The Boat of Fate (46 page)

I ran into the building. I said, ‘Hurry, Crearwy. Hurry.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘They’ve gone.’

I straightened slowly, a saddlebag in my hands. ‘What? What did you say?’

She said, ‘They’ve gone.’

‘And what do you think I’m going to do? Lay here while the bloody Province goes up in flames?’

She shouted back. ‘There’s no need to take it out on me!’ She began angrily slapping things together. She said, ‘I’m sorry your dignity was ruffled. You could have been killed.’

‘I’d have taken him with me.’

‘Oh, don’t be so bloody silly!’

‘Will you get the horses?’

She sat back on her heels. ‘Your trouble is,’ she said, ‘you can’t stand being laughed at.’

‘It’s hardly a laughing matter. In any case, you needn’t have joined in.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘You damned well did!’

‘It was laugh or be killed,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t a patient man.’

‘Neither am I!’

‘That,’ she said bitingly, ‘I’d noticed . . .’

I went for the horses myself. By the time they were harnessed she had finished making up the packs. I mounted, took the reins of the baggage animal. She said, ‘If it’s not a military secret, where are we going?’

‘Portus Adurni. I’m rousing the garrison.’

‘I can’t!’

‘You will.’

‘I will not!’

She stared at me tearfully, breasts heaving.

‘Crearwy,’ I said, ‘what you don’t seem to realise is that I have responsibilities in this Province. Don’t you understand? These were barbarians. There were nearly a hundred with him. How many more are on the rampage God only knows.’

She tossed her head. She said, ‘I’m not keeping you from your duties. Go and get your soldiers. Get as many as you like. I shall be all right.’

‘Please don’t be difficult.’

‘Hah! Hark who’s talking!’

I said, ‘You know I can’t leave you.’

‘I’m safer with them than you!’

My temper snapped completely. ‘Who’s side are you on, anyway?’

‘Not yours, while you go on like this!’

‘For God’s sake . . .’

She yanked her horse round, swung into the saddle. ‘What you seem to forget,’ she said, ‘is that they’re my people. If you’re going to make a clean sweep of things you’d better get rid of me as well.’

I flared back. ‘And what you seem to forget is that all you own, all your husband owns, you owe to Rome, not a bunch of bloody roughnecks in Dalriada, living in mud huts and lifting each other’s cattle. . . .’

That was as far as I got. She beat at the horse, furiously, with her fist, broke into a gallop. I followed her, cursing myself and all barbarians, pacing her shadow across the moon-whitened grass.

The sky paled by degrees. We trotted silently, side by side. Her lips were white, her face set like stone. She only spoke once more. She said, ‘He would have protected me. Roughneck or not.’

‘Who?’

‘Ossa. The King.’

I was still too angry to answer.

The dawn was grey in the sky before she reined. She said, ‘I’m sorry. I can’t go any farther. I must rest.’

The rage had gone. In its place my head throbbed sullenly, as if I’d had a night on the wine. I stared round me. I said, ‘There’s nowhere here to stop.’

We walked the horses again. Eventually we came to a farm. It wasn’t much of a place. There was a stockade, its gate hanging ajar; a couple of circular thatched huts, sunk half into the ground. I rode to the larger, leaned to beat at the low door. A dog set up a yapping inside. I hammered again, with the pommel of my sword.

The door creaked open. The woman who stared up looked frightened and old. She held a blanket clutched across her throat. I said, ‘Do you understand Latin? We are tired. We need rest, and some food.’

She nodded, silently, waving for me to enter. I swung stiffly from the horse, stopped under the lintel. The inside of the place was primitive. I saw a beaten-earth floor, a table and oven built of slabs of stone. To one side a fire was burning; over it hung a blackened iron pot.

Crearwy followed me. I picked up an earthenware cup. It didn’t look too filthy. The woman was kicking at a bundle of rags in the comer. ‘Get up, you old slug,’ she said. ‘Here’s a great Roman soldier, and his lady.’

‘Peace, mother,’ I said. ‘Let him sleep. We can help ourselves.’ I skimmed the coating of grease from the stew, handed the cup to Crearwy.

She squatted by the fire, pushing back her hood. ‘Sergius,’ she said, ‘you are a strange man. When shall I understand you?’

I stared at her. I said, ‘Perhaps when I understand myself.’

We rode on. At Sorviodunum there was a way station. I changed horses. The sun was high now and we still had a great distance to go. At Cunetio I requisitioned more remounts. After that at least the way was firmer. We were on the Corinium road.

Crearwy had relapsed into silence and I didn’t feel like talking. Twice in the night I had seen distant fire in the west. I knew the speed at which barbarians can move. Impossible to guess where these might be, in which direction they would strike. Where would they have beached their ships? The Sabrina, in all probability. They wouldn’t risk the Sea of Vectis again. Not so soon. I cursed, urging my mount forward. The road seemed endless.

