Enemies of the Empire (33 page)

It was a desperate expedient, but we were working against time, and the plan worked better than I feared it might. Lyra, realising at last that she was under real duress, was forced to scratch the letter in the wax herself, and if the letters occasionally wavered – the result of a warning knife-point at her back – it was no more than could have been expected from a scribbled note.

I was wary of attempts to send coded messages, so I insisted on dictating exactly what she wrote. I kept it simple, and she wrote it slowly, but clearly and with no mistakes. She was more literate than I would have guessed, and I remembered what Nyros had said about educating his whole family. When she had finished, I sealed the tablet up, and took it in to Gwellia, who had been most unkindly roused from sleep to help.

She did it splendidly. I would never have believed that my respectable wife could have echoed that swaying walk with such success. Gwellia was almost forty and her hair was turning grey, but under Lyra’s hooded cloak it was impossible to tell, and as she flaunted her way to the gate even the optio was gazing goggle-eyed.

She didn’t hurry, that was the clever thing. She stood and whispered to the sentry on duty – who had already been forewarned of what to do – then drew his attention to something imaginary in the tall trees opposite, and he brought his beacon out to have a look. While he was gazing heavenwards, she beckoned with her hand. From where I was watching in the shadowed court, I saw two figures flit across the street. Paulinus and Rufinus, I’d stake my life on it.

She put a finger to her lips, put down the tablet by the wall, and walked back to the gatehouse once again, still remembering to sway her hips and toss her head. She’d kept her distance, it was dark and she was hidden by the cloak, but I was still afraid they might have seen her face. It didn’t seem so, though.

It was some minutes before the children made a move, but then – when the sentry’s attention was elsewhere – the smaller figure came and seized the tablet-case. It was so quick, scarcely a flicker in the shadows and he was gone again, but the message was safely on its way. Now all we could do was wait till morning, and hope that the ruse had worked.

Lyra had been dragged off to the cells by now, without her cloak and abbreviated gold-trimmed shift and only my travel-stained old tunic to cover her somewhat raddled charms. She had gone from furious struggling to dumb obedience, and I wondered if she had some counter-plan in mind, but she went with little ado, and we heard no more at all from her that night. Marcus sent a messenger to warn the marching-camp to be prepared to give us full support – and then we, too, retired for the night. The extra palliasse had been brought into my room and put down on the floor, but we were all three so weary that we could have slept on the bare flags and never stirred.

All the same we were roused before the sun. The optio, who had been so stunned the night before that he had said and done almost nothing, was now anxious to atone. He had personally risen to make sure that suitable horses were available, a gig and a cart prepared, and that a spendid breakfast was prepared for us – fresh bread, lentil porridge, watered wine and cheese – though he hardly managed to force down a crumb himself.

The idea that he had managed to betray his men, and caused such loss and devastation to the state, was obviously weighing hard on him, and Lyra’s personal repudiation had hurt his self-esteem as much as his heart. When they brought her from the cells a little later he could hardly bring himself to look at her.

I had expected her to struggle, and at first she did, although they’d bound her hand and foot beneath her cloak. But when they threatened to throw her bodily into the cart, she stopped resisting, and submitted to being lifted up into the gig and propped beside the optio, who was driving, in the front. I sat alongside Junio in the back, both of us dressed in servant’s tunics, while the optio’s real servant followed in the cart, with a hastily assembled pile of his personal effects. Marcus had been anxious to come with us at first, but it was self-evidently a tight squeeze as it was, and the presence of that broad-striped toga in our midst would have attracted the attention of the merest passer-by, let alone a watching rebel band. Unless he would consent to our disguise?

That persuaded him, as I was sure it would, and he agreed to go as I’d suggested to the marching-camp, and ride out with the second group from there. The commandant had sent a message back, putting his entire force at our command. A swift group of cavalry to make the first attack, and the rest of his contingent in two groups – one to follow up the rear assault, the rest – quite openly – as protection for Marcus and his vehicles on the public road.

