‘We have been inspecting the road to the south,’ Valerius explained. ‘You invited me to see your horses, but if it is not convenient…?’
Cearan’s smile grew wider at the mention of his horses, and he slapped his mount on the shoulder. He sat on the animal as if he were part of it, his long legs hugging its ribs and his hands light on the reins. Valerius had never met a king, but if any man looked and acted like a king it was Cearan. His golden hair was tied at the neck with a band that matched the deep red of his soft-spun shirt, and his long blond moustaches hung below his chin.
‘Of course. Ride with me. Perhaps your troopers would like to water their horses,’ he suggested diplomatically. When they were out of earshot his face grew serious and he explained: ‘You must forgive me, Valerius my friend, but you could not have come at a worse time. King Prasutagus survived the winter, but it has taken its toll on his health. He is close to death, only the timing is in doubt, and the stink of his dying draws the carrion birds. They are all here: Beluko, who has lands in the west; Mab, whose territory you have just crossed, and Volisios, who holds the border with the Corieltauvi. Each thinks he has a better case than the others to succeed Prasutagus and all have good reason to hate the Romans.’
‘And Cearan? Gold and swords?’
‘I fear it is too late unless you carry them with you, and I doubt twenty riders would be enough. In any case, I never brought you your druid and my honour would not allow it.’ The Briton smiled sadly. They passed under the north wall of Venta and Valerius looked up to see fifteen or twenty faces watching from the ramparts. ‘See,’ Cearan said loudly. ‘Here is my herd. Now, if your Thracian would only part with that stallion of his for two days?’
They were fine horses, the finest Valerius had seen on the island, and each a replica of the mare Cearan rode. The herd grazed in a mass at the centre of a broad meadow, which sloped down to where the river swept in a wide curve eastwards towards the sea.
‘If not Cearan, then who will lead the Iceni?’
‘Boudicca,’ the Briton said emphatically.
‘Boudicca? But you said…’
‘I was wrong,’ Cearan admitted. ‘I have spoken to her. She understands her position and she sees the new reality as I do. Do not doubt me: she despises everything Rome stands for but she realizes that to serve her people best she must retain what they have. Better for Emperor Nero to take half the kingdom’s revenues than to have a Roman legion camped beneath our walls and Colonia’s quaestor dabbling in our politics.’
Valerius turned towards the watchers on the wall. Somehow he knew the queen would be there. As tall as any of the men around her, she stood in the centre, clad in a gown of emerald green, her flame-red hair dancing in the breeze. He couldn’t see her face, which was silhouetted against the low sun, but he had an impression of great strength, and though her eyes weren’t visible he knew they would be as fierce as any eagle’s.
Cearan’s voice was taut. ‘When the time comes you must tell the governor to favour her petition. Her daughters will be Prasutagus’s joint heirs but they are young and she will rule in their stead. She will make a better queen than Prasutagus is a king. The governor will not regret it.’
Valerius nodded. He would try. ‘And you?’
Cearan opened his mouth to reply but at that moment a shout came from behind them and Valerius looked round to see two young girls watching shyly from the corner of the town wall. Cearan called them across and introduced them.
‘Rosmerta.’ He indicated the taller of the two, a pretty red-haired child with a freckled face and an easy smile. ‘And this is Banna.’ The second girl must have been a year younger, probably around twelve, but Valerius could already see the signs that would mark her as a true beauty. She had a mane of blond hair and delicate features matched with startling green eyes. Both girls were dressed in light linen shifts and walked barefoot. Banna spoke to Cearan in her own language with a look that made Valerius wonder if she was about to stamp her feet.
‘I apologize.’ The Iceni bowed to his assailant. ‘She reminds me that she is Princess Banna and she wishes to be given a closer look at your horse, which she says makes mine look like a pack mule.’
Valerius smiled. ‘In that case I would be obliged if they would walk her to cool her down after her long ride and perhaps they would provide her with some oats,’ he said courteously.
Banna took the reins even before Cearan had completed his translation and the girls led the big cavalry horse away, chattering together animatedly.
‘Her daughters?’ Valerius asked. Cearan nodded. ‘They are very young.’
