Claudius r-2

by Douglas Jackson

  It quickly grew clear the horses were not finding the terrain easy as they picked their way through the boulders that littered the riverbank. He could hear their riders urging them forward, but this was no place for a pony, not even the sure-footed steeds the British scouts rode, and he could tell he was making ground on the horsemen. Barely daring to breathe, he pushed aside a small bush and gave himself a clear view of a length of valley ahead. About thirty paces in front of him two Celtic warriors were arguing loudly. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but it was abundantly clear they held different opinions about their next move. When he looked beyond them the reason was obvious. A rock fall had brought down a small landslide and partially blocked the gully, making it impassable for the ponies. One of the men seemed to want to leave their mounts and carry on on foot. The other didn’t have the same enthusiasm for whatever mission they were embarked upon, and was arguing for a return the way they had come. The first warrior had his back to Rufus, but the way he held himself triggered some memory that made the young Roman uneasy. The dispute grew more heated, and it was clear the first man, despite arguing the louder, was the junior partner. The second warrior, who was broader in the shoulder, turned his pony and began to make his way back downstream towards Rufus. The first, every movement betraying his reluctance, turned to follow and Rufus took an instinctive step backwards.

  Dafyd! The Briton must have delayed until Ballan set out and then followed his tracks. But would he have brought only a single companion? A shout from further downstream proved not. There were more of them. Rufus froze, fighting an impulse to move backwards up the slope away from his enemy. The two horsemen were directly below him now and any movement would alert them. They were still debating and Rufus wished he had some way of knowing what they were saying. Would they return to Caratacus? Or was Dafyd’s hatred and the honour of the blood feud strong enough reason for them to continue the chase? He waited until the voices were far downstream before he moved, making his way stealthily in the opposite direction and edging further uphill with every step. It was a few minutes before he noticed something that made him stifle a cry of frustration: the bushes and thin saplings he was negotiating formed only a slim fringe clinging to the flank of the hill. Below it, the rocky ground fell away too steeply for anything except moss and the occasional sapling to grow. Above was open moorland, with barely enough vegetation to provide cover for a mountain hare. It had been his plan to get as far above them as he could, possibly even slip over the hill, but that vast expanse of open hillside made his spirit quail. He had no choice. He would have to keep to the wood until he reached the oak tree Ballan had described and then take his chances.

  At first it was simple enough. The bushes and trees slowed his progress a little, but every step he took increased his confidence. He moved silently, avoiding the broken branches which littered the ground. His caution saved his life. He heard Dafyd come before he saw him, a thundering crash as the British warrior burst from the undergrowth a dozen paces behind. Dafyd screamed in triumph as he took up the chase with his father’s sword in one hand and a long spear in the other. They were killing weapons and if he had the opportunity to use either Rufus knew he was dead. But they also slowed the Briton down in the constricted space among the trees and that gave Rufus his chance. He sprinted uphill and into the open, hoping his speed would give him an advantage.

  Not daring to look back, he took a diagonal course across the hill-side. He understood he was leaving his back exposed to Dafyd’s spear point, and his spine anticipated its agonizing punch with every step. But he prayed to Jupiter that the Briton would not gamble on a single cast; that he would want to slay his father’s enemy with his father’s sword. He could hear the young warrior grunting not far behind him as he tried to keep pace. Now Rufus gave thanks for all the long hours he had spent in training with Cupido. He could outrun Dafyd if he could only stay on his feet in this rough ground.

  But there were some things he couldn’t outpace. The stone whistled by his ear so close he felt the wind of its passing. He dared a glance to his right and almost gave in to despair. Beside a crumbling earthwork two horsemen — no, three — were visible on the brow of the hill, riding parallel to his course. He tried to visualize his position. Dafyd behind him with another man, possibly two. The horsemen on the hilltop would keep pace, cutting off his escape route. All they had to do was continue the chase until they wore him down. Then he was dead. Not up, then. Down? He darted to his right and took the slope at a headlong gallop, plunging through the trees and into the rocky gully below, knowing that the slightest stumble could leave him at the mercy of his hunters. The sudden move caught Dafyd by surprise and he felt a thrill of hope as he heard the warrior’s roar of frustration. Instantly, he turned back downstream, praying the abrupt change of course would gain him another few vital seconds. He had no idea what he would do next. No plan. Only understood that every second he stayed alive increased the chances of keeping him that way. It must be close to nightfall and the darkness that would cloak him from his enemies for at least a few hours.

