Correus started to pull on his scarlet outer tunic and then changed his mind. No one knew he was back yet. Therefore no one would be looking for him to take parade this morning. His second-in-command could take parade. Correus was going to take a bath.
The Roman soldier regarded a bathhouse in his fort with somewhat the same attitude he accorded regular meals, and the baths outside the fortress walls had been the first buildings raised in Isca, after the commander’s quarters.
Correus sank into the depths of the hot pool until only his nose and eyes showed, and lay there soaking himself into a civilized condition and a human frame of mind. He had thought longingly of baths – proper baths in bathhouses – more longingly even than he had of a safe conclusion of his mission, during the months he had plied a peddler’s trade between the Silures and their sometime foes, the Ordovices to the north. Baths and a clean shave. He was lucky he didn’t have a beard as well, he supposed, but it had grown in such an improbable ginger color that Governor Frontinus, inspecting it after two weeks’ careful cultivation, had ordered it removed. “It looks like a damned actor’s. People will be pulling it to see if they can unstick it.”
A couple of off-duty officers strolled in and began to scrape themselves clean with a strigil before splashing into the pool. They recognized Correus, and being junior centurions, they saluted politely and refrained from comment. Last night at the gate, Vindex hadn’t been so restrained, but Silvius Vindex and Correus Julianus went a long way back – back to their cadet days at the Centuriate training camp in Rome. The only people who hadn’t been rude about Correus’s appearance had been Governor Frontinus, whose idea it had been in the first place to use a cohort centurion as something between a frontier scout and a spy, and Freita. Freita. Correus’s heart quickened at the mere thought of seeing her again. He dived under the water like a porpoise, scrubbing at his hair with his fingers until it began to feel clean again. He had a report to make, and then, please the gods, he was going to have a three-day leave to spend with Freita.
* * *
Mornings warmed quickly in the summer in southern Britain, and the solemn circle of men in the headquarters tent had draped their cloaks over their chair backs and rolled the tent flaps up on two sides to catch the light breeze that whispered through. There were six of them.
Sextus Julius Frontinus, governor of Britain, was a tall, angular man with heavy callused hands. Even when he was at rest his hands moved. Julius Frontinus was an engineer by love as well as by trade, and the heart and soul of the plans for Isca Fortress had been his. Beside him was Domitius Longinus, broad and muscular with bright black eyes under bushy, dark brows, legate of the Second Legion Augusta, with his second-in-command beside him – Aulus Carus, the primus pilus, commander of the First Cohort, a pale-haired, blue-eyed man, not quite thirty. Gaulish blood there, or a Briton’s, Correus thought when he met him, and he felt a sort of kinship. Under Correus Julianus’s Roman exterior was the heritage of a Gaulish mother. Next around the commander’s desk were the cavalry commander of the two wings currently attached to the Second Augusta at Isca and the legionary legate of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix, stationed to the north at Viroconium. When the campaign got fully under way, Governor Frontinus would call in the Second Adiutrix from Lindum in the east to add its strength to his arguments as well. When that would be rested on what the last man in the circle had to tell him.
The last man was Correus, scrubbed and polished in scarlet tunic and gold-bordered scarlet cloak, his neck scarf precisely knotted under the edge of his iron lorica, his decorations and centurion’s insigne strung across the front, helmet on his head, silvered greaves on his shins, and vine staff in his hand. Only the mustache stuck out like a persistent weed. It would have struck the only familiar note to the chieftains of the Silures and the Ordovices who had talked so freely in his presence.
“It’s much as you thought, sir,” he said to Frontinus. “There’s an alliance brewing, but it’s a tricky one, and no one, Bendigeid included, is really sure they can bring it off.”
Domitius Longinus shot a dark, beady glance at the governor and then at Correus. “Perhaps a bit of background first, if you would, Centurion? This is my first posting in Britain, and I still find the tribal relationships a tangle.”
