by E. Knight
“Is it still painful?”
Andecarus looked around to see that Luci had sped up his own fat pony to pull alongside, his face creased into a frown of concern.
“A little,” he admitted quietly, “though it’s fading now.” His injured knee had plagued him since spring, forcing him to walk with a stick. His father, incensed and incredulous over his “inability” to take part in the rebellion, had looked him up and down, reminded him that his old man’s own bad knee had never kept him from a fight, and finally told him bluntly that he would not be missed. His foster brother, Verico, the beast in human form that had been given over to his father’s training during Andecarus’ hostage years, and who, with a small cadre of mindless heavies, had ganged up to give Andecarus that injured knee in the first place, was apparently warrior enough to count for two. Barely human, in Andecarus’ estimation, but a monster with an unparalleled sword arm, apparently. The truth, a canker gnawing deep inside, was that he was in fact almost hale once more. He experienced occasional pains and could not yet run for long distances, but he was well enough in truth to take up his sword and ride into the fray, had he so wished.
Yet he had played on his injury and clung tight to his stick, and through their duplicitous mercy had managed to avoid becoming part of that gorge-rising massacre at Camulodunum. That had drawn more than one distrustful look from the elders and the warriors—especially from his vile “brother,” Verico. Once again, his mind threw at him an image of Verico at Camulodunum, repeatedly smashing to a pulp the leg bones of a fallen Roman in a frenzy of cruelty as his victim shrieked.
It had to end.
“Will the procurator see you?” Luci inquired.
A good question that would be answered soon enough.
Andecarus’ desperate, precipitous plan had formed with the realization that his Iceni kin were already treading fervently in the footsteps of Arminius, heedless of the outcome of that cautionary tale. Queen Boudica had wiped the new capital from the face of the land, and Rome would be incensed to say the least by what his tribe had done. There would be retribution. But if it all stopped here, perhaps Rome could still be reasoned with?
No, not Rome. Rome would not forgive.
But Catus Decianus knew him; liked him, in fact. A little over two years ago, his Roman foster father had returned to these shores, reoccupying that same house, this time in the lofty position of procurator rather than tribune. And Decianus was no fool, no matter that he was the root cause of this mess, nor was he a belligerent, for all the inflammatory actions of his soldiers in Iceni territory last year. If anyone could be prevailed upon to stop the coming disaster, it would be the procurator, who had both the sense to see what his deeds had wrought and the authority to do something about it. But the time he had in which to act would be short, for Boudica’s army would be here soon enough. Londinium was the prime target now—Roman trade center, home and office of the procurator who had ordered their queen flogged and caused all the Iceni tribe's grievances. And after Londinium, there would be other attacks, other Roman settlements or those of the tribes who had welcomed the invader and were now seen as collaborators—worse than the enemy.
Odd, that, given the bonds between Rome and the Iceni that had only so recently been severed by foolishness and greed. Oh, there had been troubles in their relationship—the revolt against Scapula that had seen Andecarus hostaged in the first place, for instance—yet for the bulk of the past century, even since Julius Caesar’s time, there had been ties of trade and friendship between Rome and the Iceni. It was a slim reed to cling to, but perhaps something of that could still be salvaged?
“Will there be legionaries?” Luci cut into his musings again with a nervous twang to his tone. Understandable given how his father had met his end. And yet the enthusiastic lad had managed somehow to assign his orphanhood to his father’s ill luck rather than Roman violence since those legionaries had been old and trapped and fighting for their lives.
“There might be a few retired evocati about—the governor has a retinue—but you’ll be safe enough. I need you to stay outside and watch the horses.”
The disappointment in the boy’s face was palpable.
“This is not a cultural expedition, Luci. This is important . . . and risky. I need you to stay with the horses and keep yourself to yourself until I’m done.”
His gaze was locked on their destination now—the procurator’s offices that stood beside the forum. He couldn’t quite see the gleaming complex past the narrow streets of low housing, but he knew his way well enough. Had he not been coming here now for almost two years? With the old Iceni king in failing health, ties to the procurator himself, and a good command of the Roman tongue, Andecarus had been naturally tasked with lodging the royal will at the office of the governor in Camulodunum and Decianus’ headquarters in Londinium. He had carved out a niche for himself there, traveling back and forth between the tribe’s lands and those two Roman centers, dealing with grants of land, requests for imperial adjudication, tax problems, and legal disputes. He knew Londinium, and he knew the procurator and his staff well.
And therein lay the tribe’s chance.
Boudica, he knew, would never bend her knee to the procurator who was responsible for her shocking abuse and the abominable rape of her daughters. Yet the Romans were a practical people above all else. They would certainly demand retribution for Camulodunum, but if the tribe could be stopped here—if Decianus could be persuaded to promise concessions—that might be an end to it. Peace was still just within reach, however delicate and costly it might be. And who could not seal that bargain and reconcile the warring sides if not a child born of both peoples? If the queen would not stoop to negotiation, then someone would have to take such a seemingly treacherous step themselves to save her tribe from the same unyielding fate as Arminius’ people.
