‘Thank you, Gaius.’
The scout clasped Valerius’s left hand. ‘I will find her for you, lord, if it takes all eternity.’ He turned away, stoop-shouldered and shaggy, like a two-legged hound, but with a cavalryman’s swagger that belied his exhaustion. Valerius looked down at the golden circle in the palm of his hand.
The next day passed in a frenzy of preparation as the Ninth’s engineers assembled the assault boats and Valerius had them tested on a nearby river away from prying Ordovice eyes. With fifty boats the Ninth could only cross a cohort at a time, and each unit had to be assigned its place in the assault. Timing would be everything. The first wave would be exposed, but Valerius planned to order a cavalry wing to swim their horses across to protect each flank. Weariness overcame him soon after dusk, but his mind was too active to allow sleep. He lay restive in his cot listening to the changes of watch, his brain haunted by the faces of Tabitha and Lucius and the restless soul of the child he might never see. He could feel his son’s ungovernable fear and, in turn, he feared the power of his wife’s anger. Tabitha’s instinct would be to protect her son like a mother wolf and lash out at Lucius’s tormentors, but that could be fatal. Make them think you are cowed, his mind advised. Do not meet their eyes. Endure and survive for his sake and mine. The thought of what might be happening to her even as he lay there sickened him.
He tried to blank out the sights he’d seen in the burned-out lands ravaged by Boudicca. The Celts could be mercilessly cruel and endlessly imaginative. Only Ceris’s presence gave him any kind of hope. For all she was Corieltauvi and they Ordovices, they were still Celts and she would know their ways. Neither of them had shown it overtly, but Valerius sensed that a true bond of friendship and respect had grown between the two women. Ceris would try to guide Tabitha through her ordeal. Where Tabitha could be mercurial and would take any chance to escape that offered itself, Ceris would caution patience and await her opportunity. Their greatest hope would be that Gaius Valerius Verrens, Hero of Rome and holder of the Corona Aurea, would somehow reach them. Despair grabbed him like a clawed hand in the vitals as his true helplessness struck him. He couldn’t help them unless he knew where they were in that vast mountain fastness to the east. Even then he was under Agricola’s orders to lead the Ninth’s assault on Mona the next day. For now, all he could do was place his trust in Gaius Rufus.
Sleep must have come, or he was so buried in the black tomb of his thoughts the effect was the same, because he wasn’t prepared for the hand that touched his shoulder. ‘Lord,’ he heard in the whispered voice of Didius Gallus. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but a man is here to see you. An informant who claims to have vital information about the enemy dispositions that must be conveyed to you personally.’
‘Very well.’ Valerius rolled from the cot and winced as his feet touched the freezing earth. He threw a cloak over his tunic, blinking as Gallus lit the oil lamp. His wooden fist with its leather stock lay on a chest by the side of the cot and he reached for it in an automatic movement, only to draw his hand away when he heard voices outside.
Hilario and Crescens hustled the prisoner into the tent between them. Valerius froze as he recognized the shattered face. They’d tied Cearan’s hands behind his back and he stood with his head bowed. His skin had an unhealthy yellow pallor that had not been apparent in Colonia and his lank grey hair hung like a filthy curtain over the single eye.
‘Untie him,’ Valerius ordered. Crescens pulled at the knots binding the Iceni’s wrists and stepped away. Cearan massaged the angry red weals on his translucent flesh. Eventually he looked up. They were a good six feet apart, but still Valerius had to steel himself not to flinch before the malevolence in his gaze.
‘They say you have information for me?’
‘What I have to say to you is for your ears only.’ The Celt nodded in the direction of Hilario, who met his look with a stony glare.
‘I trust these men with my life. I believe I can trust them with whatever information you have.’
‘This is about your woman.’
For a moment Valerius’s vision turned red. When it cleared Cearan was beneath him and his left hand was clamped around his throat. Hilario and Crescens dragged him away, leaving the Iceni lying gasping on the dirt floor.
‘Give me ten minutes with him, lord,’ Hilario said with a softness infinitely more chilling than his normal threatening demeanour. ‘He’ll soon tell everything he knows.’
‘Leave us,’ Valerius said, as Cearan raised himself painfully to his feet.
