by Manda Scott
CHAPTER 16
SEEN FROM THE HILLSIDE ABOVE, CAMULODUNUM HAD BEEN a brick-and-whitewash fungus leaking unchecked across land that had once been green. In the clutter of paved and muddied streets and pathways, painted merchants’ booths and shacks, pigsties, wooden stables and loudly colour-washed villas, only the triumphal gates in the west and the theatre in the east had stood out from the rest.
Following Corvus through the mire, the noise and the smell crowded Breaca more. The city was not a quiet place. Even close to noon, the crowing cocks were barely outdone by the shrieks of children and the bawling of men; men in armour and men in chains, men ordering other men, men ordering women, men ordering mules and packhorses and bullocks. A girl screamed, but only once and not for long; Camulodunum was man’s domain.
The smell was eye-watering: the ripe rottenness of too many people crammed in too small a space, with their old food and their new food and their goats and pigs and cattle and ordure and urine and death. Of all the stories told to Breaca of Rome’s new city, none had mentioned that underneath the cacophony of life, Camulodunum stank of death.
The wind backed round, hurling the full ripeness of it full in her face. Breaca inhaled, regretted it, and spat.
Beside her, Cunomar grinned, sourly. “Rome smells worse,” he said. “And it’s bigger.” He was enjoying himself and it showed. The almost-confrontation with Corvus—his mother’s need for him, and her trust—had left him sharper than before. As after the spear-trial, the beginnings of the man shone through the child and he walked taller because of it. Twice, Corvus drew a breath to engage him in conversation, and twice, seeing the hate in his eyes, he stopped. Instead, he fell in beside Breaca, who did not hate him.
“The theatre is ahead and to the left. The path is a little unkempt. I’m afraid the construction of the temple to Claudius has somewhat taken over this part of the city.”
“So I see.”
Breaca lifted Graine to her hip, to keep clean the hem of her tunic. The path Corvus had indicated was a trail of much-trodden straw laid across a sea of mud that was one with the building site to their right. Within it, in isolated splendour, the part-finished temple to Claudius grew from the slurry like some long-dead animal drawn out by the gods, all bones and teeth and no flesh. Its ribs lay open to the sky, faced on the inside with marble. Around lay other piles of white marble slabs and squared-off roof beams, heaps of freshly quarried flints, not yet washed clean, and numbered stacks of gilded roof tiles which were under permanent guard.
Those guards excepted, there was no sign of life near the temple, no engineers, no architects, no slaves working under the whip. Abandoned for the day, it sat amongst the bones of its scaffolding, and it was as easy to imagine it shattered and the land beneath green again as it was to imagine the heights it would reach and the fire that would blaze from the gold-tiled roof when it was complete.
Corvus led them past slowly; one does not rush past the temple to a god, even when that god was not so long ago a drooling idiot whose own wife ordered his death.
Breaca held Graine close, feeling the patter of the small child-heart against her shoulder. She recognized by now the change in her daughter when Graine began to see with the eyes of the dream. Feeling it, Breaca smoothed a tangle of rich red hair from her face.
“What do you see?” she asked.
The green-grey eyes were widely vacant. “Too many dead,” Graine said. “They don’t know how to sing home the ghosts of their dead.”
“The Romans don’t?”
“Yes. And also the Trinovantes. The Romans break them as slaves and when they die, the people do not have the dreaming to sing them home.” It was said without passion. Where others would have cursed Rome, or themselves for allowing it to happen, Graine shook her head in disapproval and unforced sorrow. “There are others too, burning. It’s not a good death.”
Breaca kissed her daughter’s brow. “No. Fire is never a good death.”
The horror of the thought brushed both of them, trailing goose feathers across too-fine skin. They held each other close, submerged in the moment, and so were the last of the small group to round the north-western corner of the temple and see what had been placed there as a warning.
“Stop.”
