‘Stop, stop, you lout! How dare you!’
The dark boy, young but much taller than her, turned as she neared. He narrowed his eyes, apparently recognising the bedraggled little girl. She saw his look move up and down her muddy dress and the shabby cloak she had hastily fastened round one shoulder.
‘Get back to work, girl,’ he said,’ before I report you to your owner for impertinence and laziness.’
For a second she was shocked into silence. Then she drew herself up, twitched her cloak round her, and spoke to him.
‘This is the estate of Magistrate Marcus Aurelianus. You and your — ‘ Aurelia glanced for a second at the other young man, now hanging back ‘ — companions, are trespassing on our land. Leave this instant, and do not return if you wish to avoid my father’s anger at the way you treat his daughter and his property.’ The fair lad, who Aurelia recognised as the eldest son of the Sorio family at Bawdrip, looked away awkwardly.
There was a momentary stillness. From a nearby tree, Aurelia heard the hoot of an owl in the sudden quiet. Then the silent swoop of the tawny bird passed above her head as the tension spooled out like a wire between the stranger and her.
Lucius stared at her, his brown eyes hard as pebbles. He threw back his head and laughed shrilly. ‘Well, I see I have met your neighbour, Drusus,’ he said. ‘I apologise, my lady Aurelia. Next time I will await an invitation before hunting on your father’s estate.’ He clicked his fingers, swerved his horse around, and was gone so quickly Aurelia had no choice but to crush down a bitter retort.
The next month, her father told her he was soon to marry Claudia, Lucius’s aunt.
Not till the stable had grown nearly dark and the air chilly did Quintus realise how long he had been held there, enchanted by this daughter he had never known. At last the energetic irruption of Britta in search of Aurelia brought him back into time. Aurelia slipped away before she was scolded for messing about in a stable instead of dressing for dinner. Britta let Aurelia go with no more than a distracted nod. She glared at Quintus as if he was a turd trodden in by the puppy.
Quintus felt tiredness seep into his bones. His scarred leg was itching ferociously. He had no desire for a confrontation with Britta.
‘Whatever you’ve come to say to my mistress, you’re too late. She’s gone off to Lindinis to do her job as the high lady of the Durotriges. That stator of yours went with her. Fancy, he wanted her to wait here for you.’
This was said so dismissively that Quintus blinked, struck speechless. At least he now knew where Tiro was.
‘Tiro did say as how you weren’t looking to arrest my mistress any more for the murder of her dear friend. So that’s summat, I suppose.’
Britta summed up her feelings with a loud sniff and left the stable, throwing over her shoulder, ‘If that horse is any good, you might catch them up before they get to Lindinis. I’ll have some bread and cheese made up for you.’
Chapter Seventeen
The lessening light and unfamiliar way delayed Quintus. By the time he entered the forum in Lindinis a sizeable crowd filled the square up to the front of the town’s scruffy little basilica. Full darkness had fallen and flaring torches held aloft by groups of young men showed a mixed assembly. Townsfolk, housewives, merchants and innkeepers were in holiday mood. Mobs of roving youngsters, some of them dressed in traditional chequered woollen clothes handed round jars of beer. Excited slaves huddled together. A tight group of people was gathered at one side of the basilica’s open portico. Quintus was shoving his way on foot through the crowd when he caught the mention of a significant name. A richly-dressed young man, fair-faced and flushed with drink, was laughing with his friends and about someone they all apparently knew.
’So I said to him, If I had a father rich enough and soft enough to take me carousing in Londinium, I’d want my friends to come too. I wouldn’t fancy going alone to visit the whorehouses of Southwark. Where’s the fun in that? You know what Lucius said? He told me his father wouldn’t go south of the river, saying that he was frightened of being mugged there, day or night. Claudius Bulbo apparently refused to cross over Tamesis bridge, no matter what.’ They all laughed, the hilarity of very young men who were secretly envious of a bolder friend’s adventures. ‘Anyway, Lucius did go, on his own. And here she is, the lovely lady!’
‘From the Londinium whorehouses, Drusus?’ gasped his friend as a swaying slender figure in a floor-length white robe emerged into the lamplight, greeted by cheers and tossed-up swords among the crowd.
