“I am a freeman,” the servant said, hurt. “I may have lost my honor-price but not my honor. I may speak my mind.”
“Fearachar, when you have found your mind you may indeed speak it, but please find it first.” Caradoc slung his red-and-yellow striped cloak around his shoulders and fastened it with a silver brooch. He put on plain bronze arm bands, and slipped his feet into leather sandals, then combed his hair, flung down the comb, and strode out into the morning.
He paused outside his house to sniff the clean air. The storm had moved on to trouble the north, and the valley lay before him, beyond the motley cluster of huts where smoke spiraled from the roofs and children romped in the thin, pale sun of winter. From where he stood he thought he could just make out a haze that was the river, and farther toward the horizon the dark blur of the forest, its plumes smoking with mist. The sky was washed blue, dressed in shreds of white cloud. More clouds, gray, hung in the north. It would be fine until the evening.
He strode down the winding path, calling for Cinnamus and Caelte as he went, not waiting for them as they ran, but the three of them reached the entrance of the Great Hall together and went inside, on their way greeting the chiefs who hung about, waiting for Cunobelin.
A smell of hot broth and pork fat met them as they entered the darkness and they went immediately to the great black cauldron that hung from iron chains over the massive fire at the center of the Hall. They ladled the steaming broth into wooden bowls, took cold pork and bread from the slave who sat behind platters heaped high with both, then found a corner and sat, drinking their broth with the utmost concentration, their eyes still unaccustomed to the gloom.
The Great Hall had been built five years before Caradoc’s birth, when his father had swept upon the Trinovantes and taken their tribal territory for his own, setting up his new capital and his mint here, at Camulodunon. Caradoc’s grandfather, Tasciovanus, had also conquered the territory but had not held it for long, withdrawing tactfully back to Verulamium when Caesar Augustus had come hurrying to Gaul. But Cunobelin had bided his time, waiting to strike at the Trinovantes once more, when Rome was smarting and demoralized by the loss of three legions in Germania. This time Rome had shrugged her imperial shoulders and Cunobelin had settled down to rule one of the greatest gatherings of tribes in the country. He called himself ricon now, a king, and though he was old his ambitions still consumed him. Caradoc well remembered his father and his uncle going off to war when he was ten, and now his uncle, Eppaticus, ruled the northern Atrebates, and Verica, their true chieftain, was left with nothing but a strip of coastline. He had protested to Rome on numerous occasions, but Rome had better things to do than send good men to die in Albion for one insignificant chief. And besides, Cunobelin controlled the southern trade with Rome. He kept that city supplied with dogs, hides, slaves, cattle, grain, and, once in a while, raw metals—gold and silver—from the inland territories of the tribes who traded respectfully with him. In return, Rome sent wine, and silver tableware and drinking cups, bronze-plated furniture, pottery, ivory, but most of all, jewelry for the chiefs, their horses, and their women. The river was always busy. Ships plied up and down, traders swarmed all over Catuvellaunian territory, news went back and forth, and Cunobelin watched it all, silent and unblinking like an old, wily spider, weaving webs of deceit and successfully holding Rome in one hand and his dark policies of expansion in the other.
He trod a narrow, dangerous path and he knew it. To make war was to invite Roman intervention, for Rome would allow nothing to interfere with her precious trade. But to rely too heavily on the goodwill of Tiberius was as foolish a move as to trust one’s life to the shifting sands of the marshy estuary of his river, and, besides, a great deal of his power depended on his keeping the chieftains happy. He let them raid sometimes, to give them something to do, and though there had often been formal protests from Caesar, it was a tribute to Cunobelin’s statecraft that no more concrete objections ever materialized. He was content, for the time being, to hold the land that he had, but his glance ever strayed—northeast, to the rich Icenian lands, and west, to the hills of the Dobunni. He left the Durotriges of the southwest alone. They were a warlike, fierce people, thoroughly intractable. He could only conquer them with a full-scale assault, which would mean irreparable damage to his trading connections. They kept to themselves, following the ways of their deep ancestors, and he knew he would have to wait for a more favorable time to lead his war band against them.
