Hero of Rome

XX

Saturnalia passed and the snow vanished before the Celts celebrated the rebirth of life in secret ceremonies at their festival of Imbolc. Valerius hadn’t forgotten the concerns of Castus, the Londinium camp prefect. By now he was a regular, if reluctant, attendant at meetings of Colonia’s ordo and, recalling Lucullus’s words and Cearan’s warning of the previous autumn, he wondered aloud if it was worth checking on who attended the celebrations.

‘It does not matter who attends, they will all be drunk,’ quaestor Petronius said dismissively. ‘And when they are drunk they play their childish fire games. You are young, tribune, and must leave such concerns to those who understand them best.’

The exchange was quickly forgotten. Valerius had other things on his mind.

Soon, probably in a matter of weeks, his orders would come through to return the First cohort to Glevum. When he had completed his duties at the legionary headquarters it was certain the legate would send him directly to Londinium… and a ship to Rome. The thought sent an unfamiliar shiver of panic through him. Maeve’s face continued to haunt him and the need to be with her tantalized his nights. He realized that, whatever happened, he couldn’t leave her behind.

A few weeks after Imbolc, he set out north on the Venta road to inspect the work his legionaries had carried out and check for any damage that might have been done by the winter frosts or by the floods that followed the great thaw. He took a patrol of twenty, led by Lunaris, and they rode from Colonia’s north gate at dawn on a day when the wind tore in from the coast with the sting of a cracked whip and puffy white clouds scudded like invasion fleets beneath a canopy of leaden grey. Lunaris, marginally more comfortable now on a horse docile enough even for him to control, hunched down in his saddle and wrapped his cloak tightly about him, roundly cursing the British weather.

‘I froze all winter and now the damp’s eating into my bones, rotting my straps and rusting my armour: why did we ever come here? The people hate us, even the veterans in Colonia resent us being here, eating their rations, drinking their wine, chasing their women and requisitioning everything we want, knowing that the procurator will take six months to pay.’

Valerius smiled at an old soldier’s grumbles. If they’d been in Cappadocia or Syria, Lunaris would have been complaining that it was too hot, the wine was sour and the women wouldn’t leave him alone.

‘We’re here because we’re soldiers and we go where they want us to go. This is where the Emperor wants us to be. Enjoy it while it lasts. You’ll be warm enough come summer, when the Black Celts are chasing you round their mountains. How far to the next bridge?’

Lunaris checked his map. ‘About six miles. That’s not what I hear.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘That the Emperor wants us in Britain. The word is that we’re pulling out soon.’

Valerius turned to stare at him. ‘Where does that come from?’

‘You know how it goes. The procurator’s clerk tells the quartermaster that maybe we don’t need to stockpile so much equipment. The quartermaster tells the armourer to use up the iron he’s got. The armourer tells the smith we won’t be needing so many pilum points and then it’s all round the province. Suddenly we’re moving out. Probably rubbish.’

Valerius nodded, but he remembered the letter which was still in his chest in the townhouse.

‘Why did you bring me?’ the duplicarius asked, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

‘Because you have a nose for trouble and an eye for everything else. The last big repair is just short of Venta and I thought we would call on our old friend Lord Cearan.’

‘You think there’ll be trouble?’ Lunaris’s hand instinctively sought his sword hilt.

Valerius shook his head. ‘I doubt it. But I have a feeling there are things going on we should know about. In any case, Petronius as good as told me to mind my own business, which is a good reason not to.’

It was four days before they reached Venta Icenorum. Valerius took time to ensure every repair had been properly carried out and to arrange for any winter damage to be reported. He also inspected the auxiliary unit manning the signal station which flanked the road between Colonia and the Iceni border. The wooden tower, with its pitch-soaked beacon, stood twenty feet above the flat, waterlogged countryside, within a circular rampart topped by a palisade and surrounded by a six-foot ditch. Its garrison consisted of eight surly, unshaven Tungrians who were as alert as he might have expected after three months watching the same piece of road in the dead of winter. Their commander, a decurion with a hangdog expression, made it clear he thought they’d been abandoned and begged him to send food and proper winter clothing.

‘Though it’s too late for poor old Chrutius there.’ He pointed to a man with bandaged feet and a pair of makeshift crutches. ‘Stood guard all night in a blizzard an’ lost six toes to the blight.’

Valerius asked if the man had noticed anything unusual in recent weeks.

The decurion smiled bitterly. ‘Only you.’

Valerius reined in when he saw the smoke from Venta’s cooking fires dusting the northern horizon and Lunaris drew up beside him. ‘Why are we so interested in these people?’ the duplicarius asked. ‘Fifty miles from rest and rations, and one lot of tame Celts looks just like another to me.’

