Plautius nodded. “Gladys, I believe. Quite a prize for us, gentlemen! She should have gone with her brother.” But even as he said the words he was suddenly glad that she had not.
She was put in a hut in the first circle that had escaped the ravages of the fire, though the outer wall was scorched black. Plautius’s surgeon came to her, a brisk, efficient man who ripped the cloth from her ribs with no comment, slapped a cold salve and a bandage on her, and told her that her arm would heal and the feeling would come back, but that it would take some weeks. She was brought a soldier’s meal—broth, leeks, beans, and barley porridge, and wine diluted with water—and she wolfed it down while the man left her and returned with her clothes rolled up in a sack. All her jewels were gone, resting now in the packs of the legionaries. She begged for her sword and her knife but the man just laughed in astounded contempt and went away.
Three days later Claudius, with the arrogant insurance of the Moesian Eighth Legion, made his triumphal entry into Camulodunon.
Chapter Fifteen
THAT night, after the fanfares and the ovations, the sacrifices and pomp, the emperor and his officers gathered in the Great Hall to celebrate the victory. Plautius, in full and glittering regalia, reclined on Claudius’s right in the place of honor, and listened to Claudius’s brusque comments on his plans for the future of the new province, the state of his delicate health in this contemptible climate, and his promises of promotions and rewards. Plautius’s mind roved among the retinue gathered about the royal couch. Claudius is no fool, he mused, hearing the roars of masculine laughter go echoing to the roof as a servant bent to fill his cup. He has brought all his enemies with him. The thought made him smile. Here they all were, the Gallic senator Valerius Asiaticus, a contender for the purple after Caius’s murder, a man who could still harbor a lingering ambition beneath that grizzled gray skull. Crassus Frugi, whinnying with horselike laughter, his big teeth exposed while Rufrius Pollio, commander of the elite Praetorians, calmly finished his joke, his eyes, as always, on Claudius. Frugi was married to one of Pompey’s descendants. What was it Seneca had said of him? Plautius sipped the wine slowly, savoring its dry bite. “A man silly enough to be a possible emperor.” A man of power also, and Claudius was busy trying to placate him and his illustrious house. He had married Frugi’s son, Pompeius Magnus, to his daughter Antonia, but did not trust the son any more than the father. Magnus lay on his couch and watched the company with shrewd, heavy-lidded eyes.
Claudius turned away from Plautius to speak to Galba, and there, Plautius thought, is a man worth listening to. The emperor puts his trust in the right hands, but warily, for Galba rolled in money, Galba was a fanatic, devoted to his duty and the physical prowess of his legions, driving his own body with the same nerveless, humming energy that he demanded of his men. He was here to assess the situation in Albion, and to pronounce. He and Plautius had spent hours together discussing Plautius’s future course in this wild, furtive, outlandishly lovely country, but Plautius, though recognizing his vast experience and superior tactical knowledge, did not like him. He could not believe that behind the flaming, forceful drive of the man there was no secret, hidden ambition, and perhaps Claudius doubted also, and kept Galba in his constant company. Galba, two years ago, had calmly crushed the warlike Chatti in Germania and took the subsequent adulation as his right. But most of all, Galba was connected to the old Empress Livia, and Claudius never forgot it.
Plautius met the eye of his relative, Silvanus Aelianus, and they smiled at each other, lifting their cups in silent, mutual toast, and Plautius, drinking, thought—you too, Silvanus. Is it a curse or a blessing to be related to Caesar? “Oh a curse, a curse, my dear Aulus,” he could hear his aunt complain, the aging face puckered in distaste. “Can you imagine being made love to by a man who dribbles when he becomes roused?” and Urganilla’s painted lips would pout. “Then he becomes offended because of my lovers. Well, really. What could I do?” Plautius grinned at the remembering. Claudius had divorced her, both of them hugely relieved, but then Claudius had donned the purple and Urganilla had howled, not at her lost status but in fear that the career of her favorite nephew might be ruined. She need not have worried. Claudius was just. He saw the potential in Plautius and acted accordingly, and since that time he and Plautius had, by tacit agreement, never mentioned Urganilla. Claudius had Messalina now, and Plautius wondered whether he ever missed the petty nagging of his aunt. Messalina did not nag. Messalina smiled, and men’s fortunes were made or broken on the strength of the whims beneath that smile. At least Urganilla had had no great ambitions.
