The Roman inclined his stag head doubtfully. ‘Well, what in Pluto’s name have you learnt?’ he asked. The woman was still now. The druids all stood round her motionless form, nodding wisely. One stepped forward.
‘All will go according to plan,’ he said. ‘Your involvement sets the last piece on the board. Now all will benefit, you and your people, and the Caledonians also.’
‘Then this… was an oracle?’ the Roman asked in horrified awe, masked head turned again towards the unmoving body in the middle of the blood spattered sward.
‘Yes,’ the leaf-clad man said. ‘Her final torments predicted everlasting freedom for the Caledonian people. We shall not fall prey to the Roman eagle.’
The stag headed man nodded. ‘Of course, of course,’ he said. ‘I’ve promised as much. As soon as it is in my power, I will ensure that the boundaries are drawn clearly, Roman on one side, Caledonian on the other. Never again will you have to fear Roman encroachment on your traditional territories.’
The leaf-clad man clapped him on the shoulder with the hand that was not holding the sword. ‘You come to us as a friend,’ he said.
The Roman stepped back in revulsion. Blood spattered the man’s arms.
‘But none of this will happen unless you do something for me. My friends are poised and ready. They will strike the emperor down at the agreed time: the empress’ birthday, in three months’ time. But if I am to march on Rome and replace him, I must do so at the head of my legions. The legions will not proclaim me emperor unless they have some reason to do so…’
‘We intended to massacre your forces and drive them from the land,’ the leaf-clad man admitted. ‘The war bands have been massing up in the hills out of sight.’
‘That attack may still be made,’ the Roman replied. ‘If the legion wins the victory, my spies among them will agitate to proclaim me emperor. When news comes of the Emperor Hadrian’s assassination, nothing will deter them. But they need a reason in the first place. A resounding victory. Can this be brought about?’
‘You hope to defeat the Caledonians?’ the leaf-clad man asked.
‘You will have to ensure that I win a victory,’ the Roman said. ‘You must give me some sign, something I can show to the attacker at the high point of the battle, which will cause them to turn and flee…’
‘We shall see,’ replied the leaf-clad man. He strode away.
Lugutorix had heard the words but he received only a glimmering of their meaning. Let Probus solve the riddle. His task was finished here.
The masked women had finished cavorting, the druids were intent on the Roman. Quietly, taking full advantage of his druidic training, Lugutorix slipped away into the thorn brake beyond which he had tethered his pony.
But one man came after him, seizing him by the arm as he crept deeper into the thorn brake. It was a druid who glared at him from beneath the hood of his robe.
‘What is it?’ Lugutorix blustered.
‘What is your business at this gathering?’ the druid hissed, brandishing a sickle-like blade. ‘I know you… Your protector Lord Catavolcos is not present this night.’
‘I know this,’ Lugutorix replied. ‘I was commanded by him to join the gathering and report back when he returns from hunting. I can tell you no more. You will let me past and you will not mention my presence to anyone. My attendance here is at the Lord Catavolcos’ bidding only. No one else, not even the Archdruid himself, is to know of it. I go under his authority and his alone. Let me pass.’
‘No,’ said the druid, grasping his sickle firmly.
‘You will suffer for this at Catavolcos’ hands!’ Lugutorix hissed.
‘I will take that risk,’ the druid replied. ‘You shall remain here a prisoner until Lord Catavolcos is present to confirm your claims.’
Desperately, Lugutorix snarled and plunged a dagger at the druid’s belly. It sank in without resistance but as it did so the druid’s sickle-like blade hissed down, cutting deeply into Lugutorix’s shoulder. Blood spurted from the cut. Clutching his belly, the druid sank to the ground, gargling his last. But as Lugutorix dabbed at his own deep wound, he knew that it could well prove mortal.
He whirled round and blundered urgently through the thorn brake.
Shouts of anger came from behind him. Others were coming. He burst out into the open field, upslope from the thorn brake. Even as he did so, running figures appeared from the bushes on either side. One whirled a sling, and Lugutorix felt the impact in the side of his brow. Eyes wide with horror he staggered onwards across the wet grass.
