shook his head and Narcissus smiled again. The offer had been a double-edged sword. Cartimandua’s illness would have to be grave indeed before he entrusted her to Scribonius Largus.
The envoy cleared his throat and repeated the message he had obviously learned by rote. ‘Should the queen of a free people take her place alongside a rabble of the defeated and the cowed? The Atrebates and the Regni, the Cantiaci and the Iceni may have bent the knee before Roman swords, but not the Brigantes, who are a proud nation and happy to contest that pride with any. If we are to be a bulwark between the wild savages of the north and the west and the civilizing influence you bring’ — there was an edge to the words ‘civilizing influence’ that made them an insult, but Narcissus chose not to notice — ‘then we should be recognized as an ally and given an ally’s place — and an ally’s rewards.’ So there it was. He had misjudged her. The guarantees of military aid and the promises of an annual tribute he had given were not enough. She was like all the rest of these people: greedy, avaricious and duplicitous. But the envoy was not finished. ‘If the lady Cartimandua is to come here to accept the Roman peace, she must have something to set her apart, something of great value, from the Emperor’s own hands.’
Narcissus closed his eyes; he was wearying of this island and these barbarians, but he felt a flare of relief. This, at least, could be straight-forward. Cogidubnus had been remarkably forthcoming when he had discovered Adminius’s interest in the ‘insignificant token’, particularly when Narcissus hinted that he would be happy to return it to the Cantiaci ruler. Something of great value? Why not, if it would bind her to the Roman cause? Was it even possible that Cartimandua had heard of the brooch; was aware of its potential?
‘Your lady will have her gift, and it will set her apart from all men on this island, you have my promise.’
‘From the Emperor’s own hands?’
‘From the Emperor’s own hands,’ Narcissus confirmed. ‘A thing of great worth and great beauty that was precious to the rebel Caratacus.’
Mention of the Catuvellauni king’s name made the envoy’s eyes widen and the Greek realized he might have underestimated the value of this thing that every Briton wanted to own.
When Cartimandua’s messenger had left, he settled down to work on the final details of the following day’s ceremony. He had only been writing for a few minutes when he heard a warning challenge from outside the tent. The flap opened to allow a burly figure to enter. He looked up. So his informant had been correct. How many surprises could a single day hold?
XL
They were gone. At first Rufus was puzzled, but puzzlement was quickly replaced by concern, and then by outright fear. He looked out over the sea of tents, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gaius’s red hair, but saw nothing he recognized. He called out, praying they were close, but his only reward was blank stares from the other slaves. ‘Has anyone seen my son?’ he asked. ‘Has anyone seen Gaius? Or Britte, the German woman?’
Eventually he found an ox driver with the information he needed. ‘The big lass? She went off with the boy out thataway.’ He pointed towards a distant wood about a mile beyond the fortress wall. ‘Maybe she’s got a boyfriend?’ He sniggered, making Rufus want to smash his teeth into his throat.
He set off at a trot towards the distant shadow of the forest. There was no sign of the pair between the fort and the trees. Gaius he could lose among the tall grass, but not Britte, who would have stood out like a harvester’s cart in a hayfield. Why would they leave the safety of the encampment? Britte knew the dangers well enough. This was a conquered land but there were many in it whose spirits remained unbroken. The indignities they had suffered were more than enough to prompt them to seek easy revenge from a Roman slave girl or a Roman child. The thought made him increase his speed.
He was halfway to the trees when the sharp sound of hoofbeats on the hard-packed earth made him turn. A faint prickle on the back of his neck told him he wouldn’t like what he found. He was right. Five of them, Britons dressed in rough shirts and trews; hard men with warrior-scarred knuckles and blank, compassion-free expressions. All but one. Gavan was in the centre, wearing the same sneering grin he’d worn when he’d just sliced Verica’s head from his shoulders. Hand never leaving the hilt of his sword, Cogidubnus’s executioner slid from his pony and walked forward until Rufus was close enough to smell the rank odour of his unwashed body. He stared into Gavan’s eyes and there was no mistaking the menace there. His mind swiftly went through his options. Running wasn’t one of them. The ponies would cut him off before he got a dozen yards. He was unarmed. No, he was almost unarmed. He reached for the little blade he used to trim Bersheba’s feet. Gavan laughed and drew his sword. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, with the speed of a lightning strike, Gavan feinted left, making Rufus jump back, which brought another guffaw of laughter from the big man. Rufus watched him, reading his face for the sign that would betray his next move. He was content for the Briton to play all day if he wanted. At least he wasn’t killing him.
