‘So we still do not know the source of the island’s gold?’ The sharp voice interrupted his thoughts. He realized his tone must have faltered, allowing the spell to be broken.
‘That is correct, Caesar,’ he acknowledged smoothly. ‘But we have barely scratched the surface of the Silurian heartlands. Even now your engineers are seeking out the fountainhead.’ The truth was that the Empire’s expectations should have been met years earlier and would have been, but for the obstinacy of the rebel Caratacus, who had held out in the Silurian mountains for almost a decade before his capture.
Exploitation. One could cloak the reasons for a military campaign in any guise one wished – there were still suspicions about the true motive behind Claudius’s invasion of Britain – but the primary purpose would always be exploitation. Exploitation of natural resources. Exploitation of land. Exploitation of peoples. And the late and much maligned Claudius had proved a master of exploitation. Better still, the exploited were unaware until the hook had been set or the trap closed. First subsidies – or loans: the one as good as the other, indeed, the one capable of being mistaken for the other, and who would know the truth by the time the loan was called in? Gifts that bound the warrior kings of Britain to Rome. Gifts that brought with them obligations. And with obligations came taxes, which meant more subsidies, more loans: more debt.
‘Yet the cost of maintaining our legions is barely covered by the tax revenues.’ It was as though the Emperor had read his mind. He should have learned by now never to underestimate the intelligence behind the child’s mask. ‘The profits of our enterprises slim or non-existent. The initial outlay enormous, but unrecouped. I see little profit in Britain. Perhaps it is time to withdraw?’
Seneca nodded in acknowledgement and allowed himself an indulgent smile, though the blood froze in his veins. Nero was not the only actor in the room. ‘But does history not teach us that patience is the investor’s greatest virtue? That haste can be an expensive business partner?’
The young man frowned and leaned forward in the gilded throne, one hand – the right – raised to stroke the smooth, almost baby textured flesh of his chin. The thinker’s pose. A ruler deliberating on matters most momentous. Eventually, he spoke. ‘Perhaps, but patience does not fill bellies. Did you not also teach me that filled bellies and a full arena are what keep the mob from the streets?’
‘Of course, Caesar.’ In fact it had been Claudius who had imparted that rather brutish wisdom. Seneca allowed the daintiest touch of annoyance to seep into his tone. ‘I merely counsel against a precipitate decision. Grand strategy should not be decided like two beggars haggling in the streets. You have other advisers. Perhaps the Praetorian prefect is more qualified to provide guidance in military matters.’
The eyes narrowed. ‘Your most intimate friend, Afranius Burrus?’
‘Your governor of the province, then. Gaius Suetonius Paulinus. Surely no decision should be taken without having first been discussed with the man most able to enlighten. Summon Paulinus home and question him as you have questioned me. Perhaps his answers will be more palatable than my own humble opinions.’
Nero laughed; it was a child’s laugh, high-pitched and easy. ‘Have I offended you, dearest Seneca? Does the pupil’s lack of understanding grieve the teacher? Then you have my apology. Sometimes the cares of the Empire drive your teachings from my head. Let us lay down the subject of Britain for a moment. Come, explain to me again why an emperor’s greatest need is for compassion and mercy. Would not wisdom in all things suffice?’
Seneca shook his head. ‘First, a Caesar can cause no offence, only concern – and Britain should rightly be a matter for our concern. But, to mercy. Your stepfather, Divine Claudius, showed mercy when he reprieved the British war leader Caratacus from the strangling rope. Yet he also showed wisdom, and statesmanship. For in allowing a mighty warrior to live – one who had knelt before him in defeat – he gained a living monument to his greatness, and thereby enhanced both his own and Rome’s security. Since with security comes stability, did not all, from the lowest slave to the highest senator, gain from it?’
‘But …’
An hour later Seneca left the room and turned past the twin figures of a pair of anonymous Praetorian guards into the corridor. Once he was certain he was alone, he put one hand against the painted wall for support and choked down the bile that filled his throat. Sweat matted his hair and the stink of fear from his own body filled his nostrils. Nero knew. Of course he knew. It was time to act. He must call in his British investments immediately. If the legions withdrew it would be lost. All of it. What could he do to ensure his fortune was safe? An idea formed and he saw a face, a thin, beak-nosed, miserable face. Could he trust him? Could he afford not to? Yes. It would have to do.
Self-interested panic receded and he considered the wider, appalling consequences if Nero proceeded with his threat. Billions of sestertii wasted on sixteen years of folly. A dozen potential allies turned in an instant into certain enemies. He listed the tribal kingdoms of the province in his head and attempted to calculate the cost of withdrawal. The legions would strip them of each and every vestige of wealth, every bushel of grain and every cow, taking tens of thousands of slaves and hostages to ensure their future compliance. Compliance! The island would starve and the legacy of that starvation would be enmity for a thousand years. And they were so close. The gold mines of Siluria and the Brigantian lead reserves would change everything. No, it must not happen. He could not allow it. But first he had to retrieve his fortune.