‘Lord …’
‘I said leave us.’ Crescens flinched at the violence in Valerius’s tone, and the two cavalrymen backed away to the door. Valerius’s eyes never left Cearan as he picked up the rawhide stock of the wooden fist and placed it over the mottled purple stump of his right arm, tightening the leather laces with a deftness acquired by years of practice. Cearan watched with a look of contemptuous anticipation.
‘Say what you have come to say,’ Valerius told him.
‘Your woman and your brat are on Mona, where Gwlym awaits your coming with pleasure, along with twenty thousand of his followers.’
A spark of hope flared in the cold emptiness of Valerius’s heart at the knowledge that Tabitha and Lucius were only a few short miles away, but he kept his features emotionless. ‘Who is Gwlym?’
‘Gwlym is the arch-druid of Elfydd.’ A cold smile flickered on the undamaged portion of Cearan’s face. ‘What you call Britannia. He has invoked the spirit of the hare and the horse and the wolf. Andraste rises again to sweep the Romans from the land.’
‘What has this to do with my wife and son?’
The single eye glittered with a new fanaticism. ‘Gwlym has decreed that Boudicca failed because the Roman Mother Goddess did not look kindly on her. This time he intends that she and Andraste are the twin spear points on which the Roman governor Agricola will be impaled. Your woman and fifty other Roman lovers will ensure the cooperation of the Mother Goddess.’ Cearan’s lip twisted in a sneer. ‘The moment a single Roman craft sets off from the shore Gwlym’s acolytes will light the fires, and you will watch as they tear the child from your woman’s womb and burn it before your eyes. You will hear her screams as she burns and you will suffer the anguish Cearan of the Iceni suffered.’ With his final words Cearan tore at his tunic until he had bared his skeletal breast. ‘And now you will kill me.’
‘No.’ Valerius shook his head as he advanced on the Celt and kicked the legs from beneath him. Cearan landed flat on his back, all the breath knocked from his lungs. ‘Not until you have told me precisely where they are being held and the positions of Gwlym’s defences.’
Gwlym spat at his boots. ‘I will tell you nothing and you will watch them burn. You cannot hurt a man who is dying.’
Valerius smashed him on the side of his head with the artificial hand to stun him and bent to kneel over him. Cearan heard a sharp click and the glittering blade of a small knife appeared from the centre knuckle of Valerius’s wooden fist. When he spoke Valerius’s voice was flat and emotionless, but there was a message in his eyes that made Cearan shudder. ‘I think you will find you are mistaken.’
The first agonized shriek brought Hilario and Crescens to the tent doorway. ‘Ready my escort with three days’ rations.’ Valerius didn’t look up from the prone figure beneath him. ‘And tell the camp prefect to await my orders within the hour.’
XLVI
Tabitha held Lucius closer to her breast to stifle his snuffling and her own agitation. They sat against the mud and wattle wall of a verminous Celtic hut which she guessed – from the sea journey they’d been forced to endure – was on the island Valerius and his legion had been sent to invade. That, at least, would partially explain why they were here. Ceris crouched a few feet away from them, conducting a hushed conversation with two of their fourteen or fifteen fellow occupants. Some kind of trade, the two women agreed, a bargaining piece to be exchanged for some favour or perhaps a high-ranking ca
ptive on the Roman side. Yet Tabitha had felt the Corieltauvi girl’s unease and she suspected Ceris was keeping something from her. Their fellow captives, all women and all, more puzzlingly, at various stages of pregnancy, were plainly terrified.
She didn’t know what she would have done without Ceris’s commanding and comforting presence. Tabitha came from a background that had introduced her at an early stage to conspiracy, subterfuge and plots, and, occasionally, outright danger. But this strange, alien land, with its cold, damp mountains and their savage occupants, confused and frightened her. She had no way of communicating, except through Ceris, and it left her feeling helpless.
