The Eagle and the Raven (67 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

I
T
had been a summer of victory and of hope. The door of the west had swung open and the eager prisoners had poured through it. The Demetae did not want to go home; neither did the Deceangli. For a while the rebels strode exultantly up and down the frontier, revelling in their new security, while at Glevum the Second cowered behind its impregnable walls. Venutius decided to leave it alone, knowing that it could withstand a siege indefinitely, for the whole summer if need be, and he wasted no time on it. The mood of the tribes was one of madness, a gay, light-hearted insanity. Gradually the tribes separated to probe deeper into the east and the south, and Venutius, who knew that his power over them had come to an end, saw them go with no more than a twinge of misgiving. They wanted plunder now, their right as victors, and the Cornovii and the Coritani meekly gave up what they had to the bands of westerners who roamed the summer-heavy forests. Emrys, Madoc, and Venutius kept their tribes together, and as one they crept south, resting, riding slowly through the lush countryside, but always toward Camulodunon. There the officials scurried about like frightened rabbits. The procurator reluctantly assumed military control and ordered the Fourteenth to march to Camulodunon but later he countermanded it, and the legate of the Fourteenth, like the legate of the Second, ignored both orders and stayed where he was. But Venutius was conscious of them and of all the legions crouching in their forts and waiting for the new governor to arrive. The Ninth in Brigantia. The Second in Dobunni country, behind them now. The Fourteenth, also behind them, smack in the middle of the Coritani. Three legions, and if the governor should arrive, if he was quick-witted, those legions could cut off any retreat into the mountains. He spoke of his fears to Emrys.

“We must tempt the legions to do battle, one at a time,” he said. “We must defeat them all this summer if we are not to find ourselves back in the west this autumn.”

“They will not be lured from their forts,” Emrys responded bitterly. “They know that if they wait long enough the governor will come. I wonder what we have really gained, Venutius.”

Venutius did also, but together they went against the smaller bastions of Rome, the garrisons, the posting stations, a few villages where much grain was stored in the winter for the soldiers. Sometimes they were successful, sometimes not.

Finally the Ninth braved the unsettled lowlands. It left its fort and began a march south. Its legate did not know where the rebels were, but he knew that the governor had landed at last and that he would be called upon. He was right. The news of the coming of Aulus Didius Gallus reached Venutius also, but too late and too stale, for the spy had not known where to find him and had followed only rumors.

“The new governor is here,” the spy said. “He is an old man. I know nothing more about him. If you hurry you may take Camulodunon and kill him before he can plot your downfall.”

Take Camulodunon? Venutius and Emrys looked at each other. No active legionaries were quartered at Camulodunon anymore, only veterans who lived on farmsteads taken from the Catuvellauni, or who amused themselves in the town while slaves worked their land. The spy left them, and Venutius wasted no time.

“Camulodunon,” he said tersely. “We can reach it within two weeks if we ride hard.”

They arrowed swiftly toward Catuvellauni territory, but four days later another spy intercepted them. “The orders have gone out,” he said. “To the Second, Ninth, and Fourteenth.”

“So soon?” Emrys was dumbfounded. This governor had moved fast for an old man who had seen nothing of Albion but his maps.

“We will keep going,” Venutius snapped. “We can burn Camulodunon. Is it possible to kill the dispatch riders before they reach their destinations?”

The spy looked at him as though he had lost his mind. “No, Lord. We do not know how they have gone. With the countryside in such a state they have not set out on the roads.”

“Of course.” Venutius tried to shrug off the old, familiar ache of failure but it settled snugly around him as though it had never been lifted from him. Nothing had been accomplished after all. Nothing would be resolved. Albion was caught in some strange trap where time was suspended as it was each Samain Eve, and he and Emrys and Madoc, all the chiefs, would never die, the warfare would never stop, and eternity meant advance, kill, retreat, advance, kill, retreat forever, constant despair and fatigue an eternal background. He wanted to lie down on the grass, never to get up, just to close his eyes and surrender everything.

Emrys saw the broad shoulders droop. “Venutius?” he said. “Do we go on?”

“You are asking me, Emrys?” Venutius smiled wanly.

“You?” He did not answer the question. He got to his feet and signaled to his host, and they surged on.

The next day other news came, this time from the north. The Ninth had reached the Fourteenth and together they were angling across the island to the south and west. The Second had shaken off its lethargy and was on the march also, south and east. Venutius knew what their directions boded. They would meet, an unbeatable front of three legions against which he and his people could not stand.

“There is still time to reach the governor,” Emrys urged, but Venutius savagely disagreed.