“What a dark, stinking hole this is, eh Plautius?” Claudius had turned back to him and he shook his mind free of reverie. “When I am gone, burn it down. It reeks of stale pork drippings and magic. I think we will have a temple on the spot, to myself, of course. At first it will hearten the soldiers and later when the barbarians have begun to acquire some civilized habits, it may serve as a focus for their otherwise depraved religious instincts. What do you say?”
Plautius glanced at the emperor and away again. The face was fine, noble, a true patrician face, but Claudius’s nose had begun to run again and little gray bubbles of foam had gathered in the corners of his mouth. “I think that would be wise, sir,” he replied. “The peasants have begun to creep back to their farms now, and every day more of them leave the woods in search of food. I can have them put to work. It will keep their minds and bodies occupied.”
Claudius smiled. “I do congratulate you, Plautius. A brilliant campaign. I have decided to name my son Britannicus after my new province when I get home. I must say I am looking forward to going home. Triumphalia ornamenta for Vespasianus and Geta, and the salute of the senate for me.” He smacked his lips and lay back. “I hear we took an important prisoner,” he went on. “A barbarian princess. Have her brought in, Plautius. I want a look at her.”
Plautius rose reluctantly, and Claudius, seeing his hesitation, waved a heavy, bejeweled hand at him. “Don’t be afraid that she may insult my Divine person. She can say anything she likes to me and I shall be vastly amused. I feel expansive tonight. You did say,” he leaned forward anxiously, “that she spoke Latin?”
“Most of her tribe speaks our tongue,” Plautius replied. “The traders say they are most proficient in it.” Claudius was unaware of the mild rebuke. He liked and admired Plautius and he merely smiled and shooed him out, his head wobbling with excitement on its stalky neck.
Plautius strode from the Hall and sent two soldiers to fetch Gladys from her hut. He did not trust one man alone, not since he had seen her sword, bloody and notched. He waited patiently, looking at the star-strewn beauty of the night sky, the thousands of pricks of red light on the valley below, and he felt enormous contentment. Life was good. He was high in favor, his invasion had gone well, and soon Claudius would take his powerful, sophisticated retinue and return to Rome, leaving him, Plautius, to carve a province out of this wild land. Pannonia had been a challenge, but this… This would be like jumping into the arena to face a hungry lion with only a knife between himself and disaster.
He heard them come and he turned. She was swathed in a long, flowing cloak, black, he thought though he could not tell until she stepped into the light of the torches, and her dark hair mingled with the folds of it so that it seemed to him she was hooded as well. Starlight and firelight glinted on her pale face, giving it an ethereal, unearthly beauty, a softness that he had not seen there before, and he almost bowed and held out his arm. The eyes sought his without pleading or fear, and he gestured the soldiers away and spoke to her politely.
“Are you recovering from your hurts, Lady? Do your ribs still ache?” She nodded once, faintly, and did not reply. “The emperor has called for you,” he said. “Do not fear him. He is curious, that’s all. Come in.” She smiled then, a sardonic, knowing twist of the mouth that made him feel like a fool. He turned swiftly, and she followed him.
Gladys stood on the threshold, shocked into momenta
ry immobility by the change that had been wrought. Her eyes flew from wall to wall, darted among the now silent, staring company, but still she could not absorb it and adjust quickly and calmly, as Eurgain would have done. The dirt floor was covered all over with soft, thick carpets of blue and yellow. The fire burned, but in a huge grate raised high above the hearth. Torches flared about the walls and on every pillar, their yellow light reflecting from the gleaming breastplates, the gold cloak clasps, the bronze arm bands of the men who filled the Hall. Couches had been drawn up in a wide semicircle, brocade and damask sweeping from wall to wall, and in the middle was a table hung with bright cloth, laden with strange fruits, golden flagons, dishes piled with food that she could not begin to identify. She was suddenly shy, overwhelmed by the inquisitive, worldly eyes of the Roman aristocracy fastened on her in amusement and scorn, but she drew herself up regally and walked forward, following Plautius’s tall back. He stopped, bowed, and stepped aside. “The Lady Gladys, sir,” he said and went back to his couch, and Gladys looked into the most powerful face in the world.
