The young man took a deep, shuddering breath and Valerius called for warmed wine. When it was brought Atticus held his cup as if he feared someone would steal it from him.
‘Continue, prefect. I must know everything.’
‘We found a dell to shelter in for the night, neither horse nor man making a sound for fear of alerting the enemy. While we rested Arafa burrowed and squirmed this way and that like a stoat, or a squirrel, always seeking more knowledge of our enemy. When he returned before dawn he could barely mount his horse, but he said he believed he had solved the puzzle.’
Valerius had listened with increasing gloom, knowing the story must end with the loss of his friend, but now his military instincts intervened.
‘Did he say how?’
‘No.’ Atticus shook his head. ‘He did not have the time. When we left the dell we had to cross a track and we had the misfortune to encounter a small party of Selgovae heading east. They were no match for our numbers and we put them to the sword, but the noise alerted a much larger group. We were all but surrounded when Arafa took two warriors and shouted that he would create a distraction so we could get out. I tried to argue with him, but there was little time and he would not be moved. He charged the enemy and drew them away and we were able to make our escape. That was the last time I saw him.’
Valerius put his hand to his head and closed his eyes. ‘Is there no hope?’
Atticus shrugged. ‘With Arafa there is always hope, but …’
‘Could you take me back there, with a full cavalry wing?’
‘I could try. I’m not sure. But sir, have you not seen the weather?’
‘Weather?’ He’d been submerged in administrative work since daybreak.
Atticus went to the doorway and pulled back the curtain. Valerius looked out to discover every inch of ground and every tent carpeted in white. There had been a handspan of snow already. Any chance of recovering Gaius Rufus was gone.
He choked back a surge of grief, but his eye was drawn to two cloaked figures standing in the snow between a pair of Atticus’s troopers.
‘What’s this?’ he demanded.
‘I hope it will be some compensation for your loss, sir, that we did not return empty-handed.’
XXIV
Cathal looked down at the stunted figure lying crumpled in the snow.
‘So this is him?’
‘He’s been in and out of our territory spying out the land for weeks. We thought we had him a dozen times.’
‘He looks a little scrawny for a wolfhound. Isn’t that what you called him?’
‘Make it a boarhound then,’ Emrys grunted, ‘with that face. He may not be big, but he has a boarhound’s heart. He never lets up and he never stopped coming. He killed two of our best before I managed to bring down his horse.’
‘If it is the midget you should burn him,’ Gwlym hissed. ‘He is a Roman-lover and a traitor to his people.’
‘You know him?’ Cathal demanded.
‘I know of him. A fox and a shape-changer who slips between Celtic and Roman camps like a shadow, spreading his poison wherever he goes.’
‘Then he interests me. At the worst he may be useful as an example to the Romans of what happens to their spies.’
‘Put him to the fire now.’
Cathal ignored the blind druid and turned away as another man rode up on one of the small, sturdy Celtic ponies.
‘Have you found them yet?’
The rider shook his head. ‘But I have every spare man in the saddle and we will keep looking for as long as it takes.’
Cathal looked up at the snow drifting down through the branches and knew any tracks the Romans had left would soon be invisible. The figure on the ground lifted his bloodied head, groaned and let it fall back into the snow.
‘Bring him to the settlement and make sure he is harmed no further, for now.’
As Cathal marched through his men his face remained set in an expression of fierce resolution, but unshed tears blurred his vision. He would get them back if it took all eternity. If they were alive.
Emrys picked up Gaius Rufus as if he were a child and followed in his chieftain’s footsteps. ‘You’re safe for now, my tough little boarhound. But I have a feeling it won’t be long until you are wishing you were dead.’
Rufus tried to open his eyes, but it was too much of an effort, and in any case his head felt as if it had been split in two with an axe. The last thing he remembered was riding at a group of Selgovae warriors as they moved to cut the patrol off from its escape route. Fool, he cursed himself, getting yourself killed when they were probably already dead. Amazingly, he was not. Which seemed a pity. Maybe better to lie here quietly in the hope that they’d let him die in peace, rather than suffer the traditional, and infinitely more painful, fate normally reserved for spies. A vain hope, as it turned out.