  The sides of the gully were a blur; his feet danced over the stones and the boulders, occasionally dipping into the chill waters of the little stream. When the stocky warrior who had accompanied Dafyd stepped into his path it was too late to stop or even turn aside. The man grinned in anticipation as he waited with his sword held high, ready to chop Rufus down in his headlong rush. Flailing desperately, the young Roman tried to stop himself, but his left foot skidded on a weed-covered stone and he flipped upside down, soaring through the air until he landed on his back in the middle of the stream. As he lay winded, with the cool waters flowing around him, he knew death was coming, but he had lost the will to evade it. He opened his eyes. The sword point was poised less than an inch from his face. An impossibly long way above it the owner held the pommel two-handed, ready to plunge the blade into his brain. For a second, his mind filled with visions of Gaius and Bersheba and the freedom that would never be his, but a barked command brought him out of his death reverie. Dafyd! Of course Dafyd wouldn’t let him die by another man’s hand. Rough hands hauled him to his feet and turned him to face his executioner.

  The Celt stood over him like a young god, his chest heaving and his body bronzed by the sun. Beside him, Rufus felt bedraggled and somehow unworthy as he swayed, dripping into the stream. He remembered the death he had been promised, and hoped it would be quick. Perhaps he should kneel, and Dafyd might consider taking his head off with one merciful blow, rather than the gutting stroke he appeared to be preparing for. Rufus had seen men die from stomach wounds and it wasn’t an experience he was eager to share. His whole body began to shake in anticipation of the terrible violation about to be done it.

  Dafyd smiled and spat in his face before launching into a rambling monologue which must have been some paean he had composed to his father. Rufus closed his eyes. Get on with it! Please. Just get on with it. The words ran through his head, over and over again. Was this how Fronto had felt when he watched Caligula’s executioners folding the chains with which they were about to beat him to death? He tried not to cry. Not to plead. But the tension was becoming too much. Was the last thought he would take to the Otherworld that the Celts would never use one word where ten would do just as well?

  There was a sharp ‘thunk’ close by: the wet sound of a butcher chopping a piece of beef. At first he thought Dafyd must have struck and that his body was declining to pass on the message. Then something splashed into the river beside him. He looked down to see the staring eyes and gasping mouth of the warrior who had been at his back. The man was struggling and wriggling like a beached fish in the reddening water and his hands flapped helplessly at the emerald-flighted arrow buried in his throat.

  Rufus glanced up into Dafyd’s face. The astonishment in the Briton’s eyes mirrored his own. As the young warrior hesitated, something flashed over his shoulder and fell into the water at Rufus’s feet. It was one of the long swords the
Celts used, a twin to the one in Dafyd’s right hand. Slowly, never taking his eyes from his enemy, Rufus bent to pick it up.

  ‘Now we’ll see if you can fight as well as you can talk, Roman.’ Verica was sitting casually on a large rock a few feet behind Dafyd to his right. The British warrior half turned in surprise at the sound of the voice. He stared at the Atrebate prince and then his eyes flickered to the man with the arrow in his throat, who now lay deathly still, before finally returning to Rufus. Without warning he swung his sword in a mighty, sweeping slash that was designed to cut his opponent clean in half. Rufus was momentarily distracted by Verica’s unlikely appearance, and the contest should have been over in a single blow. But the British blades were heavy and the cut was laboured, and he was given a fraction of a second that allowed him to step back as the edge missed him by the width of a piece of parchment. The power Dafyd had invested in the blow made him stumble and that gave Rufus time to take the measure of his opponent. They were of a similar height and reach, but the Briton was undoubtedly the stronger, and Rufus realized that strength could be a deciding factor in this contest. He was outmatched, and he knew it, but strangely he felt no fear. Somewhere, he knew, Cupido was watching over him, and that was enough.

