Epotsorovidus said little, his already meek spirit shattered by his wife’s abduction. If word had come asking for something in ransom, then he had not shared it with his new Roman allies. From what Brennus said and he overheard from others, Ferox suspected that without Brigita by his side, Epotsorovidus was now unlikely to be named as high king. That in itself might explain her abduction, and perhaps the Harii or Usipi, or whatever the men of the night now called themselves, were in league with a rival.
The different approach roads merged together close to where a great mound rose out of the plain, surrounded with a grassy rampart and ditch. It was a lot like many he had seen all over Britannia, although bigger than most. Men said that they were tombs of great kings of long ago or of giants, and were filled with silver and gold, but bound by terrible curses. He did not know if this was true or when they were built, but he had never seen so many close together, for others lay across the plains ahead of them, leading to the biggest of all, unless it was a real hill, even though it seemed very round and was surrounded with a similar rampart.
Even Crispinus seemed to sense something of the awe of this place, which did not stop him cursing at how long everything took. At the spot where the main paths met, lines of men dressed as animals danced to the beat of wooden drums and the blasts of the great horns. After two hours of this, a black bull and a white calf were led round and round in a circle for some time, before they were sacrificed by priests.
‘Druids?’ Crispinus whispered to Ferox.
‘Like druids,’ was the best answer he could give. He did not know why, but it had been many generations since men from Hibernia had travelled to Mona to learn the lore of the druids.
It was a little after noon, but they went no further that day and camped near the place of sacrifice. Ferox guessed that there were more than twenty thousand people in tents or lying under the stars, with the scent of the burned sacrificial animals mingling with that of many meals being prepared. He saw Vindex sniff in distaste.
‘I know,’ Ferox said, his mind dragged back to the place where Claudius Super and his men had died, ‘I know. But you have to eat.’
Probus was already known to quite a number of the chieftains and kings. He explained that he had twice sailed to Hibernia on trading ventures. ‘Horses,’ he replied when Crispinus asked what it was he wanted from the tribes. ‘You only have to look around you to see how fine their horses and ponies are. I sell mounts to the army, and this looked to be a good place to pick up plenty of fine animals at a very good price. They don’t really use money much over here, but the kings will give you a lot for wine, spices and silks.’
Half a dozen leaders came to visit Probus that evening. He rose to greet each one, led them back to sit with him around a campfire and eat roasted meat. Each chieftain was accompanied by a warrior, while Falx, the gladiator, stood silent and motionless behind the merchant, a gladius on his hip. He was taller than Ferox and a good deal broader, with the massive arms and legs that came from years of weight training of the sort only done by wrestlers and gladiators. His nose had been broken more than once, one of his ears was a mangled remnant, and there were scars on all his visible skin. The man almost never spoke, and rarely let any noise escape his surprisingly small and thin lips. When Probus gave an order it was instantly obeyed. With anyone else he was slow to the point of surliness. The falx was a two-handed sword favoured by the Dacians, curving forward like a sickle and ending in a heavy point. A skilled warrior could lop off a man’s arm, head, or even both legs with a single blow, and the name was an apt one. Falx’s eyes were small, with all the emotion of well-wrought iron. He was a weapon, and nothing else, and he was in the hands of Probus.
Ferox had been surprised when he learned that the gladiator was to accompany them, and even more surprised that once they were on the ship there was no sign of Probus being held against his will – or being closely protected for his own good, as Neratius Marcellus might have said.
‘He wants his son back,’ Crispinus assured him when Ferox raised the matter. ‘As I said weeks ago, the gods alone know why, but that’s a father’s love for you. He will do anything to bring the boy home.’
‘Anything?’
‘Be surprised if he is keen on sacrificing himself, especially given all that Ovidius has said. Doubt these pirates have anything too pleasant planned for him. He’ll try to free Genialis and get away, and I doubt that he will care too much about the prefect and his wife if it comes down to a choice. With his sort of money, he can always disappear somewhere in the empire, or even beyond it.’
‘What is to stop him slipping away from us, my lord?’
‘Too soon for that. Reckon he will want our protection for a while yet, so I should not think that he will wander off until word arrives about the exchange. Even then, he might decide that he is better off sticking with us and trying to plan his way out at the last minute. I’d be much obliged if you kept a close eye on him. At least that great lump of a fighter shouldn’t be able to vanish too easily.’
Ferox told the Red Cat and his brother to watch the trader. The order did not seem to surprise them and they simply nodded, not asking for an explanation.
‘Do we kill him if he runs?’ Segovax asked. He was sitting down, rubbing his leg. The break had healed well given the time, although he limped a little.
‘Not unless I tell you to. Just make sure you know where he has gone.’
The great gathering did not go far on the next day, simply advancing to a grove of oak trees. There were more dances, and a sacrifice of a stallion and a mare. The trumpets rarely stopped, and the different leaders set up another camp and cooked another meal. As the day wore on they drank beer from barrels and wine from amphorae.
People were always moving around the camps and after a while Ferox began to see a pattern. Individual warriors went to other encampments, greeting men they knew with simple verses of praise, for everyone seemed to know everyone else. Later some of the chieftains did the same thing, but they went to men of similar rank and the compliments were fuller and took far longer.
On the third day they processed along a path lined with holly bushes, which led past another mound. The priests appeared again, although this time there were no dances. Three ewes and three sows were sacrificed by an ancient woman dressed wholly in black. Crispinus glanced at Ferox when he saw her, but the centurion shook his head because he was sure that her dark garb was coincidence and not anything to do with the Harii.
That afternoon and evening the senior chiefs started to visit each other, each one accompanied by a bard to sing praises of his master and the men he visited. A little after sunset a few of the kings rose from their own campfires and went out. Brennus was one of the first to do this, avoiding everyone’s gaze as he strode through the camp, followed by a young bard. A priest was waiting for him and led him away. Epotsorovidus sat by a fire, staring into the flames and said nothing, but he seemed to shrink in on himself.
‘Ah, this is politics,’ Crispinus said softly to Ferox. ‘That is something I understand.’
An hour later a king came to them. Epotsorovidus looked up, hunger in his eyes, but the ruler, his bard and one of the priests ignored him and went to where Crispinus sat on a folding camp chair. The praises took a while, and Ferox did his best to translate the flowery language. He was surprised at how well they had prepared verses about the young tribune, praising his birth, courage, prowess in battle, and his hair, which marked wisdom exceptional in one so young. A second king arrived after the first had left, and this one’s bard even knew the name of Crispinus’ father and praised him as a great warrior and leader of warriors.