‘Free his legs and wipe the blood off his face.’ A voice like river gravel being shovelled into a brass bucket. Undeniably Celtic, the words themselves intelligible, but the constituents warped or twisted so it might have been a different language altogether. A rough cloth scraped across his forehead. He bit back a cry. A different kind of pain this time, more of a stab, accompanied by a new dampness that ran into his eyes. ‘Bind it.’ The speaker was running out of patience. A scab must have been removed to create a new flow. ‘And get him to his feet.’
The medicus, or whoever served him, was gentler this time, or maybe the bandage was just softer. Someone worked at the rope on his ankles and he opened his eyes as he was pulled to his feet and placed on a rough three-legged stool. The room swam for a few moments before he regained his focus. And froze. The man looming above him was probably the largest he’d ever seen and Rufus had no doubt as to his identity. A giant, tall as a rowan and broad as a four-wheel cart, his late informant had said, and he hadn’t been exaggerating. The roof of the hut was somewhere up in the blackness above the central fire, but this man’s head must have been close to touching it. Rufus reached up to examine his wound, but discovered that his hands were still bound.
‘You hit your head on a tree,’ the giant growled. ‘But you will live. For now.’
Ah, that ‘For now’. The scout looked around the hut. Two spearmen by the doorway, a wizened piece of gristle he recognized by description seated on a bench by the wall spearing him with pus-filled eye sockets. A woman holding a bloody cloth and leather water bucket, not hiding her hatred. No escape here. He settled back into his seat to enjoy the last few pain-free moments of his life in relative comfort.
‘You kidnapped my wife and daughter and murdered their escort.’
‘I didn’t know she was your wife.’
‘Would it have made a difference?’
‘No.’
‘No excuses? No pleas for mercy? If they harm them …’
‘They won’t.’
‘You seem certain.’
Rufus shrugged. ‘They have their orders.’
‘The druid wants me to burn you.’
A chill ran through Rufus at the sudden, awkward turn in the conversation. He turned towards Gwlym and spat. The druid hissed and raised a finger with a long curling nail in the captive’s direction, but Rufus only snorted with disdain.
‘He enjoys burning people.’ He hesitated, before deciding more information would harm no one. ‘He wanted to burn the legate’s wife and son on Mona. But the legate got to them first and then the legate wiped Mona clean of druids. That is why he scurried here like a chastened cur with his tail between his legs. His power, if he ever had any, is gone. You will find Gaius Valerius Verrens a formidable opponent, Calgacus.’
A puzzled frown flitted over Cathal’s rugged features. ‘Calgacus?’
‘That is what they call you – the Romans – it means the Swordsman.’
Cathal considered for a moment. ‘Yes.’ Rufus saw something like pride in the narrow, serious eyes. The Selgovae reached across to stroke the great sword slung on a frame by the wall. ‘It fits
. Not the worst name to be given by an enemy. Leave us, Gwlym,’ he said abruptly.
‘You should kill him now,’ the druid spat. ‘Remember that soft words are part of his armoury. He will try to bewitch you. Do not mistake his size for lack of threat.’
‘I said leave us.’ Gwlym hesitated but eventually he rose and the woman escorted him from the hut. ‘You can wait outside,’ Cathal told the guards. ‘If he so much as sneezes I will tear off his arms and you may feed them to your dogs.’ The men grinned and disappeared through the curtain. Cathal studied Rufus for a long, disconcerting moment that told his captive he was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat. Rufus tensed as the big man reached down and removed a glowing branch from the fire, then breathed out a long sigh as the Selgovae used it to light a bronze oil lamp hanging from a beam. In the flickering light he noticed for the first time the blue tattoos on Cathal’s cheeks.
