Taking a deep breath she strode towards the entrance, only hesitating slightly as the sentries crossed their spears immediately behind her, denying entry to her followers.
The Emperor was seated on a throne upon a dais at the far end of an imposing if quickly erected barrack house. Flanked by men on both sides, he stood as she approached him.
‘Queen Cartimandua, sir, High Queen of the Brigantian peoples.’ A voice announced her from the shadows behind the Emperor’s shoulder.
She stopped several yards from the dais so that she would not have to look up at him, her nervousness counterbalanced by a growing determination not to bow the knee to the invader. Claudius might rule a large part of the known world, but to her at least, he was not a god; indeed, on close inspection he was to all intents and purposes just a middle-aged man, thin and grey-haired beneath his splendid purple toga.
Behind him Aulus Plautius was flanked in his turn by other men in togas and many wearing military uniform. Along the side walls, shoulder to shoulder, stood more armed men, all smartly to attention, all looking curiously at this strange phenomenon, a barbarian queen. As far as she could see, in the quick glance she threw in their direction, Gaius was not there.
Her head high, her shoulders back, she met Claudius’s gaze squarely. She was not a defeated supplicant here. She was queen in her own right of an independent unconquered and unconquerable people.
Unsure what to do or how to address him, she waited in silence and was pleased at last to see him look away. He glanced back at Plautius and reached up for the scroll that was passed to him.
‘The Emperor is pleased to greet the Queen of the Brigantes,’ he said slowly. There was a slight hesitation in his voice as he spoke, the final trace of a stammer that had plagued him as a boy. ‘It is our wish that an alliance be made between the Roman Province of Britannia and the lands of the Brigantes. Such an alliance would be an honour and a great benefit to your peoples and you would be richly rewarded.’ His words were instantaneously translated into her own tongue by a man at his elbow. He looked at her again and unexpectedly he smiled. The fearsome cold face was transformed into that of a rather ordinary but essentially friendly man.
Carta felt her own mouth soften in response, an almost unavoidable urge to smile back, but she managed to keep her face grave. ‘The Queen of the Brigantes thanks the Emperor for his gracious offer.’ Her Latin, thanks to Truthac of the Votadini, was fluent and she saw his eyebrow rise a fraction. ‘She will consider his offer with the aid of her tribal leaders and Druids.’
She saw his face harden for a second and she felt a flash of fear. She had been intended, she realised, to accept immediately with delighted relief and thus ensure the northern part of Britain was his ally and no danger to the new province.
‘The Queen of the Brigantes is no doubt aware that the penalty for opposing the wishes of Rome is death. For herself and for her people.’ His voice was cold now. He waved away the interpreter. ‘But I will be gracious. I understand that a queen without a husband must turn for advice to others.’ He gave her a grim smile. ‘My gifts will perhaps help you to make up your mind.’ He waved his arm and several slaves hurried forward carrying chests. These they laid before her and at a nod from the Emperor they flung back the lids. Carta bit back an exclamation of surprise and wonder at the glint of gold. Two were full of coins, two of jewellery.
As grave as he, schooling her face to absolute impassivity she bowed, not too low, but enough to acknowledge the richness of the gift. ‘The Emperor is too generous,’ she added.
‘The Emperor is always generous to his allies.’ Claudius narrowed his eyes. ‘And to seal what I hope will be a lasting alliance I invite you to a feast this evening, together with the other British kings and queens who have accepted our offer of friendship.’
They were all there, the kings and queens who had made peace with Rome and thereby, at least for now, kept their kingdoms: Prasutagus and Boudica of the Iceni, Cogidubnus of the Regni, the new king of the Votadini, Lugaid’s nephew, and the king of the Orcades amongst them, as well as Venutios and Brochan as two of the most senior tribal kings of the Brigantian peoples.
Lounging in the Roman fashion on couches before the laden boards, Cartimandua had been placed at the Emperor’s right hand, Venutios at her own. The latter glanced at her several times during the course of the evening and once or twice he caught her eye. His thoughts were easy to read. Do not be seduced by this demonstration; don’t be fooled. This man is dangerous.
