The Eagle and the Raven (76 page)

The empress propped herself higher on her couch, an anticipatory smile coming and going on her small mouth, and her son whispered to her, “What have you done, you hag? Where is Gladys?” The five came on abreast, and the loud conversations in the hall slowly died away. They stopped without bowing, and Agrippina found that she had been holding her breath. They waited for the emperor to speak and Claudius kept them waiting, his eyes traveling across them, but their patience was indifferent, whole, utterly composed. Claudius pettishly mopped his dribbling mouth and rested his quivering head on one hand, then he suddenly capitulated. Barbarians who could stand in frozen water all day without moving, and go for six days on the march without food, could play this game indefinitely. I covet their pride, he thought. They do not hold the empire cheap. They do not consider it worth holding at all.

“Well, my noble barbarian,” he stuttered. “You deign to grace us with your presence, even though you are uninvited. Do you want a favor? Are you in need of more money?”

But Caradoc would not be insulted. He smiled at Claudius, feeling as though a great weight was slowly lifting from his shoulders, feeling absurdly young again, and free. “I need nothing, Claudius,” he replied. “Absolutely nothing. Your generosity is a constant shower.”

The emperor heard other words beneath the odd compliment, and so did Agrippina. “One of you is missing,” she said brightly. “I would have thought that Gladys would miss no opportunity to reiterate her affection for my husband. Where is she?”

You foul thing, Caradoc thought. You demon in a woman’s body. When is it the emperor’s turn? “I once knew a woman like you,” he said to her with seeming irrelevance. “She was very beautiful.”

Agrippina’s thin plucked eyebrows rose. “Oh? Was? Is she dead then?”

“I do not know, but I think not. Women like her continue to survive.”

The empress shrugged off what she felt to be a clumsy barb. “Where is Gladys?” she repeated, and Caradoc felt Llyn stir beside him. No, he thought. Hold on, Llyn. This is not the time for dying, and if you throw the accusation out into this hall we will all die.

“She is not well,” he answered. “She went out walking and became lost. It was a very long way home. But she will recover.”

Slowly, Agrippina slid upright and began to smile. The smile grew, spread, and her eyes laughed into Caradoc’s, full of vitality. She held out both hands suddenly in a youthful, exuberant gesture. “Hold them, Caradoc,” she commanded, and after a moment he obeyed. “You must go home and congratulate your daughter for me. I am impressed. She must indeed have walked far tonight.” She dug her nails into him with a sudden sharp venom but he did not start. He withdrew gently. “Send her here tomorrow so that I can offer her guides. She ought not walk about the city without them.”

“She will come to the palace no more,” Caradoc said, and Claudius stiffened. “She is about to be betrothed. Her future husband is a man with a jealous nature, and I do not think that he will allow her to be put on public display. He is a good Roman. I came to tell you this.”

Nero leaned over to his mother. “Checked for once!” he hissed tri umphantly. “They are too much for you, Empress!” Claudius said nothing. His face had fallen into a bland repose, and Caradoc could read nothing on it, though he tried.

“And who is this good Roman?” Agrippina asked smoothly. “He must be a foolish Roman as well.”

“The fool sees foolishness in everyone,” Llyn stepped forward. “As you, Lady, ought to know. You are surrounded by them. Gladys will marry Rufus Pudens. Will you summon enough vigor to object? None of us is really worth it.”

Rufus Pudens. Caradoc saw the man swiftly reviewed behind Claudius’s eyes. Rich, influential, a patrician, a man who holds the respect of the senate. The empress had suddenly lost interest in it all. Her eyes were on Llyn, and he grinned back insolently.

Claudius sighed. “I have news for you out of Britannia, Caradoc,” he said, fighting his stutter, a malicious intent to wound now licking his face. The Catuvellaunians immediately fell silent and turned their gaze to him, but Claudius made them wait. Their patience was a humble, desperate thing, and he saw their invisible hands strain toward him. He knew that they were at his feet for the last time, and he relished every passing second.

“The rebels enjoyed a little freedom this summer,” he said, breaking the silence at last, “but as usual they could not sustain their attack. My new governor chased them all the way back into their mountains, and there they will stay.”

“Losses?” Caradoc whispered hoarsely, and Claudius waved.

“To us? None since the spring.”

