‘Boudicca? But you said…’
‘I was wrong,’ Cearan admitted. ‘I have spoken to her. She understands her position and she sees the new reality as I do. Do not doubt me: she despises everything Rome stands for but she realizes that to serve her people best she must retain what they have. Better for Emperor Nero to take half the kingdom’s revenues than to have a Roman legion camped beneath our walls and Colonia’s quaestor dabbling in our politics.’
Valerius turned towards the watchers on the wall. Somehow he knew the queen would be there. As tall as any of the men around her, she stood in the centre, clad in a gown of emerald green, her flame-red hair dancing in the breeze. He couldn’t see her face, which was silhouetted against the low sun, but he had an impression of great strength, and though her eyes weren’t visible he knew they would be as fierce as any eagle’s.
Cearan’s voice was taut. ‘When the time comes you must tell the governor to favour her petition. Her daughters will be Prasutagus’s joint heirs but they are young and she will rule in their stead. She will make a better queen than Prasutagus is a king. The governor will not regret it.’
Valerius nodded. He would try. ‘And you?’
Cearan opened his mouth to reply but at that moment a shout came from behind them and Valerius looked round to see two young girls watching shyly from the corner of the town wall. Cearan called them across and introduced them.
‘Rosmerta.’ He indicated the taller of the two, a pretty red-haired child with a freckled face and an easy smile. ‘And this is Banna.’ The second girl must have been a year younger, probably around twelve, but Valerius could already see the signs that would mark her as a true beauty. She had a mane of blond hair and delicate features matched with startling green eyes. Both girls were dressed in light linen shifts and walked barefoot. Banna spoke to Cearan in her own language with a look that made Valerius wonder if she was about to stamp her feet.
‘I apologize.’ The Iceni bowed to his assailant. ‘She reminds me that she is Princess Banna and she wishes to be given a closer look at your horse, which she says makes mine look like a pack mule.’
Valerius smiled. ‘In that case I would be obliged if they would walk her to cool her down after her long ride and perhaps they would provide her with some oats,’ he said courteously.
Banna took the reins even before Cearan had completed his translation and the girls led the big cavalry horse away, chattering together animatedly.
‘Her daughters?’ Valerius asked. Cearan nodded. ‘They are very young.’
‘That is why they need your protection.’ He glanced towards the walls and Valerius realized at least one of the men he had named was there. ‘Your coming has placed me in great danger, but I still have the king’s favour — and the queen’s support. You need not fear for Cearan of the Iceni, my friend.’
Valerius reached out his hand and Cearan gripped his wrist in the Roman fashion.
‘My oath on it.’
The two men made a show of studying the individual horses of Cearan’s herd before Valerius retrieved his mount from the reluctant sisters, offering them his thanks. As they rode back, they found Lunaris and the other troopers watering their horses in a sheltered backwater of the swollen river under the hostile stares of a small group of unarmed Iceni warriors. A little way upstream Cearan’s grandson, now a muddy faced urchin only recognizable by his shock of golden hair, teased a family of ducks with a stick by the edge of the river.
‘Any trouble?’ Valerius asked, eyeing the warriors by the gate.
Lunaris grinned. ‘Nobody ever died from a dirty look, but I’ve had warmer welcomes.’
‘We ride for Colonia when the horses are rested.’
The big man nodded, but his face registered his disappointment. Valerius knew his troops had anticipated a hot meal, even a feast, and beer and a warm bed after four nights sleeping under their cloaks.
Cearan disappeared inside the gate and returned with a bulging sack which he handed to the duplicarius. ‘Perhaps this will make your journey seem a little shorter.’
Lunaris looked inside and smiled his thanks.
Cearan turned to Valerius. ‘Farewe-’
He was interrupted by a loud squeal of frustration from upriver and the two men turned to see Cearan’s grandson tottering on the bank of the river as he leaned precariously to reach the duck’s nest. A moment later a sharp cry rang out. The little boy disappeared in a fountain of dirty river water and the only evidence he had existed was a thatch of blond curls just visible in the torrent as it was carried towards them with incredible speed.
