The Eagle and the Raven (18 page)

“I will not waste your time,” the man said. “I want to speak with you alone.”

Cinnamus laughed, a harsh, rude bark of mirthless contempt, but the man seemed not to be offended when Caradoc shook his head. “No chief receives a guest alone,” he said. “And no chief discusses any affair alone. All business belongs to the tuath and the Council.”

The man shrugged, a movement that stopped just short of disdain. “In that case, I would like your woman to leave. Women have wagging tongues, do they not?” His inviting, sympathetic smile met cold stares. Eurgain gave no sign of having heard, but Caradoc was very glad that it was not Vida who stood quietly in the shadows.

“She is my wife,” he said coldly. “She is a full member of the Council, with her own honor-price. State your business.”

“Very well. I bring you an offer, and a warning.” They waited, and Eurgain’s hands were stilled as she brought herself into a state of full concentration, forcing away from her consciousness every thought of her own, as the Druithin had taught her father, long ago. “We in Rome know of your doings, Caradoc,” he went on kindly. “We have watched your accession to power within your tribe, and your rapid expansion. We do not deny you the right to live as you wish,” he said hurriedly, seeing the dawning annoyance on Caradoc’s face, “but we cannot be blamed for worrying when we see our traders idle and the good commerce there once was between Cunobelin and ourselves slipping into chaos. Even so, with you yourself here in Camulodunon, we had little to fear. But now…” He paused, drank deliberately, fingered his jaw again. “Now your brother sits in Verulamium, planning your downfall, and it is time to offer you our help.”

His words dropped into their midst like bolts hurled from a legion’s ballistate, and Cinnamus and Caelte exclaimed in shock. Caradoc sprang to his feet. Only Eurgain remained still, feeling no emotion, registering the words with automatic and cool skill. “Explain yourself!” Caradoc snarled. “What is your source?” and the man waved his arms gently.

“Oh come, Lord,” he chided. “We are men of the world. Not all traders are traders. Some are spies, and you know this well. Why should I deny it? My spies came to me from Verulamium yesterday, while I sat in my ship at the mouth of your river. They told me that Togodumnus, your brother, does not intend to fight the Iceni or the Dobunni in the spring. He intends to fight you.”

With a monumental effort of the will, Caradoc kept his face blank. He slid back onto his chair, crossed his legs, dropped his gaze so that the man should not see his pain. He was hearing the truth, he knew it. This man’s presence here was all the proof he needed. The draft from his door found his legs, and suddenly he shivered with cold. “And your offer?” he managed. The man drained his cup and leaned forward, lacing his fingers.

“Let us help you, Caradoc. You are an honest man, a good fighter, a worthy leader. Your brother is flighty, unstable, and thoroughly untrustworthy. You and I do not want to see him as ricon here at Camulodunon. If that happened, Rome would have to say farewell to her trade, and that would be a great pity. I am empowered to offer you aid. You may have gold, as much as you need to buy help from other tribes. And you may call upon any legion you choose from Gaul, to swell your ranks. The legatus legionis and you would work and fight together until Togodumnus is defeated and trade is safe.”

Caradoc felt himself begin to smile grossly, idiotically, while his muscles tightened into one screaming, cataleptic knot. Of course, of course. Oh Camulos, what do I do? What do I say? He forced his mouth to obey him, and slowly he stopped smiling. “What agreement would be arranged?” he asked. The man’s hand went to his plunging jaw again.

“There would be a treaty, naturally. Even friends sign treaties to avoid any dispute. There would be a paper, Caradoc. We would promise gold and soldiers. You would promise to promote all trade as well as you could when Togodumnus was…defeated.” He rose, holding out his hand, and Caradoc took his wrist, sure that the distaste he felt would surge through his fingers. “Think about it,” the man said. “And then send me word. My ship is anchored in the estuary and I shall wait there. But do not take too long. Your brother will strike before the trees have come to full leaf.” He expected no comment. He smiled again, a trifle superciliously, glanced around the room once more, and was gone. Caradoc sat still, and neither Cinnamus nor Caelte moved either. Eurgain left her cloth on the table and came and sat opposite her husband, her face still immobile and her hands limp. Caradoc spoke to her.

“Now, Eurgain,” Caradoc said, his voice low, “repeat the conversation back to me, word for word.” She closed her eyes and began to recite in a low, singsong voice, the sound without expression and without pause, and Caradoc, listening, folded his arms and leaned on the table, his eyes on the wine jug. When she had finished he asked her to go over it again. Then he reached out and stroked her cheek. “Put your thoughts to work on your words now, Eurgain. How do you interpret the man?” Cinnamus squatted on the brown skins before the fire, his hands loosely joined, staring into it, and Caelte went and leaned against the wall, his thumbs in his belt and his lively face solemn.

