Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8)

by Douglas Jackson

  Naso’s eyes widened. Aprilis gave Valerius an appraising look. The escort tried to look as if this was something that happened every day when you were the legate’s bodyguard, and Felix muttered: ‘Shit.’

  ‘But how?’ Naso spluttered. ‘He was drunk and he fell.’

  ‘He was also hated by almost every man in the camp,’ Valerius said. ‘Including you. But that is not what makes me believe he was murdered.’

  ‘I will have to report this to the governor, legate,’ Aprilis said in a tone that suggested he carried his commander’s authority. ‘I would be interested to hear your reasoning.’

  ‘It is true that he was drunk,’ Valerius acknowledged. ‘But you’ll agree that no matter whether drunk or sober it is difficult to believe he could have walked out of the fort without being seen. One gate, four guards, another twenty watchful eyes on the walls.’ He waited until Naso had nodded his agreement. ‘That means he must have had help … or someone drugged or bludgeoned him and smuggled the body out.’

  ‘Body? Surely the fall killed him?’ Aprilis directed the question to Tabitha.

  ‘He fell, yes,’ she agreed. ‘Or more likely he was thrown.’ She was careful to include Naso in the exchange. ‘It would have been helpful to see the body, but I understand your medicus suggested a broken neck and a few minor bruises were the legate’s only injuries.’

  ‘Yes.’ Naso looked as if he could barely believe what was happening.

  ‘A man who slipped and fell would have carried the marks of his fall,’ she continued. ‘The slope is strewn with boulders and sharp rocks. If he fell, Legate Fronto would have tumbled over them and had any number of scrapes, cuts and even one or two broken bones. Yes, he could have broken his neck in the fall, but his body was also too far from the slope. His momentum could never have carried him so far.’

  ‘Which allows us to conclude that he didn’t fall.’ Valerius took up the story. ‘He was thrown. Picked up bodily by two or more men and hurled from the top to make it appear as if he’d fallen. If that’s the case his neck was certainly broken before he fell. Why take a chance that the plunge wouldn’t kill him? So Fronto was murdered. It’s the only explanation.’

  ‘But what will we do?’ Naso protested. ‘The campaign …’

  ‘The campaign will proceed as if this never happened,’ Valerius told him. His voice took on a new hardness as he turned his gaze on the escort. ‘And no man here will speak of this. As far as your comrades are concerned the legate died in an accident. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Clear, lord.’ Hilario glared at his comrades.

  ‘Felix?’

  ‘Of course, lord.’

  ‘So we will go to war,’ Valerius said. ‘And you and I, Naso, will find the murderer.’

  ‘You make it all sound easy.’ The comment came from Aprilis as he accompanied Valerius back to camp.

  ‘Whoever killed him is part of this legion,’ Valerius said. ‘It’s just a question of finding who was where and when at the approximate time of his death. We’ll start with the gate guards, and work our way through the men who had the most reason to get rid of him. You don’t kill someone because he denied you leave or stole the cost of a new gladius.’

  ‘The men he forced into his bed.’ Aprilis let his disgust show.

  ‘Not a pleasant thought, I know,’ Valerius admitted. ‘But I will find the killer. Of course, it would be easier if I’d had a chance to inspect the body.’

  ‘Yes,’ the young tribune agreed. ‘The officers did appear to be in an unseemly hurry to have him cremated.’

  Valerius turned to study him. ‘Are you suggesting something?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Aprilis smiled. ‘All I’m saying is that they wanted all this – and I don’t just mean the murder – put behind them. A perfectly valid aspiration, you’d admit, for the good of the legion. On a different subject, I am leaving tomorrow and I’d hoped to be able to take the governor a summary of your findings. If that’s not possible,’ he continued hurriedly, ‘I can give him my own …’

  ‘No,’ Valerius said. ‘You’ll have it.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I also understand that the lady Tabitha and your son are to accompany the troop returning to Viroconium. I’d consider it an honour if you’d allow me to offer them my personal protection.’

