The Eagle and the Raven (75 page)

One man. Where was the other? No time to wonder. The river began its wide inroad on the west side. The Capitoline became the whole horizon as she swung with the water, and now the temples of the Forum were visible. Suddenly she veered, her bare feet finding grass for a moment, the Capitoline in front of her now, and cast a glance over her shoulder. The river’s shadows were empty. She stopped dead. The man had gone. Where? Why? Shuddering with exhaustion and fear she forced herself to study the tangle of buildings ahead, behind. He was not there. She closed her eyes and felt for his presence, but there was nothing. For a moment she sank to the ground, but she was not such a fool as to believe the jaws had opened so easily. Where? Where? I must cross the Forum directly, with such people as might be out tonight, but then what? The trees on the Palatine are dark, and I dare not seek a Praetorian, not now. How many of them are in her pay? She got up, straightened her tunic, now soiled and bloody, and made herself walk slowly across the plaza. No one gave her a glance, and she knew that no citizen would dare interfere with a disheveled girl covered in sweat and blood, for fear of those pursuing her.

It took her a long time to traverse the Forum, and she wanted to linger in the hope that she might see a face she knew, but the rise of the Palatine loomed, a mass of darkness between her and its crown of lights, a forest that held death. Then she saw him, standing on the edge of the road that branched into the rising Clivus Victoriae. He watched her come with impudent patience, and her heart began to palpitate wildly again. Sobs of disappointment ached in her throat but she stood still, gathered together every thread of energy left to her, then leaped away like a hunted doe, running for the foot of the Palatine, around the other side, plunging courageously into the darkness that could smother her or be her salvation. He saw her purpose and sprang after her, trying to cut her off, to keep her circling at the foot, but the insanity of her last effort for life had given her an edge and she found herself looking down on the road, the man pumping behind her. There was no time for stealth. With an awkward jump she landed on the road and began to half-run, half-stagger along it, upward, around the curve, following a wall that ended in a row of gray stone houses which fronted the street directly. She knew that she was spent and could not clamber up through the trees to her father’s wall but must stay on the road. There was a sound behind her. The man had come out and was gaining. It was then that Gladys knew she would never reach her father’s gate. She had given all she could. There was nothing left. She ground her teeth together and turned. “Come then, animal!” she shouted, “But you will have to strike me in the back,” and, turning, she took four more stumbling steps.

Then, like the shock of a sudden summer rain, she heard his voice, Rufus Pudens, …I rent three rooms in a house on the Clivus Victoriae…it is almost directly below here… A chance, she thought, relief and terror flooding her, and even as she reached the first gray doorway she looked up.

The other man, the missing man, stepped out from the depths of the last house, smiling, his knife raised. She saw his face as a pool of whiteness, the knife as silver. “Mother!” she screamed, and beat on the door with both fists. Let it be this one, let him be home. The man stopped, aimed coolly, insolently, and threw. She flung herself flat against the unyielding door but the knife found her, pricking like cold fire between her ribs, and she sank sobbing, unaware that the door was opening. The porter looked down on her, aghast. When he saw the blood spurting from her side and the men hovering in the shadows, he began to close it again. “No trouble here,” he said firmly, and Gladys raised a streaming, crazed face to the dimly lit peristyle beyond. Taking a last, pain-fired breath, she opened her mouth. “Rufus!” she screamed. “Rufus Rufus!” and the men waiting for the door to click shut looked at one another and started to melt away into the night. The porter stood irresolute, and then there was a flurry of movement. Rufus Pudens came striding through the peristyle, Martial behind him, and when he saw her on her hands and knees on the doorstep, her tunic torn, mired, and bloody, blood already puddling the tiles of the entranceway, he ran, side-stepped her, and vanished. A moment later he was back, kneeling beside her. “Gone,” he said. “Jupiter! How could Caradoc allow this happen? Help me to get her upstairs, Martial, before the others in the house awaken.”

“I will have to tell my master,” the porter said, worried. “I hope that you are not interfering with imperial business.”

Pudens gritted his teeth. “I will tell your master myself,” he said, “Now get out of the way.”

