‘I spoke to all the trierarchi an hour ago at dawn and they were confident we would be, sir. The oarsmen are all aboard and it’s just the last of the marines and provisions being ferried across now.’
Vespasian grunted his satisfaction, stifling another yawn. ‘How many of those currachs did we manage to salvage?’
‘Currachs?’
‘It’s what the Britons call those boats that they were using last night.’
‘Oh, I see; eight so far, but with only enough oars for five.’
‘That’ll be enough; have them tied off to my biremes, we’ll take them with us.’
‘Who’s going to handle them? They’re completely different to our small boats.’
‘Speak to Cogidubnus and tell him to choose the men he’s taking with him on their ability to row. That’ll be all.’
Maximus saluted, his distrust of anything un-Roman barely concealed on his face. Vespasian watched him go wondering whether Plautius had got his plan right.
‘You’ve got that constipated expression on your face again, sir,’ Magnus informed him, walking through the gates with a steaming bowl in his hand. ‘Are you worried about something again or have you genuinely got a blockage? If it’s the latter, this’ll help.’ He handed the bowl and a spoon to Vespasian. ‘Lentils – with pork and lovage; Hormus is getting the knack of it, slowly that is. Now that you’ve managed to force yourself to buy a body-slave I do think you should have a go at purchasing a cook. Perhaps some high-class cooking will stop you looking like you’re trying to pass a ballista bolt, if you take my meaning?’
Vespasian took the bowl and helped himself to a mouthful. ‘It’s not the standard of Hormus’ cooking but rather the standard of Plautius’ planning that I’m finding hard to pass.’
‘What do you mean?’
Vespasian sat on the ground and explained Plautius’ plan whilst eating his breakfast.
‘Well, it seems to me,’ Magnus said after a few moments’ rumination to digest the information, ‘that it all relies on Caratacus reacting to the information that Alienus brings him even though the last time he did so that information turned out to be wrong.’
‘Exactly. I didn’t realise that yesterday afternoon when Plautius explained to me and Sabinus what he planned, but then last night, after he told us that Caratacus had made moves to counter Plautius’ cancelled orders, I seriously wondered if Caratacus would fall for the same ruse twice.’
‘Does it matter? Look at it this way: if he does think that the risk to his credibility is too much to hazard, then he will come, even if he’s suspicious about the information. He can’t afford not to and then it’s down to us to catch him and Plautius’ plan will hinge on us doing so. However, if he believes the whole thing to be a trap to lure him into the open – which is what I’d put my money on – then what’ll happen? Bugger all. He won’t move, you’ll sail up and down the coast for a while whilst Cogidubnus tries to convince Judoc to kill the druids for us and if he doesn’t succeed you’ll have that pleasure; but whoever does it, the druids will be dead, Caratacus’ reputation as a defender of all things Britannic will be tarnished and Arvirargus will have no one to argue him out of doing a deal with Plautius.’
Vespasian scraped out the last of his lentils and chewed on them thoughtfully. ‘I suppose you’re right: whatever happens, the plan should work; it’s just that we might not end up capturing Caratacus and taking him back to Rome.’
‘Ah! So that’s what’s making you look like you could do with a good couple of hours thrashing about in the latrines: you’re worried that our masters back in Rome ain’t going to give you the recognition you feel that you deserve because you’ve left unfinished business in this gods-cursed island.’
‘Wouldn’t you be?’
‘Of course not. Whether you go back with or without Caratacus, Claudius’ freedmen will make sure that you’re feted. They have to. It’s vitally important to them to keep Claudius’ great conquest firmly fixed in the Senate’s and people’s minds. Claudius will drool and slobber all over you in public because the more glory he bestows on you the better he looks as being the instigator of this heroic enterprise. You’ll be paraded in your Triumphal Regalia; Plautius may even be granted an Ovation just so the Emperor can share it and remind everyone of his Triumph when he returned as the conquering hero three years ago, having saved Plautius’ beleaguered legions. Sabinus will be made consul next year when he’s forty-two and you’ll be promised the consulship in five years’ time when you reach that age, and the fact that Caratacus is still at liberty to run around and lop our lads’ heads off whenever he gets the chance will be quietly forgotten.’
