Douglas Jackson - Claudius

Adminius saw the glittering trophies before him fading to be replaced by some obscure, unwanted relic. ‘No, no. That will not be necessary. I am happy to accept the Emperor’s bounty, but…’ Narcissus pursed his lips. With men like Adminius there was always a but. ‘When Togodumnus died… when I killed him… he wore a token of our father’s favour. It is of no great significance, but I value it for my family’s sake. In the heat of battle and with my enemies around me I had not the time to recover it from him, but now..’ He shrugged. ‘I had thought to claim it as my reward.’

Narcissus almost laughed. The words ‘of no great significance’ dripped from Adminius’s lips honeyed with sincerity, but he had never heard a more naked lie. What could Cunobelin have given Togodumnus that ambitious Adminius coveted enough to risk pleading for its return? And what value would another place on it?

‘Tell me more about this… token?’

The Greek remained a further twenty minutes with Adminius, and, when he left the Cantiaci king, altered his planned route to visit the compound of the Atrebates, where any spy — and Narcissus was not the only spy among the legions — would have noted that he spent almost twice as long as he did with any of the other British rulers. When he completed his tour he returned to his tent. And waited.

He’d hoped that Cartimandua would arrive with her retinue as they had agreed, but his dealings with the queen of the Brigantes had taught him that nothing was straightforward as long as there was an advantage to be gained from it. In a way she reminded him of himself, and that gave him a respect for her that didn’t extend to her fellow barbarians. So when the rider was brought to his tent bearing greetings from his queen, he welcomed him with the courtesy he would extend to an imperial envoy. The messenger was a grizzled warrior with a nose horribly split by an old sword cut. Narcissus had met the man before — indeed had trusted his life to him on the long ride north to the meeting that had driven the wedge between Cartimandua and Caratacus — so was happy to dispense with the guards who normally attended such meetings.

‘Please, sit.’ He smiled. ‘I had expected your lady, Queen Cartimandua, but I see she has been delayed. Not some ailment, I pray? If so, I will see that she is attended by the Emperor’s physician himself.’ The messenger shook his head and Narcissus smiled again. The offer had been a double-edged sword. Cartimandua’s illness would have to be grave indeed before he entrusted her to Scribonius Largus.

The envoy cleared his throat and repeated the message he had obviously learned by rote. ‘Should the queen of a free people take her place alongside a rabble of the defeated and the cowed? The Atrebates and the Regni, the Cantiaci and the Iceni may have bent the knee before Roman swords, but not the Brigantes, who are a proud nation and happy to contest that pride with any. If we are to be a bulwark between the wild savages of the north and the west and the civilizing influence you bring’ — there was an edge to the words ‘civilizing influence’ that made them an insult, but Narcissus chose not to notice — ‘then we should be recognized as an ally and given an ally’s place — and an ally’s rewards.’ So there it was. He had misjudged her. The guarantees of military aid and the promises of an annual tribute he had given were not enough. She was like all the rest of these people: greedy, avaricious and duplicitous. But the envoy was not finished. ‘If the lady Cartimandua is to come here to accept the Roman peace, she must have something to set her apart, something of great value, from the Emperor’s own hands.’

Narcissus closed his eyes; he was wearying of this island and these barbarians, but he felt a flare of relief. This, at least, could be straight-forward. Cogidubnus had been remarkably forthcoming when he had discovered Adminius’s interest in the ‘insignificant token’, particularly when Narcissus hinted that he would be happy to return it to the Cantiaci ruler. Something of great value? Why not, if it would bind her to the Roman cause? Was it even possible that Cartimandua had heard of the brooch; was aware of its potential?

‘Your lady will have her gift, and it will set her apart from all men on this island, you have my promise.’

‘From the Emperor’s own hands?’

‘From the Emperor’s own hands,’ Narcissus confirmed. ‘A thing of great worth and great beauty that was precious to the rebel Caratacus.’

Mention of the Catuvellauni king’s name made the envoy’s eyes widen and the Greek realized he might have underestimated the value of this thing that every Briton wanted to own.

When Cartimandua’s messenger had left, he settled down to work on the final details of the following day’s ceremony. He had only been writing for a few minutes when he heard a warning challenge from outside the tent. The flap opened to allow a burly figure to enter. He looked up. So his informant had been correct. How many surprises could a single day hold?

They were gone. At first Rufus was puzzled, but puzzlement was quickly replaced by concern, and then by outright fear. He looked out over the sea of tents, hoping to catch a glimpse of Gaius’s red hair, but saw nothing he recognized. He called out, praying they were close, but his only reward was blank stares from the other slaves. ‘Has anyone seen my son?’ he asked. ‘Has anyone seen Gaius? Or Britte, the German woman?’

Eventually he found an ox driver with the information he needed. ‘The big lass? She went off with the boy out thataway.’ He pointed towards a distant wood about a mile beyond the fortress wall. ‘Maybe she’s got a boyfriend?’ He sniggered, making Rufus want to smash his teeth into his throat.

He set off at a trot towards the distant shadow of the forest. There was no sign of the pair between the fort and the trees. Gaius he could lose among the tall grass, but not Britte, who would have stood out like a harvester’s cart in a hayfield. Why would they leave the safety of the encampment? Britte knew the dangers well enough. This was a conquered land but there were many in it whose spirits remained unbroken. The indignities they had suffered were more than enough to prompt them to seek easy revenge from a Roman slave girl or a Roman child. The thought made him increase his speed.

He was halfway to the trees when the sharp sound of hoofbeats on the hard-packed earth made him turn. A faint prickle on the back of his neck told him he wouldn’t like what he found. He was right. Five of them, Britons dressed in rough shirts and trews; hard men with warrior-scarred knuckles and blank, compassion-free expressions. All but one. Gavan was in the centre, wearing the same sneering grin he’d worn when he’d just sliced Verica’s head from his shoulders. Hand never leaving the hilt of his sword, Cogidubnus’s executioner slid from his pony and walked forward until Rufus was close enough to smell the rank odour of his unwashed body. He stared into Gavan’s eyes and there was no mistaking the menace there. His mind swiftly went through his options. Running wasn’t one of them. The ponies would cut him off before he got a dozen yards. He was unarmed. No, he was almost unarmed. He reached for the little blade he used to trim Bersheba’s feet. Gavan laughed and drew his sword. For a long moment, they stared at each other. Then, with the speed of a lightning strike, Gavan feinted left, making Rufus jump back, which brought another guffaw of laughter from the big man. Rufus watched him, reading his face for the sign that would betray his next move. He was content for the Briton to play all day if he wanted. At least he wasn’t killing him.

The oldest of the horsed warriors shouted something to the man on the ground. Advice on the etiquette of execution? A polite suggestion to hurry the murder along so they could go back to their women and their beer? Whatever it was it had its effect. Gavan hefted the sword in both hands and spat out a string of words in the British tongue. Rufus tightened his grip on the knife. He recognized a single word in the long sequence: Togodumnus. At the same time Gavan reached up and touched the simple brooch that held his cloak at the neck. The brooch! Rufus cursed; the golden brooch he’d thought he’d hidden so well. Cogidubnus had learned of it and now Cogidubnus wanted it. Had he taken Gaius and Britte as hostages for its return?