Another sling whirled, and pain shot from his leg. He staggered and fell flat, face first in the mud. His leg had been broken by the sling stone, he was sure of it. And yet somehow he forced himself to his feet and staggered onwards. Pain blossomed in his mind.
He knew he was going to die.
Finally he reached the tethered pony. Whimpering with agony, he leant his hot face against the beast’s coat. It gave a questioning, nervous whinny. Shouts and running feet came from the darkness. He hauled himself painfully over the pony’s back, reaching out to untether it as he did so.
He was dying, he told himself as the pony galloped into the darkness. But he would be glad to die. The druids had taught him that when he died he would be reborn in another life, another world.
No, he didn’t want to die just yet. He must get back to Pinnata Castra in secret. Probus was not going to be available to take his message, but he must ride there—he forced himself to sit up and grab the reins—and bring his report to this Flaminius.
He looked back.
It seemed for the moment that he had left his hunters behind him. There was no sign of pursuit. Relief washed over him. Looking around he recognised where he was. He began to guide the pony down the glen in the right direction for the camp. Maybe it would help him that only the dead druid had seen him face to face. Perhaps this Flaminius would be able to help him, if he survived the ride. He must survive the ride at all costs. His head throbbed, he seemed to soar above great red seas of pain…
The sun had set by the time Flaminius made his way down the narrow lane between the tents leading to the command post. The evening was chill and the way was deserted, no guards. Falco’s personal guard had accompanied the provincial governor on his mission. With luck, Falco would be totally taken aback by his discovery. Then he would be more likely to get angry. But if Medea got advance warning and ushered him out under the tent side before he could be found, everyone would have to know about it, and it would need to get as far as the Caledonians up in the hill fort. He thought he knew how he could get that arranged.
He entered the command post and thudded his knuckles on the flap that covered Medea’s compartment. A sleepy yet sultry voice murmured musically, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ Flaminius hissed.
There was a pause.
Less musical. ‘What is it, tribune?’
Flaminius’ mouth went dry. ‘May I enter?’
She assented, and as he entered the gloom, illuminated by a hastily lit lamp, he saw her struggling into a gown. In the light of the lamp, her face was flushed and her hair disarranged. He pulled the flap closed firmly.
‘There’s no one out there. Just sentries on the perimeter and the rest in their tents or coming back from the parade ground. Centurion Probus has gone to visit a barbarian chieftain, so while the cat’s away…’
A pause. ‘I’m glad you came.’
Their lips met, and it was some time before they parted again. But she seemed colder than usual.
‘Why don’t we stay here?’ he pleaded, indicating her couch.
‘I’d love that,’ she said, ‘but what if someone came in?’
‘While the provincial governor’s away, who’d dare to disturb his concubine?’
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘Apart from you, you mean?’
‘You’re seeing someone else?’ he joked. ‘Not just me?’
She stared at him coldly. ‘Get out.’
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He gulped, confused, and rose uncertainly.
She broke into peals of laughter. ‘You’re so easy to tease! It’s no fun for a girl.’ She indicated some cold foodstuffs on the little camp table, eggs in pine nut sauce and fried veal with raisins if he wasn’t mistaken. A small amphora of wine stood in a stand. ‘Won’t you join me?’
Flaminius had eaten nothing but army rations for weeks. He sat uncomfortably on the ground while Medea reclined on her couch and he fell to with a will, satisfying one appetite at least. As the wine warmed him and the rich food filled his belly, he studied her face. She looked up, eyes very big, and he shivered. She did it deliberately, he was sure.
Could he really betray this girl?
‘Your food is as delicious as you are… What do I have, compared with you, what with the places you’ve been and the people you’ve seen…?’
‘Places?’ she scoffed. ‘I’ve followed my lord from one posting to another. They all look the same. Although’—she shivered and pulled her robe close round her, causing Flaminius’ mouth to go dry—‘most were warmer than this one. I’m a woman of the hot South. As for the people I’ve met, they’ve all been lickspittles of my senatorial master, slaves or soldiers… Oh, but not soldiers like you! You’ve shown me a new way of seeing life.’