At first she was impressed. He was tall even when seated. His forehead was high, crowned with thick gray hair cut short across his brow and below his ears. His nose was broad like Caradoc’s, but the nostrils spread, and around them deep lines curved that gave him a cruel, sullen look. His mouth was large, well-determined, but again harsh lines marred it, made it petulant and capricious. The eyes that now were hungrily regarding her were fine, intelligent, and steady, even kindly. But Gladys felt a flash of pity, for the emperor was slobbering, wiping the spittle away now and then with a white cloth, and nothing could disguise the tremor of his head. He held out an elegant hand and the purple cloak fell back. “Come closer,” he said and Gladys obeyed, trying to remember all that her brother had said about this man. He was a coward. He lived in continual fear of poison and betrayal. He was a genius, a historian, a great and learned reader. He was a tool of his Praetorians, his freemen Greeks, and his women. “We salute your bravery, barbarian woman,” he went on. “You fought well, or so I have been told. We are not vengeful men, Gladys. We bring you and your people a new peace and prosperity. For many years your countrymen and ours shared good trade and we have become as brothers. So, like brothers, let there be continued cooperation and growth together. What do you say, eh?”
Gladys did not know whether to burst into astonished laughter, or spit in his face, or burst into tears. Sholto… Tog… She felt the lump form in her throat. Tossing back her hair she fought it down. “My town is in ashes,” she said huskily. “My brother is murdered, my people are scattered. I have neither honor-price nor position left to me. Even my sword has been taken from me. And you dare to speak of peace and cooperation.” She could not go on. More words would have brought tears, and she would rather have died than afford these spotless, superior lords the sight of a sword-woman in public disgrace.
Claudius considered her, his head on one side. “Delightful accent,” he said at last. “Well spoken, for a savage.” Plautius held his breath. Why am I caring? he thought, amazed at himself. How many barbarian men and women have I seen brought to their knees before the imperium? Let them all humiliate her. It would do her good, stubborn female. But he felt his fingers grip the cup even tighter and was unable to relax them. Claudius was in a merry mood now, but he was less stable than he used to be. He might order her execution if the game palled. “Rome is here,” Claudius said affably, “whether you like it or not, my dear, and before long you will like it, we are sure. Come and drink with me.” Plautius tensed still further, hoping for her sake that she would bend that arrogant head, smile apologetically, and take the cup from the servant’s outstretched hand. But he was hoping for his own sake that she would not. She had eyes now only for the emperor. They stared openly at one another, taking a measure, then Gladys stepped forward, an enigmatic smile on her face.
“And who will taste my cup?” she said quietly.
Deep silence descended as the implication of her insolent words sank through the cheerful, victory-flushed company, and Plautius wanted to stand and applaud. He actually felt his knees stiffen, then he bent his head to hide his action. The fire danced merrily on, the only sound in that warm, hushed place, then Claudius snatched the cup from the servant’s fingers and turned it upside down, and the red wine splashed onto the carpet.
“Go away,” he said, his reedy voice trembling. “Go away!” Gladys looked slowly around at the still, heavy faces, now full of hostility and a new respect, then she spun on her heel and glided out the door. No one spoke. Claudius’s heavy breath rasped into the thick air and he turned to Plautius, his nose streaming. “If they are all like that,” he said, suppressed rage flooding his face with color, “then we might as well exterminate them.”
But they were not all like that. By noon of the next day embassies began to arrive in Camulodunon, riding up to the gate in their bright cloaks and glittering bronzes, looking with uncomfortable amazement at the transformation that met them. All that remained of the great defences was a little wall, hardly breast high, a pleasant place to stand resting and gazing out over the river valley. The mounds of ash and rubble were being cleared away, and the officers’ tents ringed the Great Hall in severe, pristine circles. Before the Hall, flapping idly, the standards and the tall, bronze aquilae of the five legions were clustered, guarded by motionless soldiers. Everywhere there was motion. Messengers came and went, troops wandered about, the auxiliaries sat in the dust and gambled. Claudius and his retinue, and the officers of the legions, sat in the Great Hall to receive the formal surrender of the subdued chiefs who filed through with their shield-bearers and bards to bow and squat before them, anxious only for peace. The brutal crushing of the once powerful Catuvellauni had awed them. All they wanted was treaty and then the long, relieved ride home.
