In the Shadow of the Wall (59 page)

At Brude’s request, he also managed to obtain certain small items; some sealing wax, some parchment, vellum and even a small papyrus scroll and writing implements. As a secretary, such things were easy to appropriate.

The short winter days were surprisingly mild after such a miserable summer. There was a brief cold snap in the middle of January, when the wind came from the east, bringing snow and ice in its wake, but that only lasted a few days. Generally, the weather was dull, overcast and sometimes wet. Cleon professed not to believe Brude that the sun did sometimes shine in Britannia.

He arrived at Caralugnus’ home late one afternoon and was admitted without question. He paid his respects to Caralugnus personally, exchanging some minor gossip with him. Cleon knew that Brude felt badly about hiding their plans from Caralugnus. The nobleman had been more than kind to them and they were abusing his hospitality, but he was also a Roman, even if he had been born and bred in Britannia, so they could not trust him not to betray them, if he learned of their plot.

Strolling through the atrium and on through the peristyle, Cleon saw the boy, Castatin, who reminded him so much of Brude in the way he acted and the questions he asked. The youngster ran to meet him and they climbed the steps together to find the others waiting for them in the large bedroom.

“I managed to get some more sealing wax,” said Cleon, handing over a stick of the hard, red wax. “Why on earth do you need so much?”

“Practice,” Brude replied with an enigmatic smile.

“Practice for what?”

“We have an imprint of Caracalla’s seal on the letter he gave us when we came south,” Brude explained. “Fothair is trying to carve a replica.”

“You are going to forge letters from Caracalla?” asked Cleon with surprise.

“Technically, we are only going to forge the seal. You are going to forge the letters.”

“Me?”

Brude laughed. “Sit down, Cleon, and don’t panic. All we need is someone who can write neatly in the manner of an imperial secretary. Nobody will know it is your writing.”

“But what am I to write?”

“All in good time,” said Brude. “Now, sit down so that we can tell you what we have done. Then you can tell us what you have learned.”

The discussion took a while because Brude still had to translate everything, but they were used to this by now. “We have found a local apothecary who stocks a wide range of herbs and medicines,” Brude told Cleon. “I’ve bought a lot of stuff from him, whether I need it or not, but among it I got a supply of what we need. It should not arouse any suspicions.”

“That is good.”

“Tomorrow Fothair, Castatin and I are taking our horses for a ride in the country.”

“In the middle of winter?”

“The weather’s quite mild and the horses have not had a decent run for months. The ostler only has them out for a short time every few days.”

“You plan to visit Caralugnus’ cousin, is that right?” Brude had already mentioned this part of the plan to Cleon.

“That’s right,” agreed Brude. “If he is as anti-Roman as Caralugnus says he is, I am hoping he will help us. There are some things we need which will be hard for us to get here.”

“Well, you had best get them quickly for I think I have found a way in for you.” Cleon was pleased with himself but forced himself to speak slowly, so that Brude could translate his ds for the others. “First of all, a bit of gossip. According to young Master Lucius, Geta was not all that pleased that his father recovered. It seems the emperor’s son is concerned that his older brother will have an opportunity to make a name for himself as a great general, which would, of course, mean that he would be popular with the legions.”

“More popular than Geta, you mean?”

“Exactly! Geta wants to go back to
Rome
before Caracalla builds too much of a reputation. He thought that he would get his way if his father died.”

“So he wants his own father dead?”

“Lucius may be exaggerating,” Cleon cautioned. “Let us assume that Geta would not be disappointed if his father were to die, although I don’t think we should necessarily count on him hastening the event. The empress is very much the one in charge in the imperial family and she wants her husband alive and well.”

“It would be too dangerous to approach Geta with an offer of arranging his father’s death, anyway,” said Brude.

“My thoughts exactly,” Cleon agreed. “So, let us move on. The emperor is suffering from gout and has great difficulty walking. He has had a room prepared on the ground floor, where he sleeps now.”

“Does that help?”

“It means the rooms are more easily reached, without going through the entire building.”

“So all we have to do is get in.”

“There is an adjoining room but it has been locked.”

“Then we need a key.”

Cleon nodded sadly. “I will see what I can do. But it will not be easy.”

“Do what you can,” Brude told him. “But don’t put yourself in danger.”

“Now you tell me!” Cleon laughed to try to cover his fear. “Just being around you is dangerous.”

So we may have a way in, but why the hurry?”

“Because the empress is holding a feast in twenty days’ time. She wants as many local dignitaries invited as possible. The place will be full of visitors coming and going.”

When Mairead heard this she protested, “Barabal’s child is due any day now. We need to wait until she is well enough to travel.”

“It will be the best chance we have,” Cleon told them. “The emperor usually retires early, so he will be alone in his room while the Principia is full of strangers. Everyone else will be at the feast.”

“We are not ready,” Fothair said gloomily.

“Then, let us try to be ready,” Brude announced. “We have a lot to do. Cleon is right. This sounds like the ideal opportunity. If we miss this, who knows when we might get another chance?”

