Hero of Rome

XVII

Lucullus led the way along the muddy, thorn-lined trackways dissecting the fields of his estate. Most of the enclosures were devoted to raising sheep or pigs, although a few were grazed by scrawny, dun-coloured cattle. Small farmsteads dotted the countryside, each with a roundhouse and its pen for livestock, and around these the currently barren spaces that would be planted with crops in the spring.

Valerius and Lunaris walked together, and Valerius wished Cearan could join them. A Roman hunt would be governed by traditions dating back hundreds of years, and he had little doubt a British hunt was the same. But the Iceni walked ahead with their host and it seemed unlikely they’d be enlightened by their closer companions. The Britons paid the two Romans little heed, apart from an occasional quizzical glance, chattering excitedly in their own language. Behind the hunters came the servants and slaves, each carrying a long spear.

‘What happened while I was inside the villa?’ he asked Lunaris.

‘Mainly they wondered what was keeping you,’ the duplicarius said. ‘What was keeping you?’

‘There must have been something.’ Valerius allowed his impatience to show.

Lunaris gave a shrug. ‘The little lord, the fat one, paired everyone off. You’re with him, and I’m with the tall friendly one. After that he gave a speech in that noise of theirs, and they cheered him.’ He glanced around him. ‘They’re a rum lot. One minute they’re as docile as sheep, the next they’re roaring like wolves. I wished I’d had my sword.’

Valerius smiled, remembering Castus’s similar comment. ‘We’re safe enough with Lucullus. In any case, I used to hunt wolves on my father’s estate.’

‘Not these wolves you didn’t! Watch your back when you’re out in the long grass. We’ll look silly if we end up with some druid prodding at our livers to find out if it’s going to rain tomorrow.’

By now they were approaching a broad stretch of woodland guarded at intervals by small groups of men, each of whom held a pair of snarling hounds. Valerius heard Lucullus call out his name, and a guide ushered them forward.

He studied the animals, remembering tales of British fighting dogs trained to rip out a man’s throat. Lucullus noticed his interest. ‘My boar-hounds,’ the little man said proudly. ‘I bred them myself. They have been out since dawn tracking down our quarry. I instructed my forest wardens that only the largest beasts were of interest — in your honour, of course.’

Valerius bowed his thanks, but there were other honours he’d rather have received.

‘It seems they have penned a boar in this wood. A few dogs have been lost, and no doubt he will be rather torn, but he will still provide us with good sport. I think I have hunted this boar before, but he has always bested me. He tore up the green shoots in the spring, and more recently he has destroyed the corn on the ear. He has been an expensive guest.’

‘So we wait until the dogs have cornered him properly and then surround him?’

‘Oh no,’ Lucullus said seriously. ‘This is not one of your arenas. That would be much too simple and there would be little honour in it. The boar must have his opportunity, as we will. You are different from us, you see; we esteem the birds and the beasts we hunt, for each of them possesses a soul, just as each man possesses a soul, and the gods watch over them as they do us.’ He smiled sadly. ‘Let us hope that the gods — both our gods — are with us today.’

The men split into pairs, and Lucullus accepted a team of hounds from one of the handlers. Valerius found Cearan at his side. ‘You will take the first boar, as the guest of honour,’ he said quietly. He stepped aside as a servant handed Valerius a spear, seven feet in length, solid and heavy, with a broad, leaf-shaped blade and a wooden cross-piece a third of the way down its shaft. ‘The cross-piece is to ensure the boar cannot reach you with his tusks,’ he explained. ‘Lucullus will keep the dogs leashed until the last moment. The boar will be deep in a thicket licking his wounds and the warden will place you where he is most likely to emerge. When the dogs find him, he will run. They will stay with him, but when he sees you it will be you he comes for. He knows his enemy, you see. When he comes, his head will be low. That means you must be low too, for the spear has to take him in the chest to kill him. Anywhere on the head and it will glance off his skull, which is like iron. On the flanks, it will only anger him more. Remember, only in the chest.’

‘We are ready,’ Lucullus announced. Valerius hefted the spear and balanced it between his hands, instinctively finding the most effective grip so that when the moment came he could place the point where it was needed without hesitation or thought. He felt no fear, only the suppressed excitement of the hunt. His heart beat faster in his chest, thudding against the ribcage, and he willed himself to control it because he knew passion was his enemy. He must clear his mind and concentrate every one of his senses on his quarry. Slowly, he followed Lucullus towards the escarpment of brown and gold, the two dogs straining at the leash, alternately snarling and baying as the scent of their prey carried to them on the light breeze.

