They turned north west, riding over hills and through valleys of thick woodland that at least gave some shelter from the driving rain. Late in the next day they passed one of the Cornovii’s boundary markers. Half a mile on stood another post, carved with a fat body and round head and obviously, even abundantly, male.
Gannascus’ booming laughter echoed around the dell.
‘The symbol of the Ordovices,’ Longinus said when the German finally stopped.
Ferox shook his head. ‘They are a little people, braggards who lie about everything, break their oaths and are foul of habits and speech.’
‘Sound a lot like much of the Senate,’ Crispinus said happily, and ordered a halt. They camped next to the marker, and inevitably someone hung a helmet on the wooden phallus. Ferox insisted that they post four sentries, relieved every two hours, and ignored the groan as the order was conveyed. Up until now they had made do with just two, so that most of them had an undisturbed night at least every other day. Crispinus looked as if he was about to countermand the order and then nodded.
As if to show their blessing of the tribune’s choice, the next day the sun rose bright and they made good progress towards the mountains. Longinus acted as guide.
‘Spent two years here, back in the days of Frontinus and then with Agricola,’ he explained. ‘Hasn’t changed much in twenty years.’
Crispinus frowned when the veteran made this announcement, but since asking why the man had not mentioned this before had invited an unhelpful response, he smiled broadly, clapping the old soldier on the back. ‘Splendid.’
For a few days Ferox did not spot their pursuers. Now and again warriors stood on the high ground and watched them. They passed only one farm built in Roman fashion, and everyone else lived in round houses, small even by the standards of Ferox’s region and the other lands to the north. As they climbed higher there were fewer farmsteads. Then Longinus began leading them along valley floors and there were more people living in these. Twice chieftains came to greet the strangers. Neither were important men, the first accompanied by four warriors, and the second by just two. Only the chieftains had swords, just one wore a battered bronze helmet and neither they nor their warriors wore any other armour. At Ferox’s prompting, Crispinus presented each chief with a gift of one of the light javelins the Batavians carried in a long quiver suspended from the right rear horn of the saddle.
The tribune had been doubtful at first. ‘If your fears are right, won’t we need every weapon we can muster?’
‘If my fears are right, my lord, it really won’t matter.’
The gifts were accepted with grunted thanks, the closest the Ordovices ever came to cheering. Ferox hoped that he looked just like any other Roman centurion, for he had little doubt that the folk here would remember the Lord of the Hills and have no love for his kin. Even so he caught the chieftains staring at him closely and could not make up his mind whether they gave as much attention to the rest of the party. Gannascus was hard not to notice, for the Ordovices were small and slight, and although their hair was often fair or reddish it was usually smeared with mud to make it spiky or simply so filthy that it seemed the colour of the dark earth. They stared up at the tall Batavians, and were in awe of the German giant. Ferox noticed Cocceius watching the warriors with that mixture of fear and longing for battle so common in young soldiers. He hoped the boy’s curiosity would not be satisfied, at least until they were through the mountains. For all his contempt for the Ordovices, he knew that they were fierce enough in their way, and could easily massacre a party as small as this.
There was a reminder the next day, when Longinus reined in as they came to a ford across the stream bubbling along the bottom of a valley. ‘This is where the last of ala Indiana died,’ he said, solemnly. ‘There were nearly two hundred of them when they started, maybe ten miles that way.’ He pointed in the direction they were heading towards high peaks on either side of an ever-narrowing vale. ‘The prefect was hit in the face with a sling stone early on. The Gauls tried to carry him, and got him halfway here, but were losing horses and men every few paces. And if a man lost his horse, thetatus. Must have been thousands of warriors, nibbling away. They’d flee at each charge, but this is not cavalry country, and they always came back, throwing javelins, slinging stones, in some places just rolling boulders down from the heights. We found about twenty bodies on the far side of the stream. They were the ones who had kept together. None had horses by this time, and there had been fifty troopers when they started marching in an orb from that hillock over yonder. The rest of the Gauls didn’t make it. Maybe they were too tired to go on, maybe the stream was too high with winter rain, but they stopped and they died here. We found the bodies a week later. These ones by the stream were the only ones the Ordovices hadn’t mutilated. Even left them their heads and just stripped them naked and left them near enough where they had fallen.’
Crispinus curled his lip up at the corner. ‘A cheerful story, and no doubt an inspirational reminder of discipline and loyalty.’
‘Begging your pardon, my lord, it’s a reminder of what happens when a bastard procurator gets too greedy and ramps up the levy from a tribe for no reason. He wasn’t here, was he? Course he wasn’t. Fat bugger was a hundred miles away in Deva, surrounded by walls and half a legion. Useless prick. Fine to order other poor sods to do the dirty work and die.’ Ferox noticed that Longinus spoke more like an old sweat than usual and wondered whether he was determined the tribune should never guess at his past as an eques and prefect of auxilia, let alone as leader of the Batavian revolt.
Arcanus nodded. ‘Procurators, I’ve shit ’em,’ he muttered, and then realised that he was beside a senior officer. ‘Sorry, sir, didn’t mean anything.’
Crispinus smiled. ‘Well, the past is the past. Agricola avenged them all – with your help, Longinus.’
‘Aye, my lord. A lot of them died for what happened here. Some more of our lads too, to get it done. And all because one man got greedy.’
‘They make a desolation and call it peace.’ Crispinus intoned the words as if they were a quote, although it was not one Ferox recognised. ‘The consularis Publius Cornelius Tacitus has lately written a book about his father-in-law.’ Seeing Ferox’s blank expression, the tribune explained. ‘Agricola himself. You should keep a closer eye on the breeding arrangements of the senatorial class, you really should. Anyway he gives those words to Calgacus, commander of the Caledonii at Mons Graupius.’
‘We killed a lot there as well,’ Longinus said in a low voice.
‘Indeed you did, most gallantly, and in loyal service to the empire.’ Crispinus kept his tone flat. ‘Well, let us hope we can get on for the moment without any more killing or making desolations.’
At noon the next day they reached the top of a high pass. It had taken hours to climb the slope, in the end leading the horses and ponies by hand and going single file, Ferox, Vindex and Longinus finding the best path. They rested and ate a little at the top. Ahead and behind the views were magnificent, a few clouds in the blue sky casting shadows over the grey and purple mountains. Down in the valley behind Ferox spotted two tiny white-grey dots. Some way behind, at the very edge of vision, he half saw, half sensed the bigger group.
XVII
THE BRIDGE GAVE way slowly, the rotting main beams breaking under the weight so that the rest sank down into the roaring torrent. It was roughly made, wide enough for one man or beast at a time, and spanned the high chasm over the stream, the waters brimming over from yesterday’s storm. They had crossed slowly, a man at a time, each leading a horse, warily taking each step, unable to hear the creaking over the noise of the rushing water, but feeling every sag in the timbers underfoot.