Enemies of the Empire (18 page)

It was as well that Marcus couldn’t understand all this, I thought, or poor Subulcus might find himself enduring a flogging after all, for speaking out against the Empire. I said, ‘Your master tells you that?’

More vigorous nodding. ‘He’s taught me that since I was very young, when he first took me in the family. He says I have a special right to know.’ Subulcus held out his arm, and pointed to the scar. ‘You see this mark? This is where someone hurt me when I was very small – for nothing. I wasn’t fighting him. I was just a baby and was in the way. But that was a naughty Roman man – he killed my proper mother, and he hurt my uncle’s son as well. He wasn’t a kind Roman like the one yesterday. That one left me a new tunic.’ He looked suspiciously at the optio and his men. ‘Are these kind Romans too?’

I took a deep breath. ‘Listen, Subulcus. The man who sent you to the farmstead yesterday was not a proper Roman, and he wasn’t kind at all. I think he stole that horse and uniform and ring, and killed the man who owned them, and more than likely murdered my poor slave as well. This soldier found him hanging from a tree.’

Subulcus was struggling with this information. ‘Then he was a bad Roman too? But he was kind to me.’

‘I don’t think he really was,’ I said. I was beginning to despair of ever making the pigman understand. ‘I think he told you to go up to the house, just so that the other men could come and steal your pig. I’d like to know about that tunic, though. I want to know how he got hold of it. It was mine. My attendant brought it to the woods and this soldier . . .’ I indicated Regulus, ‘was the kind one – he gave the tunic to a pig-minder who helped him in the woods. Not you. But that’s the man we’re looking for today.’

Subulcus shook his head. ‘I’m the only Subulcus round here,’ he repeated stubbornly. ‘And you can’t give the tunic to another man. It’s mine. Young master told me so. It was waiting for me in my hut. He said the Roman man had left it, and it was for me.’

We were going round in circles. I glanced at Marcus, but of course he couldn’t understand a word. He was chatting to the optio, looking bored and tapping his baton impatiently against his thigh. That was a danger sign. I turned to Subulcus. ‘It’s all right. You can keep the tunic – if you help us as the other pigman did. So tell me, where’s young master now?’

‘Down at the homestead,’ he replied, as though I were the idiotic one.

I explained all this to Marcus, and was about to ask the pigman for directions to the place when we were interrupted by the sound of hooves. Our escort drew their swords at once and whirled round to form a square, ready to protect us if need be. Subulcus darted back towards his pigs. But the men who galloped up to us were not an ambush group, only the outriders from the marching-camp who had accompanied us on our journey here. The leader called out the password of the day, and our would-be defenders sheathed their blades and let them through.

The leading rider dropped from the saddle and presented himself before Marcus and the optio. ‘Your pardon, sirs. We are relieved to find you safe. We were beginning to become alarmed. The sub-officer you left in charge ordered us to come and see what had occurred – we feared you had been ambushed and attacked. He’s marching the rest of the men over here to offer you support – though it will take them a little longer to arrive.’

Marcus looked extremely vexed at this. ‘And leave my carts and carriage to be a target on the road? You can report back that we are entirely safe and that we are going to the farmstead to interview the owner of these pigs. There must be a farm track somewhere. Two of you must go back and guard the vehicles while we complete our business.’ He scowled. ‘How did you find us, anyway?’

The horseman almost smiled. ‘We tracked you through the trees. It wasn’t difficult.’ He saw the look on Marcus’s face and added quickly, ‘Where is this house, Excellence?’

Marcus looked at me. ‘Libertus?’

But Subulcus had already understood. ‘On the outskirts of the forest, down this track. You come to the main track, where the big oak is . . .’ He gabbled directions in such garbled Celtic that I could hardly follow them.

I nodded. ‘I think you should come with us, Subulcus, and show us where it is. We’ll leave some soldiers here, to guard your pigs.’

Subulcus looked most disturbed at this. ‘My master told me I must stay here all the time.’

‘You left here yesterday,’ I pointed out.

‘But that was different. The soldier told me that my master wanted me. And even then look what happened when I left the pigs. But you have to do it, if a soldier says.’

