Hammer of Rome Page 7

  ‘Lucius,’ she called. ‘Stop manhandling tribune Aprilis. He’ll have to change his toga if you step on it like that with your dirty feet.’

  ‘My ladies.’ The young man separated himself and bowed at the waist. Aprilis was the foremost of Agricola’s circle of young aides. With the governor on campaign he wielded a power few men his age could equal, but standing beside Lucius he looked almost boyish. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said. ‘I do believe Lucius grows an inch and more every time I see him and he likes to test his strength against me.’ He laid a hand on Lucius’s shoulder and the boy gazed up at him with a look that sent a twinge of regret through Tabitha that Valerius was so far out of reach. ‘Now, Lucius, you must go with your mother. The governor’s lady and I have business to attend to.’

  This time it was Lucius who bowed low, aping Aprilis’s earlier movement. Domitia laughed and clapped her hands, and the boy went to stand beside Tabitha.

  Later, as they walked home, she told him: ‘You must treat Metilius with a little more formality and respect. I know you are friends, but he’s a very important young man.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ Lucius bowed his head, but she could see he was holding back a tear. She placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m not angry, but save your wrestling for when he is off duty.’

  As they approached the villa one of the sentries rushed to open the gate. Once inside, she sent Lucius to the kitchens and settled down on a couch to feed Olivia at her breast. Ceris appeared after a few moments and took her seat on a couch opposite. Tabitha could tell that something was troubling her.

  ‘So?’

  ‘He followed you to the governor’s palace,’ the Celtic girl said. ‘And I swear by all the gods he never saw me.’

  ‘Good. What happened then?’

  ‘When you entered by the side gate, I thought he would wait and watch, but once he saw you were inside he walked on, looking perfectly pleased with himself. When he reached the servants’ entrance by the kitchens he walked inside.’

  ‘Into the palace?’ Tabitha couldn’t hide her surprise.

  ‘Yes. When you came out I waited for him to follow, but he never did.’

  ‘So he’s still there?’

  ‘Unless he used another gate I couldn’t see. And there’s more.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘As he went inside he met another man leaving and they greeted each other perfectly naturally, as if they were friends.’

  IX

  ‘If you do not destroy the Romans, lord king, the Romans will destroy you and your people with you.’

  Cathal noticed the grudging acknowledgement of his title from the druid riding at his side and smiled. Clearly Gwlym sensed the animosity emanating from the men who escorted him. Perhaps he also felt the menace of this bleak, rugged valley with its bare slopes where the wind had sculpted the few remaining trees into twisted, tormented skeletons that looked as if they were fleeing its wrath.

  They’d ridden north for two days after the slaughter at Brynmochdar across a patchwork of scree, heather and gorse. If his instincts were correct they should reach the meeting place where he would wait for Emrys before nightfall. This was familiar country to Cathal, disputed land claimed by both the Brigantes and the Selgovae, and sometimes by the Carvetii to the west. Rolling hills and deep, shadowed valleys with a thousand places a man could conceal a stolen herd. Despite the loathing they felt for him, none of the Selgovae would dare lay a hand on Gwlym, for that would bring the wrath of the gods down on themselves and their families. Yet not an hour past Colm had suggested setting the blind priest’s horse on a path that led towards a sheer drop. ‘If he is a favourite of the gods surely they will save him?’ Cathal’s sword brother suggested hopefully.

  Cathal had shaken his head. For all his dislike of the wizened ancient, Guiderius had placed the druid in his charge and he would not betray that trust. Gwlym had arrived at the Brigante king’s capital a friendless and helpless refugee, an outcast, and only his former status had saved him from being treated as such. The Brigantes had long ago cast out their druids to placate successive Roman governors, but they still retained a certain respect for the order. Gwlym’s undisguised contempt for his companions inspired loathing and his pus-filled eye sockets and filthy habits provoked disgust, but none of them would have denied he had a certain power.

  The feeling had grown with every hour they travelled. Cathal had been taught by his father that in battle a man must use every weapon at his disposal to defeat the enemy. What made Dugald different from other kings was that he understood knowledge was as important a weapon as any other. Knowledge of the terrain. Knowledge about his enemy’s numbers and their dispositions. Were they hungry, sick or weary? A single piece of information could be worth a company of spearmen. It was what had allowed the Selgovae to defy the simultaneous pressures from the wild men of the north and the treacherous Votadini to the east. Gwlym had been brought to him by the gods.