‘That is why they need your protection.’ He glanced towards the walls and Valerius realized at least one of the men he had named was there. ‘Your coming has placed me in great danger, but I still have the king’s favour — and the queen’s support. You need not fear for Cearan of the Iceni, my friend.’
Valerius reached out his hand and Cearan gripped his wrist in the Roman fashion.
‘My oath on it.’
The two men made a show of studying the individual horses of Cearan’s herd before Valerius retrieved his mount from the reluctant sisters, offering them his thanks. As they rode back, they found Lunaris and the other troopers watering their horses in a sheltered backwater of the swollen river under the hostile stares of a small group of unarmed Iceni warriors. A little way upstream Cearan’s grandson, now a muddy faced urchin only recognizable by his shock of golden hair, teased a family of ducks with a stick by the edge of the river.
‘Any trouble?’ Valerius asked, eyeing the warriors by the gate.
Lunaris grinned. ‘Nobody ever died from a dirty look, but I’ve had warmer welcomes.’
‘We ride for Colonia when the horses are rested.’
The big man nodded, but his face registered his disappointment. Valerius knew his troops had anticipated a hot meal, even a feast, and beer and a warm bed after four nights sleeping under their cloaks.
Cearan disappeared inside the gate and returned with a bulging sack which he handed to the duplicarius. ‘Perhaps this will make your journey seem a little shorter.’
Lunaris looked inside and smiled his thanks.
Cearan turned to Valerius. ‘Farewe-’
He was interrupted by a loud squeal of frustration from upriver and the two men turned to see Cearan’s grandson tottering on the bank of the river as he leaned precariously to reach the duck’s nest. A moment later a sharp cry rang out. The little boy disappeared in a fountain of dirty river water and the only evidence he had existed was a thatch of blond curls just visible in the torrent as it was carried towards them with incredible speed.
‘Tor!’ Cearan’s anguished cry spurred Valerius into action and he urged his horse towards the river. The instant he reached the bank he leapt from the saddle into the water, thanking the gods it was only knee deep at this point. Keeping hold of the reins for support and anchorage he hauled his protesting mount into the rushing flow, immediately feeling the current plucking at his legs and threatening to pull his feet from under him. The river was narrower here, but also swifter, and he knew if he went under in his armour he was unlikely to surface again. He glanced upstream. The boy was nowhere in sight. All he could see was a gushing, foam-flecked brown torrent. Then he spotted it, less than fifteen paces away and coming at him as fast as a galloping horse. A dull hint of gold just beneath the surface. With a thrill of panic he realized it would pass beyond his grasping hand, and he hauled desperately at the reins to give himself extra reach. He sent a silent prayer to Mars and even as he gave up hope he plunged forward with an enormous splash, reaching with his right arm, and came up with a handful of blond curls, followed by a squirming bundle that resembled a half-drowned hare.
Cearan flung himself from his horse and ran to the river just as Valerius emerged dripping wet with the little boy clutched to his chest, his eyes screwed tight shut and choking up river water in fountains. The Briton tenderly took his grandson from the Roman
’s arms and nodded his thanks. ‘Now I am truly in your debt.’
XXI
Gwlym knew he was being followed. He had seen out the winter in a Catuvellauni roundhouse close to the place the Romans called Durobrivae, alternately starving and freezing, and looked upon with increasing resentment by his hosts. Boredom had corroded his brain and he fought it by whispering to himself the epic history of his people from the time of giants and the great flood. Generation after generation of fighting and suffering and always moving westwards. The endless name-lists of kings and mighty champions, tales of natural disaster and betrayal by peoples who were inferior but more numerous. It was this prodigious memory which had been recognized by the druids when he was chosen at the age of nine to study among them and be trained in the rites. He remembered the long days of repetition and testing as he prepared for the trials of Taranis, Esus and Teutates. Now he called on the same power that had carried him through that horror. Sometimes he felt so tired he suspected his body was dying from lack of will: only his mission and the inner fire kindled on Mona kept him alive.