Vespasian smiled ruefully at his friend’s blunt assessment of the realities of keeping up imperial appearances and handed back his bowl. ‘Yes, that makes sense; this invasion was always about keeping Claudius and his freedmen in power.’
‘Exactly; and if you’re not seen to be rewarded there’ll be rumblings in all classes of society that the Emperor is an ungrateful cripple who refuses to honour men who make him look good. It’s the same thing for me as leader of my Crossroads Brotherhood: if one of the lads does something which benefits the community we look after and therefore makes me look good in their eyes …’
‘Like knifing a persistent thief in a back alley, for example?’
‘Now there you go mocking again. I’m just trying to say that my position’s no different to the Emperor’s except on a far smaller scale, but yes, you’re right: if one of the lads did that then I would publicly praise him and we’d all forget that he’d committed—’
‘Excuse me, most honoured legate,’ a smooth voice cut in.
Vespasian looked up and remained seated. ‘What is it, Theron?’
The slave-dealer bowed with sycophantic reverence as if presenting himself to an eastern potentate. ‘Your contract, excellency.’ He proffered a scroll towards Vespasian. ‘With the, er, amendment that you suggested, plus an extra half of one per cent to clear up that silly misunderstanding that we had last night.’
Vespasian took the contract and unrolled it. ‘It wasn’t a silly misunderstanding, Theron; I understood you very well. Just because you bugger your male slaves doesn’t mean I do; nor do I have them fellate me.’
‘Indeed not, noble legate, that would be a dangerous position to put oneself in.’
‘You’re disgusting; get out of my sight.’
‘This instant, your mag—’
‘Go!’
‘And our agreement?’
Vespasian looked at the contract and then back at Theron. ‘All right, go and wait by the slave compound; I’ll read this and if it suits me I’ll send word to the slave-master that you’re to pick three hundred and fifty of them.’
Theron tried but failed to suppress a profit-motivated smile as he bowed his way backwards. ‘Most gracious, your legateship, my eternal—’
‘Theron!’
‘Yes, your—’
‘Not another word!’
‘Of course not, y—’
Vespasian’s glare finally reduced the slave-dealer to silence. ‘I shall be back in Rome in spring next year; I expect you to find me and bring me my money.’
‘With utmost pleasure, excellency.’
‘That’s the last time you’ll see him,’ Magnus said, getting to his feet as Theron turned and left.
‘Oh no, he and I are going to become very close friends,’ Vespasian replied, going through the contract. ‘Twelve and a half per cent of the resale value, how generous; he must really like me.’
‘It’s easy to be generous to friends whom you have no intention of paying.’
CHAPTER VIIII
THE SWELL HAD grown to the point that rowing was unfeasible as the oars could no longer be guaranteed to bite into the sea’s undulating surface. The flotilla’s leather sails, however, were full-bellied with a brisk northerly wind that, with muscle-straining coaxing by the steersmen on their oars, was driving the five biremes alo
ng the rugged coastline of the peninsula, a couple of miles off their larboard side.
Vespasian held onto the rail on the windward side, enjoying the sea air and the spray thrown up by the ship’s bucking ram blowing into his face. Ahead of him, along the deck the half-century of marines and Cogidubnus’ thirty followers sat glumly looking out to sea; many of the Britons’ faces betrayed how unsuited they were to a mariner’s life.
‘I don’t suppose Sabinus is looking as cheerful as you are,’ Magnus mused, arriving at the rail on unsteady legs and looking slightly pale.
Vespasian chuckled. ‘He’ll be prostrate in his cabin; he’s the worst sailor I know. I think it broke his heart when Plautius ordered him to come and personally take command of his biremes; three days at sea and then back again. He’s convinced that Plautius did it as a punishment for getting himself captured last year. This wind is certainly paying him out for his stupidity.’
