should be able to see your army. We’ve been watching them for days and they never turn from their line of march; very predictable and very careless. I’ve told Caratacus we should ambush the buggers, but he doesn’t want to lose any more of his precious warriors.’
Rufus slipped from his pony and almost collapsed. Walk? He could hardly move, his legs were shaking so much from the strain of a day on horseback.
Ballan laughed. ‘A bit stiff? You’ll feel better in an hour or two.’ He reached inside his leather tunic and threw something that glinted in the sunlight. Rufus caught it in his right hand. It was the lion’s tooth set in bright metal he had been given by the master of the slave ship that had carried him from Carthage to Rome. It had been stripped from him with the rest of his possessions before he was placed in the Wicker Man. He had thought it was gone for ever, and felt the lesser for its loss. His fingers instinctively rubbed the smooth surface, and he nodded his thanks.
‘Caratacus believed it was precious to you. What is it? I have never seen a fang like that one.’
‘It came from a cat as big as your pony. It’s a charm that was given to me as a child.’
The Briton snorted in disbelief. ‘No cat was ever that size. A charm, though, I can understand. The brooch Caratacus wears is such a thing, they say. A thing of power, though I have never seen it used.’ He shook his head as if such superstitions were of no interest to a warrior, hauled on his mount’s halter and, leading Rufus’s pony, began to move off.
‘Farewell, Ballan. I do not grudge you your reward,’ Rufus shouted. ‘But I fear the only hundred horses you see will be in your dreams.’ The squat Briton didn’t look back, but Rufus heard him chuckle.
‘A hundred horses, a fat Gaulish concubine and an elephant, that’s what I’d like. But what would I do with the elephant?’
Rufus stood for a while after the Briton was gone, feeling unaccountably lonely. With an effort he roused himself. Don’t be a fool, he thought. Soon you’ll be back with the column and with Gaius and Bersheba. The knowledge gave him strength and he started off at a brisk pace, keeping the stream to his right and following the valley floor. It was an intimidating place, narrow and claustrophobic, where damp moss covered the gully walls and the sun penetrated only when it was directly above. He had been walking for an hour when the reaction to his ordeal finally overcame him. It was less than two days since he had awoken in the horror of the Wicker Man’s belly; but for the merest chance he would be a grinning, burned-out skeleton, like Paullus, his flesh charred and his bones blackened; empty eyes staring from a flame-scorched skull. He stumbled and almost fell, his vision blurred and his world spinning. He decided to rest, choosing a hollow in the valley wall where the roots of a fallen tree had torn a hole just large enough for him to wedge himself inside. The earth was dry and soft, and somehow he found its closeness comforting. Should he not feel guilt for having survived? What had he done to deserve life when every other member of the forage party had died screaming in that fiery cage? The truth was that he didn’t feel guilty at all. Only relieved. He was lying here in this cool chamber that might have been his tomb, but his heart was beating, he could smell the fresh earth in his nostrils and the air he breathed was clean and heady. Nothing else mattered. Not Paullus or Agrippa, or the British woman Veleda. Not the dead child. He was alive. Alive! His last thought before he was overcome with exhaustion was of Aemilia, far away in Rome. How he missed her; she smiled at him, and she was beautiful, but then her hair was on fire and it wasn’t Aemilia, it was Veleda, and the flesh fell from her face to leave a grinning skull.
The sound of hooves clattering on rock woke him. It was close to dusk but there was still just enough light to see, even in the shadowed depths of the gully. Romans, he thought, with a surge of hope. It must be a Roman patrol. They would be searching for the missing forage party. Surely they would have discovered the abandoned wagons at the village by now? But what if it was Celtic scouts? Perhaps Ballan had changed his mind and decided to take him closer to the legionary column? There was only one way to find out. He slipped out of his impromptu burrow like a mole from the earth. Judging by the noise of the hooves there couldn’t be more than two horses, which seemed to rule out a Roman patrol. Ballan then, but be careful. If it was the Briton he would be on the alert for the enemy. A friend’s spear thrown in error wasn’t any less sharp.
Left or right? Upstream or down? It was difficult to tell. He chose upstream, but now he remembered Ballan’s wariness, the way he had avoided the valley floor. Taking care not to disturb any loose rocks he clambered halfway up the gully wall until he was among a tangle of low bushes. The going was much harder here, but he was part hidden from anyone following the stream below.
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
