The War at the Edge of the World (13 page)

Already Castus was assessing them with a soldier’s eye, weighing up their strength and numbers. About two or three thousand in the valley, that he could see. Probably more in the surrounding woods and hills. They had no missile weapons that he could make out, aside from light javelins, and the little carts seemed to be designed more for transport than as effective fighting machines. For all their bold display, there was no apparent discipline amongst them; they had the numbers to be a formidable threat, but against even a cohort of trained soldiers the odds might be evened. He didn’t have a cohort, but the thought was some comfort.

By the time his men had climbed the slope and crossed the low wall into the enclosure, Castus had recovered from the unfamiliar exertion of his ride. He stood with feet firmly planted, fists on hips, gripping his staff.

‘Optio, form the men into fatigue parties,’ he called. ‘I want twenty men on sentry-watch around the position, the rest clearing this space of stones and sheep shit and piling the rocks back around the perimeter wall. Then six men down to the river to draw water and collect firewood, tent-lines and horse paddock marked out and fires lit. Have the slaves dig latrine pits on the south-east slope, downstream from our watering place. And get that shrubbery off the spears too. Watchword is
Securitas
.’

As Timotheus saluted and gave the orders, Castus turned to survey the Pictish encampment opposite. Whatever threat might come, whether these barbarians were peaceful or hostile, he was determined to be ready.

Marcellinus returned an hour later, as the evening shadows stretched long across the turf. The big leather tents were already erected, the fires smoked and spat, and the men of the Sixth Legion not on guard duty were busy cleaning their weapons and kit. Castus met the envoy outside his own tent, raised in the centre of the enclosure.

‘An effective little fortress you have here,’ Marcellinus said, swinging down from his horse. ‘I’m sure the Picts are most impressed.’

They should be
, Castus thought.
Most of the barbarians have surely never seen Roman legionaries in the field
. But he kept his views to himself.

‘I’ve presented my greetings to the assembly of chiefs. We’re just in time, actually – the first meeting is to be held tonight, an hour after sundown. There’ll be a feast, and an initial discussion. I’ll attend, of course, with Strabo. I’d like you and two of your men to come with me, centurion.’

Castus nodded, curt. This was Marcellinus’s field, of course, and not his. Whatever his own views might be on the wisdom of walking into the heart of a barbarian gathering – especially one so filled with tension and grief – he knew he should keep them to himself. Marcellinus was the diplomat, after all.

‘Vincentius and Culchianus,’ he called, pacing across the camp enclosure, ‘you’re taking escort duty with me. No need for mail, but get the rest of your kit shined up nice.’

Back in his tent, he stripped off his sweat-stained red-brown tunic and changed to one of clean white wool. He cleaned and waxed his boots and belt, oiled and polished his sword and helmet. He fixed the tall crest of red horsehair to the helmet’s ridge.

As the twilight gathered in the valley below the camp, and the last strokes of evening sun lay on the brown hillsides, Castus stood at the gate of his little fortification, flanked by his two men. Tension was massing in his shoulders, and his guts felt hard and tight. He eased the sword in his scabbard, raising the pommel and dropping it back. He flexed the muscles of his arms, stretched and breathed deeply.

Marcellinus strode towards him, followed by Strabo and the slaves.

‘So, then,’ the envoy announced. ‘Let us go and present ourselves to the Picts!’

In his years with the legions Castus had seen barbarians of many kinds: the long-haired howling Goths and the Carpi of the grasslands north of the Danube; the sinewy horse-archers that rode for the Persians; the Dacians and Iazyges he had seen as a boy in the muddy streets of Taurunum. But none of them had appeared as savage as the Picts, none so obviously glorying in their own barbarism.

Now, as the Roman party climbed the slope from the stream in the gathering darkness, the Picts were all around them. The encampment had no wall or obvious boundary; the gathering of men just grew thicker, until they walked along an avenue of warriors, some of them standing in carts, lit by the flames of fires and torches. Dogs snarled and circled between men’s legs. Castus glanced back at his two legionaries and saw Vincentius staring at the barbarians in fearful wonderment.

‘Eyes front,’ he hissed through tight lips. ‘Keep your heads up. Remember you’re Roman soldiers.’

