The War at the Edge of the World (23 page)

The men ahead were leading him between the last two huts and the wattle-walled pigsties to where the ground sloped down towards the wall and the palisade fence. There was an open area here, of short springy grass, and as the crowd behind him passed between the huts they spread out to either side. Castus looked at the wall; it was only waist-high, and he could cross the palisade with a spring. To run at it, to jump: the temptation was almost too much. But what was on the far side? A steep drop, and a further compound below. For a moment he imagined himself doing it, but he knew that the moment he moved he would die, his back quilled with Pictish javelins. Perhaps, he thought, they were hoping he would make such an attempt and give them the excuse they wanted to kill him.

Now the leader, the dog-faced man who had cast away his cloak, was facing him. Castus stood at ease, feet spread, waiting. The crowd of other men encircled them, and the leader bared his teeth and winged his shoulders, flexing his chest muscles and biceps so the animals gouged into his flesh seemed to writhe.

‘
Umdaula!
’ the man said. ‘
Deugh en-ray!
’

A thirsty hiss went up from the spectators as their champion dropped into a wrestling stance, arms raised and hands spread to grapple.

Castus shifted his feet, backing slightly. His opponent lacked his weight and muscle, but had a look of wiry strength and agility; he would be fast, no doubt. There were fresh wounds on his body too – he had been injured in the battle on the hilltop. Most of the other warriors bore the same scars; they were veterans, Castus realised, left behind here to guard the fort while the younger men joined the attack on the Roman frontier.

Pulling off his tunic and throwing it aside, Castus faced his opponent bare-chested. The Pict was speaking under his breath: taunts or insults, Castus assumed. He had an urge to leap in close and swing a punch at the side of the man’s head, but something told him that this was what his opponent was expecting. Instead he kept shifting his stance, backing and circling, keeping his fists close to his body. The crowd were spitting hatred.

Let him win
, Castus told himself. Nothing to be gained from victory here. This was about pride; they wanted to humble him, show him they were the masters now. Either that or provoke him – most of the onlookers carried weapons, and he could never take them all on empty-handed. Fine, he thought. But he could not make it look too easy.

‘Come on then,’ he said through his teeth. He could feel the heat of the crowd at his back. ‘Come on, you bitch’s bastard!’

The Pict darted forward suddenly, dodging in under Castus’s reaping swing and driving a shoulder against his sternum. Castus staggered, breath bursting from his lungs; his opponent was quick and fierce, hooking a leg behind him to kick at the back of his knee and bring him down. Castus locked his thigh muscles, fighting just to remain standing, and the two of them grappled together, stamping and swaying. The Pict’s body was smeared with some kind of grease; he was eel-slick and hard as a whip.

All around the crowd pressed in, their harsh voices building to a chant.
Ladha Ruamna.
Castus knew what that meant: this was no friendly wrestling bout. They wanted him dead. His enemy’s teeth grated against his cheek, and Castus drew back his head and butted it forward. A crunch of cartilage, and there was blood spattered over his face. The Pict yelped in pain, and drove his heel in a hooking kick. Pain, then a crippling weakness shot up Castus’s side.

Overbalancing, he crashed over onto the turf. His enemy was on top of him, grasping and pinning him; a sinewy arm snaked around his neck and tightened, twisting. All around were feet stamping, faces contorted in savage relish. Castus got a knee beneath him and pressed upwards. The tendons in his neck burned.

Ladha Ruamna! Ladha Ruamna…!
Their bodies twined together, the two men wrestled in a half-crouch. Castus swung his arm back, grabbing for the Pict’s hair, but felt hard fingers inching across his face. He tried to twist his head further away, but the Pict could almost reach his eye sockets. Already the fingers were hooked, to gouge and to blind.

A sudden twist of the neck, and Castus opened his mouth and seized the man’s thumb between his teeth. He bit down hard, using the arm locked around his neck as a fulcrum, until he felt bones crack and tasted blood. The Pict screamed and released his grip, staggering away.

Kneeling on the ground, Castus spat the blood from his mouth. Sweat was in his eyes. The crowd of warriors surround­ing him had drawn back, and his adversary, panting breath and clutching his injured hand, stood before him with his face seething. He snatched a spear from one of his comrades, lifted it in his left hand and aimed it.