Together he and Martial carried her through the peristyle, across the atrium, and up the stairs to Pudens’s rooms. “Get those cushions,” he ordered, “and shut the door.” They placed her gently on the carpeted floor and Martial closed the door and gathered up cushions, while Pudens eased off her tunic. “Find some water so that I can clean this,” he said after a while. “It is not deep, only painful and unpleasant. Gladys! Gladys!” She lay there crying while he washed and bandaged her and found her a blanket. She sat up with difficulty, wincing at the stiffness already spreading over her ribs and down her side.

“There were three of them,” she said shakily. “I killed one, Rufus. My first blood. A Roman in Rome. I killed.”

He and Martial exchanged glances. “You killed a wild beast, that is all,” he replied. “It was not combat, Gladys. They were hunting you like the animals they are, and you should not concern yourself about such a killing. Tell me how it happened.”

She did so quickly, her hand stealing into his, and Martial watched her critically, and not without amusement. Whoever was behind it all had bitten off a great deal more than he could chew.

Pudens listened without betraying the confusions of anger and worry in his mind, then he stood up. “I must take you home at once,” he said. “Martial, go and roust my servants. I want the litter, and three or four of them can walk with us.”

“Shall I arm them?”

Pudens considered, then shook his head. “No. I think our numbers will be sufficient, and it is not far.”

Not far, Gladys thought. A pleasant little walk. It could have stretched ahead forever. She shuddered as Martial left the room. “Help me up, Rufus,” she said. “I want to stand.”

He put his arms around her and lifted her, and for a moment she rested against him, her body a single protesting ache of abused muscle and bruised tissue, then she kissed him softly on the lips.

“Thank you, Rufus Pudens,” she said. “There are people at court who will hate you for what you have done, and you know it, and you may have to find other rooms to rent.”

“I may indeed,” he said gravely. “What a pity. I have been comfortable here.”

She met the smiling eyes and stepped out of his embrace. “I do not find it funny, and neither will you when my father declares a blood feud against Agrippina.”

“Will he do that?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. Perhaps not, if I can show him an honorable way out.”

“Marry me. Then your problems and his will be solved.” He knew that he was taking advantage of a sordid situation but he did not care, and she stood staring at him for a long time, those black, deep eyes full of self-confidence and independence once again. She still had not answered him when Martial came to tell them that the litter was below, and they left the house in a tense silence.

Pudens took no chances. He sent a runner on ahead, and by the time they turned in at Caradoc’s gate the guards were clustered, waiting for them. Caradoc himself was raging up and down the street, and when he saw the litter with Pudens and Martial flanking it, he ran up, tearing back the curtains. He said nothing. He met his daughter’s gaze steadily and she saw again, for the first time since he descended the steps of the Curia with Claudius and raised both free arms in exulta tion to his family, the fiery wheels of power and authority rolling behind his eyes. “Arviragus,” she whispered. “Do not blame yourself. This was my fault alone.”

“Lady, it will be a long time before I approach senility,” he croaked. “I was a fool to believe that my life no longer had meaning.” He dropped the curtain, dismissed the sentries, and they came to the house. Here Martial bid them all a quiet good night and went away, and the rest of them entered Caradoc’s reception room, Gladys walking slowly but unaided. The family came to its feet, their faces pale. Only Llyn stayed in his chair, sprawled loosely, fighting to regain sobriety, and Gladys went and sat beside him. “I heard,” he said to her with exaggerated care. “I heard you run past the tavern. I heard the men who ran after you. It is not wise to seek trouble down there, and I was winning a lot of money from a stranger. I did not know it was you, Gladys.”

“Llyn…” she began, but he turned his head away, white and sick.

The two other women stayed on their feet. Caradoc took off his cloak, and going to Gladys he demanded an account of the night in their own tongue. She gave it quickly, her hands moving unconsciously in the way of chiefs who sat by a Council fire and recounted their raids, and the others watched. Pudens stood in the doorway. The line that divided him from them had appeared again, as real as though Caradoc had taken chalk and drawn it on the floor. He was not one of their kind. They had closed ranks, suddenly and uncompromisingly, leaving him outside, the Roman, the enemy. One by one they squatted, going to the floor as though it were grass under their vast forests. He turned to go, but then Gladys put both hands together and brought them slicing down, the tears sliding over her cheeks, and she looked across the room and saw him.

“Rufus,” she said in Latin. “Please do not go. I am in your debt. That is not a light thing.”

