10

The music was strange, barbaric, unearthly: thudding drums, wailing pipes and voices, rhythmic shouts and screeches. Castus pressed his cheek to the rough wood of the door and squinted through the crack between the boards. Fire­light dazzled his eye; then he saw capering figures in black silhou­ette, reeling shapes against the blaze, sparks shooting into the night sky. He saw manlike figures with the heads of animals and cruel birds, and felt the sweat freeze on his brow.

But these were men. Men wearing bird-headed masks, danc­ing around the fire with crooked steps, hands clasped behind their backs. He shuddered, fearful of the strange noise, the dark alien gods, the breath of magic and superstition. On his hands and knees he backed away from the door into the dank gloom of the hut.

Three days had passed since they had taken him from the pit where Marcellinus had died. He had been brought out by night and seen little of his surroundings, but had noticed the half-moon between the clouds, and realised that it must have been ten days since the battle. Ten days for the Picts to muster their forces – Aurelius Arpagius would not be expecting his delegation to return until the end of the month. Only then would he realise that something was wrong, and by that time the Picts could already be assaulting the Wall. Perhaps, he thought, the barbaric celebration outside marked the beginning of their campaign, a ritual declaration of war against Rome?

He sat on the floor of the hut and fed a few twigs and some dried moss to the meagre fire in the central hearth. This hut was his new prison: a circle of massive stones enclosing a space only five paces across, containing a straw mattress and a central fireplace. The walls rose to waist height, and above them was the sloping conical roof of smoke-blackened timbers and heavy old turf. Castus had already tested the strength of the ceiling – it would be possible for him to break a hole large enough to clamber through, but the noise of the cracking wood would surely alert the guards outside, and they would be waiting for him as soon as he emerged.

Twice a day the guards removed a slat of wood near the bottom of the door and slid a wooden tray of food and a beaker of water through to him. He could hear their voices outside sometimes, but aside from that he was kept in total solitude. Again and again the images of the battle returned to him: the fury of the attack; the faces of his men as they waited at the wall; Timotheus and Culchianus embracing him before he left them… Hunched on the floor, head lowered, he clasped his fists at the nape of his neck, as if he could press the memories from his mind. Then he stretched on his toes until he could grip the topmost roof beam, and began furiously pulling himself upwards, touching the beam with his chin each time, until the muscles of his arms and stomach burned and he felt the sweat tiding down his back, and dropped lightly to the floor again. Other times he ran on the spot, or whirled and dodged around the narrow circuit of the hut, scuffing up dirt, keeping his reflexes sharp, guarding his strength until he had a chance to use it.

The sound of the music died away outside into a vast mut­tering hush, then a last cry sounded and he heard the assembly break up. Crawling to his mattress in the dark, he lay on his back and waited for sleep. Soon, he told himself – soon he would find the chance he was waiting for, and somehow make his escape, or die in the attempt.

Battering at the door woke him, and he sprang up. Daylight showed between the slats, and he pulled on the rough sleeve­less tunic they had given him and stood ready beside the hearth.

The door opened, and the scarred face of the guard appeared as he stooped into the hut, the stiff comb of his hair brushing the low lintel.

‘Ech! Deugh umlaen!’

Castus nodded, and paced towards the door. As he stepped outside he met an arc of levelled spears, and stood passively as the guards tied his hands behind his back. Then they prodded him forward.

It was the first time he had properly seen the fort in daylight. Beneath the heavy sky he saw the flat summit of the hill ringed by the crest of a broad stone wall and a waist-high palisade. The ground fell away on all sides, dropping to the lower surrounding compound. Within the upper enclosure were ten or eleven huts, some animal pens, and at the centre the big firepit from the celebration of the night before, still sending up thin grey smoke. As he passed between the huts Castus saw the dark slopes of mountains on either side, and to the north a wide river estuary gleaming dull silver.

‘Centurion!’

Castus halted, and the spear jabbed against his back. In the doorway of one of the huts he saw Julius Decentius, the renegade, leaning on a stick. The man’s leg was heavily bandaged above the knee.

