massive shoulders from past encounters with dogs. He had no time to change the angle of the spear, he could only hold and pray. The boar’s size was its undoing. It was so enormous that when the iron spearhead slipped just under the chin the animal’s own momentum forced it deep into the chest cavity, punching through bone and muscle and delivering a mortal wound to the great heart. Valerius had braced himself for the shock, but still the power of the impact astonished him. The force of it surged along the spear and almost catapulted him free of the shaft. He was shaken like a leaf in a thunderstorm, tossed this way and that until he thought his neck would snap. Instinct told him the strike was true, but the boar refused to die. The red eyes still burned as it forced its way inch by inch up the ash shaft, driving the blade ever deeper into its body, until it was stopped by the cross-piece. Even then it fought on, lashing right and left, so that Valerius feared he would lose his grip. Finally, bright heart blood gushed from the gaping mouth and the boar gave an awful shudder and was still.
Valerius slumped, panting, over the spear. He sent a silent prayer to Jupiter and Minerva and willed himself to stop shaking. The exhilaration of the kill would come later, but for now there was only the familiar, dry-mouthed aftermath of survival. The remaining hound saved him. It broke off from sniffing at the enormous carcass to give a sudden, warning snarl.
A second boar, almost as big as the first, erupted from the bushes to his left where it must have lain silent while its brother drew the dogs away. Now it was here to avenge him. No time to retrieve the spear, which was buried two feet in the first animal’s chest. Valerius rolled to his right, placing the mass of the dead pig between himself and the attack. He was only just in time. As he huddled in the lee of the boar, attempting to make himself part of the earth, a giant head appeared over the animal’s flank: a ferocious apparition of gaping pink mouth, snapping mantrap jaws and slashing yellowed tusks that came within a hair’s breadth of disembowelling him. He scrabbled for his knife, knowing it would barely scratch the boar’s thick hide, but it was trapped beneath his body. How long would it take the beast to work out that it could reach him more easily from the side? Could he run? No. He had seen the speed with which it had crossed the clearing. He frantically searched the area around him for some weapon, but there was none. He twisted his arm so he could reach his belt, but the movement attracted the boar and now the tusks swung at his face, the great mouth wide and putrid-breathed in front of his eyes and the teeth chopping and gnashing. Another inch and he would be dead. He ignored a stab of pain in his shoulder and concentrated on the belt. At last his grasping fingers found the fastening and gradually he was able to work it round his body until the knife hilt lay in the palm of his hand. One chance and one chance only. He lay with his left side beneath the dead boar’s still warm belly and his head tight against the coarse hairs of its ribs. His right arm was twisted behind him but at least he had the knife. He screamed a mindless battle cry and with all the power he could call upon swung the knife at the beast’s gleaming eye, praying to any god who would listen that his aim should be good. The boar squealed with pain and fury but he knew he had failed. The point missed its target by a full inch, ploughing a red furrow across the pig’s broad forehead. The thrashing above him took on an even more savage, mindless quality, and he knew that there was no escape. No glorious end on the battlefield for Gaius Valerius Verrens, scion of a tribe with its roots in the very founding of Rome. He would die unremembered in this damp British forest with his nostrils filled with the musky stink of boar. He thought of the golden amulet in his pouch, and that in turn made him think of Maeve. Her face filled his mind and he heard the sound of a familiar voice.
‘So one boar was not enough for you?’
He looked up, bemused, to discover Cearan staring at him over the second boar’s shoulder, which had now sprouted the shaft of a throwing spear. The great body shook spasmodically and tendrils of dark blood drooled from the beast’s open mouth on to the flank of its sibling.
‘Please.’ The Briton extended his hand. Valerius allowed Cearan to help him shakily to his feet.
‘I thank you. You saved my life.’ His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears as he stared at the two boars. Between them they would weigh as much as a fully laden ox cart. If the second hadn’t been obstructed by his brother’s body it would surely have ripped him to pieces. He turned back to Cearan. ‘If ever…’
The Iceni waved a hand dismissively. ‘We are friends. You would have done as much for me. In any case, it was at my suggestion that Lucullus invited you to hunt with him. He became disoriented in the forest once the dogs were loosed, therefore you were my responsibility. It would have been discourteous, not to say inconvenient, if you had died.’ Valerius registered the word ‘inconvenient’ as Cearan stooped to crouch over the first boar, studying the spot where the blade of the spear had penetrated its breast. ‘A fine blow, well aimed. He is your first?’
