Claudius (11 page)

Not daring to look back, he took a diagonal course across the hill-side. He understood he was leaving his back exposed to Dafyd’s spear point, and his spine anticipated its agonizing punch with every step. But he prayed to Jupiter that the Briton would not gamble on a single cast; that he would want to slay his father’s enemy with his father’s sword. He could hear the young warrior grunting not far behind him as he tried to keep pace. Now Rufus gave thanks for all the long hours he had spent in training with Cupido. He could outrun Dafyd if he could only stay on his feet in this rough ground.

But there were some things he couldn’t outpace. The stone whistled by his ear so close he felt the wind of its passing. He dared a glance to his right and almost gave in to despair. Beside a crumbling earthwork two horsemen – no, three – were visible on the brow of the hill, riding parallel to his course. He tried to visualize his position. Dafyd behind him with another man, possibly two. The horsemen on the hilltop would keep pace, cutting off his escape route. All they had to do was continue the chase until they wore him down. Then he was dead. Not up, then. Down? He darted to his right and took the slope at a headlong gallop, plunging through the trees and into the rocky gully below, knowing that the slightest stumble could leave him at the mercy of his hunters. The sudden move caught Dafyd by surprise and he felt a thrill of hope as he heard the warrior’s roar of frustration. Instantly, he turned back downstream, praying the abrupt change of course would gain him another few vital seconds. He had no idea what he would do next. No plan. Only understood that every second he stayed alive increased the chances of keeping him that way. It must be close to nightfall and the darkness that would cloak him from his enemies for at least a few hours.

The sides of the gully were a blur; his feet danced over the stones and the boulders, occasionally dipping into the chill waters of the little stream. When the stocky warrior who had accompanied Dafyd stepped into his path it was too late to stop or even turn aside. The man grinned in anticipation as he waited with his sword held high, ready to chop Rufus down in his headlong rush. Flailing desperately, the young Roman tried to stop himself, but his left foot skidded on a weed-covered stone and he flipped upside down, soaring through the air until he landed on his back in the middle of the stream. As he lay winded, with the cool waters flowing around him, he knew death was coming, but he had lost the will to evade it. He opened his eyes. The sword point was poised less than an inch from his face. An impossibly long way above it the owner held the pommel two-handed, ready to plunge the blade into his brain. For a second, his mind filled with visions of Gaius and Bersheba and the freedom that would never be his, but a barked command brought him out of his death reverie. Dafyd! Of course Dafyd wouldn’t let him die by another man’s hand. Rough hands hauled him to his feet and turned him to face his executioner.

The Celt stood over him like a young god, his chest heaving and his body bronzed by the sun. Beside him, Rufus felt bedraggled and somehow unworthy as he swayed, dripping into the stream. He remembered the death he had been promised, and hoped it would be quick. Perhaps he should kneel, and Dafyd might consider taking his head off with one merciful blow, rather than the gutting stroke he appeared to be preparing for. Rufus had seen men die from stomach wounds and it wasn’t an experience he was eager to share. His whole body began to shake in anticipation of the terrible violation about to be done it.

Dafyd smiled and spat in his face before launching into a rambling monologue which must have been some paean he had composed to his father. Rufus closed his eyes. Get on with it! Please. Just get on with it. The words ran through his head, over and over again. Was this how Fronto had felt when he watched Caligula’s executioners folding the chains with which they were about to beat him to death? He tried not to cry. Not to plead. But the tension was becoming too much. Was the last thought he would take to the Otherworld that the Celts would never use one word where ten would do just as well?

There was a sharp ‘thunk’ close by: the wet sound of a butcher chopping a piece of beef. At first he thought Dafyd must have struck and that his body was declining to pass on the message. Then something splashed into the river beside him. He looked down to see the staring eyes and gasping mouth of the warrior who had been at his back. The man was struggling and wriggling like a beached fish in the reddening water and his hands flapped helplessly at the emerald-flighted arrow buried in his throat.

