longer the stand-off continued the more likely it was to end badly for him. He turned to Caratacus. ‘If he is going to kill me, tell him to get on with it. Better a clean death than the belly of the god. But I would have thought there is little honour in killing an unarmed man, even among your people?’
Caratacus laughed at the insult and translated Rufus’s words to the warrior, who stepped forward so his face was close enough for Rufus to smell his sour breath. The young man launched into a spittle-laced tirade which must have found favour among the watching tribesfolk because they roared their acclamation at regular intervals.
The king translated. ‘He says he is Dafyd, son of Cefn who fell in the battle of the valley when the great beast cast its spell over our warriors. Now he carries his father’s sword. He says you will not always have the king’s protection and that though you are a coward and a weakling he will hunt you down wherever you run, even if it is beyond the Great Sea. He will cut out your heart and sacrifice it to Taranis, your fingers will provide a necklace for his wife, and he will use your skull as a drinking bowl — once it has been properly cleansed of your filth. He makes this pledge before all the gods and asks them for aid in accomplishing it.’
Rufus took a step back and studied his opponent. Dafyd was a well-muscled young man of about his own age with a mesh tattoo covering one shoulder, but he sensed the Briton was less of a champion than he appeared. He had been in the arena often enough to know the signs. There was a tension in the way Dafyd stood that betrayed his anxiety, and his knuckles were a little too white where he gripped the sword hilt. Cupido, the gladiator, had taught Rufus enough moves with the sword to have confidence against most men. In any case, as he had already calculated, Caratacus had saved him from the belly of Taranis, and it was unlikely he would allow him to be butchered. He turned to the British king. ‘Give me one of the little Roman swords and I will be happy to provide him with his opportunity to accomplish it now.’
Caratacus smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘There will be a time, Rufus the elephant man, but it is not now.’ He pushed the glaring young warrior aside with what sounded like a warning, and led the way towards the waiting horsemen.
‘This is Ballan. He will escort you back to your people. Remember the message. I hunger for Roman blood, but I give your general one opportunity to make an honourable withdrawal. Farewell. I pray we will not meet again.’
XIII
They rode south and east, along valley sides lightly wooded with larch and thorn, and Rufus noted that Ballan took care never to be drawn to the valley floor when there was another possible route, even if the alternative was more difficult for his ponies. Neither did he expose himself on the skyline above the crest of a hill. The ponies were a uniform nondescript brown and Rufus realized that from a distance they would merge perfectly with the landscape they travelled across. One rider always scouted ahead, studying the hills and reconnoitring what waited over the next crest, while two wove their way along the flanks.
Rufus studied his companion, trying not to betray his interest. Ballan was short for a British warrior, but he had the kind of physique that made him appear as broad as he was tall. His legs were enormously muscled and he sat astride his horse as if he were part of it. Most Celts clothed themselves in homespun cloth shirts, but Ballan favoured a scuffed leather tunic worn over what looked like an auxiliary’s mail shirt. He had a head that was almost square and he wore his hair short whereas his compatriots allowed theirs to grow to their shoulders in shaggy, lice- infested manes. His weapon of choice was an iron-tipped throwing spear he carried always in his right hand, but a sword and a curved dagger hung from his belt and Rufus had no doubt he knew how to use them.
The Briton spoke without turning his head. ‘You ride a horse as if you were a sack of corn. My two-year-old son sits a pony better.’
Rufus ignored him, thinking it was a wonder anyone could stay on board these fractious, knobble-backed beasts that seemed to treat every bump as if it were an obstacle to be leapt over. His thighs felt as if they were on fire from the constant strain of keeping his seat on the sweat-slippery animal’s back. Who did this barbarian think..
‘Where did you learn Latin?’ he asked in surprise. The Briton had spoken in a fractured accent that sounded to Rufus’s ear as if it might be closer to Spanish, but it was Latin sure enough.
They travelled another hundred or so horse-lengths along the narrow path before Ballan deigned to reply. ‘My lord insisted I learn the tongue of my enemy, for only then could I understand my enemy and be of true use to him. The only thing I would make you understand, Roman, is what it feels like to die. You were given to the gods. You should have burned. Are you some sorcerer that bent my lord’s mind to your will?’
Rufus spat to ward off bad luck. To speak of sorcerers was to invite trouble. ‘Your lord vowed I was the gift of the gods to him. Would you deny him? Would you gainsay Caratacus, king of the Britons?’
Ballan laughed, a great bellow that came from deep in his chest. ‘Caratacus is no king of the Britons. The Catuvellauni may call him king, but not the Dobunni or the Regni, or even, though he may tell you different, the Trinovantes over whom he claims lordship.’
‘But he leads a great army, the warriors of a dozen different tribes?’
‘Leads them, yes, rules them, no. He holds them together by the power of his will.’ Ballan held out his hand and clenched his fist tight. ‘Let him but loosen his grip for an instant and they will fly like black-birds from a nest.’
‘You talk loosely for a spy and disloyally for a warrior bound to his lord by oath.’
The spear point came up as if it had a life of its own and stopped less than an inch from Rufus’s right eye. One wrong move from the pony skittering nervously between his legs and it would skewer his skull.
‘I have given Caratacus no oath. A man can only be held by a single oath. I did not give it and he did not ask it.’
‘But the Catuvellauni-’
‘Are beasts to be herded and milked by my people, the Iceni.’
Rufus recognized the name. Narcissus had described them as the easternmost of the major tribes. ‘Yet you follow Caratacus, king of these… cattle.’
The spear point dropped and Ballan grinned, an expression that gave his face a curiously impish, almost childlike quality. Rufus realized with surprise he could grow to like this bear of a Celt who was so eager to kill him.
‘Caratacus is different. He is the finest warrior I have ever seen. He uses tricks in combat that would make your eyes water, Roman, and your head spin. When he fights, he wins. I follow him because I trust him, and because he promised me enough loot to buy a hundred horses.’
‘A hundred horses will be of little use to you if you are dead, which is what you will be when your lord finally decides to fight the legions,’ Rufus pointed out mischievously.
The scout shrugged. ‘What is death to a warrior? I would rather die with a sword in my hand and my feet in the mud of a bloody battle-ground than in a warm bed being spooned milk by one of my numberless grandchildren.’ He kicked his pony sharply in the ribs and it spurted ahead. ‘Come, get that nag moving or I won’t be able to deliver you in daylight. I wouldn’t give a cracked egg for your chances if you approach the column by night. Those legionary cavalry are twitchy in the dark, but they’re good.’
They rode on until Rufus’s breakfast was a long-forgotten memory. The only halt Ballan would allow was when they came to a broad, shallow river and he could water the horses, but the Celt’s vigilance never waned. The horsemen approached the stream individually, with the others keeping watch. Rufus marvelled at the Briton’s stamina and fortitude. When he complained he was tired and hungry Ballan threw him a leather bag that contained a few crusts of stale, iron-hard bread that would have broken his teeth if he’d tried to bite them. The only way to make the food edible was to keep it in his mouth until his saliva softened it, then chew it gingerly until he could swallow.
Late in the afternoon they halted at the entrance to a rock-strewn valley cut by a stream through the line of hills parallel to their route. Ballan reined in his pony and took Rufus’s halter.
‘This is where we part, Roman. You can walk from here.’ He pointed into the gully. ‘Follow the river until the valley begins to rise. You’ll know the place when you see it, because there’s a big old oak tree growing almost horizontally out of the left bank. When you reach the tree, climb up that side of the hill. Once you get to the top you
