The Eagle and the Raven (60 page)

E
ND
OF
W
INTER
, A.D. 52

Chapter Twenty-Seven

T
HE
spy worked for one of the governor’s secretaries. He kept order in the offices of the administration block at Camulodunon. He ran errands. He was a very willing, very eager servant and the secretary called on him a great deal, knowing that his demands would be carried out faithfully and promptly. But the spy, the servant, was ill, and the secretary, though irritated, accepted a replacement for a while. But he had come to rely on the man’s quiet efficiency and he was annoyed.

The spy left Camulodunon, trekking like a shadow. He cut west through the Catuvellaun forest until he reached Verulamium, but he did not enter the town. He struck north, following the road that ran straight to the Roman garrison at Viroconium and the pass into the western mountains beyond. He grinned to himself as he loped under the brittle, sleeping trees, keeping the road on his right but not leaving the forest to tread its smooth surface, even though he often had to detour impenetrable undergrowth. He was almost disposed to bless Rome for this obliging guide. The weather was bitterly cold. Spring was still three months away, and Albion lay quiescent under winter’s stiff white hand. In the south, rain mixed with sleet had driven the spy to keep moving, deep within the forest where there were still dry places to rest, but the cold had not allowed him more than a few hours of troubled sleep at a time. As he crossed the border of the Coritani the rain dribbled away and there was only sleet, ice-cold and stinging, and he dared not light a fire to dry his clothes or cook hot food. He sat hunched under the dubious shelter of the thorny bramble bushes, his eyes on the thin slice of road visible through the trees, shivering yet not daring to leave the concealment of the forest to travel more quickly. He had been tempted, but every twenty miles or so along this road there was a posting station, fortified like a miniature garrison, and the speculatores and patrols often clattered past him as he forced one sodden, frozen foot after the other. He reflected, with grim humor, that his life in Camulodunon had softened him, but he was not yet soft enough to lie down and die. He slipped like a forest wight past the posting stations and came to last to Viroconium, one link in Scapula’s chain that stretched from Glevum in the south to Deva in the north, the governor’s western frontier.

Snow had begun to fall, but there was no wind. He circled the garrison with infinite care, walking in the places where the snow had not penetrated so that he would leave no footprints behind. He stood facing the pass that would have taken him south into Silurian country, sniffing the cold, wet air. Then he turned and plunged north, swimming across the river in the middle of the night, holding his damp cloak over his head. He reached the other side and looked up. Forest beckoned him, and he could sense an infinitude of rock far beyond the snow’s gray blindness. He began to run. He knew where he was.

He staggered into Emrys’s camp six days later. The snow had stopped and a weak sun shone in the watery blue sky. The little tents were half buried, but fires blazed, and the dazed man gulped great whiffs of stewing pig. Emrys dropped his joint and ran to greet him.

“I am pleased to meet you at last, Lord,” the spy croaked. “I have worked for the cause of freedom for many years, yet only the last link in my little chain has ever seen you face to face.” He smiled, and Emrys’s heart turned over. So this was Caradoc’s chief spy in Camulodunon, a man who earned his bread from Roman hands, a man who had never left the town, yet who was more vital to the west’s struggle than Emrys himself. The news must be very big.

“Come into my tent,” he said gently. “Do not share until you have eaten.”

“Hot food,” the man said. “And dry clothes. I have enjoyed neither since I left the south.” Emrys sent for Venutius and Madoc, and a freeman for food. He sat in his tent on his skins, saying nothing, watching the stranger peel off his sodden garments and pull on a pair of Emrys’s own breeches and a tunic before he sank down to make his meal. It was a large one, but Emrys did not hurry him. Madoc and Venutius shouldered their way into the tent, bringing with them the strong, sour smell of wet wool. Then the spy gulped his beer, wiped his mouth, and at a nod from Emrys, gave his news.

“Two things, Lords,” he said. “First, the arviragus has been pardoned. The dispatch came two weeks ago but I waited for confirmation before passing it along. It seems that Claudius has taken a liking to his enemy, or rather, the city of Rome has. The people demanded his release.”