Rufus glanced up into Dafyd’s face. The astonishment in the Briton’s eyes mirrored his own. As the young warrior hesitated, something flashed over his shoulder and fell into the water at Rufus’s feet. It was one of the long swords the Celts used, a twin to the one in Dafyd’s right hand. Slowly, never taking his eyes from his enemy, Rufus bent to pick it up.

‘Now we’ll see if you can fight as well as you can talk, Roman.’ Verica was sitting casually on a large rock a few feet behind Dafyd to his right. The British warrior half turned in surprise at the sound of the voice. He stared at the Atrebate prince and then his eyes flickered to the man with the arrow in his throat, who now lay deathly still, before finally returning to Rufus. Without warning he swung his sword in a mighty, sweeping slash that was designed to cut his opponent clean in half. Rufus was momentarily distracted by Verica’s unlikely appearance, and the contest should have been over in a single blow. But the British blades were heavy and the cut was laboured, and he was given a fraction of a second that allowed him to step back as the edge missed him by the width of a piece of parchment. The power Dafyd had invested in the blow made him stumble and that gave Rufus time to take the measure of his opponent. They were of a similar height and reach, but the Briton was undoubtedly the stronger, and Rufus realized that strength could be a deciding factor in this contest. He was outmatched, and he knew it, but strangely he felt no fear. Somewhere, he knew, Cupido was watching over him, and that was enough.

He caught Dafyd’s next cut on the blade of his own sword with a ringing clash that echoed from the valley walls, and the power of it almost broke his wrist, confirming his earlier judgement. In this kind of fight the stronger man would simply bludgeon his weaker opponent until his guard was overwhelmed. It was the British way. But Rufus didn’t fight the British way; he fought Cupido’s way.

For the next few attacks he allowed Dafyd to force him backwards. It was a dangerous strategy and it was all he could do to stay alive, parrying thrusts and roundhouse cuts with deft movements of his sword that deflected the Briton’s blade without allowing it to bring its whole power against his own. With each step he tested the ground beneath his feet. He understood he couldn’t win on these treacherous, slippery rocks that could have a man on his back and at the mercy of his enemy before he knew it. He needed firm ground and he thought he knew where to find it.

Just below the point where his path had been blocked he remembered a flat area of dry sand beside a deeper pool. Every step he retreated took him closer to it. But every step he took also increased Dafyd’s confidence, and the more confident the Briton grew, the more dangerous he became. Rufus heard Verica hoot as one thrust ripped a hole in his tunic and came close to disembowelling him. Bastard! He’d teach him a lesson – if he survived. Still the same weed-slick rocks. Make it soon. Make it . . . Sand. Lovely, firm, packed sand. He almost smiled, but Cupido never smiled. Cupido only killed. Three more steps and he was ready. The British way was raw power. Cupido’s way was speed. Now Rufus could move, dancing away and around his opponent, knowing no slippery pebble was going to betray him. Dafyd snarled his frustration and turned to follow him. When the Briton’s sword swung it found only air, and each fumbling stroke opened his defences to Rufus’s counter-attack. But it was still too soon. Rufus made no attempt to take the fight to his opponent. His own sword was as heavy as Dafyd’s and he knew the weight would sap his strength as it was already sapping the Briton’s. He was content to twist and turn, keeping his distance and watching the anger and the confusion grow in Dafyd’s eyes. One chance. He only needed one chance.

But so did the young Catuvellauni, and over-confidence was Rufus’s enemy just as it was Dafyd’s. In the next instant, the Briton twisted left when he should have turned right and luck brought him within range of Rufus with a low cut that would have hamstrung the Roman if he hadn’t jumped two-footed into the air. Enough.

