Eventually, Rufus fell into a dreamless sleep. But what seemed like only minutes later a rough hand shook his shoulder and a beer-soaked moustache was in his face. He raised his head, and winced. The wound behind his ear hurt more today than it had yesterday. The man pushed a bundle of clothing into his hands and Rufus discovered it was a remarkably clean pair of the patterned trews every Celt wore, and a rough woollen shirt, which he pulled over his head. He stood up to struggle into the trousers, which barely fitted him. Then he walked from the hut into a bright sunlight that sent pain flashing across the back of his eyes. When his vision cleared, he found himself at the centre of a circle of threatening barbarian faces. They were mostly old men, women and filthy, dishevelled children, but there were a few young warriors, and it was these who worried him most. They studied him with expressions of naked hatred.
The guard motioned him to where Caratacus and a small group of older tribesmen sat eating from wooden bowls at a crude bench. The British king rose to greet him, and offered a seat at his side. He was wearing a different cloak today, earth brown and of rough-woven cloth. The brooch that pinned it at his shoulder was the same, however, and Rufus could see now it was of remarkably fine workmanship; spun gold in the shape of a boar’s head, with a ruby, its inner light burning like fire, for the beast’s eye. His thoughts were interrupted when a bowl like the others was pushed in front of him and a large wooden spoon dropped into it with a splash that spattered his new clothing with thin gruel. Not daring to look at his tablemates, he picked up the spoon and stared at what was in the bowl. It made his stomach churn.
‘Not hungry?’ Caratacus asked politely. ‘Do not worry. We don’t poison our sacrifices.’
Given the choice between trusting his host or starving to death, Rufus decided he was hungry after all and spooned the unappetizing mess into his mouth. It was surprisingly good: boiled oats, sweetened with honey, but with a slightly tart taste that lingered on his tongue.
Caratacus said: ‘I have decided not to continue our conversation.’
The spoon froze halfway to Rufus’s mouth. He suddenly realized the smell he had thought was pork cooking for breakfast came from the smouldering heap of blackened nameless obscenity where the Wicker Man had previously stood.
‘It is time to return you to your son, and to your larger charge.’ Caratacus looked thoughtful for a second and then smiled. ‘You are right. I am not a cruel man. I wish you to take a message to your commander. Tell him Caratacus of the Catuvellauni sends his greetings. That he fears neither his elephant nor his army, but wishes peace between our two peoples. Tell him he can return to Rome with every man he brought to these shores, or with none. I will give him two days to comply. If he does not, I will harry him until he bleeds from a thousand wounds, and at the time and place of my choosing I will destroy him. Do you understand?’
Rufus nodded. But Caratacus ordered him to repeat the message until he was satisfied. ‘Good. Now, come. It is time.’
He led the way towards a group of four men who stood holding five of the small, hairy British ponies. Before they reached them, a young warrior stepped from the watching crowd and blocked their way. He stared coldly at Rufus, his whole posture radiating challenge, before drawing his sword very deliberately from its scabbard. Rufus instinctively reached for his knife but of course it had been taken from him. He laughed at his own stupidity and the warrior frowned at the unexpected sound. They stared at each other for a few seconds, and Rufus realized that the longer the stand-off continued the more likely it was to end badly for him. He turned to Caratacus. ‘If he is going to kill me, tell him to get on with it. Better a clean death than the belly of the god. But I would have thought there is little honour in killing an unarmed man, even among your people?’
Caratacus laughed at the insult and translated Rufus’s words to the warrior, who stepped forward so his face was close enough for Rufus to smell his sour breath. The young man launched into a spittle-laced tirade which must have found favour among the watching tribesfolk because they roared their acclamation at regular intervals.
The king translated. ‘He says he is Dafyd, son of Cefn who fell in the battle of the valley when the great beast cast its spell over our warriors. Now he carries his father’s sword. He says you will not always have the king’s protection and that though you are a coward and a weakling he will hunt you down wherever you run, even if it is beyond the Great Sea. He will cut out your heart and sacrifice it to Taranis, your fingers will provide a necklace for his wife, and he will use your skull as a drinking bowl — once it has been properly cleansed of your filth. He makes this pledge before all the gods and asks them for aid in accomplishing it.’
Rufus took a step back and studied his opponent. Dafyd was a well-muscled young man of about his own age with a mesh tattoo covering one shoulder, but he sensed the Briton was less of a champion than he appeared. He had been in the arena often enough to know the signs. There was a tension in the way Dafyd stood that betrayed his anxiety, and his knuckles were a little too white where he gripped the sword hilt. Cupido, the gladiator, had taught Rufus enough moves with the sword to have confidence against most men. In any case, as he had already calculated, Caratacus had saved him from the belly of Taranis, and it was unlikely he would allow him to be butchered. He turned to the British king. ‘Give me one of the little Roman swords and I will be happy to provide him with his opportunity to accomplish it now.’
Caratacus smiled and shook his head slowly. ‘There will be a time, Rufus the elephant man, but it is not now.’ He pushed the glaring young warrior aside with what sounded like a warning, and led the way towards the waiting horsemen.
‘This is Ballan. He will escort you back to your people. Remember the message. I hunger for Roman blood, but I give your general one opportunity to make an honourable withdrawal. Farewell. I pray we will not meet again.’
XIII
They rode south and east, along valley sides lightly wooded with larch and thorn, and Rufus noted that Ballan took care never to be drawn to the valley floor when there was another possible route, even if the alternative was more difficult for his ponies. Neither did he expose himself on the skyline above the crest of a hill. The ponies were a uniform nondescript brown and Rufus realized that from a distance they would merge perfectly with the landscape they travelled across. One rider always scouted ahead, studying the hills and reconnoitring what waited over the next crest, while two wove their way along the flanks.
Rufus studied his companion, trying not to betray his interest. Ballan was short for a British warrior, but he had the kind of physique that made him appear as broad as he was tall. His legs were enormously muscled and he sat astride his horse as if he were part of it. Most Celts clothed themselves in homespun cloth shirts, but Ballan favoured a scuffed leather tunic worn over what looked like an auxiliary’s mail shirt. He had a head that was almost square and he wore his hair short whereas his compatriots allowed theirs to grow to their shoulders in shaggy, lice-infested manes. His weapon of choice was an iron-tipped throwing spear he carried always in his right hand, but a sword and a curved dagger hung from his belt and Rufus had no doubt he knew how to use them.