The War at the Edge of the World (24 page)

Footsteps and voices from outside, and he gently eased himself up to stand pressed against the wall. The door would open towards him, and anyone standing in the doorway would not see him. Or so he hoped.

The slat rattled open, and faint dusk light shone across the sill; a long arm, corded with muscle, came through the gap and took up the wooden platter. Then the platter fell, the bowl tipping and spilling cold gruel. The voices outside grew urgent. The guard was only a foot or two away now, crouching outside the door to peer through the open slat – Castus could smell the rank fat the Pict warriors smeared on their bodies. He tensed, holding his breath, muscles burning.

A rattle as the heavy oak locking bar was lifted from the door. Then the wooden boards swung slowly open. Castus waited, gripping the knife – he had seen how the guards had to stoop as they passed beneath the low stone lintel. He drew a sharp silent breath. Then he flung all his weight against the door.

The heavy boards crashed hard against the man in the door­way; then Castus spun on his toes and threw the door back open. The guard was reeling, pitching over against the frame of the door. Castus grabbed him by the hair and flung him down on the floor behind him. The second guard was standing just outside. He was holding a sword, but his face was blanked by surprise. Castus saw the man’s chest rising as he drew breath to shout; he launched himself through the doorway, raising his elbows with the knife levelled. The short stiff blade rammed into the guard’s throat, stabbing through his windpipe. Castus threw his arm around the man’s waist to catch him as he fell, dragging him back into the hut and kicking the door closed behind him.

For a moment he stood breathing hard. The first warrior was still on the floor, moaning and struggling to rise onto hands and knees. Castus stepped across him, locked his elbow beneath the man’s jaw and tightened his muscles, pressing down on the spine with his free hand. The warrior struggled, kicking out; then his neck twisted and snapped and he went limp.

The knife made an ugly sucking sound as he dragged it from the second man’s throat. Blood gushed and pooled, black in the shadows. Wiping the blade, Castus wrapped it in a rag and slipped it into the waistband of his breeches. Then he took the short leather cape the first guard had been wearing, put it on and picked up the fallen sword. For a few moments he crouched, waiting for his heartbeat to slow, the energy of killing to ease. He needed to be calm now, he told himself. Calm and quick.

He cracked open the door again. It was almost fully dark, and the compound was deserted. No other warriors in sight, none drawn by the brief bloody struggle at the hut door. Castus concealed the sword beneath his cape, and then opened the door wide enough to slip outside. The air tasted like cold clean water, or the most refreshing wine.

There were animal pens to either side of the hut, and behind it a short slope down to the wall and the palisade that ringed the upper compound of the fort. Castus edged along the wall; then he crouched beside the wattle fence of the animal pen. He drew up the hood of the cloak, hoping that in the darkness he might resemble a Pict to any distant watcher. But there was blood all down his right arm and splashed over the chest of his tunic. He had not noticed it before. He scanned the line of the wall, and saw a single sentry standing on the parapet behind the wooden palisade, about a bowshot distant. The wall on this side was only shoulder height, but Castus knew that it fell away much further on the far side, as the slope of the hill descended.

Turning, he stared back across the compound; there, on the far side, not fifty paces away, was the hut of Julius Decentius. How much time, he thought, before the other warriors noticed that the guards were missing? How much time before they went to investigate? Quickly, before caution gripped him again, he shoved himself away from the wall and began running, head down, across the compound.

As he neared the hut he heard a burst of laughter, and saw a spill of firelight from an opening door. He threw himself down beside a pen on the far side of the compound, but it was only a woman coming from one of the other huts with a bowl of cooking scraps. She flung them into the pen, and Castus heard the grunt and shove of pigs. He waited until the woman had returned inside, then scrambled up and ran to the door of Decentius’s hut.

He did not know how many people might be inside. Decentius may have warriors with him. He may even have a wife and chil­dren – Castus had not considered that. But he could not turn back now. A glow came from inside, showing between the boards of the door. He rapped on the boards with his fist, and heard a voice from within.

As soon as the latch was raised he threw himself against the door. The figure on the far side reeled back, saying something in Pictish; then Castus punched him hard on the jaw and he fell. Closing the door behind him, Castus drew the sword from beneath his cloak. Decentius was sprawled on the ground beside the hearth, an upended stool beside him. There was nobody else in the hut, and Castus stepped away from the door with the sword held low.

