Get Out or Die (17 page)

“It boils down to three things,” Quintus said eventually. “Number one, nobody goes out after dark unarmed, and the women should have an armed escort. Have you got weapons for your people, Aurelia?”

I roused myself to pay attention. “Enough, I think. But most of them are farm boys, they’ve no military training.”

“We’ll help there,” Junius offered. “Marius and I and our men can give them some basic weapons drill.”

“Number two, you’ll have to bring all the horses and mules into the stables, or the stable yard, at night. We can’t protect the paddocks properly, and they’re too much at risk out there.”

“I agree.” Some of the horses were valuable in themselves, and even the scrawniest old mules represented our living, not to mention our lines of communication.

“The third thing, and the most important, will be to build a stockade and ditch to surround the main house, the slaves’ quarters, and the stables. You’ve got plenty of timber hereabouts, haven’t you?”

“Oh yes. Oak, beech, ash, alder, and hazel. The woods between the little river and the road are ours for quite some distance.”

“Excellent. It needn’t be a particularly elegant fence, as long as it’s strong and tall enough to make intruders think twice.”

“A proper fence? Like in a marching camp?” Albia asked. “Do we have enough men for that?”

Junius nodded. “Given a dozen of your field-slaves, we could have the job done in two days.”

“More like three,” Quintus amended. “There’s the timber to cut and carry here.”

“We can hire in some woodcutters,” I suggested. “There are plenty of lads on the native farms who can handle an axe.”

“Fine,” Quintus agreed, “as long as they’re properly supervised. But the fence-building must be done by our own people. Men we trust absolutely.”

We left the two of them tossing dice to see who should be Prefect of Loggers and who should be Prefect of Builders. They were friends now, I could tell, and enjoying themselves like boys building their first den. “Men,” I muttered to Albia. She just giggled, and headed for the kitchen.

I made for the bar-room, which was empty, and I sat quiet for a little while, giving some thought to Bessus’ funeral. He was part of our household, though only a slave, and he’d died a brave death. He deserved a dignified ceremony, and we’d need a pyre. I must set Taurus and a couple of men on to carry wood to the far field, where the other slaves’ ashes were buried.

I heard the main door open, and looked up, expecting to welcome a customer. And there, large as life, was a Druid.

Chapter XVI

Yes, a Druid! I couldn’t have been more astonished if it had been Caesar and his whole court, dropping in for a quick drink on their way to an orgy, or whatever it is they do all day. (Better erase that bit before you show this to the Governor.)

Though I’d never seen a Druid in person, there was no doubting what he was. He wasn’t wearing a ceremonial embroidered vestment, but his white hooded robe was adorned with a sprig of oak leaves, and he carried himself with the unfaltering air of authority that you see in senior priests of all gods, who are used to being listened to by deities, and obeyed by men. That, and the way his grey hair and beard were cut—it all said “Druid” as loudly as if a herald had blown a trumpet and announced it. His face was old and lined, with a high forehead and very dark eyes. I was so consumed with curiosity I had a job not to stare outright. But I couldn’t talk to him in full view in the bar.

“Welcome to the Oak Tree,” I said. “I’m Aurelia Marcella, the innkeeper. Will you come through and take some wine in my study? We won’t be disturbed there.”

Which in plain Latin meant, “For the gods’ sake let’s get you out of sight of the public.” Everybody knows that Druids are outlaws, put to death if they’re caught. Whether merely having a Druid under my roof could earn me the same fate I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to find out the hard way.

He smiled, and without a word followed me out of the bar.

He was unsteady on his legs, limping slightly, and as he walked the few paces to my study, he leaned on a stick to support himself. He sank down into a chair and smiled again.

“You are most kind.” His voice was beautiful, strong yet controlled, and his Latin was pure, without the usual guttural British accent. “You don’t mind my being here? I’m afraid my calling isn’t highly regarded in Roman circles.”

No, really? But I said, “We keep open house for any traveller, as long as there’s no trouble.”

“There will be no trouble, I promise you. One of our ponies has gone lame, and we needed to stop and rest him for a bit. Your new stable-boy is taking a look at him for us.”

I glanced out of the open window and recognised on the forecourt a familiar group of young men in warrior gear, but only four of them. They were lounging at ease on a wall, chatting together, and looking about curiously.

“Ah, you’ve noticed my escort. Just a few lads keeping an old man company on the road. These are dangerous times, I fear.”

And whose fault’s that? But I merely asked whether the escort would like a drink.

“Thank you, I’m sure they would.”

I rang for one of the maids, and told her to ask Albia to take some mead out to them. She catches on quickly, my chief of staff, and she’d know I was signalling her to keep an eye on them. I didn’t fancy the idea of those young warriors snooping around unsupervised.

“May I know your name?” I asked the old man.

“Caradoc,” he answered.