He reached out and took her face in his hands, gently but firmly. She gazed up at him. Again their lips met. Gently he pressed her down on the couch. The lamp flickered and went out.
And so when he returned, tired and disheartened from his long discussion with the Caledonians, the governor of the province of Britain found his concubine and one of the men lying on the couch in each other’s arms.
‘Medea?’ Falco lifted up a lantern, and the shadows flickered round the tent walls. Flaminius, nervous himself but for different reasons, felt the woman tense beside him, and move like a fawn about to bolt. ‘Medea, where… By Jove!’
Medea snatched up her gown. Flaminius bounded to his feet.
Falco stared at them in shock. Then his face hardened with recognition. ‘I see,’ he said quietly, and placed his hand on his sword hilt.
‘Quintus…’ Medea said, and she licked her lips as if they were dry.
‘How long has this been going on?’ Falco asked. The sword remained in its scabbard.
‘It was all my fault. Not him. He’s just a boy.’
Flaminius objected to that. ‘Senator, it wasn’t gallant of you to arrive without warning. What now?’ His eyes were on the hand that gripped the sword hilt.
‘You’re under arrest, boy,’ Falco said. ‘Get your tunic on.’ He turned and shouted an order. A centurion appeared. ‘Take Tribune Flaminius to his tent and keep him there under armed guard.’ He scowled wearily. ‘All this is beside the point. It can be resolved in the morning.’
Flaminius threw on his clothes, but something about Falco’s manner worried him. He wasn’t angry at all, it was as if something else was preoccupying him.
‘Please, Quintus,’ Medea cried. ‘Leave him alone!’
Falco batted her away and she sprawled across the couch. ‘Enough noise,’ he spat. ‘You think I’m worried about another one of your squalid affairs at a time like this?
‘When word reached me, I gathered my men and marched back as soon as possible,’ Falco told them. ‘Julius Probus is being hunted down now, by my orders. But what part did you play in this little comedy?’ He looked from Flaminius to the weeping concubine on the couch.
It had gone wrong, utterly wrong. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,’ said Flaminius. ‘I’ll go with the centurion.’ He indicated the man standing stolidly in the entrance.
‘No you won’t,’ the provincial governor said. He drew his sword and turned to the centurion. ‘Get me the camp prefect.’
The camp prefect’s quarters were nearby, and the centurion returned quickly with him. ‘Governor! What’s happening?’ Roscius demanded. ‘You’ve returned? I received no word…’
‘My meeting was infiltrated by a spy. The agent escaped on a horse, although by no means without a scratch. The Caledonians inform me that the spy was known to be working with our very own commissary centurion.’
The prefect’s face fell. ‘Can you be sure?’
‘Of course not,’ Falco replied, ‘but I’m going to get to the bottom of this. At my orders, the Caledonians are searching for Julius Probus. He’s not in the camp, he’s supposed to be staying at the longhouse of a barbarian chieftain for some reason. When they bring him here, I want him under guard. Put him in shackles.’
‘Centurion Probus answers directly to the emperor himself!’ the camp prefect said warningly.
‘That doesn’t put him above the law,’ Falco replied. ‘And you forget that I was also appointed by the Emperor Hadrian, who is first among equals, a senator like you and I. In this province I am your superior, prefect. You’ll do what I say.’
Roscius scowled. ‘Very well.’
‘Our next problem is Julius Probus’ assistant, this lad Flaminius,’ Falco went on. ‘I think I’ll question him personally. But I want two guards to keep him under arrest in his own tent when I’ve finished with him.’
When the prefect had left the tent, Falco turned to Flaminius. ‘Time you started explaining yourself, boy.’
Flaminius’ heart was hammering. He knew now why Probus had said they didn’t want any drama. This was turning into too farcical a song and dance routine. What was going to happen to the commissary centurion? What was going to happen to Flaminius himself for that matter?
Falco poured himself a goblet of wine from the amphora and sipped at it. ‘Come on, out with it. What part did you play in this, lad?’
‘Look,’ said Flaminius, playing for time, ‘if I was involved, would I have been here with your concubine?’
Falco took another sip. ‘Maybe you would.’ He glanced at the trembling girl. ‘What about you?’
