Get Out or Die

by Jane Finnis

  Quintus drew his sword, but Segovax called, “Drop that, or I’ll shoot your girl-friend.”

  “He’s bluffing,” I muttered, but for answer Segovax shot his arrow, and I felt it glance off the top of my shoulder, ripping my cloak. “Next time I won’t miss,” he snarled. “Drop the sword!”

  Quintus dropped the sword, and Segovax gave a shrill whistle, which caused two other warriors to appear almost at once; the woods must be teeming with them.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” Segovax said, “ever since we heard two people had escaped from the Oak Tree. It had to be you two. That fool Mallius wants his head cut off. Probably that’s what he’ll get, when the Chief sees him.”

  “Good riddance,” I said. “I’ll vote for cutting the head off every native who’s playing at soldiers.”

  “We’re not playing,” Segovax snapped. “Haven’t you got that into your stupid head yet? This isn’t a game, it’s war. And the Shadow of Death has won. He wants to see you.” He turned to his two men. “Has someone gone after the tracker?”

  “Yes, Segovax.”

  I sent a silent prayer to Diana, begging her to help Hawk escape, and then I remembered he usually prayed to Epona, so I asked her to help too.

  “Tie them up,” Segovax told his men, “and make a decent job of it. These two have slipped through our fingers before.”

  They made a very decent job of it; our wrists and ankles were bound with strong ropes, and we were gagged and blindfolded. More men came, it sounded like four or five, and we were half-carried and half-dragged through the woods for what felt like miles. I lost all sense of time and direction, and began to shiver with pain and fear. I prayed to Diana again, and to Jupiter too, the ruler of all the gods. I tried to console myself with an image of Hawk and Bran flitting through the trees, going to fetch help for us. But into my mind’s eye another picture kept intruding, of a headless man and a dead dog, lying in a sodden thicket.

  Our captors didn’t utter a word, though there were occasional curses and grunts of extra effort as they hauled us none too gently over fallen branches, hidden logs, and at one place over some boggy ground where the slime sucked at our boots. I felt I was in a void, except for the sounds of our progress—the natives’ footsteps squelching through the mud, the chink of their weapons, the dragging noise of our two bodies, the rain on the dripping leaves.

  I knew we were getting near when we started to go steeply downwards; this must be the side of the valley where their hideout was. For me, it was the worst part of the journey. If you’ve never been dragged down a steep brambly hill with your ankle hurting so much you want to scream, don’t try it.

  Suddenly there was a shout quite close by, ordering us to halt. Segovax called back, “We’ve got the spy and the girl. Tell the Shadow of Death, will you?”

  “I will.” There was a short pause, and the other voice came again. “Bring them in. Then get back out and help find the tracker.”

  They dragged us the last few paces, through a narrow opening only just wide enough for two people. I could tell by the hard-packed earth under our feet and the echoes all around that we’d entered a building. It sounded big and the air smelled of smoke, and there were people inside it; I heard feet shuffling and quiet voices.

  They carried us to the left, and dumped us against the wall. Our bodies weren’t touching, but we were so close together, I could hear Quintus’ breathing. We were tied up too tightly to move, and our gags prevented us from making more than inarticulate grunts. We exchanged grunts for a while though, until one of our captors came to stand over us and administered a kick every time one of us made a noise—a definite conversation stopper.

  We must have lain like that for a couple of hours. I suppose it was a deliberate attempt to make us afraid, and it certainly was horribly frightening. But it was clear they wouldn’t kill us before we’d seen Vitalis. So I lay there, cold and sore and scared; but I was also dead tired, and though it seems unbelievable, I dozed off for a while into an uneasy sleep, waking up occasionally to find I was colder and more sore and scared than before.

  Once when I woke I heard voices, urgent but hushed, as if several men were discussing something they didn’t want us to hear. I strained my ears and caught a few words. “The tracker….no sign…all the men out searching….no luck….best not report.” My heart gave a leap. They hadn’t found Hawk, and what’s more it wasn’t our ears they were afraid would pick up the news, but their Chief’s. They knew how serious Hawk’s escape could be.