  ‘Of course, Melanius. But don’t be surprised if she turns you down. Four of my men will be looking after her for me, and they’re good.’

  ‘All the better, legate,’ Aprilis said seriously as they approached the fort. ‘As your esteemed predecessor discovered, you can’t be too careful in this gods-benighted country.’

  XXXV

  Cearan fought the urge to coax the gelding to a faster pace through the mountain mists and risk laming the animal or exhausting him. He could feel time running out, but the information he carried would be of little use if he didn’t reach his destination. Roman patrols salted these mountains and in their present mood they would show him no mercy. He had stalked the convoy carrying Valerius’s wife and son until they reached Viroconium. The amount of baggage unloaded told him the pair were likely to stay for some weeks, perhaps even the whole winter. He rubbed his aching back. He was much too old to be spending eight hours a day in the saddle, sleeping on the hard, unyielding earth to wake covered in frost. But if the recurring dream was right this would be the last trip. The track he followed was perfectly familiar despite the fog. He’d used it many times in the past ten years, since his wounds had recovered sufficiently for him to be of use. The druid’s words as Boudicca’s horde disintegrated in a welter of blood remained as clear in his head as if they had been carved in stone. ‘Never forget that the gods have a use for you. Every warrior who dies here is but a seed planted for the future. Seek me out when you are ready.’

  ‘But how will I find you?’

  ‘I am everywhere.’ The words had sent a shiver through Cearan that had nothing to do with the cold. ‘I am legion. But if you are lost, mention the name Gwlym in the places where they are still true to the old gods.’

  It had taken a year of searching, but eventually his enquiries had drawn him west to the Druids’ Isle. In those days men believed it was inhabited only by the ghosts of those who had worshipped there. Sailors stayed well away from the haunted, blood-soaked shore and only the bravest chose to cross the treacherous narrow strait. Some came to seek out the past, some for treasure. None of the latter ever returned.

  Cearan understood he’d been driven mad the day the Romans had stolen his reason for living. As he’d lain in Aenid’s blood choking on his own, his heart had shattered and grief tore his mind apart as a wolf sunders a dying lamb. The mental wounds had taken longer to heal than the physical, if they truly ever had. Perhaps he was still mad, because how would a madman know? A savage, visceral hatred for all things Roman and a desperate, all-encompassing need to avenge his wife were all that sustained him.

  At first what he discovered on Mona had shaken his faith, but slowly he’d begun to understand. When he’d looked upon Gwlym it had been like staring into a copper mirror. The wounds and disfigurements were different, but their effects were the same, sharpening the focus of the hatred, channelling the mind to a single aim. What kind of strength did it take for a man to pluck out his own eyes? And what could a man not achieve with that strength?

  ‘Do you still believe?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the gods have sent you.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘You have sacrificed everything except your honour.’

  Cearan had bowed his head and wept.

  ‘Are you prepared to sacrifice that honour?’

  ‘I am your man,’ he had sobbed.

  ‘We are weak …’

  ‘I see no weakness.’

  ‘But we will be strong again. Strong enough to do what would have been done if she had not been betrayed.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’

  ‘Debase yourself. Dress in rags and roll i
n filth. Starve. Seek out the Romans and the Roman lovers. Go among them as the lowest of the low. Beg food and shelter. Most will abuse you, beat you and spit on you. Those who do not will make you sleep with their pigs and share the food of their dogs. Persist. And learn. You will be my eyes and ears. You and a hundred others. Bring me news of Roman troop movements and strengths. Their suppliers among our people and the routes they use. And the names of those who work with them, profit from them or succour them.’

  For seven years he had rolled in filth gathering the information Gwlym sought, risking perilous journeys to Mona to pass news to the druid. Those who supplied the Romans knew about their movements even before the legionaries themselves, because the farriers and armourers had to make preparations in advance. And if the merchants and farmers did not deign to talk to a disfigured beggar their slaves often would, thereby adding their masters’ names to the long list of Roman lovers who would fuel the funeral pyre of Roman Britannia.