Corvus said it, a man used to giving orders and having them obeyed. Breaca had already stopped, because Cygfa had come to a halt and was urgently making the signs to ward against evil. Beside her, Cunomar was shaking as Breaca had never seen him, swearing the oaths of the she-bears in a single unbroken stream that cursed Corvus, the governor and all of Rome to an endless dying on knives that cut but did not kill.
Beside them, the Roman officer Corvus stood stone-white and still. Breaca walked into him as she rounded the corner, so that the hissed curses of her two older children mixed with the Latin of his apology.
“Breaca—” He put a hand on her arm. “You must believe me. I didn’t know they were here.”
She believed him, if only because he looked so sick. It was the smell that did it, as much as the sight. Breathing through her teeth, Breaca looked past him to the paired crosses she had seen from the hilltop, and knew, with a hollow hurt in her abdomen, that Graine had been wrong, at least in part, when she said that the crosses had not yet tasted blood.
It was not human blood, and the sheep hanging from the right-hand arm of the right-hand cross had not died there, but somewhere else, where its throat had been cut and its skin flayed off so that its pink flesh showed in a way that could at first seem human. It had been gutted, to stop the gas of decay from blowing it open, but neither cleanly nor recently and streaks of greened intestines hung rotten from the open gap of its belly.
It was swaying slowly in the wind, turning on the rope so that Breaca saw late what Cygfa and Cunomar had already seen: that on either side of its chest, burned with an iron, the serpent-spear mark of the Boudica soared over the eagle of Rome.
Graine was sick.
Of all her three children, the Boudica’s younger daughter had been most sheltered from the raw brutality of war. Faced with the evidence as never before, there was a small gap as she struggled to understand, and then she vomited violently and colourfully into the mud at Corvus’ feet.
“I’m sorry.”
Corvus said it again, in Eceni as well as Latin. “I don’t know who did this or why and when I find out there will be a reckoning. I swear, if I had known, I would not have brought you this way. Or I would have found a way to warn you. I am truly sorry.”
He knelt, offering water from a belt-flask to Graine, who was sobbing now, and drawing the attention from those in front and behind. Her shock was real, but overdone to turn eyes away from Cunomar and Cygfa who stood together, finding their feet in a world that had suddenly become unstable.
Breaca would have gone to them, but to do so would have attracted more attention. She let Corvus tend to Graine and accepted his apologies and found it within herself to smile at the governor’s secretary who brought the humble apologies of his master and his wish that her family be seated soon within the theatre where they might be sheltered from an ugliness which had no bearing on them.
Three centuries of legionaries stood in ranks around the tiered arc of the theatre and made avenues leading in towards the many entrances and staircases. Breaca and her family arrived late, the last of a few stragglers to make the journey from the forum. Ahead of her, in a sea of gossiping humanity, eight delegations, with their families, friends and retainers, made a show of being at ease in Roman company.
They could not have missed seeing the hanged sheep, symbol of cowardice and a failure to fight, but they chose not to speak of it; instead the talk was loudly and pragmatically commercial. After the heavy dignity of the early ceremonies, the gathering at the theatre had all the subtlety of a cattle market. The contracts made and broken here were every bit as binding as those witnessed in Roman law throughout the morning session.
’Tagos was already there; this was a world in
which he flourished. His lack of an arm was no impediment, easily compensated by a quick mind and the ability to strike sharp bargains. As it had been designed to, the workmanship of his king-band had won much attention and set him apart from the other client kings so that his monopoly of Roman wines and olives from Greece had not been broken.
Breaca and the now-silent Graine were conducted to his side and, as Cunomar and Cygfa joined them, he was pleased to present his family to the Iberian master mason who had designed and was building Claudius’ temple, to the balding Gaulish wine merchant who was the third most senior magistrate of the city and who had funded one hundredth of the temple’s building costs to date, and last and most effusively to the tall, white-haired Greek physician whom he spotted waiting by the stairs to the central tier of seating.
The physician was one of the few men held in equal regard by Rome and the tribes alike. ’Tagos was rapturous in his greeting. “Theophilus, what a delight! I had not thought you would grace us with your presence on such an informal occasion.”