Valerius nodded.
The Briton smiled and when he stood he reached out his fingers, which were red with the boar’s blood, and with quick, practised strokes smeared it over the Roman’s forehead and cheeks. ‘It is our custom,’ he explained. ‘It marks a man as a man, and only a man could have faced such a giant without flinching.’
A commotion behind them announced the arrival of the rest of the hunting party, led by Lucullus and Lunaris, who stopped in his tracks when he saw the size of the kill.
‘By Mars’s mighty arse, I’ve never seen anything like it. Just one of them would feed the cohort with ham for breakfast every day for a month. You could hitch them to a chariot and they’d haul you all the way to Rome. You…’
‘Could help us butcher them?’ Cearan suggested.
‘Surely you would not put him to work before he has had the opportunity to best his officer?’ Lucullus admonished his cousin. ‘There is word of another spoor in a copse to the north.’ He suggested that the rest of the hunt move on while Valerius rested and the slaves butchered the two boars. ‘You have had your sport, cousin. I will leave you to take care of our guest.’
Lunaris looked suspicious, but Valerius nodded to him and the big legionary allowed Lucullus to lead him off with the others. As the slaves worked on the two carcasses with gutting knives and hatchets, Cearan reached into the pack he had dropped and retrieved a bulging goatskin. ‘Here,’ he offered. ‘You must be thirsty.’
Valerius put the skin to his lips, expecting the contents to be water, but the tepid liquid was some sort of sweet, fruity beer that went straight to his head, instantly reviving him. He took another gulp.
Cearan laughed. ‘Not too much or the slaves will have to carry you home along with the boar. It is honeyed ale, but with an infusion of herbs singular to my own tribe.’
The effect was remarkable. ‘This must be what your warriors drink before battle.’
‘Perhaps the Catuvellauni,’ Cearan said seriously, ‘or the tribes of the west, but the Iceni do not need ale or mead to give them courage.’ He walked to the edge of the clearing, out of earshot of the servants, and Valerius instinctively knew he should follow. ‘When I fought the Romans beside Caratacus on the Tamesa I realized a truth that he did not; or perhaps I do him an injustice, and he did realize it but refused to accept it. That makes him a braver man than I, but not, I think, a wiser one.’
Valerius stared at him. Where was this leading?
Cearan went on thoughtfully. ‘Caratacus would have had us fight until the blood of the last Briton stained the earth. The truth I learned is that we must find a way to live with Rome or everything that makes us who and what we are will cease to exist. Our children and our children’s children will be brought up either as Romans or as slaves. Our kings will serve Rome, or we will have no kings. You will even take our gods and make them your own.’
‘Then you already have your wish,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘The name of Prasutagus, king of the Iceni, is spoken of with honour in the palace of the governor. He retains his authority in the name of the Emperor and you retain your British ways. You prosper as no other tribe has prospered save the Atrebates, and you worship whom you will and no Roman interferes.’
A momentary glint of triumph flashed in the pale eyes. ‘But Prasutagus is an old man. What happens if Prasutagus is no longer king?’
Valerius considered the question. It had two answers, or perhaps three. First, Prasutagus would have appointed his own heir and if that heir were acceptable to Rome he would have the support of the Emperor. If the governor felt the chosen heir was too weak, or, worse, too strong, he might appoint his own king from the Iceni aristocracy. But that would only be done with the aristocracy’s agreement. The third answer was so unlikely and unacceptable to Cearan that he would not voice it. Eventually he said the words he knew the Briton wanted to hear: ‘Then the Iceni will need a new king.’
Cearan nodded emphatically. ‘A king who would maintain our present relationship with Rome. But there are some among my tribesfolk who believe the path Prasutagus treads is the wrong path and would welcome a new Caratacus to follow. Who may even wish to be the new Caratacus. They are encouraged in this foolishness by men who come to their farmsteads at nightfall and leave again before dawn. Men who preach a message of hatred against your people.’