“If we waste our time plundering Camulodunon we will be cut off,” he said. “Our only hope is in immediate flight.” He swore, then to Emrys’s surprise he knelt and dug his hands into the sweet grass. “Ah freedom,” he whispered. “When? When? How long must this soil be watered with the blood of your children? Well, once more we will run.” He got up slowly and awkwardly as though his own blood had thickened within him. “If we hurry we can go straight through Glevum, for the fort is now empty.”

There was no more talk. Emrys wondered what the Demetae and the Deceangli were doing. Word would have come to them sooner than it had come here, but were they scattered and running or were they planning to try to hold the land they had gained? With patient fatalism he saluted the horizon, then turned to follow Venutius, shouting to his chiefs as he went.

They sped north and west, hounded by the fear that their retreat had already been cut off. The summer had been a delightful fantasy, a dream, a respite, but once more they were the hunted, and like the hunted they moved swiftly, instinctively, fear blowing steadily behind them. Snatches of news shredded them as they went. The Demetae had disappeared back into the west. The Deceangli had attempted to engage the Ninth but had been repulsed and were also in flight. The waves of tribesmen rushed across Albion, straining for safety with all that they had, eyes, ears, hands, feet turned westward. They reached Glevum, the fort deserted and quiet, but they ran on, not stopping until the summer was a memory.

Autumn found them back in their camps, subdued and embittered, but though their bodies ran no longer, their hearts and minds still fled.

E
ARLY
S
UMMER
, A.D. 53

Chapter Thirty

I
T
was an early summer dusk, warm and redolent with a promise of heat to come, and the vast hall was crowded and noisy. The lamps flickered upon mighty brass stands, their perfumed smoke mingling with the heavy odor of food, and jugglers, naked but for white loincloths, tossed their bright balls high into the air while a fire-eater sat on the ground with his torches and fuel, waiting patiently to be called to perform. Caradoc, Caelte, Eurgain, and young Gladys paced beneath the echoing, painted dome and threaded their way through the tables and reclining diners, to approach the emperor. He lay on his couch, rumpled toga around him, one ringed hand fidgeting with the silver tableware. Claudius saw them coming and extended an arm, smiling broadly as Gladys ran over the tiles to kneel at his side. His Greeks were clustered nearby, gossiping desultorily, while beside him the empress, resplendent in pearls, gave one ear to their conversation and the other to her son.

Gladys kissed his cheek, bobbing to Agrippina before she did so. “Oh Emperor, you look so tired tonight!” she whispered. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

“It is not sleep that I need,” he answered, patting her face. “I am old, little warrior. Find me a cure for that. You look lovely tonight. Come and sit beside me for a moment.” He made room for her and she snuggled onto the couch. He glanced up at Caradoc and the others. “Well, my noble barbarian,” he went on. “Before you ask I can tell you that nothing of any note is happening in Britannia so you may eat in peace. The new governor has only just arrived.”

Caradoc smiled, feeling the hostile eyes of the Greeks on him. “Thank you,” he replied. “By that, you mean the situation has not changed.”

“Do not grin at me! I see the pride all over your face.”

“Sir, if you would like to see more action in Albion, then send me home. I promise you that I can stir up this Didius Gallus and make his dispatches to you very interesting.”

Claudius grunted. “In all the years since I visited your primitive land you have only meant one thing to me, Caradoc, and that is money. I have no intention of spending more on you or Britannia than I do already. Now go to your couch. Eurgain, I greet you also.”

They were dismissed. They bowed and went to the couches reserved for them, behind the royal tables, their servants trailing after them. The trumpets blared and the first course was borne into the hall. Agrippina nodded at the fire-eater, who got to his feet, and Gladys slipped from the emperor’s side, pushed through the Greeks, and found her couch opposite Claudius and the empress. Now she could talk to him as she ate. Food was placed before her and she began her meal with gusto.

“You should not come to table with your hair down, child,” Agrip pina said to her smoothly. “You presume too much upon my hus band’s liking for you.”

Gladys looked into the expressionless black eyes, knowing an enemy. You call me child, she thought, yet you do not know that according to the custom of my people I ceased to be one two years ago. I walk a precipice here in this luxurious death cell and I must walk it as a child if I am to stay alive. I love you, Claudius. You are a dear old man, and lonely. But you, Lady…my father knows that you sometimes let down your own dyed hair and then you are more dangerous than these fawning Greeks who hate me for taking the Emperor’s favor from them. You sick animals. All of you with teeth invisibly bared, tearing at my poor old emperor.

“Lady, I must dress as my mother decrees,” she answered seriously, “and my mother insists that my hair be loose or braided, according to custom.”

Nero leaned forward, his own eyes hot as they ran lightly over her shining hair, the green silk tunic that clung to her body, the emeralds wound around her throat from ear lobe to collarbone, Claudius’s gift to her.

