‘Balls! Why would Rome want a Pictish uprising?’
‘So the new emperor could bring an army to Britain, and his son too. The emperor… is a sick man. He needs military victories, acclamation for his son, before he dies…’
‘Don’t believe you,’ Castus said. He flung the man down, and stood breathing hard above him.
‘Oh, it’s true.’ Decentius was smiling now, that same sickly grin Castus had seen before. He remembered the renegade calling out his offer of surrender to the besieged soldiers in the fort. His arm tightened.
‘I am a Roman soldier, just like you,’ the renegade said. ‘We will do what we are ordered… But, you see, once you light a fire it is hard to control. This uprising… is greater than I’d anticipated. I have done my work too well, you could say!’
‘You could say that.’ Castus felt doubt pooling inside him like cold oil. The urge to strike, to kill, was almost instinctive. But he could not – the man’s words had gouged at his determination. What could he believe now? Decentius stared up at him, mouth open, his face sick with fear but emptying now, resigned.
Keeping his eyes on the crouching man, Castus moved care shy;fully around the hearth. He took the cavalry sword from where it was leaning against the wall and threw it down before Decentius.
‘If you’re a Roman,’ he said, ‘die like one.’
He stepped back, and Decentius picked up the weapon and reversed it with trembling hands.
‘Thank you, brother,’ he said quietly. He lowered the pommel until it rested on the floor, and placed the point beneath his breastbone. ‘Could you look away for a moment while I do this? It’s hard to die well.’
Castus turned only slightly. From the corner of his eye he caught the sudden movement, the man on the floor springing up with the blade turning in his hand. He wheeled, bring shy;ing his own weapon up to block the attack. Iron clashed and whined as Castus parried the blow, then Decentius collided with him, pinning his sword arm against his side. He could feel the renegade trying to turn his blade and stab it into his back. They wrestled together, standing, feet scuffing.
‘Bastard!’ Decentius hissed through his teeth. Castus dropped his sword and shoved against him. Reaching blindly with his left hand, he found the hilt of the iron knife in his waistband, pulled the blade free and punched it between Decentius’s ribs. The man jerked, let out a single cry. Then his legs gave beneath him and the sword fell clattering from his hand. Castus hurled the dead man backwards, and he fell sprawling into the hearth, scattering sparks.
Snatching up the fallen weapon, Castus dragged the largest brand from the fire and ran from the hut. Panic beat in his head, the fighting energy, the killing energy, powering him now. He took four long strides and hurled the burning brand over the wattle fence into the animal pens. Pigs shrieked and scrambled, butting against the fence as the flames ripped and crackled across the dry straw. Castus was already around the far side of the hut, in the shadow, staring at the parapet of the wall. The sentry had seen the fire: Castus heard his shout, and then saw him jump from the wall and run towards the animal pens. The snap and hiss of the flame was loud now, and the screaming of the pigs was louder still. Castus dropped his head and ran, down the short slope and then up, springing to catch the lip of the wall and pull himself up to lie across the walkway.
Other figures were running towards the fire, and the wall was clear in both directions. The wooden palisade was only chest high here, made of laths woven between timber posts. Castus got up and stuck the sword through his belt. Then he snatched at the top of the palisade and leaped up and over into the darkness.
He turned as he jumped, grabbing the palisade on the far side and letting himself drop, bringing his feet up beneath him. A heavy thud through his legs as he struck the wall and hung, clinging to the outside of the palisade. The wooden laths creaked under his weight, bulging outwards. Men were running in the lower compound, and he hoped they would not look up. Twisting his head against the bunch of his shoulder muscles, he could see the dark humped turf of a hut roof below him. It looked empty; no smoke came from inside.
For a moment more he clung on, then he eased his legs down, kicking his toes at the wall for grip. He released his hands and began to slide, the stones grating against his chest; then he pushed himself away and let himself fall, turning in the air. The turf rushed up beneath him and he crashed down onto his back on the slope of the roof, feeling it creak and give slightly beneath him. Drawing the sword from his belt he scrambled down off the roof and dropped to the ground.
Castus circled around the curve of the hut wall, keeping below the eaves. He vaulted a fence, stumbled through the mud of an animal pen, and then saw the outer wall of the fort before him. A dog leaped up from a hut doorway; he heard the bark, then the snap of the rope halter as it lunged. He pushed himself up and ran for the wall.
Two men appeared in front of him, and he rushed them. The first he caught off guard, slamming into him and knocking him down. He dodged the spear of the second man, and swung the flat of his sword at his face. The man flinched back, and Castus kicked his leg from under him, stabbed down and felt the blade sink into flesh. He slashed the first man over the back of the head and ran.
Swerving between the huts, he reached the wall in six long strides and jumped onto the parapet. No time to glance at the drop on the far side. A flung spear darted past his head as he grabbed at the palisade and pulled himself over it. He was falling at once, the ground yawning away beneath him into darkness. Throwing out a hand, he caught at the rough stones of the wall and clung on for a heartbeat before letting himself drop again. Air rushed around his head. Then the ground punched up at him and drove the breath from his body.
He had fallen onto a slope, and as soon as he got his legs beneath him he toppled forward again, rolling and scrambling. Stones and dry thorny scrub beat at his face and arms. He lost his grip on the sword and caught himself on a grassy outcrop, reaching back until he felt the hilt in the darkness. Shouts came from the wall, and another spear flicked past and buried itself in the turf. Then he pushed himself forward again, half running and half tumbling. The ground levelled beneath him, and he was on the side of a hill below the fort with the horns blaring above him.
His elbow was skinned and bleeding, his face felt raw and swollen and his chest and flank were covered in bruises and scratches, but he was free and running with the night huge and cold around him. The slope fell away to his left, into the crooked valley that led down to the plain before the estuary. But the track from the gate of the fort led down there – already he could hear the yip and yelp of the hunting dogs from the lower compound, the shouts of the hunters as they spilled forth after him. Ahead and to his right the ground rose towards the high moorland, with mist rolling between the ridges. He began to climb the slope, making an oblique course towards the nearest hillcrest. He held the sword before him, spiking it into the turf and using it to pull himself up. His legs were burning and he was fighting for breath, but the thought of the dogs behind him drove him on.
Up the exposed slope, scrabbling for handholds as it steep shy;ened, he did not look back. He gained the ridge, and began to run. In the darkness he had no sense of direction, but he could see the smoke and the distant hearth fires of the fort up on the hilltop and kept them behind him. Further along the ridge he dropped down onto the far slope, running in bounding leaps between the tummocks and the thrusting thorn bushes. The ground levelled again and grew wet and soft beneath him, and he was running and stumbling across a boggy valley. Coarse grasses grabbed and swiped at his ankles, and he could see nothing in front of him, only the dim flank of the hills to his right. The wet ground sucked and hissed with every step.