  He had witnessed a Mona reborn, the ancient groves reconsecrated, the sacred treasures disinterred, the support of the gods secured with the flesh of a thousand sacrifices. And with Mona’s rise, Gwlym’s power grew. A trickle at first: farmers with donations of food, seeking the gods’ blessing; peasants with rusted pieces of iron to be thrown into the sacred pool; a local clan chief with a dozen retainers and a slave to be offered for sacrifice. Druids who had burned or buried their robes and regalia to avoid execution began to reappear, and soon they were joined by the representatives of tribal leaders and kings, warily testing the strength of this new power in the land.

  Two years earlier the druid had made a new request. As well as seeking information, Cearan was to spread word among the villages and farmsteads. The druids are returning. Make room for them around the communal pot and the council fire. Taranis and Andraste have regained their power and it is growing even as that of the Roman gods weakens. Sharpen your swords and spear points and paint your shields. Wait for the word.’

  As he rode, the hatred and self-loathing that had consumed him since his encounter with Valerius had grown like a fire within him. All these long years he’d been tortured by the knowledge that Boudicca had been betrayed or deserted by the gods. There was no other explanation for the way Paulinus’s army had appeared at the only time and in the only place that guaranteed the defeat of her enormous army of Celtic warriors. To discover that Valerius had been the instrument of her downfall and that his mercy had been the ultimate cause of it brought him once more to the brink of that seething pit of madness from which there would be no return. It was only by sheer force of will he survived. There would be no more mercy.

  The gelding stopped of his own choice and chewed at a tuft of grass by the path. Suddenly the mist cleared as if it were a curtain drawn back by the gods. Cearan stiffened and felt a surge of what might once have been joy, but now was merely a savage pleasure. The mountain slope fell away before him with the track a pale snake winding through it. Beyond the slope lay a flat plain chequered with fields and farmsteads, and a hilly peninsula that jutted out into the ocean. But Cearan knew the peninsula wasn’t what it seemed. It was an island.

  Mona.

  An hour later he approached the boatman waiting at the jetty. The man didn’t raise his eyes from the fishing net he was repairing. ‘Two hours till the tide is right.’

  Cearan knew all he could do was wait. Nothing he said would change the man’s mind or make him sail a moment earlier. Riptides and surging currents combined to turn the narrow strait into a deadly barrier as effective as any palisade. He tethered his horse to a nearby bush, with enough freedom to reach the narrow stream that ran nearby, found a sandy bank and lay back and closed his eye.

  Later, he sensed a shadow blocking the sun and woke to find the boatman looming over him.

  ‘It is time.’

  He followed the ferryman to the narrow wooden boat and climbed in to take his place on a wooden bench worn smooth by the seats of a thousand others. The craft was built to carry six, but he was the only passenger. Another crossing existed further north where the strait narrowed still further, but this would bring him ashore closer to his destination. The boatman propelled the vessel with smooth easy strokes of the oars, a lifetime of experience keeping him on course. Cearan sat facing the far shore and as they came nearer he noticed men working with spades and mattocks just above the tideline. Another difference from his previous visits were the large heaps of wood piled on the sand at regular intervals. They might have been signal fires but for the upright wooden stake at their centre. The boatman stowed his oars as his craft beached on the shingle with a prolonged crunch. He leapt out and dragged it a few feet further to allow Cearan to land dryshod. Cearan retrieved half a link from a copper chain from a pouch under his cloak and handed it to the man, who studied it for a moment before nodding agreement.

  He walked up the beach past the line of pyres. Now he could see that the men were digging a deep trench. The nearest group studied him with wary eyes as he approached, suspicious of the Roman clothing he wore. They were seasoned warriors wearing only cloth bracae, their chests and backs covered in tattoos that told others their clan and status and the number of men they’d killed in battle. Cearan mentally compared them to similarly aged men of the eastern tribes, softened by years of bending to Roman will, their fathers’ swords left rusting in the thatch and bronze shield covers used to water the cattle. It was the contrast between dusty sparrows with stooping hawks.

