Chapter Fourteen
He grinned foolishly at us and spoke, in Latin of a kind – though it was so slow and accented that it was quite difficult to work out what he said. Roughly, though, the message was quite clear. ‘Hello, Romans. You’ve come back very soon. We managed to find all my pigs again except for one. And thank you for my tunic – it’s a lovely fit.’
I glanced at Regulus, but he was looking just as startled as the rest of us. ‘This is not the man I saw before,’ he said to me. He turned to the pigman and said, very slowly and with emphasis, ‘Who are you? And where’s the other man?’
The pigman gave another of his grins, flashing a surprising display of sturdy teeth. ‘My name is Subulcus,’ he managed in his tortured Latin, and thumped his chest with pride. ‘I am the keeper of the pigs.’
The name means ‘swineherd’ so this was not altogether a surprise. Marcus gave a deep, exasperated sigh. ‘Where is the other pigman?’
Subulcus shook his head. ‘I am the only Subulcus here.’ He grinned again. It was impossible to tell whether he was referring to the name or to the job.
Marcus tried again. ‘A man with a scar?’
Subulcus pushed back his sleeve to show his arm. There was a long jagged mark along the length of it, as if someone had slashed him with a sword. ‘Scar,’ he said, exhibiting it with a smile. He tapped his neck and shoulder. ‘Scar,’ he said again.
Marcus turned to me. ‘Try him in Celtic, my old friend. It’s obvious his Latin isn’t good.’
I nodded. The pigman’s dialect would not be exactly like my own, but there was a fair chance I could make him understand. ‘There was another man here, yesterday,’ I said, enunciating each word carefully.
My Celtic did the trick. Subulcus flashed his teeth again, and launched into delighted speech. ‘I know. They stole my pig. I had to run off after them. And there was the Roman man who left this tunic for a present. I like Romans now – that’s why I’m not afraid to talk to you. He was kind. Not like the nasty ones my master talks about.’
I translated this. The optio turned to Marcus with a shrug. ‘This is hopeless, and we’re wasting time. Should we take him back and have him questioned properly by the torturers? I’m sure Libertus could translate for us.’
Marcus shot me an enquiring look. He knows my views on this. Handing a man over to the torturers may be useful in extorting information from his lips, but that is not necessarily the same as getting at the truth. After an hour or two of torment the victim will usually admit to anything at all, simply to make the anguish stop, even if he has to make up the facts they want to hear.
It is never a process which appeals to me, and I particularly loathed the idea of causing pain to a poor simpleton like this, who would hardly comprehend what was required. Better to try to gain his confidence. I shook my head. ‘I think he’s telling us the truth,’ I said. ‘He hasn’t got the wits to tell a lie. You could torture him for hours, to no avail. I don’t think he knows anything at all.’
My patron sighed. ‘Very well, Libertus, question him and see what you can do.’ His tone suggested that it was beneath his dignity to question swineherds in the woods. ‘If you can make no progress, we’ll try flogging him.’ He had spoken in Latin, but the pigman got the drift. His face crumpled and he was near to tears. His filthy fingers were plucking at my sleeve.
‘Don’t let them hurt me,’ he whimpered. ‘I didn’t mean to lose the pig. I wouldn’t have left them for a minute – I don’t usually – but my master sent for me to come up to the house. Then when I got there it was a mistake, and he didn’t want me after all, so I hurried back. When I arrived, I saw some horsemen here. They had one of my pigs and they were driving all the others off into the woods. I ran off after them but they just laughed at me. And then young master came by, and he was cross with me because the pigs were loose. He told me to run up to the round-house right away and fetch the children to help to round them up.’
‘And that is what you did?’
A vigorous nod. ‘I have to do what he says now. My master tells me so. I have to do what all the family says, because my proper family aren’t here.’
