In the Shadow of the Wall (63 page)

The corridors were deserted. He soon got his bearings, taking a circuitous route but eventually heading back towards the main exit. There would be guards there, he knew, but not the same ones who had admitted him as a messenger. He strode into the large vestibule, adopting a rather unsteady gait. He was relieved to see Cleon still there, sitting on a stool to one side of the hall, a rather forlorn figure. Brude staggered over to him and saw that Cleon did not at first recognise him in the gloom because of the large hat concealing his features. The guards looked at him uncertainly. Slurring his voice, trying to imitate an upper-class accent and give the impression of being slightly drunk, he ordered Cleon, “Fetch my horse, will you?” He kept walking towards the door.

The guards stood aside. One of them pulled the door open, admitting the chill night air. Brude staggered out onto the top steps. “Where’s my horse?” he demanded.

“Horses and carriages are round the side, sir,” Cleon told him. “I’ll fetch the ostler.”

“No, no,” Brude said, with an exaggerated wave of his hand. “I’ll go myself. I could do with some fresh air. Thought I was going to throw up for a minute there.” He lurched down the steps, heading towards the eastern end of the Principia.

Cleon put an arm under his shoulder. “Here, let me help you, sir,” he said. Under his breath he whispered, “Is it done?”

“It is done.”

“By Hercules, I never thought you’d manage it.”

“We are not safe yet,” Brude reminded him. “Stop here.”

They stopped. Brude leaned against the wall, glancing back to see two of the soldiers watching him. He leaned over and made a retching noise. He saw the guards turn away in disgust and then he straightened, tugged Cleon’s arm and walked slowly round the corner of the building.

Once out of sight, he paused to take a deep breath. “So far, so good. But I can’t afford to steal a horse. I’ll have to walk out.” He looked at Cleon and placed an arm on his shoulder. “Come with me.”

Cleon hesitated. “I cannot. I must get back. I would be missed. If not tonight, then, certainly tomorrow.”

“We will wait for you. You can join us later.”

“Do not wait for me, Marcus. I am old and used to my comforts. This country of yours is bad enough here but I would not be able to live in a house of mud and sticks.”

“It’s not that bad,” Brude told him.

“Go,” Cleon told him. “Go and live your life as best you can.”

Brude clasped his friend’s hand, feeling a lump in his throat. “I could not have done this without you, Cleon. I will miss you.”

“And I you. We have said farewell once before but, somehow, this time is harder. Go now and remember me as I will remember you and your family.”

“Always,” promised Brude. Then he turned and began walking, feeling a sense of loss as great as any he had felt before.

Wiping a tear from his cheek, he made his way slowly towards the west gate, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. He resumed his swaying walk as he approached the gate. The two sentries were illuminated by sputtering torches on brackets at either side of the gate. Brude wished them a pleasant good evening, slurring his words slightly. They opened the gate without question, letting him out into the dark night. Their job was to stop people coming into the fortress, not to stop them leaving. Brude turned left, heading towards the town, following the wall of the fortress, knowing there were sentries patrolling the rampart above him. In the darkness he stumbled once or twice but, after what seemed an age, he reached the first houses. Gratefully, he ducked round a corner out of sight of the fortress.

He should have felt elated at his success but he was depressed at leaving Cleon. Killing the emperor had brought no satisfaction, just a dull emptiness. But against all the odds he had succeeded. Veleda could no longer haunt him. Now all he had to do was find Fothair.

Fothair was freezing. When he had found the small depression in the low hills overlookin Eboracum, it had seemed a pleasant enough place. Here in the dark, with the bare limbs of the trees creaking in the cold wind above his head, and the winds gusting through the hollow, he hated it.

Every few minutes he climbed the low side of the hollow and looked towards the city. Some lights were still burning but he was too far away to make out whether there was anyone out and about. He doubted it. At this time of year most people stayed indoors after sundown, trying to stay warm. In an effort to keep warm himself, he ran up and down the slope but this alarmed the horses. Then he lost his footing in the dark and fell, so he settled for walking instead of running. He wondered what time it was but he had no idea. He guessed it was not yet
midnight
because he thought he would be able to make out the guests leaving the fortress after the feast. So far, he had seen nothing at all. He reckoned there would be a lot more moving lights when they all came outside, but then he worried that he was so far away that he might have missed them. Perhaps the feast was over and everyone had left, leaving Brude still inside. Or perhaps Brude had been caught and was already dead. He told himself he could not think that. Brude was the most capable man he knew. If anyone could get away from the fortress, it was him. Brude’s biggest problem, Fothair thought, was his own self-doubt. He had been a slave for so long that he sometimes did not know just how much people looked up to him. And people did look up to him, sought his favour and tried to gain his respect. Fothair would follow Brude anywhere, would have gone into the fortress if Brude had asked him. What he definitely did not want to do was go back to Mairead and tell her that Brude had not returned. Especially in her condition.

