Dagodubnos looked up. ‘Two druids brought me here,’ he said. ‘They wait below with the coracle. Of course I was accompanied by Boduua, too. Why do you ask, foreigner?’
‘Don’t worry, they didn’t put up much of a fight,’ came a booming voice. ‘We killed them at dawn. The boat is at anchor below. We saw the Archdruid’s coracle cross last night, so we put the plan into effect. We’d better get you down from here before anyone on the mainland notices us and comes to investigate.’
An armoured figure loomed up out of the mist, followed by two men in the garb of sailors and headed for Flaminius. ‘Never mind me,’ he said. ‘Get the Archdruid!’
Hampered by his long dark robes, the Caledonian darted for the cliff, shouting for Boduua. But as he passed her, the woman stretched out a long, bare leg. Dagodubnos landed on his front in a dazed heap. Boduua tore off her wig, revealing the long, dark, lustrous locks of Rhoda. She laughed.
‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ she said with a throaty chuckle, gazing down scornfully at the feebly struggling form. ‘Boduua couldn’t make it. She went for a swim….’
‘Someone help Rhoda with the Archdruid,’ rapped out the armoured man, addressing the sailors. ‘And get the tribune down from that tree.’ He drew closer.
‘Hello, sir,’ said Junius Italicus with a grin.
— 20—
Spoor had been found by the two trackers. Now the riders were careering along a narrow defile, with Quintus in the lead, Publia riding just behind. The plan was to flush the beast from the coverts. Then a few of them would proceed on foot, with boar spears. Quintus had hunted boar before, but only in Italy. He was sure the Caledonian variety would be more terrible than even the savage beasts he had faced in the woods of Umbria.
At last they reined their mounts at a point where a narrow valley split off to one side. One of the Thracians jumped down to investigate the ground. He looked up.
‘No sign of tracks here,’ he reported. ‘Must have gone to ground.’
Publia threw an impatient look at Quintus. ‘We’ll never find any quarry with this many riders,’ she said. ‘Send half of them back, and we’ll not make so much noise.’
Quintus studied her as she sat her pony, an irate expression on her cold, beautiful face. She made a magnificent sight, even though she had lost her hat in the ride and now her long dark hair hung down unconfined. She looked more than half a barbarian, regardless of her olive complexion and the Latin she spoke, which was pure enough, despite something of a provincial accent. Quintus had not spent long enough in Britain to be able to pinpoint it, but he knew she had not grown up in the City.
‘We’re risking our lives as it is,’ he said, ‘riding north of the Wall. It was your idea to bring so many men. Besides, were we to split our forces now, either group would be put in danger.’
He peered up at the heights that loomed above them, still misty despite the risen sun.
Publia looked about her. ‘Has anyone seen any sign of any Caledonians?’ she asked. ‘They don’t dare come so close to the Wall. And they’re too busy fighting amongst themselves to trouble a few hunters. My concern is for the quarry. You will look like a fool, husband, riding back into the fort to admit to the governor that you have come back emptyhanded…’
‘I will not return with nothing to show for this expedition,’ he flared. ‘I will come back with enough meat to stock the governor’s pantries until Saturnalia. I said I would, didn’t I? My people always keep their word.’
Publia leapt down from her pony. Quintus was often embarrassed by her wilful, mannish ways, but she had proved impossible to tame, he reflected, as she quested about, studying the ground. Did she think she was a better hunter than the Thracians he had brought with him?
She bent down amidst the bushes, brushing a dark lock of hair from her olive face. ‘No sign of boar tracks?’ she asked. ‘Here’s more spoor, and not yet cool!’ She pointed at a pile of dung she had been examining. ‘And here are tracks—leading in that direction.’ She pointed at the narrow defile.
Quintus turned censoriously to study the trooper who had first examined the ground. He stood by his pony now, flushed. The decurion bared his teeth at the man.
‘Call yourself a Thracian?’ he barked. ‘A woman is a better hunter than you!’
‘There was no spoor there when I looked,’ the man complained, and his decurion reached down to cuff him.
