The Briton spoke without turning his head. ‘You ride a horse as if you were a sack of corn. My two-year-old son sits a pony better.’
Rufus ignored him, thinking it was a wonder anyone could stay on board these fractious, knobble-backed beasts that seemed to treat every bump as if it were an obstacle to be leapt over. His thighs felt as if they were on fire from the constant strain of keeping his seat on the sweat-slippery animal’s back. Who did this barbarian think..
‘Where did you learn Latin?’ he asked in surprise. The Briton had spoken in a fractured accent that sounded to Rufus’s ear as if it might be closer to Spanish, but it was Latin sure enough.
They travelled another hundred or so horse-lengths along the narrow path before Ballan deigned to reply. ‘My lord insisted I learn the tongue of my enemy, for only then could I understand my enemy and be of true use to him. The only thing I would make you understand, Roman, is what it feels like to die. You were given to the gods. You should have burned. Are you some sorcerer that bent my lord’s mind to your will?’
Rufus spat to ward off bad luck. To speak of sorcerers was to invite trouble. ‘Your lord vowed I was the gift of the gods to him. Would you deny him? Would you gainsay Caratacus, king of the Britons?’
Ballan laughed, a great bellow that came from deep in his chest. ‘Caratacus is no king of the Britons. The Catuvellauni may call him king, but not the Dobunni or the Regni, or even, though he may tell you different, the Trinovantes over whom he claims lordship.’
‘But he leads a great army, the warriors of a dozen different tribes?’
‘Leads them, yes, rules them, no. He holds them together by the power of his will.’ Ballan held out his hand and clenched his fist tight. ‘Let him but loosen his grip for an instant and they will fly like black-birds from a nest.’
‘You talk loosely for a spy and disloyally for a warrior bound to his lord by oath.’
The spear point came up as if it had a life of its own and stopped less than an inch from Rufus’s right eye. One wrong move from the pony skittering nervously between his legs and it would skewer his skull.
‘I have given Caratacus no oath. A man can only be held by a single oath. I did not give it and he did not ask it.’
‘But the Catuvellauni-’
‘Are beasts to be herded and milked by my people, the Iceni.’
Rufus recognized the name. Narcissus had described them as the easternmost of the major tribes. ‘Yet you follow Caratacus, king of these… cattle.’
The spear point dropped and Ballan grinned, an expression that gave his face a curiously impish, almost childlike quality. Rufus realized with surprise he could grow to like this bear of a Celt who was so eager to kill him.
‘Caratacus is different. He is the finest warrior I have ever seen. He uses tricks in combat that would make your eyes water, Roman, and your head spin. When he fights, he wins. I follow him because I trust him, and because he promised me enough loot to buy a hundred horses.’
‘A hundred horses will be of little use to you if you are dead, which is what you will be when your lord finally decides to fight the legions,’ Rufus pointed out mischievously.
The scout shrugged. ‘What is death to a warrior? I would rather die with a sword in my hand and my feet in the mud of a bloody battle-ground than in a warm bed being spooned milk by one of my numberless grandchildren.’ He kicked his pony sharply in the ribs and it spurted ahead. ‘Come, get that nag moving or I won’t be able to deliver you in daylight. I wouldn’t give a cracked egg for your chances if you approach the column by night. Those legionary cavalry are twitchy in the dark, but they’re good.’
They rode on until Rufus’s breakfast was a long-forgotten memory. The only halt Ballan would allow was when they came to a broad, shallow river and he could water the horses, but the Celt’s vigilance never waned. The horsemen approached the stream individually, with the others keeping watch. Rufus marvelled at the Briton’s stamina and fortitude. When he complained he was tired and hungry Ballan threw him a leather bag that contained a few crusts of stale, iron-hard bread that would have broken his teeth if he’d tried to bite them. The only way to make the food edible was to keep it in his mouth until his saliva softened it, then chew it gingerly until he could swallow.
Late in the afternoon they halted at the entrance to a rock-strewn valley cut by a stream through the line of hills parallel to their route. Ballan reined in his pony and took Rufus’s halter.
‘This is where we part, Roman. You can walk from here.’ He pointed into the gully. ‘Follow the river until the valley begins to rise. You’ll know the place when you see it, because there’s a big old oak tree growing almost horizontally out of the left bank. When you reach the tree, climb up that side of the hill. Once you get to the top you should be able to see your army. We’ve been watching them for days and they never turn from their line of march; very predictable and very careless. I’ve told Caratacus we should ambush the buggers, but he doesn’t want to lose any more of his precious warriors.’
Rufus slipped from his pony and almost collapsed. Walk? He could hardly move, his legs were shaking so much from the strain of a day on horseback.
Ballan laughed. ‘A bit stiff? You’ll feel better in an hour or two.’ He reached inside his leather tunic and threw something that glinted in the sunlight. Rufus caught it in his right hand. It was the lion’s tooth set in bright metal he had been given by the master of the slave ship that had carried him from Carthage to Rome. It had been stripped from him with the rest of his possessions before he was placed in the Wicker Man. He had thought it was gone for ever, and felt the lesser for its loss. His fingers instinctively rubbed the smooth surface, and he nodded his thanks.
‘Caratacus believed it was precious to you. What is it? I have never seen a fang like that one.’
‘It came from a cat as big as your pony. It’s a charm that was given to me as a child.’
The Briton snorted in disbelief. ‘No cat was ever that size. A charm, though, I can understand. The brooch Caratacus wears is such a thing, they say. A thing of power, though I have never seen it used.’ He shook his head as if such superstitions were of no interest to a warrior, hauled on his mount’s halter and, leading Rufus’s pony, began to move off.
‘Farewell, Ballan. I do not grudge you your reward,’ Rufus shouted. ‘But I fear the only hundred horses you see will be in your dreams.’ The squat Briton didn’t look back, but Rufus heard him chuckle.
‘A hundred horses, a fat Gaulish concubine and an elephant, that’s what I’d like. But what would I do with the elephant?’
Rufus stood for a while after the Briton was gone, feeling unaccountably lonely. With an effort he roused himself. Don’t be a fool, he thought. Soon you’ll be back with the column and with Gaius and Bersheba. The knowledge gave him strength and he started off at a brisk pace, keeping the stream to his right and following the valley floor. It was an intimidating place, narrow and claustrophobic, where damp moss covered the gully walls and the sun penetrated only when it was directly above. He had been walking for an hour when the reaction to his ordeal finally overcame him. It was less than two days since he had awoken in the horror of the Wicker Man’s belly; but for the merest chance he would be a grinning, burned-out skeleton, like Paullus, his flesh charred and his bones blackened; empty eyes staring from a flame-scorched skull. He stumbled and almost fell, his vision blurred and his world spinning. He decided to rest, choosing a hollow in the valley wall where the roots of a fallen tree had torn a hole just large enough for him to wedge himself inside. The earth was dry and soft, and somehow he found its closeness comforting. Should he not feel guilt for having survived? What had he done to deserve life when every other member of the forage party had died screaming in that fiery cage? The truth was that he didn’t feel guilty at all. Only relieved. He was lying here in this cool chamber that might have been his tomb, but his heart was beating, he could smell the fresh earth in his nostrils and the air he breathed was clean and heady. Nothing else mattered. Not Paullus or Agrippa, or the British woman Veleda. Not the dead child. He was alive. Alive! His last thought before he was overcome with exhaustion was of Aemilia, far away in Rome. How he missed her; she smiled at him, and she was beautiful, but then her hair was on fire and it wasn’t Aemilia, it was Veleda, and the flesh fell from her face to leave a grinning skull.