The oldest of the horsed warriors shouted something to the man on the ground. Advice on the etiquette of execution? A polite suggestion to hurry the murder along so they could go back to their women and their beer? Whatever it was it had its effect. Gavan hefted the sword in both hands and spat out a string of words in the British tongue. Rufus tightened his grip on the knife. He recognized a single word in the long sequence: Togodumnus. At the same time Gavan reached up and touched the simple brooch that held his cloak at the neck. The brooch! Rufus cursed; the golden brooch he’d thought he’d hidden so well. Cogidubnus had learned of it and now Cogidubnus wanted it. Had he taken Gaius and Britte as hostages for its return?
‘Gaius?’ Gavan’s expression didn’t change. ‘Woman?’ Rufus used the British word which was in common use among the legionaries. He saw understanding in the Briton’s eyes, followed by a bitter laugh. Now he thought he’d been insulted. Gavan reached up to the brooch once more. It was clear his patience was wearing thin. Rufus changed his grip on the knife, weighing it for an overhand throw. The calculations ran through his head. He couldn’t let Cogidubnus’s champion get close enough to swing that long blade. Even if the knife throw didn’t kill Gavan instantly it would slow him down. They’d catch him in seconds, he knew that, and the long swords would do their work. But he had to try. For Gaius. He tensed for the throw.
A fluted ‘phhhhutt’ like the hiss of an angry swan stopped his arm in mid-cast and in the same instant the earth at Gavan’s feet sprouted an emerald-flighted arrow, immediately followed by a second. Rufus recognized the arrows, and almost laughed aloud, feeling the battle-heat grow in him, the way it had when he had killed Dafyd in the rock-strewn gully. Gavan looked from the green-feathered shaft to Rufus’s face, then very slowly turned his head to his left, where two men sat their horses with an unnerving stillness. The first was a slightly built soldier in the green tunic and pot helmet of the mounted archers who served the Romans. He held a short, curved bow with a third green-flighted arrow notched to its iron-taut string and pointed in the general direction of Gavan’s broad gut. Rufus waited, knowing that to move or speak would break the spell cast by the two arrows. The Atrebate rider who had spoken earlier barked a command, and Gavan’s head came round like that of a hunting dog hitting a scent. Clearly it was very well to ambush a Roman slave, but to attack three armed men, with no guarantee of success, was not part of their mission. The Briton stared at Rufus and his fingers twitched on the sword hilt. The order was repeated, this time with more authority. Gavan spat before turning abruptly and vaulting on to his pony. With a final glare at Rufus he rode off towards where the British huts shimmered in the ground haze.
For the first time Rufus looked towards his two saviours. Hanno, of course, grinning like a maniac through the thicket of his black beard. The other man sat his horse as solidly as one of the great mountains Rufus had known as a boy: squat, almost square, and glaring out from beneath heavy brows. A bear of a man, armed with a long spear and an iron sword. Ballan. But it could not be. Ballan should be with Caratacus and his defeated army in the west. What was he doing in the middle of a Roman camp where the ten tribes of southern Britain waited to give up their freedom to an Empire he despised and feared?
‘It seems that trouble follows you, Roman,’ the Iceni said when he’d dismounted. Rufus hurriedly explained about Britte and Gaius but Ballan insisted they make sure that Gavan was gone for good. While Hanno looked after the ponies he explained his timely reappearance.
‘I was never oath-sworn to Caratacus. After we were defeated… when the Romans drove us like cattle’ — Rufus could hear the shame in the Briton’s voice, but there was pride there too — ‘we fled west. Fled, but never broke, for if we had broken the Romans would have slaughtered us. But the west is not my land and the Catuvellauni are not my people, and when we had gone but a few miles Caratacus summoned me before him. “Ballan of the Iceni,” he said, “your obligation to me, if obligation there ever was, has been fulfilled ten times over.