When they reached the shelter of the trees Valerius saw the forest was much less dense than it appeared from outside, and, as they penetrated deeper, he realized that what he had thought untamed woodland had been carefully managed for generations. Gaps in the trees showed where the different types of wood had been harvested. Oak, for house timbers and making shields; ash, pollarded to provide the long spears the Britons wielded so effectively; hornbeam, yew and horse chestnut. All had their uses. Each clearing quickly filled with scrubby bush and thorn that provided perfect cover for partridge and woodcock, deer and wild ox. And for the giant boar which raided Lucullus’s fields.

By now the dogs were permanently on the scent and they threw themselves against their leashes, almost strangling themselves in their eagerness to reach their prey. Lucullus must have been stronger than he appeared or he could never have held them. They were massive beasts, black and tan on the flanks, standing as high as a man’s belly, with deep, powerful chests, big heads and jaws filled with fearsome teeth. The Briton’s eyes met Valerius’s and he grinned, the excitement of the moment as fierce within him as it was in the Roman.

The forest warden ranged ahead of them and they froze as he halted before a large clump of thorn that spread in a broad half-moon across their front. Valerius would swear the man sniffed the air and pointed like one of his dogs before he waved them up and spoke rapidly to Valerius in his own language.

‘He says you should go there,’ Lucullus translated, and pointed to a spot on the right, about fifteen paces from the bushes. ‘He advises you to keep the spear low. You will have only one chance before he is on you. May Taranis aid you and Mercury speed your hand.’

Valerius nodded as Lucullus and the warden moved away with the dogs, leaving him alone. He felt a fluttering in his chest. Not fear, he thought, just a few nerves, and nerves gave a man an edge if he knew how to control them. This was the moment of crisis in any hunt. The moment when everything became clear and the only things that existed were the hunter and the hunted and nothing between. He crouched low and held the spear in front of him, his left hand well forward on the ash shaft and the right close to his body to ensure a steady, direct thrust. As he waited, he stared at the bushes in front of him, a wall of unbroken, dangerous green. Where would it come? Surely Lucullus should have unleashed the dogs by now. He cursed his own impatience. Wait. Be ready. The misty rain had stopped, but his hands were damp, and he prayed his grip wouldn’t fail at the vital moment. Where were the dogs? He glanced to his left and in the same instant a cacophony of barks, snarls and unearthly squeals shattered the silence. The green wall in front of him exploded as something enormous burst from the undergrowth. His heart seemed to stop. It was huge — he had seen smaller oxen — a black nemesis with burning red eyes and menacing, curved six-inch tusks, already bloodied by its battle with the dogs that now snapped at its flanks. As he watched, it swung its head almost casually and one of the hounds was tossed away, howling, with a fearsome gash in its side and its entrails hanging clear. He recognized the instant the boar became aware of his presence; the subtle change of direction. It came unbelievably fast, its short legs a blur as it crossed the ground between them. Low. He dropped to one knee and forced the butt of the spear into the ground behind him, keeping the point directly on the animal’s breastbone. But was he low enough? The massive snout was almost on its chest, and he was close enough to see the long crest of erect, quill-like black hair along the ridge of its spine and the old scars on its massive shoulders from past encounters with dogs. He had no time to change the angle of the spear, he could only hold and pray. The boar’s size was its undoing. It was so enormous that when the iron spearhead slipped just under the chin the animal’s own momentum forced it deep into the chest cavity, punching through bone and muscle and delivering a mortal wound to the great heart. Valerius had braced himself for the shock, but still the power of the impact astonished him. The force of it surged along the spear and almost catapulted him free of the shaft. He was shaken like a leaf in a thunderstorm, tossed this way and that until he thought his neck would snap. Instinct told him the strike was true, but the boar refused to die. The red eyes still burned as it forced its way inch by inch up the ash shaft, driving the blade ever deeper into its body, until it was stopped by the cross-piece. Even then it fought on, lashing right and left, so that Valerius feared he would lose his grip. Finally, bright heart blood gushed from the gaping mouth and the boar gave an awful shudder and was still.

Valerius slumped, panting, over the spear. He sent a silent prayer to Jupiter and Minerva and willed himself to stop shaking. The exhilaration of the kill would come later, but for now there was only the familiar, dry-mouthed aftermath of survival. The remaining hound saved him. It broke off from sniffing at the enormous carcass to give a sudden, warning snarl.