Marcus’s carriage and carts were brought round to the front, and, surrounded by his own escort and a handful of bewildered soldiers from the mansio, they set off as before. We watched them jolt out of the court and through the gate in the first light of dawn. It all looked convincingly normal, and with the leather curtains of the carriage closed I hoped that my absence would never be noticed. When they had gone, the place seemed very still.

We let them get perhaps half an hour ahead, and when we dared not leave it any longer we went out ourselves. The gig was light and fast, and without the company of marching men we made much swifter time. I was afraid that we would overtake them on the road, and arrive at the roundhouse far too long before our horsemen did, but there was no sign of anyone and I breathed again.

It was a jolting journey. I had to hold on with my hands to save my bottom from a battering. Lyra could do nothing to protect herself, and several times I heard her squeal aloud. The roads were drier now and our wheels and horses raised a cloud of dust, till I’m sure the servant in the cart behind could hardly see the country as we passed. I realised again how vulnerable a traveller could be, in these empty wastes, and hoped that our rebels were the only thieves and raiders on the road.

We slowed when we reached the shelter of the trees. It was a necessary act – the road was rutted here and slippery with leaves – but it also bought us time. The optio would have sold himself into slavery now, if he thought that it would help, and he was doing his very best for us. I recognised the clearing where we’d stopped before, and shortly afterwards the track that led to Nyro’s homestead and the farm. I saw the optio take his dagger in one hand, and hold it fiercely against Lyra’s side. ‘One trick from you, and you will find this between your ribs,’ I heard him say.

It was no more than a forest lane, and we swayed along it like a ship at sea, bumping over branches, roots and stones. At each jolt I saw Lyra flinch against the knife, but she dared not draw away. We had slowed to the merest crawl by now, and in the silence of the trees I felt my heartbeat thud. I missed the reassurance of armed soldiers at our side. We passed the sacred oak – this time, somehow, I couldn’t look at it – and went on up the winding lane until we turned the corner and saw the palisades of Nyros’s farm.

They were waiting for us. All of them. Nyros, with Plautus at his side, and a score of men I’d never seen before – all with the same crop of sandy hair, and most dressed in the same plaid that Nyros wore. I saw the tunicked figures of the butcher and his boys among them too – they must have come down in the cart last night. Nyros was opening the gate, and coming towards us with his arms outstretched. Obviously the intention was to lure us in, take possession of our goods, and deal with us at leisure once we were secured.

‘Lyra, be welcome to my house,’ he cried – in Latin, for the optio’s benefit. And then, in Celtic, ‘Get him in the great-house. We’ll deal with him in there.’ The smile of welcome never faltered from his face.

Suddenly Lyra twisted in her seat. ‘Be careful, Nyros, it’s a tra—’ She began to shout the warning, but she never finished it. The optio had already run her through.

There was chaos then, of course. Most of the men were still inside the gates, and all were conspiciously unarmed, which is why I have lived to tell the tale. Some of them rushed back towards the roundhouses and came back with weapons in their hands, others surged forward and tried to get at us.

Nyros was already at the gig and had stretched out a hand to take the horse. The optio flicked the reins and made it rear, which upended Junio and me and we both landed heavily on the ground. Lyra’s body also tumbled lifeless from the driver’s seat and crashed at Nyros’s feet. He started backwards, and at that moment the optio urged the gig forward, into the group of men that had now worked their way through the triple gate and were coming for us down the path. They scattered. At the last instant the optio jumped clear, and ran back towards us, leaving the horse to career on into them. Behind us, the slave had unhitched the other horses, and regardless of the goods piled up on it, was pushing the cart over on its side to act as a kind of barricade across the path. I saw his plan. The path was narrow between thorny thickets here, and the cart would completely block the way.

Junio helped me to my feet and then ran to help him in his task. I panted after him and just reached the other side before the cart went over, depositing the cups and furniture and clothes in a tumbling heap across the track. The optio reached it even as it fell. He was nimble and he vaulted over the wooden chest that clattered at his feet, but it slowed his progress and the men were at his heels. He turned and drew his sword, and picking up a little table in his other hand he stood tall to face them.