‘I’m sorry about the way things have turned out,’ Decentius called. ‘Most regrettable. I did all I could but—’

Castus snarled, cutting the man off; anger bulked his shoul­ders and he started forward, fists clenched. Two spears knitted across his chest, holding him, but the renegade had already cowered back into the doorway. His expression was flickering between naked fear and a sickening attempt at a smile.

‘You must believe me, I tried to help you…’ Decentius said, his voice strangled in his throat.

‘I don’t need your help,’ Castus hissed back. Then the guard shoved at his shoulder and he walked on. He could sense the renegade staring after him. Could it be true, Castus thought, that after all his betrayals the man still believed they were allies, fellow Romans? The thought soured his mouth, and he spat.

They reached one of the larger huts at the far end of the compound, and the leading warrior stepped forward and banged on the door with the butt of his spear. The door swung open, and the guards moved aside, gesturing for Castus to enter.

Warmth met him as he stooped through the door, and the smells of cooking food and damp greasy wool. Something else as well: a high keen scent. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, and he stood up straight as he felt the bonds slipped from his wrists.

‘The men outside think you are a wild animal, and must be kept tied at all times. But I trust you can behave like a human.’

Castus recognised the voice, that low and heavily accented Latin, before he made out the figure of Cunomagla herself, seated at the far side of the hut. He took a few steps from the door towards the central hearth. There were several others in the room: women in plain gowns kneeling on the floor. One of them worked at a spinning wheel, another at embroidery. All seemed carefully oblivious to his presence.

‘Sit,’ Cunomagla commanded. Castus lowered himself onto a stool beside the hearth. The walls of the hut were hung with woven pictures showing the figures of animals and men locked into a strange stiff frieze. Pale skulls of horned animals were mounted around the slope of the ceiling, and a bronze cauldron hung suspended by a long black chain above the fire. Castus leaned down to rub the ears of a lean yellow dog lying beside the hearth; the animal flinched and bared its teeth at him.

‘I was sorry for what happened to your envoy,’ the woman said. Castus tried to judge the woman’s expression. Nothing in her eyes or her voice suggested that Marcellinus had been important to her, once. The boy, his illegitimate son, was sitting on the floor beside his mother.

‘He chose his own way out,’ Castus said. He could see Cunomagla more distinctly now. She had thrown off her cloak and wore only a sleeveless green dress that gathered in her lap. Her heavy ornaments – the chain of double silver links at her neck, the massive snake-head bands on her arms – caught the glow from the hearth fire. Behind her, Castus could see a broad hunting spear leaning against the wall. He had no doubt that she would use it if he made a step towards her or her son.

But what, he wondered, must he look like to her? His hair and beard had grown out into an unruly yellow-brown scrub, and in his native tunic he could easily pass as some kind of barbarian himself. Only his army boots marked him as a Roman. The Picts went barefoot, and had no need to take them.

‘What do you want with me, lady?’

‘Just to talk. Do not worry – none here understand Latin. We can be plain with each other.’

‘This is your fort, then? You rule here?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘This is Drustagnus’s place. I am his guest… or maybe his prisoner. But Drustagnus has gone to make war on the Roman lands, with his uncle the king. You think they will be… victorious?’

Castus thought for a moment. He remembered the sneering attitude of the young Pictish chief when he had last seen him. Be careful, he told himself. This woman too is one of them.

‘At first, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But later – no. Once the Roman forces rally against them, your people have no chance. The legions will march north and destroy this country.’ He tried to keep the vengeful anger from his voice.

‘I think so too,’ Cunomagla said quietly. She held his eyes across the glow of the embers. ‘I was two years in your city, your Ebor-acum. Drustagnus also, but he was too young to know what he saw. This city is not the greatest of your empire, I think?’

‘Far from it.’ Castus almost smiled, thinking of Antioch, Nicomedia, even the cities of Pannonia.

‘Yes. And Romans have many legions. This I learn when I live at Ebor-acum. This, and this language, and the stories and customs of your people.’

‘What stories?’