Cathal went to the heavy bench on which Gwlym had sat, picked it up as easily as if it were a stick for the fire and set it down in front of Rufus. It had been a long time since the scout had felt small, such was the respect he inspired in his comrades, but with Cathal close enough to smell the sweat on his body he was reminded of his stature as never before. The hands that lay on the Selgovae’s knees looked capable of tearing up entire forests, and he had a sense of enormous power lying at rest beneath the plaid tunic.
‘Gwlym also says you are a traitor.’
Rufus considered for a moment. ‘It is a point of view,’ he agreed. ‘I have lived among the Celts for almost as long as I remember. But I was born a Roman.’ He smiled, pleased, despite his predicament, that he had surprised his captor. ‘Born in the city of Rome among the great palaces of the emperors, the son of a slave. So, with respect, I would dispute the druid’s opinion.’
‘How did …’ Cathal shook his great maned head. ‘No, that is for later. Gwlym was right. Words are your weapons. I have a suspicion you could keep me talking here until we both die of old age. We will speak further, Roman, but first we must understand each other. I have a proposition for you. You must die, you understand that?’
‘I understand.’ Rufus glared back at the big man. ‘I made a mistake. There is a price to be paid. I am prepared to pay it, whatever it is.’
‘A good answer.’ Cathal slapped his hands against his knees. ‘Well, Roman, I will promise you a quick death and a good one, with a sword in your hand, but only if you tell me everything about the soldiers I face. Their numbers, their tactics, their leaders. What lies behind the walls of their fort. What plans they have for … Calgacus.’ His lips twitched at the name, but his voice hardened immediately. ‘But I warn you that if I catch you out in a lie you will suffer as no man has suffered before. One of your companions tried to escape and fell into the hands of one of my warrior bands. They included one who had lost his father and his brother in the fight at the Tivyet crossing. Before I could reach him they hung him from a tree by the heels and flayed every inch of skin from his body. He lives still, I believe. Of course, you may be too honourable a man to betray his comrades; as a warrior I can understand that. In that case, say so now and we will begin your instruction in the ways of the Selgovae.’
‘No.’ Rufus had his head down so his features were hidden and his shoulders shook. Cathal felt a pang of disappointment. The little man, whom he had believed so brave, was sobbing like a coward. But, when he raised his head, Rufus’s face split in an enormous grin and he was laughing so hard tears ran down his cheeks into his beard. ‘No,’ he spluttered again, ‘my honour can stand the stain. I will share with you everything I know about the Ninth legion, but I doubt it will do you any good.’ He saw puzzlement in the dark eyes. ‘Most of what I can tell you you will know already, for a man like you will have studied them on the march and seen how and where they make camp. You know you cannot beat them in a straight fight because of their superior discipline and weapons. Your only hope is surprise. Anything else I can tell you that you do not know serves the purpose just as well. If I reveal a weakness it will tempt you into an attack and that is just what my commander would wish. He would like nothing better than to face you in the open where he can annihilate you. You see, lord king, by complying with your wishes I am also complying with his. It might have been planned this way.’ He rubbed his sleeves across his eyes. Cathal moved forward, intending to cut his captive’s wrists free, then thought better of it.
‘You are a strange people, you Romans. I doubt I will ever understand you. But hear this, little man: whatever you say, I can defeat your legionaries, and everything I learn from you makes the outcome more likely. Perhaps I will keep you alive long enough to see the commander of the Ninth kneel before me with his standard lying in the dust.’
‘I would like that above all things.’ Rufus bowed his head. ‘For it would mean I was still alive with the sun on my face at the coming of spring. But if you make Gaius Valerius Verrens kneel you will be the first, and he will not kneel willingly.’
‘Enough of this,’ Cathal growled. ‘We will begin. You were very certain my wife and daughter would not be harmed. How do you know this?’
‘Because of the man you face.’ Rufus spoke without conscious thought. He was already dead; why should he need to play with words? ‘Gaius Valerius Verrens, legate of the Ninth legion Hispana, is a soldier bound by the twin chains of honour and duty, though it is his eternal burden that the one may not always be consistent with the other. In war he is relentless and can be merciless, but when the fighting is over he lives by a different code. His soldiers know that to be caught molesting a female prisoner in any way would condemn them to fustuarium, the most terrible and shameful of punishments: to be beaten to death by their tentmates. If your wife reveals herself to be a lady of rank she will be treated with honour and held in comfort, as Queen Regina was after Brynmochdar.’