They were more interested in him than us, and they wanted him alive if possible. Alive but not necessarily intact. They formed a semicircle round him, where he stood precariously on the pile, and very slowly they advanced on him.

Not for nothing was he a champion with the shield. The table flashed from left to right, parrying the stones they hurled at him, and he kept them at a distance with his sword. But it could not last. The men who had gone for weapons had by now arrived, and they were many, whereas he was one. He fought them bravely, step by step, until he was backed atop the heap against the cart, and even then he tried to vault over and escape, but they were too quick for him and a sword-thrust caught him through the leg. He stumbled, and they stabbed him through the arm. It was all over then. Two of the attackers tore the sword and the makeshift shield from him and began to drag him, bleeding, back up towards the gate.

Then the rest turned their attention towards us. I peeped out from my hiding place and saw Plautus scrabbling the objects from the path, ready to pull the cart away. As I looked at him he looked at me. I saw the recognition dawn.

‘Look out!’ he cried. ‘There may be others on the way! I know that man. He’s not a slave at all. There’s something else afoot, otherwise he would not be here. You, you, and you – get down towards the road and watch out for reinforcements on the way. The rest of you, get back behind the barricades – we’ll take this wretch in and force the truth from him.’

A dozen hands were helping him by now, and swords were slashing at the thorns beside the path. Others had found a way of skirting round, and soon heavy hands were pulling us upright from where we were cowering between the wheels. I found myself yanked along the track towards the largest house, where the optio was already being bundled through the door. For a moment I thought that everything was lost.

And then I heard them. Not from the direction where the lookouts had been sent, but from the farm itself. Shouts, whoops and galloping hooves. I looked up and saw the shapes of swords and helmets on the skyline swooping down on us.

It was all over fairly quickly after that. The rebels were good fighters, but they were not prepared, and scattered men on foot are no match for cavalry. They did try to push us captives into a hut and set fire to us, but a hail of javelins put a stop to that. There was a brief, brave skirmish, and there were several Silurian bodies on the ground before Nyros reluctantly laid down his sword – he had wounded several of his enemies, despite his age – and knelt at the feet of Regulus, who had led the charge. His remaining followers did the same. By the time the lookouts came running back to say that Marcus and his marching troops were on their way, the whole tribe had been rounded up and imprisoned in the largest roundhouse – all the women and the children as well. The scouts quickly found themselves prisoners too.

No attempt was made to question anyone till Marcus arrived, and when he did he took control at once. He had the optio, who was weak with loss of blood, taken to his carriage by his men, and gave orders that his wounds were to be cleaned and dressed. Then he installed himself in Nyros’s chair and demanded that the old man be brought to kneel in front of him.

‘So!’ he thundered. ‘We see you now for what you really are. A rebel and a traitor and a thief. You will soon learn the penalty for defying Rome.’

Even now, Nyros behaved with dignity. I could see why his distinguished ancestor had gained the admiration of his captors as he had. ‘I am no traitor, Roman. I am a patriot. This land was mine before you ever came, and I defend it and my people – that is all. I told you that your supporters had attacked my tribe – look at my nephews there.’ He indicated Subulcus and Plautus, who were tied up, side by side. ‘One slashed across the face so that he almost died, the other made an idiot for life. And these were children – babies – at the time. What those men did to the women, I’ll not sully my tongue with, nor how they treated the young men they captured. My brothers, my father – my wife and mother too. They burned our houses, killed our cows and left us all to die. I was not there – I was away from the roundhouse at the time – but when I returned and found what they had done I swore I would take revenge. I have done it, and I have no regrets. My own two infant sons were dead, but I raised my brothers’ children in the same desire, and they have followed me in every way they can. They demeaned themselves, as common butchers, market stall-keepers, prostitutes – even consented to be Roman citizens – so we could work against the oppressors and their ways.’