  He caught Dafyd’s next cut on the blade of his own sword with a ringing clash that echoed from the valley walls, and the power of it almost broke his wrist, confirming his earlier judgement. In this kind of fight the stronger man would simply bludgeon his weaker opponent until his guard was overwhelmed. It was the British way. But Rufus didn’t fight the British way; he fought Cupido’s way.

  For the next few attacks he allowed Dafyd to force him backwards. It was a dangerous strategy and it was all he could do to stay alive, parrying thrusts and roundhouse cuts with deft movements of his sword that deflected the Briton’s blade without allowing it to bring its whole power against his own. With each step he tested the ground beneath his feet. He understood he couldn’t win on these treacherous, slippery rocks that could have a man on his back and at the mercy of his enemy before he knew it. He needed firm ground and he thought he knew where to find it.

  Just below the point where his path had been blocked he remembered a flat area of dry sand beside a deeper pool. Every step he retreated took him closer to it. But every step he took also increased Dafyd’s confidence, and the more confident the Briton grew, the more dangerous he became. Rufus heard Verica hoot as one thrust ripped a hole in his tunic and came close to disembowelling him. Bastard! He’d teach him a lesson — if he survived. Still the same weed-slick rocks. Make it soon. Make it… Sand. Lovely, firm, packed sand. He almost smiled, but Cupido never smiled. Cupido only killed. Three more steps and he was ready. The British way was raw power. Cupido’s way was speed. Now Rufus could move, dancing away and around his opponent, knowing no slippery pebble was going to betray him. Dafyd snarled his frustration and turned to follow him. When the Briton’s sword swung it found only air, and each fumbling stroke opened his defences to Rufus’s counter-attack. But it was still too soon. Rufus made no attempt to take the fight to his opponent. His own sword was as heavy as Dafyd’s and he knew the weight would sap his strength as it was already sapping the Briton’s. He was content to twist and turn, keeping his distance and watching the anger and the confusion grow in Dafyd’s eyes. One chance. He only needed one chance.

  But so did the young Catuvellauni, and over-confidence was Rufus’s enemy just as it was Dafyd’s. In the next instant, the Briton twisted left when he should have turned right and luck brought him within range of Rufus with a low cut that would have hamstrung the Roman if he hadn’t jumped two-footed into the air. Enough.

  That was the moment Dafyd came for him with all the speed of a charging leopard. The Briton’s arms were numbed by the constant labour and his legs were beginning to tire. He knew he had to strike soon. This time Rufus let him come, and when Dafyd raised his sword to strike the Roman made a disguised thrust towards the British warrior’s exposed throat. Now it was Dafyd’s turn to step back, slightly off balance. As he did, Rufus deftly switched his sword from his right hand to his left. Cupido had been expert with a sword in either hand and it was the first skill he had taught Rufus in their endless sessions in the Palatine gardens. He had never become as adept as the gladiator with either right or left, but he had learned enough. He saw the confusion on Dafyd’s face turn to panic as the Briton saw danger from an unexpected angle and was forced to make the awkward parry Rufus had been waiting for. The young Roman screamed in triumph. Now.

  It was a terrible blow. A fearful blow delivered with all the strength of fear and anger and frustration. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be in danger and he didn’t want to kill. But if he must he would. He swung the blade from low to his left beneath the pathetic defence of Dafyd’s flailing sword, using the power of his wrist to sweep upwards, turning and twisting the blade as it went. The razor edge took the young Briton in the V where his legs met and sliced up through soft flesh and hard bone, through muscle and sinew, and up again through offal and lung until with a sudden wrench Rufus ripped it through his enemy’s already dying heart. It was as if Dafyd had exploded. Blood and torn guts erupted from the obscene cavity the long sword had created. The Briton’s life fled from him in a moment of horror that transformed him from a bronzed young god into a grey-faced, drooling old man; the way his father must have been when the legionaries took away his life in the battle of the valley. The thing that had been Dafyd collapsed backwards into the pool, where the current slowly turned him, dead face to the skies, arms spreadeagled, until he floated gently away, to be caught between two boulders in the shallows a little downstream.

