Go to your people and aid them through this time of trial that is upon us. They will need strong hands and strong minds and men who can wield sword and spear.” Thus he thanked me and regretted that he could not reward me, but I told him that to serve him was reward enough. You understand that, Roman? You understand what it is to serve a lord like Caratacus? I took twenty heads and yours would have been twenty-one if Nuada had not required it for the sacrifice when you were saved from the belly of Taranis.’
He told how he had travelled east, avoiding the Roman cavalry patrols, until he had joined a band of Parisii noblemen who gave him news of a great gathering of tribes at Camulodunum.
‘You could have been recognized,’ Rufus pointed out. ‘You risked death or slavery by coming here.’
Ballan grinned. ‘I am a noble of the Iceni and the Iceni are now bound to Rome. Did not my sister receive gifts and a blessing from your Emperor, though she cursed the one and will deny the other?’
‘Your sister?’ Rufus noticed for the first time that Ballan had forsaken his leather tunic and chain armour for the clothes of a Celtic lord, and an honoured one if the gold at his neck was anything to go by.
‘You saw her today, when my people rode into the Roman camp. The red-haired girl.’
Rufus remembered the proud, flame-haired figure who had ridden behind Prasutagus. ‘The Iceni queen? Your sister is a queen?’
Ballan laughed. ‘And what a queen. Prasutagus may make accommodation with the Romans, but only if Boudicca sees advantage for her people. The king did not want me here — he fears anything that makes his wife more powerful — but she had her way, and here I am.’
There was still one thing that puzzled Rufus. ‘But how did you discover me, a single slave among this multitude?’
‘I am Ballan,’ the Iceni boasted. ‘Would a man who stalked the legions for a hundred days be troubled finding an elephant in a flock of sheep?’ He shook his head and gave a little smile, as if he was embarrassed, an expression that looked out of place on that war-worn face. ‘Narcissus,’ he said. ‘Narcissus told me where you would be. Somehow he had word of my arrival and he sent for me. He questioned me about Caratacus.’ Ballan shrugged. ‘Perhaps I gave him the impression I would be his man. This Narcissus spoke of a thing that was of interest to him; an insignificant thing he had given a slave in error. I was to prove my new loyalty by returning it to him.’ He met Rufus’s eyes. ‘Narcissus would ensure the slave would leave his tent empty by using Hanno to order the slave’s woman and child on some errand.’
Rufus shook his head at his own folly. Gaius and Britte were safe. ‘So you searched my tent, but you did not find what you sought, which is why you followed me here?’
Ballan grunted what might have been a laugh or a dismissal. ‘If I had known the way of it, I would have given a different answer. This smells of palace plots and I want nothing more to do with it, though I am interested to know what he would have had me steal. A brooch, he said, but a man like Narcissus could buy a hundred brooches, or send a dozen legionaries to fetch this one from you. And now I find you with an Atrebate sword at your throat. What is it like, this insignificant thing that has so many men seeking it out?’
Rufus stared at him. Just how much did he trust the Iceni? It was a question that only had one answer. The few hours he had spent in Ballan’s company had created a bond between them that went beyond time shared and made the gulf between their two cultures irrelevant. It was a bond of true friendship and he had experienced it only once before. Ballan was as different from Cupido as any man could be, but he had the gladiator’s heart and unfailing honesty. He had trusted Cupido with his life; how could he do less with Ballan? ‘The brooch Narcissus seeks is the brooch Togodumnus of the Dobunni wore at his throat. A brooch of gold, wrought with the figure of a charging boar. It is a beautiful thing, and of cunning construction, but I fear it is cursed, for it seems death follows it.’
Ballan’s dark eyes blazed. ‘And you are right to fear it, but not for any curse. Did we not speak once of a charm that Caratacus held dear?’