Barabal had guessed it first. Brude had thought Mairead was just feeling unwell but Barabal had confided in Fothair that Mairead had admitted to missing her period. “She’s pregnant?” he had asked.

“She thinks so,” his young wife had said. “But she’s not certain, so she doesn’t want Brude to know yet. She thinks he will abandon his plan if he knows.”

Fothair had been appalled. He thought Brude should know, but Barabal had made him promise not to say anything. Mairead’s strength of will humbled him. Everyone had thought she could not have any more children. Colm had been prepared to divorce her because of it, but now, it seemed, Colm had been the problem. After so many years of misery, Mairead now had a chance of living with Brude and raising more children with him. With a word she could have stopped this crazy plan. They could have made a life together within the empire. Instead, she had said nothing. Like Brude, she had put the fate of the Pritani above her own needs. Fothair could not fathom where she found her strength.

Brude had to return. He must.

The long night passed slowly. From his lonely vantage point Fothair saw the cluster of torches as people left the Principia after the feast ended, so he reckoned that must have been around
midnight
. He waited, clenching his teeth to stop them chattering in the cold and slapping his arms around his body to keep his circulation going. A few spots of rain spattered on the ground but, thankfully, the wind bustled the clouds further east before any real rain fell.

He stayed near the lip of the hollow, peering into the night, trying to make out signs of movement but there was nothing. The moon was hidden by another wave of grey clouds and the earth was in utter darkness. He heard the bark of a fox and the wind brought the distant sound of an owl hooting, but there was no sign of Brude. Fothair grew more and more worried for his friend. He knew Brude had few concerns about getting into the fortress and, if he could gain entrance to the emperor’s chambers, he had a plan for getting away, but there were so many things that could go dangerously wrong. The longer the night dragged on, the more Fothair worried that Brude and Cleon had both been caught.

The moon suddenly shone through a gap in the clouds. Fothair instinctively ducked below the rim of the hollow then cursed himself for a fool because he was far enough away from the fortress and the town that nobody could possibly see his head. He peered over the edge again, his eyes scanning the ground between the hill where he lay and the distant town. It was hard to make anything out, even in the moonlight, but he could see nothing moving. Then the moon was hidden behind the blanket of clouds again and all was darkness once more.

He slumped down, frustrated and concerned, yet helpless to do anything except wait. Brude had told him to stay until the first light of the pre-dawn appeared in the eastern sky and then he was to leave, making his own way back to Moritasgus’ village. “If I’m not back by then,” Brude had told him, “I probably won’t be back at all.” Fothair told himself over and over that it would not come to that; could not come to that. There must still be several hours until dawn. He waited.

Unexpectedly, he heard the snatch of a whistled tune carried on the wind. He sat up, alert, listening as hard as he could. It had come from the south west, behind him. He scrambled down the slope, across the tiny hollow and up the other bank where he looked out over the edge. He whistled the same tune, a child’s ditty that everyone of the Boresti knew. There was no reply. Then he heard it again. It was definitely there, not his imagination, but it was faint and passing him on the south side. Throwing caution to the wind, he clambered over the rim of the hollow and called into the night, “Brude! Where are you?”

Silence.

“Brude! Over here!” Where was he?

Then he heard an answering call. “Keep talking but keep your voice down!”

“I’m over here. You’re on the wrong side of the hill so you need to head north. Just keep coming up the slope.”

Brude appeared a few moments later, a darker shadow against the dark of the night. He was wrapped in a cloak and had a broad-brimmed hat on his head. Fothair threw his arms around him in a welcoming embrace. “What are you doing coming from that direction?”

“I got lost in the dark,” Brude admitted. “It was only when the moon broke through that I saw the outline of the hill and the trees and knew I’d missed you.”

“Did you do it?” Fothair asked him anxiously.

“Yes.”

“Cleon?”

“He’s fine. He stayed.”

“Then let’s get the horses and get out of here. You can tell me all about it as we go.”

They headed south and west, into the face of the wind, following a small stream, walking the horses so as to avoid any accidents. It was slow progress but they were south of the city and heading gradually westwards. Brude hoped that the Romans would not suspect foul play but he wanted to take no chances. He and Fothair had to disappear in case suspicions were aroused by the discovery of the unbarred bathroom door, or the messenger’s uniform he had left behind. They crossed the Roman road some miles south of Eboracum and headed further west into the hills, urging the horses on as the first grey light of dawn lightened the sky behind them. Brude told Fothair everything that had happened. When he was done the tall man laughed. “For a man who does not believe in the gods, you’ve got someone looking after you.”

A.D. 211

The news raced round the fortress on wings. The emperor was dead. Lucius told Cleon as much as he knew, which was not a lot. “He must have died in his sleep while the feast was still going on. They say his candle was burned right down so he could not have put it out last night.”