when she reached for some morsel on the table he caught a glimpse of the downy golden hairs that covered her lower arm. It took a long time before he realized she was no more aware of him than any of the busts that lined the walls and that, although he felt her presence like heat from a winter fire, to her he might as well have been made of the same cold stone.
She concentrated all her attention on Cearan, talking quietly in the language they shared but which left Valerius an outcast. He felt a tide rising within him and, unfamiliar though it was, knew it for jealousy. It was unreasonable, madness even — he had not spoken a word to this girl, this woman — yet he found he couldn’t tame it. With that realization came anger; anger at himself for accepting Lucullus’s invitation and anger at the Briton for making it. And with the anger the room came back into sharp focus and he heard Numidius still droning on about the temple.
‘… the dimensions are perfect, of course, according to the principles of Vitruvius: the length exactly one and one quarter times the width…’
Valerius looked up to find Lucullus staring at him. ‘Maeve, our guests,’ the Trinovante said sharply.
‘Lord Cearan and I were discussing horses.’ The voice, in a Latin endowed with a gentle, almost musical quality, came from behind. Valerius knew it was directed at him, but for some reason he was reluctant to turn and face the source. ‘Our British stock is sound of wind but short in the body and the legs. They would benefit from the introduction of some of your Roman bloodlines.’
Now he had no choice but to turn and look into her eyes, which had the qualities of a Tuscan mountain stream: deep, dark and full of intriguing mystery. ‘I am sure that would be possible,’ he said, knowing it was anything but and wondering why his voice sounded like an old man’s.
‘Then I will call on you tomorrow, and we may be disappointed together.’ Cearan laughed. ‘For ten months I have been trying to persuade your commander of cavalry at the fort south of Colonia to give me the use of a single breeding stallion. For a week. Even for a day. But all he does is try to sell me his broken-down pack mules and assure me I am getting a bargain.’
Valerius felt that honour demanded he defend Bela, his auxiliary counterpart. ‘No doubt he has his reasons. A cavalry prefect will always be careful of his mounts, and he is a Thracian and therefore will be more so. Perhaps, with time, you can win his trust? You have common interests, after all.’
He heard a sharp clicking sound to his left that told him Maeve didn’t agree, but Cearan slapped the table. ‘Well said! And you are right. If it were only he and I, we would get drunk together and boast about the stallions we have known and mares we have broken, and in the morning he would say to me, “Cearan, take this fine beast and return it when its duty is done,” and I would give him the first foal of its many unions and he would be satisfied. But it is not he and I. He has his orders, he says, and it would be more than his life is worth to disobey them. Trust.’ The cheerful voice turned serious and the pale eyes bored into Valerius’s. ‘It is this matter of trust that comes between us. I have traded with the farmers in the territorium for five years and each of us has benefited from it. They trust me to deliver the ponies I have promised and I trust them to pay me when the crops are sold and they are in funds. Lucullus deals with these men every day. He is a priest of the temple and he has won their respect.’ Valerius had a vision of Petronius’s drink-swollen face and his derisive reference to the ‘little Brits’ and wondered if that was entirely true. ‘But still there are Romans who look upon us and see us as their enemy.’
‘It is true,’ Maeve interrupted with passion. Now he was able to turn towards her again, and the breath caught in his throat like a fishhook because she was angled towards him, her face only inches from his own. She wore the fierce expression of a mother defending her brood and the pride burned through the powder on her cheeks. ‘It is sixteen years since you came here. We have accepted Roman law and wear Roman clothes. We eat from Roman plates and drink Roman wine. Your gods are not our gods, but we have accepted them, even…’ she paused and Valerius sensed some warning glance from either her father or Cearan, ‘even though some of them are alien to us. What more do you need before you give us your trust?’