That was the moment Dafyd came for him with all the speed of a charging leopard. The Briton’s arms were numbed by the constant labour and his legs were beginning to tire. He knew he had to strike soon. This time Rufus let him come, and when Dafyd raised his sword to strike the Roman made a disguised thrust towards the British warrior’s exposed throat. Now it was Dafyd’s turn to step back, slightly off balance. As he did, Rufus deftly switched his sword from his right hand to his left. Cupido had been expert with a sword in either hand and it was the first skill he had taught Rufus in their endless sessions in the Palatine gardens. He had never become as adept as the gladiator with either right or left, but he had learned enough. He saw the confusion on Dafyd’s face turn to panic as the Briton saw danger from an unexpected angle and was forced to make the awkward parry Rufus had been waiting for. The young Roman screamed in triumph. Now.

It was a terrible blow. A fearful blow delivered with all the strength of fear and anger and frustration. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be in danger and he didn’t want to kill. But if he must he would. He swung the blade from low to his left beneath the pathetic defence of Dafyd’s flailing sword, using the power of his wrist to sweep upwards, turning and twisting the blade as it went. The razor edge took the young Briton in the V where his legs met and sliced up through soft flesh and hard bone, through muscle and sinew, and up again through offal and lung until with a sudden wrench Rufus ripped it through his enemy’s already dying heart. It was as if Dafyd had exploded. Blood and torn guts erupted from the obscene cavity the long sword had created. The Briton’s life fled from him in a moment of horror that transformed him from a bronzed young god into a grey-faced, drooling old man; the way his father must have been when the legionaries took away his life in the battle of the valley. The thing that had been Dafyd collapsed backwards into the pool, where the current slowly turned him, dead face to the skies, arms spreadeagled, until he floated gently away, to be caught between two boulders in the shallows a little downstream.

Rufus stood for a moment, unmoving. He felt something growing in him, something untameable, primeval. He turned. To kill Verica.

‘That was an interesting move – you must teach it to me. I—’ The Atrebate was walking towards Rufus across the sand, but when he saw the look in the Roman’s hooded eyes he stopped in mid-stride and mid-sentence. It was followed by a long awkward moment when Verica knew with certainty that this gore-stained young slave held his life in his hands.

The spell was broken by a rattle of hooves that heralded the arrival of a dark-skinned young man with a wispy beard. He was wearing the distinctive pot helmet and green tunic of the Syrian auxiliary cavalry unit attached to the Second Augusta. Across his back was slung a short curved bow and he rode one horse while leading two others. From his saddle hung two heads that bore all the signs of having been recently harvested.

Rufus felt everything in his body slip down into his legs and it was suddenly difficult enough to stand, never mind kill Verica. The Atrebate saw the light of murder die in Rufus’s eyes and felt the liquid feeling in his stomach fade away. He let out a long sigh, and realized he’d been holding his breath for a full minute.

He laughed, but it came out high-pitched and nervous. ‘This is Hanno,’ he said, indicating the man on the horse. ‘He can put an arrow through your eye at two hundred paces. He spotted the men tracking you. He saved your life, but you can thank him later.’

Rufus swayed. His head was spinning, but he knew there was something important he had to say. He searched his mind for the word. ‘Caratacus . . .’ he croaked finally, and Verica’s eyes widened in interest.

‘You have seen Caratacus? I think that will be important to Narcissus, and to the general. We should return immediately, then.’

‘Caratacus wanted me dead.’

Verica frowned and splashed his way through the stream towards Dafyd’s body. He reached down and held the head up by the blood-sodden hair. ‘Not Caratacus. I recognize this cur. Knew his father. See the tattoo, the way the pattern forms the outline of a hare? His clan is of the Catuvellauni, but their loyalties have long been in the keeping of Togodumnus.’ He spat. ‘Caratacus’s older brother. If these men tried to kill you it was at his behest, not Caratacus’s. Move, elephant man.’ Hanno dismounted to give Rufus a helping hand on to the big Roman cavalry mount. ‘Unless I miss my guess you’ve just become someone worth keeping alive.’

