Vindex laughed and nudged the tribune with his elbow. ‘Lucky bastard.’
Ferox did not pay much attention, although he felt a flash of envy. The bard paced slowly around the circle of tables as he sang, and apart from drawing breath he did not pause in the tale. Tincommius’ own people welcomed the returned exile and rallied to him. His clan were not numerous, but were brave and proud-hearted and stout fighters. The gods led him to a hoard of weapons and fine swords, crafted with cunning and magic to bite through bone and armour as easily as butter. His men armed and armoured, and with Tincommius, the bravest of all, at their head, they fought and beat each of the neighbouring clans in turn, even when three joined forces to face him. Yet he was wise and merciful. Only the men who had wronged him were killed, their families enslaved or slaughtered by their sides. The rest had only to take an oath to him and serve him loyally and then share in the glory and spoils to come. His power grew, chieftain after chieftain and clan after clan swearing to serve him. The great druid – Ferox’s attention doubled at his appearance – had watched the contest for power, not taking sides, until the gods spoke to him and he came to Tincommius and guided his steps. It was the great druid who proclaimed him high king in front of all the leaders of the people. Soon clans from other tribes pledged allegiance: Venicones, Caledonians, Selgovae, even the strange Epidii of the far west. Warriors came from across the oceans to serve him. Great chieftains begged to foster his sons and offered their daughters as brides to the high king.
For a while the bard turned to praise of the men gathered around the table. He would gesture towards a man, then sing of his fame and lineage, of his great deeds and his staunch faithfulness. Some men leaped up or punched the air when they were named, while others sat impassively. There was mockery within the praise, for this was the high king’s hall and no one could be praised more than him. When the bard reached Venutius he made verses about his beautiful face and how much it had improved from the beating he had received. The chieftain of the Selgovae laughed and pointed at Ferox. Then the bard told of how the young Venutius had been walking out on the moors when a beautiful woman appeared to him, her eyes huge and brown, her naked breasts vast and milky white. She told him that she was the goddess of cows and that she loved him with a passion. Ever since all the cows of the world rushed to be at his side out of an unquenchable love. The whole gathering guffawed and Venutius took it all in good spirit and laughed with them.
Not everyone was so mild in their response. Crispinus gasped in surprise when the first fight broke out. Two of the chieftains stood up and bounded across the table towards each other. They screamed abuse, then threw punches, and only when one had a split lip and the other a swiftly blackening eye did other men pull them apart. The next argument went no further than yelling, but in the third blades were drawn and sparked as they clashed. One of the chiefs was a Hibernian, and he took a graze on the cheek and a deeper gash on his bare thigh, but then tipped his opponent off balance so that he fell into the fire in a flurry of sparks. The man rolled out, and then rolled again to quench his burning shirt. All the while the Hibernian held his sword aloft and screamed in victory.
Then the door of the hall was opened to let in a gust of wind so strong that the great fire rippled like a field of corn. Heads snapped round to see what was happening. The Hibernian went silent and walked back to his place.
A tall man strode across the rush floor towards the gap in the circle of tables. He was covered in a cloak made from a bearskin, his face shadowed by the animal’s mask. Ferox noticed that his feet were bare and dirty.
The man stopped and then flung his cloak down and stretched his arms high into the air. The skin of each arm was a network of long scars left by cuts from a sharp knife, cuts that he had surely given to himself. He was naked apart from a heavy gold torc and a grubby loincloth of the sort worn by slaves labouring to tend the furnaces in a bath-house. All of his body was covered in blue tattoos, images of animals and horned gods mingling with curving patterns and shapes. Both his hair and moustache were washed with lime so that they stood out stiffly.
Ferox saw Vindex’s lips move and could guess the words he mouthed. ‘We’re humped.’
It was the priest who had led the ambush all those weeks ago. The one they called the Stallion.
XVIII
‘YOU ARE LATE,’ said the high king, one leg hooked casually over the arm of his chair. There was no emotion in his voice, and only the slightest hint of reproof as he waited a moment before adding, ‘But you are welcome as always. Sit, eat and drink with us.’
The priest did not bow or say anything in reply. He looked around at the faces behind the table until he fixed on the Romans. For a long time he stared at them. Ferox stared back, and hoped that neither of the others would do anything foolish. The priest rubbed his hands together and then spat on the floor and at last turned away and went to his place at the table.
Ferox heard Crispinus breathe out. ‘Are we in danger?’
‘We have been from the start,’ he whispered back. ‘But we are guests of the high king and this is his hall. We should be safe here.’
The bard resumed his song, but the mood had shifted and become uneasy. It took a while for talk to grow again. Most of the guests drank heavily, saying little, and for a while there were no more arguments.
‘I do not like that priest,’ the German growled. ‘He is…’ He struggled to find the right word and said something in his own language first. ‘He is a bad man. He likes to kill.’
Ferox thought back to the beheadings earlier in the day, and the calm skill with which this big man had performed them. ‘Sometimes it is necessary. We are warriors.’
‘To kill enemy, yes. To kill when our lord tells us to kill his enemy, yes. To kill for pleasure, no.’ The big man grinned at him, his beard still stained with food. ‘If your friends had not come, I kill you that day.’
‘Yes.’ Ferox did not see any point pretending otherwise.
‘Now we are friends, until the king say different.’ It sounded as if this was the most he had said all year. ‘You are brave and know how to fight. Share a drink.’ He offered his cup. Ferox took it, drank what he guessed to be half and handed it back.
‘I like you,’ the German rumbled and clapped the centurion hard on the shoulder, the friendly blow feeling as if it would drive him a foot into the floor.
‘I like you,’ Ferox replied, a little surprised to find that he meant it.
The German bellowed for more drink.
It was always hard to judge time at a feast like this. The beer and wine kept coming, as did the food. Crispinus was struggling, but Ferox admired the way the man persisted and could not help being impressed by his capacity for drink. Vindex was already slumped forward on the table, head on his folded arms and snoring away in satisfied contentment. The Brigantian was not a great drinker, but neither was he the only one, and a good quarter of the chiefs had also fallen either forward or back and no longer moved.
The German showed no signs of diminished hunger or thirst, and probably always spoke and thought slowly. Opposite them the priest drank little and spent most of his time watching them, his spiked hair and the harsh shadows of the fire making him seem like a creature from the Otherworld. The bard still sang, but now he told old tales of love and hate, of raids and battles, and most people were too drunk or too concerned with their own talk to pay much heed.