‘The last breath is spent,’ Acco wailed at the heavens. The little warriors started clashing spears against their shields, going faster and faster. The moment was coming. He could not wait any longer, for his plan had obviously failed. Then a warrior a few paces away sprouted a long shafted arrow from his face and spun around. Ferox flung himself forward, struck the man in front just below the waist and knocked him down. He raised his arms and slammed them down. It was a small blow, but the weight of the iron manacles gave it force and the man’s nose broke in bloody ruin. Enica tried to bound forward, then snapped back with a hiss. The warrior standing behind her had whipped a rope around her neck and was pulling hard. Acco raised his knife.
‘Morrigan!’ he screamed. One of the warriors by the lake was knocked over as an arrow buried itself deep in his chest. The islanders had stopped clashing their weapons and instead there were screams and grunts as a line of Batavians charged into them. Gannascus was in the centre, towering over the little men, his blade carving down through bone, muscle and flesh. Blood jetted high as he beheaded the chieftain.
Ferox pushed up, his knee hard on the warrior’s chest, winding him. He reached the sword, pulled it free and was up. Enica’s eyes were bulging, hands grasping at the rope as it tightened. Acco stepped towards her. The flint knife was ready to thrust down.
‘Lugh, take this soul!’
Ferox stamped forward and thrust awkwardly into the druid’s back. The long triangular point of the gladius slid into the old man’s body, and if the blow was poorly aimed there was the power of both hands and all his hate behind it, driving the iron so hard that it burst out of Acco’s stomach. The old man arched his back, limbs flailing, and the knife flew through the air.
The warrior behind Enica gaped at the dying druid, and must have loosened his grip for she slipped free and slumped to her knees. Ferox left the sword in the old man and ran at the warrior, screaming in rage. He swung his manacled arms at the warrior’s face and he fell. Ferox pounced on top of him. Enica was gasping for breath. Ferox slammed the bracelets and his fists into the warrior’s face again and again until there was only a bloody ruin.
Gannascus slashed his way through the line of islanders. Vindex was on one side and Longinus on the other. Their chieftain dead and the druid cut down, the little men broke, dropping spears and shields in their flight. There was nowhere for them to go and they were slaughtered one by one.
Ferox kept hammering the warrior’s face, but he no longer moved. A hand touched his shoulder.
‘He’s dead,’ Enica croaked. There was a livid mark around her neck, but she was breathing more naturally again.
Ferox stopped. His hands and the manacles were filthy with blood, pieces of flesh and bone. He stood up, panting.
‘Sorry it took so long to find you,’ Vindex said, as he wiped his sword on the hem of his tunic. Ferox went over to the druid. Acco was on his side, face pale, his white tunic dark with his own blood. The druid looked up, and Ferox was sure he smiled.
‘The beginning,’ he gasped, and died.
XXIII
CRASSUS’ HORSE FLINCHED as its rider slapped its neck repeatedly. The legate of VIIII Hispana did not appear aware of what he was doing and just as unconsciously shifted in his seat and calmed the animal. Like his sister, Crassus was a fine horseman. Yet there the similarities ended, for it was hard to imagine her face so alight with sheer joy of destruction as he watched the villa’s roof collapse and send up a great gout of smoke and dust. Ferox sensed that the legate was not really listening to his report.
It was the second day after the Ides of November, and the villa belonged to a Brigantian nobleman believed to have joined Arviragus in rebellion. Ferox was not sure whether this was true, and it was clear no one at the farm had resisted. Two men had still died because they had held farm tools in a threatening way – at least, that was according to the cavalrymen who had first reached this place. The remaining score or so of workers, men, women and children, sat and watched as their home burned and took most of their few possessions with them. No one seemed interested in what they had to say about their absent lord and his family.
‘You appear to have dawdled, centurion.’ Crassus did not bother to look down. More of the roof fell in and a wave of heat washed over them, reminding Ferox of the bonfire on Mona, and the druid praying, knife held aloft. That was fifteen days ago and the journey since then had not been easy. If Vindex and the others had not arrived just in time, then there would have been no journey at all. Before the prince had set out, Ferox had spoken quietly to the scout and the big German. He did not trust Arviragus or Crispinus – and was far from sure about the prince’s sister. So he asked them to wait until they were sure the boats were well away and then to overpower the Brigantes still with them. Once they were secure, leave as small a guard as possible for the prisoners and the horses, and lead the rest into the swamp. Gannascus’ homeland was a place of marshes and bogs, and he had trusted the warrior to find a path through to the island between the lakes. The German had managed it, prodding with a long pole, wading where he could, and even swimming where it was safe. It had taken many hours, doubling back on themselves half a dozen times, but in the end he had led them all through. Smeared with mud, they had arrived and saved them. At least, that was the simplest explanation. Ferox wondered whether Acco had guessed what he would try and had delayed to give help plenty of time to arrive.
Leaving Mona was harder than he had hoped. Following the same path, they had gone back to the camp to find the Brigantes gone, the two Batavians and the rest of the soldiers from Segontium dead, and the horses killed or driven off. Only two hours after dawn did they find one of the pack ponies cropping the grass a couple of miles away. A Batavian volunteered to swim the animal across the straits. No one was keen on staying longer on Mona than necessary, for the local warriors might be small, but they were bound to want vengeance for the slaughter of their chief and his men. Even so, the pony was small, its rider big, and the rest of the Batavians placed bets on whether both would drown as they watched him ride into the sea. The odds against them making it started out very good and soared when he fell into the water. Yet somehow he kept hold of the mane and clung to the animal, swimming beside it. Longinus scooped most of the bets as they saw the man and pony clamber up onto the far shore.
‘Don’t worry, boys. Forget about it,’ he told them.
Eventually boats came from the fort and took them off. A merchant ship had stopped at Segontium the day before, and then come and carried away the prince and his men. The liburnian based at the fort was away, and when it arrived late in the day the rowers needed rest. Thus it was not until the next morning that they set sail, a gusting westerly wind at least in their favour. Ferox stared at the beaches and cliffs as they passed Mona, still puzzled by Acco’s intentions. It was almost as if he had wanted to be killed and for them to escape.
When the wind shifted, the liburnian lowered sail and the rowers took over, heading steadily east, until a storm rolled in and they had to work their way out from the shore. The night was grim, but the optio in charge knew what he was doing and kept them safe until the weather cleared. Late on the next day he landed them on the coast. After that they walked to Bremetennacum, and found only the rump of the cavalry ala normally stationed there. The prefect was away, and a decurion in charge of the barely one hundred men present. Ferox’s rank impressed him less than Claudia Enica’s connections and charm, and eventually convinced him to loan them some of his horses.