‘They do not ask for anything,’ Crispinus said afterwards. ‘So I presume that it is the visit that is important. Like a candidate being seen with influential men in the Forum. It is a mark of support.’
Ferox had spoken to some of the chieftains and felt that he understood. ‘It takes a long time. Those who choose to call on another show their willingness to support him. The more visitors a leader has, then the greater his influence and importance. Everyone is watching what is going on. Usually they predict whose opinion matters, but sometimes there are surprises and it shifts. As one leader’s prestige rises, then the rest must decide whether they will adhere to him or try to build up another to counter him.’
‘As I said, politics.’ Crispinus smiled. ‘It is not so very different. Brennus has gone to call on someone else, so that means he does not expect our friend over there to become high king. And so far no one has come to visit Epotsorovidus. Is he finished?’
‘My lord, he was finished the moment he lost his wife.’
‘She was the steel in the partnership, there is no doubt of that,’ Crispinus said.
‘That is true, my lord. But how can a man who cannot keep his own woman keep a kingdom? Let alone rule over other kings and tribes?’
‘Poor devil, no wonder he looks so down.’ The tribune’s sympathy did not extend beyond words. ‘So if he is no use to us, how do I judge where our support will be best placed? Is the matter already decided?’
Ferox shook his head. ‘No, not yet. As far as I can tell there are three or four being considered. There is still a lot of time. Tomorrow night more of the kings will call on each other. They are paying you a compliment by treating you as a monarch.’
‘I’m the son of a senator, how else should they treat me?’ Crispinus said, but his pleasure was obvious. ‘We shall have to find out as much as we can about the rivals, so that we can best judge what is to our advantage.’
Ferox said nothing.
‘I have not forgotten our main purpose,’ the tribune assured him. ‘But until we hear from these pirates there is little we can do. Do you not agree?’
‘Sir.’
‘Go away, Flavius Ferox.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bran was waiting for him outside his tent. Ferox had asked the boy to keep his eyes and ears open for any sign of the men of the night, for no one was likely to pay much heed to a servant boy looking after the horses.
‘It is an island, further north, off the coast of Caledonia. Not big, but near a larger one and very close to a smaller one. The small one is ringed by cliffs and hard to reach, but someone special lives there. Warriors go there to learn.’
That was an old legend, known even among the Silures. It was said that far to the north an old woman lived who knew more about weapons and killing than anyone else. Whenever she died she was succeeded by another chosen woman. Only the best were accepted as pupils, and only the very best lived through the ordeals she set them. Quite a few heroes of the old tales were said to have honed their craft on that distant island, but Ferox had never heard of a man who had been there.
‘And the bigger island?’
‘It has more people. The chieftains are scared of the men of the night and pay them tribute. So do some on other islands. That is how they live.’
‘Who spoke these things?’
‘A young lad who sails with a merchant. He saw the island once, and heard the master of the ship and the sailors talking. They were scared because they had come closer than they intended during the night. There were stories that the pirates were preying on those who strayed too near, something they had not done for many years.’
Ferox wondered whether the Harii had managed to repair their old trireme. He doubted that they could have built one from scratch and it had been a long while since any of the classis Britannica’s ships had gone missing.
‘Could the lad find this island?’
Bran frowned in scorn at such a suggestion. ‘He’s just a lad. None too bright either.’ Ferox suspected the ‘lad’ was a fair bit older than his servant.
‘Do you know who the merchant is? No. Well, find out.’
The next morning was grey, and before long rain started to fall on them as the great gathering walked on, the main hill now coming close and looming over them. This was the first break in the weather after days of warm sunshine, and perhaps this was why the trumpets went silent. Neither were there drums when the dancers reappeared, and the lines of men in their animal skins and head-dresses whirled and stamped, and circled in an eerie silence. For hours the dance went on, and the dancers paid no heed when two priests led a young man into the middle of the circle. He had a halter around his neck and a thin circlet of gold on his head. For a while the two priests circled him, not dancing but pacing slowly. They were joined by two more and the old woman in black. No one held on to the lead of the halter, and the man wearing it stood and stared up, arms raised so that the rain spattered onto his face and left his long brown hair dark and wet. He wore a bright white cloak that reached to the ground.
‘Is he a slave or a priest?’ Crispinus asked, his own cloak drawn tightly around him and water dripping from the rim of his plumed helmet.
‘He is both,’ Ferox said, ‘and he is king of the feast.’ He had heard of such things among the Dobuni, the neighbours of the Silures, but never seen the ritual.
‘Oh,’ Ovidius said in surprise. ‘Like at Massilia?’ His tone was one of curiosity more than anything else.
Ferox nodded, while the younger tribune looked puzzled as well as damp and weary. ‘Is there a sacrifice today?’ Once the sacrifice was done they crowd dispersed and there was the prospect of shelter and warm food.
Two of the priests went to the man and took the cloak from him. He was naked underneath, his skin pale, but shiny with oil. As well as being tall he was slim and well muscled. The man knelt.
‘Hercules’ balls,’ the tribune gasped as he realised, and then was embarrassed by his own lack of composure.
As he kneeled the man swayed his body from side to side, arms still up and face staring at the heavens. A priest carrying a club carved from wood so dark that it was almost black came up behind him. The old woman drew a bronze knife from its sheath.
The dancers stopped. There was silence apart from the pattering of the rain. Crispinus went rigid, mouth hanging open.
‘Say nothing. Do nothing,’ Ferox whispered to the tribune.
The priest swung the club and struck a glancing blow against the side of the man’s head, who was pitched over onto the grass. He rose, shaking his head, and the woman slashed the knife across his throat. Blood spurted out, splashing onto the man’s white skin where the rain washed it away. He staggered forward, spluttering and choking. Another priest followed him, matching his steps.
‘Say nothing, my lord,’ Ferox whispered softly.
The victim fell to his knees, and the priest grabbed the rope of the halter and tightened it, bracing himself by placing one foot on the man’s back.
Crispinus looked as pale as the dead man’s flesh.
The dancers started to gyrate once more, and the drums began, softly at first, but gradually growing louder and louder.
That night five kings came to see Crispinus, who received them in his tent, its front flaps held open so that the visits could be witnessed. The tribune was happy to be dry, and his horror of the sacrifice of the young man had had time to fade. Ovidius had found it amusing. ‘The noble Crispinus is a devotee of the arena, and yet finds this shocking,’ the philosopher and poet had said.