Ferox happened to glance at the high king just as Tincommius gave orders to some of his servants. They returned bearing a roast boar and carried it into the circle of tables before laying it in front of the royal chair. Silence returned, broken only by the crackling of fresh logs put on to the fire.
‘Who is worthy of the first cut?’ Tincommius did not raise his voice or shout and yet it carried along the tables.
The Hibernian who had flung his opponent into the fire was the first to stand. His neighbour and fellow countryman joined him a moment later. Three others got to their feet. Tincommius pointed to the first Hibernian and one of the others and the pair sprang across the table into the open space by the fire. Servants hastily moved out of the way to clear space for them.
‘Are they going to fight?’ Crispinus was frowning and his speech was a little slurred.
‘Yes. For the right to receive the first portion – the champion’s portion.’
The chiefs drew their swords and waited while their attendants walked around to the gap between the tables and came to them, handing over their shields. They bowed and left the circle to the challengers.
‘Sweet Mother Isis,’ the tribune muttered. ‘It’s like something out of Homer. Is the fight to the death?’
‘Sometimes.’
The two men launched themselves at each other and there was the dull beat of blade on wooden shield. The Hibernian was good and fast, hacking his opponent’s shield to pieces in spite of his wounded leg.
‘Enough!’ Once again the high king did not shout, but the two men at once drew apart. Tincommius pointed at the Hibernian to show that he was the victor. The other chieftain bowed to him and to the king as the other guests roared approval and banged the table with the palms of their hands.
The other Hibernian took on one of the local men, a gaunt redhead, and the Hibernian lost, his right cheek gashed open so that it flapped, and blood mingled with spittle sprayed out whenever he tried to speak. Next the victorious redhead fought the last remaining challenger and this turned into a bitter and prolonged struggle. Each man’s shield was hacked to pieces, and soon they were landing blows on each other’s arms, heads and shoulders. Ferox wondered whether an old grudge was being settled for the king let the fight go on longer than he expected and the two fighters were gasping for breath as they slashed and cut. The priest showed little interest, and when Ferox managed to tear his eyes away from the struggle he noticed that the bard was beside the Stallion and that the two men were deep in conversation.
Crispinus started to gag, and then threw up noisily and messily on to the table. As Ferox turned to see how he was, there was a great shout and a harsh rattle as the redhead opened the other’s man’s chest with a terrific slash that cut through mail, flesh and bone.
‘I’m fine,’ the tribune said, and he smiled weakly.
The redhead ought to have been tired, for he had just fought two combats and the last had been arduous. Yet when the victorious Hibernian faced him there no sign of fatigue. The man was fast and strong and if anything his opponent seemed the tired one. Ferox had seen it before and sometimes felt it – that strange mood of battle when a man became one with his sword, when he knew that he could do anything, defeat anyone and those around him were slow and weak. Perhaps this was what the bards sang about when they told the tales of great heroes, of men who no longer knew fear or doubt and wanted only to kill, so that they did not feel the wounds dealt to them. If the redhead lived he would collapse once it was over, as the love of battle left him.
Not bothering to call for another shield, he wielded his sword two-handed. That was awkward, but gave dreadful power to the blows. He cleft the Hibernian’s shield in two, breaking the man’s arm, and did not seem to notice the wild slice that cut off a piece of his scalp and took the top off his ear.
‘Enough!’ This time the high king shouted, sensing that the red-headed warrior was so lost in fury that he would not hear. ‘Enough!’
The Hibernian gave ground as the man came at him, blood pouring down the side of his face. He swung again, sweeping the long sword down, and the Hibernian jumped back only just in time.
‘Enough!’
Ferox pushed himself up and leaped over the table, spilling a flagon of beer and sending a plate clattering away. The Hibernian dodged another blow, but lost his balance and fell, managing to roll away from the fire, but losing his sword in the process. The redhead raised his sword above his head.
‘Stop him!’ Tincommius shouted, and Ferox did not know whether the high king meant him or the frenzied warrior. He ran at the man, crouching low, as the redhead turned and snarled at him, spraying drops of blood from the side of his head. The warrior checked his blow, and slashed one-handed at the centurion.
Ferox dived, arms outstretched. He felt the sword strike his back, but the angle was poor and he was moving fast so that the blade did not cut into his mail. He locked his hands around the man’s knees, hitting him with all his weight, and the warrior buckled and fell. Ferox felt the fierce heat of the fire as they landed with the man’s head and shoulders in the flames. His hair flared and burned and the man started to scream. The centurion rolled back, pulling at the man with all his might, and then someone was beside him and rolled the redhead in a cloak. It was the big German.
‘This is an outrage!’ The voice was shrill, almost as high as a woman’s, as the Stallion stood and screamed at them. ‘See how the Romans mock our customs! How they humiliate us in the king’s own hall! They are filth and must be swept from the land.’
Ferox pushed himself up. The priest was not looking at him, but sweeping his gaze around the chieftains. He was wilder than the warrior at the height of his battle madness, yet cold, almost lifeless, and whether or not it was an act Ferox could understand men believing that the man was no more than a mouthpiece for a god.
Tincommius said nothing, but the big German patted the centurion on the shoulder and grinned. The gesture outraged the Stallion.
‘They are not of us!’ The priest shrieked. ‘Neither of them. The one has forgotten and the other was not born in these isles blessed by the love of the gods. They pollute us by their presence, but soon it will be gone.’ He jumped up on to the table, and Ferox could see that he was not as tall as he had thought.
‘Rome is weak!’ he yelled. ‘Every day it withers and if we strike hard enough it will die. They fled from these lands, and they will flee from the rest if we have the courage to defy them. Now is the time, for if we let them they will grow again like weeds in a field and choke us once again. Kill them! Kill them all! Kill them now!’
A few of the chieftains cheered, but only a few and Ferox wondered whether they shouted just because they were drunk and would cheer anything. The rest said little, but their faces were scared. There was a force in the priest, an unearthly force that cowed bold men.
‘Kill them!’ The Stallion drew a long knife, the only weapon on him, and jumped down into the circle. He ran at the fire and leaped through the flames and men gasped because he did not seem touched.
Ferox gripped the handle of his sword, but the German stepped in front of him and grabbed the priest’s thin arms, holding them tight.
‘Enough!’ Tincommius shouted and held up one hand. ‘Enough,’ he repeated, calmly this time. ‘This is my hall and you are all guests. Let him go, Gannascus.’ The German did so with obvious reluctance. The priest stood still, his whole body quivering.
‘Keep your blade in its sheath, centurion,’ the high king said. ‘Your deed was an honourable one and it seems that you now have best claim.’ He pointed to the boar. ‘Take the portion of the champion and eat it with pride.’