“I’d expected Londinium to be empty,” Luci murmured.
“Lack of sense is not a trait peculiar to the Iceni,” grumbled Andecarus as they maneuvered around a small crowd gathered around a doomsayer. The streets were thronged with people. Men and women of many different tribes wheeled small carts through the streets, transporting their wares. Most of the bodies he saw in the crowd were dressed in trousers and wool tunics, though here and there a Roman was visible with their bare legs and carefully cut linen tunica. And the folk in the steaming, choking streets were moving almost uniformly south, toward the river and its waiting boats.
As he passed into the heart of the new Roman trade center, his way became more difficult, and he found himself having to force his mount through the press, shouting for people to move in both languages he commanded. While Selene was tired from the long ride, and he had allowed her to slow and rest a little on this last stretch, time was still of the essence, and to be snarled up among a throng of townsfolk would aid no one. Finally, with some relief, they emerged into the wide, paved forum, his gaze still on the procurator’s offices.
The procurator was the second most powerful man in the land after the governor, receiving both instruction and authority directly from the emperor. Such Romans were often arrogant and rarely lowered themselves to granting an audience to a native. Yet for all his faults, Catus Decianus was afflicted with no such conceit. In the three years Andecarus had lived in the procurator’s house, he had come to know Decianus as a thoughtful, world-weary man more attuned to sitting in a garden with his abacus than imposing imperial will upon an oft-reluctant population. Oh, there was no denying that the procurator’s treatment of the Iceni king’s family had started this whole mess, but that was not the man Andecarus knew. That had to have been imperial writ. Decianus might see him, and he might recognize the feeble strand of peace winding through this nightmare and grasp it. That was why Andecarus had taken it upon himself to ride to Londinium ahead of the tribes. That was why he still clung to a hope that Decianus could be persuaded to make things right.
Reining in at the side of the forum, Andecarus swu
ng down from Selene rather faster than he’d intended and staggered for a moment on his weak knee.
“Do you need help?” asked the boy.
“No,” he snapped, rather more forcefully than he’d intended, and regretted his tone instantly at the look of hurt concern on the boy’s face. Pausing and breathing steadily, he straightened and tied his reins to one of the hitching posts near the main doorway. “Tether your steed here and wait for me. Try not to wander off and break anything.”
Turning to the door, Andecarus’ interest was piqued by the lack of a guard beside the entrance. The procurator may not have the command of legions in the manner of the governor, but as he’d predicted, a small force of evocati—former legionaries who had re-enlisted as veterans with light duties—protected Decianus and his residence and supplied the meager force upon which Londinium could call in times of need. For all the good that would do them if Andecarus failed . . .
Of course, the procurator had sent two hundred men to take part in the doomed defense of Camulodunum, which had stripped Londinium of all but his own personal guard. Doubtless those left would have plenty of work right now that took precedence over standing by doorways and looking bored.
Chaos reigned supreme in the procurator’s complex. The guard room beside the door stood empty, and one of the old soldiers in just his tunic and belt scurried across in front of the weary Andecarus carrying an armful of something neatly folded, his gait suggesting panic and desperation. Looking this way and that, fascinated to see the office in such upheaval, Andecarus stepped into the courtyard that separated these small administrative offices and chambers from the official’s main building. At the center of the colonnaded square, next to the decorative pond with its leaping bronze dolphin, stood a huge stack of parchments, vellum scrolls, and wooden writing tablets, the delicate documents barely trembling in the stifling stillness. Even as he watched, another of the procurator’s guard thrust a burning brand into the base of the heap and blew gently until it took, tendrils of smoke curling out from the mound and rising into the perfect blue.
Another legionary almost knocked him down, running past with a pile of thin wooden cases. Spinning from the collision, Andecarus righted himself and made for the main offices, still surprised at the lack of a challenge.
The inside was no different, and as he blinked, adjusting his vision to the dimmer interior, Andecarus could see men hurrying everywhere with piles of goods, clearing out the offices. The burning of documents was standard practice—he had watched his own commander doing the same when his cavalry unit had quit a two-year posting—as if the marauding, vengeful Iceni would care about requisition records and staffing costs.
He heard Decianus before he saw the man—that oh-so-familiar tired, faintly jaded tone. And he could identify the voice of Valeria, the procurator’s wife: sharper, harder, far more imperious in its nature—another voice he had listened to for three years, ruling her house like an empress. Again, astoundingly, as he passed through the corridor and across the threshold into Decianus’ own office, none of the struggling soldiers paused to question his presence. Pushing the door slightly wider, he stepped inside.
Decianus was busy stuffing all manner of small yet crucial items into a leather case while he shook his head despairingly. Valeria stood with her back to Andecarus, but he could picture her face—imperious, angry, demanding.
“What can I hope to do, Valeria? The Iceni have their swords and shields and chariots. Paulinus has his pila and bolt throwers and ranks of steel. I have this!” In exhausted ire, he lifted the seal of the procurator and brandished it at his wife, making his point bluntly.
