‘The men are pleased you are taking such a deep interest in the working of the fort and their beloved legion.’ He tempered the words with a smile.
‘I hope you will not chastise them for indulging a lady’s whims,’ she said with mock gravity.
‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Their orders are to put you at your ease. You may go where you please as long as you are escorted. I want you to feel as if you are our guest.’
‘A guest has the choice whether to come or go,’ she pointed out. ‘Whereas we do not.’
A pinprick of conscience. ‘Forgive me. That is true.’ He bowed his head. ‘Then let us pretend you are a guest who is forced to stay by the peculiarities of the weather.’
‘Is there a reason why you joined us?’ she said abruptly, as if he’d reminded her of something she would rather not think about.
‘I wanted to talk to you.’
‘But you can talk to me at any time.’ She gave him a puzzled look. ‘All you have to do is wave your finger and I must appear before the commandant like any other member of your unit.’
‘No, I wanted to talk to you about yourself. A Brigante princess, schooled in Roman ways, to be forced to marry and live among the Selgovae. It must have been a shock to you.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Olwyn stopped abruptly and stared at him. She glanced back at Berta, but the girl’s attention was on one of the dogs that had adopted the fort as its home. ‘It was my duty, and if you knew my husband you would understand it was no hardship. He made me welcome and he treated me as his queen from the first moment, with respect and restraint, and he ensured his people did the same. I cannot say that of some of the Roman boys I encountered in Londinium.’
‘Then I am sorry …’
But she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘We had a home there.’ She pointed north to where the little cluster of huts had been. ‘We walked in the hills and we swam in the river and Cathal fished and hunted and we were happy. He built a fine house and gave me fine presents, and in time he gave me fine children. What more could any woman want than that?’
‘What kind of a man is he?’
The question surprised and irritated her – he saw lightning flash in the blue eyes – but she didn’t hesitate to answer.
‘He is a great man and a great king. In the spring warriors will flock to his banner from north and south and he will drive the Romans from this land for ever. Yet he cares little for war. What he cares about is his people. In the main they are farmers, not warriors. He keeps the Votadini at bay and ensures they have peace to till their fields, he dispenses justice without fear or favour, and in return they give him their respect and their love. As a warrior he has no parallel, but that is not why he has no rivals. He is a king any man would follow, Roman. Even you.’
‘I know he is a great king. I asked what kind of man he is.’
He could see the question perplexed her and for a moment he thought she would turn away. Instead, she met his gaze, and when she spoke, though there was no enmity in her voice, her words contained an unmistakable challenge.
‘He is kind and fair,’ she said softly, ‘and for such a big man he can be surprisingly gentle. Do you want to know how he holds me in the night, Roman? Do you want to know what it feels like when he kisses me?’
‘Enough,’ he said. She’d made him feel sullied and dirty, the way a man sometimes felt after a battle with the blood of his enemies sticky on his skin and the taste of it on his lips, because the killing had been so easy. ‘I did not mean …’
‘You wanted to know your enemy,’ she finished for him. ‘So now you understand why I ask my questions of your soldiers in honeyed tones, even though I feel loathing for the uniform if not for the man who wears it.’ A momentary hesitation. ‘Why do you need what little we have, Roman, when you already have everything you require? The Selgovae are not rich. They are no threat to you. All we wanted was to be left in peace to harvest our crops, hunt our woods, take the bounty from our rivers’ – she glanced to where Berta played with one of the stray’s pups – ‘and bring up our children. Is it because you are strong and the strong must dominate the weak? You would argue that it is essential to ensure the security of your province of Britannia. Yet you know nothing of the people against whom you march until you cross their borders and burn their villages. It cannot be greed, because we have nothing a civilized man like you could want. So what is left but fear? You fear us precisely because you do not know us. When you meet our unprepared warriors and put them to the sword you despise us as weaklings and cowards. And what comes next? I have heard what your Suetonius Paulinus did to the Iceni, the Trinovantes, the Catuvellauni and the Dobunni, and I experienced what happened to the Brigantes. The choice is between subjugation or annihilation. Our people must obey Roman laws and pay Roman taxes, they must live in Roman townships where our councils look and dress and act like Roman councils, our children must be educated as Roman children, so they will grow up as Romans. Even our land will be bound by your roads and your watchtowers, and our gods will be known by Roman names. If we do not fight, what will be left of the Selgovae but a name?’