Valerius remembered the Celtic tribes in their dark mountains west of Glevum, and the tattooed warriors who had thrown themselves on the swords of his legionaries. He studied Lucullus, plump and content on his padded couch, his eyes hidden in the shadow, and Cearan, not quite comfortable in the almost Roman tunic that clearly hid a physique as impressive as any Valerius had seen on the Silurian battlefield. Rome had trusted barbarians in the past. Arminius, of the Cherusci, had been an officer in the legions, and had used what he had learned to destroy three of those legions in the Teutoburg Forest. Caesar himself had made common cause with the tribes of Gaul, only for them to try to stab him in the back. The trust of Rome was not easily earned. The Iceni’s horses would never have the bloodlines of Roman cavalry mounts because no Roman commander would risk the chance of meeting British cavalry on horses that could match his own for strength and stamina on the battle-field, even ten years away.
‘You have this Roman’s trust, lady,’ he replied. But if he hoped flattery would pacify her he was mistaken.
‘You trust us, yet you come to Colonia at the head of almost a thousand soldiers. Do a thousand spears signify trust in Rome?’
‘The number is eight hundred, and I bring road-builders, not soldiers,’ he said evenly. ‘Soon we will begin work on the roads and bridges between Colonia and the north. A well-mended road is good for trade. Your father,’ he bowed his head towards Lucullus, ‘will save on axles and wheels and his wagons will be able to travel further and faster. That in turn will mean more profits to spend on this wondrous villa.’
He knew he’d made a mistake when he saw her eyes narrow. Fortunately Cearan stepped in to save him from the retaliation.
‘But surely the primary purpose of your roads is military? A legion travelling on a metalled road can cover twice the distance of one marching over open country. Was it not Aulus Plautius, the first governor of this province, who said that his roads were the chains that would bind the barbarians for ever?’
‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir. I never knew Aulus Plautius, though I understand he was a fine commander.’
‘Cearan met him, though, didn’t you, Cearan?’ Lucullus’s voice was slightly slurred and Valerius noticed Maeve’s eyes widen fractionally, but Cearan himself only nodded thoughtfully.
‘Once was enough. Caratacus believed he would destroy him on the Tamesa, but it was Caratacus who was destroyed and the rest of us with him.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I rode to battle with eight thousand men, and returned to Venta with fewer than six thousand, and counted myself fortunate.’
Lucullus lurched to his feet, and Maeve rose from her couch and brushed past Valerius to lead him from the room, whispering in his ear. Numidius lay back with his eyes closed, snoring gently. Valerius took the chance to study Lucullus’s painting of the surrender. It was a remarkable piece of art. The painter had cleverly used the ranks of the surrounding legions to focus attention on the group at the centre. Claudius wore a cloak of purple and sat high on the back of an elephant resplendent in golden armour. Before him knelt eleven figures, ten male and one female, and the artist had somehow contrived, with only the slightest embellishment, to convey their royal lineage. Their expressions ranged from mild concern to outright fear.
Cearan came to his side. ‘Prasutagus, my king.’ He pointed to a figure in the centre of the kneeling line. ‘His wife Boudicca stood at his side that day so that she would share his burden, but the artist has overlooked her.’
‘And she would thank him for it!’ The voice belonged to Aenid, who now sat upright on her couch, picking at an arrangement of honeyed nuts on the table in front of her. ‘Boudicca needs no reminding of her people’s dishonour.’
‘Forgive my wife. She is a remarkable woman but sometimes she forgets her place,’ Cearan said with a smile.
‘Do not believe him, tribune,’ Aenid interjected. ‘She knows her place very well. But unlike one of your Roman wives she is entitled to her opinion and has the right to voice it.’
‘And this,’ Cearan pointed to the picture again, ‘is King Cogidubnus, whose rule now extends over the Atrebates, the Regni and the Cantiaci. I once thought to kill him.’ The last sentence was said matter-of-factly, and at first Valerius thought he’d misheard. Cearan smiled sadly. ‘He betrayed us, betrayed Caratacus. If the Atrebates had stood and fought with the rest, who knows, perhaps…’ He gave a little shrug. ‘But that is in the past. We must deal with life as it is, not how we would wish it to be.’
Valerius’s eye was drawn to the figure in the flowing blue gown. The artist had made her beautiful in a way no real woman was beautiful. ‘And who is this?’
Cearan hesitated and Valerius had a feeling his eyes flicked towards his wife. ‘That is Queen Cartimandua of