Castus stared at the point of the spear. This was his death.

Then a sharp cry came from up the slope, between the pigsties. The crowd broke apart. There between the huts stood Cunomagla, wrapped in her rough-weave cloak with her hair loose and anger in her eyes. Her voice again, commanding – Castus could not even try to understand her, but knew her meaning.

The warriors fell away. Even the leader, clutching his bloody hand to his chest, slunk back. Cunomagla directed a level stare at the gathering, nodded imperiously, turned and stalked away. Behind her, lingering by the pigsties, was the renegade Decentius.

Castus got up, slow and careful, feeling the pain in his limbs but not wanting to show it. Keeping his head straight, he walked back up the slope towards the main compound. Decentius stepped forward as he passed.

‘I called her as soon as I heard the shouting,’ the renegade said. ‘You could say I saved your life…’

Castus glanced at him without expression. He could see the despair in the man now, the desperate need to reach out to a kinsman. Almost understandable, trapped in this savage place. But a traitor could never win his gratitude. He narrowed his eyes. Then he shrugged and walked back towards the hut.

That evening he sat alone, staring into the bright heart of the embers and trying not to think. His body was still bruised and aching from the fight. He was not waiting for her, he told himself that. His only desire was to escape this place. But later, after several hours lying sleepless on the bare mattress, he sat up at the sound of the opening door.

She came to him, as she had before, but they did not speak. That previous time he had been worried about the noise, fearful that someone outside would hear them – he had even put his hand over her mouth to try and quieten her, but she had shoved him away laughing, as if he were childish to care about such things. This time, he knew that it did not matter who heard them. The sex was fast and fierce, and she matched him in angry passion. Only afterwards did she lie still, almost tender in her contentment. He ran his palms over her body, the cold hardness of the barbaric ornaments and the coarse curling lines scored into her flesh with a blade. He was fascinated and repulsed, and filled with a strange warmth beyond simple desire.

‘Thanks for saving me from your friends outside,’ he said. ‘I think they’d rather have killed me.’

‘They would not dare,’ she said. ‘They are afraid of me. Drustagnus is their master, but I am of the royal house, and they would not deny me.’

‘Even so. I’m still an enemy to them. How long will they keep on following your orders?’

‘Orders?’ she said, smiling. ‘You talk so much like a Roman. Here there are no orders. My people do as their rulers direct from love, and respect.’

Castus stifled his laugh. There had been little of love or respect in the way the guards had looked at her earlier. Just a cowed temporary deference. He wondered what sort of game Cunomagla was playing: setting her own authority against Drustagnus, perhaps? Demonstrating that she too could rule men? Either way it was dangerous, and he was the one who would pay the price if she lost.

‘What will you do,’ he asked her, ‘if the Roman army comes here?’

‘Fight them,’ she told him. He felt her body tighten, muscles hardening. ‘I will never be a slave, or run like a dog.’

She raised herself on one elbow, and her hair fell across his chest. ‘And what would you do?’ she said. In her voice Castus thought he could hear a softness, even a sadness, that he had never heard before.

‘If the gods allowed,’ he said, ‘I would be marching in their ranks.’

For three more nights she visited him, coming after dark when the fort was silent and leaving again before dawn. Castus never knew whether she had guards or attendants of her own, who waited outside while she was with him. With every passing day the idea of escape, like the idea of home, the memory of the legion, seemed more distant.

On the fourth night she seemed changed. Castus had little experience of the moods of women; Cunomagla, he had decided, was more than just a woman anyway. She was a barbarian first, a war-leader second, and female third. Even so, he could tell that something was troubling her. After they had lain together, almost before their breathing slowed, she pushed herself away from him and sat back against the stone wall of the hut. The last glow of the fire lit her broad face, the set of her jaw.

‘The men here have sent word to Drustagnus that I consort with you,’ she said. ‘They think I make plots with you to go against their chief.’

Castus sat up. ‘What will Drustagnus do?’ He thought of Strabo’s death, the jerk of his body as the knife slashed his neck, the pump and spatter of blood, and suppressed a shudder.