Valerius could have argued that Roman rule could bring peace and prosperity as it had in Gaul and Hispania, Syria, Asia and Africa. If the Selgovae submitted to Rome her son would be brought up as a Roman aristocrat, with all the advantages that would bring in culture and learning and travel. Eventually, her people would live in warm stone buildings and worship in stone temples. They would grow rich manufacturing and selling essential supplies to satisfy the limitless appetite of the legions. But what did that matter if she was perfectly happy with what she already had? Would she consider it a price worth paying that the new world he painted could only be won at the cost of everything that had gone before, including her husband? For Cathal would not be part of it. Too great a prize, too influential and too dangerous to be allowed to stay free.
He shook his head and turned away. Her words followed him. ‘In the spring, if not before, my husband will come here and he will kill you, Gaius Valerius Verrens. In a way that will be a pity. Your soldiers talk of you as a good man … for a Roman.’
XXVII
March AD 80
Gaius Rufus threw himself out of his vermin-infested furs and shook his shaggy head, scratching at the bites that covered his body. In the freezing weather that coated the hut walls with ice despite the fiercest fire, every biting parasite in the hut seemed to seek out the warmth of his body. It had become so irritating he’d even shaved the beard he’d worn for twenty years and more. Winter would have driven him mad if it had not been for his regular conversations with Cathal. The threat of a painful death had receded as he grew to know the Selgovae king better. Oh, Cathal would have his throat cut in a heartbeat if it would benefit his tribe or discomfit the Romans, but he would not inflict pain merely for the sake of it. Was there a different feel to the air today? He prayed not, but he knew he prayed in vain. Spring was coming. The day of decision approached.
Cathal had milked him of every detail about the Roman forces he would face in the spring. He knew the position of every sentry post, every plank of wood and every latrine pit of the fortress at Trimontium. And with every retelling he became more thoughtful. He knew Valerius’s force was just one of three legions advancing north, and that the Ninth could be joined by either of the others at any time. The Selgovae were not the Brigantes. Brigantia was three or four times the size, with three or four times the population. Decades of acting as a barrier between the Romans and the barbarians of the north had created a standing Brigante army of thirty thousand hardened warriors. Rufus doubted Cathal could field an army a third as great. Most of his people were farmers and craftsmen. They had proved they were brave and they could fight, but fighting wasn’t winning. Even if he lured a single legion into ambush it was unlikely he had sufficient men to destroy it, and he would lose so many in the attempt he wouldn’t be strong enough to resist the next attack. Cathal never mentioned Olwyn
or Berta, but Rufus knew of the gifts he had sent. The king sacrificed daily for their return, but in the fiercest winter in Selgovae memory had never found the opportunity to carry out the raid that might achieve it.
Gwlym would sit in the shadows, endlessly patient, listening to the discussions. At first he plagued Cathal with demands for an immediate attack, whatever the cost, but as the scale of the challenge became clear he limited his interventions to an occasional hiss or a sneer of contempt. Gradually it dawned on Rufus that Gwlym was as much a captive as he was, bound by the chains of his growing infirmity and his lack of options. The hunger for revenge that sustained him like a glowing fire had rested on the strength of the Brigantes and his ability to guide the malleable King Guiderius to victory. Now it was clear that Cathal alone could never defeat the Romans it was as if his old wounds were draining the life force from him.
Rufus heard a commotion and the cloth curtain covering the hut door was thrust aside. A massive bulk filled the opening, blocking out the fierce early morning sunlight. ‘Still abed, Roman?’ Cathal growled. ‘Do you not feel it? We call this an latha ath-nuadhachaidh – the day of renewal. Come, the elders need the hut.’
