Aelius Brocchus was also among the wounded, although not so seriously, and none of the senior officers had been killed. The centurions had suffered more, as they always did, for their place was in front. A quarter were dead, half wounded, and the remainder struggling to run the units. Overall there were one hundred and fifty-two dead and almost double that number wounded. The Britons had lost a thousand dead, and another thousand too badly wounded to crawl or be carried away, who would be killed as soon as they were found by the parties of soldiers sent out on that grim duty.
Ferox was glad to leave the stench and the cawing of ecstatic crows behind. Vindex came with him, refusing to stay in spite of a nasty cut to the head.
‘If I leave you on your own you’ll only get into trouble,’ he insisted, and Ferox was pleased to have his company, for he chattered away and kept Crispinus occupied. There was also Flaccus and an escort of five legionary horsemen, the number agreed with Gannascus, who with ten of his warriors would accompany them.
‘A prophet cannot survive when his miracle fails,’ the Legate Marcellus assured them. ‘You should not have any trouble, but the sight of the king’s men will make you doubly safe.’
Ferox was much less certain, but was proved wrong for they met no parties of fanatics determined to kill any Roman they saw. The lands seemed unnaturally quiet, and for all the trails left by men going back to their homes they saw few people abroad, although since rain fell steadily from the very start it was rarely possible to see far.
Gannascus was in good spirits, seemed pleased to see him, and made jokes about how they were lucky his Germans had not led the attack on the Roman line. Ferox did not let himself be drawn, and was glad that the constant downpour dampened spirits so that most of the time they rode in silence. He did not want to speak, needing to think because he was not sure how to obey the legate’s last, secret order.
‘One of those tribunes is a traitor,’ the legate had said, once again with only his intimate friend Ovidius as witness. ‘Whoever it is, even if it is my nephew, I want you to make sure that he does not come back.’
Much of the time he rode ahead of the rest, claiming that he needed to search for tracks, and even Vindex left him alone. Ferox thought he knew the answer to all the riddles, was almost sure, but the battle had drained much of his hatred and anger, taking the hard edge off his desire for revenge. Instead he felt listless and empty. If he had been back at Syracuse he suspected that he would have got drunk, so maybe it was better that he had something to do, unpleasant though the task was.
‘We will be at the ferry soon, will we not?’ Crispinus had ridden up to join him.
‘Two hours, my lord, but I do not think we shall have to go that far. “Some leaves do not fall, some trees do not die.”’ He sang the words softly.
‘I am too cold and wet for mysteries, my friend.’ The tribune was pale and looked truly miserable.
‘Perhaps it would have been better if you had not come, my lord.’
Crispinus smiled. ‘I had to be here at the end.’
‘Not long now,’ Ferox said. Under his cloak he felt for the bone handgrip of his gladius.
The trail ran straight the last few miles, and when they came to the spot it was easy to see in his mind’s eye what had happened. They had unharnessed the two ponies from the chariot and then burned the car. The remains were scorched a deep black by a great heat, for they must have used oil to get the wood and leather to burn in all this rain. The ponies lay dead, throats cut and made to lie down on either side of the pyre.
‘The Legate Marcellus was right,’ Crispinus said, patting his horse to calm it as it tried to pull away. ‘A prophet cannot fail.’
The Stallion’s corpse swung gently in the breeze, suspended from one of the main branches of the yew tree. Ferox imagined Acco the druid supervising, probably placing the noose around the priest’s head himself, then watching as the others hauled him up and made the rope fast. The naked priest would have jerked and twitched, struggling for breath, choking slowly as his own weight dragged his body down. They had cut him about the body, cut him time and again, and Ferox saw a broken flint blade on the ground, which meant that they had not used ordinary knives. A great scar ran across his stomach, sewn up and starting to heal a little, which was the wound the centurion had given him during the battle. It did not look as if it would have proved fatal. All the other cuts were neater, less deep, and the rain had fallen, washing away the blood, so all that was left was slice after slice cut into his white skin. It would have taken a long time and traces around his lips told Ferox that the man had been given poison as well. The triple death, the sacred death of a willing victim sacrificed to appease the anger of the gods.
Flaccus gave a nervous laugh. ‘These Britons really don’t like failures.’
Ferox did not bother to answer. The Romans would never understand.
Flaccus jumped down. ‘You men,’ he ordered the escort. ‘Help me cut this fellow down. My Lord Crispinus, perhaps you would like to do the honours and take his head?’
The tribune seemed surprised, but realised that there would be something for him to boast about and shock his friends with when he returned to Rome, so got down.
Ferox gestured to Vindex to dismount as well. ‘Do you trust me?’ he whispered to the Brigantian.
‘No.’
‘Then just do what I ask. Have your blade ready. When I look away and say that I’m expecting someone to join us, that will be the signal.’
Crispinus had thrown his cloak back to get at his sword. He drew it, just as one of the legionaries rode over to the tree and sawed through the rope. The corpse thumped on to the soggy ground and somehow looked even whiter.
‘Little bloke, wasn’t he?’ one of the soldiers joked.
Ferox drew his gladius and in the same motion brought it so that the tip quivered an inch from Crispinus’ throat. ‘Drop the sword,’ he said.
‘Have you gone mad, centurion?’
Flaccus looked baffled.
‘My Lord Flaccus, I must ask you to place the noble Crispinus under arrest on charges of treason.’
‘What?’ Crispinus’ eyes flicked from side to side. ‘This is absurd.’
‘Drop the sword.’ Ferox pressed so that the tip of his gladius touched the skin of the tribune’s neck. ‘Drop it.’ Crispinus let the weapon fall.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Flaccus was confused, but he gestured to one of the legionaries and the man came and took away the tribune’s sword.
‘I am acting on orders of the Legate Marcellus,’ Ferox said, his eyes fixed on Crispinus. ‘And I regret to say that the tribune has plotted with other senators to damage the majesty of the republic and our princeps, the glorious Trajan.’
The legionaries had all stopped and were watching and listening. Gannascus frowned and then shrugged, and his men sat on their horses showing only mild curiosity at the Romans talking in a language they did not understand.
‘You!’ Ferox nodded to one of the legionaries. ‘Get some rope and tie the tribune’s hands behind his back.’ The soldier looked at Flaccus, who waved a hand to show that he was to obey the order.
‘That is better,’ the centurion said, even though the man had not yet returned, for Crispinus held his arms down and waited meekly for the bonds. ‘Now I can lower my arm.’
Ferox stepped away and began to walk in a circle, waiting until he was behind Crispinus before he started to speak again. Two of the legionaries crouched down beside the dead priest, waiting for orders. One was next to Flaccus, another fetching the rope, and the last man, the one who had cut the dead priest’s corpse down, sat on his horse, watching.