The Eagle and the Raven (28 page)

The doorskin was pushed back and she rose quickly. There were epaulettes, and colored horsehair in the curved helmet. It was a tribune. “You have a request?” he asked her briskly, and she nodded.

“I want to walk about a bit, take exercise. Please give me permission.” The word “please” came hard to her tongue but she was beginning to realize its advantages. He stared at her, thinking.

“If you were an ordinary prisoner I would deny your request, but you are not. I must consult the commander.” Then he was gone and she sank to the bed again, hoping that Plautius was not still in the Hall with the emperor, for surely Claudius would immediately deny the request. She smiled to herself, remembering his affronted face. It must have been a long time since anyone had dared to insult him. She heard more voices, the tribune’s, the respectful response of the saluting guard, then Plautius himself shouldered into the room, bending his head under the lintel as he came, filling the tiny, dark space with his calm authority. Her heart suddenly leaped and she found that she could not meet his eye.

‘’You want some sunshine, Lady,” he said gently. “I am sorry, but you are much too valuable a prisoner to be allowed to wander about. My men are all busy today, but if you care to wait until this evening I will allow you to walk around the Hall.” Gladys stepped to him, putting a hand on his bare arm, only the shreds of dignity clinging to her, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “If you keep me a moment longer in this darkness I shall go mad. I will swear by all my gods, by the price of my honor, that I will not try to run, but please, let me out!” He paused. She smelt of clean things, wind and sun, cut grass and dewy, blowing flowers, and her hand was warm on his wrist. With a mixture of irritation and eagerness he sought her eyes, saw them blurred with the tears, and thought to himself, What does it matter? An hour in the sun is nothing, and the emperor need never know. He disengaged his arm politely.

“It is against my better judgment,” he said, “but if you like you can take your guard and walk a little. Stay away from the gate and the wall, and if you try to escape the guard will have orders to kill you immediately.” Her smile lit her face and he smiled back. Then he was gone, the tribune stalking after him. She heard him speak briefly to her guard, then she snatched up her cloak and went into the sunshine.

For an hour she wandered about Camulodunon, drinking sunlight, watching the hustle, approaching the chiefs who clustered together down in the third circle with pleading hands and a glad smile. So familiar, the garish patterns of scarlet and blue, the yellow and black chequered tunics, the long, untidy red or blond hair. For a while she did not care that these were men come from chieftains without honor, chieftains who were willing to sell their people without once drawing sword. They spoke to her warily, eyes flicking over the stolid, sweating soldier by her side, shaking their heads in answer to the one question burning in her, “Is there news from the west?” She found herself near a face she thought she recognized, a tall chief, black-haired, standing a little apart from the others as if he were ashamed of them and himself. His orange cloak folded about his booted feet and his hand was on the hilt of his heavy sword. The scabbard was finely wrought, bronze that sparked, figured all over with tight, never-resolving curlicues that flowed from the mouths of tiny, grinning wolves. About his neck, falling on his blue breast, were necklaces of some shiny black stone, and the same stone fastened his cloak and glinted mysteriously in his hair.

Then she placed him, mounted on a black horse, his animal eyes fixed on Caradoc as he embraced Aricia on that damp, cold morning when she had ridden away into the mists with her red-bearded chieftain. She greeted him with respect. “A good morning to you. I am Gladys, sister to the Ricon Caradoc of the House Catuvellaun.”

His expression did not change. His eyes remained cautious and haughty, but he answered her with the same politeness. “I am Domnall, chief to Aricia of the House Brigantia. What do you want of me?”

Her guard touched her shoulder. “Speak Latin, Lady,” he warned her, obviously ill at ease, and Gladys switched to it, speaking slowly and carefully, believing that this man would have little knowledge of the Roman tongue, but to her surprise she found that he had mastered it quite well. That, more than anything else, told her how the years had treated the wild sheepherders. Aricia had been making good her vow to turn them all into Catuvellauni.

“I want news of your ricon. How is she?” He considered well before he told her. He does not want to lie, she thought with quick intuition, but neither does he want to seem disloyal. Oh Aricia, what havoc have you been wreaking on your proud people?

