‘Choose, then,’ she said.
They let him out of the hut the next day, and allowed him to walk with hands unbound. The warriors would not look at him, but Castus caught their scowls and sneers, and saw the way they fingered their spears and the hilts of their short swords. One of them, a man with a long-toothed doglike face who seemed to be the leader, threw off his leather cape and walked with chest bared, as if to show off the pictures gouged into his skin. Castus remembered Cunomagla’s skin the night before, the softness over the muscle, and the delicate welts he had traced with his fingers in the darkness after the fire had died down. He could still smell her musk all over him, and knew the guards could smell it too.
He walked a short circuit around the upper enclosure of the fort. Seabirds wheeled over the estuary, catching the level silver sunlight as they turned, but the mountains were black. He checked the position of the sun. The estuary lay to the north, and to the south was high desolate moorland. A crooked valley descended from the high ground, curving around below the north-eastern gate of the fort – Castus could make out a hunting party returning, mounted men with dogs. He glanced around for Decentius, but could not see him.
As he reached the south-western end of the fort enclosure, he became aware that the number of men around him had increased, more warriors joining those that escorted him, a gathering throng of them trailing behind. He tried to appear oblivious, keeping his movements slow and careful, but he could feel his shoulders bunching and tightening under the coarse weave of the Pictish tunic, and the hair that had grown across his scalp and jaw prickled with fresh perspiration.
The men ahead were leading him between the last two huts and the wattle-walled pigsties to where the ground sloped down towards the wall and the palisade fence. There was an open area here, of short springy grass, and as the crowd behind him passed between the huts they spread out to either side. Castus looked at the wall; it was only waist-high, and he could cross the palisade with a spring. To run at it, to jump: the temptation was almost too much. But what was on the far side? A steep drop, and a further compound below. For a moment he imagined himself doing it, but he knew that the moment he moved he would die, his back quilled with Pictish javelins. Perhaps, he thought, they were hoping he would make such an attempt and give them the excuse they wanted to kill him.
Now the leader, the dog-faced man who had cast away his cloak, was facing him. Castus stood at ease, feet spread, waiting. The crowd of other men encircled them, and the leader bared his teeth and winged his shoulders, flexing his chest muscles and biceps so the animals gouged into his flesh seemed to writhe.
‘Umdaula!’ the man said. ‘Deugh en-ray!’
A thirsty hiss went up from the spectators as their champion dropped into a wrestling stance, arms raised and hands spread to grapple.
Castus shifted his feet, backing slightly. His opponent lacked his weight and muscle, but had a look of wiry strength and agility; he would be fast, no doubt. There were fresh wounds on his body too – he had been injured in the battle on the hilltop. Most of the other warriors bore the same scars; they were veterans, Castus realised, left behind here to guard the fort while the younger men joined the attack on the Roman frontier.
Pulling off his tunic and throwing it aside, Castus faced his opponent bare-chested. The Pict was speaking under his breath: taunts or insults, Castus assumed. He had an urge to leap in close and swing a punch at the side of the man’s head, but something told him that this was what his opponent was expecting. Instead he kept shifting his stance, backing and circling, keeping his fists close to his body. The crowd were spitting hatred.
Let him win, Castus told himself. Nothing to be gained from victory here. This was about pride; they wanted to humble him, show him they were the masters now. Either that or provoke him – most of the onlookers carried weapons, and he could never take them all on empty-handed. Fine, he thought. But he could not make it look too easy.
‘Come on then,’ he said through his teeth. He could feel the heat of the crowd at his back. ‘Come on, you bitch’s bastard!’
The Pict darted forward suddenly, dodging in under Castus’s reaping swing and driving a shoulder against his sternum. Castus staggered, breath bursting from his lungs; his opponent was quick and fierce, hooking a leg behind him to kick at the back of his knee and bring him down. Castus locked his thigh muscles, fighting just to remain standing, and the two of them grappled together, stamping and swaying. The Pict’s body was smeared with some kind of grease; he was eel-slick and hard as a whip.
All around the crowd pressed in, their harsh voices building to a chant. Ladha Ruamna. Castus knew what that meant: this was no friendly wrestling bout. They wanted him dead. His enemy’s teeth grated against his cheek, and Castus drew back his head and butted it forward. A crunch of cartilage, and there was blood spattered over his face. The Pict yelped in pain, and drove his heel in a hooking kick. Pain, then a crippling weakness shot up Castus’s side.
Overbalancing, he crashed over onto the turf. His enemy was on top of him, grasping and pinning him; a sinewy arm snaked around his neck and tightened, twisting. All around were feet stamping, faces contorted in savage relish. Castus got a knee beneath him and pressed upwards. The tendons in his neck burned.
Ladha Ruamna! Ladha Ruamna…! Their bodies twined together, the two men wrestled in a half-crouch. Castus swung his arm back, grabbing for the Pict’s hair, but felt hard fingers inching across his face. He tried to twist his head further away, but the Pict could almost reach his eye sockets. Already the fingers were hooked, to gouge and to blind.
A sudden twist of the neck, and Castus opened his mouth and seized the man’s thumb between his teeth. He bit down hard, using the arm locked around his neck as a fulcrum, until he felt bones crack and tasted blood. The Pict screamed and released his grip, staggering away.
Kneeling on the ground, Castus spat the blood from his mouth. Sweat was in his eyes. The crowd of warriors surround shy;ing him had drawn back, and his adversary, panting breath and clutching his injured hand, stood before him with his face seething. He snatched a spear from one of his comrades, lifted it in his left hand and aimed it.
Castus stared at the point of the spear. This was his death.
Then a sharp cry came from up the slope, between the pigsties. The crowd broke apart. There between the huts stood Cunomagla, wrapped in her rough-weave cloak with her hair loose and anger in her eyes. Her voice again, commanding – Castus could not even try to understand her, but knew her meaning.
The warriors fell away. Even the leader, clutching his bloody hand to his chest, slunk back. Cunomagla directed a level stare at the gathering, nodded imperiously, turned and stalked away. Behind her, lingering by the pigsties, was the renegade Decentius.
Castus got up, slow and careful, feeling the pain in his limbs but not wanting to show it. Keeping his head straight, he walked back up the slope towards the main compound. Decentius stepped forward as he passed.
‘I called her as soon as I heard the shouting,’ the renegade said. ‘You could say I saved your life…’
Castus glanced at him without expression. He could see the despair in the man now, the desperate need to reach out to a kinsman. Almost understandable, trapped in this savage place. But a traitor could never win his gratitude. He narrowed his eyes. Then he shrugged and walked back towards the hut.