Already Castus was assessing them with a soldier’s eye, weighing up their strength and numbers. About two or three thousand in the valley, that he could see. Probably more in the surrounding woods and hills. They had no missile weapons that he could make out, aside from light javelins, and the little carts seemed to be designed more for transport than as effective fighting machines. For all their bold display, there was no apparent discipline amongst them; they had the numbers to be a formidable threat, but against even a cohort of trained soldiers the odds might be evened. He didn’t have a cohort, but the thought was some comfort.
By the time his men had climbed the slope and crossed the low wall into the enclosure, Castus had recovered from the unfamiliar exertion of his ride. He stood with feet firmly planted, fists on hips, gripping his staff.
‘Optio, form the men into fatigue parties,’ he called. ‘I want twenty men on sentry-watch around the position, the rest clearing this space of stones and sheep shit and piling the rocks back around the perimeter wall. Then six men down to the river to draw water and collect firewood, tent-lines and horse paddock marked out and fires lit. Have the slaves dig latrine pits on the south-east slope, downstream from our watering place. And get that shrubbery off the spears too. Watchword is Securitas.’
As Timotheus saluted and gave the orders, Castus turned to survey the Pictish encampment opposite. Whatever threat might come, whether these barbarians were peaceful or hostile, he was determined to be ready.
Marcellinus returned an hour later, as the evening shadows stretched long across the turf. The big leather tents were already erected, the fires smoked and spat, and the men of the Sixth Legion not on guard duty were busy cleaning their weapons and kit. Castus met the envoy outside his own tent, raised in the centre of the enclosure.
‘An effective little fortress you have here,’ Marcellinus said, swinging down from his horse. ‘I’m sure the Picts are most impressed.’
They should be, Castus thought. Most of the barbarians have surely never seen Roman legionaries in the field. But he kept his views to himself.
‘I’ve presented my greetings to the assembly of chiefs. We’re just in time, actually – the first meeting is to be held tonight, an hour after sundown. There’ll be a feast, and an initial discussion. I’ll attend, of course, with Strabo. I’d like you and two of your men to come with me, centurion.’
Castus nodded, curt. This was Marcellinus’s field, of course, and not his. Whatever his own views might be on the wisdom of walking into the heart of a barbarian gathering – especially one so filled with tension and grief – he knew he should keep them to himself. Marcellinus was the diplomat, after all.
‘Vincentius and Culchianus,’ he called, pacing across the camp enclosure, ‘you’re taking escort duty with me. No need for mail, but get the rest of your kit shined up nice.’
Back in his tent, he stripped off his sweat-stained red-brown tunic and changed to one of clean white wool. He cleaned and waxed his boots and belt, oiled and polished his sword and helmet. He fixed the tall crest of red horsehair to the helmet’s ridge.
As the twilight gathered in the valley below the camp, and the last strokes of evening sun lay on the brown hillsides, Castus stood at the gate of his little fortification, flanked by his two men. Tension was massing in his shoulders, and his guts felt hard and tight. He eased the sword in his scabbard, raising the pommel and dropping it back. He flexed the muscles of his arms, stretched and breathed deeply.
Marcellinus strode towards him, followed by Strabo and the slaves.
‘So, then,’ the envoy announced. ‘Let us go and present ourselves to the Picts!’
6
In his years with the legions Castus had seen barbarians of many kinds: the long-haired howling Goths and the Carpi of the grasslands north of the Danube; the sinewy horse-archers that rode for the Persians; the Dacians and Iazyges he had seen as a boy in the muddy streets of Taurunum. But none of them had appeared as savage as the Picts, none so obviously glorying in their own barbarism.
Now, as the Roman party climbed the slope from the stream in the gathering darkness, the Picts were all around them. The encampment had no wall or obvious boundary; the gathering of men just grew thicker, until they walked along an avenue of warriors, some of them standing in carts, lit by the flames of fires and torches. Dogs snarled and circled between men’s legs. Castus glanced back at his two legionaries and saw Vincentius staring at the barbarians in fearful wonderment.
‘Eyes front,’ he hissed through tight lips. ‘Keep your heads up. Remember you’re Roman soldiers.’
They approached the large structure at the centre of the encamp shy;ment, a hut or hall, low under its roof of turf and bracken. Smoke swirled around it, and from inside came a guttural voice rising and falling in a kind of song. The figures on either side fell back, closing behind the Roman party to form a ring around the open doorway.
‘Best leave your two men and the slaves out here,’ Marcellinus said quietly. ‘You can come on inside with Strabo and me.’
Castus gave his orders to the two legionaries, quickly and quietly. ‘Remain here, don’t move, don’t talk to anybody and don’t eat or drink anything they give you. Understood?’
‘Understood, centurion,’ Culchianus said grimly. Vincentius just nodded.
A loud voice cried out from inside the hall, then came a stir of other voices.
‘We’re announced,’ Marcellinus said. ‘Follow me.’
Ducking his head, Castus followed Strabo and the envoy through the low doorway of the hall. The smell hit him first, catching in his throat. A lifetime spent in the packed fug of army barrack rooms had deadened his senses to most bad aromas, but this was something else again: a concentration of bodies, woodsmoke and damp dogs, with something rotting underneath it all. A raw, animal stink that made his eyes water and his stomach clench.
He stumbled, caught at an upright post, and as he blinked the smart from his eyes he saw the rough oval chamber with the fire at its heart. It resembled a cave, with a ribbed ceiling of sticks sloping down on all sides. Around the fire a ring of men were seated on stools and log-benches, with others assembled behind them at the gloomy margins of the hall. Standing beside the fire was a ragged figure in a cloak, reddish twists of hair sticking up around his head like a rusty laurel wreath. He had paused as the Romans entered; now he went on with his cracked song, flinging out his arms, clawing at the air.
‘What’s he going on about?’ Castus whispered, leaning forward. Marcellinus had taken a seat in the ring around the central fire.
‘He’s singing the praises of Vepogenus,’ the envoy answered without moving his lips. ‘Quite a lengthy saga.’
The assembled chiefs listened intently, rocking in their seats, gasping and sighing at particularly impassioned moments. Castus stood as far back as he could, his skull touching the low sloping ceiling. Strabo was beside him, pressing his chin down into the fold of his cloak, trying to look unobtrusive.
Eventually, the song died to a finish, the ragged bard clutch shy;ing his hands to his face and twisting his body as he let out a last piteous moan, then dropping to sit on the ground. The assembly broke into wild applause, the chiefs shouting and clashing their drinking cups together.
‘Went down well,’ Castus muttered. He saw Strabo’s neat smile.