Brude drove them on with a sense of urgency. Barabal’s child was due at any time so she was forced to stay in the house but Mairead began spending more of Brude’s dwindling supply of gold and silver in stocking up on travel clothes and making plans for departure. Caralugnus was disappointed when Brude told him they intended to leave, but he understood their desire to return home. He assured Brude that he would help in any way he could. “You have been too kind already,” said Brude.

Caralugnus dismissed the notion. “Let me know if there is anything else I can do,” he said. “I insist.” That made Brude feel even worse about deceiving the nobleman. He felt worse still when Caralugnus made them a present of a carriage and two horses because he was concerned about them travelling with a baby. “You should wait until the springtime,” he told Brude.

“Normally, we would,” said Brude, “but our people need us.” The gift of the carriage was far more than he had expected but Caralugnus insisted that they use it. It would make the first part of the journey easier, so Brude accepted it gratefully.

They continued to develop their plans in secret. As he had told Cleon, he rode out with Fothair and Castatin. The weather was still relatively calm for the time of year, the sky a clear, bright blue, though their breath steamed in the cold air. Caralugnus had told them roughly where his cousin lived so they headed off in search of the village, following trackways across the hills and dales. Brude had worried that they might have to try several times but they asked directions from a travelling tinker who told them how to get to the
village
of
Moritasgus
which they found by late morning.

Moritasgus was a great bear of a man who wore his hair and his moustache long, with his chin clean shaven in the British fashion. His home, a traditional Brigante village, was a cluster of roundhouses huddled alongside a stream at the foot of a hill, which was crowned with the ruins of an old hill fort. “The Romans destroyed the fort years ago,” he explained, “so we built our new village down here.” He was wary of them at first, because Brude looked and dressed like a Roman, but he soon warmed to them when he learned who they were. He invited them in to his roundhouse where they sat round the fire, drinking hot tisane while Brude explained what they wanted from him.

Moritasgus listened politely. When Brude was done, he said, thoughtfully, “You will not tell me why you need these things?”

“It would be safer for you if we do not,” Brude told him. “For us as well. The fewer people who know, the safer we will be.” He pulled a small leather pouch from inside his tunic, passing it over to the big Brigante chieftain. There was a clink of coins as Moritasgus took the bag. “A small gift,” Brude told him.

Moritasgus weighed the pouch in his hand. He smiled. “Not so small, I think. Silver or gold?”

“Both.”

Moritasgus laid the pouch at his side, unopened. “I thank you for your gift but there is no need of that. We will do as you ask because, despite the way you look, you are not Romans, and whatever it is you are up to, I suspect it will do them harm. We are able to do little to resist them these days. We lost many warriors, two summers past, and many villages were destroyed. My village was saved only thanks to my cousin persuading the Romans we were harmless.” He smiled a wolfish grin. “I don’t think they believed him, but they let us live. They settled for taking half our livestock and crops along with all our weapons.”

Brude grinned. It was no wonder the Romans had not believed Moritasgus was harmless. He was a big man who exuded an air of confidence and a certainty of violence if he was crossed. Seeing him, Brude could understand why the Romans had always had trouble keeping the Brigantes subdued. “So you have no weapons?” he asked, worried that this might affect Moritasgus’ ability to help.

The big Brigante laughed. “I said they took all our weapons. All the ones they could find, anyway. We have our own smith who makes tools and farming implements.” His bared teeth showed that the smith made more than just that. “Now tell me, when will this happen?”

“Probably in eighteen days from now. I will send my man Fothair to you, a few days before, to nfirm whether we are ready.”

Moritasgus’ eyebrows shot up in surprise. “That is not long.”

“If you cannot get what we need a few days before, we will have to change the plan.”

“It will not be easy,” said Moritasgus. “But if it can be done, we will do it.”

They clasped hands to seal their bargain. With that deal done, Brude began to dream that there was some hope of success after all.

Barabal’s labour began on the night before the old festival of Imbolc. The men were banished to a room on the lower floor where Caralugnus stayed up with them, while Mairead and some of the older slave women took charge. Fothair paced the room anxiously, much to Caralugnus’ amusement. The child was not even his, yet Fothair had promised to be a father so he worried about what was happening. Barabal had been unwell for almost her entire pregnancy and Fothair worried that the child would be a sickly one. Mairead had told him that the opposite was usually true, but he was not convinced.

Then, in the early hours of the morning, they heard a baby’s cry. Soon Mairead came down, saying with a grin, “It’s a girl. And she is fine.” Fothair dashed up the stairs. The others followed to find Barabal, tired and looking physically drained, with the baby wrapped up tight, lying contentedly beside her. “She is beautiful,” said Fothair. “And so big.”

“She is strong and healthy,” Mairead said. “Now you must decide on a name for her.”

Fothair exchanged a look with Barabal who nodded in response to his silent question. He told them, “That is easy. We will call her Seasaidh.”