Now Dubnovellaunus, chieftain of the Trinovantes, nursed his wounded pride in Rome and his people farmed for the Catuvellauni. Cunobelin had built the Great Hall in the first flush of his new conquest. It was of wood, spacious and airy, its roof vaulting high above, its wooden pillars carved tortuously by the native Trinovantian craftsmen into curling, sinuous leaves, plant tendrils that wrapped dreamily around one another, and half-hidden faces of men and beasts that peered out, sleepy and mysterious. Cunobelin and his family did not particularly like the native art. They preferred the honest, open faces and designs of the Roman potters and silversmiths, for sometimes, of a lonely winter evening, the complex, secretive work of the native artists seemed to come alive and move softly, speaking of a time when the Catuvellauni had been nothing but a dim prescient warning carried on the night breezes.
The roof was vented so that the smoke from the fire could escape, and all around the walls hung shields and iron swords, javelins and thrusting spears. Hanging on the central pillar was the wizened, wrinkled head of one of Tasciovanus’s fallen foes, held there by a knife through his hair. No one could remember who he was, but he was carried into every battle, and hung in Cunobelin’s tent whenever the ricon was away from Camulodunon. Caradoc and the others had ceased to notice him years ago, and now he swung above the company, his sunken eyes watching the comings and goings, his gray locks stirring in the constant draft.
“No hunting today,” Caradoc said to his friends. “I suppose you both want to go and watch the slaughtering.”
Cinnamus wiped his generous mouth on his sleeve and put down his bowl. “I had better watch,” he said. “My freemen tell me some of my herd is missing, and I have a feeling Togodumnus will be rubbing his hands this day. If he has touched my breeding stock he had better look to his weapons.”
Caelte leaned his back against the wall. “We have guests,” he said softly, “and here is Cunobelin.”
The Hall was almost empty, for the morning was advancing and already the autumn slaughtering had begun on the flat land by the river. Caradoc turned his head to watch his father come striding into the dimness, surrounded by his chiefs. With him came a short, fat man whose braided hair hung over his cloaked shoulders, and a little girl. They went immediately to the cauldron, and Cunobelin himself served the guests broth and bread, then looked about for a place to sit. The chiefs served themselves noisily, already quarreling over the pieces of meat that floated so appetizingly in the brown soup, and Cunobelin steered his guests toward the three young men. They stood up, as Cunobelin approached, and Caradoc tried to divine his father’s mood. He wondered if Cunobelin already knew about Brutus.
“Ah, Caradoc,” Cunobelin boomed. “This is the Lord Subidasto, chieftain of the Iceni, and this is his daughter, Boudicca.” Caradoc nodded to the man and smiled briefly at the girl, then he presented Cinnamus and Caelte.
“Lord, this is Cinnamus, my shield-bearer and charioteer, and this Caelte, my bard. You are welcome in our Hall.”
They all clasped wrists and then sat down, Caelte immediately talking to little Boudicca. Cinnamus excused himself and went out, and Caradoc turned to Subidasto, feeling his father’s calculating gaze upon him.
“You have come far, Lord,” he said. “I hope your stay with us will be one of rest and peace.” They were the words of formal greeting, but Subidasto laughed harshly. How rude he is, Caradoc thought. I am only trying to repeat the words of formal greeting as I’m sure Father has done.
“That depends on your father and our
talks together,” he said. “We have much to discuss.”
Caradoc looked at him closely. He had been wrong about the fat. Subidasto was enormous, yes, but his girth was not loose or flabby. His arms were full of tight muscle, his mouth firm and unyielding, and he had the pale blue, piercing eyes of a man who spends all his time out-ofdoors, looking into far distances. Is there trouble here? Caradoc wondered. Is that why Subidasto has claimed the immunity of Samain? What is my father plotting this time? He glanced at Cunobelin but read only merriment in the close-set eyes, in the heavily wrinkled face.
“Peace, Lord!” Cunobelin said. “First there must be good eating and drinking tonight, and plenty of music, and of course the rites of Samain. Then we will talk.” He scrambled to his feet. “But if you’ve eaten for the morning, let me show you Camulodunon.”
Subidasto’s mouth set in a hard line of disapproval but he rose also, nodding reluctantly.