He was, but he was also fascinating; the most powerful man in the world and charming now he put his mind to it, intent on winning her friendship and alliance. She enjoyed the evening, the more so because in the distance she had spotted the envoy, Gaius Flavius Cerialis, seated lower down the table, his eyes fixed on her face. She acknowledged his gaze with a raised eyebrow and was pleased to see him blush.
Later, in their own encampment, Venutios came to her fireside as she sat, sipping from a goblet of thin beer, trying to clear her head of the heavy wine from Appulio.
‘The sooner we’re away from here, the better I’ll be pleased.’ He sat down beside her, uninvited.
She did not reply. Thoughtfully she took another sip from the cup. ‘How many troops does he have?’
‘Five thousand men to a legion. I believe there are now four legions in Britannia.’ He emphasised the word sarcastically. ‘Plus auxiliaries, plus the traitors who gobbled like pigs at a trough at his table tonight. The Dobunni, the Dumnonii, the Catuvellauni.’
‘Still not enough to win the whole land.’ She was staring thoughtfully into the fire. ‘We are safe for the time being. These southern tribes lie open to attack. No one is fighting save my cousin, Caradoc, and he won’t last long by all accounts.’ A gust of wind blew through the camp, scattering sparks from the fires, blowing rags of smoke amongst their tents. She shivered, pulling her soft bearskin cloak more closely around her shoulders. ‘We have to accept that the Roman eagle casts a long shadow over this island. It has power and strength, and probably infinite resources. Our gods bid us be very wary.’
He frowned, making the sign against the evil eye. ‘Our gods are mighty. They will help sustain us if we are strong.’ He was studying her face in the light of the leaping flames. ‘They will not respect weakness.’ He glanced up beyond the smoke towards the sky where Mars, Roman god of war, shone red on the western horizon and he too gave an involuntary shiver.
The room had grown dark. The fireside and the companionship of the Brigantians had disappeared into the night and Viv was shivering uncontrollably now that the heat of the campfire had gone. She looked around for a notebook.
Eleven. There were eleven kings at Camulodunum on that occasion. She frowned, trying to recall the facts. It was recorded on the inscription on the triumphal arch in Rome, which was erected after Claudius’s return after his six-month absence. His state visit to Britannia had lasted sixteen days and during that time he had received the submission of eleven kings. Or ten kings and a queen, presumably. Slowly she began to scribble down what she remembered.
Through the open door of her bedroom Viv could hear the faint noises of the street from the open window. Otherwise the flat was silent. It was almost tomorrow, when Cartimandua, Queen of the North would be published and her new life as an author would begin.
22
I
‘I’ve rewritten your schedule, Viv.’ Sandy Collingham, the publicity manager in charge of Viv’s book launch, dropped her shoulderbag and laptop carrier on the floor and put a fat file down on the table. ‘You’re feeling strong, I hope?’ She grinned. ‘The book has gone straight into the bestseller list at number twenty! That’s fantastic! We’ve several new events scheduled,’ she went on. ‘Bookshops are queuing up for you, lady.’ She glanced up. ‘People want to meet you.’
‘Why?’ Viv was overwhelmed.
‘Because they are fascinated by the sound of the book. They saw you on the telly and that review has done you
nothing but good.’
Viv stared at her. ‘What review?’
Sandy paused. ‘Oh shit. You haven’t seen it? The one by Professor Graham?’
‘We were driving back from Yorkshire. We didn’t see any papers. And I didn’t go out yesterday.’ Viv clenched her fists. Why had no one told her? ‘Have you got a copy?’
Sandy nodded. ‘Hold on to your hat, Viv. Don’t let it upset you.’
The review was crucifying. Viv put down the paper with tears in her eyes. Her face was white.
‘Why?’
‘It’s a bit unkind, that’s for sure.’ Sandy shrugged. ‘Ride it. Take no notice. In fact it’s so over the top it will be counter-productive from his point of view. And good from yours. People will read the book to see why he’s so vitriolic. It’ll helpsell copies and that’s what matters. Now,’ she dismissed the topic briskly, ‘to the schedule. We’re starting this morning with a radio interview. Then the launch party tonight. Tomorrow afternoon we take a train to York. And then as you know it’s all points south, coming back up the west coast route.’ Viv barely heard. She was thinking, numbly, about Hugh’s review. Why? Why was he still doing this to her?