‘Centurion,’ the man said, holding his jaw, ‘what are you—?’

‘I’ve got a message for Aelius Marcellinus,’ Castus said in a low whisper. He was standing close to the fallen man, close enough to strike. Decentius managed to sit up. His eyes flicked across the room to the Roman cavalry sword on the far side of the hearth.

‘Aelius Marcellinus is dead.’

‘That’s right. And you can give him the message when you meet him in the land of Hades. Tell him:
Aurelius Castus sent me to follow you
.’

He drew back his arm to strike, but the man raised a hand, imploring.

‘Wait!’ he said. ‘Please… you’re mistaken!’

‘Mistaken how?’ Do it now, Castus told himself. Strike, and get it done. But then he remembered the renegade’s words at the parley before the besieged fort.
The empire has betrayed you… Don’t die for emperors who despise you!

‘I…’ Decentius said, kneeling now. ‘I am a loyal servant of Rome.’

‘You’re a renegade and a traitor. Now you’ll die.’

‘I’m not a traitor, no! I’ve been an exile for ten years, that’s true. But my loyalties have always been to the emperors.’ He was speaking quickly. His eyes still flickered towards the sword. ‘I have… I’ve been in communication, these last two years, with agents of the imperial government, a very highly placed officer of the Notaries, from Treveris…’

Castus felt his brow cool suddenly. His arm ached from holding the sword. He remembered the strange subtle man in the praetorium at Eboracum, months before. His questions about the loyalties of the army.
Nigrinus
.

‘He came here?’

‘No. No, we communicated by messenger. I have documents, coded documents – if you’ll allow me to show you…’

‘I’ve got no use for documents. Explain quickly.’

‘I was promised,’ the man said. ‘Promised a full pardon, the restoration of my military rank and honour, my ancestral lands… I would have done anything for that, centurion. All these years exiled in this place, living in a hovel surrounded by savages. What would I not have done?’

‘What
did
you do?’ Castus growled. He stepped closer and seized the man by the shoulder. Decentius hung limply from his fist.

‘I was ordered… to provoke the tribes into an uprising against Rome. To arrange the deaths of the king and his supporters.’

‘Balls! Why would Rome want a Pictish uprising?’

‘So the new emperor could bring an army to Britain, and his son too. The emperor… is a sick man. He needs military victories, acclamation for his son, before he dies…’

‘Don’t believe you,’ Castus said. He flung the man down, and stood breathing hard above him.

‘Oh, it’s true.’ Decentius was smiling now, that same sickly grin Castus had seen before. He remembered the renegade calling out his offer of surrender to the besieged soldiers in the fort. His arm tightened.

‘I am a Roman soldier, just like you,’ the renegade said. ‘
We will do what we are ordered
… But, you see, once you light a fire it is hard to control. This uprising… is greater than I’d anticipated. I have done my work too well, you could say!’

‘You could say that.’ Castus felt doubt pooling inside him like cold oil. The urge to strike, to kill, was almost instinctive. But he could not – the man’s words had gouged at his determination. What could he believe now? Decentius stared up at him, mouth open, his face sick with fear but emptying now, resigned.

Keeping his eyes on the crouching man, Castus moved care­fully around the hearth. He took the cavalry sword from where it was leaning against the wall and threw it down before Decentius.

‘If you’re a Roman,’ he said, ‘die like one.’

He stepped back, and Decentius picked up the weapon and reversed it with trembling hands.

‘Thank you, brother,’ he said quietly. He lowered the pommel until it rested on the floor, and placed the point beneath his breastbone. ‘Could you look away for a moment while I do this? It’s hard to die well.’

Castus turned only slightly. From the corner of his eye he caught the sudden movement, the man on the floor springing up with the blade turning in his hand. He wheeled, bring­ing his own weapon up to block the attack. Iron clashed and whined as Castus parried the blow, then Decentius collided with him, pinning his sword arm against his side. He could feel the renegade trying to turn his blade and stab it into his back. They wrestled together, standing, feet scuffing.