“Had you not? How could I not come to watch when one of my former patients is to die?” Theophilus did not return the smile. His clear hawk’s gaze was directed exclusively at Breaca. “This must be your new wife. I am honoured to meet her. If I may?”
He bowed, not waiting for the completion of formal introductions, and, taking Breaca’s hand, laid his fingers on her wrist. She felt a probing across the surface of her thoughts, not unlike Airmid’s or, more recently, Graine’s, and a pull in her midriff that was exactly like the first feather-touch of birth pains and then the dry grip was gone and the physician was bowing again.
“My lady, I had intended to offer my services should you ever come near childbirth but I see that will not be necessary. My best wishes to you and your three beautiful children. They do honour to you and their father.” He nodded in turn to Graine, Cunomar and Cygfa and the colour returned, a little, to each of them without words exchanged.
If his intent was to crush the king of the Eceni, he succeeded. In one short speech, ’Tagos’ hopes of a dynasty were prised open and shown empty to the world. He opened his mouth and, fish-like, shut it again. His eyes roamed the crowd around, seeking to find who, if any, amongst his rivals had been close enough to hear. Finding none, he turned away, calling Cunomar and Cygfa to follow him.
Left alone, Breaca lowered Graine to the ground where the girl could find her own feet and, catching the whisper of a thought, said, “I met an old friend this morning with a fresh bandage on his head. Did you put it there?”
Theophilus’ slow smile grew from the blankness of his stare. “I did. If he is a true friend, you are fortunate.”
“So it would seem. Is he a friend also to your patient who is to die?” The crucifix jarred the corners of Breaca’s mind. No man, Roman or otherwise, deserved such a death.
“Ex-centurion Marcellus? Alas, no. That one is a man of few friends and a great many enemies.”
“Is being friendless enough to sentence him to death?”
“It is if he has made the mistake of slaughtering an innocent man in front of witnesses. His death will be an example to show that Romans are not above the law. You will be expected to approve.”
Graine was right, then, at least in the first part. They are not for us. A warrior of the tribes will die and one of Rome and both are already held in prison. Breaca let the understanding show on her face.
“In that case, I am sure we will appear to approve although I would prefer it if the children did not have to bear witness. You, I am sure, will be expected to disapprove and may thus be asked to leave before us. Perhaps if there is time later, we could meet? Or you could visit us in our own lands? I have a friend who would be glad to meet you. She has some skills in childbirth but there is always more to learn.”
“There is indeed.” Theophilus’ eyes lit as Airmid’s would have done if the offer had been made to her. He touched a finger to the caduceus that hung from a thong at his neck. “I would be honoured. The hospital is in the south-west of the city, two blocks down from the governor’s mansion. Ask anyone for directions and when you get there find Nerus and tell him that you are there by express invitation of Theophilus of Athens and Cos. Remember that, Athens and Cos. If you say those two, he will let you in.”
Dressed in their togas, their bordered tunics, their tribal cloaks—visible statements of the wearer’s affiliation to Rome, or its lack—three thousand gossiping, preening citizens of Camulodunum filled the banked benches of the theatre by the time the governor led his officers in to their reserved seats on the lowest row of the tiers. Breaca and her daughters sat at the governor’s left hand, with ’Tagos on his other side.
The air in the theatre was still, hot and rank. Spring sun reached over the top of the marbled walls to cast direct light onto the sanded semicircle that separated the seats from the wooden stage opposite.
A row of tables to the left of the stage held the delegates’ gifts to the governor. The sun blessed all of them, polishing already over-polished metal to blinding brilliance. A vast crater in gold bore Berikos’ Atrebatan mark of the oak tree combined with the eagle of the legions. Beside it, Breaca’s boxed spears seemed small and unremarkable. Further along, a pair of red and yellow enamelled brooches and a hollow gold torc displayed the heavily Romanized style of Cogidubnos’ Belgic smiths. A knife scabbard in dyed leather, a belt, a set of horse harness and a newly woven cloak in moss green completed the gifts of the Belgae. At the end of the table closest to the audience, a chequered board of polished wood in two colours bore a set of blue and yellow counters set out in rows at either edge. It had not been on the table in the forum when the gifts were first presented.