It made a kind of sense. Pigs have a special value in the Celtic world. Roast boar is the universal meat at feasts – together with goose and venison – and the animal is sacred to the gods. Those with simple, trusting minds like Subulcus are believed to have a special gift with animals and also to be favourites of the moon goddess, whose caresses have deprived them of their brains. So such a child, though rejected by his parents as a normal son, might well be ‘adopted’ by the tribe and housed and protected in return for tending to the pigs – though in truth, his condition was not much better than a slave’s.
Subulcus was still finishing his tale. ‘I found three of the children from the farm, and brought them back, but when we got here all the pigs were gathered up, and there was a tunic for me in the hut.’ He looked down at my pathetic garment, mired with mud. ‘Young master said it was a present from a Roman man. It’s a nice one, isn’t it? The best I ever had.’
‘This young master – does he often give you gifts?’ I said.
He dropped his eyes. ‘I don’t see him very much. He says I know nothing about anything. But it isn’t true. I know about the pigs. My master says there’s nobody who knows more about pigs than me.’
‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I murmured soothingly. ‘Tell me, who told you that your master wanted you? I suspect, you see, that you were sent away on purpose, so those bad men could get in and steal your pig.’
He thought about this gravely and then shook his head. ‘It was a big man on a horse. The Roman man. But it can’t have been a trick. He had a big ring with a seal – and a sort of uniform like that.’ He gestured towards Regulus and screwed his grimy face into a frown. ‘I thought that you were him again, at first, but I can see now that you’re not.’
‘It wasn’t one of us,’ I said gently. ‘I don’t think it really was a Roman man at all. I think he was just dressed up as if he was. But you thought he was a soldier, so you did what he said?’
He nodded. ‘I have to do what soldiers tell me – there’ll be trouble else. My master always tells me that. And I mustn’t spit at them or call them names – even if they did come in and take our land away.’
It was as well that Marcus couldn’t understand all this, I thought, or poor Subulcus might find himself enduring a flogging after all, for speaking out against the Empire. I said, ‘Your master tells you that?’
More vigorous nodding. ‘He’s taught me that since I was very young, when he first took me in the family. He says I have a special right to know.’ Subulcus held out his arm, and pointed to the scar. ‘You see this mark? This is where someone hurt me when I was very small – for nothing. I wasn’t fighting him. I was just a baby and was in the way. But that was a naughty Roman man – he killed my proper mother, and he hurt my uncle’s son as well. He wasn’t a kind Roman like the one yesterday. That one left me a new tunic.’ He looked suspiciously at the optio and his men. ‘Are these kind Romans too?’
I took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Subulcus. The man who sent you to the farmstead yesterday was not a proper Roman, and he wasn’t kind at all. I think he stole that horse and uniform and ring, and killed the man who owned them, and more than likely murdered my poor slave as well. This soldier found him hanging from a tree.’
Subulcus was struggling with this information. ‘Then he was a bad Roman too? But he was kind to me.’
‘I don’t think he really was,’ I said. I was beginning to despair of ever making the pigman understand. ‘I think he told you to go up to the house, just so that the other men could come and steal your pig. I’d like to know about that tunic, though. I want to know how he got hold of it. It was mine. My attendant brought it to the woods and this soldier . . .’ I indicated Regulus, ‘was the kind one – he gave the tunic to a pig-minder who helped him in the woods. Not you. But that’s the man we’re looking for toda
y.’
Subulcus shook his head. ‘I’m the only Subulcus round here,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘And you can’t give the tunic to another man. It’s mine. Young master told me so. It was waiting for me in my hut. He said the Roman man had left it, and it was for me.’
We were going round in circles. I glanced at Marcus, but of course he couldn’t understand a word. He was chatting to the optio, looking bored and tapping his baton impatiently against his thigh. That was a danger sign. I turned to Subulcus. ‘It’s all right. You can keep the tunic – if you help us as the other pigman did. So tell me, where’s young master now?’
‘Down at the homestead,’ he replied, as though I were the idiotic one.