‘Enough, decurion,’ Quintus said. ‘Very well, we will ride up the defile.’
‘All of us?’ Publia exclaimed. ‘Our quarry will hear us coming and go to ground. A third of the men must remain at this end, the rest will follow us.’
Without waiting for a reply, she rode towards the mouth of the defile.
Uneasily, Quintus rode after her. He heard the troopers talking to each other in guarded whispers. Talking about him, he was certain. The decurion should do something about them. But he had left the decurion with the main group of men.
He should do something, then. He should do something about Publia. He should have done, months ago. Curbed that wilful streak. But she was like a wild lynx of the hills. Sometimes, despite her fluent Latin and her knowledge of Roman ways, he felt as if she was… something alien. Barbaric.
She was riding at the head now. Most Roman ladies were content to be taken from place to place in litters borne by slaves. At first Quintus had admired this independence in his wife, but more and more he feared the disapproval and censure he was bound to meet in society when he returned home. Marrying a wild wench from Britain rather than a sweet, submissive Roman girl. The kind who would mature into the household managing harpy who was the Roman matron, able to skin a slave at a glance, and lash a husband into submission with no more than her tongue... Publia had seemed refreshingly different. But now he wondered if she was entirely too different.
They had ridden up into the hills, where mist still hung. Heather swathed the slopes but trees grew in greater and greater profusion. They were entering ancient woodland, the forest that had been growing in these islands when Caesar first set sandaled foot here, long ago; when Claudius made his brief visit, then left the business of conquest in the hands of governors and subordinates. Before Suetonius Paulinus slaughtered the druids of Mona and broke the back of resistance.
Rumours said that druids still lingered in these mysterious parts. No wonder, since they had never been fully quashed. It was only a few years since rebellion had flared—not here, but south of the Wall, stretching as far as Londinium before it was put down. People said the druids had been at the back of it.
At a sudden clatter from the slope, he reined his pony, peering doubtfully up into the swirling fog. The air was wet, and he coughed and wheezed as he searched the mist for signs of life. Seeing nothing, he rode on after Publia. She had almost vanished into the mist that had now seeped down onto the path ahead.
‘My dear,’ he cried, ‘do you think we should go so far?’
She looked back over her shoulder. ‘Will you turn and run while your men are here to witness your disgrace?’ she called back loudly. Quintus looked back and saw the auxiliaries plodding doggedly after them.
He regarded her again and shook his head. ‘No, wife, of course not,’ he said in a lower voice, riding after her. ‘But I fear we will find no sign of this boar.’
She looked at him strangely. ‘We must keep going,’ she said. ‘You swore a vow on the eagles that you would bring back your quarry.’
‘I was…well, I had drunk a little too much of the governor’s Falernian,’ he said, half-jokingly. ‘Platorius Nepos keeps a good cellar, but his slaves should water his wine more. No wonder I made such a rash boast. No man should be kept to boasts made in wine.’
‘You were still drunk when we set out,’ Publia said, as she allowed him to ride up alongside her. ‘But you know that you cannot go back…’
‘So I keep hearing,’ Quintus replied. ‘Very well, let us run this quarry to ground and despatch it. You found the spoor. Where is it now
? Surely it is time we dismounted and took to boar spears.’
‘We’re still on the trail,’ Publia warned him. ‘Wait until we find the signs that the boar is close. Then send men forward on either hand and they will drive it towards you.’ Seeing a look on his face, she added, ‘It must be you who spears the boar, after all. Don’t worry, husband. I will be at your side when the spear goes in…’
At a sudden clamour from behind, Quintus sawed at his reins and turned in his saddle. The men behind him had also halted, and were looking back into the mist fearfully. From some distance away—it was hard to judge in the mist, but Quintus thought it must be at the far end of the defile—came the ring of blade on blade, cries of anguish, then eerie silence.
He turned again. Publia was riding on ahead, deeper into the defile.
‘Where are you going, you barbarian bitch?’ he shrieked. ‘Didn’t you hear that? My men are under attack!’
‘Sir!’ said one of the auxiliaries, riding forwards. ‘They have cut off the entrance of the defile. We’re trapped!’