He closed his eyes and tried to compose himself. Marble busts of Claudius, Caligula, Tiberius, Augustus and Divine Julius, the pantheon of Rome’s great, stared at him from their alcoves as he walked quickly past them. Emperors all, a trio, at least, of tyrants, and each, he thought, had left Rome worse than he received it. Could Nero be different? Had he, Lucius Annaeus Seneca, been in a position to make him different? It was cool here in the heart of the palace complex and he felt the sweat chill in his hairline. His mind went back to the earlier conversation. Yes, he knew.
XIII
Gwlym could see only a few faces in the glow of the fire, but he knew that beyond them a hundred others sat on the damp leaf mould listening to his words. They were the elders of the northern Catuvellauni, at least those he thought he could trust, and he had gathered them in this forest clearing so that they should understand that they were not alone. This was the most dangerous time, the time when he had to persuade the doubters and the timid. Now they could see that they were many, that they were strong, that they were part of a great movement.
But attending a meeting in a forest glade by night did not mean a man would pick up his spear and march against his oppressors. They had courage, of course, and they hated, but sometimes it required more than that and he needed to know that when he moved on they would return to their homes and set up the secret furnaces and workshops that would help them rearm their tribes.
‘This was once a sacred grove,’ he said, his voice soft but strong enough to be heard clearly by every man among them. ‘The Romans hacked down the oak trees which grew here for a hundred years and slaughtered the guardians so their blood soaked the ground we sit upon. But that blood was not wasted,’ he pointed to a ring of small saplings, barely a year old, ‘for the grove has been replanted and one day the rites will be renewed here. One day the gods will return to their rightful home.’
He paused to allow them to consider his words. He knew that certain of the rites he spoke of were not universally loved. Sometimes it was necessary to dispatch a messenger to the gods to ensure an appeal was heard and understood. Normally the message carrier was a prisoner or a slave, but in times of true emergency the gods would only accept a more treasured candidate: a chief’s first-born, or the well favoured daughter of a lord.
‘But the gods will only return when they are certain that you have not forsaken them. What did you do when the Romans came with their axes and their swords?’ He let his haw
k’s eyes rove over the men in the inner circle and then the darkness beyond them, so that each became the focus of his words and felt the shame they evoked. ‘Did you fight or send your sons to fight? Did you stand and say: this is the sacred ground of Taranis and Teutates, of Esus and Epona? No, you did not, for you are still alive. Yet, though you failed them, the gods have not forsaken you. The message I bring is this. Prepare: for the time of release is upon us. Arm: for strength is the only message the Romans understand. Wait: for only when the gods send their sign will the time be right.’
And they asked: what will be the sign?
And he answered: the wrath of Andraste.
XIV
Five days before the festival of Armilustrium, when his soldiers would hold the annual ceremony to purify their arms, Valerius received a surprise summons from the camp prefect of the Londinium garrison. Technically, he remained under the command of the Twentieth legion and the praefectus castrorum had no authority over himself or his troops. In reality he knew that with the governor immersed in preparations for the spring campaign the man was de facto commander of the south-east. He had a momentary panic that he was being posted home immediately, but quickly realized that order would have come in a simple dispatch.
He made preparations to leave at once, then changed his mind. He had more than one reason for making the trip. He made the short walk to Lucullus’s offices.
‘I am sorry you were inconvenienced.’
Lucullus looked up at the young tribune from the scroll he studied. For an unguarded moment his face was blank, before it automatically took on the fixed smile he wore as if it were part of a uniform.
‘On the contrary,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I apologize for being such a poor host. You were fortunate you did not have the oysters. They had been kept a day longer than was good for them – or for me. My factor’s back now bears the scars to ensure it will not happen again. It was kind of you to come here to enquire after my health.’ The last sentence held the slightest hint of a question.
‘You have been very kind to me,’ Valerius said obliquely. ‘But that was not the only reason for my visit. I must leave for Londinium tomorrow and I have a favour to ask. Part of my supplies – engineering equipment – has failed to arrive. I could send a letter, but it would only give birth to an extended family of paperwork. Would it be possible to hire another of your wagons? I know it is short notice, but I would happily pay a premium.’
‘Pah! Do not talk to me of premiums,’ the little Trinovante blustered. ‘For my friend Valerius there are only discounts. I will give you it at half rate, although, of course, you must provide an acknowledgement for the full amount. Your Roman auditors …’ He shook his head solemnly as if a visit from the auditor was like the arrival of the first plague spot.
Valerius reluctantly agreed to what he knew was tax fraud and arranged for Lunaris to collect the wagon, before turning the conversation to the true subject of his visit. ‘You very generously invited me to hunt over your land. At the time I was busy, but I would be honoured to take up your offer whenever it is convenient.’
Lucullus’s smile visibly transformed itself from lie to truth and he came round the table and clapped Valerius on the back. ‘Wonderful! Send word when you have fetched your shovels. I promised you good sport and you shall have it. There is a boar in the far wood who has been digging up my fields. My factor says he is as big as a pony. If he’s that big he can feed fifty people. We will have him on a spit in time for Samhain and feast till the sun comes up. I remember …’
He was still boasting of the beasts he had taken when Valerius left ten minutes later, but the young Roman could only think of one thing. He would see Maeve again. As he made his way back to the camp he felt someone fall into step beside him and he turned to find Petronius at his side.