“She is in good health, Lady. We have prospered as a tuath since she returned to us. She has brought in much trade from Gaul and Rome and we are richer than we ever dreamed.” The deep voice was emotionless.

“And what of her husband, Venutius?” Domnall gave her a penetrating look.

“He is well also,” he said, and abruptly turned away. Gladys left the colorful little knot and began to stroll around the first circle, ignoring the long, curious stares of the officers who sat outside their tents. Domnall had told her much with his few words. Aricia had ordered surrender, Aricia had sent the delegation to make it formal, almost certainly against her husband’s wishes. Venutius would favor a policy like Cunobelin’s, the neutral middle way. Or had he seen that the middle way was no longer possible?

What would have happened if Caradoc had married Aricia instead of using her, and had faced Plautius with the combined armies of the Catuvellauni and the Brigantes? So many ifs, so many useless, dead avenues of speculation. She stopped in the middle of the path, closing her eyes and raising her face to the sun. I am alive, she thought unbelievingly. Against all odds, I live. The sun warmed her blood, fell hotly on her cheeks, and a happiness greater than she had ever known swelled within her. “Time to go back,” her guard said at her elbow, and she turned to him with an infectious, youthful smile.

“Yes, yes, I know. Will he let me out again, do you think?” The man shrugged, embarrassed at her sudden change of mien, and together they began the climb to her hut.

Three days later Claudius and the unnecessary Eighth Legion under Didius Gallus left Camulodunon. Vespasianus and Geta went with him, for they were to parade with him in his triumph and receive laurels at his hands for their part in the invasion, and Plautius and Pudens bowed them all to the boats with relief. Claudius had left Plautius with a list of injunctions. “Conquer the rest,” he had said airily, but Plautius had known that the emperor did not mean it. Spread out, he had ordered, build roads and forts, consolidate. He had appointed Plautius as First Legate of the Imperial Province of Britannia, a post that followed almost automatically from his command of the invasion forces, and he had spoken again of the temple he wanted on the razed site of the Great Hall. Plautius had listened absently, regarding the erection of the temple as the least of his worries. The merchants and traders were already flooding the captured territory, and he knew that after them would come the land speculators, the usurers, the adventurers and beggars and offal of the empire. While Claudius rambled on, Plautius frowned over his wine, wondering how many beneficiarii and speculatores he would need to maintain some kind of order as the boundaries of peace were pushed back and his greatest worries would be with civilians.

At least he did not have to worry about setting and handling taxes. The procurator would soon arrive, with his staff. Plautius wondered who it would be, then decided that it did not matter. He was used to handling procurators. Tact, dignity, and gentle persuasion, that was all it took. Besides, he himself was in such high favor that he need not fear the sealed dispatches that always went direct from the procuratorial offices to the emperor himself. He liked Claudius. They had spent many hours together discussing the latest books, and Plautius was always amused and touched to see his emperor forget his fears for a while and grow excited and expansive over Seneca’s latest dry, witty pronouncements. But now, listening to the emperor expound on the dimensions of his temple, he was very glad that he would soon be left in peace to get on with his job. Claudius had made that job very clear. “We have a duty to assimilate these barbarians,” he had said earnestly. “This is Rome’s mission to the world, Plautius. They must be civilized for their own good and for the commonweal. They will live to bless the gods of Rome.”

Everyone knew that Claudius wanted to see every barbarian wearing a toga. Seneca had made Claudius’s odd ambition the joke of Rome. But Plautius had been touched by his emperor’s transparent goodwill. He was a liberal, fair man, and though his physical defects distressed and titillated those around him, Plautius could see beyond them to a man wounded by a harsh childhood without family affection—a dreamer, a shy reader propelled unwillingly into the glare of divinity. But Claudius was fast becoming something else, and Plautius pitied him. He was anxious to be gone now, fretting continually about what Vitellius was doing in Rome during his absence, and the more upset he became the more his hands shook. Plautius and Pudens exchanged rueful smiles as the imperial barge, with a great fanfare of trumpets, floated out of sight down the river. They were also pleased that the emperor had taken with him all his polite, predatory enemies.