Caradoc suddenly found Boudicca’s round eyes staring at his face, and it made him uncomfortable. “Father,” he said. “Will you excuse me? I must go and see to my herd today.”
Cunobelin dismissed him, but said quietly, “There is also the matter of my dogs, Caradoc. Brutus has a ripped ear and cannot now be sold. How did that happen, I ask myself, when the guards at the kennel have had orders not to let those dogs out of their sight? There must be a settling here.”
“You know everything, Father,” Caradoc said, grinning. “Have you spoken to Tog?”
“Yes, and to Aricia. The three of you owe me two heifers. Breeding stock.” Cunobelin was smiling back.
“Now Father!” Caradoc protested. “Take a carcass. I cannot afford a live heifer.”
“I’ll fight you for it if you like,” Cunobelin said indifferently.
“No, Father, no.” Caradoc shouted with laughter. “I have no wish for more scars, but a breeder gone will be a sore loss.”
“Then take Cinnamus and Fearachar and go raiding,” Cunobelin said. “How do you think I got rich, Caradoc?”
Caradoc saluted him ruefully and turned on his heel, but he felt a small hand steal into his own and hold him back. He looked down to see those brown eyes still fixed solemnly on him.
“Can I come with you?” she whispered.
His heart sank, but before he could refuse, Cunobelin said, “Take the child down to the slaughtering, Caradoc, and amuse her for a while. Do you object, Subidasto?”
Subidasto hesitated. He was evidently torn from moment to moment by the wish on the one hand to be as objectionable as possible and on the other not to offend these most powerful people, but finally he shook his head, and so Caradoc left the Hall with Boudicca trailing behind him. They walked into the sun and took the path that led straight down to the gate. It stood wide, and beyond it Fearachar waited, sitting on the ground, a sour look on his face, the reins of Caradoc’s horse held loosely in his hands.
“I have been waiting for you for a long time, Lord,” Fearachar said reproachfully as he handed the horse over to Caradoc. “I am cold and hungry.”
“Then go and get warm and have something to eat—but I don’t think we have left you much,” Caradoc retorted. “Boudicca, can you ride?”
The chin came up. “Of course!” she said. “But not…not horses like him, only chariot ponies. There are not many horses as big as that in our country,” she finished, blushing.
Caradoc lifted her and set her on his mount’s back, jumping up behind her and gathering up the reins. “Shall we go fast?” he asked her, and she nodded vigorously, winding her fingers into the horse’s mane as he dug in his heels and swept down the gentle slope into the meadows beyond.
In an hour they came to the river flat, and even before they rounded the bend that would reveal the water and the marshes and the tall, leafless willows, they could smell the slaughtering—the sickly sweet, wet smell of freshly spilled blood—and they could hear the high, panic-stricken bellowing of a thousand cattle who were about to die. As they cantered around the bend, all the ground from forest to water became a thick mass of pushing, jostling people and closely herded beasts. The din was tremendous. A little way up the bank Caradoc picked out Togodumnus, and with a shock of remembered shame and excitement spotted Aricia next to him. They were sitting close together on cloaks on the grass, their steaming breath mingling as they talked. As he drew rein and got down, and Boudicca slid off the horse’s back to stand beside him, Adminius came striding up the slope.
“Caradoc, where have you been? I’ve had my people running all over the place, looking for you!” He came to a halt, panting, his handsome face flushed. “There’s trouble down there. The freemen are fighting. Sholto says you offered him a bull and a heifer from your breeding stock, but Alan says no, you offered only one bull, and that for slaughter for his family’s meat. And Cinnamus is down among his cattle, screaming and swearing, for it seems that he is short twelve beasts.”
Aricia chuckled, Tog nodded in mock solemnity, and Caradoc cursed. “Well, Adminius, why come to me? You are senior next to Father. Go and sort it all out.”
“Because I’ve got cattle missing too!” he roared. “Tog, I’m sick and tired of creeping into your compounds in the dead of night to steal back my own cattle! Where is your sense of honor? And you with the highest honor-price of the lot of us. I’m going to complain to Father!”