“Oh leave her alone,” he snapped rudely at his mother. “I like her with her tresses in the gravy. I have written another poem, Gladys. I shall read it to you later, and you must tell me what you think.”

She smiled politely at him, quelling the fear and unease she always felt in his presence. He got everything he wanted, that one. His mother doted on him, loaded him with money and precious things, surrounded him with every pomp, gratified his every whim. So far he had done nothing but follow her with his eyes, touch her occasionally in passing, and tease her with a vicious precision, but Gladys knew what he really wanted. So did Agrippina, and at Nero’s words she smiled loftily and turned away. Gladys tried to answer him as lightly as she could, keeping her face averted from his ingratiating smile, the short, pudgy fingers that stroked and pulled at the straggling, soft beard he was trying to grow.

“I know nothing of poetry, Nero, therefore my praise or criticism is worthless to you, but read it to me if you like.”

“Ignorant little barbarian,” one of the Greeks muttered, just loud enough for her to hear. “Claudius is entering his dotage, to be captured by one such as she. I hate children.”

Gladys picked up a peach, stuck a peacock feather in it, and flung it at him. It struck him on the cheek. “You have none, and will never produce any,” she answered him rudely, “and you lie when you say you hate children. I have heard it said that you like little boys.”

Nero began to clap. Agrippina smiled. The Greek turned his smooth, painted face to her with a look of loathing.

She answered it mutely, holding his gaze, then pointed her spoon at him. “The feather is to go through the ring in your nose,” she said, and Claudius raised a hand.

“That is enough, all of you,” he said. “Be still. Stop bickering. Gladys, you have not told me how you liked the glassware I sent to you.”

She reached across the table and took his hand, contrite. “Oh Emperor, I forgot to thank you. I am so sorry. The glass is very beautiful, but so fragile that I am afraid to put it to any use. I have the pieces set out beside my bed so that I can admire them. I am preparing a special gift for you but do not ask me what it is. I want to surprise you.” They smiled at each other and then Claudius went back to his dinner. Applause for the fire-eater broke out and he bowed and began to collect the coins that had been showered around him. Gladys met her father’s eye and she suddenly wished she could climb on his knee and bury her head in his chest. She wanted to feel safe as she used to in the days when she was a baby. She remembered how much he used to laugh then, how full of vigor he had been. Now he smiled often, but laughed no more. She glanced away and found Nero’s gaze fastened on her. Her fingers fumbled as she picked up her silver goblet.

Music began to float through the hall and the dancers came and bowed to the royal table. Caradoc felt a hand on his leg and looked to see Britannicus waiting for him to make room. With an apology Caradoc swung his legs to the floor and Britannicus perched beside him. “So you came,” Britannicus said. “I didn’t think you would. It has been a long time, Caradoc, since you deigned to attend my father. Have you been ill?”

Caradoc smiled at the boy who had been named in honor of his father’s one and only military excursion. I suppose I should hate him, this living reminder of my agony at Camulodunon, Caradoc thought, but it was hard to hate Britannicus. He was eager, pert, cheeky, and charming. He and his stepbrother disliked and constantly intrigued against each other, Britannicus fighting for some of the limelight Agrippina arranged determinedly for Nero, and Nero himself using his rising popularity to bully Britannicus. But at twelve Britannicus, for all his unnatural sophistication, still had the engaging ways of a little boy.

“You know very well that I have not been ill,” Caradoc answered him, offering him wine, “and you know also that I am not overfond of great feasts.”

Britannicus laughed. “But you have spun me enough tales of the night-long feasts that used to go on at Camulodunon,” he retorted, “and I have not yet grown weary of your stories. Never mind, Caradoc. I know why you do not come here more often. Did my father tell you how boring things are in my province at the moment? Are you happy or sad?”

“I try to be neither. What is the use? I am content, which is safer. Tell me, Britannicus, where is Nero’s wife?”

Britannicus’s face became shrewd. “How should I know? Do you think that Octavia’s presence here tonight would make any difference to Nero’s lascivious slobbering over Gladys? My brother fancies he is already a god and his mother entirely agrees with him. He is probably bored with little Octavia and she is sulking.”

Caradoc sighed inwardly. They were a family of ferrets, all of them. Beside him Eurgain lay on her couch neither eating nor drinking, her eyes on the echoing upper story of the dome where the statues gazed at one another in the gloom, but she was listening intently to the ebb and flow of the various conversations around her. Britannicus put his elbows on the table.

“Perhaps it is not because of her husband that she sulks,” he remarked. “I have heard a rumor that my father is about to acquire another daughter.” He slyly looked at Caradoc out of the corner of his eye as Caradoc registered shock. “No, no,” he went on. “The empress is not pregnant, and even if she were I doubt if it would be by Claudius. My father wants to adopt your Gladys.”