They’d come so close to escape at Viroconium. Marius had heard a commotion at the gate and taken Serenus to investigate. Moments later she’d heard screams and the clash of swords. Ceris had swiftly woken Lucius and dressed him, while Tabitha gathered together the sack of necessities they always kept to hand. Ceris’s lover, the boy Rufius, had wanted to go to his comrades’ aid, but she’d insisted he stay with them. It was Ceris who led them crouching through the darkness between the barrack blocks, hoping to find the west gate clear of the raiders, but they’d almost run into a group of Celtic warriors on the way and they’d been forced towards the outer walls. A guard hung upside down from the stairway with his throat cut and his belly open. Rufius told them to stay hidden beneath the stairs and ran off. Ceris cursed him, but a little later he’d returned with a length of rope and led them up to the walkway. Rufius had secured the rope to the wall. Ceris descended first, slipping down the rope with the agility of a squirrel. Rufius retrieved the rope and tied it around Lucius’s waist, but they could hear more and more Celts moving about the barracks. Just as Tabitha was about to follow Lucius she’d heard a shout from her left.
‘Go!’ Rufius insisted. ‘Get away while you can.’ At the same time he was sprinting past her towards the band of Celts running towards them along the walkway. Tabitha slid down the rope so quickly she’d burned her hands and the last she’d heard of Rufius Florus was a cry of pain and the sharp thud of a falling body. Ceris hadn’t even hesitated, hustling them away towards the slope that led to the river. Shouts from left and right. Branches whipping out of the darkness to tear at any bare flesh. Tripping and stumbling, Lucius’s small hand tight in her grip. Her heart pounded with fear, offset by pride. She could feel him sobbing, but not a cry or a complaint left his lips.
Ceris must have been able to see in the dark, because when they reached the flat she managed to steer them between the ditches of the auxiliary marching camps. At last they heard the sound of the river. The raiders would have killed the bridge guards, but there were always small boats moored nearby. Tabitha recognized an expanse of moonlight-fractured water, but it was instantly blacked out by silhouettes that seemed to grow out of the earth. A massive hand gripped her throat before a torch flared to reveal the bearded giant who held her. Nearby, Ceris was pinned to the muddy earth by two other men.
‘Run, Lucius,’ Tabitha cried. Instead, Lucius flew at the man holding her, arms flailing and shrieking at him to let her go. The attack lasted for a dozen heartbeats before another Ordovice stepped out of the darkness and picked him up by the waist.
The Celts put them on horses and tied their hands to the saddles. Ceris attempted to remonstrate with the big man who led them, but his only reply was a heavy-handed slap that left her cheek bright red.
Tabitha saw a tear trickle down her cheek, but it was a tear of anger, not fear. ‘We are not to speak.’ Ceris glanced warily at the man. ‘His name is Cadwal and he says it makes no difference to him whether we have tongues or not.’
For two days they travelled west by perilous mountain tracks and through sullen, doom-laden ravines. At first Tabitha had prayed a Roman cavalry patrol would stumble on them, but on the only occasion they saw the sunlight flashing on auxiliary spear points in a valley far below the leader spat an order and she’d felt the icy sting of a blade at her throat. There would be no rescue; the Celts would kill them first.
The morning of the third day brought the salt scent of the ocean and they reached a small settlement in a sheltered bay where a trading boat with a square sail waited just off shore. While his men set fires to cook the midday meal Cadwal had hailed the boat and within the hour Tabitha, Lucius and Ceris had been hustled aboard.
‘I’m sorry, mistress,’ Ceris whispered as the big man spoke to the boat’s captain. ‘There was nothing I could do.’
‘There was nothing any of us could do,’ Tabitha replied with a shaky smile. ‘But as long as we still breathe there is hope. If there is a way,’ her voice took on a fierce certainty, ‘Valerius will find us.’
She saw Cadwal glowering menacingly at them from beside the steering oar and they hadn’t exchanged another word until they’d arrived at the stockade.
Ceris slithered back towards them. Her face was deathly pale. ‘We must find a way to get out of here. We can’t wait for Valerius.’
‘They’ll kill us,’ Tabitha objected. ‘I can’t risk Lucius being hurt.’
‘That’s why we must escape. They’re going to kill us anyway.’
Before Tabitha could reply the curtained door whipped aside and a young guard appeared in the doorway, creating a wave of panic through the hut’s occupants. He searched the gloomy interior of the hut until he found Tabitha and snapped what she took to be an order.