“No, damn you!” Llyn snarled. “To us!”

Claudius did not react. “None,” he replied. “You ran. You ran back into the west like frightened little rabbits.” He could see them thinking. It was survival again, retreat in order to live. He could see that they knew that. Then all at once, as though some hidden signal had passed between them, they turned and strode back across the hall, under the dome, out of his sight, leaving a painful dislocation behind.

“Kill them all,” Nero grumbled, not meaning it, but Claudius did not hear him. He would miss the girl who had brought an unlooked-for freshness into his life. He had betrayed her trust in him, and he was sorry.

Once outside, Llyn took his father’s arm. “I could get close to the old woman,” he said. “I could easily kill her.”

Caradoc rounded on him. “If you or any of you sets foot in this place again it will be I who kills,” he said, and he swept down the steps and into the thinning darkness.

Llyn entered the tavern, elbowed his way to the rear, and flung himself down on the wooden bench. A month had come and gone since Agrippina had run an admiring eye over his healthy young body. Gladys had kept her word to Pudens and their betrothal had taken place, but not a whisper of agreement or censure had come from the palace. It was as though the emperor had never loaded his little barbarian with presents or strolled with her arm tucked under his, and the Catuvellaunians lived in a new and cheerful lightness. Pudens was a daily visitor to the house on the Palatine, bringing friends who more often than not ended the day around Caradoc’s table, their curiosity merging into admiration for the man who greeted them amicably and presided over his household with under stated authority. Martial was the most regular diner. Pudens brought young senators. Martial brought other poets, musicians, and thinkers who responded to the atmosphere of free informality, and soon came to regard Caradoc’s house as a meeting place. Llyn escaped when he could, running from a house full of togas. Tonight his purse was full and his belly empty. He slapped his palm on the table, called for beer, and greeted his companions gaily. “Where is Valog?” he asked.

“He fights tomorrow,” the man next to him replied. “I suppose he’s sleeping.”

“Where’s Publius then? Has his wife put a ring through his nose already?”

“He’s on special duty tonight. His unit is flushing out a nest of Followers.”

“What followers?” Llyn asked, his throat going suddenly dry.

The man turned to him impatiently. “The Followers of The Way. The Christus people. They’ve been meeting not two streets from here. That’s where Publius has gone. Are you playing or not?”

The beer came but Llyn drank all of it without tasting, and his mouth was still dry when he finished, as dry as the sandy floor of the arenas where the Followers spilled their blood everyday. “No,” he said, standing up unsteadily. “I’m not playing tonight.” He walked out of the tavern and up the street, and when he could no longer hear the din he began to run. Eurgain, he thought. Let the others line up for the slaughter like cattle, but not you. You will go like a warrior. He swerved to cut off a corner, flung himself at the wall he knew was there, and then was over the top, landing lightly like a cat. He straightened and pelted on. Another street. One more corner. A little linen shop, she had said, with a fish carved over the door. He came to a halt, drew his knife, and peered around the corner. With luck I have cut her off, he thought. But there is no such thing as luck in this hole. At the other end of the street he saw the soldiers, loitering, with one eye on the unpretentious shopfront, and he knew that at the rear there would be more. Wait until they were all inside. Publius had said it often enough. Get the whole lot together, a clean sweep. He grim aced with tension. What shall I do if she is already inside? The moments oozed by. I hate this, he thought. I hate it all. Traps everywhere for all of us, a city waiting to turn us into gutter rats and then strangle us. She was not a Roman citizen. They would crucify her, and out of pride she would not admit to being only a friend to the friendless. It would not matter to her, he knew that, but she was kin, she was his sister, and somewhere, at some time, there would be a place for her. And for you? His thoughts came back to him with cynical clarity, and he gripped the knife more tightly and swore gently to himself.

Then he saw her come, with Chloe behind her carrying a basket. She was wearing her favorite blue breeches, and the braids that she had never cut swayed against her knees. “Eurgain!” he called softly, She heard, but did not turn her head. She raised the torch in her hand a little higher, slowed, and then began to angle across the street toward him. When she was within his reach he grabbed for her, tearing the torch from her hand and throwing it to the ground. “You have all been betrayed,” he said rapidly, pulling her farther into shadow. “The soldiers are watching the doors, front and rear. Now go home, and quickly.”