By now Publia and her pony were no more than dark shapes in the mist.
‘We’ll ride forwards,’ Quintus told the Thracians. ‘It has to come out somewhere! To go any other way would be suicide.’
Men came galloping out of the mist behind them, and at first Quintus thought it was the enemy, but then he recognised them as auxiliaries.
‘Sir!’ yelled one of them, the decurion. ‘We’re under attack!’ He had lost his helmet and his right hand hung uselessly at his side; he guided his pony clumsily with reins bunched in his left hand. ‘It’s the Caledonians…!’
The air whistled and the decurion fell from the saddle, brainpan bashed in by a sling stone. More whistling sounds followed and a rain of slingshot hurtled through the misty air. Quintus caught sight of dark figures approaching.
He jabbed his heels into his pony’s flank, and shouted, ‘Ride! Ride up the defile!’
His men charged after him as he galloped up the path that Publia had followed. But as they went, the defile grew narrower, bushes choked the path. It began to slope upwards. Crags swam into view out of the mist, cutting off their path. There would be no escape this way, not without some climbing.
Sitting her pony in the shadow of one crag was Publia. She watched calmly as her husband rode out of the mist.
‘What are you doing?’ he cried. ‘There’s no boar here.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘There never was,’ he said accusingly, riding closer. ‘You planted that spoor. You wanted us to come up here. But why?’
Blue painted barbaric men appeared from the mist, most of them naked to the waist, wearing breeches of variegated colours, their hair limed and spiked, carrying in their hands spears and swords and shields of brass. They set upon the few remaining auxiliaries.
‘There was always a boar,’ said Publia, as her husband looked about him, eyes wide in fear. ‘A big Roman boar.’
As he turned to look questioningly at her, she lunged forwards, and he felt a thud from his chest and looked down. A dagger hilt protruded from it. He realised the folly of coming up into the hills poorly armoured.
‘But we were only hunting…’ he gasped, then fell backwards.
Publia’s pony nickered softly, exchanging greetings with the riderless beast that had borne her husband. His huddled form lay upon the wet grass beneath the crag. She looked up. The black dots of carrion crows circled in the mist above.
‘Good work! We slew them all.’
A bearded figure was riding towards her. A cloak covered his body, its hood all but hid his face, but she recognised him at once.
‘I thought you would never get here,’ she said. ‘That boar spoor was old! No wonder the tracker discounted it. I would have thought you, of all men, would keep to the plan. And my tribesmen?’
‘We met with some trouble, girl,’ the bearded man admitted. ‘Now you’ve rid yourself of one inconvenient husband, and we have ponies and auxiliary armour. As soon as it looks like the right moment, we will ride south.’
Painted men were methodically stripping the dead auxiliaries of their armour, others were calming the ponies and gathering them together further down the defile. She exchanged greetings with a chieftain of the tribe, then turned to the man who had masterminded the entire enterprise.
‘We must attack as soon as we can,’ she said urgently. ‘I’ve been with the governor’s staff for days. They are complacent, convinced that the Wall will protect their province from now until the end of time. But Platorius Nepos has seen everything he needs to. If we are to take him prisoner, now would be the opportune moment.’
The bearded man nodded. ‘Very well. We will give them enough time to worry, to think that perhaps your husband will not be returning. Then, as night is falling, we will ride back. They will be waiting for us.’
He lifted up a helmet he had taken from a dead auxiliary. ‘They will welcome us into the fort. We will receive a warm welcome! But they will soon see the error of their ways.’ He placed the helmet on his head.
‘I think it would be better if you were to be Quintus,’ Publia said thoughtfully. ‘You have much his build. Let the tribesmen play auxiliaries.’
‘Very well.’ He nodded, removed the helmet and flung it to a passing warrior. Then he dismounted and went over to Quintus’ body. The Roman’s eyes stared sightlessly at the misty sky. Publia watched in satisfaction as the bearded man stripped the body and donned the Roman’s rich hunting garb.