‘He says you must go with him,’ Ceris translated. She saw Tabitha’s face pale and the instinctive movement towards Lucius. ‘No,’ she cautioned. ‘I don’t believe they mean to harm us yet.’ She rose to her feet and spoke to the young man in a soft, almost caressing tone so different from her normal sullen monotone that Tabitha wondered if she were listening to the same woman. Whatever was said had an immediate effect on the young warrior and he answered in a more conciliatory voice, holding the curtain aside. ‘He says you should be honoured to meet the arch-druid.’ Ceris helped Tabitha to her feet. ‘Lucius will be safe with these women.’
They followed the guard from the hut and out into the flat winter sunlight. Tabitha shuddered and wrapped her cloak tighter about her body. It was not just the cold that affected her, but the men who waited in the centre of the compound. Cadwal was one, massive and imposing in his polished iron mail and with a spear in his hand, a sword belted at his waist and four similarly armed warriors at his back. They hovered protectively beside two tall, clean-shaven men in what Tabitha took to be priestly robes, though like their owners the robes were matted with filth. But it was the shrunken, dried-out husk of a figure who stood between them who instilled true fear. White pus dripped like obscene tears from the raw scarlet flesh of his empty eye sockets, yet Tabitha had never felt such intense scrutiny. It was as if the druid could see inside her and her arms tightened protectively over her bulging midriff. One of his acolytes whispered something into his ear. He stepped forward and she would have reeled away from the stench he gave off had the guard not held her by the arm. The druid’s hands came up and she felt a wave of revulsion as they touched her face, bony fingers with curling, inch-long nails searching out the contours of her features, the skin dry and made abrasive by ancient calluses.
A whisper escaped his thin lips, and they twitched in a smile that made her want to vomit. She struggled to understand what was happening. This revolting old man was nothing like the priests of her native Emesa, where they worshipped Elah Gebal, the black stone, messenger of the Sun God.
Yet he had power, and that power was clear in the harsh nasal bray that emerged from his lips. One of the other druids nodded to Ceris and she began to translate, every word uttered with obvious reluctance. ‘You should know he is Gwlym, arch-druid of Elfydd, and that you will be his personal emissary to the Mother Goddess, along with the other Roman women and Roman lovers he has gathered here. The fires have been set and they will be lit the moment the first Roman boat sets off from the shore. Your husband, who betrayed mighty Boudicca …’
‘My husband
betrayed no one,’ Tabitha spat back. ‘Boudicca was his enemy and he was a soldier. Any man who uses war as an excuse to abuse and kill women and children is no man at all. Gwlym, arch-druid of Elfydd, is no warrior or leader, he is a coward, who will be reviled by history. The Mother Goddess will recoil in disgust at his gift and her wrath will fall upon him. I, Tabitha, princess of Emesa, place a curse on him and all who follow him. Tell him that.’ Ceris hesitated, but Tabitha held her gaze. ‘Tell him.’
Ceris translated the words. Tabitha saw Cadwal’s grip tighten on his spear and his warriors shuffled uneasily. Gwlym’s upper lip curled and the muscles in his cheeks twitched. When he spoke Ceris struggled to keep up with the avalanche of hatred that erupted from him.
‘He says you know nothing of this island and its gods. Your words condemn you as a witch and a sorceress. His only regret is that he cannot send Valerius Verrens to Taranis at your side. Tomorrow as the sun breaks above you will watch your son die and he will personally light the fire that will consume you. He looks forward to tearing your unborn from your womb and consigning it to the flames before your eyes.’
Tabitha felt a wave of nausea and her world seemed to spin, but somehow she kept upright. ‘Whether we live or die, Gaius Valerius Verrens will be your bane, Gwlym, arch-druid of Elfydd, this I swear in the name of Elah Gebal.’
She spun and marched back to the hut. As Ceris took station by her side she whispered, ‘You were right. We can’t wait for Valerius. We must act now.’
‘But how? The guards are all young, but they’re strong and fully armed.’
‘Strength is not everything.’
XLVII
Two slaves worked to clear the dirt floor of the tent of the last remaining signs of Cearan’s ordeal while Hilario strapped Valerius into a simple auxiliary’s leather jerkin and mail vest.
‘You should have left him to me, lord.’
Glory of Rome: (Gaius Valerius Verrens 8) Page 39