  Rufus stood for a moment, unmoving. He felt something growing in him, something untameable, primeval. He turned. To kill Verica.

  ‘That was an interesting move — you must teach it to me. I-’ The Atrebate was walking towards Rufus across the sand, but when he saw the look in the Roman’s hooded eyes he stopped in mid-stride and mid-sentence. It was followed by a long awkward moment when Verica knew with certainty that this gore-stained young slave held his life in his hands.

  The spell was broken by a rattle of hooves that heralded the arrival of a dark-skinned young man with a wispy beard. He was wearing the distinctive pot helmet and green tunic of the Syrian auxiliary cavalry unit attached to the Second Augusta. Across his back was slung a short curved bow and he rode one horse while leading two others. From his saddle hung two heads that bore all the signs of having been recently harvested.

  Rufus felt everything in his body slip down into his legs and it was suddenly difficult enough to stand, never mind kill Verica. The Atrebate saw the light of murder die in Rufus’s eyes and felt the liquid feeling in his stomach fade away. He let out a long sigh, and realized he’d been holding his breath for a full minute.

  He laughed, but it came out high-pitched and nervous. ‘This is Hanno,’ he said, indicating the man on the horse. ‘He can put an arrow through your eye at two hundred paces. He spotted the men tracking you. He saved your life, but you can thank him later.’

  Rufus swayed. His head was spinning, but he knew there was something important he had to say. He searched his mind for the word. ‘Caratacus…’ he croaked finally, and Verica’s eyes widened in interest.

  ‘You have seen Caratacus? I think that will be important to Narcissus, and to the general. We should return immediately, then.’

  ‘Caratacus wanted me dead.’

  Verica frowned and splashed his way through the stream towards Dafyd’s body. He reached down and held the head up by the blood-sodden hair. ‘Not Caratacus. I recognize this cur. Knew his father. See the tattoo, the way the pattern forms the outline of a hare? His clan is of the Catuvellauni, but their loyalties have long been in the keeping of Togodumnus.’ He spat. ‘Caratacus’s older brother. If these men tried to kill you it was at his behest, not Caratacus’s. Move, elephant man.’ Hanno dismounted to give Rufus a helping hand on to the big
Roman cavalry mount. ‘Unless I miss my guess you’ve just become someone worth keeping alive.’

  XIV

  Verica led them back to the mouth of the gully, where they were met by a dozen other Syrians. ‘We had given you up for dead when we found the forage wagons,’ the Briton explained. ‘It was obvious that the detachment had been ambushed, but the attackers nailed one of the legionaries upside down to a tree just in case we didn’t get the message.’

  ‘What did he look like?’ Rufus interrupted. For some reason it seemed important.

  Verica shrugged. ‘Dead. Blond-haired. Young. One eye looking at you and the other one somewhere else.’

  Agrippa. So he at least had been spared the fire.

  It was full dark by the time they reached the day’s encampment and Verica approached cautiously, shouting the password as he rode. They swung past the earth barrier in front of the main gateway and for the first time in forty-eight hours Rufus felt safe. The only thing he wanted now was to get back to his son. Instead, Verica insisted they go directly to Narcissus’s tent in the headquarters section.

  Claudius’s freedman sat hunched over a tiny folding table, scratching with a metal stylus on a wax writing tablet by the light of the smoking oil lamp. When he saw Rufus, his tired eyes lit up with pleasure. ‘So, you survived. I told them you would. Verica here wanted to give up the search, but I insisted, didn’t I, Verica? What was it you said? “They will leave none alive, especially not a miserable worm of a slave whose only purpose is to shovel elephant dung.” He has such an elegant turn of phrase, don’t you think? Verica was of the opinion that they would sacrifice every Roman prisoner, yet plainly they did not?’ Narcissus was smiling, but there was a question in his voice and the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Why was that, do you think?’