‘No,’ said Drusus, ‘she’s actually a famous actress from the theatre. Called Fulminata, they say. But I can’t see Lucius with her. Where is he?’
‘I wouldn’t leave one like that alone, hey Drusus?’
They tried to push their way further forward and were hushed down, as the graceful figure spread her arms wide to gain attention. She began to speak.
‘Durotriges! Great hearts! British heroes!’ It was a clear modulated voice, projected with professional skill to reach all parts of the square. The crowd roared approval, and the woman pulled back the deep hood to reveal a long mane of rich red hair. But it was her eyes that captivated. They were as black as midnight, bold and searching.
Quintus stared until a movement at the edge of vision caught his eye. Behind her, right at the back. The man in the blue cloak. He slid his gladius silently out of its red leather-covered scabbard. Breath coming faster now, Quintus swerved and dodged between townspeople towards the basilica steps.
‘Hey, where d’you think you’re going? Stranger! Spy! Hi, Drusus, stop that man with the sword!’
Two of the young men ahead swung round and tripped him. One grabbed hold of his arm.
‘Not now,’ Quintus growled, sliding easily out of the young man’s grasp and twisting his gladius up in a lightning move to slice across the other’s knuckles. The boy cursed and wrenched his cut hand away.
Quintus had no time for these fools. ‘Frumentarius, on Government business! Stand aside!’
‘Is that right?’ said Drusus’s friend. ‘Our fathers are the Government round here, the decurions on the town council. Where’s your authority to break up a tribal gathering, eh? Frumentarius — tax collector! Grab him lads. Oi, Lucius, look what we’ve caught!’ The boy called up to his friend on the stage, then swore, realising Lucius was no longer there.
There came a sudden roar near the front, and a ripple of movement as those further back pushed and jumped up to see what was happening. Laughter arose: ‘That one must be drunk. She’s just fallen off the stage! This is better than the comedies in Aquae Sulis!’
Attention shifted away from Quintus. He kicked out, catching the lad Drusus on the side of his knee and getting away into the crowd.
He heard more roars, of surprise and approbation this time. The red-haired woman had disappeared from the stage.
‘Julia Aureliana! It’s our own White One, the noble Lady Julia. Lady Julia of the Durotriges!’ The name spread like a spell, and the mayhem and good-natured noise abated. Heads craned. Children were picked up to see better.
Quintus swore. It was Julia, his Julia, dressed in Druid robes and taking up a commanding stance centre stage. Jupiter and Minerva, no! This can’t be happening.
His heart drubbed, and he felt sick to his core, but the long years of legionary training kept him moving. Then his cursed bad leg, already tired and prickling, suddenly hesitated. He stumbled. Leaning on his gladius, he stooped to rub his scarred thigh. He was close enough now to hear her, the melodious voice he knew so well sounding full and proud.
‘Listen to me, Durotriges! People of Lindinis! People of our tribe! You know me, Julia Aureliana, and you know my brother, Magistrate Marcus Aurelianus. You know our family, who have led this tribe since before Rome came. We have always cared for our people, always been proud to protect you, to lead you into battle and out of danger.’
Why was she here? What in the name of the Gods was she doing here, tonight, on the eve of a rebellio
n?
Despite everything — her disdain, her anger, her possible involvement in the deaths of Velvinna, and perhaps Catus too — and despite the evidence of his own eyes and ears, he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing and seeing.
What has happened to you, Julia? Is this really you, this strident barbarian, this treacherous daughter of Boudica?
Julia spoke again. Her voice was full of pride, her bearing tall and fearless.
‘Durotriges! Listen to me now. That woman is no White One, not one of us at all. She is a mere actress from Londinium, paid to prey on your tribal pride and rouse up old enmities. Take no heed of her or her fellow conspirators here. Do not let these wicked criminals lead you into foolish paths. Please, I beg you, go home peacefully, back to your homes and families.’
Quintus reeled. What had Julia said? He saw sudden movement in the shadows. The redheaded woman had rejoined the gaggle of robed men. With a rush of horror, he saw how wrong he’d been. Of course this was his Julia! A lioness protecting her own. Just as Britta said, she’d come to single-handedly stop a doomed rebellion that would leave her tribe decimated or enslaved.