‘I learn that Romans are vicious and cruel, and crush their enemies without mercy. I learn that their armies can be des­troyed, but more armies always come after them. I learn that emperors can be murdered by slaves, and can rise from nothing. Your customs are very strange to me.’

‘Some of these stories are strange to me too.’

She smiled a little at that, just the slightest flicker. The glow from the hearth was very warm, and Castus felt a slow drowsiness creeping through him, a sense of intoxication like the first effect of strong wine.

‘If the armies of Rome destroy the new king, and his nephew Drustagnus too, my son will be one of the few in my land with the ruling blood, of female line. He could become king.’

‘If there’s anyone left for him to rule.’

Cunomagla closed her eyes for a moment, as if gathering her thoughts. ‘There are stories my people tell,’ she said, ‘of when the Romans came to our land, many fathers ago. Your emperor, Sey-verus. We ran from him, to the high mountains, to live like animals in that country. In my father’s father’s time we struggle and fight, all against all, and make ourselves human again. Now we return to our land, and we are strong. We are free, not like Romans. You understand this?’

‘You don’t look like free people to me.’

‘You are Roman,’ Cunomagla said with a dismissive smile. ‘You don’t know what is freedom! But you know we fight for this – our land and custom.’

‘That I can understand, yes,’ Castus said. He had seen it many times before, after all. Seen that determination smashed by the legions, and only the dead and the burning villages left.

‘My son is too young now to rule as king,’ Cunomagla said. ‘But I… I could rule in his name until he was of age. If I had a husband to stand beside me.’

‘Take one then,’ Castus said. The woman was staring at him, proud and direct. It was an unfamiliar sensation to him. She laughed.

‘If I take a husband, he will want to be king. Drustagnus wants this. Then my son could never rule.’

Castus felt his mouth drying. The mysteries of Pictish roy­alty were beyond him, but now he was beginning to see the connection. Marcellinus, he thought, was supposed to be here instead of him.

‘But only if your husband was a Pict,’ he said.

Cunomagla nodded slowly. ‘You,’ she said, ‘are a brave war­rior. I have seen you, strong in battle. All my people know this.’

She stood up, and in the firelight she seemed to tower beneath the blackened roof. She picked up the spear from behind her. She had never looked as powerful, or as commanding.

‘You… can be my husband. When Talorcagus and Drustagnus are dead, we both rule, in my son’s name. My people are wild and fierce and love freedom, but we could govern them. Make treaty with Rome – peace between Roman and Pict. When they have seen the Roman war, they will understand this.’

‘Peace?’ Castus said, sneering. The word sounded incredible, impossible. He felt stunned and angry; the thought of sur­rendering himself to be the consort of a barbarian woman, of the race that had slaughtered his men, was repulsive. But there was another feeling inside him too, almost nauseating in its intensity. Desire, like something slowly uncoiling in his belly. Had Marcellinus killed himself so that he did not have to make this choice?

‘Better to rule over living men than dead,’ Cunomagla said. ‘Better to rule than to die.’ She lowered the spear until the blade pointed at Castus.

‘Why not Decentius? He’s a Roman.’

‘This man is not a man. He is a traitor to his people. He is less than vermin.’

But would I not be a traitor too, he thought, if I did what you want?

She raised the spear again and placed it back against the wall.

‘Go now,’ she said. ‘Think on what I say. Soon I call you again.’

Outside the hut, the cold fresh breeze caught in his throat. Castus coughed, and then breathed deeply, letting the clean air wash over him as the guards tied his hands again. He tried not to meet any of their eyes as they marched him back towards his hut. But he saw Decentius, the traitor, watching him from a far doorway with a sly and calculating grimace.