Valerius shrugged. ‘We’re here anyway. It’s only right that we should pay our respects to Cearan. In any case, I suspect he knows we’re coming.’ He pointed to a small group of horsemen by a clump of trees about a mile away. ‘I wouldn’t call the Iceni tame, but they are fortunate. They fought with Caratacus against Claudius and might have ended up like the Trinovantes and the Catuvellauni, with their young men slaves and their lands confiscated. But that’s where the luck came in. Their king, Antedios, died in the fighting and by the time of the surrender he’d been replaced by Prasutagus, who very quickly condemned Antedios as a rebel and asked for Rome’s mercy.’

‘Clever.’

‘We didn’t have enough troops to garrison this far north and fight in the west, so Claudius, who was also clever, agreed to make them clients of Rome. Ten years ago they rebelled again, or at least some of them did, when Scapula tried to disarm the tribes permanently. But old Prasutagus blamed it on a minority among the western Iceni and the legions had enough on their hands with the Dobunni and the Durotriges, so they were left alone again.’

‘The lucky tribe, then?’

Valerius smiled. ‘Or their god favours them.’

As Valerius kicked his horse into motion, Lunaris frowned and touched the silver phallic amulet at his neck. ‘Which god would that be?’

‘Andraste.’

The road to Venta Icenorum ran along the west side of a winding stream edged by drooping willows and tall poplars. The town itself lay forty paces beyond the far bank, a strange mix of the old and the new. The usual Celtic community consisted of scattered roundhouses surrounded by fields and linked by walkways and drove roads. At first sight, Venta could have been a provincial Roman town. It lay, part hidden, behind a wooden palisade and its streets appeared to be laid out on the familiar grid pattern, with a gap in the roofscape which suggested a central forum. Only on closer inspection did Valerius realize that the houses, with their pitched roofs, were constructed of wattle and daub and that where there should have been tiles there was thatch. Lunaris looked uncertainly at the river, which was in spate and foamed, a sickly reddish brown, just below the trees, but Valerius pointed to a wooden bridge a little way upstream. Where Cearan waited.

‘It is an honour to welcome you to my home.’ The Iceni sat comfortably on the back of a horse considerably larger than the British ponies with which Valerius was familiar. He managed the not inconsiderable feat of bowing gracefully from the waist and hanging on to a curly-haired child of about three who wriggled in the crook of his right arm. ‘My grandson, Tor,’ he explained, lowering the boy to the ground, where he scuttled off to chase a foraging chicken among the bushes by the gateway. ‘It is also unexpected.’ The smile didn’t falter, but there was a definite question in Cearan’s pale blue eyes.

‘We have been inspecting the road to the south,’ Valerius explained. ‘You invited me to see your horses, but if it is not convenient…?’

Cearan’s smile grew wider at the mention of his horses, and he slapped his mount on the shoulder. He sat on the animal as if he were part of it, his long legs hugging its ribs and his hands light on the reins. Valerius had never met a king, but if any man looked and acted like a king it was Cearan. His golden hair was tied at the neck with a band that matched the deep red of his soft-spun shirt, and his long blond moustaches hung below his chin.

‘Of course. Ride with me. Perhaps your troopers would like to water their horses,’ he suggested diplomatically. When they were out of earshot his face grew serious and he explained: ‘You must forgive me, Valerius my friend, but you could not have come at a worse time. King Prasutagus survived the winter, but it has taken its toll on his health. He is close to death, only the timing is in doubt, and the stink of his dying draws the carrion birds. They are all here: Beluko, who has lands in the west; Mab, whose territory you have just crossed, and Volisios, who holds the border with the Corieltauvi. Each thinks he has a better case than the others to succeed Prasutagus and all have good reason to hate the Romans.’

‘And Cearan? Gold and swords?’

‘I fear it is too late unless you carry them with you, and I doubt twenty riders would be enough. In any case, I never brought you your druid and my honour would not allow it.’ The Briton smiled sadly. They passed under the north wall of Venta and Valerius looked up to see fifteen or twenty faces watching from the ramparts. ‘See,’ Cearan said loudly. ‘Here is my herd. Now, if your Thracian would only part with that stallion of his for two days?’

They were fine horses, the finest Valerius had seen on the island, and each a replica of the mare Cearan rode. The herd grazed in a mass at the centre of a broad meadow, which sloped down to where the river swept in a wide curve eastwards towards the sea.

‘If not Cearan, then who will lead the Iceni?’

‘Boudicca,’ the Briton said emphatically.

‘Boudicca? But you said…’

‘I was wrong,’ Cearan admitted. ‘I have spoken to her. She understands her position and she sees the new reality as I do. Do not doubt me: she despises everything Rome stands for but she realizes that to serve her people best she must retain what they have. Better for Emperor Nero to take half the kingdom’s revenues than to have a Roman legion camped beneath our walls and Colonia’s quaestor dabbling in our politics.’

