At the last fall something told him to keep still. Like any Silurian boy he had spent hours learning to move with stealth at night and he knew that a man’s fears could conjure up all sorts of dangers. He also knew that a man’s instincts kept him alive. Ferox lay flat on the sodden ground.
The rain slackened and he saw movement less than ten paces away. A man walked into view, moving slowly and stiffly. He was little more than a shape, darker than the sky, and as he walked there was a soft bump with every second step. Ferox guessed that it was a scabbarded sword patting his thigh whenever he moved that leg. It was a sloppy mistake, but he forced himself not to relax or do anything foolish. This wanderer might be nothing to do with the pirates, although he doubted that. More likely he was young and inexperienced. He wondered how many of the true Harii were left, and whether they had taught the rest all their tricks.
Ferox waited for the man to wander off, waited a little longer, and then began to crawl through the grass. Above him the clouds parted and a bright moon shone down, turning the landscape silver. He froze again, lifting his head as little as possible to look round. The man he had seen was a good hundred paces away, and there was another sentry a similar distance away in the other direction. Both men paced up and down. If they were clever they would have posted a few men a little back, lying on the ground and watching. Ferox went slowly forward for a dozen paces, stopped, waited, and did the same again. He was making for the lip of a low rise, up ahead. As he came closer he started to hear voices in muffled conversation. There was a dim light, which grew, and someone had got a fire going because there was a glow beyond the rise. It seemed that they were not clever.
It took a long time, perhaps an hour or a little more, to reach the crest. The camp was just below him, so close that he could see individual faces around the fire and smell the bacon or pork they were cooking. At least he hoped that it was bacon or pork, and could not help feeling hungry.
Ferox watched them for some time, making a careful count. There were forty-seven men with anywhere up to another dozen or so out on guard. There were no women. He scanned the scene again to make sure that he was right, but no one was asleep and all were clearly visible. He could see Cerialis, his hands bound, so that one of the Harii was leaning over and helping him to eat. Genialis was not there, and there was no sign of any other captive apart from the prefect of the Batavians.
Edging back on his elbows, Ferox went down the slope. He had seen all that he could and needed to get back. Turning around, he stared out across the slope and could only see one of the sentries. Staying on his belly he crawled and slithered on. The second time he stopped he saw the other warrior, squatting on the ground. It was an odd posture for watching and then he heard the man groaning and straining. Ferox crawled forward, taking almost as much time as he had during his approach, until he decided that he was far enough out to get up and walk.
A wind came from the west, sighing and hissing over the grass. Ferox was wet and weary, and shivered when the first cold blast bit into him. It no longer felt like summer. He tried to tell himself that the Harii had brought the prefect because they wanted to extort more for the rest of the hostages. They would make new demands for the release of Sulpicia Lepidina, thinking that handing over the prefect showed the Romans that it was worth paying in the hope that they would be given the lady next time. Ferox did not honestly care much about Genialis, and from what Ovidius had said they may anyway want the lad to join them, assuming he was the child of one of their priestesses. Brigita’s own kin may be ransoming her, or not, given the fall of Epotsorovidus, and that was not his main concern. Ferox tried to make himself think of the slaves and others they had abducted, but the vision of Sulpicia Lepidina filled his mind and his fears pictured her in torment or dead. She was not here, which meant that he must go to where they kept her. He hoped that Bran had found out more.
The man sprang up from the grass and came at him, hurling himself at Ferox’s waist. There was not time to curse himself for letting his mind wander, and all he could do was brace his feet and then twist as the man slammed into him. They both fell. Ferox was struggling for breath, but managed to strike with his knee and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. The man’s fingers reached for his throat. They rolled, Ferox on top for the moment, and he jabbed down with his elbows, breaking the lock the warrior had on him and staring into the black-painted face. Then they rolled again, and the warrior was on top. A shout came from somewhere else, and someone was running over to them.
Ferox punched. He had no real room to swing, but the blow caught the man under the chin and that made them turn over again. Ferox butted with his forehead, felt the savage impact and dull pain as bone met bone. The man groaned, and the Roman hit him again, full in the face, and his elbow pressed onto the warrior’s windpipe. Someone ran up, then gasped as the breath was knocked from him and he fell on top of them. Blood was wet on Ferox’s face, but the man who had fallen was dead weight, sliding rather than attacking, so he hit the man beneath again and again until he lay still.
The corpse was dragged off him. Beside him the Red Cat nodded, and the gesture somehow conveyed his bafflement at the centurion for letting himself be surprised. The man on the ground moaned softly, and the northerner readied his sword.
‘No. We take him back. This one too.’ He gestured at the dead man. ‘We’ll hide him in the trees.’
The Red Cat hooted like an owl. Vindex rode up a few moments later, leading the other horses. They went back to the little patch of wood, their captive still unconscious. Ferox told the others where they were to join him, and by the time he reached the camp he had the rest of the plan in his mind. The tribune was asleep, and he toyed with the idea of going ahead without his permission, before deciding that it would take longer to persuade anyone without his orders. Crispinus would have to know, but first he went to see Bran, who had the ‘lad’ and his master in tow.
‘Five thousand denarii,’ the man demanded. He was of average height, broad and thick limbed with the weather-beaten skin of a man who had lived through many a gale.
‘You will have it,’ Ferox promised.
His next visit was to Probus. The merchant was angry at being disturbed, but listened to what he had to say.
‘Very well. We’ll be ready.’
Crispinus was harder to persuade. ‘You want to leave us?’
‘They only have Cerialis, so they will want more from us. Get him back, my lord, and in the meantime I will go and see if I can rescue the others. We know where their island is, I have arranged for a merchant ship to carry us, and I have one of their men who will tell me what I need to know. You free the prefect and then come after us. We will leave a sailor who can guide you, so send him to the legate and Aelius Brocchus’s force. You can all come and rescue us in case we cannot get away and before the rest of the Harii return.’
Crispinus was dubious. ‘What makes you sure they have not brought the other captives, but simply are keeping them in another camp?’
‘Why should they?’
‘That’s not a real answer. And why do you assume their warship is at a harbour here in Hibernia with most of their fighters. You may find their island and be faced with hundreds of warriors.’
‘They need to take the ransom home. Better not to trust that to a hired merchant ship. My reckoning is that the galley came here after the raid, dropped off Cerialis and this band, and then took the others north to their lair. Why should they fear us chasing them or coming to find them, when we have no idea where to go?’ He tried to explain his reasoning, knowing that there were a lot of guesses.