“Oh sit down, Adminius,” Togodumnus said lazily. “How could there be anything but trouble when the freemen rush to drive their cattle first to the slaughter? No wonder the traders stand back and laugh at us. If Cinnamus spent more time caring for his beasts and less crossing swords with you, Caradoc, he’d know that he lost cattle this summer through disease. And as for you, Adminius, I think I’ll bring a case against you for trying to steal my cattle. You’ve just admitted it, you know.”
The color mounted in Adminius’s face and he rushed at his brother, pouncing on him, and soon they were rolling on the ground, fighting and kicking.
Aricia sighed. “You had better go and see what has happened, Caradoc,” she said.
When he met her eyes he was conscious of a tightness in his loins, but she spoke evenly and her eyes told him nothing. It was as if the night had never been. Well, perhaps it hadn’t. Perhaps it was not Caesar who was the demon, or Aricia, but he himself who had spent the whole night of Samain in a fit of delusion. She looked away, sighing in a great gust of steamy breath, and the very hopelessness of the set of her shoulders told him he had not dreamed the night. She was too quiet, too calm.
“Leave the little one with me,” Aricia said. “Who is she, anyway?”
“Boudicca, daughter of Subidasto, chieftain of the Iceni,” he said carefully, pulling his cloak around him. A yell of rage came from the two wrestlers and he repressed an irritated urge to kick them both in the rump.
“Come and sit here, beside me,” Aricia said to the girl. “What do you think of the Catuvellauni?”
“You have fine horses, and much cattle,” Boudicca answered promptly, “but my father says that you all suffer from a disease.”
Caradoc turned, amused. “Indeed?” he said. “And what disease do we have?”
“It is called the Roman disease,” she replied, lifting her limpid brown eyes to meet his own. “What is it, do you know? And will I catch it? I do not want to be sick.”
Aricia and Caradoc looked at each other for one astounded moment, then Aricia burst out laughing. “I do not think, little Boudicca,” she gasped, “that either you or your father are in any danger of being struck down by this, this terrible disease. It seems to afflict only the Catuvellauni.”
“Oh. Then I do not wish to sit here. I wish to ride Caradoc’s horse again.”
The child is quick, Caradoc thought. She knows that we are laughing at her father. He nodded to Aricia and strode away, torn between laughter and anger at old Subidasto’s temerity. Roman disease! How little he knew Cunobelin, to imagine that the Catuvellauni were only pawns in the ironclad fingers of Rome. We are first, and o
nly, freemen, masters of ourselves. In that is our pride.
He plunged into the crush of excited, shouting people and they made way for him, muttering as he passed. They were mostly peasants, small and dark-haired, but there were also many native Trinovantian freemen and former chiefs, from whose stock his mother had come. Here and there a Catuvellaunian chieftain bowed to him, and by the time he had forced his way to the bank of the river he had four nobles at his back.
Here the stench was overpowering. Blood pooled on the grass and trickled in rivulets down to the water, and great piles of carcasses waited for the tanners to come and skin them and the butchers to haul them away and dismember them. The air was clouded with flies even though the first frosts had come and gone. Alan stood next to Cinnamus, the sleeves of his tunic rolled up, his arms bloody to the elbows. Sholto was berating them both, shaking his fists and stamping on the ground while the crowd watched, waiting for the blows that must come. Caradoc stepped forward.
“Alan, a good morning to you. And to you, Sholto. Shall I pick you up and throw you into the river? Why do you argue with my freeman?”
Sholto glared at him. “I am your freeman too, Lord, or have you forgotten our bargain? I oath to you for a bull and a heifer, breeders, but Alan here calls me a liar!”
Caradoc looked at him speculatively for a moment, watching the shifty eyes slide away from his. He did not like Sholto and was already regretting his offer to take the man on as his chief, but the honor-price was a sore point between himself and Tog, and Sholto had a large kin and many cattle. He was a whining, lying miser, but he could fight, and so could his freemen and his women.
“I do not call you a liar, Sholto, but I call your ears hard of hearing. Alan is right. I promised you only a bull for your winter store, and a silver cup for your wife. But if you prefer, you may take a breeding heifer. I do not care. Or you may want to consider Togodumnus’s offer, but make haste. My cattle wait for the knife.”
The Eagle and the Raven Page 3