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.