  I drifted back to sleep, and woke when a shout rang out, raising echoes all around. “Get them up! The Shadow of Death wants them now.”

  Several warriors came over and untied us, and removed the gags and blindfolds. Then they stood us upright, but I couldn’t stand properly because my ankle hurt so much and was very swollen now. When I collapsed to the floor two of the men picked me up, cursing me roundly, and held me steady while I tried to stay upright with all my weight on my left foot. They saw that I couldn’t walk, and one of them laughed as he gave my swollen right ankle a spiteful kick; then they supported me as they marched us towards the back of the building.

  Quintus and I exchanged glances, each relieved and reassured to see the other. Then as our captors pushed us forward I started to look round. We were being taken to the rear of quite a large stone house, lit by a smoky log fire in one corner and torches in brackets on two walls. The entrance was so narrow there was little natural light; the roof was high and the torchlight didn’t reach it. I could see dim shapes of rough furniture: a big, square plank table, benches, and in a far corner a pile of blankets.

  They urged us on towards a kind of passageway or tunnel. This must be the beginning of the caves; we were going under the mass of the hill. The walls were of rough light-coloured rock, closing in as the passage grew narrower, and at the far end shone a brighter light, as if there was a lamplit room there.

  I suddenly felt a return of the excitement that had buoyed me up earlier. I suppose it sounds mad. We were in the hands of our enemies, probably about to be killed, yet my blood raced and my brain sang. In that brightly lit cave we would come face to face with the man behind the Campaign of Terror—the Shadow of Death.

  But when we reached the lighted cave, it was empty. I felt a sting of disappointment; but the place itself was impressive enough. It wasn’t large, only perhaps fifteen feet square, but richly decked out, more like a room in a villa than a hole in a hillside. Suspended by a metal ring in the roof was a huge bronze light fitting with three lamps hanging from it, making the centre of the room into an almost dazzling pool of radiance. The walls were in shadow, but I could see they were hung with rugs, woven in bright reds and purples. In the very middle stood a huge, ornate throne-like chair, with gilded arms and purple cushions, and a small citrus-wood table beside it.

  He came slowly forward from the back of the cave, out of the shadows into the bright light, and sat down on the purple chair. His fair hair shone, and his handsome face wore a smile of triumph.

  “Welcome, my dears,” Felix said.

  Chapter XXX

  I stared in disbelief. The fair ringlets, the high forehead, the greenish-yellow eyes—they were all familiar, and yet I felt as if I’d never seen them before. And as for the purple cloak, the large gold torc and arm-bracelets, the golden head-dress….This couldn’t be Felix, the clown, the dilettante, the cultivated Roman aristocrat! Felix couldn’t be the arch-murderer, the Shadow of Death? Could he?

  “Well say something, Aurelia dear,” he said in his usual bantering way, “even if it’s only that you’re pleased to see me.”

  “I’m surprised, certainly,” I admitted, trying to keep the tone light. “Actually I’m gobsmacked, if you’ll pardon a vulgar expression. We were expecting someone else entirely.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” he smirked.

  “Who says I’m disappointed?”

  This was ridiculous, and certainly not the way
I’d imagined my first conversation with the Shadow of Death. But then I’d been so sure it was Vitalis. And yet when I started to think about it, it fitted. It all fitted.

  My mind began to race. Felix, the highly placed Roman, trusted intimate of a chief councillor, who knew every detail of our defence plans. Felix, with his network of contacts, his love of gossip, his regular visits to Eburacum. While he was in town, did he make contact with dissident soldiers? Did he borrow military disguises from them, and did they pass on military secrets?

  And then Felix incriminating Balbus with the pale green paint, and the stories about his Brigantian friends; Felix coming to visit me each time I was attacked—to commiserate, or to gloat? Even Felix the flamboyant dresser, who liked to decorate his brightly coloured boots with gilded studs. And most telling of all, Felix with his grudge against Rome. “When love feels itself betrayed….”

  I wasn’t given long to ponder. “You didn’t suspect then?” he asked gleefully, like a child who’s performed a very good sleight-of-hand and wants the grown-ups to applaud. “You didn’t have an inkling? Neither you nor your friend the all-knowing government investigator?” He shot a contemptuous glance at Quintus, then I got his full gloating smile again.