A second boar, almost as big as the first, erupted from the bushes to his left where it must have lain silent while its brother drew the dogs away. Now it was here to avenge him. No time to retrieve the spear, which was buried two feet in the first animal’s chest. Valerius rolled to his right, placing the mass of the dead pig between himself and the attack. He was only just in time. As he huddled in the lee of the boar, attempting to make himself part of the earth, a giant head appeared over the animal’s flank: a ferocious apparition of gaping pink mouth, snapping mantrap jaws and slashing yellowed tusks that came within a hair’s breadth of disembowelling him. He scrabbled for his knife, knowing it would barely scratch the boar’s thick hide, but it was trapped beneath his body. How long would it take the beast to work out that it could reach him more easily from the side? Could he run? No. He had seen the speed with which it had crossed the clearing. He frantically searched the area around him for some weapon, but there was none. He twisted his arm so he could reach his belt, but the movement attracted the boar and now the tusks swung at his face, the great mouth wide and putrid-breathed in front of his eyes and the teeth chopping and gnashing. Another inch and he would be dead. He ignored a stab of pain in his shoulder and concentrated on the belt. At last his grasping fingers found the fastening and gradually he was able to work it round his body until the knife hilt lay in the palm of his hand. One chance and one chance only. He lay with his left side beneath the dead boar’s still warm belly and his head tight against the coarse hairs of its ribs. His right arm was twisted behind him but at least he had the knife. He screamed a mindless battle cry and with all the power he could call upon swung the knife at the beast’s gleaming eye, praying to any god who would listen that his aim should be good. The boar squealed with pain and fury but he knew he had failed. The point missed its target by a full inch, ploughing a red furrow across the pig’s broad forehead. The thrashing above him took on an even more savage, mindless quality, and he knew that there was no escape. No glorious end on the battlefield for Gaius Valerius Verrens, scion of a tribe with its roots in the very founding of Rome. He would die unremembered in this damp British forest with his nostrils filled with the musky stink of boar. He thought of the golden amulet in his pouch, and that in turn made him think of Maeve. Her face filled his mind and he heard the sound of a familiar voice.

‘So one boar was not enough for you?’

He looked up, bemused, to discover Cearan staring at him over the second boar’s shoulder, which had now sprouted the shaft of a throwing spear. The great body shook spasmodically and tendrils of dark blood drooled from the beast’s open mouth on to the flank of its sibling.

‘Please.’ The Briton extended his hand. Valerius allowed Cearan to help him shakily to his feet.

‘I thank you. You saved my life.’ His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears as he stared at the two boars. Between them they would weigh as much as a fully laden ox cart. If the second hadn’t been obstructed by his brother’s body it would surely have ripped him to pieces. He turned back to Cearan. ‘If ever…’

The Iceni waved a hand dismissively. ‘We are friends. You would have done as much for me. In any case, it was at my suggestion that Lucullus invited you to hunt with him. He became disoriented in the forest once the dogs were loosed, therefore you were my responsibility. It would have been discourteous, not to say inconvenient, if you had died.’ Valerius registered the word ‘inconvenient’ as Cearan stooped to crouch over the first boar, studying the spot where the blade of the spear had penetrated its breast. ‘A fine blow, well aimed. He is your first?’

Valerius nodded.

The Briton smiled and when he stood he reached out his fingers, which were red with the boar’s blood, and with quick, practised strokes smeared it over the Roman’s forehead and cheeks. ‘It is our custom,’ he explained. ‘It marks a man as a man, and only a man could have faced such a giant without flinching.’

A commotion behind them announced the arrival of the rest of the hunting party, led by Lucullus and Lunaris, who stopped in his tracks when he saw the size of the kill.

‘By Mars’s mighty arse, I’ve never seen anything like it. Just one of them would feed the cohort with ham for breakfast every day for a month. You could hitch them to a chariot and they’d haul you all the way to Rome. You…’

‘Could help us butcher them?’ Cearan suggested.

‘Surely you would not put him to work before he has had the opportunity to best his officer?’ Lucullus admonished his cousin. ‘There is word of another spoor in a copse to the north.’ He suggested that the rest of the hunt move on while Valerius rested and the slaves butchered the two boars. ‘You have had your sport, cousin. I will leave you to take care of our guest.’

Lunaris looked suspicious, but Valerius nodded to him and the big legionary allowed Lucullus to lead him off with the others. As the slaves worked on the two carcasses with gutting knives and hatchets, Cearan reached into the pack he had dropped and retrieved a bulging goatskin. ‘Here,’ he offered. ‘You must be thirsty.’

Valerius put the skin to his lips, expecting the contents to be water, but the tepid liquid was some sort of sweet, fruity beer that went straight to his head, instantly reviving him. He took another gulp.

Cearan laughed. ‘Not too much or the slaves will have to carry you home along with the boar. It is honeyed ale, but with an infusion of herbs singular to my own tribe.’

The effect was remarkable. ‘This must be what your warriors drink before battle.’

‘Perhaps the Catuvellauni,’ Cearan said seriously, ‘or the tribes of the west, but the Iceni do not need ale or mead to give them courage.’ He walked to the edge of the clearing, out of earshot of the servants, and Valerius instinctively knew he should follow. ‘When I fought the Romans beside Caratacus on the Tamesa I realized a truth that he did not; or perhaps I do him an injustice, and he did realize it but refused to accept it. That makes him a braver man than I, but not, I think, a wiser one.’