“He is not an equite,” she said frankly, “for equites do not do his kind of work. He is a patrician. He is also a truth-sayer and a liar.” Cinnamus nodded once, and she went on. “He speaks the truth when he says that Tog is planning to take your head and become ricon this spring. He lies when he offers only aid.”

“What else do you divine?”

She hesitated, glancing around at them. “I divine that he showed us only the trunk of a vast network of deep-hidden roots.”

Cinnamus laughed. “Eurgain, you sound now like one of the Druithin. But I agree with you. He is no ordinary spy. He is an emissary from Rome. But what is his true purpose?”

Caradoc hushed them then, and sat gazing before them, a frown on his face. He was afraid—of Tog, of Rome, of the decision he must make. If he accepted the offer, then by the late summer Tog would be dead and he would be ricon alone, ruling without challenge. But why should Rome send good soldiers to die on behalf of one small chief living at the ends of the earth? He had dismissed the excuse of the worsening trade situation as soon as it was mooted. Why? Why?

“What indeed?” Caelte said, as if reading the question in Caradoc’s thought. “There is no sense to it, particularly as Caligula did not dare to cross the water and oppose us. Is this a new way of conquest, a more devious way?”

He had put his finger on the bruised wound of Caradoc’s own fear. Caradoc got up. “Cinnamus, run to the stable and get us horses. Eurgain, go to Gladys. Tell her what has passed here and ask her for her wisdom. Caelte, you and I and Cinnamus will go now to Verulamium, and talk to my brother.”

Eurgain protested in shock. “No, Caradoc! If you go without a Druid, Tog will seize the opportunity to kill you and save himself much bloodshed. If you must go, at least send freemen for a Druid!”

“There is no time to sit here while freemen go bumbling about the forests searching for men who avoid us as though we carry a disease,” he replied.

“Then let me come with you. Tog will not strike you down before my eyes.”

“Eurgain,” he said patiently, while Cinnamus ran out and Caelte went to summon Fearachar. “If Tog means to kill me he will do it whether you are there or not. But I do not think I am in danger, at least not once he has heard my tale.” He kissed her swiftly, absently.

She did not respond, but when he reached the door she said evenly, “Do not forget one thing.”

“What?”

“The man said nothing about Adminius.”

And there it was. Caradoc felt like a jeweler, fitting tiny pieces of bright enamel onto a silver necklace. All the pieces were there, but he could not make the pattern fit until Eurgain came and gently rearranged the tiles. She knew what she had said. The implications were there, behind the steady blue eyes. She had already faced them and tucked them away under the mantle of her unflinchable assurance, but they flew at Caradoc like driving hail.

“It cannot be,” he said after a moment, and she laughed cynically.

“Oh yes it can. How many times has Rome failed to best Albion? Too many times for her vaunted dignity.”

Caradoc did not look at her again. He ran out the door, pausing only to tell Fearachar to keep watch for Llyn, then he fled to the gate where his chiefs and the horses waited, muffled against the wind.

They spent two nights sleeping under the eaves of the great oak forest that stalked away beyond Verulamium and into the Atrebates country, propitiating the goddess of the place before they curled up in their blankets. The following evening, when a shy, hesitant rain began to patter on their cloaks, they rode up to the earthwalls of Verulamium. The gate was still open but the gateguard hovered outside, sword drawn, and would not let them through until Caradoc shouted in exasperation, “Look at me man! You know me well enough! I am Caradoc, your lord!”

“Togodumnus is my lord,” he retorted sullenly, his surly face full of suspicion, but he moved aside and they dismounted, leading the horses under the gate and up the steep, winding path.

“The freemen have been busy,” Caelte remarked in an undertone, noting the crumbled breeches in the wall, which had been hurriedly repaired with fresh earth, the great stones heaped waiting to be fitted where the lip of the defences frowned above them. His companions did not reply, but Caradoc drew his sword. The town was quiet. Smoke streamed from the thatched roofs, and firelight patched golden across their feet as they strode past the doorways. At last they rounded the final bend and found Togodumnus. He was standing cloakless in the quickening rainfall, hands on slim hips, with his attendants behind him. They were watching two chiefs who grunted and slashed at each other in the fading light. He heard them coming and turned, but he did not smile. His chiefs drew their swords, clustering tight around him, their mutters a threatening rumble, and Caradoc and Cinnamus looked questioningly at each other. This strange suspicion was unexpected. At a word the horses were led away and Togodumnus walked to Caradoc, arm outstretched, the words of greeting coming cold and fast, and Caradoc struck his arm away. “How dare you greet me as a guest or a strange emissary, Tog, in my own territory! What is the matter with you? Why all this hostility? I nearly killed the gateguard for his rudeness.”