Eurgain sat up slowly. Caradoc stared at the grinning face turned to him, the rich food beginning to sour in his stomach. “I have heard many rumors since I came to Rome,” he said quietly, “and almost none of them, Britannicus, have had any basis on fact. This is just another rumor.”

“Well, I hope for your sake and for Gladys that you are right. The empress would not like it at all because she would fear for the future of her precious Nero.” He waved airily. “Oh I know what she wants for him and you see, Caradoc, if my father adopted Gladys I would immediately bend every effort to marry her and thus wriggle closer to the emperor and my rightful place.” He patted Caradoc’s knee. “You must not worry. I really like her a lot, even though she is four years older than I. Married to me she would be a good deal safer than she is now.” He did not wait for a reply, but got up and walked away, his short tunic flowing against his thighs.

Caradoc and Eurgain exchanged glances. “I feel sick,” Eurgain said finally. Caradoc said nothing. Suddenly his daughter’s laughter soared and he saw Claudius bend to wipe his mouth with white linen. Agrippina was whispering to Nero, who still fingered his pathetic little beard, his eyes on Gladys. The Greeks were arguing violently over something. Britannicus was leaning against a pillar talking to his tutor, a small, secretive smile hovering on his lips. Music twanged and twittered, and then Caelte bent to his lord.

“She will survive,” he said softly. “She survived the years in the mountains, and the dangers here are not very different. Trust her, Lord, and do not fear. As long as she has the emperor’s protection she is safe from his wild ones.”

“You are wrong, Caelte,” Caradoc managed at last, seeing himself, Gladys, all of them with hands to the bars of this cage that had held them tightly for nearly two years, their feet balancing on the shifting morass of Claudius’s good will. “If the emperor declined to honor Gladys with his attention we would all cease to be of any interest in the palace and could sleep without knives under our pillows. I ought to have forbidden her access to the imperium.”

“One does not disobey the emperor,” Caelte reminded him, “and it was Claudius who took a sudden fancy to Gladys, long before she grew to like him. Perhaps she is the daughter he wishes he had had.”

“There is nothing wrong with Octavia. She is the most honorable of them all.”

“True. But for some reason Claudius prefers Gladys. Perhaps Octavia reminds him of her mother.”

“Perhaps. Ah, Caelte, how tired I am of every ‘perhaps’!”

Caelte would have spoken again but a slave approached him deferentially, murmured to him, and he lifted his harp and rose. “The emperor wants me to sing. I hate to sing here, Lord. The Greeks laugh at me and my music.”

“Then refuse him,” Eurgain said suddenly, “and then let us take Gladys and go home. I will not come here anymore, Caradoc. I have never in my life inhaled such a stink of corruption and evil. I see no lips around me that are capable of uttering one truth.” She spoke loudly, defiantly, but the rising of Caelte hid her words from all but her husband and her slave. Caelte walked to the emperor and bowed.

“You wish me to sing tonight, Lord, but I cannot. I have drunk too much wine. My throat is sore.”

Claudius frowned in disappointment. “You hardly ever come when I ask you to,” he grumbled. “Now you are here and you will not sing.” His voice was querulous, his face flushed, and his stutter more pronounced than it had been all evening. Gladys, after one anxious glance at him, sat up.

“Oh please, Caelte, just one song. Is your throat so sore that you cannot sing one?” Claudius was wiping his nose and Gladys sat straighter, her fingers laced together under the cover of the tablecloth. The emperor was tired. He was about to become angry.

“Not even one,” Caelte answered her quickly.

“For me?” Her eyes pleaded with him, and all at once he knew his danger. Resignedly he nodded.

“Very well. I will attempt one song for you, Lord, seeing you are kind enough to ask to hear me. What shall it be?”

“I do not care,” Claudius quavered. “Anything. Cheer me, barbarian.”

“I know no happy songs anymore, sir.”

Gladys’s shoulders slumped, then went slowly back. Her chin rose. “Caelte, I have a request,” she said loudly. “I want you to sing ‘The Ship’ for me.”

“No!” he barked, shocked, but she rose to her feet and stood grip ping the edge of the table, her eyes suddenly blazing.

“For me, Caelte! I want, I need to hear it. Sing it to me now, in this place, for the good of my soul, I beg you!”

“Oh Gladys,” he returned sadly, in their own tongue, “What are you doing here? Shall I bow to this old man and lay my honor at his feet?”

“No,” she flashed back, her eyes still glittering and color coming and going in her cheeks. “Together, among these savages, we will lift it high. He is a good old man, Caelte.”