“Then welcome, Caradoc. Let me pour you some wine.” I poured some for both of us, and saw that he was looking amused.

“You’re suspicious of my lads?” he asked.

“Not at all. I know them. But usually when they come here, they are five. I was just wondering what had happened to Vitalis.”

“Vitalis? He couldn’t join us today. He has family business, I understand.”

I watched the old priest as we sipped our drinks. His expression was calm and kindly, not at all the tense fanatical look of a rebel. And yet, from what I knew of their beliefs, there must be an iron heart under that gentle exterior. Maybe if I could get him talking, I’d learn something useful about the way their minds worked.

So I asked him the standard question. “Are you travelling far today?”

“Not far. Down the road a short distance, and then into the woods.”

“Better down the road than up the Long Hill. It’s a steep climb.” Yes, all right, very banal, but I couldn’t think how to get onto anything more interesting. You can’t just toss out a conversational opening like “I believe you people carry out human sacrifices. When’s the next one due?”

Caradoc smiled his sweet smile. “To be honest, I’m glad of an excuse to stop here for a little while. It’s many years since I’ve been to this spot.”

“You’ve visited us before?”

“Yes, long before your mansio was built. Before the road even. In my father’s time, when there were just oak woods here. I expect you know what the original name for this place is? In the ancient language of our people?”

“I didn’t know it had a name before Father came.”

“It is called Dru Nemeton. The place of the holy oaks.”

“You mean this was one of your holy groves? Here, where the mansio is now?”

He nodded, and then looked me squarely in the face. “Aurelia Marcella, I know you have had trouble here. I don’t want to see it becoming worse for you. You and your family have always lived in peace with our people. You’ve treated us well, and kept open house for all comers. As with me, now. Most Romans would have thrown me out, and sent for the town watch to arrest me.”

“You’ve seen our town watch, I take it?”

He laughed briefly, but then became grave again. “I’m old now, and close to death. We don’t fear death, because we know that our souls will move on to another life after this one, and so we will live forever.”

It sounded weird. Everyone knows that death means descending into the underworld, except for a few poor lemures. But I was much too interested to interrupt.

“Old age has its advantages,” he went on, “and one of them is coming to realise that not everything can or should be resolved by violence. Oh, I know what you Romans think of our religion. You think our gods are savage, primitive beings, and you believe we native Britons are the same.”

“We’ve fought some bloody wars against your people,” I pointed out. “We’ve mostly seen you and your gods in anger. Now there are rumours of more trouble coming. It makes me sad. I don’t want war, I want peace. I want to make my life here, and die here in my own bed. Live and let live, that’s my motto. But if anyone attacks us, we’ll defend ourselves. This is our home.”

I hadn’t meant to speak so bluntly, but it didn’t seem to disconcert him. “I know. I even understand. Your father brought you here when you were young; he took this land—”

“He was
given
a land-grant by the Governor! He didn’t just steal it.”

“Yet the land was stolen, before your time, perhaps before your father’s time. Stolen from our gods, and our tribesmen who used to worship them here. Do you see what that means?”

“You’re saying you want the land back, and I should just walk away and let you take it? Never!”

“I’m not presuming to advise you. I am simply telling you that others are saying it. Younger men, with hotter heads, who long for the old days. They will bring those old days back at the sword’s point, if they can.”

“And kill us all in the process?”

“Not if you go peacefully.” He shifted in his chair, and leaned forward to look at me intently. His black eyes were very piercing, reminding me of Hawk’s. “If you were to agree to leave now, I could guarantee you’d have no more trouble here.”

“Guarantee? So you can control these young warriors?”

“Up to a point.”

“Then can’t you stop them attacking us? Everybody knows that all I want to do is live here peaceably. I’ve no quarrel with the natives, if they’ll leave us alone. Can’t you make them see that?”

“When a tribe decides to go to war,” he answered, “it’s like a river flooding. It carries everything away, with a tremendous force, and nobody can stop it. I can redirect its course a little, that’s all.”

“And if I refuse to leave?”

“Don’t refuse. Try to understand what is at issue here. The river of war among my people is approaching its full spate now, and it will fling you aside if you try to block its course. They will sweep all Romans out of Brigantia, perhaps even out of Britannia altogether.”

“Get out or die….Yes, we’ve received their message. But we’re not leaving. We’ve sworn an oath before our gods. We’re staying.”

He sighed. “I feared you’d say that. I wish I could persuade you otherwise. Because our young men will soon take an oath too, to return this place of the sacred oaks to the old gods. A formal oath, sworn before the whole people. There will be no going back from it, once they have sworn. Which means….”

“Destroying us and everything we’ve built. Well, let them try. Just let them try, that’s all!”

“They will try, and they will succeed. Aurelia Marcella, I sense that you don’t take these young warriors seriously. You dismiss them as a band of hotheads, energetic and brave, but no match for your legions. Am I right?”