‘Where will they keep her?’ Cathal tried without success to keep the eagerness from his voice, and Rufus noted another facet to this terrible warrior. The little scout had a memory of a love as powerful, but he kept it buried deep, and had never allowed it to recur lest it be accompanied by the same humiliation.
‘They have tents in a stockade within the fort for valuable prisoners,’ he looked up with a wry smile, ‘though your warriors have been remarkably reluctant to surrender. It is on the north side of the fort between two of the granaries. If the legate knows she is your wife, she and your daughter will be provided with a room in his pavilion, which is the headquarters tent and his own living quarters. It is the largest structure in the camp and unmistakable. Attack before dawn, just before the change of sentries, and you might have a chance of reaching it. The wall on the river flank is probably the most vulnerable, because it’s where you would be least expected.’
A dangerous glint of suspicion flashed in Cathal’s eyes. ‘You are remarkably forthcoming even for a man given such a powerful motivation to talk. Information I had expected, but now you give me advice and encouragement?’
‘I told you, lord king. You are as aware of all this as I, and if we are aware of it so is Valerius Verrens. Once he knows his prisoner is your wife he will expect you, being the man you are, to come for her, and he will prepare a suitable welcome for you.’
‘And I would go,’ Cathal snarled. ‘I would storm those walls with my sword brothers and we would cut through your camp like wolves in a sheep fold … but for one thing. I am a king. My love for my family must be secondary to my responsibility to my people. Without me they would be leaderless. Those who would replace me would either throw my warriors to be pointlessly slaughtered by the little Roman swords or sell their allegiance to Rome for a crock full of silver, like the Votadini.’
‘Valerius went after his wife, though it was his duty to stay with his men. He crossed the raging seas and walked through fire and saved her from the druid’s vengeance.’ It was a provocation and both men knew it, but Cathal only tossed another branch on the fire and stared at the flames as the golden talons c
lawed the air and painted the walls of the hut with flickering shadows.
‘When you speak of him I hear reverence in your voice for this man who sent you here to die. What bond can there be between a mere outrider, the son of a slave as you say, and a man who commands thousands?’
Rufus considered the question. He had a suspicion the conversation was coming to an end. An idea had been growing like a worm in his ear, but it needed to be carefully nurtured.
‘We are both touched by the gods.’ He watched Cathal’s reaction and was gratified to see him spit in the fire. ‘You have heard of Boudicca, who fought the Roman general Paulinus?’
‘Even I, a mere barbarian lost in his northern fastness, have heard of Boudicca.’ Cathal’s words dripped sarcasm, but Rufus was undeterred.
‘Gaius Valerius Verrens commanded the defenders of Colonia Claudia Victricensis, the legionary veterans’ colony, a bare three thousand men. When Boudicca came she had twenty warriors for every Roman. They knew they could not win, but still they fought until they were cut down man by man. At the last, a dozen or so fought their way to the Temple of Claudius,’ Cathal’s brow creased into a frown at the unfamiliar words, ‘where the town’s remaining civilians had taken refuge. A sacred place made entirely of stone,’ Rufus explained. ‘With great pillars the height of oak trees.’ He could tell the Selgovae believed he exaggerated, but he carried on in any case. ‘They held out for three days. The Iceni fired the door and the heat was terrible. Valerius ordered what little water remained be poured on the door to stop it burning through. A hundred men, women and children trapped in a space barely larger than this hut, throats parched, hardly able to breathe because of the smoke, eyes watering, sitting in their own filth.’
‘How do you know all this, Roman, son of a slave?’
‘Because I was there.’
Cathal studied him with his serious dark eyes, seeking out the lie if one existed. He must have decided not. ‘What is your name?’ he asked eventually.
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