Narcissus interrupted. ‘The idiot should be dead.’
‘Who? Verica?’
‘No, Geta. A sensible commander would have made a demonstration and retired. Instead, he sent his men against an enemy who outnumbered them ten to one. Verica saved him when he persuaded the prefect commanding the auxiliary cavalry to charge with the infantry. And Vespasian, of course. He took full advantage of Geta’s suicidal folly and attacked the Britons just when they thought he was finished. They’d taken heavy casualties themselves and that charge broke them.’
‘They ran like chickens, and we slaughtered them.’ Verica drew his sword and slashed the air around him. ‘And now I am a king again.’
‘They were your people,’ Rufus pointed out quietly. ‘Not your tribe, but your people.’
The young Atrebate shrugged. ‘I told you once before, there was always going to be a price to pay. I will ensure it was worth paying.’
By the time they reached the foot of the low hill above the river where the rearguard of the Catuvellauni had made their last stand it was full dark, and shadowy figures moved among the fallen warriors.
‘Where there is carrion, you will always find vultures,’ Narcissus complained. He hailed a decurion who was passing with a section of men from the Twentieth. ‘Clear this looter scum away and bring me torches. Quickly now. We are on imperial business.’
When the decurion had completed his task Narcissus led the way among the anonymous dead. ‘Don’t fear, they are all harmless. The Twentieth made sure of them hours ago, and if any survived the looters will have seen to them.’
The flickering torches cast an unearthly light across the battlefield, illuminating slack-jawed faces deformed by the manner of their owners’ passing and reflecting dull eyes that would never see again. Rufus was struck by the commonwealth of death. A few hours earlier these men had been divided by riches and status and strength, but now they were all equal. There were no chiefs giving orders, or nobility to pass them on. No bards to sing of valour, or Druids to commit their deeds to memory. These were shadows of men, and he did not fear them, for today he had also walked in the shadows and he felt only a brotherhood with them.
Of one thing he was quickly certain: they would never find Caratacus’s body here. More of the dead faces were hidden by darkness than not and Narcissus hurried among them, giving the occasional corpse a cursory glance and often not even bothering to turn over those of obvious rank. Rufus thought it extremely unlike the Greek, who was normally fastidious to the point of obsession, but he left it to Verica to complain.
‘How can I identify him when you don’t give me the chance to look at them?’ the young Briton demanded. ‘Wait, here’s one who’s the right build.’
Narcissus ignored him and kept moving until he reached the rear slope of the hill, where he stood with his torch raised. ‘This is where the survivors withdrew. If he isn’t on the hill, he will be down here.’
Rufus exchanged a puzzled glance with Verica. Was it any more likely the British leader had died among the trampled bushes and spindly rowans than with the main body of his men? Narcissus edged his way carefully down the darkened slope and Verica made a face as he and Rufus followed.
Down here, the bodies were less numerous and Narcissus’s interest in the individuals suddenly revived. Now he was at his most painstaking, turning the likeliest corpses over and putting his torch close to their blank-eyed faces. They passed close by the rowan coppice where, although Rufus could not know it, Ballan had earlier rescued the raped girl. Surprisingly, one of the two Roman legionaries who had been butchered by Caratacus’s bodyguard still lived, though a sword had taken a slice from his skull, along with an ear and part of his right shoulder. To ensure he would never rape again, one of the guards had thoughtfully removed his manhood and at the same time ripped open his belly, tearing a terrible ragged gash that left his bowels exposed. He knew none of this. All he knew was pain. Thrice he had regained consciousness during that interminable day of agony and thirst. Thrice he had prayed he was dead and in the halls of his gods. Thrice he was disappointed. Now he lay, more dead than alive, only vaguely aware of his surroundings. But he was sure he could hear voices, and the suffocating blanket of his torment was pierced by a single reality. Voices meant people. People meant a merciful end to his suffering. He tried to cry out, but his tongue filled his mouth like a gag. He wanted to weep, but even that privilege was denied him. He dozed for a while, if such a living death could be called dozing, and when next he woke the voices had been replaced by another sound. A gentle snuffling and a rustling of leaves. It came closer and he felt something touch his face; whiskers and a cold nose. He was transported back to his childhood and the faintly reassuring memory of some animal, perhaps a pet dog, licking his face. The snuffling went away and he sensed the animal inspecting his lower body. Now his puzzlement turned to concern.
Without warning, the dog fox and his vixen began a vicious, snarling skirmish for possession of the dying soldier’s entrails, ripping the long strings of offal clear of his belly cavity. From somewhere deep inside, he found the strength to scream.
Rufus half turned at the sound, instinctively reaching for his sword. He was about five or six paces behind Verica, who cheerfully ignored the agonized cry and walked on, reciting his plans for rebuilding his capital. The young Atrebate’s path took him a yard closer to the stand of rowans and Rufus noticed a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. It was almost pretty, a spark arcing from a winter fire; a singing half-circle of torchlight reflected on polished metal. Verica’s blond hair twitched and his head spun six inches upwards from his shoulders and dropped with a sharp thud at Rufus’s feet. For a long moment the boy’s body stood upright as if it wasn’t sure it was actually dead; then a dark fountain of heartblood erupted from the severed neck and it toppled forward on to its chest with an audible thump.
Rufus’s sword was still midway out of its scabbard, but he allowed it to stay exactly where it was. ‘Do not make a move or a sound. Your life depends upon it.’ Narcissus’s voice was very quiet and very persuasive, but not as persuasive as the dagger point that pricked at Rufus’s throat. Very carefully, he allowed the sword to slide back home.
Two Britons stepped from the shadows into the torchlight. The first of them, a hulking dark-haired brute with eyes set too close together and a face fixed in a permanent sneer, wiped his bloody sword clean on the cloak of the decapitated torso, and stooped to pick up Verica’s head by the long blond hair he had been so proud of. He inspected the dead prince’s face, which wore a look of surprised indignation as if he were annoyed that his speech had been interrupted. When the warrior was satisfied he had the correct victim he delivered the head to the second man, who was tall and slim and wore his nobility like a badge of honour. He had sharp, almost fox-like features and a severe expression that might or might not have been his natural demeanour. The intricately worked gold torc at his throat would have kept a family of equestrians for a year.