XIV

Verica led them back to the mouth of the gully, where they were met by a dozen other Syrians. ‘We had given you up for dead when we found the forage wagons,’ the Briton explained. ‘It was obvious that the detachment had been ambushed, but the attackers nailed one of the legionaries upside down to a tree just in case we didn’t get the message.’

‘What did he look like?’ Rufus interrupted. For some reason it seemed important.

Verica shrugged. ‘Dead. Blond-haired. Young. One eye looking at you and the other one somewhere else.’

Agrippa. So he at least had been spared the fire.

It was full dark by the time they reached the day’s encampment and Verica approached cautiously, shouting the password as he rode. They swung past the earth barrier in front of the main gateway and for the first time in forty-eight hours Rufus felt safe. The only thing he wanted now was to get back to his son. Instead, Verica insisted they go directly to Narcissus’s tent in the headquarters section.

Claudius’s freedman sat hunched over a tiny folding table, scratching with a metal
stylus
on a wax writing tablet by the light of the smoking oil lamp. When he saw Rufus, his tired eyes lit up with pleasure. ‘So, you survived. I told them you would. Verica here wanted to give up the search, but I insisted, didn’t I, Verica? What was it you said? “They will leave none alive, especially not a miserable worm of a slave whose only purpose is to shovel elephant dung.” He has such an elegant turn of phrase, don’t you think? Verica was of the opinion that they would sacrifice every Roman prisoner, yet plainly they did not?’ Narcissus was smiling, but there was a question in his voice and the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘Why was that, do you think?’

Rufus shook his head to clear it. ‘They said they wanted a messenger.’

‘Clearly not a messenger to the gods, so your message must be for the general. And whom, pray, is the message from?’

‘Caratacus.’

Five minutes later he stood before Aulus Plautius, commander of the British invasion. Rufus knew that Vespasian, legate of the Second, had a reputation for sharing his soldiers’ hardship. Plautius was an entirely different animal.

An elderly slave carefully washed Rufus’s feet at the doorway of the huge cloth pavilion which was erected for the general at the end of each day’s march. Soft slippers were placed on his feet and with Narcissus at his side he was escorted across woven carpets to Plautius’s inner sanctum. The general sat in a padded chair at a large wooden desk, behind which hung a wide drawing of what Rufus realized must be the outline of southern Britain. Much of the map was blank, but he knew that each day of the campaign more and more of it would be filled in as the scouts and reconnaissance patrols brought in their reports of a valley here, a village or a hill fort there; of forests that might or might not be impenetrable. Of wide rivers. It was the rivers that interested Plautius.

The general raised his head as they entered, spearing the intruders with granite-chip eyes in the face of a startled eagle. He wore his grey hair cropped tight and Rufus could see the pink indent his helmet had created on his forehead during the day’s march. It was rumoured the general wore the richly decorated helm even in his sleep, and the young slave was mildly surprised to see him without it. An aide waved them forward, while another entered behind them and scuttled past to update the map with another report. Rufus could see a red line snaking across it from what must be the coast at Rutupiae. He thought it would be longer. As he watched, the second aide carefully drew a ribbon of blue directly across the column’s line of march.

‘You said you had urgent news for me, Master Narcissus. This,’ Plautius waved a dismissive hand towards Rufus, ‘does not appear to be worthy of that title.’

Rufus became acutely aware of his dishevelled appearance. The ragged British clothing stained by Dafyd’s lifeblood; the fact that he had not washed for three days, and that the physical manifestation of his earlier terror seemed to be that he stank like a polecat. But Narcissus was well versed in the etiquette of the Emperor’s court. He smiled his acceptance of the Roman commander’s judgement.

‘That is very true, General, but appearances can be deceptive. This young man is the keeper of the Emperor’s elephant, which you know has an honoured position in the mighty force you have brought to this land. He has also recently been a guest of one you wish to know better.’