Rufus drew a cloak over his tunic and bracae and wrapped cloths around his feet before donning his sandals. Outside the settlement was a hive of activity. Men and women carried great bundles of clothing and bedding down the slope towards the frozen lake. Elders and the younger children worked among the houses, clearing out the fur rugs that covered the earth floors. As he watched, Cathal’s son Dugald was hoisted on to a thatched roof with the help of two of his friends. The boy clung to the thatch while a large fur was handed up to him. White smoke belched from the ventilation hole, suggesting the central fire had recently been banked up. Dugald dragged the fur up the slope to the apex and threw it over the hole, trapping the smoke. At the same time others pinned a heavy bearskin across the door.
‘With Andraste’s favour we’ll drive out the worst of the vermin.’ Cathal grinned. ‘Sometimes we lose a hut or two to stray sparks, but they’re easily replaced.’
A festival air pervaded the proceedings, and Rufus stepped aside as two men herded a squealing pig towards where a herdsman versed in butchery waited.
‘Winter is not over yet,’ the Selgovae chieftain said. ‘But we will eat meat and drink beer tonight and soon the days will lengthen …’
His voice tailed away, and Rufus knew he was wondering what awaited his people in the spring. He had heard the whispers when he visited the cistern to chip away the ice and wash. The Romans occupied the ground by the river where once had stood the Selgovae capital. They controlled the sacred hills and had built a watchtower in the midst of the ancient settlement Cathal’s ancestors had created. The priests calculated that Imbolc was less than a month away, but there would be no great gathering, no sacrifice and no ewes jumping through the ring of fire on the lower slopes.
Cathal led the way down to the lake and men used boulders to smash the inches-thick ice for a distance of twenty or thirty paces across the surface. Rufus looked on, puzzled, as others undressed and handed their clothes to the tribe’s married women, who took the plaid trews and dyed tunics and giggled to each other as they compared the stature and attributes of the young warriors. One he recognized as Emrys, the man who might have killed him all those months ago, came to stand beside him and began to strip off. ‘What are you waiting for, little man? It is not just the huts that are cleansed on the day of renewal.’
Rufus looked to Cathal and the king gave him a nod of encouragement. He shrugged and stripped off his tunic and the calf-length bracae. When he threw his clothes to the ground he heard a grunt of surprise and looked up to find Emrys grinning at him. ‘Not so little after all,’ the Selgovae chortled. ‘Now we know why the Romans called you giant.’ He called to a nearby woman and she gave a great hoot of delight. ‘Lucky we didn’t strip you down when we captured you, or we’d have had to keep you locked away in a cage.’
Embarrassed, Rufus followed Cathal down to the water’s edge, running to keep up with the long-striding Selgovae. ‘Don’t hesitate,’ the king said, as much to himself as the captive Roman. ‘And don’t be too proud of that great sword of yours.’ He laughed. ‘Ice water makes all men equal.’ With a howl he ran the last few yards and dived into the broken ice and green waters, accompanied by a dozen of his sword brothers.
Rufus didn’t wait to see the outcome, but sprinted in their wake.
When they were done, Rufus followed Cathal from the water and accepted his clothes from a cheerful Selgovae woman. They dried themselves with their tunics and as his body reheated Rufus found that he’d never felt more alive. Every sinew seemed young again and his body coursed with some kind of new invigorating power.
‘It is good to be renewed.’ Cathal, oddly sombre now, stared down at him. ‘Let us hope in your case it will be for good purpose.’
Before Rufus could react to the puzzling and slightly worrying statement, a groom brought one of the stolen horses down to the water’s edge. Colm, dressed in impressive new finery beneath a thick cloak, took the reins and walked the horse to Cathal.
‘You know what to say?’ the king said. ‘It must be expressed exactly as I ordered.’
‘Haven’t I been sitting in my hut these last three weeks learning every word,’ Colm grumbled. ‘I have it to the word and to the inflection. There will be no doubting what you intend.’
‘Lord king! Lord king!’ A new commotion as Gwlym brushed through the crowd of women guided by a young Selgovae priest. ‘You must not do this.’
‘Must not?’ Cathal’s face darkened. ‘Who are you to tell a king what he must and must not do?’