They approached the large structure at the centre of the encamp­ment, a hut or hall, low under its roof of turf and bracken. Smoke swirled around it, and from inside came a guttural voice rising and falling in a kind of song. The figures on either side fell back, closing behind the Roman party to form a ring around the open doorway.

‘Best leave your two men and the slaves out here,’ Marcellinus said quietly. ‘You can come on inside with Strabo and me.’

Castus gave his orders to the two legionaries, quickly and quietly. ‘Remain here, don’t move, don’t talk to anybody and don’t eat or drink anything they give you. Understood?’

‘Understood, centurion,’ Culchianus said grimly. Vincentius just nodded.

A loud voice cried out from inside the hall, then came a stir of other voices.

‘We’re announced,’ Marcellinus said. ‘Follow me.’

Ducking his head, Castus followed Strabo and the envoy through the low doorway of the hall. The smell hit him first, catching in his throat. A lifetime spent in the packed fug of army barrack rooms had deadened his senses to most bad aromas, but this was something else again: a concentration of bodies, woodsmoke and damp dogs, with something rotting underneath it all. A raw, animal stink that made his eyes water and his stomach clench.

He stumbled, caught at an upright post, and as he blinked the smart from his eyes he saw the rough oval chamber with the fire at its heart. It resembled a cave, with a ribbed ceiling of sticks sloping down on all sides. Around the fire a ring of men were seated on stools and log-benches, with others assembled behind them at the gloomy margins of the hall. Standing beside the fire was a ragged figure in a cloak, reddish twists of hair sticking up around his head like a rusty laurel wreath. He had paused as the Romans entered; now he went on with his cracked song, flinging out his arms, clawing at the air.

‘What’s he going on about?’ Castus whispered, leaning forward. Marcellinus had taken a seat in the ring around the central fire.

‘He’s singing the praises of Vepogenus,’ the envoy answered without moving his lips. ‘Quite a lengthy saga.’

The assembled chiefs listened intently, rocking in their seats, gasping and sighing at particularly impassioned moments. Castus stood as far back as he could, his skull touching the low sloping ceiling. Strabo was beside him, pressing his chin down into the fold of his cloak, trying to look unobtrusive.

Eventually, the song died to a finish, the ragged bard clutch­ing his hands to his face and twisting his body as he let out a last piteous moan, then dropping to sit on the ground. The assembly broke into wild applause, the chiefs shouting and clashing their drinking cups together.

‘Went down well,’ Castus muttered. He saw Strabo’s neat smile.

Now Senomaglus of the Votadini was on his feet, calling out in a bold voice and gesturing towards the Roman party. Marcellinus got up, and the two men embraced beside the fire. Passing around the circle, the envoy threw his arms around each of the chiefs in turn, slapping them on the back. A boy appeared with three wooden mugs on a platter.

‘Guest offering,’ Marcellinus said as he sat down.

Castus took the cup that was offered to him. A dark scummy liquid filled it to the brim. ‘What is it?’ he said.

‘Just beer. The Picts brew it themselves. Drink it down and try not to inhale.’

Strabo took a sip, and choked. ‘Gah! It tastes like –’

‘Yes I know,’ Marcellinus said, smiling. ‘They say the virgin girls of the tribe piss in the vats to aid the fermentation process.’ Then he drained his cup in one long swallow, and threw it into the fire.

Castus raised the cup to his lips, trying to keep himself from gagging. Tipping back his head, he sucked the sour liquid down, and then hurled the empty cup towards the fire. Beside him, he heard Strabo coughing. The third cup thudded down into the embers, and the assembly gave wild yells of congratulation.

The brew was strong, and Castus took a deep breath to stop his head spinning, only to inhale even more smoky air. He shut his mouth and breathed through his nose, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword and hooking his other thumb into his belt. This will soon be over, he told himself. The promise of fresh air and open space was painfully intoxicating.

Strabo had brought the bundle of diplomatic gifts, and now Marcellinus was unwrapping it. The chiefs gathered closer, craning to gaze at the gold and silver glittering in the firelight. There was a fine Roman
spatha
, the scabbard inlaid with gemstones, and a collection of silver cups and plates. Finest of all was a set of enamelled portraits of the four emperors on ivory panels framed in jewelled gold. Castus saw a couple of the chiefs passing the portrait set between them, twisting their lips and muttering as they rubbed at the gilding. Then it and all the rest of the presents disappeared into the murky depths of the hall.