“There is no owing between friends,” he retorted, but he stepped into the room. When Gladys had stopped speaking there was a brief silence. Llyn sat with his eyes closed, but he was not asleep. The two Eurgains squatted and looked at the floor. Caradoc had folded his arms and was studying the wall. Caelte fingered his harp, but made no sound. Then Caradoc spoke.

“Eurgain?”

His wife did not even look up. “Blood,” she said.

“Llyn?”

“Blood.”

“Eurgain?”

The girl hesitated, then her mouth thinned. “Blood.”

“Gladys?”

“Not blood!” They all turned their heads to stare at her and she strove to keep the pleading out of her voice. “The blood has been spilled. I was pursued and wounded, but a man was slain by me, and blood is not demanded unless there is murder.”

“I agree,” Caelte said softly. “No blood.”

“Blood was intended!” Caradoc shouted at her. “Murder was intended!” and she faced him with full-blown desperation now.

“A blood feud cannot be sanctioned for motive alone. There must be a death.”

“Will Agrippina come before a Council, and swear the oaths to leave you alone?” He was still shouting.

“No!” she shouted back. “But Agrippina will leave me alone, and Nero will forget me. I am going to marry Rufus Pudens!”

There was a sudden hush. Pudens heard her yell his name and then all eyes turned to him, and Llyn blinked and sat up.

“She has just said that she will marry you, Pudens,” he commented. “Forgive our rudeness. You are marrying into a family of uncouth savages.”

Pudens went to her and she rose, her chin high. “I do not want a debt paid off in this way,” he said to her angrily. “You owe me nothing.”

“I owe you everything, and you know it,” she replied. “But I do not offer payment. I offer you my love, not out of fear, but because tonight I was able to take your measure. Will you teach me to love you, Rufus?”

He found her eyes. It is a beginning, they said to him, and he smiled sadly.

“The terms are acceptable,” he said.

“There will be no dowry,” Caradoc’s harsh voice broke in. “I have nothing of my own and I doubt if Claudius will want to settle any money on you, Gladys, once I have spoken to him. I am going now, tonight. Who will come?”

One by one they rose. “I will come also,” Pudens said, but Caradoc brusquely refused him.

“This is a family matter,” he said brutally. “Gladys, you may not come either. The rest of you, get your cloaks. Take no knives. If we do we will not be admitted.” He walked to Gladys, the embers within him still smouldering. “We will not be long,” he said, “for I have few words to say. Go to bed.” He swung around and went out and Gladys heard them all cross the atrium and descend the terrace steps in a unity of outrage, a tiny, living core of Albion moving clean and fearless through the city.

When they had gone, Gladys nodded to the wine flask and the goblets. “Pour yourself some wine, Rufus. I will return in a moment.” She left him, paced the shadowed atrium where such a short time ago a man had waited to lead her into death, and went painfully up the stairs.

Once inside her own rooms she took off the tunic, pulled on another, and instead of looking for a stola she put her feet into breeches. Her servant was asleep beside the bed, curled under a blanket, and Gladys was careful not to wake her. When she was dressed she took the knife that she had left lying on her bed and went to the embroidery frame. The room was warm, dim, and quiet. “I curse you,” she whispered. “Poor old victim, I curse you and yours, all your seed. I love you, but not enough, Claudius. Not enough to give my life away.” She held the hilt in both hands, seeing for one anguished moment the man who had fallen and would never rise again, then she brought it down, slashing viciously. The material parted, the frame sagged. Freedom, she thought. But not for me. Never again for me. She tossed the knife onto the floor and went out, closing the door behind her.

The Praetorian hesitated, looking at the five grim faces before him. “Wait here,” he snapped finally and went away. They waited, while the sounds of feasting wafted to them, then he came back, tall and insolent in his superiority. “Are you armed?” he asked, and for answer they opened their cloaks. “Very well,” he finished grudgingly. “Go in.”

It was a long walk. They had all taken it many times in the past, but tonight, with the evening faltering toward dawn, the imperial domain had an air of negligent decay. Caradoc felt as though he were the only straight-backed creature walking the thronged halls, an arrow flying free to its target in an army of twisted nooses. Claudius saw them coming, like five tall birds, gods out of a dark past, their cloaks floating out together behind them, their strange long hair framing calm, impassive faces. Britannicus came running, tugging at Caradoc’s arm, but Caradoc ignored him.