‘Then I humbly beg you to think again.’ There was nothing humble about the druid’s bearing. ‘You gamble our entire enterprise on a single throw of the knife. There is nothing to be gained and everything to lose.’
‘Nothing to be gained?’ Cathal’s voice had a dangerous quality, but Gwlym ignored the threat.
‘You can find a new queen and she will bear you new daughters, and sons too. Your woman has spent a season among the Romans. A captive at the beck and call of a thousand soldiers. Her honour—’
‘Is my affair,’ Cathal snarled. ‘I have the Roman commander’s word that she would not be harmed or abused and I trust that word. Not so long ago you exhorted me to cut the head from the snake. What has changed?’
Rufus listened with growing bewilderment. Something was happening here he only partially understood.
‘I would not have it at this price,’ Gwlym persisted. ‘He will play you false and we will all pay.’
‘Enough.’ Cathal walked back to Colm. ‘I have made my decision.’
‘Your pardon, lord king.’ Rufus took step beside him. ‘Perhaps I may be of service in this matter, whatever it is?’
Cathal’s rugged features softened. ‘I think not, Arafa. For you are already at the centre of it. Colm has the Latin and he carries word to your commander suggesting an exchange. Your freedom for that of my wife and daughter.’
Rufus’s stomach lurched. This was what he’d tried to suggest to Cathal, ever so subtly, all those months ago, but so much time had passed that he could barely remember his words. Could it be? How would Valerius react? He tried to think back to their relationship. Had he imagined the bond that linked them after the Temple of Claudius? And Valerius, that fount of honour and duty, could not help but be torn even if his instinct was to accept. He dropped his head. ‘I do not know if my commander will place so much value on a mere scout.’
‘You are no mere scout, Gaius Rufus, as I have learned during your captivity. You are a Roman citizen. A man of intelligence, courage and sense. From what you tell me, the legate of the Ninth legion is of the same stock, and a man of compassion. I believe he will consider it a fair trade.’ He looked down at the smaller man and for a moment Rufus felt he was being measured. ‘You must pray it is so, because your life may depend on it.’
/> And the life of Gaius Valerius Verrens.
XXVIII
‘Patrol coming in,’ the sentry called from the gate tower. ‘Looks like they have someone with them.’
‘Call the legate,’ the guard commander ordered. ‘He’ll want to know.’
Word spread quickly around the fort and by the time Valerius reached the ramparts a dozen others had already joined the sentries there.
‘Haven’t you people got work to do?’ he snapped. ‘This post has turned into a rest home. I swear the first day the snow thaws I’ll have every spare man marching until he drops and the same for a week after. Now get back to your posts.’
‘They’re just curious, Valerius.’ Quintus Naso climbed the steps to stand beside him. ‘They mean no harm.’
Valerius grunted an acknowledgement. He knew he’d been as touchy as a caged tiger for the past two or three weeks and this was as close as his camp prefect would ever come to a rebuke. Was this what he’d been waiting for all this long interminable winter? The riders were close enough now to make out their individual features and he saw the patrol was commanded by a young, well-liked cavalry prefect of the Asturians called Flavinus. The stranger he was escorting carried a stunted conifer twig. More feet on the stairs and he turned to snap at whoever was coming to join the sightseers, only to shut his mouth like a trap when he recognized Queen Olwyn, with Dagwalda at her side. She looked beyond the wooden stakes and he saw the moment her eyes lit up in recognition.
‘You know this man, lady.’
She licked her lips, uncertain whether to reply, then: ‘He is Colm, a trusted companion of my husband.’
‘Then we should prepare to make him welcome.’ Valerius turned and strode down the stairs, Quintus at his side and Olwyn and Dagwalda in their wake. ‘Have him brought to the principia. You’ll need to be there, Quintus, and a clerk to take notes. Four guards should be enough … Not you, lady,’ he added, forestalling the inevitable suggestion. ‘Escort the lady and her daughter to her quarters, Dagwalda. And make sure she has no contact of any kind with this emissary. Do you understand me? Not even eye contact.’
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