Chapter Ten
We keep bearing north for Brigantia. I set a brisk pace. We are both exhausted but there’s no point in giving in to it. We need to get away from the Parisi lands.
I’m certain that I can smell people, some distance behind us, but the Chief’s men are not my only worry. I fear that I’m being stalked by a wolf. It is probably only Trista’s wild talk, but I can smell the distinctive musk of a she-wolf.
‘I think we are being followed,’ Trista says after a while.
‘Two men,’ I say, ‘maybe three.’
‘You were not going to say anything?’
‘They were a long way behind.’
We move closer instinctively and check our weapons. Wet and cold weather can play havoc with steel. As she bends down, Trista lets out a cry. I think at first that she’s been hit by a spear, though I heard nothing. She falls and her pack opens and spills with a clatter of copper against iron ground. I can’t see any injury but her face is bloodless, so pale she that looks like an unpainted marble statue. I pull her helmet from her head and her red-gold hair spills around her, like dark mead. Her eyes move beneath closed lids as if she dreams. Her breath is shallow and rapid. She is as tall as I am and weighed down with her heavy mail and shield, but somehow I pull her upright and get her over my shoulder.
I half drag, half carry her to a nearby tree, as the dead are taken sometimes from the battlefield. I know that she has gone to the place of visions, that she is perhaps possessed by the spirits of the gods. I want to run. I can hear the men now and they are not far away. I don’t want anything to do with the uncanny, with the dark spirits of the tribes and their thirsty, blood-craving deities, but I can’t leave her. She is a dead weight and I dump her down too roughly. She doesn’t even respond to my manhandling. Oh, by Mithras’ balls, I can’t defend us both. I unsheathe my sword anyway and plant my spear next to me. I drop my pack next to Trista and ready my shield. I strain my ears and hear fragments of conversation – in Latin. It’s my own people and not the Chief. I almost laugh with relief. Then I remember. I am a deserter from their army and the penalty for that is death. When was I supposed to report? I can’t remember.
Trista groans – the sound is horribly loud in the silence. She struggles to sit up. There’s blood in her hair where her neck snapped back and her head hit the frozen earth. The Romans are almost upon us. I scoop up Trista’s helmet and thrust it back on her head.
‘Romans are coming – pretend you’re ill and cannot speak.’
She nods and I wonder if she needs to pretend. She’s not focusing properly and her face is now the grey-white of the melting slush.
I brush twigs and mud from my cloak and straighten up. I am not a deserter, but an incompetent scout who’s lost his way. Another scouting party comes into view. They smell of fatigue and blood. I don’t think I’m the only one to have run into trouble. They eye me warily. I spot the Decanus, the man in charge, right away. He’s a stocky Lusitanian with the swarthy looks of his countrymen and a reputation as a brawler.
I salute him: ‘Gaius Agrippa Morcant reporting, sir – scout of the Ninth. We ran into a bit of trouble with the natives and Triss here is injured – blow to the head – can’t speak.’ He recognises me too and something in his manner relaxes.
‘Pox-faced Brit-shit tribesmen! You’ve heard about Caratacus and his rebels? They’re all at it now. We’ve all had trouble lately. Can your mate walk? We’re heading back to camp now.’ His small group has been hunting down survivors of the hill fort massacre. The thought makes my stomach sour and I struggle to keep my expression under control. He makes some rapid introductions that I don’t take in and his men help support Trista as she staggers to her feet. At least her height and lean build make her a convincing enough man.
‘Bastards who attacked Julius – we sorted them out,’ he says. I can smell the acrid smoke of the fire still clinging to him and I’m repulsed. Of course that’s why Trista’s hall was attacked! I hadn’t connected the scuffle in which Julius was injured with the punitive raid on the Chief’s fort. I should have done: we are on a war footing and our commander believes in letting the natives know who’s boss. One Roman injury is worth a hundred or more Keltic deaths. It is one way of getting respect quickly – or so the Prefect believes.
Trista looks at me wild-eyed and suspicious. I can’t translate for her, not here and now. She allows herself to be helped and I hope that they don’t notice the flash of her Keltic longsword under her cloak or the flash of fury in her eyes when two men grab her arms. Does she know these are the men responsible for what happened at the fort? I hope not: I don’t know what she might try to do. We have walked together, fought together and endured together but right now she is a stranger to me. I can only hope she has the wit to keep her mouth closed and her sword sheathed.