For the past week he’d noticed the forest gradually thinning as he travelled further east and he knew he must maintain his vigilance or he’d end up in the hands of one of the Roman cavalry patrols which seemed more numerous here. Strange Romans, dark-eyed and heavy-browed, seemingly part man and part horse for they never left the saddle. That thought had brought him another vision, a man with a horse’s face, long and narrow with prominent nostrils and protruding teeth. A memorable face, and yet it was only now he remembered he had seen it twice, at different gatherings separated by several weeks and many miles. The thought sent a shiver through him. He knew he wouldn’t last a week without the silence of those who took him into their homes.
He entered an area of scrubby trees, low and thin-trunked but with broad canopies. The trees told him he was close to a river or a stream and with the sun close to its high point he decided to stop to eat his meagre rations, rest, and above all think. He realized belatedly that he’d been careless over the past few days, travelling in a direct line towards his next destination. It was a sign of his tiredness but also of something more. He’d always known he was likely to die before he had completed his task. Now it seemed his mind had accepted it as inevitable and was reaching out to it. He must become hard again, rediscover the iron which had been tempered in the flames of Mona’s fiery chamber. Careful not to disturb the vegetation, he moved fifty paces away from the path and deeper into the trees and bushes.
He waited for an hour, sitting in the shadow of a hawthorn bush with nothing in his ears but the buzz of flying insects and the crunch of his teeth on the gritty corn cakes he’d been given at the last farm. Perhaps he was wrong? But no, he knew with certainty he was being trailed. Who were they? Roman spies? It was possible. Every Celt knew the eyes and ears of Rome extended far and wide over this land. It was why he had been so careful at first and why he now cursed himself for his stupidity. More likely they were Britons in the pay of a local petty chieftain anxious to gain approval with the Romans. Handing over a druid would offset a year of taxes and more. One thing was in his favour. They hadn’t yet reported his presence or the area would be swarming with patrols.
The sharp crack of a broken twig froze his blood. The sound came from behind him. With infinite care he turned his head and recognized Horseface, the man from the meetings, less than a spear’s length distant, thankfully scanning the trees to his left, away from Gwlym’s hide. Unthinkingly, Gwlym slipped the long, curved knife from his belt, rose and with three quick strides wrapped his hand across his hunter’s mouth and plunged the blade deep into his back. He had never killed before and it proved more difficult than he would have believed. Horseface was tall and strong and the sting of the knife point gave his strength a greater urgency. He struggled and shook in Gwlym’s grasp, emitting animal grunting sounds beneath the clasped hand. At last Gwlym found the gap between the ribs and forced the knife blade through it, the movement accompanied by a warm flood of liquid over his hand. Horseface shuddered, but still he twisted and squealed like a piglet being hunted for a feast. Somehow the dying man found the strength to turn, wrenching the hilt from Gwlym’s grasp and breaking the grip over his mouth. He let out a roar of agony as he clawed at the blade buried deep in his back.
At first Gwlym froze, but a shout of alarm from away to the right broke the spell. He bolted into the trees in the opposite direction from the cry. Too late. He could hear the sound of pursuit and when he risked a glance across his shoulder he saw that his hunter was less than thirty feet behind and carried a long sword. Gwlym knew his exertions of the past months had left him too weak to outrun the man, but what alternative did he have? He crashed blindly through the trees, ignoring the snagging branches and the leaves that whipped his face. His left foot hit thin air. He was falling. A shock like death itself knocked the breath from his lungs as he struck the freezing water of the river and went under. Desperate for air, he fought his way to the surface only to find the spy towering over him with the sword raised to strike. A grin spread across the man’s face as Gwlym attempted to burrow into the bank. He was still grinning when his belly erupted in a fountain of blood and guts and he was catapulted over the druid’s head into the river with a spear shaft transfixing his body.
Sheltered by the high bank, Gwlym allowed the current to carry him downstream into the shadow of an overhanging tree. He gripped a low branch for just long enough to witness the Roman auxiliary cavalryman retrieve his spear from the corpse and gleefully remove its head, then his numbed fingers slipped and he found he didn’t have the will or the strength to fight the river.