In the late afternoon, Plautius sent for Gladys. He was not sure why he did so, but somehow in the peaceful lull between Claudius’s departure and the new duties that waited he wanted to see her. She came quietly, as self-composed as she had been on the night when she had bested the emperor, and she stood before him in the Great Hall, waiting without impatience, the low, yellow sunlight streaming under the doorskins behind her. Vespasianus’s brother Sabinus, and Pudens, were engaged in paperwork, heads together over a table piled with scrolls, their secretaries waiting to take notes, and they barely glanced at her as Plautius dismissed her guard and beckoned her closer. “Come and sit,” he offered, but she shook her head, standing before him, hands hidden in the sleeves of her green tunic. “Have you any complaints?” he asked. “Have you enjoyed your walks?” He thought she looked better. Her cheeks had more color, her eyes were free of the cloud of pain, but that strange tension was still with her like a permanent aura.

“I have enjoyed them more than you can ever know. Thank you,” she said. “But now I would like to test your goodwill with another request.” Plautius sat back and crossed his legs, and she read a pleased smile in the austere eyes.

“I have already allowed you more liberty than I ought,” he replied, “but ask if you like. I can always refuse.” She took one gliding step.

“Sir, let me walk by the ocean.” The inflection of her words rolled back a screen for him, and a new corner of her carefully concealed personality peeped out. He was intrigued.

“Why? You are presumptuous, Lady. You can walk the town every day. Why do you need the ocean?” He had placed an unerring finger on the mystery of her life that even she had been unable to solve, and she quickly shrugged, lifting one shoulder to dismiss the question before he began to probe too deeply.

“I am unaccustomed to a cage, sir, and even Camulodunon can be a cage to a captive bird that is big enough!”

He sat looking at her, knowing that he should refuse. She would be too hard to guard on the lonely, open stretches of beach, and besides, what might she ask for next? Her weapons returned to her? He glanced back at Pudens. “Tell me, Rufus,” he called, “when is that shipment of goods due for the troops?”

“It should have arrived this morning, sir,” Pudens replied, not looking up, and Plautius looked back at Gladys.

“I take too great a risk, letting you journey to the estuary with only your guard,” he said, “and if you escaped, the emperor would be very angry with me. You are still worth something, Lady.”

“I have told you before,” Gladys said. “My brother will never cooperate with you, even if it means my death. If you like, I will swear an oath not to attempt escape.” He shook his head, his smile broadening.

“I do not think such an oath would be binding on you,” he said, “or am I wrong? Isn’t there a time limit on oaths sworn to an enemy?” She did not reply and he saw her shoulders droop. Then he emptied his cup and rose. “I want to check on the baggage that arrived today,” he said. “I could wait until it is unloaded here, but I wouldn’t mind a stroll on the beach myself. I will come with you.” She smiled then, that strange, sourceless happiness blossoming like a spring flower on her face, and he shouted for his orderly. “My cloak, Junius, and my helmet. Lady,” he walked to her as the servant entered, cloak over his arm and shining helmet in his hand, “do not be deceived. My days in the ranks may be over, but you would find me more than a match for you if you tried to run!” Her smile widened. He took the cloak and helmet and together they left the Hall, walking down to the new gate in the bee-busy afternoon.

They rode slowly through the dappled green woods, the quaestor, two centurions, and three soldiers with them. The men chatted desultorily, and Plautius, acknowledging the salutes of the passing legionaries who came and went between town and river, relaxed on a tide of monumental well-being. Gladys did not speak. She rode easily, her eyes wandering in the trees, listening to the echo of bird song and the mild fluttering of the breeze in the ferns and leaves, her thoughts on Caradoc. Had he come this way? Where was he now? The thought that he believed her dead sent a pang of remorse through her, but it could not dull her mood. They rounded a bend and the river flats lay before them, brown water flowing slowly under the sun, boats drawn up to the pier and rocking gently, and she dismounted. One of the soldiers took her horse and she, Plautius, and his men clambered onto a barge. “Cast off,” Plautius ordered and they swung into the turgid current, the stiffer wind off the water blowing away the heavy forest scents and bringing to her a pungent whiff of the sea.