Vespasian chuckled again at the thought of his brother’s discomfort and thanked Neptune for the wind with which they were finally making some progress. They had sailed out of the estuary two days earlier and had made little headway, rowing into a stiff breeze. The following day they had fared slightly better as they rowed past a moor perched high on precipitous cliffs and then finally rounded a point and turned from due west to southwest. Having spent the night in the shelter of a river estuary, to which the captive Briton had guided them, they had set out that morning with the tide and their progress had been good; the captive had assured Vespasian and Cogidubnus that they would reach their destination by sunset. During the whole three days of the voyage there had been no sign of any other vessels nor had any figures been spotted on the cliffs or shore. The only life they had come across had been the occasional settlement in an inlet and a small fishing village in the estuary the night before; Vespasian had ordered the inhabitants to be rounded up to prevent them from sending a boat off in the night to warn of their journey. In compliance with Plautius’ orders not to upset the Cornovii, the villagers had been released unharmed that morning.
Looking at the deserted coastline backed by forested hills, Vespasian could quite understand Plautius’ reluctance to move into the peninsula aggressively; the little there was down here would be hard to hold by a force small enough to justify its secondment to such a poor and irrelevant part of the island.
A shout from the trierarchus brought Vespasian back to the moment; bare-footed sailors scampered across the deck and began to climb the mainmast whilst others performed complicated nautical manoeuvres with ropes. Cogidubnus strode over to him, as firm and steady as if he were on a paved road. ‘The captive says that it’s time for us to risk going inshore otherwise we’ll be spotted from the lookouts around Durocornavis, which he claims is only three bays away.’
‘Do you trust him?’
The King shrugged. ‘If we drown, he’ll drown.’
‘It’s not him I’m worried about.’
‘Well, either we take his advice or we announce our arrival.’
Vespasian was forced to agree.
‘He says that the bay before our objective has a natural harbour where we could land in the currachs; it’s about two and a half miles from Durocornavis and is the only safe landing place within seven miles of the settlement. His people keep their boats there; there are some huts but everyone spends the night within the walls of the settlement.’
‘He can pilot us in there at night?’
‘He says that he can. Why did you say “us”?’
‘Yeah, I picked up on that,’ Magnus muttered.
‘Because I’m going ashore to have a look at that rock; if you can only get to it by land then it’s pointless looking at it from the sea.’
‘You won’t have to look at it at all if Cogidubnus persuades the Cornovii to clean off all the vermin from that rock.’
‘Yes, but if he doesn’t then we’ll have to do it and we’ll need to do it quickly; so I have to have some sort of plan in my head. Tomorrow I’ll be sending three of the ships on patrol down the coast to keep an eye out for Caratacus so our presence here will be noted; tonight is my only chance to go ashore and back again in secret. It won’t take long to cover the five miles there and back; I’ll be back by dawn.’
‘I can’t think of anything that I’d like to do less than go and spy on a load of druids.’
‘Which is exactly why I’m not taking you – I couldn’t bear you moaning about it all the time.’
Vespasian blew into his cupped hands, warming them, as Cogidubnus’ men rowed the currach, guided by the captive, towards the natural harbour along a rugged coastline pounded by crashing waves whose spray, caught in the moonlight, rose like repeated explosions of pearls to dissipate into a fine silver mist.
Uneasy at once again coming close to a druidical centre and the horror that he knew could be lurking there, Vespasian tried to console himself with the knowledge that their presence on this coast was still undetected – at least he hoped that it was. To stop himself worrying about it he turned to Cogidubnus, seated next to him in the stern of the small craft. ‘How do you plan to get to see Judoc?’
‘We’ll make our way to his settlement tonight and then wait until dawn when the gates open and we’ll walk in under a branch of truce; he’ll be honour-bound to respect that. No one can kill a man who has come to parley before he has heard what he has to say.’
‘And after?’
‘Then he’s free to do whatever he wishes, but I don’t think that I’ll be in any danger because he’ll understand that in killing me, or handing me over to the druids, he’ll be signing his eventual death warrant.’
‘I hope you’re right.’
‘I am, Vespasian, don’t worry about me; you just concentrate on getting to the harbour before dawn so that my men can take you back to the ship. With luck I’ll be waiting for them at the harbour when they return in the evening.’
Vespasian could see the logic of the argument and grimaced as he realised that in all likelihood he would be in more danger than the King. He grasped the hilt of his gladius and checked that the weapon was loose in its scabbard whilst trying to calm his growing fear. He looked over to the two marines sitting in the bow with the four men who would accompany Cogidubnus and prayed that he had chosen steady, stealthy, hard men as his companions.