Valerius stared at him. Where was this leading?

Cearan went on thoughtfully. ‘Caratacus would have had us fight until the blood of the last Briton stained the earth. The truth I learned is that we must find a way to live with Rome or everything that makes us who and what we are will cease to exist. Our children and our children’s children will be brought up either as Romans or as slaves. Our kings will serve Rome, or we will have no kings. You will even take our gods and make them your own.’

‘Then you already have your wish,’ Valerius pointed out. ‘The name of Prasutagus, king of the Iceni, is spoken of with honour in the palace of the governor. He retains his authority in the name of the Emperor and you retain your British ways. You prosper as no other tribe has prospered save the Atrebates, and you worship whom you will and no Roman interferes.’

A momentary glint of triumph flashed in the pale eyes. ‘But Prasutagus is an old man. What happens if Prasutagus is no longer king?’

Valerius considered the question. It had two answers, or perhaps three. First, Prasutagus would have appointed his own heir and if that heir were acceptable to Rome he would have the support of the Emperor. If the governor felt the chosen heir was too weak, or, worse, too strong, he might appoint his own king from the Iceni aristocracy. But that would only be done with the aristocracy’s agreement. The third answer was so unlikely and unacceptable to Cearan that he would not voice it. Eventually he said the words he knew the Briton wanted to hear: ‘Then the Iceni will need a new king.’

Cearan nodded emphatically. ‘A king who would maintain our present relationship with Rome. But there are some among my tribesfolk who believe the path Prasutagus treads is the wrong path and would welcome a new Caratacus to follow. Who may even wish to be the new Caratacus. They are encouraged in this foolishness by men who come to their farmsteads at nightfall and leave again before dawn. Men who preach a message of hatred against your people.’

Valerius stared at him, remembering the meeting with Castus in Londinium. Was this what had stirred up the midland tribes? ‘Who are these men?’

‘Druids.’

Valerius froze. ‘The governor, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, understands that the druids are penned on their sacred isle, or in the mountains of the west. The Iceni are a client tribe of Rome and if they welcome a druid at their fires then they place that status at peril. If King Prasutagus is aware of these visits he should hold the druid and send word to Colonia.’

‘Prasutagus is a good king and a good man, but his sword arm has weakened with age along with his mind. His strength now lies not on the throne, but beside the throne, where sits his wife Boudicca.’ Valerius remembered the name from the dinner at Lucullus’s villa. The painting of the surrender. ‘Queen Boudicca is not unsympathetic to the old religion. Even if Prasutagus were to seek out the druids it is unlikely he would find them.’

The Roman shook his head. This was the stuff of Paulinus’s nightmares. Celtic priests stirring the embers of rebellion in a subject tribe. A weak king with his queen at his side whispering treason in his ear. If, as Castus seemed to hint, the Cornovii and the Catuvellauni were rearming, all it would take was one spark to set the entire country ablaze.

‘There is a way,’ Cearan said and his eyes turned hard. ‘When Prasutagus dies ensure the right king succeeds him.’

Now Valerius saw it. He almost laughed. Did this handsome barbarian truly believe a lowly tribune could help him secure the crown of the Iceni?

But Cearan had read his thoughts. ‘Swords and gold. The two things that together equal power. With gold I can buy swords and the arms to wield them. I will bring you your druid and you will persuade the governor that Cearan would rule the Iceni not only as a client of Rome, but as a true ally of Rome.’ He brought his face close to Valerius. ‘You must believe me. I want no more Iceni sons gasping out their lives on some river bank for an impossible dream.’

Valerius took a step back as if distance would diminish the scale of his dilemma. Was the Briton merely another power-hungry barbarian lord? He would not be the first to try to bring down his chieftain with a subtle denunciation. But something told him Cearan was more than that. From the first he had sensed a deep honesty in the Iceni that set him apart. He carried his honour like a banner and Valerius had no doubt that he would die to defend it. But what could he do?

‘You ask the impossible. I have no access to the governor and even if I did he would dismiss this as a conspiracy against Prasutagus who has served Rome well. You talk of plots, but where is your evidence? A few cowherds’ tales of strangers in the night? Paulinus would have me whipped from his office.’

He expected Cearan to protest, but the Iceni only nodded impassively. ‘You are right, of course. I have been too concerned for my people’s welfare and do not fully understand your Roman ways. There is time. I believe Prasutagus will see out the winter, but, even if he does not, there will be no decision on his successor until after Beltane. This evidence you seek, what would it be?’

‘Bring me the druid. Then I will find you your gold and your swords.’