Gladys, pacing back and forth in her dark hut, heard the ring of their harness and the sweet familiarity of their common speech, and she went to the door. “Please let me out,” she said to her guard. “I want to speak with the chiefs. I will not run away.” He looked at her doubtfully, shaking his head. “I will have to get permission,” he said. “Wait until my relief gets here in another hour, and I’ll ask my tribune. But he’ll say no.” She retired, pacing slowly again from bed to door and back, ignoring the now faint twinge in her ribs where the big black and purple bruise was shrinking. She listened with straining ears to the snatches of conversation outside. She heard the guard change, and she went and sat in the little chair, folding her arms, beating back the feeling of suffocation that the dimness and stuffiness of the room brought to her. A dozen mad visions fluttered through her mind. She would slip away and steal a boat, and run free on the sand in the hot sun. She would disguise herself and ride out with the chiefs. She would overpower her guard and take his knife, and rush into the Hall and kill the emperor. But then between her and her frustration came those eyes—steady, smoky, full of sternness, and she hugged herself tighter and closed her own eyes, a new restlessness joining the others.
The doorskin was pushed back and she rose quickly. There were epaulettes, and colored horsehair in the curved helmet. It was a tribune. “You have a request?” he asked her briskly, and she nodded.
“I want to walk about a bit, take exercise. Please give me permission.” The word “please” came hard to her tongue but she was beginning to realize its advantages. He stared at her, thinking.
“If you were an ordinary prisoner I would deny your request, but you are not. I must consult the commander.” Then he was gone and she sank to the bed again, hoping that Plautius was not still in the Hall with the emperor, for surely Claudius would immediately deny the request. She smiled to herself, remembering his affronted face. It must have been a long time since anyone had dared to insult him. She heard more voices, the tribune’s, the respectful response of the saluting guard, then Plautius himself shouldered into the room, bending his head under the lintel as he came, filling the tiny, dark space with h
is calm authority. Her heart suddenly leaped and she found that she could not meet his eye.
‘’You want some sunshine, Lady,” he said gently. “I am sorry, but you are much too valuable a prisoner to be allowed to wander about. My men are all busy today, but if you care to wait until this evening I will allow you to walk around the Hall.” Gladys stepped to him, putting a hand on his bare arm, only the shreds of dignity clinging to her, and her eyes filled with tears.
“Sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “If you keep me a moment longer in this darkness I shall go mad. I will swear by all my gods, by the price of my honor, that I will not try to run, but please, let me out!” He paused. She smelt of clean things, wind and sun, cut grass and dewy, blowing flowers, and her hand was warm on his wrist. With a mixture of irritation and eagerness he sought her eyes, saw them blurred with the tears, and thought to himself, What does it matter? An hour in the sun is nothing, and the emperor need never know. He disengaged his arm politely.
“It is against my better judgment,” he said, “but if you like you can take your guard and walk a little. Stay away from the gate and the wall, and if you try to escape the guard will have orders to kill you immediately.” Her smile lit her face and he smiled back. Then he was gone, the tribune stalking after him. She heard him speak briefly to her guard, then she snatched up her cloak and went into the sunshine.
For an hour she wandered about Camulodunon, drinking sunlight, watching the hustle, approaching the chiefs who clustered together down in the third circle with pleading hands and a glad smile. So familiar, the garish patterns of scarlet and blue, the yellow and black chequered tunics, the long, untidy red or blond hair. For a while she did not care that these were men come from chieftains without honor, chieftains who were willing to sell their people without once drawing sword. They spoke to her warily, eyes flicking over the stolid, sweating soldier by her side, shaking their heads in answer to the one question burning in her, “Is there news from the west?” She found herself near a face she thought she recognized, a tall chief, black-haired, standing a little apart from the others as if he were ashamed of them and himself. His orange cloak folded about his booted feet and his hand was on the hilt of his heavy sword. The scabbard was finely wrought, bronze that sparked, figured all over with tight, never-resolving curlicues that flowed from the mouths of tiny, grinning wolves. About his neck, falling on his blue breast, were necklaces of some shiny black stone, and the same stone fastened his cloak and glinted mysteriously in his hair.
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