“Certainly, sir.” Correus gave him a half smile. “So do I, and I’ve been out here almost a year and lived with the natives part of that time. There are two tribes worth worrying about in western Britain, the Silures and the Ordovices. And two – the Demetae in the south and the Deceangli in the north – that are pretty much sure to ally with us or whoever’s strongest.”
“I had got that far in the past month,” Longinus said dryly. “Now tell me why.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry. The Demetae and the Deceangli go with the strongest force because they aren’t big enough not to. They haven’t enough men, enough cattle, enough horses, enough anything to be a force on their own. As to why the Silures and the Ordovices don’t like each other, no one knows for sure. It’s an enmity that goes back further than they can remember. But from looking at them, I’d say it was racial. The Silures are smaller and darker than most of the Britons, and so are the Demetae, whose lands are next to theirs. The Ordovices are taller and fair-haired, like most of the other tribes. Tribal history seems to indicate two invasions of this island… uh, that is, before ours.”
Longinus grinned. “Go on, Centurion.”
“Well, this is all theory, sir, and I’m no historian, but I suspect that the Silures were the first invaders, who maybe intermarried with the native population – the little dark men that the Britons mostly keep for slaves. And the Ordovices are invasion number two – and kept their strain pure and maybe pushed the Silures out of some of their tribal lands. That ties in with local history so far as they know it.”
“Then is an alliance between them possible?”
“Not a permanent one, sir; no, I don’t think so. But a one-war treaty – that they may very well manage, given sufficient reason.”
“Such as… the threat of renewed conquest in western Britain.” Frontinus nodded. “Well, we suspected that much. I do trust you have something more concrete for us, Julianus?”
“Concrete enough, sir,” Correus said. “Bendigeid of the Silures had Ordovician envoys in his hall at Porth Cerrig, and I traveled north with them when I left Bendigeid to peddle my wares in Ordovice lands.” Correus stopped and chuckled softly. “In fact he gave me a message to carry privately to Cadal, the Ordovices’ king, because he didn’t much trust the envoys.”
“Mithras god!” the legate of the Valeria Victrix said. “You could have got your head on a spear for that!”
“I could have got my head on a spear at any time in the last month,” Correus said frankly. “Cadal of the Ordovices is a strong ruler, and Bendigeid is the most utterly ruthless man I’ve ever met. I don’t think either had any particular suspicions of me – I learned the language from a man who was bred in these parts – but Bendigeid mistrusts on principle. He mistrusts the Ordovices, he mistrusts the Demetae, and he certainly mistrusts us.”
“Whom does he trust?” Longinus asked.
“Himself. His… I’m not sure of the right word… his guardianship of his tribe. I don’t think anything else really has the power to touch him.”
“So he’s pushing alliance with the Ordovices to fight the greater enemy.”
“Yes, sir. And they’re dancing about the issue sideways, but they’ll most likely do it in the end. When I passed Bendigeid’s message to their king, Cadal, he struck me as a lord with an eye to the main chance.”
“The message, man!”
“Sorry, sir. Bendigeid wants a face-to-face meeting with Cadal at some neutral point. Cadal is to reply by another messenger of his own choosing. I was rather hoping the gods would put it in his head to use me, but he said Bendigeid would have his answer by Lughnasadh – that’s the midsummer festival, and it’s still a month off. I thought I’d better not wait.
”
“Yes, well, I think we can predict Cadal’s answer now,” Frontinus said. “And I want to catch the Silures before Bendigeid gets it. Now, Centurion, I want numbers. Horses, chariots, men.”
Correus put his hand to his head for a moment, lining up the figures in his mind. “The Silures have perhaps six to seven thousand men warrior-trained,” he said, looking up. “And as many foot fighters. The Demetae have less, but their horse herds are good.”
“The Demetae have always been friendly,” the legate of the Twentieth said.
“‘Always’ is not a very long time, counting from the Caesar Claudius’s invasion,” Governor Frontinus said. “And West Britain has been trouble since then, Demetae or no. Bendigeid’s tribe has been raiding our outposts for the last ten years. If we’re going to hold Britain, we’ve got to tie up these hills tight this time.”