Castus lay on his mattress, staring into the gathering darkness as the hearth fire died down. He could hear the calls of the guards from outside, a doglike yapping and a cackle. The earthy taste of barley porridge was thick on his tongue, and sleep was far away. His body was alive with angry frustration. He was not a slave, to be commanded by savages, or a beast to be driven by the goad. He was a Roman soldier. He told himself that, but what did it mean now? Already Talorcagus could be leading his tribal horde against the Wall. If he had half the numbers that Marcellinus had suggested then the garrison would be overwhelmed. And then what? If Arpagius assembled the legion in time he might defeat them in the field, but if not…

Set against that, what happened to Castus himself seemed utterly unimportant. He was a dead man already, in the eyes of everyone he knew. So what, if he became Cunomagla’s consort? A slave and a prisoner, pretending to rule over savages? But, no, he could not allow himself to do that. He could pretend, until he had a chance to break free, but subterfuge was not in his nature and the idea disgusted him. Better to die, then. He could pound at the door or rip his way through the roof, and throw himself at the guards outside to die under their spears. Maybe even take one or two of them with him. He sat up, determined to do exactly that. But then he remembered the promise he had made to Marcellinus. To escape, and carry word to his family. He still had Marcellinus’s seal ring, concealed in the toe of his boot. A promise to a dying man had the force of a sacred oath.

Castus got up and paced circles in the darkness. It was hot and stale in the hut, and his beard and hair prickled with sweat. Scrubbing at his head, he flung himself down on the mattress again and pulled the coarse blanket over himself. He felt his mind, exhausted with tumbling thoughts, slowly lurching towards sleep.

It was a sound from the door that startled him fully awake again, the rattle of the locking bar and the soft grunt of the rope hinges. An hour had passed, maybe more; he could not tell. He lay still, eyes wide, trying to guess the shapes around him in the dark. Cold night air flowed in from outside. Then a figure entered the hut and the door was closed once more.

‘Who’s there?’ he said, low in his throat, and felt more keenly than ever his lack of a weapon. But only a single figure had entered the hut – and with a quick sense of inevitability he realised who it was.

‘Be still,’ she said, crouching beside the embers in the hearth and feeding them sticks until the fire crackled back into life. The glow lit her face, her thick hair. ‘It is the custom of my people’, she said, ‘that a woman of royal blood can choose her men. Any that she desires can be hers.’

She stood up, a column of shadow above the fire.

‘Do I get to choose as well?’ Castus said.

Cunomagla dipped her head and her face dropped into the shadow of her hair. She lifted one hand and unpinned the brooch that fastened her dress at the shoulder. The dress fell, and she stood naked in the firelight. Castus stared at her, transfixed: all over her body, her powerful arms and broad shoulders, her heavy breasts and wide hips, the flesh was marked with a tracery of scar-patterns. She paced across the hut and knelt beside the mattress. Heavy silver glinted at her throat and on her arms. Then she laid her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down onto his back, straddling his hips and pressing her breasts against him. Her scent was raw and heady: smoke and meat and sweat.

‘Choose, then,’ she said.

They let him out of the hut the next day, and allowed him to walk with hands unbound. The warriors would not look at him, but Castus caught their scowls and sneers, and saw the way they fingered their spears and the hilts of their short swords. One of them, a man with a long-toothed doglike face who seemed to be the leader, threw off his leather cape and walked with chest bared, as if to show off the pictures gouged into his skin. Castus remembered Cunomagla’s skin the night before, the softness over the muscle, and the delicate welts he had traced with his fingers in the darkness after the fire had died down. He could still smell her musk all over him, and knew the guards could smell it too.

He walked a short circuit around the upper enclosure of the fort. Seabirds wheeled over the estuary, catching the level silver sunlight as they turned, but the mountains were black. He checked the position of the sun. The estuary lay to the north, and to the south was high desolate moorland. A crooked valley descended from the high ground, curving around below the north-eastern gate of the fort – Castus could make out a hunting party returning, mounted men with dogs. He glanced around for Decentius, but could not see him.

As he reached the south-western end of the fort enclosure, he became aware that the number of men around him had increased, more warriors joining those that escorted him, a gathering throng of them trailing behind. He tried to appear oblivious, keeping his movements slow and careful, but he could feel his shoulders bunching and tightening under the coarse weave of the Pictish tunic, and the hair that had grown across his scalp and jaw prickled with fresh perspiration.

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.