Beyond Togodumnus the two chiefs fought on oblivious, until one of them jumped back with a howl and the assembly shouted excitedly, “First blood!” Togodumnus scowled. “And why do you walk my paths with sword drawn, Caradoc? What are you doing here?” His eyes left Caradoc’s face, flicked to his chiefs and back again, and Caradoc tensed, seeing a dozen calculating thoughts go flashing through the agile mind.

“I must speak with you alone, Tog. Do not molest me until you have heard my words.” Suddenly Togodumnus chuckled and embraced him lightly. “I will hear, but I may still kill you,” he said. “And not alone, of course. News is a matter for all.”

“Not this time,” Caradoc said, and the smile left Tog’s face to be replaced by a huffy offence. “I need to talk alone with you, just you and me, Tog. My chiefs will wait outside with your chiefs, and all swords will be put together in an accepted place. I do not bring news for the tuath.”

“What do you bring, then?” Togodumnus spat. The men shrieked, “Second blood!” and Tog swung away, striding to the panting, bloodstreaked men who leaned on their shields. “The dog is yours, Gwyllog,” he said harshly. “The affair is settled. No more blood.” Then he turned back. “Tell your men to lay their swords here,” he pointed to the ground, “but my men will not do this. Verulamium is my fortress. Also, you will be searched.”

“Has he lost his head?” Cinnamus whispered angrily in Caradoc’s ear. “Anyone would think we were Icenians or Brigantians!”

“Stand away, Ironhand,” Togodumnus called. “No secrets.” He jerked his head at one of his chiefs and the man walked quickly to Caradoc, sheathing his sword.

“Step away, Cin,” Caradoc said, and Cinnamus took two stiff, slow strides.

“Search him,” Tog called again, and the man bent, his face composed, indifferent, his hands roving surely round Caradoc’s belt, under his tunic, in his hair. Then he shook his head and went back to his place while Caradoc felt the color mount in his face. He hung on to his temper and gritted his teeth, wishing he had not come. Then Togodumnus waved at him airily and disappeared through the doorskins at his back, and Caradoc followed, feeling utterly defenceless. One word from Tog, and Cinnamus and Caelte would be dead and himself a hostage.

The room was dry and warm, but very dirty. Tog’s clothes and weapons lay strewn over floor and bed. An oil lamp flickered, sending a stream of black smoke to the ceiling, for no one had bothered to trim it. A half-eaten piece of pork lay in a pool of grease on the table, and a full jug of wine was beside it. Togodumnus walked swiftly to the table and poured for both of them, but Caradoc had to go and get his own cup. Neither of them toasted. They drained the cups silently, pouring the dregs on the floor for Verulamium’s god, then refilled the cups, not looking at each other. Togodumnus flung himself into his chair, waving irritably at his brother. “Oh sit down, Caradoc, and stop watching me out of the corner of your eye. Tell me your business and then go away.”

But Caradoc remained on his feet, the door on his right hand and the fire on his left. He held the cup tightly in both hands, searching the thin, handsome face before him and seeing only petulance and a gleam of madness in the light brown eyes. “I have had a strange visitor,” he said at length, and Tog did not move. He just went on staring, and Caradoc knew that his thoughts were on his armed chiefs waiting outside and a quick, easy slaughter. He decided to tell it all quickly before Togodumnus’s restless body demanded action. “A Roman spy came to me, Tog, a man dressed as a trader. He told me that you are planning war against me this spring. He offered me soldiers and money with which to defeat you.” The light eyes darkened in surprise. Togodumnus blinked and sat up. “He said that Rome is concerned for her trade with us, and if you and I fought and I was defeated there would be no more commerce. He said…he said that you were flighty and untrustworthy and would be a most unreliable ricon, from Rome’s point of view.” The last words rushed headlong into the room and flittered, dying swiftly. There was a long, pregnant pause. Then Togodumnus began to smile. The thin lips spread wide, the gleaming white teeth glinted at Caradoc. He began to laugh. He got up and staggered about the room, holding his belly. He came and fell against Caradoc, wrapping his long arms about him, smothering him in brown hair, and still he laughed. Finally he managed to control himself. He poured more wine and sat down again, tears of mirth wet on his cheeks, and Caradoc watched him without surprise. He knew Tog’s every mood, every impulse to laughter or rage, the one often following the other, and he knew that the only permanence to be found under Tog’s erratic, dazzling dances of temperament was his complete instability. No one was safe around him. Caradoc’s sense of danger deepened.