I saw what was required. I turned to Regulus. ‘Would you tell him, very slowly, that he has to come with us? He’ll only do it if he’s asked by someone with the right authority. I think your uniform might do the trick.’

Regulus looked doubtful, but he did as I asked and it worked exactly as I’d hoped. Subulcus reluctantly agreed to leave his precious charges in the care of the optio’s men, although he was clearly very dubious about this. It was almost laughable. Instead of shambling Subulcus, there would be a party of professional soldiers guarding them with their daggers drawn. Rarely could a herd of pigs have enjoyed such good protection in the whole history of swine.

The crash of military sandals through the undergrowth alerted us to the arrival of the larger troop. Marcus was for dispatching them straight back to guard the carts, but the optio argued fiercely that half of the company should come with us, and the rest should be left behind to guard the carriages and the pigs. Before he could be briskly overruled, there was a rustle in the trees – which might have been an ambush, but was probably a bear – and Marcus abruptly changed his mind. Subulcus, the optio and I would lead the way, while he, his bodyguard and a score of the foot guard would follow on behind, along with the ten remaining outriders.

In this military formation we set off down the track. The appearance of so many Roman uniforms had reduced the poor swineherd to uneasy silence now, and despite my best attempts at questioning him about his master and the nature of the tribe, I couldn’t get another sentence out of him until we reached the oak.

‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Just as I told you.’ He gestured to a massive tree, set back a little from the road. It was partly screened by lower bushes, but there was a clear space carefully maintained around the bole, and even from here I could see the sacred mistletoe in the upper fork and the strips of tell-tale rag tied and left hanging from the boughs.

I caught my breath. This was not a simple marker on the corner of a lane, as I had thoughtlessly expected, but a proper sacred oak – a Druid shrine. As we reached the entrance to what was effectively a grove, I could see that there were statues planted in the ground and that the great trunk was daubed with something red and darkening. I gulped. I had not seen a sacred tree like this for many years, but when I saw one last, the branches were adorned with severed human heads. The gruesome spectacle had haunted me for years – though of course my own ancestors would once have worshipped somewhere very similar, hung with the heads of their enemies.

Thankfully, there was nothing of the kind in evidence this time, at least from where we stood – although I did not care to wonder what the daubs might be. I knew already what the little statues were: symbolic faces made of rock or wood, some with cat-like ears and furrowed brows – a sort of substitute for proper heads. I debated for a moment what I should say and do. Druidism is forbidden under Rome on pain of death, and if Marcus realised what this tree signified he would set the soldiers on to it at once, to cut down the rags and hew the branches off, and order that the countryside be searched for devotees.

I glanced at Subulcus. It was obvious that he was one of them. He was edging past the grove with awe, and I knew that any desecration of the shrine would not only cost us any trust he might have had in us, but terrify him into speechlessness as well. He would not help us if we touched the tree.

I tried to strike a note of bored contempt. ‘Some sort of local altar, Excellence. You know these people worship streams and trees.’ I gestured down the track. ‘I imagine the homestead is along this path.’

‘Then lead us to it,’ he said icily. He didn’t glance again towards the oak.

It was a good deal easier marching on the lane, but it was still some time before we reached the limit of the trees and saw the farmstead nestling on the raised ground opposite: a small gathering of roundhouses, perhaps ten or twelve – almost a tribal hamlet – built of stone and protected by a stout fence of triple stakes within a ditch, the smoke of wood fires rising through the thatch.

The place was almost fortified and had clearly been constructed for defence, but today there was no guard in evidence. A pair of tethered dogs set up a bark at our approach, and a tall thin woman in a shawl came out to gape suspiciously at us. Subulcus called something that I could not catch – it sounded like a password – and she scurried off, returning in a moment with one of the most striking men I’ve ever seen.

He was clearly a person of importance in his tribe. He was not tall – no taller than myself – and was no longer young, but he had enormous presence. He wore old-fashioned Celtic dress: plaid trousers, belted at the waist, and a jerkin of the same fine-woven coloured cloth, adorned by a single mighty silver brooch of intricate design. His hair, which had been shaved to halfway over his head, was long and flowing at the back, bleached fair with lime, and though he wore no beard the length of his moustache was wonderful.