  ‘Perhaps they will be satisfied with the Brigantes for now,’ he answered the druid at last.

  Gwlym knew he was being taunted. His mouth twisted in a sneer that was accompanied by a snort of bitter laughter. ‘The Romans will never be satisfied. They have an insatiable greed for power and land and slaves and gold: everything someone else has and they do not.’ He paused to allow Cathal’s silence to acknowledge the truth of his words. ‘They also fear you.’

  Now it was Cathal’s turn to laugh. He had seen what the massed ranks of the legions could do even against a fortified position held by three times their numbers. Guiderius had made mistakes, but the truth was the result had never been in doubt. Everything about the way the Romans fought was different. A Selgovae warrior would face his enemy man to man and sword to sword, sometimes fighting naked to prove his valour. The legionaries hid behind their wall of big shields, protected by their armour, and dealt out death with a cold efficiency that made Cathal shiver. Every movement was coordinated to create that moment when their pathetic-looking little swords darted out to gut an enemy. There was no honour in it. No individual bravery. Just slaughter. And victory.

  His eyes drifted to his men, now comfortable on the backs of the big Roman horses they’d stolen. Every man a champion, skilled in the art of war. Not the Roman art, it was true, but perhaps that was the answer? If he could find a way to deprive them of the time and the space to create their impenetrable shield walls? If he could make them fight as individuals?

  ‘What would you know, who has spent half his life running away from Romans?’

  Gwlym ignored the insult. ‘I know they and the Roman-lovers who support them cannot sleep safe in their beds until they destroy the threat of the barbarians in the north. They must either kill you, enslave you, or turn you into a pathetic replica of themselves as they have the Cantiaci, the Regni, the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni. Every man of the four British legions must be paid and fed and equipped, which ensures this province will never provide a surplus. Only by total conquest can they bring about a peace that will allow them to withdraw one or two legions.’

  ‘How do you know so much?’ Cathal demanded.

  ‘Do not make the mistake of believing I was always this pathetic, Cathal of the Selgovae.’ What might have passed as a smile flickered on the thin lips. ‘Once, the spies of the Arch-Druid Gwlym, high priest of Elfydd, gave him access to the very heart of Roman power in this land.’

  Cathal stared into the distance, allowing the silence to lengthen. Eventually it came to him. They were approaching a stream and he signalled a halt to water the horses and allow the men to rest. He helped Gwlym from his horse and led him to a grass mound beside a tree that sheltered them from the wind. ‘Tell me about them. I want to know everything.’

  The druid fixed him with the terrible pits of his eye sockets, but Cathal didn’t flinch. ‘They first came in the time of my father’s father’s father.’ Gwlym’s harsh voice took on an oddly sonorous tone. ‘But they stayed only a season, like a dog
pissing against a tree to mark its territory, stealing anything they could lay their hands on and taking hostages. A hundred summers passed before they returned, as near as anyone could reckon it.’

  ‘Why then? And why here?’

  ‘As to the why then, does not every great chieftain require to give his warriors victory from time to time or he will be a great chieftain no more? Claudius, for that was his name, had been in power for no more than a year. Perhaps his enemies were gathering about him like vultures and only glory would save him. Why here? Our people had traded with Gaul since the time of the Great Flood. We were known to the Romans as the Romans were known to us. What did they see? A fertile land, rich in all that Rome desired. Civilized and cultured, which no Roman could abide unless that civilization was Rome’s, but also divided, king squabbling against king and chief against chief, which has always been our great weakness.’

  ‘Fruit ripe for the picking.’ Cathal saw it clearly.

  ‘But fruit not without its thorns,’ Gwlym corrected him. ‘The people of Elfydd learned a new word. Legion. A red scourge that spread across the land like a bloodstain, burning and plundering as it advanced.’

  ‘They must have swept everything aside.’ The Selgovae king frowned. ‘Divided and without forewarning, no single tribe could have stood against them with the hope of success.’

  ‘And no single tribe did. You have heard the name Caratacus?’

  Cathal shook his head.