‘Bastard!’ Decentius hissed through his teeth. Castus dropped his sword and shoved against him. Reaching blindly with his left hand, he found the hilt of the iron knife in his waistband, pulled the blade free and punched it between Decentius’s ribs. The man jerked, let out a single cry. Then his legs gave beneath him and the sword fell clattering from his hand. Castus hurled the dead man backwards, and he fell sprawling into the hearth, scattering sparks.

Snatching up the fallen weapon, Castus dragged the largest brand from the fire and ran from the hut. Panic beat in his head, the fighting energy, the killing energy, powering him now. He took four long strides and hurled the burning brand over the wattle fence into the animal pens. Pigs shrieked and scrambled, butting against the fence as the flames ripped and crackled across the dry straw. Castus was already around the far side of the hut, in the shadow, staring at the parapet of the wall. The sentry had seen the fire: Castus heard his shout, and then saw him jump from the wall and run towards the animal pens. The snap and hiss of the flame was loud now, and the screaming of the pigs was louder still. Castus dropped his head and ran, down the short slope and then up, springing to catch the lip of the wall and pull himself up to lie across the walkway.

Other figures were running towards the fire, and the wall was clear in both directions. The wooden palisade was only chest high here, made of laths woven between timber posts. Castus got up and stuck the sword through his belt. Then he snatched at the top of the palisade and leaped up and over into the darkness.

He turned as he jumped, grabbing the palisade on the far side and letting himself drop, bringing his feet up beneath him. A heavy thud through his legs as he struck the wall and hung, clinging to the outside of the palisade. The wooden laths creaked under his weight, bulging outwards. Men were running in the lower compound, and he hoped they would not look up. Twisting his head against the bunch of his shoulder muscles, he could see the dark humped turf of a hut roof below him. It looked empty; no smoke came from inside.

For a moment more he clung on, then he eased his legs down, kicking his toes at the wall for grip. He released his hands and began to slide, the stones grating against his chest; then he pushed himself away and let himself fall, turning in the air. The turf rushed up beneath him and he crashed down onto his back on the slope of the roof, feeling it creak and give slightly beneath him. Drawing the sword from his belt he scrambled down off the roof and dropped to the ground.

Castus circled around the curve of the hut wall, keeping below the eaves. He vaulted a fence, stumbled through the mud of an animal pen, and then saw the outer wall of the fort before him. A dog leaped up from a hut doorway; he heard the bark, then the snap of the rope halter as it lunged. He pushed himself up and ran for the wall.

Two men appeared in front of him, and he rushed them. The first he caught off guard, slamming into him and knocking him down. He dodged the spear of the second man, and swung the flat of his sword at his face. The man flinched back, and Castus kicked his leg from under him, stabbed down and felt the blade sink into flesh. He slashed the first man over the back of the head and ran.

Swerving between the huts, he reached the wall in six long strides and jumped onto the parapet. No time to glance at the drop on the far side. A flung spear darted past his head as he grabbed at the palisade and pulled himself over it. He was falling at once, the ground yawning away beneath him into darkness. Throwing out a hand, he caught at the rough stones of the wall and clung on for a heartbeat before letting himself drop again. Air rushed around his head. Then the ground punched up at him and drove the breath from his body.

He had fallen onto a slope, and as soon as he got his legs beneath him he toppled forward again, rolling and scrambling. Stones and dry thorny scrub beat at his face and arms. He lost his grip on the sword and caught himself on a grassy outcrop, reaching back until he felt the hilt in the darkness. Shouts came from the wall, and another spear flicked past and buried itself in the turf. Then he pushed himself forward again, half running and half tumbling. The ground levelled beneath him, and he was on the side of a hill below the fort with the horns blaring above him.

His elbow was skinned and bleeding, his face felt raw and swollen and his chest and flank were covered in bruises and scratches, but he was free and running with the night huge and cold around him. The slope fell away to his left, into the crooked valley that led down to the plain before the estuary. But the track from the gate of the fort led down there – already he could hear the yip and yelp of the hunting dogs from the lower compound, the shouts of the hunters as they spilled forth after him. Ahead and to his right the ground rose towards the high moorland, with mist rolling between the ridges. He began to climb the slope, making an oblique course towards the nearest hillcrest. He held the sword before him, spiking it into the turf and using it to pull himself up. His legs were burning and he was fighting for breath, but the thought of the dogs behind him drove him on.