Rufus stood for a moment, unmoving. He felt something growing in him, something untameable, primeval. He turned. To kill Verica.
‘That was an interesting move — you must teach it to me. I-’ The Atrebate was walking towards Rufus across the sand, but when he saw the look in the Roman’s hooded eyes he stopped in mid-stride and mid-sentence. It was followed by a long awkward moment when Verica knew with certainty that this gore-stained young slave held his life in his hands.
The spell was broken by a rattle of hooves that heralded the arrival of a dark-skinned young man with a wispy beard. He was wearing the distinctive pot helmet and green tunic of the Syrian auxiliary cavalry unit attached to the Second Augusta. Across his back was slung a short curved bow and he rode one horse while leading two others. From his saddle hung two heads that bore all the signs of having been recently harvested.
Rufus felt everything in his body slip down into his legs and it was suddenly difficult enough to stand, never mind kill Verica. The Atrebate saw the light of murder die in Rufus’s eyes and felt the liquid feeling in his stomach fade away. He let out a long sigh, and realized he’d been holding his breath for a full minute.
He laughed, but it came out high-pitched and nervous. ‘This is Hanno,’ he said, indicating the man on the horse. ‘He can put an arrow through your eye at two hundred paces. He spotted the men tracking you. He saved your life, but you can thank him later.’
Rufus swayed. His head was spinning, but he knew there was something important he had to say. He searched his mind for the word. ‘Caratacus…’ he croaked finally, and Verica’s eyes widened in interest.
‘You have seen Caratacus? I think that will be important to Narcissus, and to the general. We should return immediately, then.’
‘Caratacus wanted me dead.’
Verica frowned and splashed his way through the stream towards Dafyd’s body. He reached down and held the head up by the blood-sodden hair. ‘Not Caratacus. I recognize this cur. Knew his father. See the tattoo, the way the pattern forms the outline of a hare? His clan is of the Catuvellauni, but their loyalties have long been in the keeping of Togodumnus.’ He spat. ‘Caratacus’s older brother. If these men tried to kill you it was at his behest, not Caratacus’s. Move, elephant man.’ Hanno dismounted to give Rufus a helping hand on to the big Roman cavalry mount. ‘Unless I miss my guess you’ve just become someone worth keeping alive.’
XIV
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?’