Rufus remembered the exchange at the mouth of the gully where he had killed Dafyd. An image of the brooch Caratacus had unpinned when he had given him his cloak filled his head. ‘Then this is the same brooch? But-’
‘Not the same,’ Ballan said triumphantly. ‘The twin. Cunobelin, who ruled here, had them from his father, and his father before him, even back to Cassivellaunus. Cunning construction, you said? Yes, and for a reason. Caratacus wore the one and Togodumnus the other, for they were the signs of their kingship, but there was more. The brooches are two halves of the same whole, and brought together, with a Druid saying the proper words, it’s said they will allow a man to divine his enemy’s thoughts. Thus did Cunobelin bind his two sons — only acting together could they unlock the true power of the talisman.’
Rufus snorted. ‘Much good it did them at the battle of the river. The one is dead and the other flown.’
Ballan shrugged. ‘Such things are in the gift of the gods. Perhaps Togodumnus did not prove worthy of their gift.’
Rufus shook his head. Enough! He would find Britte and recover the brooch from her. He would give it to Narcissus and be well rid of it. ‘Where did Hanno send Britte and Gaius on their errand?’
The little Syrian, who had been sitting apart, shook his head, and Ballan looked puzzled. ‘Did I not say? When we reached your tent it was empty. They were already gone.’
XLI
Rufus was up and running before Ballan could get to his feet. The Briton called him back with a shout, but the young Roman shook his head. ‘I don’t have time to explain. My son is in danger.’
Ballan didn’t hesitate. ‘Then take this.’ The Iceni unsheathed his sword and threw it towards Rufus. ‘We will follow as we can.’
Rufus caught the sword in his right hand and turned for the trees. When he reached them he found there was no path, and he had to hack his way through thick undergrowth on the forest edge. The sweat was soon coursing down his back but when he was beneath the broad-leafed canopy it chilled on his body and he felt as if he had been doused with a bucket of icy river water. As he moved forward the entangling brush quickly thinned to a carpet of fern and stinging nettle, and the gaps between the trees became greater. At times it seemed he was walking among the Corinthian columns of some darkened temple, and not in a silent wilderness where danger threatened with every step. He walked slowly, careful not to tread on fallen branches or hidden twigs that would betray his presence. And as he walked, he listened for any sound that would provide a clue to the whereabouts of Gaius, or Britte — or his unknown enemy. The forest floor was mottled with delicate patterns of sunlight that had somehow pierced the dense canopy above, and insects and dust-mites danced in the rays. On another day it would have been pleasing, but he was conscious of a feeling of dread. The silence of the forest was the silence of the dead.
After another hundred paces he realized he was approaching a clearing. It wasn’t so much a sound as a disturbance in the air that alerted him; some change in atmosphere that made him stop and crouch down in the shadow of a giant hornbeam. He understood the feeling was a warning from the gods, but which gods ruled in this strange and frightening place? Roman gods had dominated his life: mighty Jupiter, great Mars, fearless Diana. But in his childhood there had been other gods. He knew the world was divided into three, just as there were three deadly gods and three benevolent gods. The earthly world, where humans lived and suffered. The divine world where the gods looked down upon the earthbound and imposed their will upon them. But there was also the shadow world, inhabited by those trapped between. Perhaps he had already entered the shadow world. He waited for the physical manifestation of the warning to become clear.
A rasping cough that might have been a bear, but wasn’t, gave him his answer. He peered into the gloom ahead. Silhouetted against the dim light was a broad-shouldered figure with the lime-spiked hair of a British warrior. Rufus’s fist tightened on the unfamiliar grip of the long sword and he stood, slowly, took a single, deep breath and readied himself for the attack.
A call from beyond the silhouetted figure stopped him just in time, and he watched in relief as the man silently disappeared from view towards whoever had spoken. That was when the singing began; a song that sent a shiver down Rufus’s spine. The last time he had heard the sonorous, mournful notes he had been trapped in the belly of the Wicker Man and he knew full well their portent. Then, the words had been bellowed from a dozen throats; now, a single, piercing voice split the air among the trees. Nuada!
He slipped to the ground and bellied through the leaves towards the spot where the warrior had vanished. What he saw made the blood freeze in his veins.