I explained all this to Marcus, and was about to ask the pigman for directions to the place when we were interrupted by the sound of hooves. Our escort drew their swords at once and whirled round to form a square, ready to protect us if need be. Subulcus darted back towards his pigs. But the men who galloped up to us were not an ambush group, only the outriders from the marching-camp who had accompanied us on our journey here. The leader called out the password of the day, and our would-be defenders sheathed their blades and let them through.
The leading rider dropped from the saddle and presented himself before Marcus and the optio. ‘Your pardon, sirs. We are relieved to find you safe. We were beginning to become alarmed. The sub-officer you left in charge ordered us to come and see what had occurred – we feared you had been ambushed and attacked. He’s marching the rest of the men over here to offer you support – though it will take them a little longer to arrive.’
Marcus looked extremely vexed at this. ‘And leave my carts and carriage to be a target on the road? You can report back that we are entirely safe and that we are going to the farmstead to interview the owner of these pigs. There must be a farm track somewhere. Two of you must go back and guard the vehicles while we complete our business.’ He scowled. ‘How did you find us, anyway?’
The horseman almost smiled. ‘We tracked you through the trees. It wasn’t difficult.’ He saw the look on Marcus’s face and added quickly, ‘Where is this house, Excellence?’
Marcus looked at me. ‘Libertus?’
But Subulcus had already understood. ‘On the outskirts of the forest, down this track. You come to the main track, where the big oak is . . .’ He gabbled directions in such garbled Celtic that I could hardly follow them.
I nodded. ‘I think you should come with us, Subulcus, and show us where it is. We’ll leave some soldiers here, to guard your pigs.’
Subulcus looked most disturbed at this. ‘My master told me I must stay here all the time.’
‘You left here yesterday,’ I pointed out.
‘But that was different. The soldier told me that my master wanted me. And even then look what happened when I left the pigs. But you have to do it, if a soldier says.’
I saw what was required. I turned to Regulus. ‘Would you tell him, very slowly, that he has to come with us? He’ll only do it if he’s asked by someone with the right authority. I think your uniform might do the trick.’
Regulus looked doubtful, but he did as I asked and it worked exactly as I’d hoped. Subulcus reluctantly agreed to leave his precious charges in the care of the optio’s men, although he was clearly very dubious about this. It was almost laughable. Instead of shambling Subulcus, there would be a party of professional soldiers guarding them with their daggers drawn. Rarely could a herd of pigs have enjoyed such good protection in the whole history of swine.
The crash of military sandals through the undergrowth alerted us to the arrival of the larger troop. Marcus was for dispatching them straight back to guard the carts, but the optio argued fiercely that half of the company should come with us, and the rest should be left behind to guard the carriages and the pigs. Before he could be briskly overruled, there was a rustle in the trees – which might have been an ambush, but was probably a bear – and Marcus abruptly changed his mind. Subulcus, the optio and I would lead the way, while he, his bodyguard and a score of the foot guard would follow on behind, along with the ten remaining outriders.
In this military formation we set off down the track. The appearance of so many Roman uniforms had reduced the poor swineherd to uneasy silence now, and despite my best attempts at questioning him about his master and the nature of the tribe, I couldn’t get another sentence out of him until we reached the oak.
‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Just as I told you.’ He gestured to a massive tree, set back a little from the road. It was partly screened by lower bushes, but there was a clear space carefully maintained around the bole, and even from here I could see the sacred mistletoe in the upper fork and the strips of tell-tale rag tied and left hanging from the boughs.
I caught my breath. This was not a simple marker on the corner of a lane, as I had thoughtlessly expected, but a proper sacred oak – a Druid shrine. As we reached the entrance to what was effectively a grove, I could see that there were statues planted in the ground and that the great trunk was daubed with something red and darkening. I gulped. I had not seen a sacred tree like this for many years, but when I saw one last, the branches were adorned with severed human heads. The gruesome spectacle had haunted me for years – though of course my own ancestors would once have worshipped somewhere very similar, hung with the heads of their enemies.