— 21—
As Flaminius was helped up onto the swaying deck of the Liburnian galley moored in the firth, Rhoda clutched his wounded arms.
‘Look what they’ve done to you!’ she said. ‘You’ve been hurt, grievously hurt. I just don’t understand why you wanted the men to wait so long before they attacked.’
The deck creaked and swayed as more men came aboard. Junius Italicus’ voice boomed: ‘We were waiting,’ he said, joining them as the sailors hustled a struggling form aboard, ‘Because that was what the tribune told us to do.’
‘I said from the start,’ Rhoda told him; ‘the Archdruid is not going to come to speak with Flaminius. He’d send his men to get the truth out of him, and they wouldn’t be nice about it.’ She surveyed his burns and cuts with horror. ‘And I was right!’
‘So was the tribune,’ said Junius Italicus.
‘I kept them waiting long enough,’ said Flaminius. ‘I didn’t crack, whatever they did or threatened. In the end, they sent to the Archdruid, and he came. And that was when we were able to put our plans into effect.’
‘That druidess put up a fight when we jumped her,’ Rhoda murmured. ‘I thought the Archdruid would suspect something after I took her place…’ She broke off as Dagodubnos was hustled into their midst.
The Archdruid looked around bitterly. ‘A trap,’ he said bitterly. ‘But futile. When they learn I have been taken, my people will come after me. They will punish you severely for this.’
‘Good of you to remind me,’ said Centurion Junius Italicus. He turned and bellowed to the captain of the vessel, who had been waiting patiently in the stern since they had come aboard. ‘Let go aft! Time we were under way.’
As the ship crept across the waters of the firth, leaving the shelter of the far side of the island that had shielded it from watchers ashore, Flaminius took comfort in a cup of wine. He surveyed the Archdruid, who stood surrounded by crewmen as the daylight grew.
Rhoda tore off the filthy robes she had taken from the druidess, her expression one of wonder tinged by horror. She had not known what to make of Junius Italicus when Flaminius first introduced him. His journey from Dacia at Probus’ bidding had been delayed due to a late snowfall in the Alps, and he had reached Rome in time to learn of Probus’ death and what had caused it. Flaminius and Rhoda had travelled north with him. Knowing that they would be arrested if he entered Britain openly, Flaminius and Junius Italicus had remained offshore in the boat they had requisitioned with Junius Italicus’ commissary insig
nia. No one had confiscated that.
Rhoda, meanwhile, had journeyed in disguise to Londinium. Here she had learnt that since the death of the high king the only power in Caledonia belonged to the druids. It had ever been thus, but the Archdruid’s resources were better by far than could easily be explained.
When he had been in Britain with Probus, Flaminius had heard about the island where captives were taken for questioning. He decided that it was time he spoke with the Archdruid.
Junius Italicus studied Flaminius. ‘Are you ready to start questioning the prisoner, sir? Should I take him down into the cabin? I’ve got one of my men heating the irons already.’
Flaminius shook his head. He looked down at the rolling green waters. ‘Bring him to me here. I’ll speak to him on deck.’
Junius Italicus scratched the back of his neck, puzzled. ‘Bring the brazier on deck, sir?’
Flaminius shook his head and unconsciously rubbed at his arm. ‘I don’t think we’ll need any of that,’ he said.
The crewmen dragged the Archdruid to the stern. At a sign from Flaminius they let go of him and withdrew. The Archdruid looked at Flaminius, then over the rail, as if judging his chances.
‘I wouldn’t try it,’ said Flaminius conversationally. ‘We’re a long way from land, and you would drown well before you could swim back. It wouldn’t do your reputation any good if your corpse was found washed up on the shore. And it wouldn’t do you any good.’
‘What do you want of me?’ said the Archdruid. He spoke in a high, tremulous voice that was a stark contrast with the arrogant tones he had used earlier.
‘I’ll be asking the questions this time,’ Flaminius told him. ‘I want to know all about you. Your power. Your gold. And your links with the previous governor of Britain, Falco.’
The Archdruid stiffened. ‘I know nothing of anyone called Falco.’
The Londinium File Page 16