  Quintus shook his head, and I said, “Not a clue. I’m still finding it hard to believe.”

  “I must see what I can do to convince you,” he beamed. “Now, my dears, sit down, and let’s be cosy for a while. Would you care for some refreshment?” It was like a mad dream. He was behaving as if we’d just called in at his villa for a drink and a gossip. He even helped me hobble to a stool, and Quintus sat down next to me.

  “In due course,” he went on, “I’ll have to have you both killed, and probably rather publicly, to satisfy my native friends at the next Druid ceremony. You’ve learned too much, and I’m afraid they’ll expect it. But meantime, we can enjoy a civilised hour and some decent wine.”

  He rang a tiny gold hand-bell, and his huge native servant came in, no longer in a Roman slave’s tunic, but in full war gear. He brought a silver tray with a jug of white wine and three glasses. Glasses! It was the final bizarre touch. We were in a cave under a hill, being entertained by a murderer, and drinking wine from wonderful glasses, each one worth a consul’s ransom! I’d drunk out of glasses a handful of times in my life, and if anyone had told me I’d encounter them in the Shadow of Death’s lair, I’d simply have laughed. I wasn’t laughing now.

  Felix said to his servant, “Tell the musicians to play, will you. And pull the curtain as you go.” The big man left, drawing a heavy red curtain across the entrance to the room.

  “I find music very soothing,” Felix remarked conversationally. “And a pleasant noise of drums and pipes stops anyone overhearing us. Caves are all very fine, but they do lack privacy, I find. Still—” he began to pour the wine— “I’ve done my best to make it comfortable here. Not bad, is it?”

  “Very nice,” I said inadequately. “Pretty weird,” would have been a more honest comment, but that hardly seemed tactful.

  He handed us each a wine-glass, as the sound of a drum and a couple of double-flutes floated in from the large outer building. He chuckled, and raised his glass. “A toast,” he announced. “To your first meeting with the Shadow of Death.”

  He drank his wine in one long swallow and refilled the glass. After a small hesitation, Quintus and I drank too. Well, why not? We’d just been told, oh so politely, that we would soon be dead. We might as well enjoy the hospitality of the house till then. The wine was first class, and I was glad of its comforting warmth.

  “I feel as if I’m dreaming,” I said. “I’ll wake up soon, and all this will never have happened.”

  “Oh, it’s happened, never fear.”

  “You truly are the Chief? The Shadow of Death?”

  “Ah, no, my dear.”

  “No? Then…then I’m confused.”

  “I am the Shadow of Death,” he answered, “but I’m not the Chief. That, as you so rightly suspected, is someone else entirely. I’m sure even you can guess who.” He laughed. “Good, isn’t it?”

  It was like emerging from a dark tunnel into brilliant sunlight. For a heartbeat the light dazzles you, and then it makes everything clear. “Vitalis is the Chief?” I exclaimed. “And you’re the Shadow of Death? And we thought they were one and the same.”

  “Of course you did.” Felix was enjoying himself. “You fell into the trap, just like everyone else. That’s what makes the Shadow-men so outstanding, don’t you see? Most war-bands have one leader; we have two.”

  “But why?”

  “Why do you think? Because a rebel leader has to play two quite different roles, if you’ll pardon the theatrical analogy. First he has to be a warrior chief. Well that’s hardly my sort of thing, is it? Prancing about in armour, killing people and getting blood all over my clothes? No, I leave that to Vitalis. He’s ideal for leading the young warriors, because he’s one of them. Brave as lions, they are, and about as intelligent, on a good day. My part is to plan, to organise and direct them, get them information, and get them gold—so that their bravery is put to good use.”

  “The pay convoys,” Quintus murmured.

  “You heard about them, did you? I’m glad. It’s such a pity when one’s triumphs have to remain secret. I’m gratified to know that the news reached the famous Quintus Antonius Delfinus.”

  That was yet another shock. After all the trouble we’d gone to, the Shadow of Death knew Quintus’ true identity. I glanced at Quintus; he was tense, but then made an effort to relax and smile.