“That would not have been enough!” Venutius said sharply. “The senate must have voted for it as well. Could it be that Claudius pardoned Caradoc out of necessity, or…”

Madoc voiced the doubt in all their minds. “Or has Caradoc struck some dishonorable bargain with the emperor in exchange for his life?” They looked at each other, confused, but the spy spoke up.

“No,” he said forcefully. “No. Never. I know him better than that. Claudius has become very unpopular lately. His family is a breed of degenerate animals and his Greek freemen shock even the Roman populace with their dissipation. He hopes that by pardoning the arviragus he will rise once more in the people’s favor.”

For a while the men digested his words, reviewed their own memories, and were satisfied. We are more like animals, perhaps, than Claudius’s pathetic family, Emrys thought. I know no degenerate beasts of the forest—only men may be degenerate—yet we have grown to suspect ourselves and all those around us. His eyes brushed those of Venutius. “What are the terms?” he asked brusquely.

The spy shook his head. “I do not know for certain, but they will be common. Exile from the home of his birth, and death if he leaves the city of Rome.”

To be exiled from Albion is death enough, Emrys thought again. There are many places in Gaul where a man might fool himself into believing he is home, but to have to live in that city forever, without forest or mountain, without clean streams and the silence of the golden meadows in a summer noon… Mother, Mother, I would die! He wanted to weep. “What of Eurgain? Llyn? His daughters?”

“None of them will suffer execution. They have all become heroes and curiosities in Rome.”

The irony of it all came into Venutius’s mouth, acrid and hot. “What other news have you?” he asked shortly.

The man smiled again, this time a grin of malice. “The governor is dead. Caradoc has finally killed him.”

Only Madoc exclaimed. The others tensed in surprise, and the spy, seeing the reaction his words had evoked, went on. “The news of Caradoc’s pardon was too much for him. After all, he had hunted the man for years, his health, his peace of mind, everything had been sacrificed to his desire to capture Caradoc. When he had finally done it he felt that he had fulfilled his destiny, but in one moment the emperor took all meaning from his triumph. He fell apart, Lords.” The man’s hands rubbed against each other. “His stomach burst, and something burst in his head also, for he died screaming. His agony could be heard all over the forum. So it seems,” he finished, turning his head to look at Venutius, “that your wife did us a courtesy after all.”

Us, yes, Venutius thought, but not Caradoc. He did not reply, and the man’s brown eyes left him.

“Well,” Madoc grunted. “What happens now? Can you tell us that, freeman?”

“I am a chieftain,” the man responded pointedly. “But I suppose it does not matter. I cannot tell you with any certainty what will happen, but I have worked beside the Romans for long enough to make a judgment. The news of Scapula’s death will not have reached Rome yet. The weather is not good. It will take the emperor by surprise, and he will be unable to select a new governor for some time. Again, the turbulence of the spring tides will prevent any man from coming to Albion until late spring, at the earliest.”

And there must be a governor. Venutius’s mind began to work fast. Without a governor the fools are rudderless, a boat without control or direction, a headless, useless corpse. It is time to tread the war tracks again. He hardly heard the man rise and address Emrys.

“That is all my news, Lord,” he said. “I must ask food of you, and a spare cloak, and I must leave immediately. I am supposed to be in my own house, ill, but there is so much confusion at Camulodunon now that I do not think anyone will seek news of my health until I am fully recovered.” He bowed curtly and stepped to the tent flap, but Emrys asked, “Chieftain, who are you? What is your name?”

The man surveyed them all carefully. The knowledge they wanted could mean his death if one of them was caught and tortured, for Rome was feverish in its search for the eyes and ears of the rebels, yet he knew also that it was far more likely to be he himself who faced the torturer first. He inclined his head. “I am a Catuvellaun warrior. I used to be Caradoc’s hunting companion, when he and I and Togodumnus were youths together, but lately I have been awarded Roman citizenship for my service in the governor’s offices. Who knows? Perhaps one day I may be mayor of Camulodunon.” He smiled to himself at his little joke. “I am surprised that you, Madoc, did not recognize me. My name is Vocorio.” Madoc stared at him, breathing heavily, then he said, “You have changed, Catuvellaunian.”

“I have grown older, even as you have, Silurian bear. You too have changed. Only one thing changes a man more than the passage of time.” He shrugged and went out, the flap whispering closed behind him.

