Fabius stood in the entrance to the Commander’s tent and watched the garrison. A group of check-trousered Iceni were being conducted through the camp with food goods from Venta, the main stronghold of the Britons, a few miles away. It was an uneasy peace, this agreement between Roman and Briton to live in harmony and not interfere with either way of life. The token force of Roman troops in Venta itself was a constant source of complaint, and Fabius was well aware of how dangerous it was keeping them there. They were a perfect excuse for an uprising, the more so since their presence in the Icenian fortress was overtly and infuriatingly (to the Britons) to keep their angry queen in check.
Fabius was irritated that it should have been Centurion Gaius Silanus – who at the moment was sprawled, fat and contented, behind the Tribune – who had been given the command of this garrison whilst better, more conscientious men were in command of garrisons far removed from any potential trouble.
It was the way the dice fell, he was sure of that: Nero was incapable of making decisions in any other way. He cared more for his prize pigs and music than for his colonies in hostile lands, and yet he would insist on making all command decisions himself. He didn’t want to appear uninterested, obviously, but his choice of commanders gave the lie to his concern.
Thinking of the rain again, Tribune Lucius Fabius recognised how he could voice his concern with the impending – and potentially disastrous – political change in this eastern part of the Province, which lay eight days’ north of Verulanium (and a measure of civilisation) and as many days from the main force of those Legions that had been left in the east.
‘She has the power to strike as swiftly and as effectively as that rain shower,’ he said. Behind him there was the sound of men shuffling in low-basined teak chairs, or shifting uneasily on couches. As always, metal rattled as the men moved, for no Roman these days ever seemed to take his cumbersome uniform off and relax.
Fabius turned and stared at the three men who sat there, replete after a meal of chicken and fruit, and much wine that had been imported, of course, from the Gaulish province of Belgica, but which had been tarted up in some way by the highly inventive Britons. It tasted good.
Centurion Gaius Silanus who, like Fabius himself, was fat and greying at the temples, but whose eyes and expression were those of a dullard, said, ‘Who? Boudicca?’
‘Who else, in Vulcan’s name,’ snapped the Tribune, ‘are we talking about?’
The blond-haired man who sat next to Silanus at the table, a thin Roman whose armour seemed uncomfortably big upon him, shifted uneasily and frowned. ‘Please don’t invoke the names of gods for the sake of anger,’ he said, his pale features flushing.
Fabius felt his irritation growing, but he controlled it. The man was Silanus’ Optione, his right hand man, and in his own way was as stupid as the garrison Centurion himself. The Tribune said, ‘I do beg your pardon, worthy Marcus Galba; but I did in fact invoke the name of a god whom we have long since ceased to worship, but I understand how you feel …’
Religious idiot, he thought with a smile playing sweetly across his face. Two imbeciles in command of this most crucial garrison. Something would have to be done about that, before long.
The fourth man in the room shook his head and patted his bronze-edged sword hilt nervously. He was a dark and swarthy Greek called Valentio who carried the rank of Centurion, but had no century of men at his command. He had been sent here, some weeks before, to assess the strength and troublesomeness of the Britons. Fabius had sent him.
‘You overestimate this woman, I’m sure. Boudicca has a temper like a bee-stung bull, but it’s all for show. She wouldn’t dare start anything, not while her husband is so weak and vulnerable to the mighty wrath of Rome.’
He used the words mighty wrath of Rome with something of an appealing cynicism in his voice, and Fabius grinned, approving heartily of his attitude. Much though he missed the country, he had no great respect for the Empire as governed by Nero.
He said, ‘I agree, Valentio. She screams around that wood and thatch palace like a stone on the end of a string, getting nowhere. She’s certainly more bluster than muster. But you’re wrong to think of Prasitagus as being alive. No, don’t alarm yourselves, gentlemen. He is certainly alive now, and for a week or two, perhaps. But my doctors, and your doctors, Silanus, have pronounced him on his death bed.’
Centurion Silanus snorted his contempt. ‘King Prasitagus has been on his death bed since he was born. It’s a cunning piece of strategy designed to get a measure of sympathy from his conquerors. It has worked, too.’