“Bendigeid is putting pressure on the Demetae,” Correus said. “I doubt they know whom they’re more afraid of, Bendigeid or us.”
“Bendigeid, probably,” Frontinus said dryly. “He’s closer. Does he need their men that badly?”
“I don’t think so, sir. It’s their horse herds. The Silures lost some animals to disease last winter, and they’ll need the chariot herds up to strength. The Demetaes’ stock seem to have escaped the sickness.”
“These Britons are a horse people,” Frontinus said to the Second’s legate, Longinus. “They count their true wealth in their herds.”
“And the little hill folk?” Carus, the primus pilus, asked.
“I doubt they’ll take a hand,” Correus said. “Except for the ones who are enslaved by the tribes, our comings and goings don’t really make much difference in their lives. And they would only be trading slavery to the Britons for slavery to us.”
“Who or what are the hill folk?” Longinus asked.
“The original inhabitants,” Correus said, “the ruling tribes before the Golden People. They keep to themselves and out of sight, mostly. One of them told me they would be here when we and the Britons had gone to Hades together. Some people don’t believe they exist at all.” He cocked an eye, warily respectful, at Governor Frontinus.
“In the Britons’ slave houses I believe in them,” Frontinus said, the brisk voice of the practical man. “As for underground cities below the mountains, I’ll believe those aren’t in a class with the beautiful princess and the two white dragons when I actually walk into one.”
“That may be a local fairy tale,” Correus said, “but they live somewhere. You’ve a few in your own backyard, Governor.”
Frontinus picked up a sheaf of rolled plans from the desk and snorted. “There is nothing in these parts that I do not have surveyed, marked down, and duly noted, Centurion,” he said. “And that includes hollow hillsides with hobgoblins in them.”
“Yes, sir. But I met one, a slave on the run from Cadal’s warriors, and he claimed his home clan was above Coed-y-Caerau to the east of here, where the sentry camp is.”
“And how did you chance on this runaway, Centurion Julianus?”
“Pure chance, sir. I saw him duck into the trees just before Cadal’s men came thundering down on the hunt for him.”
“And you kept your mouth shut, I suppose?” Frontinus sighed. Centurion Julianus had an odd kick in his gallop when it came to the matter of slavery, generally the heritage of the slave-born themselves. “You’re lucky you didn’t put them on your own trail, damn it.”
“I thought he might be useful,” Correus said mildly.
“This is useful, Centurion.” The governor laid a callused hand on Correus’s sword hilt. “And when it comes to taking West Britain for the Emperor Vespasian, I’ll leave my faith in a short sword and a pilum point with some muscles behind it.” The asperity in his rough voice faded slightly. “Ah, well, you’ve had a long ride and not an overly safe one, and you’ll be wanting to see that girl of yours.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you. I’ll be needing to send her to Aquae Sulis fairly soon.”
“I don’t doubt it. She’s round as a barrel already.” Frontinus snorted in exasperation. “Mithras send me back the days when officers weren’t allowed to trail their household about with them on the army’s denarius.”
Correus stood up and saluted. He trailed his household about with him at his own expense, as the governor knew very well. No one under the rank of legionary legate had ever pried a penny out of the army for that purpose. “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful for the three-day leave you promised me before I left.”
“Three-day leave?” Frontinus looked mildly surprised, and Domitius Longinus chuckled.
“Indeed you did, Governor, although strictly speaking Centurion Julianus is my man, of course.” His dark, beady eyes gave the ghost of a wink at Correus.
The governor laughed. “Oh, very well. Dismissed, Centurion. We’ll send Bendigeid a request to stay laired in Porth Cerrig until your leave is up.”
* * *
“Bide still!” The women scurried through the main chamber of the queen’s court at Porth Cerrig, while the child stood on one foot at the center of the room and fidgeted. The old nurse who was combing her hair shook her by the shoulders. “Put your foot down.”