The man with the blue cloak jumped up onto the porch and grabbed Julia by the arm. A big man in well-worn army kit reached for Julia’s other arm, twisting her around and dragging her away despite her struggles.
Mithras, lend me speed!
Quintus accelerated into a run as if his life depended on it, pushing through the crowd like a dolphin through waves. His leg was forgotten. A familiar feeling of narrow focus and intense rage rose. He welcomed the anger. There was no room for anything now but the urge to attack. He saw the steps ahead, the big man looming. He raised his sword to stab, and heard a voice he knew well.
‘ You take Blue Cloak, Gov, leave that arse Caesulanus to me!’
It was the most welcome sound in the world, Tiro in all the glory of his flat London vowels.
Quintus left his stator to deal with Caesulanus in a whirl of fists and kicks, while he chased after Blue Cloak. The tall fair man was bundling Julia into the shadows beyond the intermittent flare of the torches. Somehow Blue Cloak had found himself two confederates, a hard-faced man with a knife, and a youngster, less eager but well-armed with a long sword. They both stepped forward, crouching into fight positions. Quintus launched himself at them, all fatigue far away. His sword flickered between the two men as his feet danced an intricate pattern of deception. He snared the youngster first, seducing him into trying an open swing at his head with his long sword. Quintus brought his shorter, deadlier sword up to pierce deep into the youngster’s belly. He was vaguely aware of cries and bellows behind him. He moved his attention to focus on the older man. This hard-faced one was more experienced, and although he had only a knife, it was a good long one. Quintus twisted his sword free, and stepped back. The lack of light made the footing treacherous. Quintus pressed the man, forcing him swiftly round and casting his own shadow over them both. Sweat ran down the man’s face. He was gasping now, and Quintus knew one more feint would allow him a deadly stab.
A cry of pain came from nearby. ‘You bitch! Bite me, would you?’
Julia screamed, a short sharp sound cut off suddenly. For a tiny moment Quintus was distracted, and felt his concentration seeping away. His opponent smiled, and swerved to the side to bring his knife back into deadly play.
But the frumentarius had one more trick up his sleeve. Quintus spun round on his heels, with his sword held in tight and angled upwards. It was a nasty move he had perfected in training at the Castra in Rome many seasons ago. As he completed the turn his sword lashed out with momentum and slashed at the man, wide and deep into his side. It was a difficult manoeuvre. There was a real risk of catching his weapon on the others’ ribs instead of finding a vital organ. But the training and his sword held true. The man gasped and toppled dead into the darkness at Quintus’ feet. He glanced round. No Julia; no tall man in the blue cloak either. Quintus moved back into the lamplight, searching.
The crowd had broken up into small bickering knots. Punches were being thrown, and he heard shouts of consternation and grunts of pain as blows landed haphazardly. He looked around, trying to work out what was happening. A small group of youngsters was heading towards him. In the lead was that friend of Lucius — Drusus, that was it. His eager look had changed to concern, a frown lowering his brows. Quintus saw a plump middle-aged man, an older version of Drusus in a gold-fringed mantle, reach out to grab the boy’s sleeve, saying something urgent. Drusus shook the restraining hand off, and plunged back into the crowd. His father failed to catch him, his trailing toga swamping his movements.
Quintus’s attention was caught by Tiro on the ground behind Caesulanus, crouching, filthy and panting but triumphant. One meaty arm pinioned the other’s sword arm and the other was crooked tight across the centurion’s throat. Tiro called out to two approaching men in relief.
‘Morcant! Rufus! Catch hold of this villain and tie his hands and feet up, would yer? I gotta help the boss.’ He scrambled to his feet, winking at Quintus and looking smug.
‘Pancratium move, sir. Works every time.’
No sign still of Julia, but it was a fair guess that wherever she was, Blue Cloak would be too. Quintus tossed the dice on his choices and began to run, calling over his shoulder, ‘To me, Tiro.’ He didn’t wait, but soon the clump of feet and the puffing behind told him his assistant was following.
