XIV
FEROX OPENED HIS eyes and still saw nothing, for there was a bindfold tied fast around his face. He was lying on his side, hands pulled hard behind his back and held there, his feet bound together. His cloak had gone, so had his weapons and belt. The floor was wood, so he was indoors and it did not feel very different from the floors of the warehouses he had been in earlier. It felt as if he was in a small room, but whether that was true or he was among stacked goods was hard to say. There was a faint smell of beer and decaying fruit.
The back of his head throbbed and his mouth was full of bile. Memories came back and he could not believe his own stupidity. No one had known where he had gone even before he went chasing fleeing women down dark alleyways. He ought at least to have sent word to Vindex before he went charging off. The scout was a decent enough tracker out in the wilds, but it was too much to hope that he would somehow scent danger and come to the rescue. If he did he would laugh his head off at the thought of his friend being lured into a trap by a woman.
Ferox tried to move his hands, seeing if the knots were loose, and failed. His legs were just as securely bound and there was nothing left to do but wait for whatever fate his captors had in store. The woman had been a fleeting shape in the night and although he was sure it was the one from the arena that did not much help. Probably she served Domitius, and perhaps a woman was a useful killer because few would suspect danger until it was too late. The bearded merchant had not died in the fall and someone, presumably the woman who had been bending over him, had slit his throat. The smell of the blood had been strong and fresh as he had run past in chase.
Ferox had not cared for Cornelius Fuscus. In truth his feelings towards senior officials mattered very little in the great sweep of things and there were plenty in the emperor’s service who seemed cruel, dishonest and half-witted, and often all of those things. It was still a shock to know that someone so highly placed was encouraging rebellion, presumably in the hope that the resulting chaos would discredit the emperor and help another to seize power. That must be the goal, not throwing off the rule of Rome, and he wondered whether the chieftains among the tribes understood this or were being used.
The Romans would win in the end. Even if the garrison of the province was defeated, more legions would come and in the end the Romans would crush all those who stood against them. Before the inevitable end there would be death and destruction, perhaps as bad as in the days of Boudicca, and the coldness with which the conspirators had spoken of this provoked a deep anger. It would have been useful to talk to the merchant, but he felt no regret about the man’s death. He had served his purpose, and was badly injured, so his throat had been slit to prevent him talking. That was a small cruelty compared to what would happen if the conspirators raised their rebellion.
Fuscus had broken his oath to the princeps, that was clear, and at least that might make his service to Sulpicia Lepidina easier. If it was shown that the man was a traitor then killing him became a duty, not a crime. Ferox was less sure about the one who had arrived just as he was discovered. There had been no mistaking that shock of prematurely white hair, or the face that refused to lose its calm even when people were shouting about being seen and betrayed. Crispinus was there, no doubt about it, and would make a powerful ally. Two years ago Ferox had wondered whether the young aristocrat was part of another plot against Trajan and was still not sure that he was altogether innocent. Neratius Marcellus had once said that he was confident his nephew would always emerge on the winning side. Was he working for the governor now or making sure of his own future one way or another? His instincts told him that the legate was loyal to Trajan, but instinct was not always right and ambition stirred in many an unlikely heart.
A new smell reached him. Ferox had once tried to explain to Crispinus that Romans and Britons smelled different. The tribune had curled his lip as if dirt was so natural to barbarians that this should occasion no surprise. You could often tell a man’s trade by his scent, and not just the obvious ones of tanners and butchers. There was also a different scent to a tribesman, or at least one who lived mostly in the old ways, a faint smell that was somehow earthy, even damp. Crispinus had claimed to be deeply offended when Ferox told him that many Romans were followed by a vague odour of olive oil, sour wine and onions. Even with his nose covered Ferox could tell that there was a Briton or Britons in the room and that seemed strange, for the conspirators’ allies sounded like chieftains who lived in the Roman way these days.
A far more powerful stink overwhelmed everything else, and Ferox felt something warm and rough rubbing his chin, lifting the cloth slightly. He knew that smell and the scruffy dog that dwelt in its midst, even if he had never thought to meet them here. Suddenly the animal yelped and was jerked away, no doubt kicked by its master.
‘Well, boy, will you thank me for keeping you alive this far?’ Acco rarely shouted or even raised his voice, and yet when he spoke men fell silent around him. There was menace in his soft words, a barely veiled power that made warriors and kings blanch.
‘Thank you,’ Ferox said. ‘For this far.’
‘Good, at least your few wits have not been knocked out of you. Not yet. So tell me why I should let you live any longer?’
‘Your dog likes me.’
Acco’s laugh was more of a cackle, louder than anything he ever said. ‘So who speaks to me this night? Is this the Roman centurion or the prince of the Silures? Do you even remember your own kin any more?’
‘I remember.’ It was hard to speak through the cloth bound around his face, for the dog had only shifted it a little. ‘I remember my oath too.’
The druid spat, although Ferox did not feel any land on him. ‘Oath to a Roman? Why should I care if one man or another wears the purple?’ That meant that Acco knew about the conspiracy, must even have known what Ferox had been doing. It was not really a surprise. Acco always seemed to know everything and his understanding of Rome and the empire never dented his loathing for them. ‘See how they plot and betray each other so readily. They are filth and pollution on our lands, and it is almost time to scour them away.
‘Would you not wish to be part of it, to see your people strong again, the wolf folk, living free and fearing no one? You could lead them, boy. Your cousins are weak fools, so jealous of each other that they fawn on the Romans for the slightest favour. At least you are a true warrior, even in a bad cause. You could become Lord of the Hills, just like your grandfather, even now, even after all these years and all you have done.’
Ferox heard the scrape of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. A moment later the cold metal tip touched his arm and then his throat.
‘This is a good sword you have.’ Acco took the blade away and there was a thrumming as he dealt strokes to the air. ‘The smith who forged it knew some of the old lore and not just the skills of Rome. How many have you slain with it?’
‘Too many to count,’ Ferox said. When young he had thought that he would always remember the men he faced and killed and feared their faces would haunt his dreams. Some did, but as the years passed most faded from memory. It was better that way, although he wondered whether part of his own soul died each time and followed them to the Otherworld.