  “Ah,” he said levelly. “So you know who I am.”

  “Of course, dear fellow. I’ve known for some time.”

  “You have?” Quintus sounded sceptical. “How?”

  “Vitalis suspected something when he saw how efficiently you dealt with a couple of his drunken boys at the Oak Tree the other day. Actually he was quite impressed by the way you handled things, and he was sure you were a soldier. You said something about ‘a couple of hours with a Roman drill instructor’…not the sort of language bridge surveyors usually go in for. And why would a soldier go around pretending to be a bridge surveyor? Because he’s neither of those things, he’s a spy. So I asked my friends at the Eburacum garrison to check, and back came the answer: yes, there’s an investigator in the area calling himself Quintus Valerius Longinus, who is in reality a certain Quintus Antonius Delfinus, the scourge of all traitors. They said you have a formidable reputation. I can’t think why.”

  Quintus merely shrugged. “It seems I’ve met my match,” he answered.

  Felix’s cat-eyes glittered as he smiled his most mischievous smile. “Well, I’m glad you have the grace to admit it. And you didn’t have even a tiny suspicion about what I was up to?”

  I was beginning to get tired of this, but it was obviously giving him great pleasure, and when threatened by a murderer, it’s only common sense to try to keep him sweet. I shook my head emphatically. “You’ve fooled us all, Felix, utterly and completely. That is, if this is real life, and not one of your silly jokes.”

  “A joke? Oh no, certainly not a joke!” Suddenly his smile was gone, and his face was angry. “That’s where you’ve all been wrong, isn’t it, Aurelia? You’ve always thought I was a joke. Good old Felix, forever clowning about, making everyone laugh. Well nobody will be laughing now. Will they?”

  We said nothing.

  “Will they?” he barked.

  “No, they won’t,” Quintus answered. “They won’t be laughing. They’ll be sad, just as I’m sad, when I think of the way a Roman nobleman from an ancient family has turned into a traitor.”

  Felix leaned forward on his large throne. “Traitor,” he repeated slowly, almost musingly. “Yes, I know that’s how you think of it. A traitor to my ancestors. A traitor to the Empire. A traitor to the glorious future of Rome. Gods, I’ve had to listen to Silvanius banging on, day in and day out. ‘We Romans
must stand together’! Who stood by my family when we needed help, tell me that? When Rome was torn by civil war after Nero died, Romans lost the habit of standing together, didn’t they? It was every man for himself, every clan for itself. Four different men grabbing at imperial power in the space of a year, like greedy babies reaching out for a bright toy! My family lost everything, and they didn’t deserve to. Now I’m going to put matters right.”

  “But that’s all history, Felix,” I pointed out. “It’s twenty-odd years since Nero died. You were treated badly, but what’s done is done. How can you re-write twenty years of history?”

  “I’m not re-writing history. I’m starting a fresh chapter, and I’m starting it here. Once we’ve driven out the Romans from Britannia, and we will, then this island will revert to its old freedom, ruled by tribal kings, but with one High King over them all, to hold them together and make sure they stay free.” He sat up straight in his purple robe. “Vitalis will make a perfect High King. The tribes love him, and they’ll follow him to battle and to death if he asks them to. He’ll play the part of High King to perfection. But I shall be writing his lines for him.”

  “The High King on the throne,” Quintus said, “and behind the throne, in the shadows, his trusted adviser, the Shadow of Death.”

  “Exactly so!” Felix crowed.

  I had a clear image in my head of a native High King, dressed in ornate leather clothes and laden with gold jewellery, feasting in a timbered hall on joints of wild boar so massive he had to use two hands to lift them, throwing the bones on the earthen floor, and then swilling mead from a pewter mug. Night after smoky, noisy night, he’d be surrounded by boasting warriors and scheming Druids, while the bards sang stories of his greatness. I could picture Vitalis in that role, he was made for it.

  But next to the High King, a shadow among the shadows, there was Felix, in his gaudy Roman tunic, reclining on a carved couch and eating dainty Roman dishes served on gold plates….