“So you run like a frightened cur back to your villa in Gaul? And what . . . you abandon Britannia? Do you really want to be remembered as the man that cost the emperor a whole province?”
Decianus thrust his seal into the case and grasped a small stack of writing tablets, waving them at her.
“There are documents in my office of a very sensitive nature. They cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of ravaging Britons. Not all records can be burned—some are too important. And what of the new coin molds? Do we leave them to the Iceni to mint their own money in the name of divine Nero? No, Valeria. It is time to quit the place and cross the sea. And we shall not lose the province, for Paulinus will deal with the Iceni witch in due course. But what good will that do us if by then we are skewered up the posterior with a native spear?”
Valeria slapped both palms down on the table, drowning out Andecarus’ polite clearing of his throat. “Save your barrack room language for your officers, Decianus. I am no caupona serving girl to be spoken to thus.” She took a deep breath, as though preparing to explain mathematics to a troublesome child. “Suetonius Paulinus is still in the west, stamping out rebels. His authority is missing in the southeast at this moment, and that makes you the highest de facto authority in the land. Right now you are the voice of Rome to the natives. What message do you send if you tuck your tail between your legs and run for your Gaulish orchards and your old wine cellar and leave the land in enemy hands? Would Caesar have done such a thing? Or Pompey? Or Germanicus?”
Despite his apparent weariness and determination, Decianus rounded on his wife as he threw the tablets into the case.
“Caesar and Pompey and Germanicus, too, had more to hand than half a dozen arthritic old men, a town full of terrified civilians, and an imperial seal. I’m a glorified accountant at the end of the emperor’s leash. What do you expect me to hold the Iceni back with? Curses and requisition slips? Now I tell you for the last time, our goods are already packed, but if you want any of your personal effects on board, gather them now.”
Andecarus cleared his throat, attempting to draw attention, but the general hum of desperate activity and the crackling anger between husband and wife rendered it pointless. He felt a strange pang of nostalgia, remembering how many times he had stood in the doorway of their triclinium waiting for some edged discussion to end so he could speak and be noticed.
“You do not have to take battle to the Iceni,” snarled the man’s wife with a haughtiness that was usually only found in royalty in Andecarus’ experience. “You just have to hold Londinium until help arrives. Cerialis is supposed to have cavalry with him less than a day’s hard ride from here. Send for him, and with his men and the evocati, you could garrison the old Londinium fort. At least you would be seen to be doing something when reports reach the emperor. And Governor Paulinus will know about the Iceni by now—he will be racing this way with the might of Rome at his back. Jove, with the way those natives are busy wasting time stamping on the wreckage of Camulodunum, the legions might even get here first!”
“And if they don't?” Decianus prompted, fastening the leather case.
“Then you take your cue from a hundred generations of noble Romans. You fall on your sword and depart with honor.”
Decianus stopped and glanced up at his wife. “That’s your solution?”
“Better than departing with your tail between your legs and the stink of fear-sweat upon you,” she snapped. Perhaps aware that she had gone too far, she stepped back from the table, and a leaden silence fell. Decianus straightened his back and glared at his wife.
“I should have known better than a match with you when I heard your mother haranguing your poor father. The divine Caesar claims Venus in his ancestry. Could there be a harpy in yours?”
Andecarus was suddenly grateful he couldn’t see Valeria’s face, though he could picture it in his mind’s eye from the way she was vibrating faintly. “A better man would not need to resort to name-calling. But then you are not a better man, are you? I will not abandon this post, even if you will. If you want me on your ship, you will have to act as a husband and force me onto the gangplank.”
“I've never forced you into anything, and I won't start now. You know where I'll be.”
“Go, then. I will divorce you rather than leave here.”
In the
tense, expectant silence that followed, Andecarus opened his mouth once more, but a voice from behind overrode him.
“Domine, the cart is . . . Who is this?”
Andecarus turned to find himself face-to-face with an officer he didn’t know. A tall, muscular man, the Roman loomed over him with an air of casual menace. The procurator and his wife turned in surprise at the exchange, finally noticing the wiry, well-dressed Iceni by the door. Decianus' frown quickly turned into a tired smile of recognition, and he waved a hand at the officer dismissively.
“Andecarus? He’s an Iceni clerk—not dangerous.”
Andecarus’ spirits sank at the expression of angry disbelief that crossed the officer’s face, and before he could even step back, the soldier ripped his sword from the decorative sheath at his side, bringing the point up sharply to dance beneath Andecarus’ chin.
“Iceni?”
Opening his mouth to attempt to calm the situation, Andecarus felt the tip of the gladius prick his throat. “I . . .”
With surprising speed, the officer’s hand came up and delivered a painful crack to his forehead that sent his skull back against the wall with a heavy thump. Blackness enfolded Andecarus as his consciousness sank into oblivion amid prophetic images of the procurator’s offices burning and collapsing.
Andecarus awoke with a head like a four-day hangover. His eyes took some prying open, and for a frightening moment he wondered whether he was blind before realizing that he was just in a dim room. The sounds of nervous breaths slowly insisted themselves upon him, and he turned—gods but that made his head swim and his neck throb.