  A big man with suspicious eyes, a hook nose and dark moustaches drooping below his chin laid aside his mattock and picked up a spear. Cearan raised his hands to show they were empty, but the warrior held the spear steady and aimed directly at his heart, the stolid face hardening as he noticed Cearan’s terrible disfigurement.

  ‘I seek the arch-druid Gwlym, and the spirit of the hare and the wolf ride with me.’

  The spear point dropped. The hare and the wolf were the creatures of Andraste and her followers used the phrase to identify one another.

  ‘Then you are welcome,’ the man said. He pointed to a path that wound its way west through a bleak landscape of low, windswept dunes covered with a patchwork of sea grass and sparse scrub. ‘If you follow that track for an hour, you will reach a farmstead. They will be able to tell you where the druids gather. Have you travelled far?’

  ‘From the country of the Iceni.’

  The warrior nodded. ‘Far enough, then, to be thirsty.’ He stooped and picked up a red clay pot and handed it to Cearan. The Iceni drank – a warm, thin beer that tasted of pine needles – and handed back the pot with his thanks.

  They stood together for a moment looking out over the strait to the mountains beyond. ‘Will they come soon, do you think?’

  ‘Soon enough,’ Cearan answered.

  ‘Good. We are ready for them.’

  A mile or so inland the ground changed to grassy sward, with cultivated fields and patches of forest. In one wooded area a stockade had been built, with high timber walls. Hard-eyed guards flanked the gate and from within came the chilling sound of women’s screams. Cearan knew the source of that sound; indeed, he had contributed to it. One of the prisoners was the woman he’d ordered taken from the farm near Colonia. It gave him no pleasure to be reminded of their fate, but he closed his ears and hardened his heart and continued onwards. Smoke from scattered encampments along the coastline marked the locations of hundreds, perhaps thousands of warriors who had answered Gwlym’s call to defend Mona. He passed the low mounds that were the resting places of the ancients. Most showed signs of having been searched for treasure even in this holiest of holy places, proving that even the Druids’ Isle was not safe from those possessed by gold fever. In the distance a circle of enigmatic standing stones were silhouetted against the horizon like revellers caught dancing round a Samhain fire.

  A small group of roundhouses marked the position of the farm and he found an old woman with lank grey hair and a toothless smile of welcome milking a goat outsi
de the palisade. He enquired politely where he could find the arch-druid Gwlym, but her answer in the local dialect was so garbled as to be unintelligible. All he caught was the repeated word nemeth, which was similar to the term the Ordovices used to describe an oak grove. Eventually, she tired of his presence and threw out a hand towards the rising ground to the west. He thanked her, but she had already returned to extracting what she could from the goat’s swollen teats.

  A copse of trees stood out on the crest of the hill and instinct drew him towards it. He followed a direct line, having to scramble occasionally and stopping at intervals to regather his strength.

  Just one more rocky crest stood between him and the trees. As he topped the brow of the hill he saw it had a broad rounded top with a dozen thatched mud and wattle roundhouses away to his left. The trees, a much broader band of oaks than he had imagined, filled the rest of the hill and spilled down the reverse slope. He turned to look back the way he’d come. From here he could see across the strait to the mountains of Ordovice country, where Agricola’s legions might already be on the march. His mind flitted back to the confidence of the warriors guarding the shore, the trenches, the pyres and the tide race that swept through the strait at the speed of a galloping horse. All barriers of different types, the human, the physical, the mental and the natural. Yet a younger Cearan had once stood with a great Celtic leader on one side of a formidable river, backed by just such obstacles, while the legions of Rome formed up on the other. Despite all the Celts’ precautions, the legions had crossed and Caratacus was forced to flee in defeat.

  A shout interrupted his thoughts and a dozen armed men emerged from among the houses to surround him. Again he repeated the mantra of the hare and the wolf. ‘I have news of great importance for the arch-druid,’ he told the leader.

  ‘Then you will have to wait here,’ the man said with a wary glance at the ranks of oak trees. ‘Only a madman would interrupt their ceremonies.’