‘Four balls of Janus,’ Castus said under his breath, ‘not another song!’

But the man who now stood beside the fire, speaking slow gravelly words, was not a bard. He was older than the rest, heavily built, with a grey drooping moustache and a bare muscled chest heavily marked with scar-pictures and only slightly sagging with age. An impressive, commanding-looking man, Castus thought. He knelt down behind Marcellinus.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Ulcagnus,’ the envoy whispered back. ‘The former king’s armour-bearer and war leader, now acting as regent. Sensible man. With any luck he’ll be voted in as high chief, and our job here will be done.’

‘Who are the others?’ As his eyes adjusted to the smoky light, Castus could better make out the forms and faces of the chiefs gathered around the fire listening to Ulcagnus’s speech.

‘The narrow-faced man with the dyed hair is Talorcagus, the king’s cousin. He’s one we have to be careful of. Impulsive, ambitious and no friend of Rome. The handsome young man next to him is his nephew, Drustagnus.’

Castus glanced at the two chiefs. He had noticed them before. Talorcagus had a look of fierce savagery about him even compared to the rest. His head was shaved almost to the top of his skull, with the remaining hair dyed reddish orange and teased up into a stiff crest like the bristles of a wild boar. The younger man beside him, Drustagnus, had a blunt face, black hair curled into ringlets and a hungry glare in his eyes. Castus knew the look. He would be tough contender in any fight, the sort with a lust for killing.

‘Then that wiry young man opposite me is the old king’s own nephew, Vendognus. He’s weak and corrupt, but he was close to Vepogenus and stands a good chance of being voted in. I might be able to influence him, but he’s a bad second choice.’

‘And her?’ Castus nodded towards a woman standing near the back of the room. She stood tall and proud, the only female in the gathering, and the men around her had drawn back slightly as if in respect. As Castus looked at her, the woman turned slightly and met his eye just for a moment. A strong face, bold, almost masculine.

But before Marcellinus could answer he stiffened abruptly, turning in his seat as another man entered the hall. The new­comer was dressed in native clothes, but wore no scars on his body, and was clean shaven.

‘It’s him,’ the envoy said. ‘The renegade. I did not think he’d show himself so soon.’

Castus felt Strabo’s hand on his shoulder, drawing him back, and he stood and resumed his stance. The chiefs shuffled aside to give the man space at the fire. As he sat down, he looked up at Castus with a cold smile. Castus stared back at him, tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Time passed, unguessable. One by one the chiefs got up to speak, their harsh gargling voices blending together in Castus’s mind. He closed his ears to it, concentrating on taking in the details of the scene around him. Again and again his eyes strayed to the strong-featured woman at the back of the room. She was near his own age, he guessed. Somebody’s wife – had Marcellinus not told him that? But whose? Her red-brown hair, the colour of a fox pelt, hung down her back in a thick plait. She wore a green sleeveless dress of heavy weave and a chequered cape secured at her breast with a massive silver brooch. A chain of thick silver links hung around her neck, and heavy silver clasps shaped like snakes circled her powerful arms. Staring at her, Castus willed the woman to look his way again, but her attention was held by the conference around the fire.

Talorcagus was on his feet, speaking in a low angry tone, stabbing his fingers. His orange brush of hair and long goat­like beard gave him the look of a fierce satyr, carved on a village gatepost. He sat down and Marcellinus spoke, his voice measured and slow, but Castus could hear the anger in the envoy’s words.

Then, suddenly, the conference was at an end. The chiefs got up, flinging their cloaks around their shoulders, and stalked one by one out of the hall. Marcellinus followed them out, then Strabo, and Castus was just about to leave when he felt a touch on his arm. The renegade stood at his side, still wearing that cold, corrupt smile.

‘Greetings, centurion,’ the renegade said. ‘My name is Julius Decentius. I believe you may be a countryman of mine.’ He spoke with the trace of a Pannonian accent, and Castus felt a brief flare of nostalgia. But he stayed silent, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet a Roman soldier so far from home,’ the man went on, his hand still on Castus’s arm. ‘We should talk soon, you and I, when we have the chance.’