The interviewer, Mike Malone, stood up, shook hands, waved Viv towards the microphone and returned to his bank of controls. ‘This is going out tonight, OK? Part of the Books about Britain fortnight.’ He glanced at her quizzically. ‘Nervous?’
She nodded.
‘You’ll be fine. Just be natural.’
As always she enjoyed it once she had started talking. He was friendly, well informed. He appeared to have read the book. He didn’t mention the review. They stopped after ten minutes or so and he grinned at her. ‘We’ll be pausing here for some music. Then for the second half I’ll be a bit more aggressive.’
‘Aggressive?’ Viv frowned apprehensively.
‘You’ll be fine.’ It was obviously his stock phrase.
He waited for a fraction of a second, watching the clock, then he clicked a switch. ‘Listen to this and then we’ll talk afterwards, OK?’
Viv reached for the earphones.
The voice in her ear was Mike’s. ‘Now, Professor Graham. You have read Dr Lloyd Rees’s book. What did you think of it?’
‘There’s a base of good stuff.’ Hugh’s voice was warm. ‘Not bad at all. But there are too many inaccuracies to make this a book I could recommend. Viv is a talented writer but she’s allowed her imagination to run away with her here.’ It went on and on. Or that’s what it felt like. In reality it was probably no more than a couple of minutes. It stopped and Mike turned back to her.
‘So, Viv. How would you reply to your professor’s criticisms?’ Mike glanced at her, his face impersonal.
Viv could feel herself sweating. The red light was on. Her reply was being recorded. ‘Unfair. Small-minded. Mean.’ She forced herself to laugh. ‘We have to have progress, Mike. Without leaps of deduction made through the latest research into archaeology, philology, forensic techniques, we would stay with the Victorian take on history. Or in this case the Roman. We have to learn to expand our views.’
‘You have anticipated Professor Graham’s own book on the subject. Do you expect to be asked to review it in your turn when it comes out?’
Viv stared across the table. Mike raised his eyebrows gesturing at her to speak.
‘I did know he was writing a book, of course,’ she said at last. ‘And perhaps that explains his angst. And if and when he completes it, oh yes, I would be delighted to review it and I hope in my case I can give a fair and considered opinion.’
Mike grinned. He raised finger and thumb circled in triumph. Seconds later he had rounded off the interview and switched off.
‘That was a rotten trick!’ She glared at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you had spoken to him?’
His shrug was mischievous.’ Your reaction was perfect. Natural. If I’d told you, you would have been nervous and angry.’
‘And you think I’m not angry now?’
‘Oh yes. You are. Great radio!’
‘Where is he?’ Viv had rung the DPCHC at once.
‘At home. He didn’t come in today.’ Heather didn’t have to ask who she meant.
Viv was on his doorstep in under an hour.
‘Why? Why are you doing this to me?’
Hugh was standing in the doorway, in an old cotton sweatshirt, sleeves rolled above the elbows and threadbare jeans, a pair of spectacles swinging from his left hand. As he stared at her she found herself incongruously noticing how the tight jeans suited him, but this was a different Hugh to the Hugh she had visited in the night the week before. He stared at her for several seconds, almost as if he didn’t recognise her. ‘Come in, Viv.’ When he spoke at last he sounded bored; even patronising. ‘Don’t make a scene on the doorstep.’ He turned into the hall.
‘Why not? It’s not as though anyone can see.’ She didn’t move.
He swung round to face her. ‘Did you bring the brooch?’
‘Ah. At last you’ve remembered I’ve got it; and have you remembered you were so frightened you begged me to take it away again?’
‘A stupid thing to do. I’m sorry.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘A very stupid thing to do. I need it back.’
She frowned. ‘Are you all right, Hugh?’ Her voice softened.
He laughed. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘You sound odd.’
‘Odd?’
‘Different.’ She eyed him suspiciously.