Thankfully, there was nothing of the kind in evidence this time, at least from where we stood – although I did not care to wonder what the daubs might be. I knew already what the little statues were: symbolic faces made of rock or wood, some with cat-like ears and furrowed brows – a sort of substitute for proper heads. I debated for a moment what I should say and do. Druidism is forbidden under Rome on pain of death, and if Marcus realised what this tree signified he would set the soldiers on to it at once, to cut down the rags and hew the branches off, and order that the countryside be searched for devotees.
I glanced at Subulcus. It was obvious that he was one of them. He was edging past the grove with awe, and I knew that any desecration of the shrine would not only cost us any trust he might have had in us, but terrify him into speechlessness as well. He would not help us if we touched the tree.
I tried to strike a note of bored contempt. ‘Some sort of local altar, Excellence. You know these people worship streams and trees.’ I gestured down the track. ‘I imagine the homestead is along this path.’
‘Then lead us to it,’ he said icily. He didn’t glance again towards the oak.
It was a good deal easier marching on the lane, but it was still some time before we reached the limit of the trees and saw the farmstead nestling on the raised ground opposite: a small gathering of roundhouses, perhaps ten or twelve – almost a tribal hamlet – built of stone and protected by a stout fence of triple stakes within a ditch, the smoke of wood fires rising through the thatch.
The place was almost fortified and had clearly been constructed for defence, but today there was no guard in evidence. A pair of tethered dogs set up a bark at our approach, and a tall thin woman in a shawl came out to gape suspiciously at us. Subulcus called something that I could not catch – it sounded like a password – and she scurried off, returning in a moment with one of the most striking men I’ve ever seen.
He was clearly a person of importance in his tribe. He was not tall – no taller than myself – and was no longer young, but he had enormous presence. He wore old-fashioned Celtic dress: plaid trousers, belted at the waist, and a jerkin of the same fine-woven coloured cloth, adorned by a single mighty silver brooch of intricate design. His hair, which had been shaved to halfway over his head, was long and flowing at the back, bleached fair with lime, and though he wore no beard the length of his moustache was wonderful.
He looked at the company outside his gate. ‘I am Kiminiros, keeper of the fire and by the grace of the gods of tree and river elder of this tribe. What do you want with me?’
Chapter Fifteen
I glanced ba
ck at Marcus and the optio to see what their reaction was. To appear cowed or threatening would be a mistake. However, I need not have been concerned. Already my patron was striding forward through the ranks of guards and coming to address the Silurian elder face to face.
This meeting of two representatives of different ways of life was an imposing sight: Marcus magnificent in his spotless toga (the gods alone know how he managed to keep it so effortlessly white – mine would have been stained with grass and travel long ago), his rank emphasised by the width of purple stripe, and the bevy of armed men at his back; and the thin old man in his tribal plaid standing with a simple dignity quite alone on his side of the gate. Even the woman had slipped away and gone back to the dwelling huts by now.
I had been ready to translate for this minor chieftain, as I had done for Subulcus before, but when he spoke it was in faultless Latin – his deep voice as impressive as his appearance was.
‘You come in peace, I trust? It is many, many harvests since my tribe fought with yours, and longer yet since there were swordsmen at my door.’ We were a large group and our troops were armed, but he behaved for all the world as if he were favouring us by granting audience. He gestured towards Subulcus. ‘I see you have my swineherd with you. I hope he has not contrived to offend you in some way?’
It was an unspoken declaration that he was not afraid of us. Marcus met it squarely, throwing back his head and saying, in his most authoritative tone, ‘We come here seeking information. My servant was murdered in the forest yesterday, several army horses have been stolen and an imperial messenger has disappeared. In the name of his most divine majesty, the Emperor of Rome and all the provinces, I require you to assist us if you can.’
Enemies of the Empire Page 14