“That about sums it up, yes.”

“But you miss a much more important point. The young fighting men are the most obvious sign of Brigantia’s opposition to Rome, but they are not alone. All Brigantia is behind them, supporting and encouraging. And, as perhaps you know, some of your own people, too.”

I looked at him intently. “Vitalis, you mean? He’s hardly more than a boy.”

“A young man of courage and talent,” he smiled. “And also a young man who’s had a Roman education. So when it comes to serious matters, Vitalis will always do what his father tells him.”

“I hope you’re right, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“You safely could, I believe. But there are more Romans than young Vitalis who sympathise with our people’s ambitions.”

“Oh? Who?” Well, it was worth a try.

He shook his head. “That I can’t tell you. But I’ll say this much. When love feels itself betrayed, it turns to hate, and it is the bitterest hatred of all.”

He got carefully to his feet, and began to walk slowly across the room.

I’d have liked to pursue that; but there was something more urgent I needed to ask.

“You said the young warriors will take an oath. When?”

“Soon. This is the time of year when the youths dedicate themselves and are accepted by the tribe as full warriors.”

“But when exactly?”

He began to walk along the passage back into the bar-room. “Our ceremonies are not for the eyes of strangers. But it will not be long.”

At the outer door, he turned to me. “I thank you for your hospitality, Aurelia Marcella. And I bid you a last farewell.”

After he’d gone, I just stood rooted to the spot. His last farewell sounded a good deal too final for my liking. I don’t know how long I stayed there, seeing and hearing nothing, trying to digest what the old man had told me. Eventually a hand touched my shoulder, and I jumped. Albia was there, looking worried.

“Relia, are you all right? I shouldn’t have left you alone with that old Druid. Has he put a curse on you?”

“No, nothing like that.” I told her the gist of it.

“When love feels itself betrayed,” she pondered. “Did he mean love of a person? Has the Shadow of Death been betrayed by his sweetheart, and taken to a life of killing?”

“Gods, yes!” I repeated the story about Vedius murdering the tribune after his woman had betrayed him. But even as I recounted it, I felt doubtful. I didn’t think Vedius’ experience, however sad, would turn him into a rebel leader. And the Druid’s words had been ambiguous.

“He didn’t say love of a person. He could have meant love of a country—of Rome.” That would fit in with Felix’s earlier revelations. Felix and Vedius…both bitter from betrayal. Both equally unlikely, in my view, to be the Shadow of Death. Which meant, as Quintus would say, they were both equally
likely
….

“What was the Druid like?” Albia asked. “Friendly? Angry?”

“Neither, really. A bit scary, perhaps. So calm and courteous….Now tell me about those young warrior boys out there. Did they behave themselves?”

“Yes. They stayed together and were as good as gold. But of course they noticed the tree-felling near the house, and they saw Junius measuring out where the new stockade will be. I told them the army are helping us protect our property because of the troubles in this area.” She giggled. “I made it sound as if we’ve got a whole century of men here.”

“Good. Oh, no, not another visitor! Am I
never
going to get any work done today?”

She followed my gaze. Out on the forecourt a large carriage was pulling up, and Silvanius was getting out of it.

Like Felix, he had come to see how I was faring after my ordeal of the previous night. All this attention was very flattering, but I still had a mansio to run, and these interruptions weren’t helping at all. However, I answered all his questions, reassured him that I hadn’t suffered any ill effects, and took the chance to introduce him to Junius, who, it appeared, had become Prefect of Builders; at any rate he was very much in evidence around the outside of the house, whereas Quintus was nowhere to be seen.

The three of us walked round the buildings and showed Silvanius the line of the new stockade. And I realised that Junius, young as he was, had fully mastered the art of dealing with pompous but important civilians. He asked Silvanius’ advice on one or two minor points, which I’m certain he didn’t need, and in no time Silvanius was congratulating us on our efforts and offering any help he could give.

I tried not to show it, but I was in a dilemma. I needed his help, I wanted to accept it, but Quintus and Lucius were suggesting that Silvanius could be the Shadow of Death. I still found this hard to believe, but I had to consider it as a possibility. Could Silvanius’ help be in the nature of a Trojan horse?

“You’re very kind, Clarus, but I think we are managing well enough for now. I’ll be sure to come to you if I need anything.”

The sun was high and warm now, and customers were starting to arrive, but he seemed disposed to linger and chat. I offered him some refreshment in the garden. We sat by the pool, and it was hard to believe it was less than three days since we’d last sat there together sipping wine. We chatted in a desultory fashion, me trying to think of a tactful way to get him to leave without offence, and he, obviously, having something on his mind that he was finding difficult to talk about.

I wanted to say “Spit it out, I haven’t got all day,” but I said instead, “Clarus, I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but you and I are old friends, and I can tell there’s something bothering you. Something you want to discuss with me?”