The captive spoke to the oarsmen in their own tongue and pointed towards the shore; the rocks had started to fall away and Vespasian could see the sea, dappled by moonlight, curl inland. As the currach turned to larboard into the harbour he felt the swell decrease markedly and saw the dim outline of a small island, away to his right, planted squarely in front of the inlet’s mouth, sheltering it from the worst ravages of the sea. The oarsmen pulled with vigour, their oars biting into the calmer surface, propelling the boat faster as it snaked left and then right around the rocks, following the looping inlet. As the boat straightened out after the right turn they came to a long thin harbour with no view back out to sea; the rock wall that protected it dulled the constant roar of breaking waves and the creak of the oars seemed to be magnified in this strangely quiet haven. Vespasian felt a chill in the eerie silence as he looked up at the surrounding hills that tumbled down to the water’s edge; it was the same chill that had affected him on his approach to the Vale of Sullis. The power of the druids was near.
The oarsmen raised their sweeps and let the currach glide onto the shingle beach at the head of the harbour. The captive jumped out and steadied the craft as Vespasian, Cogidubnus and their companions splashed into the shallow water.
‘Stay out in the middle of the harbour whilst you wait for me to return,’ Vespasian ordered the oarsmen as the currach was pushed back out into the water.
Crunching across the shingle they passed through the collection of currachs drawn up on the pebbles and crossed the wide but low-running river that fed the inlet. Once on firmer, quieter ground, Cogidubnus exchanged a few words with the captive before turning to Vespasian. ‘He says that ou
r paths lie together for the first couple of miles and then we’ll veer south to the settlement just before we reach the rock that he says is called Tagell by his people – it means “throat”.’
Vespasian forced a half-smile. ‘Then I pray that I don’t get swallowed.’
‘Don’t joke about it; that was my thought when he told me.’
Vespasian looked at the captive and signalled him to lead off, following the course of the river inland. Wrapping his dark cloak around his shoulders he hurried after the man, but then stopped abruptly, his hand flying to his sword hilt, as shouts came out of the gloom from all about, followed by rushing, shadowy figures.
He spun around looking for the boat but it had passed out into the middle of the harbour, too far to reach in time. ‘Go!’ he yelled at the oarsmen. ‘It’s a trap; get back to—’ Pain sheared through his skull and a blinding light flashed across his inner vision; then all was darkness.
Vespasian woke to see the half-moon shining down upon him from a sky alive with stars. He felt himself swaying gently; he tried to move his arms but found them to be constricted, pressed into his body. He realised that he was lying in a makeshift stretcher of a blanket or cloak tied onto two spears. He raised his head slightly, grimacing in pain, and could make out the huge form of Cogidubnus walking ahead of him, his arms behind his back – presumably tied there. He cursed inwardly and wondered how the Cornovii had known to expect them. But it was a futile exercise and he closed his eyes and succumbed once more to darkness.
*
Shouting, the grate of iron hinges and creaking of wood woke him and he looked up to see that he was passing through a gateway; the reek of unsanitised habitation sweetened by wood-smoke assaulted his nostrils. After a few score paces his bearers stopped and he heard the rasp of a heavy bolt being pulled back, then a door scraped open and he was carried into a dimly lit hut whose walls were covered with animal skins. Without much consideration for his comfort he was lowered to the ground; he was surrounded by half a dozen warriors, the tips of their spears a couple of feet from his face. One shouted at him incomprehensibly and gestured to the ground; Vespasian sat up and looked to where the man was pointing and saw the gaping mouth of a pit with an iron grille with a rope attached lying next to it. With no choice other than to comply he shuffled forward and, grabbing the rope, lowered himself down its ten-foot length. As he reached the bottom he looked back up; the warriors surrounded the pit’s rim, but then two moved aside and Cogidubnus was shoved into view and his bonds were cut. With what sounded like the most virulent of curses the King lowered himself down. The rope was withdrawn, the grille was placed over the entrance and then two huge logs were rolled onto it to hold it firm.
Masters of Rome: VESPASIAN V (Vespasian 5) Page 17
