary was coming, but as his fear turned to anger Sabinus went over to the gasping Briton and thrust his sword into the man’s belly. He felt the resistance of the iron rings, pressed harder, his rage growing, and felt the metal snap and the point slide in. The decurion seemed to stare straight at him, eyes desperate and imploring, so Sabinus pushed harder, using both hands to force the sword deeper, until he punched through the rear of the man’s armour and the tip erupted from the Briton’s back.
‘Sir?’ The auxiliary had reached them. He was a youngster, his confusion obvious. Sabinus let go of his gladius and let the man fall. Down the slope one of the riders was stretched on the ground, unmoving, but Vindex was also down, rolling and dodging the two horsemen as they struggled to reach him with their swords.
‘Give me your spear, boy.’ Ferox was up, his face, arms and chest all spattered with blood. He snatched the shaft from the auxiliary and ran towards Vindex and the others. ‘Mongrels!’ he screamed at them.
Sabinus’ hands were smeared red. He glanced at Molacus and wished that he had not, because there was just bloody pulp where the man’s face should have been. Neither he nor the other decurion were moving. Sabinus struggled to accept that for the first time he had killed a man. It had all been so sudden with no time to think.
‘What’s happening, sir?’ the soldier asked.
Ferox raised the spear as he ran to help his friend. It was a sturdy hasta, too heavy to throw all that far, so he pounded down the slope to close the distance. Vindex had lost his sword and cloak as he scrambled to avoid their attacks, but at least he was still moving and at least neither of the men had spears. From horseback it was hard to reach a man on the ground with only a sword – hard, but not impossible.
‘Come on, you mongrels!’ he screamed again, trying to distract them. ‘Your king was a pimp and a coward!’
They heard him. As one man reined in, his mount reared and for a moment Ferox thought that the rider might be thrown, until he recovered. It was Ivonercus and, like all Brigantes, he was a fine horseman. You had to give them that, and that they were easy men to like and admire.
‘Bastards!’ Ferox bellowed, not checking, but pulling the spear back a little more to give the throw as much force as he could. Ivonercus hesitated for an instant, and Ferox could sense his urge to charge and finish it once and for all.
‘Come on!’ It was Sabinus, leading the lone auxiliary, and perhaps that made up his mind, for Ivonercus turned and fled, calling to his companion to follow. Ferox pelted towards them, desperate to close the distance before he made his one throw. They were still forty paces away, and slowed as the horses turned. He gained just a little, left arm out straight to help, aiming at Ivonercus who was closest as well as the one who really mattered.
Then just as he threw, his hobnailed boots slipped on ice and his feet flew from under him. The hasta went high, almost straight up, as Ferox hit the ground hard.
Vindex cackled, trying to sit up, until the laughter grew too strong and he lay back down. Sabinus was waving Ferox’s sword high as he reached them.
‘Are you hurt, sir?’ he asked, his face a mix of concern and obvious excitement.
Ferox sighed. ‘Only my pride – and I’ve never had much of that.’
‘Shall I get them to muster a patrol to go after them?’
Ferox pushed himself up, brushing off some of the snow as he stood. The two Brigantians were in plain sight, although he doubted that there was any chance of catching them by the time pursuit was organised. The cheeky devils had even stopped to catch the two riderless horses. ‘No harm in trying,’ he said.
Sabinus sent the auxiliary running back to the fort with the message, as Vindex came over to join them. ‘Reckon we’ll see ’em again?’ Ferox’s expression made an answer unnecessary. ‘Aye, that oath.’
‘Oath?’ Sabinus asked.
‘To kill us both or give their lives in the attempt,’ Vindex explained. He bared his big teeth. ‘The centurion has a knack of making friends wherever he goes.’
‘This has happened before?’ Sabinus was struggling to keep pace.
‘Only a couple of times. Most just mutter among themselves, and probably not more than fifty have taken the oath.’
‘Fifty?’
‘Give or take,’ Vindex conceded. ‘And three less now.’ Taking pity on the shocked officer, he decided to explain. ‘They’re Brigantes and we killed their high king. Made his men a bit angry, you might say.’
‘He was a rebel and we were acting under orders,’ Ferox spoke for the first time.
‘Oh aye,’ Vindex allowed. ‘Still their king though.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Well, there is that.’
Ferox gestured towards his sword and Sabinus was surprised at feeling a moment of reluctance before handing it over.
‘Let’s go then,’ Ferox said and set off up the slope to the fort. There were dozens of men on the ramparts, watching them, so the alarm had been given, but he doubted that a patrol would be ready before the hour was out. He walked quickly, leaving the others behind.
‘’Course,’ Vindex began to explain, ‘many of the other lads may want to kill the centurion on account of his sunny disposition. As I say, he has a way with people.’
II
THE PRAETOR WAS in a hurry, as usual, but Rome was Rome, and the crowds saw too many magistrates to be that impressed by the pomp surrounding one. His lictors did their best, threatening when their mere approach was not enough to make people clear a path, and steadily they made progress, acquiring the inevitable tail of boys and idlers hoping to watch a few arguments or perhaps even a fight. The Flavian amphitheatre towered over them, quiet today – or at least as quiet as anywhere could be when it was surrounded with hawkers and stall holders. Rome was never quiet during the daylight hours and not much better at night, although after yesterday’s Lupercalia by rights everyone ought to have been subdued, if they were awake at all.
They pushed their way through, and as they began to climb the slope of the Caelian hill the crowd changed, thinning a little, and more and more of them obviously the slaves and freedmen of the wealthy going about their duties. Litters stopped to make way for them, as was fitting for the symbols of a magistrate, their occupants hailing the praetor with greetings and invitations.
‘Will you dine with me, Aelius?’, ‘May I call on you, praetor?’, ‘Best wishes to you, my lord, and to your good lady.’