“Thank you, Llyn,” she said. “Now you can let go my arm.”

He released her immediately but jerked her toward him again as she turned back to the street. “What are you doing? Eurgain, don’t you understand? They will arrest you, and Father will not be able to do anything.”

“I must warn the others. Many of them are children.”

“Let them be! They are all in love with death anyway.”

Anger flared in her eyes. He saw it glitter in the dimness. “Do not pronounce so glibly on something you do not understand,” she said. “Take your hands off me, Llyn. Will you stand here and send the followers home, while I go around to the back of the building?”

“I have a better idea. You are wearing your knife. Creep to the rear and dispatch the soldiers there. I can easily handle the two on this street.”

She thought quickly, and he knew that her fingers ached to strike at something, anything, to rip apart the net and run free, then she shook her head. “No. The reprisals would be immediate and unpleasant. Oh Llyn, they are like children, all of them. Simple, brave, and utterly without guile! You would think that just the sight of a sword would send them scurrying, but I have never seen people die as they die, not even in Albion. Please, just tell them to go home and they will go.”

“Eurgain,” he said with wonder and bewilderment. “You have been to the arenas?”

“Yes. Now will you help me or not?”

“I will, but on one condition.”

“Hurry up!”

“I will give up gambling, and do my drinking at home, if you will give up all commerce with these people and do your thinking at home.”

She smiled, and then began to laugh softly. Suddenly she put her arms around him. “You need a woman,” she said.

“No, I do not. I have as many as I want.”

“I did not mean that. You need a woman to love, so that in loving you may find your fever laid to rest. Very well. I agree.”

“A bad bargain,” he grumbled. “Now we will have to entertain each other at home.” Then he was gone, diving back into the darkness to come out farther up the street.

“Stay here, Chloe,” Eurgain ordered, then she too vanished.

Later that night, in the tavern, Publius downed his beer with irascibility. “Someone made a mistake when they sent us after a weaver, a potter, and two slaves,” he grumbled. “It was a wasted night. Ah well, tomorrow night Valog will be back. Are you coming, Linus?”

Llyn leaned back against the wall and put his feet up on the table. “I do not think so,” he said. “I have decided to run for senator. I have no money or power, but I have plenty of charm. The empress would be delighted to make sure that I got a seat in the Curia. What do you think?”

“You talk too much,” Publius said sourly, but he remembered how Valog had remarked about the barbarian temperament, and he looked at Llyn with a new and guarded respect. One day he might need a friend in high places.

Aulus Plautius and his wife moved into their winter home, a spacious house surrounded by vineyards on the outskirts of the city, and Eurgain spent much time going to and fro with her mother, questioning both women closely about the old religion and how the Druithin fostered it. At one point she mystified them both by declaring, “The Druithin do not believe in the gods. In their search for truth they have left the gods far behind them and only use them because the tribes are not yet ready to understand. There are no gods.”

“But they have magic, they make the spells,” her aunt objected, and Eurgain smiled wistfully.

“I did not say they had no power, but they are waiting. Knowledge weighs on them. The universe presses them to the earth with its mysteries. They are wise, yet they carry knowledge on their shoulders instead of in their hands. The universe suffocates them when it should be wreathed lightly about them like a precious garment. I wish that I could talk to them.”

She, Llyn, and Gladys often went about the city with Pudens, Martial, and several of Pudens’s other friends. It was a most irregular courtship, Pudens reflected. No one seemed to care how long he and Gladys sat alone in the garden at night, how late she returned home after dining with him. If there was any chaperon it seemed to be Llyn. He watched his sister and Pudens with a gleam of mischief in his eyes, but he no longer goaded Pudens’s friends into hot argument. He seemed to be mellowing, curbing his tongue with a deliberate effort, and his father watched him change and wondered what new creature Llyn was calling into being within himself. He began to struggle with Gladys’s lessons, rushing to learn how to read and write with the same impulsive impatience he brought to everything he did, and he cornered whomever he could— Pudens, Plautius, the young senators—pouring forth a stream of questions on everything from Roman history to the working of Rome’s watering system. He drank less but his restlessness grew until he measured the bounds of his family’s captivity a dozen times a day, walking tense and preoccupied, disturbing the still air of each room with the burden of metamorphosis he pulled behind him.