‘Perhaps because I dared to criticise your book.’
‘You call that criticism? It was vicious and hurtful!’
‘OK.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s nothing more to say. I’m sorry you can’t take criticism. With study and discipline I’m sure one of these days you could find your way back into the academic world, but if you persist with this rubbish -’
‘Rubbish?’ To her embarrassment she found she was near tears. ‘You are trying to destroy me!’
‘No, no.’ He leaned against the doorpost. ‘You’re destroying yourself. This book is a disaster and it needs to be pointed out to people who might otherwise read it as serious history.’
‘It is serious history.’ She was beside herself with anger. ‘If you read it dispassionately, Hugh, you’d see that.’
He folded his arms. ‘Come on, Viv. You’ve entered novelistic territory. You are making stuff up.’
‘I see. OK.’ She laughed dryly. ‘Now we have it. You are terrified I have sources you don’t know about. I have done original research which you have not seen and you are afraid. Suddenly you are no longer the authority. I am. Poor Hugh.’ She began to move away from him. ‘Poor Professor Graham, fighting for mastery.’
‘The brooch, Viv,’ he called after her.
She paused and glanced at him with a frown. ‘It’s somewhere safe.’
‘I want it back. For the museum.’
‘For the museum, or for Venutios?’
For a while he didn’t reply. ‘Venutios was a dream. A hallucination,’ he said at last. ‘I was not myself when that happened.’
‘No, Hugh. You were almost a human being.’ Turning, she walked back to her car and climbed in. ‘Don’t worry about the brooch. It’s safe.’ As she reversed and turned the car towards the gate, to her amazement she was smiling.
Behind her he stood watching as the car disappeared between the banks of rhododendrons. Without realising it he was listening for the sound of the carnyx. All he heard was the crunch of her car tyres on the gravel.
II
Steve caught the train to Edinburgh. It was a fantastic idea, holding the party in the Museum of Scotland. Brilliant. Upmarket, a visible sign of faith from Viv’s publishers, and it was in full swing when he arrived. For a few minutes he could not see Viv at all, but he recognised Pat almost at once. Threading his way through the crowd he tapped her lightly on the shoulder and she turned.
‘Steve!’
‘Hi! Small world!’ he smiled. ‘How
are you?’
‘I’m fine.’ Pat frowned. She looked pale and ill at ease; anything but fine.
He scanned her face ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shivered. A little champagne slopped from her glass over her hand. ‘A draught. It’s cold in here suddenly.’
They both looked round the huge room. Whatever else it was, it was not cold. She took a deep gulp from her glass. Someone pushed between them and for a moment he lost sight of her. He didn’t notice the slight frisson in the air around him. Plunging after her, he saw her talking to a group of media people. She raised a hand, he waved and moved on.
Someone tapped him on the shoulder and he spun round. ‘Hello, Steve.’ It was Viv. She was dressed in black trousers and a vivid scarlet top. Off the shoulder. Sexy.
‘Congratulations, Viv.’ He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek.
‘I’m so pleased you came, Steve.’ She reached up and touched his face.
‘Of course I came. You knew I would.’ Steve reached for her hand, but Viv had gone, swept away by someone from her publishers to confront a man with a camera. With a grimace he held his glass out for a refill.
Hugh stood in the doorway, staring around him. It was a good turn-out. A media-fest. Why, for an unknown? He grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and stepped into the room. Alison would have loved this. She would have been proud of Viv. Supportive. She would have told him to stop being such a horrible selfish grouch. She would have called him a dog-in-the-manger. She would have said - what she had said only a week before she had died: ‘You must marry again, Hugh. Don’t mope about, thinking of me. Marry someone like Viv. I’ve always suspected you fancied her a little bit. You do, don’t you!’ And she had lifted her poor thin arm and attempted to punch him and she had laughed.
As though Viv could replace her. As though anyone could.
‘Hello, Hugh.’ Steve Steadman was standing in front of him. He gave a puzzled smile, a bit wary, as though unsure what to say next. ‘Were you looking for Viv? She’s over there.’
Daughters of Fire Page 38