‘Order them to kill you, I think,’ she told him. ‘Me, they would not hurt. But I can protect you, I...’ Already she was sounding less certain; the true price of her bid for authority was becoming clear.

‘If Drustagnus commands it,’ Castus said between his teeth, ‘I’ll die. Things won’t go so well for you either. But if I was not here… If I escaped…’

She seized his arms, fingers digging into his biceps. ‘No! I cannot allow that,’ she cried.

Castus’s heart kicked at the meaning of her words, the strength wakening again inside him. He rolled forward sud­denly, break­ing her grip on his arms as he lunged against her. Before she could fight back he had her pinned against the stones of the hut wall, one forearm braced beneath her jaw, her right wrist gripped tight.

‘You can’t protect me from Drustagnus,’ he said in a harsh whisper. ‘You know that. So set me free… or give me a way to free myself.’

‘Never!’ she spat back at him, alive with sudden fury, and he saw her teeth gleam in the darkness. ‘You’re mine… I own you!’

He felt her body flex and writhe against him, the heavy links of the chain she wore at her throat pressing into the muscle of his arm.

‘Think again,’ he said. ‘The Roman army owns me, body and soul – and I’ll never submit to you. If that makes us enemies then so be it.’

A sudden prick of pain against his belly: a knife, held low in her left hand. She registered his flinch, and smiled in bitter triumph. ‘Do you really think’, she said quietly, ‘I’d come to you unarmed?’

They paused, locked together and breathing hard, the unseen blade held between them. Castus felt the warm weight of her hair falling over his arm. He felt his anger shifting; death stood on all sides. Only this woman could help him now.
Think
, he told himself.

‘You say you had no part in these killings,’ he told her, measuring his words. ‘No part in this war. You say you’re a friend to Rome… Help me get away from here and I can tell my commander that. If I die here, you and your son will both be marked as enemies.’

For a moment she glared at him, still holding the blade against his skin. Then he felt her shoulders drop, and the knife was gone. He eased himself back, releasing his grip on her.

‘You can tell your commander this, in Ebor-acum?’ she said quietly, as if to herself. ‘I and my son both?’

‘Yes. But I can’t do that when I’m penned up here.’

‘You tell them, then,’ she said, staring at him in the darkness. ‘Tell them I am no enemy to Rome.’

‘Prove it,’ he said.

She threw herself against him, kissing his mouth hard.

Later, as he lay in half-sleep, he felt her get up from the mattress. He opened his eyes. The fire was almost gone, and she was a dark moving shape in the deeper darkness of the hut. He saw her stoop, and then fasten the dress at her shoulder. Stoop again, and a faint metallic clink came from the hearth.

‘Cunomagla?’ he said in a low whisper. For a moment she seemed to look at him, but all he caught was the movement in shadow. He heard the door creak open, and thud closed. The faintest breath of night air lingered in the darkness.

Up off the mattress, he felt his way across the dirt floor to the hearth, running his fingers over the cracked and sooty stones of the rim. He touched cold iron, then his hand closed around the haft of the knife. He picked it up carefully and ran his fingers over the blade. Six inches long, triangular and single-edged, with a cruel point.

He kissed the black iron blade, and then grinned with clenched teeth.

Crouched beside the door, Castus gripped the knife in both hands, trying to fight down his nervous impatience. A whole day had passed since Cunomagla’s visit – a day of waiting, of pacing circles around the hearth, exercising, pointlessly turning plans around in his mind. He would know nothing until he got outside the hut, outside the fort, and that alone was going to be difficult.

The guards brought him food twice a day, once a little after sunrise and again in the evening. That morning he had eaten, but the evening meal he had ignored. The wooden platter and bowl of gruel sat beside him now, on the worn stone sill before the slat in the door where the guard had placed it.
How soon
, Castus thought,
before the guards peer through the slat and see the food untouched?
He had rolled the straw mattress and wrapped the blanket around it: with the fire burning low it might look like a man’s body lying in the shadows at the back of the hut. He prayed they would not summon help – two men, even three he could deal with, but any more and he would be dead within the hour. His stomach clenched, and he felt the pulse jumping in his neck. The black iron knife was an anchor in the darkness, and he clung to it.