  ‘A warrior prince of the Catuvellauni, then the strongest of the southern federations. Caratacus persuaded the tribes to set aside their differences and unite against the Romans.’

  ‘A remarkable man.’ Cathal knew how difficult it was to keep even chieftains of the same blood from cutting each other’s throats.

  ‘More remarkable than you know. Caratacus and his warriors fought the legions to a standstill until the Emperor himself came from Rome with reinforcements. Caratacus devised a plan for their defeat on the banks of the mighty River Tamesa.’

  The name meant nothing to Cathal, and no river in his experience was sufficiently wide or deep enough to hold back the legion he had seen at Brynmochdar for long. ‘But he was defeated?’

  ‘Not defeated,’ Gwlym spat. ‘Betrayed. Betrayed by kings bought with Roman gold. As Boudicca was betrayed after drowning the Roman-lovers in their own blood, just when she was poised to sweep Rome’s legions from the lands of Elfydd.’

  ‘Then if they cannot be defeated how am I meant to destroy them?’

  ‘I did not say we could not defeat them,’ Gwlym snapped. ‘Only that our attempts to defeat them were betrayed.’

  ‘That does not change my question.’

  A pause as Gwlym brought order to his thoughts. ‘The answer lies with the Ninth legion.’

  ‘Guiderius believed the Romans he fought belonged to the Ninth.’

  ‘That is true.’ The druid’s voice shook as he remembered a more personal betrayal that had led to his defeat and flight from the Romans. ‘As were those who helped take Mona. The defeat of the Brigantes, Mona and Boudicca are all linked by one man. The commander of the Ninth legion. And when you defeat the Ninth all I ask is that you deliver him alive into my care.’

  When you defeat the Ninth. Cathal stared at the druid, seeking some sign he was being mocked, but he could detect none. ‘How will I know him?’

  ‘By his armour, which will be more ornate than those who serve him, and, more important, by the fact that his right hand has been replaced by a wooden fist.’

  ‘You said the answer lies with the Ninth, but you did not say why.’

  ‘First Boudicca destroyed Colonia and slaughtered its defenders.’ Gwlym seemed to grow in stature as he relived the glory of his youth. ‘Then she turned her anger on Londinium. But as her great horde advanced on the city her spies warned her that Suetonius Paulinus, the Roman commander, had ordered a force to march south from Lindum to intercept her.’ The names meant nothing to Cathal and he didn’t hide his irritation. Gwlym smiled at the Selgovae’s grunt of annoyance. ‘Patience, lord king,’ he said. ‘As the legion approached, a warrior host commanded by Mab, one of Boudicca’s Iceni chieftains, lay in wait on both sides of a wooded valley. Before the men of the Ninth reached it, another much smaller force drew the Roman cavalry away, and Mab was undetected until he struck.’ He sensed Cathal’s renewed interest. ‘Mab did not live to provide me with the details, but all Elfydd knows that six cohorts of the Ninth and all their auxiliary infantry were destroyed, and their standards taken. It can be done.’

  ‘One cow does not make a herd,’ Cathal protested, but he sounded thoughtful. ‘A single moment in time when the gods favoured this Mab, never to be repeated.’

  ‘No,’ Gwlym said firmly. His clawed fingers hooked into the flesh of the Selgovae king’s massive arm. ‘A Roman prisoner taken by the Ordovices last year and put to the question told me of Varus, a general who lost three legions in the same fashion, and their eagle standards with them. Annihilated in a forest ambush by the king of the Germans. It can be done by a man who can draw followers to him. A man who knows and understands his ground. Who is prepared to give up territory for advantage. A man who has the patience to wait for the right moment. You, Cathal, are that man.’

  ‘Is that what you told the king of the Ordovices, priest? You are not the only one who has spies. Guiderius learned of your ally’s fate from the displaced families who fled Ordovicia, the ones who escaped slaughter and slavery.’

  ‘King Owain’s destiny was in the hands of the gods.’ Gwlym dismissed the Ordovices’ sacrifice. ‘He failed because he underestimated the cunning of the officer who commanded the Ninth that day.’

  ‘The Brigantes number five times the warriors of the Selgovae,’ Cathal said.

  ‘Guiderius is not Cathal.’