“What might that be?” Madoc muttered. Emrys laughed. “Why the constant reliving of bitter memories,” he answered. “So say the Druids.”

Over the next two months, news continued to trickle in. Claudius had indeed been taken aback by the sudden death of his governor. He could not provide a replacement before the early summer; he had no one to send before then and perhaps not even shortly after. Juggling the men best qualified for the job was an expensive and tricky business, and while he dickered the chiefs of the west met to plan their summer engagements. The winter had not been wasted. Once more the tribesmen were fully armed, the lines of communication reforged. The west was ready for combat, and with hopeful eyes the leaders watched the spread of confusion that had begun at Camulodunon with the death of Scapula. The legions received no orders, and their legates dreaded the coming of the campaigning season without directives from Camulodunon. Scapula’s second-in-command did not know what moves to make, either. He could have taken over the task of the summer fighting, but Scapula, secure in the belief that with Caradoc out of the way, the west would surrender meekly, had not formulated any moves. The second, like his emperor, dithered. On Mona the refugees and servants of the Druids prepared once more to sow the crops that would fuel the rebels, and in the Ordovician mountains Emrys sent out a request to the Demetae and Deceangli chieftains to come to council. They sent no reply but came at once, with the returning messengers.

Council was assembled on a soft overcast day, full of the drip of melting snow. Five hundred chieftains, the leaders of their people, sat with Emrys, Madoc, and Venutius at the foot of a well-guarded cliff, rock at their back and a small lake edged in forest before them. After the opening ceremonies were concluded, Emrys rose, took off his sword, and briefly told them all the state of the province.

“This is a good time to strike the first blow of the season,” he said. “Now, early, before the men in Camulodunon decide that they must make some kind of a move against us, governor or no governor. But we must discuss where our blow will fall. You are free to speak.”

One of the Demetae sprang up. “We no longer have an arviragus!” he shouted. “Therefore we must rule ourselves. I ask the Council for more aid in the south. We Demetae have battled the coastal patrols from our boats. At great loss to ourselves we have kept the soldiers from creeping into the west and falling upon your backs. But now the south of Siluria is lost to you, and we cannot battle the Classis Britannica from Silurian shores. We are not mountain fighters, but we will be forced to be, this summer, now that Rome holds most of Siluria. Come farther south, you Ordovicians! Help us, as we have helped you.”

He sat down and Sine stood, removing her mask and sword. “Your words are true,” she replied. “But if we leave this country and move farther south the Twentieth Legion will devour the north. Then the Deceangli will be cut off from the rest of the west and destroyed, and it will be a simple matter for the Twentieth and the Second to push us front and back. Let the Demetae understand that they, like the Silurians before them, must hold their coast until they can do so no longer and then fall back to join with us. We can do nothing. There are not enough of us. Holding the Deceangli border against the Twentieth must be our first priority.”

The Demetae scowled blackly and muttered to one another, and Sine sat down pricked by many angry eyes. However, what she had said was true, and none could gainsay her. A Deceangli warrior got up then, a quiet chief, who reminded them all that the Deceangli faced not only the Twentieth but also those of Aricia’s Brigantian chiefs who were not patrolling the middle lands for Rome. The Deceangli had suffered more than any other tribe with the exception of the Silures. Any new push by Rome seemed to be aimed at them as Rome probed for the west’s suspected weak spots. Also, as Sine said, if they had retreated at all Rome would have sped after them and another piece of the west would have been lost. He spoke unemotionally, not gesturing, not begging, and Venutius watched and listened, his mind busy. After the Deceangli chief had fallen silent the Demetae rose once more, and the wrangling began. For an hour the jugs of beer were passed, and the heated arguments flew back and forth. Emrys watched also, his heart sinking. Oh Caradoc, he thought. I can do nothing. I have no authority to order any but my own tuath. Madoc was twitching and cursing in his beard but he, too, was impotent. There was no help for the Demetae, and precious little for the Deceangli. The Ordovicians and Silures must face east.

Venutius touched Emrys’s arm. “May I speak?” he asked in a low voice, and Emrys, seeing a glow of something strange in the dark eyes, nodded. Venutius stood, flung his sword to the ground, and bellowed. “Silence! All of you! I would speak!”