He sat on the floor of the hut and fed a few twigs and some dried moss to the meagre fire in the central hearth. This hut was his new prison: a circle of massive stones enclosing a space only five paces across, containing a straw mattress and a central fireplace. The walls rose to waist height, and above them was the sloping conical roof of smoke-blackened timbers and heavy old turf. Castus had already tested the strength of the ceiling – it would be possible for him to break a hole large enough to clamber through, but the noise of the cracking wood would surely alert the guards outside, and they would be waiting for him as soon as he emerged.
Twice a day the guards removed a slat of wood near the bottom of the door and slid a wooden tray of food and a beaker of water through to him. He could hear their voices outside sometimes, but aside from that he was kept in total solitude. Again and again the images of the battle returned to him: the fury of the attack; the faces of his men as they waited at the wall; Timotheus and Culchianus embracing him before he left them… Hunched on the floor, head lowered, he clasped his fists at the nape of his neck, as if he could press the memories from his mind. Then he stretched on his toes until he could grip the topmost roof beam, and began furiously pulling himself upwards, touching the beam with his chin each time, until the muscles of his arms and stomach burned and he felt the sweat tiding down his back, and dropped lightly to the floor again. Other times he ran on the spot, or whirled and dodged around the narrow circuit of the hut, scuffing up dirt, keeping his reflexes sharp, guarding his strength until he had a chance to use it.
The sound of the music died away outside into a vast mut shy;tering hush, then a last cry sounded and he heard the assembly break up. Crawling to his mattress in the dark, he lay on his back and waited for sleep. Soon, he told himself – soon he would find the chance he was waiting for, and somehow make his escape, or die in the attempt.
Battering at the door woke him, and he sprang up. Daylight showed between the slats, and he pulled on the rough sleeve shy;less tunic they had given him and stood ready beside the hearth.
The door opened, and the scarred face of the guard appeared as he stooped into the hut, the stiff comb of his hair brushing the low lintel.
‘Ech! Deugh umlaen!’
Castus nodded, and paced towards the door. As he stepped outside he met an arc of levelled spears, and stood passively as the guards tied his hands behind his back. Then they prodded him forward.
It was the first time he had properly seen the fort in daylight. Beneath the heavy sky he saw the flat summit of the hill ringed by the crest of a broad stone wall and a waist-high palisade. The ground fell away on all sides, dropping to the lower surrounding compound. Within the upper enclosure were ten or eleven huts, some animal pens, and at the centre the big firepit from the celebration of the night before, still sending up thin grey smoke. As he passed between the huts Castus saw the dark slopes of mountains on either side, and to the north a wide river estuary gleaming dull silver.
‘Centurion!’
Castus halted, and the spear jabbed against his back. In the doorway of one of the huts he saw Julius Decentius, the renegade, leaning on a stick. The man’s leg was heavily bandaged above the knee.
‘I’m sorry about the way things have turned out,’ Decentius called. ‘Most regrettable. I did all I could but-’
Castus snarled, cutting the man off; anger bulked his shoul shy;ders and he started forward, fists clenched. Two spears knitted across his chest, holding him, but the renegade had already cowered back into the doorway. His expression was flickering between naked fear and a sickening attempt at a smile.
‘You must believe me, I tried to help you…’ Decentius said, his voice strangled in his throat.
‘I don’t need your help,’ Castus hissed back. Then the guard shoved at his shoulder and he walked on. He could sense the renegade staring after him. Could it be true, Castus thought, that after all his betrayals the man still believed they were allies, fellow Romans? The thought soured his mouth, and he spat.
They reached one of the larger huts at the far end of the compound, and the leading warrior stepped forward and banged on the door with the butt of his spear. The door swung open, and the guards moved aside, gesturing for Castus to enter.
Warmth met him as he stooped through the door, and the smells of cooking food and damp greasy wool. Something else as welclass="underline" a high keen scent. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he stood up straight as he felt the bonds slipped from his wrists.
‘The men outside think you are a wild animal, and must be kept tied at all times. But I trust you can behave like a human.’
Castus recognised the voice, that low and heavily accented Latin, before he made out the figure of Cunomagla herself, seated at the far side of the hut. He took a few steps from the door towards the central hearth. There were several others in the room: women in plain gowns kneeling on the floor. One of them worked at a spinning wheel, another at embroidery. All seemed carefully oblivious to his presence.
‘Sit,’ Cunomagla commanded. Castus lowered himself onto a stool beside the hearth. The walls of the hut were hung with woven pictures showing the figures of animals and men locked into a strange stiff frieze. Pale skulls of horned animals were mounted around the slope of the ceiling, and a bronze cauldron hung suspended by a long black chain above the fire. Castus leaned down to rub the ears of a lean yellow dog lying beside the hearth; the animal flinched and bared its teeth at him.
‘I was sorry for what happened to your envoy,’ the woman said. Castus tried to judge the woman’s expression. Nothing in her eyes or her voice suggested that Marcellinus had been important to her, once. The boy, his illegitimate son, was sitting on the floor beside his mother.
‘He chose his own way out,’ Castus said. He could see Cunomagla more distinctly now. She had thrown off her cloak and wore only a sleeveless green dress that gathered in her lap. Her heavy ornaments – the chain of double silver links at her neck, the massive snake-head bands on her arms – caught the glow from the hearth fire. Behind her, Castus could see a broad hunting spear leaning against the wall. He had no doubt that she would use it if he made a step towards her or her son.
But what, he wondered, must he look like to her? His hair and beard had grown out into an unruly yellow-brown scrub, and in his native tunic he could easily pass as some kind of barbarian himself. Only his army boots marked him as a Roman. The Picts went barefoot, and had no need to take them.
‘What do you want with me, lady?’
‘Just to talk. Do not worry – none here understand Latin. We can be plain with each other.’
‘This is your fort, then? You rule here?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘This is Drustagnus’s place. I am his guest… or maybe his prisoner. But Drustagnus has gone to make war on the Roman lands, with his uncle the king. You think they will be… victorious?’
Castus thought for a moment. He remembered the sneering attitude of the young Pictish chief when he had last seen him. Be careful, he told himself. This woman too is one of them.
‘At first, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But later – no. Once the Roman forces rally against them, your people have no chance. The legions will march north and destroy this country.’ He tried to keep the vengeful anger from his voice.
‘I think so too,’ Cunomagla said quietly. She held his eyes across the glow of the embers. ‘I was two years in your city, your Ebor-acum. Drustagnus also, but he was too young to know what he saw. This city is not the greatest of your empire, I think?’