  ‘And where am I to find these followers you speak of?’ The king growled his frustration. ‘Even if a man could manufacture that single moment of potential he would still need an army to exploit it.’

  ‘You must look where other kings will soon face the same threat as the Selgovae: to the west, the east and the north.’

  ‘Novantae backstabbers. Venicones cattle thieves. Caledonian wolves,’ Cathal snorted. ‘The Votadini?’

  ‘Wherever a man can carry a sword or a spear. Once they understand what it means to lie in the path of the Romans they will join you.’

  ‘Lord king?’ The shout came from Colm. ‘Look!’

  ‘Get the horses ready,’ Cathal shouted as he turned to follow the guard’s pointing finger. At the far end of the valley, still perhaps an hour away, a thin column wound its way down the track the Selgovae fugitives had followed. Hundreds, quickly growing into thousands as the cavalcade thickened and lengthened. Not cavalry, thank the gods. ‘Colm?’

  ‘They’re not Romans. I see bullock carts piled high.’

  ‘What is this?’ Confusion furrowed Cathal’s brow.

  ‘It seems not every Brigante is content to live under the Roman lash,’ Gwlym answered, though the question was not directed at him. ‘Perhaps these are the followers you seek?’

  A shiver ran through Cathal at this evidence of the gods’ faith.

  ‘A start,’ he whispered. ‘Just a start. But maybe you will have your one-handed assassin yet, druid. And I my eagle.’

  X

  Londinium

  A sinuous golden shape swam round Valerius in an elegant curve, brushing the back of his legs, dark hair streaming behind her like a banner before slipping up his body, taut, firm flesh hard against his scarred torso. Tabitha emerged before him with a look of such intense eroticism that he felt a fire burn at the very heart of him.

  ‘Won’t the—’

  She stopped the words with her lips, her dark eyes never leaving his, and raised her legs slowly up his body so their hips met and her ankles locked behind his back. Valerius let out an involuntary groan as she began to move, almost imperceptibly, against him.

  ‘We have our routine, O
soldier come home from the wars,’ Tabitha whispered through clenched teeth, as the pressure of her body increased slowly against his. ‘No one will disturb us while we … bathe.’

  The very touch of her body was almost too much and he could feel himself throbbing and twitching against her belly. She felt it too. Without warning she gave a deft twist of the hips that almost belied nature and she was on him, the fire transforming in an instant into a pool of molten gold.

  ‘No,’ she hissed as his hands went to her. ‘Don’t move. This is my welcome, husband.’

  It took an hour, with various adjustments and refinements, before it ended with an explosion of activity that sent the water in the pool crashing over the tiles in waves. When the surface settled she lay back with her head against his chest, eyes closed. A contented smile on her lips, she let her body float effortlessly as he helped her drift across the caldarium, gently stroking her breasts.

  ‘You’ve missed me, Valerius?’ she whispered.

  ‘Couldn’t you tell?’

  ‘It’s been so long, I feared those native girls might have corrupted you.’

  Valerius suppressed a laugh. When he’d finally arrived after his four-day journey from Eboracum she’d drawn him aside even before he could see his children and insisted he needed a bath. ‘From my recollection of the last hour I doubt any Brigante girl could teach you anything about debauchery. How are Olivia and Lucius?’

  ‘Olivia will be sleeping, and Lucius is having his reading lesson. Do you think my breasts are sagging?’

  ‘They look perfect from here.’ He pinched her erect nipple and she sighed.

  ‘I expected you days ago.’

  ‘When Agricola left for Rome I had to select our Brigante hostages and make sure everyone understood the system for prisoner release.’ He turned her round and hugged her to his chest. ‘And probably a dozen other things I’ve forgotten in my rush to get back to you.’

  ‘I’m glad you did.’ She studied her hands. ‘I think we should get out now. Look, my skin is beginning to wrinkle.’ He helped her from the pool and dried her body with a cloth. When he was done she wrapped herself in its folds, so she looked like the exotic Eastern princess she was. ‘I’ll send Marcus to oil and scrape you, and prepare the children to give their father a proper welcome.’ She paused at the door and smiled, a beautiful genuine smile, filled with pure affection, that seemed to light up the room. ‘It’s good to have you home, Valerius.’