‘Lord?’ The old warrior was puzzled, but obeyed.
When the others had gone Brasus prepared for the last fight, cleaning and oiling his armour, sharpening his falx and a smaller dagger he would take in his belt. When the sun was almost at its highest he walked through the main gate of the fort and paced down the road towards the last stronghold. Brasus did not hurry and he had not asked for trumpeters to herald his coming. The Romans would see him and if this Ferox was the man that he thought him to be, he would know what it meant.
There was a murmur from the warriors up on the walls, and muttering and calls as those who could see him spoke to the ones who could not. Faces peeped over the barricades. The Romans could not have any arrows left by now, but even if they had, he trusted them not to shoot.
Brasus stopped at the junction between the two roads, ahead of him the scarred arch of the principia was filled with a barricade.
‘Come forth, Flavius Ferox!’ he shouted in Latin. ‘Come and fight me. I am Brasus, son of Cotiso, and one of the pure and I swear that if you fight me none of your people will be harmed. Whether you die or I am slain by your hand, you have my word that we will leave you in peace and go on our way. Let us meet as warriors, fight as men, and let the rest go as strangers!’
Brasus turned and shouted the same words back towards the ramparts, this time in the tongue of his own people. The old warrior was up there and raised his hand in acknowledgement. Then Brasus faced the Romans again and spoke to them in Greek.
‘Ferox is gone!’ a man who sounded like one of the Britons called back to him. ‘Will another do?’
Somehow Brasus had not expected Ferox to die, even though so many on both sides had fallen. Doubts filled his mind for this was not as he had felt it should be.
‘I will fight your bravest and best in his place,’ he shouted.
Brasus waited. There were raised voices from within the Roman compound, angry words and complaints.
‘Come, do you accept?’ he called.
‘We do, but please give us time to choose.’
Brasus rested his oval shield against his leg and put the point of his falx on the ground. His armour gleamed, but rather than a helmet he wore the tall cap of his rank to honour his opponent and because it was easier to see, hear and move fast without the heavy bronze helmet.
At last a couple of the barrels forming the barricade were pulled aside and a chill came upon him as the queen stepped through the gap. She wore a gleaming white tunic with a red border, felt Thracian boots and had her red hair coiled on top of her head. A small round shield was held in her left hand, its field dark blue and the stick figure of a running horse painted over it in white, but she wore neither corselet nor helm. In her right hand was a sica, like the ones used by his own people, but there was a scabbarded gladius on her left hip.
‘Don’t do this, lady!’ a Briton called after her.
The queen ignored the man and came on. ‘I am Enica of the Brigantes, called Claudia of the Romans,’ she said in fluent Greek, and her voice was softer than seemed right for a woman armed so well for war. ‘I am queen of my people and descendant of many women – and men – of honour and power though their names would mean nothing to you.
‘I do not wish to kill you, but if that is the only way to save my folk then that is what I will do, Brasus, son of Cotiso.’ She gave a pitying smile. ‘You should make peace with your gods.’
‘Lady, I live to prepare for death and ascent.’
The woman’s eyes never left him as she began to walk in a slow circle. Lightly clad and smaller than her opponent, she must have decided that speed was her best chance. Well, let her think that. There was no honour in killing a woman, but this was no mere woman but a queen, and just the way she balanced each step and held blade and shield poised and ready showed a warrior of rare skill. Her magic had held this place against their attacks, so perhaps this was the most fitting way for it to end. Brasus did not relish killing her, but this was his task and once it was done, he could send his men away and then take his own knife, place it against his throat and free his soul. Thus it would be.
Brasus had his shield up, his falx held one-handed like an ordinary sword. That gave the blows less power while retaining its reach. Still they circled, watching. He took two paces forward, falx high, but she gave way the same distance, then followed as he in turn retreated. She was fast.
Enica glanced to one side, and even when he did not take the bait, came on, slashing with her sword. He parried the blow on his shield, swung the flax, but the queen had danced out of the way and her sica moved as fast as the storm’s lightning and came under his shield to strike low on his armour. A scale snapped, but the tip of the blade did not go through the padded jerkin onto which it was sewn.
They clashed again, twice, with no more than splinters from shields and light blows that did not break through his armour. When they were close Brasus saw that there was a livid red bruise on the queen’s cheek and that one of her eyes was darkened. The sight was oddly unnerving, for such blemishes did not belong to the queen, let alone the demon or the witch she had become in his mind.
Brasus’ back was slick with sweat for the day was hot, a day for a man to sit in the shade by a stream and dream of love and long life.
Brasus threw his shield at the queen, forcing her back and making her slash wildly to push it away. He took his falx in both hands and went at her, cutting down and slicing a quarter of her shield from the left side. A great sigh went up from the watching Romans, until she ducked, running towards him, dodging a second strike by the falx and slashing so hard at his side that scales split and he felt the edge bite into his flesh. She was past him and he turned to face her, his thigh wet as the blood flowed down.
The Romans cheered and Brasus roared, falx high, feinted a blow at her shield so that she raised it, then switched to the other side and brought it slamming down. The woman raised her curved sword to protect her head and there was a clang as the blade was snapped by the much heavier falx. Someone screamed from behind the barricade as she only just pulled out of the way. She flung the stump of the blade at his face, but he batted it away with the falx. Many hours of training over many years let him wield the great weapon with the speed of a light stick. He stamped forward, slashing down, and the rest of her shield fell into pieces.
The queen jumped back. Her left arm hung loosely at her side, numbed or even broken, but her right grasped the handle of the gladius and drew it. Brasus’ trouser leg was wet with his own blood, but his strength was still there and the pain seemed to have gone. He went forward, cutting down to the left and then to the right, but always she dodged and he turned too fast for her to reach him with her short sword. He was struggling for breath, sweat in his eyes. She was tired too, her tunic clinging to her body.
The queen lunged at him, ducking under the falx, diving to the ground and then pushing up to hurl herself at his legs. He hissed as the wound throbbed, but she was smaller and lighter and the force did not knock him down, although he was forced back, sliding in the dirt. He let go with his left hand and grabbed hold of her hair to hurl her away. She squealed, an oddly childlike sound, her sword fell and she landed on her back. It was over.