“Why?” the child asked. She was barely thirteen, thin, and small enough to be lost in the great hall of the queen’s court. This wing of the Silure stronghold above the cliffs had always been called that, but there was no queen in it now. There was only Ygerna, priestess and royal woman of her tribe, daughter of the king’s sister, and the seal on his bargain with the Demetae.
“Because you are not a stork,” the older woman said, “and because I cannot comb your hair with you swaying like a tree in a high wind.” She gave the black hair a last swipe with the comb and set a gold fillet on the girl’s head. She tugged the green-and-white checkered folds of her gown into place and gave her a quick look. “All right, put your cloak on. They are waiting.”
Ygerna gave her a rebellious look from black eyes set under dark, slanting brows. “I am not ready.”
“Yes, you are. It is a long ride to Dun Mori, and Llywarch will be angry if you keep him standing about.”
And so would her uncle, Ygerna thought, which was more to the point. The other women bustled up and put her cloak around her shoulders, pushing a pin through its heavy folds and shouting for a slave to come and carry the baggage. Ygerna gave a resigned twitch of her shoulders. She hadn’t really thought that she could delay their leaving, but she didn’t like to be whistled for like a hound.
The women hustled her out the door and through the outer courts to the landward gates of Porth Cerrig, where Llywarch was waiting among the chariots. They boosted her up beside him into the red-and-gilt car, and Llywarch bent down to speak some last word to the king standing on the other side. Neither of them bothered to speak to her.
The boy who was Llywarch’s driver shook out the black ponies’ reins, and the other chariots swept into line behind them. Ygerna looked back past Llywarch’s shoulder with time for no more than a swift, fierce prayer to the Mother-of-All that her uncle could drive the Romans out of their new fortress at Isca before he had to make good on the marriage he had promised to Gruffyd of the Demetae in exchange for his ponies.
* * *
At Isca Silurum, Correus picked his way through the piled stone and timber that was a legionary fortress in the making. A smile curved his mouth under the mustache. He had meant to ask the governor’s gracious permission to shave, but it had totally slipped his mind and to go back now to ask did not seem propitious. Well, Freita wouldn’t mind. He dodged around a legionary trundling a two-wheeled cart full of roof tiles, and a pair of surveyors whose outstretched lines crisscrossed the Via Praetoria to trip the unwary. The legionary with the cart full of tiles fell afoul of one, and the surveyors descended on him furiously, while a tripod and plumb line fell into the confusion. Correus sidestepped and began to whistle softly to himself, his mind full of Freita.
Freita was German, a
nd she had laughed at him when the mustache first began to grow and told him he looked more like a German now and less like a snooty Roman. Correus had wondered once or twice since if the snooty Roman she’d had in mind was his father; but if so, it was the only remark of that sort she had ventured about the old general – remarkably tolerant of her, all things considered. He could still recall his father’s last letter to him practically by heart:
My dear Son,
I presume you are counting on absence (and affection for the absent one) to alter my outlook on the subject which you broached yet again in your last letter. Your faith in my affection is touching (and justified), but I will not hesitate to tell you that it in no way affects my viewpoint on your throwing away a promising career.
Your concern for this girl and your desire to do right by her are admirable, but it is not only unnecessary that you marry her, but entirely necessary that you do not. For the slave-born (albeit adopted) son of Appius to marry a freed slave himself is to throw away everything your adoption was designed to achieve.
And in any case it is far too soon for you to be marrying anyone. Yours is not the case of your brother Flavius, who has the inheritance of an estate to think of and who was in a position to make an excellent match in his youth. Your career is all before you, my son, and the time for you to marry will be when you have achieved the name and position which, I am proud to see, you have already begun to make for yourself. In ten years, if I have judged you correctly, you will be able to have your pick from among the daughters of Rome’s senatorial families and senator’s rank for yourself if you want it. I never did, but times are changing. In the meantime, keep Freita with you if you wish. She is a good girl, genuinely fond of you, and she understands her position far better than I would have expected. But you are – and I regret to have to put it this way – absolutely forbidden to marry her. Your mother’s views, I might add, are for once in complete agreement with mine on the subject.
Barbarian Princess Page 2