From directly behind Breaca, Corvus said pensively, “Someone’s given the governor a game of Warrior’s Dance. Do you suppose he knows how to play it?”
Without turning, she answered, as if to Graine, “I expect one of his officers could teach him. It would be a useful skill for a man who would rule the tribes. If he could think with the cunning of Cunobelin, war would be a thing of the past.”
“I’ll see what can be done.” Corvus was grinning, she could hear it in his voice. Then, without the humour, “There will be some unpleasantness now. It would be wise to appear unperturbed.”
The physician had offered the same warning and in the same spirit. Breaca bent down to adjust Graine’s cloak and whispered, “A man is going to be crucified. A Roman. One of those held in the prison. We will do what we can to send his soul home but we will not speak out loud and we will not complain to the governor.”
Graine nodded. From the first moment of sitting, she had stared ahead at the oak platform in front of her. Now she asked, “Where are the doors they will bring the prisoners through?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure there are doors.” Breaca looked where her daughter looked. Finely planed oak planks made a resonant floor to the stage. Curtains in Trinovantian yellow draped the sides, hiding the wings. A multicoloured mural painted across the back wall showed scenes of pipe-playing fauns frolicking by a waterfall with androgynous nymphs, watched over by a god in the form of a grazing bull. If there were doors, the gaudy curves and splashes of the painting obscured their lines. “Are you sure there are doors?”
Graine frowned. “I think so. I dreamed something like this but it may not be here.”
Alert, Breaca asked, “What happened in your dream?”
“Someone died. We wanted to stop it but couldn’t. Cunomar was unhappy.”
Cunomar had spent the winter “unhappy” and the effect on others had not been good. He sat now beside ’Tagos on the governor’s right. Breaca looked across and her son looked back and he raised his hand in greeting. She wished for his sake that Eneit could be there to take away the sourness of sitting next to ’Tagos. She smiled back encouragement and saw it accepted at face value, with good grace.
To Graine, Breaca said, “Cunomar hates injustice; it’s his greatest strength. Why don
’t you go to him now and tell him what you dreamed and remind him that we are guests here and mustn’t interfere with the governor’s justice. Can you do that?”
Graine frowned. “Does the governor speak Eceni?”
“I don’t think so, but you must assume that he does. Say nothing impolite. We are his guests.”
For a solemn, watchful child, Graine could be playful when it served her own will or that of the gods. Cheerfully, she scampered off and clambered onto her brother’s knee, tugging at his ear and whispering loudly in Latin that she had a secret only for him. Surprised, he embraced her and tipped his head so that, lowering her voice, she could breathe into his ear. Those who overheard would have caught enough of the subsequent story to know that she had given her chestnut mare that had been a gift from her mother to a nice man who had once known their uncle, but any coherence was lost after that in a welter of excited, incomprehensible child-speak that only one reared on Mona could possibly have understood and only then if standing improperly close to both.
At the end of it, Graine drew back and, grinning, kissed her brother on the nose. Cunomar blushed and ducked his head away, then relented and kissed her back. Two dozen watching adults, almost all of them parents, remembered childhood and its easy freedoms and wished for themselves and their children the same liberation.
Graine scrambled down from her brother’s knee. On the way back to her mother, she patted her stepfather’s leg as she passed and smiled dazzlingly for the strange, grey-haired Roman who ruled her land.
The governor turned to his left. “A quite exquisite child. Truly, you are blessed, my lady.”
Breaca said, “Thank you. Our gods have not deserted us while the children can laugh.”
A horn sounded from somewhere nearby. Drums answered it. And a sudden change in the stage proved Graine right in at least the first part of her dream. A door opened, cutting in half the largest of the dancing fauns on the stage-wall mural.