Plautius raised his head; a predator sniffing the scent of his day’s meal.

‘Caratacus.’

The general’s face broke into a smile that was even more frightening than his normal expression. ‘Tell me everything you know about this man.’

In a way it was a mirror image of his interrogation at the hands of the British king; shorter, but equally disconcerting. Rufus would describe an element of his meeting with the enemy leader. Plautius would stare at him with the utmost concentration before firing out a series of staccato questions. ‘Did his people look thin, undernourished? Were their weapons well cared for? How many warriors did you see? What were their tribes?’

The Roman commander was so fixated on the character and the mettle of his opponent that it was some time before he realized he had neglected to discover one important point. He frowned. ‘And how did this meeting come about?’

Rufus related his tale of the ambush and of regaining consciousness inside the Wicker Man. And what followed. As he finished he heard a retching sound as one of the young aides was sick outside the pavilion doorway. Plautius stared in disgust. ‘Have that man replaced. I have no room for weaklings in my command.’ He studied Rufus with new respect. ‘It seems the gods protect you, or fortune favours you. I can make use of that kind of fortune. You march with Vespasian?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I may call on you and your elephant. Be ready.’ Rufus bowed, and he and Narcissus turned towards the doorway. ‘There is one more thing.’ Rufus froze. He knew what was coming. Plautius’s tone was mild, but his innocuous words carried the threat of a death sentence. ‘You were with this Caratacus for almost twenty-four hours?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Yet in all that time he never questioned you upon our dispositions or our intentions?’

Rufus felt Narcissus tense at his side. ‘He questioned me, sir, but I did not know the answers to his questions. I am only a slave. I care for the Emperor’s elephant and I do my duty. I know nothing of strategy or the intentions of great men.’

Plautius stared at him for a long moment, the gimlet eyes attempting to see into his soul. Then, not quite satisfied, he nodded his dismissal. They had walked twenty paces from the pavilion, along a lantern-lined pathway and past the outer ring of the commander’s personal bodyguard, before Rufus dared breathe. Narcissus laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You have missed your vocation, young Rufus. You should have been on the stage. Now come with me to my tent.’

Rufus protested that he needed to return to his son, if for no better reason than to show the boy he was alive.

‘Nonsense,’ Narcissus insisted. ‘I have already sent word of your unlikely survival and that the general seeks your counsel. We will share a flask of good wine, for I think you need it, and you will reveal to me what truly passed between you and this Caratacus. Hold nothing back, for it could be vital to our endeavours. You may trust me.’

The words sent a shiver through Rufus. Every time he trusted Narcissus someone died.

Two hours later he was not quite drunk, but not quite sober either. Waves of exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him, but every time he tried to leave Narcissus found some new morsel about Caratacus to chew over. ‘So, King Caratacus is aware that our Emperor hounds his servant, Aulus Plautius, and demands an early victory.’

It was only a rumour, Rufus tried to say – but by now coherent speech was beyond his powers – I betrayed no one.

Narcissus stared at him, and his eyes, normally so expressionless, were filled with fire. ‘You have done your Emperor a true service by staying alive. What you have told me may have great bearing on the success of this enterprise. If I read it right you have dealt our enemy a blow at least as great as was dealt to them on the day of the ambush. Go now to your family. You may tell your companions of your experiences and of your interview with Plautius, but say nothing of our talk.’

Rufus didn’t go directly to Gaius; he had another duty to perform first. Bersheba scented him when he was many yards away, raised her trunk and welcomed him with a series of gentle grunts. He stood with her for a while talking quietly and feeding her from the supply of sweet little apples, until the turmoil in his mind calmed and he felt ready for sleep. Gaius lay in Britte’s arms on a blanket in the bullock cart. He kissed his son’s head, marvelling as always at the silky softness of his russet hair, then lay down at his side, exhausted beyond life itself. He feared he would dream of pain and death, but he dreamed only of a great and glorious victory. Which was the same thing.