XXII
For the first time she could remember Maeve was frightened. Since her mother died when she was six years old, her father had been the cornerstone of her life, dealing with every girlish tantrum and adolescent obsession with the same good humour with which he laughed off the peaks and troughs of his ever-changing fortunes. Even the arrival of her first red moon had been greeted only with a sharp ‘tut’ and a call for Catia, her personal slave, to explain the intricacies and burdens of a woman’s existence. It was for her sake, she knew, that he had stayed on his farm and kept his father’s sword in its place on the wall when the young men followed Caratacus to their deaths. As she grew older she had seen the pain the decision had cost him and the damage to his honour that was so clear in the contemptuous glances of Camulodunum’s women. But he had been prepared to bear it. For her.
When Claudius declared Camulodunum a Roman colony and renamed it Colonia, Lucullus had fought desperately to keep what was his. He hadn’t always succeeded — he had mourned Dywel as keenly as she had — and some of the alliances he made had cost him more than he would ever admit. But he had protected her. When he took the Roman name Lucullus she had been ashamed, but she never allowed it to show. He was her father and she loved him.
Yet now she barely recognized this shell of a man with empty, staring eyes; a fat man grown suddenly thin.
‘I am ruined.’ The words were said in a whisper. ‘They will take everything, and when they have it all I will still owe them more than I can ever repay. I am ruined.’
It had started when Petronius, the quaestor, had arrived at the villa just before noon. At first Lucullus had been genuinely pleased to see his business partner, believing this was at last the delivery of the outstanding rent money for the insulae in Colonia. But it took only a few moments for Petronius to reveal the true reason for his visit.
‘I have had word from Londinium,’ the lawyer said solemnly, handing over a wrapped scroll with a broken seal. A few minutes later the quaestor left and her father retired to the room he called the tablinum, from which he ordered his business. She found him there four hours later, amidst the innocent bills and records that concealed the labyrinth of his finances and, she finally learned, the bottomless pit of his debt that now threatened to swallow the Celtic trader alive.
They sat together in the
little room until the sun drifted below the horizon and they were left in darkness. By then Maeve had long given up her attempts at reassurance, and the only words that passed between them from one hour to the next was the little man’s shocked whisper: ‘I am ruined.’ Every attempt to move him was a wasted effort. He had become a human shipwreck with the jagged rocks of failure buried deep in his belly and every wave dragging him closer to destruction.
Her inability to help him left her feeling a sort of growing paralysis. She had to do something. Anything. Lucullus had insisted she learn to read Latin as well as speak it, so she could assist him with his business affairs, and eventually she left the tablinum to study the letter. It was dated a week earlier and as she read it, line by line, she was overwhelmed by first fear, then fury and finally dread. The contents were almost beyond belief. The letter contained a warning from the new procurator in Londinium, Catus Decianus, to his friend Petronius of fundamental changes in the way the province was to be governed and financed.
She had heard the name Seneca hailed by Lucullus as the great benefactor who had set him on the way to prosperity. Now this same Seneca had decided to call in every loan he had made in the province with immediate effect. Catus Decianus was commanded to maximize the return on all his investments, convert them to currency and send them to Rome. And that wasn’t all. State subsidies, loans and investments were also being withdrawn. It took time for her to understand the true enormity of what she was reading.
Now everything would belong to the imperial treasury and the native rulers of southern Britain would be reduced to penury, and their people with them, robbed even of the chance to pay off the loans with the fruits of the earth they tended and farmed.
If that was not enough, her outrage grew as she realized exactly why Petronius had shown the letter to her father. The quaestor had never hidden his greed from his Trinovante business partner; indeed that was what had made him an ideal foil for Lucullus. Now he saw the opportunity to lay hands on the insulae in Colonia and — she gasped at his audacity — the whole estate, this house, the farms and the hunting grounds, at a bargain price from his ‘friend’ Decianus. Worse, when she read the letter again she realized it contained another, more sinister message. It was an invitation to Lucullus to commit suicide. Was that not the Roman way, to avoid disgrace by taking one’s own life? And how much more convenient for Petronius’s transaction if the former owner was dead.
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