Daughters of Fire (43 page)

The sound of the rocking chair slowly brought Viv back to wakeful-ness. She smiled. She had seen the feast. Watched Carta taking her first steps in diplomatic dealings with the Romans. Watched Venutios wearing the brooch.

She frowned abruptly. So Hugh was right. The brooch was his. But where had he got it from? Since Carta had noticed it so obviously, she hadn’t given it to him.

Viv sat for a minute in silence. Outside somewhere on the rooftops a blackbird was singing, the liquid trill soaring above the muted roar of traffic. She frowned. Was it a warning? She must learn to listen to the birds like Carta. Listen to the wind, the rain; heed the messages the gods sent her. Alert now, she concentrated on the sound, attuned to the slightest nuance, her mind still half in the past.

How had the brooch come back to Edinburgh? Had Pat tricked her? Had she somehow retrieved it? Had Medb brought it?

‘Carta?’ She whispered the name tentatively. ‘Carta, are you there?’

The only answer was the distant wheezing and rumble of an early morning milk float stopping and starting on its way up the street and the cheerful chink of bottles in the rain.

She must ring Cathy. Find out what had happened. The bird wasn’t going to tell her. His message spoke of otherworldly things. Standing up unsteadily she went to the phone. Cathy’s number rang on and on without an answer. Pete had virtually forbidden her to see Pat or Cathy again. What was he thinking of? With a shaking hand she dialled Pat’s mobile. It was switched off. Frowning, she slammed down the receiver. They couldn’t just cut her out like this. It was nonsense. She would go over there and see them. Now.

She didn’t. Instead she rang Hugh. There was no reply.

Finally she called Winter Gill Farm. Peggy answered. ‘Steve is out on the fell with his father,’ she said when Viv enquired. ‘How are you, my dear? When are you coming back?’

Viv smiled with relief. The genuine warmth in Peggy’s voice was
just what she needed. ‘I have the book launch tomorrow, Peggy, and then I’m away for a few days doing book signings and things, but I would love to come down again when that is over.’ She hesitated. ‘Is Steve coming upto Edinburgh at all?’

‘I’m sure he’ll come if you’d like him to,’ Peggy said quickly. ‘Shall I get him to ring you?’

‘I was going to ask him to the launch party tomorrow if he’d like to come,’ Viv said. ‘Don’t worry him. Just pass on the invitation. I’ll understand if it’s too lovely down there for him to drag himself away.’

Walking through into her bedroom she flung herself down on the bed wearily. No Pat. No Cathy. No Hugh and now no Steve. Tomorrow her book would be published and Carta’s life would be public property and she was scared and lonely and utterly miserable.

‘Carta? Are you there? I need you. Tell me about your visit to the Emperor.’ She put her arm across her eyes. ‘Tell me about the brooch. I’m sorry I didn’t keep it for you. I didn’t understand.’

The journey to Camulodunum took ten days. She travelled in style as befitted a queen, with several chariots, her most beautiful horses and an escort of fifty of her most experienced warriors. With her went Venutios as king of the Carvetii, and Brochan of the Parisii, both invited in the end not just by her but by Plautius in their own right as petty kings of the Brigantian alliance.

The road they followed led down the flat lands, through forests and across ancient causeways. Once over the Wash and through the fens they made their way downwards on newer, straighter roads, already widened and reinforced by the Romans, and realised that now they were in the area which had been designated as the new province of Britannia.

The Brigantian party made camp on the banks of the River Colne and found themselves a part of a gathering of a dozen or so tribal kings all summoned before the Emperor Claudius. The ancient
town of Cunobelinos was already in the process of being rebuilt by the Roman army, who had erected a fort in the middle of the British fortifications. It was clear immediately that the visiting rulers were in a conquered land where already the camp of the XX legion with its thousands of regimented tents and stores was in total command.

The Emperor himself was lodged with his entourage within the newly built area of fortifications and it was on the first morning after their arrival that Cartimandua was informed that an audience had been arranged. Followed by her own attendants, and arrayed in her finest gown and mantle and her richest jewellery, she made her way slowly from the chariot in which Fergal had driven her from the riverside camp. Venutios and Brochan were not invited.

Her heart was thudding uncomfortably as she looked around at the stern-faced sentries, the fluttering banners, the massed troops standing to attention in the meadows outside the fort and the spectacle, no doubt carefully arranged, but none the less awesome for that, of Claudius’s famous elephants, each with its attendant keeper, striding slowly around the outer ditch.

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.