Valerius turned towards the watchers on the wall. Somehow he knew the queen would be there. As tall as any of the men around her, she stood in the centre, clad in a gown of emerald green, her flame-red hair dancing in the breeze. He couldn’t see her face, which was silhouetted against the low sun, but he had an impression of great strength, and though her eyes weren’t visible he knew they would be as fierce as any eagle’s.

Cearan’s voice was taut. ‘When the time comes you must tell the governor to favour her petition. Her daughters will be Prasutagus’s joint heirs but they are young and she will rule in their stead. She will make a better queen than Prasutagus is a king. The governor will not regret it.’

Valerius nodded. He would try. ‘And you?’

Cearan opened his mouth to reply but at that moment a shout came from behind them and Valerius looked round to see two young girls watching shyly from the corner of the town wall. Cearan called them across and introduced them.

‘Rosmerta.’ He indicated the taller of the two, a pretty red-haired child with a freckled face and an easy smile. ‘And this is Banna.’ The second girl must have been a year younger, probably around twelve, but Valerius could already see the signs that would mark her as a true beauty. She had a mane of blond hair and delicate features matched with startling green eyes. Both girls were dressed in light linen shifts and walked barefoot. Banna spoke to Cearan in her own language with a look that made Valerius wonder if she was about to stamp her feet.

‘I apologize.’ The Iceni bowed to his assailant. ‘She reminds me that she is Princess Banna and she wishes to be given a closer look at your horse, which she says makes mine look like a pack mule.’

Valerius smiled. ‘In that case I would be obliged if they would walk her to cool her down after her long ride and perhaps they would provide her with some oats,’ he said courteously.

Banna took the reins even before Cearan had completed his translation and the girls led the big cavalry horse away, chattering together animatedly.

‘Her daughters?’ Valerius asked. Cearan nodded. ‘They are very young.’

‘That is why they need your protection.’ He glanced towards the walls and Valerius realized at least one of the men he had named was there. ‘Your coming has placed me in great danger, but I still have the king’s favour — and the queen’s support. You need not fear for Cearan of the Iceni, my friend.’

Valerius reached out his hand and Cearan gripped his wrist in the Roman fashion.

‘My oath on it.’

The two men made a show of studying the individual horses of Cearan’s herd before Valerius retrieved his mount from the reluctant sisters, offering them his thanks. As they rode back, they found Lunaris and the other troopers watering their horses in a sheltered backwater of the swollen river under the hostile stares of a small group of unarmed Iceni warriors. A little way upstream Cearan’s grandson, now a muddy faced urchin only recognizable by his shock of golden hair, teased a family of ducks with a stick by the edge of the river.

‘Any trouble?’ Valerius asked, eyeing the warriors by the gate.

Lunaris grinned. ‘Nobody ever died from a dirty look, but I’ve had warmer welcomes.’

‘We ride for Colonia when the horses are rested.’

The big man nodded, but his face registered his disappointment. Valerius knew his troops had anticipated a hot meal, even a feast, and beer and a warm bed after four nights sleeping under their cloaks.

Cearan disappeared inside the gate and returned with a bulging sack which he handed to the duplicarius. ‘Perhaps this will make your journey seem a little shorter.’

Lunaris looked inside and smiled his thanks.

Cearan turned to Valerius. ‘Farewe-’

He was interrupted by a loud squeal of frustration from upriver and the two men turned to see Cearan’s grandson tottering on the bank of the river as he leaned precariously to reach the duck’s nest. A moment later a sharp cry rang out. The little boy disappeared in a fountain of dirty river water and the only evidence he had existed was a thatch of blond curls just visible in the torrent as it was carried towards them with incredible speed.

‘Tor!’ Cearan’s anguished cry spurred Valerius into action and he urged his horse towards the river. The instant he reached the bank he leapt from the saddle into the water, thanking the gods it was only knee deep at this point. Keeping hold of the reins for support and anchorage he hauled his protesting mount into the rushing flow, immediately feeling the current plucking at his legs and threatening to pull his feet from under him. The river was narrower here, but also swifter, and he knew if he went under in his armour he was unlikely to surface again. He glanced upstream. The boy was nowhere in sight. All he could see was a gushing, foam-flecked brown torrent. Then he spotted it, less than fifteen paces away and coming at him as fast as a galloping horse. A dull hint of gold just beneath the surface. With a thrill of panic he realized it would pass beyond his grasping hand, and he hauled desperately at the reins to give himself extra reach. He sent a silent prayer to Mars and even as he gave up hope he plunged forward with an enormous splash, reaching with his right arm, and came up with a handful of blond curls, followed by a squirming bundle that resembled a half-drowned hare.

Cearan flung himself from his horse and ran to the river just as Valerius emerged dripping wet with the little boy clutched to his chest, his eyes screwed tight shut and choking up river water in fountains. The Briton tenderly took his grandson from the Roman’s arms and nodded his thanks. ‘Now I am truly in your debt.’