He looked at the company outside his gate. ‘I am Kiminiros, keeper of the fire and by the grace of the gods of tree and river elder of this tribe. What do you want with me?’

I glanced back at Marcus and the optio to see what their reaction was. To appear cowed or threatening would be a mistake. However, I need not have been concerned. Already my patron was striding forward through the ranks of guards and coming to address the Silurian elder face to face.

This meeting of two representatives of different ways of life was an imposing sight: Marcus magnificent in his spotless toga (the gods alone know how he managed to keep it so effortlessly white – mine would have been stained with grass and travel long ago), his rank emphasised by the width of purple stripe, and the bevy of armed men at his back; and the thin old man in his tribal plaid standing with a simple dignity quite alone on his side of the gate. Even the woman had slipped away and gone back to the dwelling huts by now.

I had been ready to translate for this minor chieftain, as I had done for Subulcus before, but when he spoke it was in faultless Latin – his deep voice as impressive as his appearance was.

‘You come in peace, I trust? It is many, many harvests since my tribe fought with yours, and longer yet since there were swordsmen at my door.’ We were a large group and our troops were armed, but he behaved for all the world as if he were favouring us by granting audience. He gestured towards Subulcus. ‘I see you have my swineherd with you. I hope he has not contrived to offend you in some way?’

It was an unspoken declaration that he was not afraid of us. Marcus met it squarely, throwing back his head and saying, in his most authoritative tone, ‘We come here seeking information. My servant was murdered in the forest yesterday, several army horses have been stolen and an imperial messenger has disappeared. In the name of his most divine majesty, the Emperor of Rome and all the provinces, I require you to assist us if you can.’

The elder’s expression did not change, but he inclined his head. ‘Of course. I know my duty and will do it, as far as age and frailty permit. Although I doubt if I can help you very much. I am an old man, and these days I confine my attention to the farm – and certainly there’s been no disturbance here.’ He was still not bowing to our authority and I saw Marcus bridle, but suddenly the old man seemed to change his attitude. He gave a bitter smile. ‘However, my nephew tells me that there were raiders in the forest yesterday. We ourselves have lost a pig, I hear – a boar that I was saving for a feast. We are poor farmers, Excellence, and I can ill afford the loss. I should be glad to help you if I could. Come, we will talk of this indoors.’

He clapped his hands and the woman reappeared at once. ‘Tell them in the common house that we have Roman visitors. Have them prepare appropriate refreshments for our guests. And tell my nephew Thullero – he is with the horses in the farther field.’

She looked at us with eyes as big as water-bowls, but nodded obediently and hurried off. I looked at Kiminiros. He reminded me of elders in my own tribe long ago. I said deliberately, in my own tongue, ‘Do not fear if some of your people don’t speak Latin. I’ll translate for you.’

He turned towards me then, and for the first time I looked into his eyes. They were disturbing: piercingly intelligent and blue, and regarding me with such overt suspicion and dislike that it made my blood run cold. ‘Ah,’ he said, after a little pause, ‘a Celtic speaker. How very convenient.’ Then there was that softening of his manner, as he added suddenly, ‘But you are not from this area, I think? Not even a Dobunni, from the look of you.’

‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I live in Glevum now, but my home was in the far south of this province, many days from here. They call me Libertus. I am a Roman citizen and client of this exalted gentleman, but I was born a Celtic nobleman myself.’

He bowed. ‘Then, if you will lay your weapon on the step, I am honoured to welcome you beneath my roof. There can be no quarrel between your tribe and mine. But these men who come to my household bearing arms – that is another thing.’

I took this as a kind of compliment. ‘I do not carry weapons, and I have lost my dining knife,’ I said, throwing back my borrowed cloak to show my empty belt. ‘And this escort is for our protection, nothing else. We mean no threat to you. I am here entirely in the service of my patron, who – as you have heard – has lost a valued slave. The boy was found here in the forest hanging from a tree. Unfortunately he was on loan to me, so I have a double responsibility.’