‘Tor!’ Cearan’s anguished cry spurred Valerius into action and he urged his horse towards the river. The instant he reached the bank he leapt from the saddle into the water, thanking the gods it was only knee deep at this point. Keeping hold of the reins for support and anchorage he hauled his protesting mount into the rushing flow, immediately feeling the current plucking at his legs and threatening to pull his feet from under him. The river was narrower here, but also swifter, and he knew if he went under in his armour he was unlikely to surface again. He glanced upstream. The boy was nowhere in sight. All he could see was a gushing, foam-flecked brown torrent. Then he spotted it, less than fifteen paces away and coming at him as fast as a galloping horse. A dull hint of gold just beneath the surface. With a thrill of panic he realized it would pass beyond his grasping hand, and he hauled desperately at the reins to give himself extra reach. He sent a silent prayer to Mars and even as he gave up hope he plunged forward with an enormous splash, reaching with his right arm, and came up with a handful of blond curls, followed by a squirming bundle that resembled a half-drowned hare.
Cearan flung himself from his horse and ran to the river just as Valerius emerged dripping wet with the little boy clutched to his chest, his eyes screwed tight shut and choking up river water in fountains. The Briton tenderly took his grandson from the Roman’s arms and nodded his thanks. ‘Now I am truly in your debt.’
XXI
Gwlym knew he was being followed. He had seen out the winter in a Catuvellauni roundhouse close to the place the Romans called Durobrivae, alternately starving and freezing, and looked upon with increasing resentment by his hosts. Boredom had corroded his brain and he fought it by whispering to himself the epic history of his people from the time of giants and the great flood. Generation after generation of fighting and suffering and always moving westwards. The endless name-lists of kings and mighty champions, tales of natural disaster and betrayal by peoples who were inferior but more numerous. It was this prodigious memory which had been recognized by the druids when he was chosen at the age of nine to study among them and be trained in the rites. He remembered the long days of repetition and testing as he prepared for the trials of Taranis, Esus and Teutates. Now he called on the same power that had carried him through that horror. Sometimes he felt so tired he suspected his body was dying from lack of will: only his mission and the inner fire kindled on Mona kept him alive.
For the past week he’d noticed the forest gradually thinning as he travelled further east and he knew he must maintain his vigilance or he’d end up in the hands of one of the Roman cavalry patrols which seemed more numerous here. Strange Romans, dark-eyed and heavy-browed, seemingly part man and part horse for they never left the saddle. That thought had brought him another vision, a man with a horse’s face, long and narrow with prominent nostrils and protruding teeth. A memorable face, and yet it was only now he remembered he had seen it twice, at different gatherings separated by several weeks and many miles. The thought sent a shiver through him. He knew he wouldn’t last a week without the silence of those who took him into their homes.
He entered an area of scrubby trees, low and thin-trunked but with broad canopies. The trees told him he was close to a river or a stream and with the sun close to its high point he decided to stop to eat his meagre rations, rest, and above all think. He realized belatedly that he’d been careless over the past few days, travelling in a direct line towards his next destination. It was a sign of his tiredness but also of something more. He’d always known he was likely to die before he had completed his task. Now it seemed his mind had accepted it as inevitable and was reaching out to it. He must become hard again, rediscover the iron which had been tempered in the flames of Mona’s fiery chamber. Careful not to disturb the vegetation, he moved fifty paces away from the path and deeper into the trees and bushes.
He waited for an hour, sitting in the shadow of a hawthorn bush with nothing in his ears but the buzz of flying insects and the crunch of his teeth on the gritty corn cakes he’d been given at the last farm. Perhaps he was wrong? But no, he knew with certainty he was being trailed. Who were they? Roman spies? It was possible. Every