The gamble was on. Quintus was betting Blue Cloak had a horse tethered somewhere outside the forum in the high street. There were precious few other places you could leave a horse in this scruffy little civitas. Instead of trying to force his passage back through the market place, Quintus led Tiro at a run along the side of the basilica. They found a narrow passage past the end of the building, probably used as a discreet alleyway for magistrates and decurions on council business. They turned the corner and raced on towards the road behind the basilica. Quintus’s heart was straining now. Not so much from the fighting, or the running. He was used to that after long Imperial service of the dangerous kind. What goaded him was a glimpse of Julia being dragged, struggling, ahead of them. Tiro shot ahead. He threw himself into a curious dive, hitting the man in the blue cloak from behind, low and hard. His shoulder hit the back of the tall man’s knees, and he threw his arms round the long legs, jerking the man off his feet. Blue Cloak fell like an oak, bellowing as he hit the ground. Julia fell too, landing on her shoulder and crying out, but free. Quintus crouched down and checked her with a quick glance. She wasn’t badly hurt. He joined the panting Tiro, standing over the enemy with drawn sword until his assistant was back on his feet and could take guard.
The Lindinis rebellion was over.
Chapter Eighteen
Quintus gently helped Julia back onto her feet. The familiar scent of rosewater reached out to him. Silently, she moved into his arms, shuddering and weeping. Tiro tactfully looked away and busied himself tying up the prisoners. After a moment Julia stepped back, brushing dust and leaves off her torn robe. Quintus looked her over for injuries. She smiled, saying, ‘I’m tougher than I look. Shame the robe isn’t.’
‘It was a good choice of robe,’ Quintus conceded. ‘Although you had me confused at first.’ The robe reminded him of the old wise-woman.
‘Have you got that little cup, Tiro?’
‘Of course, sir.’ Tiro fetched his saddle bag, reached in and handed the tiny wrapped cup to Quintus.
‘From Velvinna’s house.’ He held it out to Julia. She sniffed the contents, and dipped a cautious finger into the flecked milky fluid.
‘Juice of poppy, mixed into a little wine. With added honey and …ginger? Thank the Lady, at least she died peacefully and without pain. The actress masquerading as a trainee herbalist, I suppose.’
He nodded agreement. He saw a tear glimmer in the stray torchlight as it rolled through the pale dust on her face. There was so much to say, but not now.
He contented himself with, ‘I was wron
g to doubt you, Julia. Here — you’d better take care of this too.’ He held out the bottle of dried foxglove. She nodded, recognising the medicine, and tucked it away.
The square was clearing now. Many of the older citizens had taken their protesting younger folk away home. Two men, one big, the other young and slight, were standing guard over the furious Caesulanus. They nodded greetings to Tiro.
‘Frumentarius Quintus Valerius, this is Morcant, brother to Britta and estate manager for Marcus Aurelianus; and Rufus, groom to the Lady Aurelia. They came to help when the dominus and Britta told them where Lady Julia had gone.’
The black-haired man, broad and sun-darkened by a life on the land, grinned crookedly. Quintus immediately saw the resemblance to his younger sister. Rufus gave him a shyer look.
‘Groom to Aurelia, hey? You’ll have your hands full then. I hear she’s quite the horsewoman.’ The boy, not much older than Aurelia, smiled shyly.
Quintus turned to Morcant. ‘I’m grateful for your timely help, Morcant. I wonder, did you recognise anyone here tonight?’
‘Well, sir, there were lots of local folk, of course. That girl from the theatre, Fulminata, had got some of the foolish young men riled up and raring to go. Like Master Drusus Sorio and his gang. No fault of theirs, I hope you can see, no harm meant.’ Quintus made no reply; rebellion against the Empire was a capital offence. There had been a narrow escape for this little town tonight, mostly thanks to Julia’s intervention.
Morcant hurried on. ‘And the old codgers at the back, they never expected anything to come of this, just venting they were. Habit of a lifetime. Would’ve been pretty horrified if they’d been taken seriously, I do believe.’
Perhaps there was something in that. Morcant wasn’t educated or army-trained, but being the manager of a large estate he would know what was happening in the local community. There never had been anything to be gained for the tribe in this trumped-up rebellion. Only those inciting the trouble could gain: Fulminata in league with Lucius, Blue Cloak and Caesulanus too. That placed them all at the heart of the Vebriacum fraud.
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