‘Hardly conquerors,’ said Marcus Galba sourly. His blond hair fell over his eyes as he talked with animated movements of his body. He swept the hair back and Fabius felt his stomach knot at the sight of the man, long-haired and girlish, not at all the sort of leader he liked to think of as being in charge of hardened legionaries.
‘What do you mean?’ asked the Tribune. Galba flushed again, and twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Well, how can we call ourselves conquerors when the Iceni live exactly as they’ve always lived, protected by treaty, allowed even to fight their tribal wars? It’s as if we never came. A few men stationed in a highly vulnerable position behind their lines does not a conquest make.’
Fabius shrugged, irritated that he was substantially in agreement with the effeminate Optione. ‘That will work in our favour in the end,’ he said. ‘For the moment we are not ready for trouble, not with Suetonius Paulinus engaged on his campaigns in the west, among the Ordovici.’
‘What is the news of Paulinus?’ asked the Centurion, and Fabius’ contempt for him increased. Did the man have no intelligence connections at all?
‘He will soon begin to storm through the fortified settlements along the north coast, which will bring him ultimately to the sacred sanctuary island of Mona. Once he has subdued the druids there, and that will not take long once he can get across the water gap that separates them, he may well come back to the east and return the strength of our garrisons.’
‘Or he may attack the Silures in the south,’ said Silanus with a scowl on his face, ‘or head due east to tackle the Cornovii. There are too many of these Saturn-damned tribal kingdoms. Why can’t the Britons have a single king, and a single army, and make it easier?’
Marcus Galba bristled at the blasphemy, and Fabius grinned. He felt like complimenting Silanus on his ability to read a map out of the corner of his eye, but repressed the facetiousness for the simple reason that Silanus’ fear (no matter how false) was a fear that Fabius had himself.
He said, ‘It would be easier, I agree, but a lot less pleasure. A conquest that takes time and effort to achieve, a treasure won at great cost, these things last longer because they are appreciated the more. I confess I agree that the subjugation of an island full of druids seems scarcely to any sort of point, but you know how paranoid the hierarchy of Statesmen and Protectors can become. One druid, shrieking curses and trying to bring down the sky, can put the fear of death into a whole platoon of soldiers. It’s worth eliminating them, for peace of heart if not mind.’ He shivered. ‘They frighten me too. I don’t know why we haven’t been through the countryside seeking every druid and priestess and witch in their lair and putting them to the sword, but that’s another question, gentlemen … another question entirely.’ He turned around again to stare at the bustling garrison, and the gleaming, rain-soaked turf, partly chewed up where battalion drill had turned the earth into a virtual quagmire.
‘For the moment,’ he went on, ‘I am severely worried about Boudicca. So should you be, Silanus, and it appals me that you can be so complacent about things.’ Silanus said nothing. Fabius continued, ‘King Prasitagus will certainly expire during the next two or three weeks at the most. When he dies his tribal lands and his fortified cities, all his kingdom and its treasures in fact, will pass by inheritance to Boudicca and her two rather attractive daughters, both of whom have the same temper as their mother from what I�
�ve heard; the kingdom, however, will be split between Boudicca and her daughters, and Nero himself. Boudicca will remain queen, while Nero will be presented with a gift of half the Icenian kingdom. Prasitagus’ last madness is effectively to present rebellion on a plate, because Boudicca will accept the terms of her husband’s will with all the liking of a stag accepting an arrow in the heart. Boudicca is much loved by her people, and though I have no evidence for it, despite Valentio’s excellent report, I am convinced that she has warriors ready for an uprising.’
‘I would agree with that,’ said the Centurion, Valentio. ‘She is too cunning to let things appear obvious. Even though she is confined to the city, she has good communication with the surrounding settlements.’
Silanus and his Optione exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Fabius, smugly, allowed his withering look to linger upon the garrison commander for a few seconds before he said, ‘I am sure that in every fen and marsh of this gods-forsaken land she has troops of men and women just waiting for Prasitagus to die. What excuse she will use to come against us I know not. But come against us she will, and the Catuvellauni south of here will join her, and so will the Trinovantes, though I imagine we will hold on to Camulodonum because of our strength there. But we will be effectively besieged.’