Medea’s eyes were wide, but with terror now. ‘I don’t know anything,’ she whispered. ‘Neither does the tribune! I promise it.’
‘Oh, I well believe you know nothing, girl,’ the provincial governor said. ‘You’ve been used by this lad.’ He put the goblet down on the table. ‘Maybe both of you have been used. We’ll find out when Julius Probus is tortured by the interrogators.’
‘You can’t,’ Flaminius said, horrified by the suggestion. ‘He’s a Roman citizen! And an officer! And an imperial agent!’
‘I am the supreme authority in Britain,’ Falco told him coldly, ‘second only to the emperor himself. Centurion Probus does not outrank me, whatever he may think. I’d order it done now, except the chief interrogator is down south in Eboracum. Of course, the Caledonians are passed masters—their druids certainly are. Their imagination puts our Roman interrogators to shame.
‘I’m not letting legal qualms get in the way of the truth. Of course, tribune, if you’d come clean, it would save a lot of time.’
Flaminius knew he had to say something, tell some kind of story, some explanation that would convince the provincial governor. But he just couldn’t think, he couldn’t think! His blood pulsed loudly in his skull. ‘How could we have been spying on this meeting, wherever it was?’ he asked. ‘You know the Caledonians are keeping watch on us all the time.’
‘I always had my doubts about a spy like Julius Probus coming with me on this expedition,’ Falco said. ‘Who’s he supposed to be spying on? The Caledonians? Or me? The emperor has already had senators put to death without trial, due to his suspicions…’ He halted. ‘Why did Julius Probus want to have you working for him in the first place?’
Medea drew herself up, holding onto the tent wall. ‘The tribune proved himself as a servant of the empire when fighting the Britons,’ she said forthrightly.
‘Proved himself…’ Falco sipped more wine. He laughed bitterly. ‘You really are besotted with this plebeian clown. So he’s a servant of the empire. So am I, by Jove! Directly appointed by the emperor himself, what’s more
. And regardless of that, working towards the empire’s benefit. Working, not fighting. And it’s hard work but it will be to everyone’s advantage in the end. So, tribune. What did Julius Probus tell you he intended to achieve? The good of the empire? Or of his emperor?’
‘He wanted to learn about how things stand round here,’ Flaminius admitted unwillingly. ‘But not spying, no. And nothing that would not… benefit the empire.’
‘When did this affair of yours begin with Medea?’
‘Er, I… well, we…’ He gulped. ‘It was all my fault. I, er, I seduced her.’
Booted feet tramped outside. A voice called for permission to enter. Falco drew back the tent flap. Another centurion stood there, supporting a bloody, bedraggled figure. The governor pursed his lips in disgust. Horrified, Medea cried out.
‘What in Hades…!’ Falco glared at the centurion.
‘This… man appeared at the main gate,’ the centurion reported. ‘Wants to speak to Tribune Flaminius. Didn’t say why. Didn’t say much.’
He laid the figure on Medea’s couch after Flaminius had rapidly vacated it, a Caledonian in the tattered remnants of a cloak, his body gory. Blood was black on a great cut in his shoulder, and one leg was shattered, Flaminius could see the broken bones sticking through the skin. His gorge rose.
‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus …’ the man said weakly. Flaminius stared at him.
‘He knows you,’ said Falco dispassionately, drawing back and gestured to the centurion with his still drawn sword. ‘Kill this man!’
The centurion looked baffled.
‘Kill him?’ he said. ‘But he’s dying already!’
The man gasped thickly, without looking up, ‘Tribune Gaius Flaminius Drusus . Which of you is the tribune? Beware Greeks. He said I should say Beware Greeks.’
Flaminius felt his skin draw away from around his eyes. This was Probus’ agent? Mortally wounded? He knelt beside the dying man. ‘I’m Flaminius. What is it?
‘Listen…’ the man whispered reedily. ‘The Caledonians intended to massacre you, but you have been betrayed by your own side. I saw him at a meeting of the druids. The man who commands you will lead you to a staged victory, then the legion will proclaim him emperor…’ His words were so feeble only Flaminius could hear them.
On Hadrian's Secret Service Page 14