Valerius stared at him, remembering the meeting with Castus in Londinium. Was this what had stirred up the midland tribes? ‘Who are these men?’
‘Druids.’
Valerius froze. ‘The governor, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, understands that the druids are penned on their sacred isle, or in the mountains of the west. The Iceni are a client tribe of Rome and if they welcome a druid at their fires then they place that status at peril. If King Prasutagus is aware of these visits he should hold the druid and send word to Colonia.’
‘Prasutagus is a good king and a good man, but his sword arm has weakened with age along with his mind. His strength now lies not on the throne, but beside the throne, where sits his wife Boudicca.’ Valerius remembered the name from the dinner at Lucullus’s villa. The painting of the surrender. ‘Queen Boudicca is not unsympathetic to the old religion. Even if Prasutagus were to seek out the druids it is unlikely he would find them.’
The Roman shook his head. This was the stuff of Paulinus’s nightmares. Celtic priests stirring the embers of rebellion in a subject tribe. A weak king with his queen at his side whispering treason in his ear. If, as Castus seemed to hint, the Cornovii and the Catuvellauni were rearming, all it would take was one spark to set the entire country ablaze.
‘There is a way,’ Cearan said and his eyes turned hard. ‘When Prasutagus dies ensure the right king succeeds him.’
Now Valerius saw it. He almost laughed. Did this handsome barbarian truly believe a lowly tribune could help him secure the crown of the Iceni?
But Cearan had read his thoughts. ‘Swords and gold. The two things that together equal power. With gold I can buy swords and the arms to wield them. I will bring you your druid and you will persuade the governor that Cearan would rule the Iceni not only as a client of Rome, but as a true ally of Rome.’ He brought his face close to Valerius. ‘You must believe me. I want no more Iceni sons gasping out their lives on some river bank for an impossible dream.’
Valerius took a step back as if distance would diminish the scale of his dilemma. Was the Briton merely another power-hungry barbarian lord? He would not be the first to try to bring down his chieftain with a subtle denunciation. But something told him Cearan was more than that. From the first he had sensed a deep honesty in the Iceni that set him apart. He carried his honour like a banner and Valerius had no doubt that he would die to defend it. But what could he do?
‘You ask the impossible. I have no access to the governor and even if I did he would dismiss this as a conspiracy against Prasutagus who has served Rome well. You talk of plots, but where is your evidence? A few cowherds’ tales of strangers in the night? Paulinus would have me whipped from his office.’
He expected Cearan to protest, but the Iceni only nodded impassively. ‘You are right, of course. I have been too concerned for my people’s welfare and do not fully understand your Roman ways. There is time. I believe Prasutagus will see out the winter, but, even if he does not, there will be no decision on his successor until after Beltane. This evidence you seek, what would it be?’
‘Bring me the druid. Then I will find you your gold and your swords.’
XVIII
Afterwards, he wasn’t sure whether Cearan had engineered it.
The Briton seemed content with the conclusion of their discussion and settled down to supervise the butchering of the two boars, but after a few moments he looked up at the sky, which was still a pale, watery grey. ‘My stomach tells me the eighth hour is close, even if the sun does not,’ he said. ‘They will bring the feast to the forest edge. We are almost finished here; why don’t you walk ahead and make sure the wolves don’t get to it first?’
‘Where food is concerned Lunaris is more dangerous than any wolf.’
‘Go then and keep him at bay,’ Cearan urged cheerfully. ‘Or I must eat one of these pigs raw.’
Valerius left the clearing and set off through the wood towards the rendezvous point. He wasn’t entirely sure of his direction and his head still spun with the effects of the ale and clamoured with images of slashing tusks and a gaping tooth-filled maw snapping within inches of his face. He tried to concentrate on what Cearan had said; the subtle nuances in his voice, the messages in his eyes that had accompanied them. These were not Romans he was dealing with, for all Lucullus’s Roman airs. Less than twenty years ago they had been sworn enemies of everything he believed in. How could he trust them after only a few months’ acquaintance?
Maeve stepped from the shadow of an ancient oak straight into his path and when she saw him her hand went to her mouth and her dark eyes opened wide in alarm. The young Roman who had set her heart fluttering at the villa had been replaced by a dishevelled, mud-stained vagabond in a torn shirt who stared at her with startled eyes. She noticed something else.
‘You’re bleeding!’
For the first time Valerius heard something more than polite concern in her voice. She dropped her cloth- wrapped bundle and rushed towards him. He let her come. He would explain that it was the boar’s blood later.
She stopped two paces away, wanting to take the next step but not quite knowing how to, and they stared at each other for a few interminable seconds. The long brown cloak she wore over the blue dress hid the curves of her body but couldn’t disguise the way her breasts rose and fell sharply with each breath. She had bound her soft chestnut hair in a long plaited tail that draped over her left shoulder. Valerius saw the confusion in her eyes and knew it must be mirrored in his own, but he feared any decision he made would break the spell. An image of the Temple of Claudius filled his head and he recalled the priest’s message. The thought made him giddy and he swayed slightly, a movement that made her instinctively step forward to support him. Then they were in each other’s arms.
For a moment each was surprised by the other’s strength. He held her close so the softness of her body melted against the hardness of his and her head rested lightly on his shoulder. At first, that was enough, but then warmth was transformed into heat and he felt her stiffen. She raised her head and looked up at him in surprise, so he could see the mysterious golden shadows deep in her eyes. Her lips were so close it would have taken only the slightest movement to meet them. Maeve felt the moment, too, but this unfamiliar heat deep within had disturbed her. It conjured up feelings she hadn’t realized could exist and half-flashes of something which couldn’t be memory, but which was remembered all the same. Her throat went dry and her heart pounded like the beat of a Samhain drum. Another second and she would be consumed. She stepped back.
‘You’re bleeding,’ she repeated, but now her voice was a husky croak.
‘It’s boar’s blood,’ Valerius said cheerfully.
‘Not your face,’ she frowned. ‘Your shoulder.’
Valerius glanced down and noticed for the first time the ragged tear in his tunic and a patch where the wool was considerably darker. ‘It’s a scratch,’ he claimed, gingerly touching the area.
‘How do you know if you haven’t looked at it?’ Her voice had recovered its authority now and overflowed with the resigned exasperation women use for men they think are idiots. ‘Take your shirt off.’
Valerius hesitated. This wasn’t going the way he had imagined it would.
‘I am a Celt, Valerius. I’ve seen men with their shirts off before.’
‘You haven’t seen me with my shirt off,’ he protested. ‘It would not be seemly.’
She gave an earthy laugh that drove all thoughts of staid Roman maidens from his head. ‘What you seemed to have in mind for me a few minutes ago would not have been seemly either.’
Valerius felt a rush of heat in his face. He was a twenty-two-year-old Roman officer and he was blushing.
‘Or are Romans different from Celtic men? If so I think I should find out… especially if we are to see each other again.’
She kept her face solemn, but her eyes sparkled with gentle humour. He caught her mood and grinned, pulling the woollen tunic over his head and placing it on the ground beside him.
The breath caught in her throat. Yes, she had seen men before, in their many shapes and sizes, but this was different. The young Roman’s torso was tanned a deep shade of honey and constant practice with sword and shield