Silanus said, as he finally located the position of Camulodonum in the south east, ‘This is a lot of speculation on the whim of an old Icenian king, shirking on his bed and pretending to be ill.’
‘Silanus, how did you ever make Centurion?’ Fabius shook his head in despair.
The red-faced Centurion said, ‘I merely pointed out that it was a lot of speculation. I do agree that Boudicca is a nuisance and a threat. But if we kill her we’ll bring the peace of these lands down around our ears, like the sky the druids are always trying to call down.’
Galba leaned forward intensely, his breath sharp, his eyes alight. ‘But if one of her own people killed her …’ He stared at Fabius, who placed two fingers together and nodded.
‘Exactly, Galba. Exactly. It must be shown that she was killed during a fit of temper by a man who is of the British tribes somewhere in this area. We have a lot of recruits from around here who would do the job. Good fighters all, but a little too keen to adopt the Roman way. This is a shame because one of my best men is a Coritanian called Bedus, or Bedivyg. But he’s too aggressively Roman, now, too much a Nero-for-God man.’
‘Then where does that leave us?’ asked Valentio, wincing as buccinnae blared nearby, calling a troop of men to duty.
Fabius grinned. ‘It leaves us with his brother, the Berserker.’
Valentio whistled softly, and Centurion Silanus sat bolt upright in his chair, dull eyes wide. The Greek spoke first. ‘I’d forgotten about your magic warrior. He has never adopted the Roman uniform, insists on wearing a helmet of bronze, with ivory horns, a helmet – I’m told – that is not of any tribe or nation anywhere in these lands. I like the look of him, and the sound of him, though I confess I have yet to see him in action.’
Fabius nodded. ‘That’s because he’s a little too devastating for his own good. In fact, he’s under lock and key, in Venta itself, isn’t he Silanus?’
Silanus was worried that such a secret should so easily be discussed. ‘Well, yes. He fought for his freedom in the games, and was granted it. But he was roped into the army, and before he knew it was locked up, to be kept in reserve. He seems complacent about it, though. At least, he’s given us no trouble.’
‘And he won’t, until he smells blood,’ said Galba.
Valentio, the Greek, asked, ‘Is his imprisonment in Venta part of the treaty?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Fabius, ‘yes indeed. We asked Prasitagus to look after him, partly because he was a Briton, and partly because he was so violent. The king agreed readily. That token co-operation, however, is enough to make an atmosphere of mutual tolerance. I thought it was a very clever move.’
‘And a very convenient one, as it turns out,’ said Galba.
‘Indeed.’ Tribune Lucius turned again to stare at the scurrying activity of the camp. ‘When he smells blood he goes crazy. It would be good for him to smell blood when Boudicca is in the room. Because believe me,’ Fabius relished the thought of what he was saying, ‘once his ghost, his inner spirit, gets a scent of blood he will kill everything he can lay his hands on. I have seen him do it. In Rome, in the games. It is magnificent to watch. Whatever a Berserker is, it is certainly a vicious and violent – though fortunately satiable – beast.’
‘A duel, then,’ said Silanus. ‘A duel between Swiftaxe, the Horned Warrior, and Queen Boudicca.’
‘You fool,’ said Fabius quietly, contemptuously. ‘No one fights duels now, not publicly. No. I suggest that Boudicca comes across her eldest daughter stabbed upon that weapon of the Berserker’s that all men can learn to wield with proficiency.’
Valentio laughed. ‘That’s how a Briton would speak. By the Sun, Fabius, I believe you’re becoming indoctrinated.’
‘Perish the thought,’ said the Tribune with a shiver. ‘But as to what I was saying … she will immediately strike at Swiftaxe in her anger, draw blood, it matters not how much, and he will kill her. It will mean the loss of the warrior, but that is by no means too high a price for ridding ourselves of this troublesome war queen.’
The three faces that watched him from his round tent were smiling their approval.
