‘Here’s the place,’ Castus said, and turned the horse towards the water. In fact, he could see almost nothing, but the sound of the river had changed, and he guessed that this was the wide shallow bend where a spit of mud and sand spread from their bank and another lay on the far side. The horse splashed forward into the water, Castus nudging it repeatedly with his knees and heels. The surge of the river was loud at first, and then the water rose around the saddle girths and the knees of the riders.
‘Slip down on the other side,’ Castus whispered, ‘but keep a tight grip on the saddle horn or you’ll be pulled under.’ Then he dropped into the water, and felt the cold striking into his chest. Marcellina gasped, and the horse kicked between them as it swam. Moonlight flooded through a rip in the clouds, and the river was suddenly bright, the spray glittering. Castus glanced back, and swallowed water, but saw only the blackness of the reaching willows and Marcellina’s hand pale on the saddle horn.
Then the horse rose as it reached the ground on the far bank, and Castus hauled himself across the saddle and pulled Marcellina up behind him again. Water streamed from them as the horse climbed the last distance from the river into the darkness beneath the trees. No sound came from the meadows beyond, no shout or flare of light. Castus reined in the horse, then turned to check that the girl was secure behind him. She was soaked, and beginning to shiver in the damp night breeze.
‘You ready?’ He saw her nod, the peak of her hood dipping. He nudged the horse forward again, out through the trees and across the low water meadow towards the fortress.
A mile, he thought, more or less. Some way to his left, north-east, was the line of the paved road that led directly to the gates. The temptation to goad the horse into a gallop was almost overpowering. Already Castus could see the growing paleness in the sky, the first suggestion of dawn. He kept his head down, the hood pulled over his face, and let the horse walk slowly forward. At a stand of trees he halted again, scanning the surrounding country as it emerged slowly from the night.
‘There are men behind us, in the meadow,’ Marcellina said in a tight whisper.
‘I’ve seen them.’ They were going down to the river on foot. Not a threat.
The horse stamped and snorted, shaking its head and tugging on the reins. The bridle clinked. Ahead of him Castus could make out the mass of the Pictish force camped in the open ground on either side of the road: bodies huddled in blankets or crude leaning shelters, fires still smoking from the night watch. Impossible to judge their numbers. Beyond them, in the far distance, the wall of the fortress showed as a pale line against the retreating darkness. There was not enough cover for a slow approach, unless along the riverbank, and then they would be easily trapped if anyone discovered them.
‘Hang on tight,’ Castus said. He felt Marcellina press herself against his back, her cheek against his shoulder, arms clasping his waist and fingers gripping his belt. He leaned forward over the horse’s mane, and dug his heels into the animal’s flanks.
For a few moments there was only galloping motion, the noise of the hooves dulled by the damp ground, and Castus heard the breeze rushing around his head and driving cold through his wet clothes. He looked up as a man rose from the darkness and then fell back with a cry. Castus kept the horse’s head straight and kicked wildly. He could hear shouts from all around, and he drew his sword and swung the flat of the blade back against the animal’s hindquarters. The charge seemed unstoppable, impossibly fast, straight through the Pict shy;ish encampment and out into the open ground beyond. When Castus looked again he saw that the light had grown and the encampment was gone, but the fortress wall was still far distant and now there were riders coming along the raised causeway of the road to his left.
He snatched a glance behind him: more pursuers, riding up from the riverbank, legs splayed from their galloping ponies, spears raised, shouting. Marcellina’s cape had slipped from her shoulders, and her hair streamed out wet and dark. The horse leaped a muddy ditch, and the jolt as it landed almost threw Castus from the saddle. He screwed the reins around, angling sideways, towards the road. There was no point in caution or concealment now.
Up on the causeway, the horse swerved and skidded on the gravel. Staggering, it charged forward again. The gate was dead ahead now, and Castus could see the watchfires burning between the crenellations. The noise of the hooves on the paved road was thunderous, but the Pictish riders were only a few paces behind. Castus heard Marcellina scream loud in his ear, and a javelin flashed past his shoulder and clattered against the road ahead. The powerful cavalry horse could outdistance the smaller Pictish ponies, but there were other riders ahead, angling up from the river to cut him off.
Castus raised his sword, yelling furiously across the horse’s bent mane. The leading rider was coming up the causeway, raising his spear; he threw, but the missile fell short. The horse charged closer. To hang back now, Castus knew, would mean encirclement and death.
Suddenly the rider was beside him, swinging with his sword. Castus parried the blow, kicked out with his leg, and the pony reared back. Then they were through, and the road was open right up to the gates. Teeth clenched, back arched, Castus drove the horse onwards – only a few hundred paces remained.
Figures were moving up on the wall, shouts echoing out into the damp dawn air, then a harsh ratcheting noise. A loud sudden snap, and Castus glanced up just in time to see the jerk of the released catapult arms. He threw himself forward, and the yard-long iron-tipped ballista bolt cut the air just above his head.
‘Don’t shoot!’ he yelled. ‘We’re Roman! I’m a Roman soldier!’ But his voice was lost in the rush of the wind, the roaring of his blood, the noise of the hooves.
Another ratcheting click, another snap. Veering left and right, Castus saw a second bolt flicker past and spike the road behind him. He stretched himself up, hood thrown back, yelling to the men on the wall. Fifty paces from the gate – the bolts could not miss now – but he did not slow down.
He heard a scream from away behind him, and turned his head. A laugh burst from his throat: one of the pur shy;suing Picts was stretched on the road, his pony capering away. The artillery shy;men had realised their mistake at last and adjusted their aim.
Now he saw the great gates cracking apart and slowly draw shy;ing open, armed men rushing over the threshold. The horse gave a last surge of strength, in under the shadow of the walls. Then the stone arches were above them, and Castus heard the welcome voices of soldiers around him.
Through the echoing stone-paved tunnel beneath the gate, he slowed the horse to a walk and then to a halt. The animal was soaked in sweat, shuddering and tossing its head. Castus dismounted, and then helped Marcellina down. He turned to confront a ring of shields and levelled spears.
‘Who are you?’ demanded a face from beneath a helmet rim. Castus could not stop grinning. The ground felt loose and unstable beneath his feet.
‘Aurelius Castus,’ he gasped. ‘Centurion, Third Cohort, Sixth Legion.’
‘Is this woman a prisoner?’ Two of the soldiers were leading Marcellina aside by the arms. She stared back at Castus, breath shy;less and confused.
‘No… no, she’s the domina Aelia Marcellina, daughter of Aelius Marcellinus, envoy…’
The circle of men broke, and Castus saw an officer, a tribune. He did not recognise the man. A cold shivering sensation rose from his gut.
‘Where have you come from?’ the tribune said in a low hard voice. Castus told him – the north, Pictland – but he was stammering the words, exhaustion fighting through the energy in his blood.