‘And you do not?’ Ferox asked him.
‘Horrible. Truly horrible. But I am an old man and have seen too many foul things in my time. And as a man of letters I have read of acts of appalling cruelty – I would call it inhuman cruelty if that made sense, but it cannot because it was done by men and not monsters.’
Ovidius sat in on the meetings, as did Probus, who was known to most of the visitors. Brennus had returned, and pitched his tent close to the tribune. Epotsorovidus sat alone, for most of his chieftains had left him. His warriors stayed, but had a hopeless air about them.
By the end of the evening it was clear that most men now expected Togirix of the Woluntioi to be named by the priests as high king.
‘He is the stallion,’ more than one of the visitors declared. Ferox wondered whether another old ritual would be performed, with the king joining his earth as a stallion mounted a mare, but decided against trying to explain it to the tribune. If it happened, there would be time enough to tell him. After all were gone the tribune held a council.
‘My impression is that Tigorex—’
‘Togirix, my lord,’ Ferox said.
‘Thank you, centurion. My impression is that this Togirix is likely to win because no one hates or fears him as much as the others.’
‘Now where have we heard that before,’ Ovidius said happily. Ferox presumed that he was thinking about the elderly Nerva, chosen as emperor by the Senate after the murder of Domitian four years ago. Nerva had then adopted Trajan and died before two years was out. ‘I am guessing they hope to avoid war.’ They both looked at Ferox.
‘They probably want to avoid a really big war between all the tribes. A weak high king will let them raid and murder each other on a smaller scale, but stop any one leader becoming too strong. Epotsorovidus might have been more forceful, at least with Brigita telling him what to do. They might either have kept the peace or started an even bigger war.’
‘Given the consequence,’ Ovidius mused, ‘are we sure that some or more of the leaders here did not help the pirates snatch the queen? Or at least promise reward for their deed?’
‘It does seem likely,’ Ferox said. ‘Which one is harder to say.’
‘In my extensive experience…’ Crispinus beamed at them ‘… it is always worth considering those apparently closest to a leader. They see his frailties close up, and are very aware that he is just a man and yet has such power. Tempting to consider that you are also a man, no different in most respects from the ruler. Could you not have what they have?’ He glanced out of the still-open tent as Brennus passed, returning from a visit, his bedraggled bard trudging along behind him.
‘He will not get the power.’ Ovidius spoke quietly, and before the others could say anything he explored the thought. ‘But he might get more power than he had.’
‘And the woman,’ Ferox said.
‘She’d eat him alive,’ Crispinus snapped. ‘Sorry, poor taste.’
‘It is one of their greatest crimes for a wife to kill a husband or husband to kill wife. If she were compelled to marry him, he might be safe.’
‘All true, although does that not also mean that the wife is closest than anyone else to the leader? Perhaps she did not want him to succeed? After all, Ferox, you were the one who said that she was up to something.’
Ferox was not listening, for a figure was moving through the camp towards them. The man was tall, with a gladius hung from a red leather belt over his shoulder. That was the only splash of colour on him, for boots, long trousers, long-sleeved tunic and cloak were all black or so dark that they seemed black.
‘They’re here,’ he said.
XVI
THE PIRATE WAS young, no more than sixteen, with thick black hair and olive-coloured skin. He did not look like any German Ferox had ever seen, and he guessed that this was the son of one of the sailors or marines who had joined the mutineers. The navy was the only branch of the army open to men who were not freeborn, so perhaps the father was a former slave from Syria or Egypt. His son spoke Latin peppered with a few Germanic words, and it was easy to follow the sense if not every detail. He hissed something that sounded like a curse when Probus was brought over, so must have been given a good description of the merchant because he was too young ever to have met him.
Probus did not react, and the meeting was short and without incident. They were to meet on the next night, an hour after sunset. Ferox thought how odd it was for a man who came from a remote Caledonian island to speak of so Roman an idea as an hour. They would bring all that they had promised to the mound where the first sacrifice had occurred. By the time they met, the high king would have been named, the celebrations under way. The peace reigning over this place during the festival would last for another day and a night, so they had better not think about trying to seize back the captives by force.
‘Would the crowd turn against us on behalf of these folk?’ Crispinus did not hide his scorn or lower his voice.
‘Yes,’ Ferox said. ‘This time and this place is sacred and cannot be polluted.’
‘The punishment?’
‘I believe being torn apart by wild horses.’
‘We shall honour our pledges,’ the tribune proclaimed. ‘And expect you to do the same.’
‘We will bring the captives,’ the young warrior said. ‘None of your high folk have been harmed in any way. They will only be hurt if you do not give us what we want.’
‘Do you trust them?’ Crispinus asked after the man had gone.
‘They’re bandits, pirates, kidnappers and cannibals,’ Ovidius said, ‘and you wonder whether they are honest!’
Ferox ignored them and strode away, pretending not to hear the tribune when he called.
Vindex was waiting with a pair of horses. ‘The Red Cat has gone ahead to keep an eye on the lad. His brother is keeping an eye on Probus.’ Segovax was a lesser tracker than the famous thief, but still better than almost anyone else they had with them.
They led their horses until they were beyond the cluster of camps. Vindex had watched the northerner head to the north west, and after they had circled around two more big groups of tents and figures hunched under damp blankets they came into the open and found his trail. The only people out here were those defecating, none of whom were bothered by riders unless they came too close. They pressed on, catching up before long.
‘He is not worried about being followed,’ the Red Cat told them, and Ferox could see that the youth was riding straight across the fields, his horse leaving obvious prints. They followed for a while, and the path still led towards a line of low hills beyond yet another old mound.
Ferox reined in beside a copse. ‘Wait for me in there. Keep a good watch, because these are men who know how to move at night. If you have to kill anyone, make sure no sees you do it.’
The centurion dismounted and walked off into the darkness, heading at an angle to the trail left by the young warrior. Ferox guessed that they were camped somewhere among the hills, relying for safety on the rules of the festival. At first he walked, for the rain made it hard to see or hear any distance. Every now and again he would stop and crouch, watching and listening. By the time he could see the mound a long bowshot away to his right, he was still more than he moved. The rain came on even harder, making it difficult to see because his eyes and eyelids were filled with water. Gambling on this as cover, he jogged ahead, slipping on the wet grass more than once.