CHAPTER 4
Swiftaxe sensed the girl before he saw her; he followed her movements with all the ease of a fox following the invisible motion of a field mouse – by sound, by smell, by senses that only a hunter possessed.
He was still unsure why he had been released into these cosier quarters of the ‘palace’. Since arriving in his home country, if not his home lands, he had been placed under guard, in reasonable comfort, but without access to the outside. He considered himself to have been tricked, but Bedivyg, in his smart and polished new uniform, had explained that it was for his own good … and everybody else’s safety.
Swiftaxe felt a strong sense of discomfort when he thought of his brother. They loved each other greatly, and Swiftaxe had felt that Bedivyg was his only chance of getting out of this confinement, for his brother was on the other side of the locked door. But Bedivyg had settled to the new life with a rapidity that had left Caylen Swiftaxe breathless.
A Roman for a brother, he kept thinking, and the bile rose in his mouth. And yet he could not forget their boyhood together, and the still mutual love that existed between them.
Bedivyg, no doubt, had engineered this escape for him, although to avoid his brother any trouble Swiftaxe had decided to stay put in the plush quarters, and not make a bid for freedom.
He looked around at the drape-hung walls, not marble walls, or intricately carved stone as he had known in Rome, but wood and wattle, thickly pressed out with clay, and faced with rough stone quarried in the west. The roof, heavily raftered, was of thatch and he could hear the spiders crawling about in the eaves, and across their shimmering webs, strung from strands of straw and bits of wood.
This was a palace … eighteen rooms, in a wide circle, with corridors and small private chambers, and to the Iceni – as to Caylen, if he were still in his own land – it was luxury.
The girl had stopped outside the curtained doorway and was thinking. Swiftaxe held his breath, wondering how she would look as she came through. She was for him, there was no doubt. Bedivyg had fixed it so that Swiftaxe’s more natural desires were catered for. There would be no killing, no chance for Odin the bear to take hold of him and send him screaming, and whirling, through the quiet place. But food and drink Bedivyg had had supplied by the barrel – and a girl, now, to ease that other pain.
She pulled back the curtain and stepped into the room, her face bright in the firelight.
Swiftaxe breathed out, and felt his heart stammer. He had expected a woman of some experience, a girl who would know what to do, and was thus marked out in her face and eye
s, and the make-up with which she would hide the tell-tale signs of knowledge. This girl, though, was innocent … totally innocent.
Red hair tumbled, a copper cascade, to her shoulders. Green eyes watched him, wide and unknowing, yet fully appreciative of the muscle and sinew that marked Swiftaxe out as a warrior among men. She wore a flowing white shift, that reached below the knees and clung to her naked body showing the smallness of her breasts, but the growing, hard tips of them; her hips were full and womanly, but the girl was young in years, no more than fifteen.
In her arms she cradled the Berserker’s huge and shining axe, the weapon that he loved. Inside the doorway she placed this down. Swiftaxe found his eyes drawn to the blade and the familiar alder wood haft, and he felt a great surge of pleasure. But he made no move to pick the weapon up.
The girl came swiftly across the room and slipped the gown from her body, stepping lithely from the gathered folds at her feet. She reached round to hug Swiftaxe, and rested her head against his deep, scarred chest. He couldn’t help but touch her gently, leaning down to explore the smooth skin of her back, and the way her haunches swelled out excitingly. As she had stepped close he had noticed the sparseness of hair between her legs, and he doubted her ability or capacity to receive him, let alone entertain him.
‘You are too young,’ he whispered.
‘I know what to do,’ she said quickly. ‘I have been told.’ She drew back and looked up at him, her hair falling away from her face, her full lips moist and pouting. Her hands wandered across his chest and, as if on an uncontrollable impulse, she dug her long nails into his nipples, clenched her teeth and sucked breath into her lungs. ‘By the Goddess, your body is magnificent … look at these …’ she scratched his shoulders as she ran her fingers down the ridged muscles of his arms, and the pain shot through him, stirring the beast in his head; Caylen Swiftaxe fought it back. This is my moment, not yours …
Berserker (Omnibus) Page 41