‘Falco tells me you are doing business with our tame Briton. I hope he isn’t cheating you?’ The words were accompanied by a smile that suggested they were said in jest, but Valerius felt like a plump trout being tempted by a dangling worm. Somewhere in the sentence was a barbed hook.
‘Surely the quaestor would not allow such a thing?’ he replied guardedly. ‘In any case Falco tells me that you also do business with Lucullus.’ Falco had done no more than offer a hint, but Petronius was not the only one who could dangle a bait.
‘We have an arrangement,’ the lawyer admitted airily. ‘The Celt has his uses and we must at least be seen to try to make common cause with the natives. And if I benefit, does Colonia not also benefit to an even greater degree?’ The boast puzzled Valerius and it showed on his face. Petronius laughed. ‘You have not heard? Poor Lucullus. He talks much more than is good for him. How else would I know what the Celts from here to the River Abus are thinking and planning, who is happy with his lot and who is not?’
Valerius increased his pace. Clearly Colonia formed part of the great military and civilian spy network that blanketed southern Britain. One of the reasons Paulinus felt secure enough to launch an attack on the druids on Mona was that his spymasters had assured him no danger existed to his rear. In any case, how would the Empire decide whom to tax and by how much if they did not know to the last egg and the smallest bushel of corn what the British chieftains were worth. He doubted very much that Petronius was the intelligence mastermind he appeared to want him to think, but the quaestor was a hard man to shake off.
‘You have met his daughter?’
Valerius almost stopped, but that would have betrayed his interest. Maeve was his business and no one else’s. ‘His daughter?’
Petronius was amused. ‘The skinny, dark-haired one. She was with her father outside the temple.’
Skinny? Valerius shrugged and tried to give the impression that, to a soldier, one woman was very much like another. From the corner of his eye he caught Petronius giving him a sly glance.
‘But you must remember her? I believe someone – perhaps it was old Numidius, the engineer? Yes, I’m sure it was him – mentioned that you dined with the Briton and his friends only two days ago. Surely she must have been on hand? I’m surprised he hasn’t already tried to marry her off to you.’
This time Valerius did stop. He gave the quaestor a look that would have silenced any of his centurions, but Petronius only laughed.
‘Do not look so shocked, young man. You are unmarried and of means, and therefore eligible. You are a Roman citizen, which makes you doubly so. If you were the Emperor himself you could hardly make a finer catch for a Briton with ambitions beyond his status. Far better certainly than many he has tried to tempt her with. It is little wonder she had no interest in the attentions of some toothless farmer who still has the manners of the marching camp. But a young man of your lineage …’
‘I am here to do a job, sir,’ Valerius said stiffly. ‘Not to find a wife.’
‘Of course not,’ Petronius said sympathetically. ‘I merely thought to warn you, tribune. Your Briton is a cunning fox, and Lucullus more cunning than most. Do not be misled by that inane grin he wears: there is a mind behind it that could almost be Roman were it not that slyness must never be mistaken for intelligence nor playing the fool for wit. Still, you know of the trap now, and I doubt you will fall into it. I bid you a good day.’ He bowed and walked off in the direction of the Temple of Claudius.
The road between Colonia and Londinium was the most important in the province and Valerius made good time, assisted by the dispatches he carried and the military warrant which allowed him to change horses three times at state-run way stations. When he arrived at the city’s east gate, the guards directed him to an officers’ mansio where he could rest and wash off the accumulated dust and sweat of the journey.
Londinium, even more than Colonia, was a place of bare wooden beams, wet plaster, half-tiled roofs and piles of bricks. Streets echoed to the rattle of hammers as carpenters swarmed over the skeletal beginnings of public buildings, houses and apartment blocks. One stood out among the rest, a massive squat structure with a pillar
ed entrance and two separate wings. It was still far from complete, but the guards surrounding the building indicated that the governor, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, had already taken up residence in his new palace. Like Colonia, the city had begun life as a fort protecting a river crossing; then, when the restrictions of Colonia’s river access became clear, protecting the port that was the driving force behind Londinium’s bustle of economic and commercial activity. The fort still remained, up by the wall on the high ground to the north-west, but the city’s heart was here in the ordered grid of streets by the river, and in particular on the main street between the Forum and the timber bridge linking the city to the communities which had already sprung up on the southern bank.
Valerius crossed the stream known as the Wall Brook and walked north towards the fort, where he knew the camp prefect had his headquarters. After presenting his orders at the gate, he expected a formal interview and was surprised to be ushered into a small room off the principia and offered wine. Two minutes later the prefect bustled in, throwing out a stream of orders over his shoulder. When the curtain closed behind him, he sat down with a sigh and poured himself a liberal cup and raised it in salute.
‘Health,’ he growled. ‘Though at your age you’ve still got it. After sixteen years in this swampland I have aches that will never leave me and I’m as stiff and creaky as a siege tower.’
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