It was late in the day before we reached Corinium, and Crearwy was reeling with fatigue. I reined, gripping her arm. Horsemen were riding to meet us from the city.

It was Riconus. He glanced at her keenly but made no comment. She sat her horse a little way apart while we talked. What he had to tell me set me cursing again.

The garrison of the city was alerted and standing to arms. We clattered in through the gates. I made for my office, helped her dismount. I said, ‘You must rest.’

‘I can’t. The children.’

‘You’re not going to Censorina. It’s dangerous. You can stop with the Praeses and his wife.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I can’t tell you now. I’ll send the children to you. Riconus will fetch them. You mustn’t leave Corinium, do you hear?’

She said, ‘I hear.’

I left her, hurried to the basilica. I needed men. I drafted urgent orders for the Germans at Glevum, wrote a hasty despatch to Hnaufridus and saw it on its way. Whether it arrived or not I never knew. By that time messages had started to come in from the south. Aquae Sulis and Abonae were under attack and requesting help. I tried to get some idea of the numbers involved. It was impossible. To a frightened town guard, ten barbarians make the same impression as a hundred. I snatched a bite to eat, ran back to my office. The lamps were burning; but the place was deserted. I turned as Petronius came through the door. He backed off at sight of me, looking alarmed.

‘Where’s the Domina?’

He said, ‘She’s gone.’

‘What?

He spread his hands. ‘What could I do?’

‘Gone where, man? Where?’

‘The villa. How could I stop her?’

I said, ‘Get out.
Get out
....’I sat, rubbed my face and tried to think. I was still sitting when Riconus hurried in. Another messenger had arrived. Scoti in numbers had been seen on the Calleva road. Farmhouses were burning, and Calleva itself besieged.

It had been three hours since I sent to Glevum, ample time for fast-moving troops to reach me. I could wait no longer; at this rate it would soon be dawn. If Crearwy was at Censorina there was an end of it. I had done what I could. I said tiredly, ‘Get your men assembled, Riconus. We shall ride.’

The camp, if camp it could be called, sprawled across open land ten miles east of Corinium. There was light in the sky by the time we reached it; enough light to show its extent. At my side, the Celt sucked his breath. It was big, far bigger than either of us had believed. How many men it housed I had no idea. To the right, a hundred yards or so away, stretched a line of waggons; farm trucks and carts, an army baggage vehicle, an ancient, dilapidated carruca. Beyond them were the tents, sprawled anyhow across the grass. They were flimsily built of the first material that had come to hand: rugs and blankets slung on poles, pieces of board and sacking. Smoke curled up from cooking fires. Everywhere men stood about in sullen, ragged groups. As they became aware of us, they turned to stare. Nobody spoke or moved. There was no sound at all.

I glanced behind me. The Palatini had drawn up in a tight double file. Their faces were impassive. I said, ‘Move forward. At the walk.’

We passed between the first of the tents. Everywhere the faces watched in silence. A child bawled, and was quieted. Riconus eased his sword in its scabbard. He said between his teeth, ‘Where have they all come from?’

I said, ‘I don’t know.’

Maybe I didn’t. But I could guess. They came from Deva, from the unheated barracks, the Praetorium where every morning they bundled up and buried the corpses of the dead.

They came from Lindum and Eburacum, from Manucium, from the shattered townships of the Wall. They were the homeless and the hopeless, the hungry, the frightened, the bewildered. They were soldiers who’d seen their armour rot and their pay diminish and their horses die, slaves who’d known no life but the life that was gone, burned with their masters’ homes. They were men who had seen their families destroyed, youths who had lost their parents; they were children and women, farmers, peasants, beggars, sailors, whores. There was no understanding in the faces we passed; no compassion, no humanity. There was fear, and incomprehension, and a dull, smouldering hate.

They were headless, brainless and strong. They lacked intelligence, they lacked direction, they lacked a leader. But a leader, it seemed, had been found. And three days had been enough; enough for the ripples to run out, the murmur of uncertainty and fear. Enough for the word to form.

Bacaudae . . .

There was a Praetorium, of sorts. Above it hung a flag. It was ragged and crudely stitched, but already it had drawn men from half across the Province. I strained to make out the device it bore. As we drew nearer I recognised the mark of the Christos.

I reined my horse. A wait; and the flap of the tent was raised. The man who stood there was bearded and dishevelled. A naked sword was stuck loosely through his belt, next to it a dagger. He gestured, silently. I dismounted, with Riconus. I had a sense of unreality. I ducked under the leather. The inside of the pavilion was dark. At its far end a man sat at a table. A single lamp burned; it showed a wine flagon, a shallow basket of bread. It also showed his face; the stringy hair, pale skin and eyes. The eyes were fixed unwaveringly on my face.

His Latin had improved, but the harsh voice was the same. ‘Enter,’ he said, ‘and be welcome. Sit down, Roman, and eat. Once I shared your table. Now I think you’ll share mine.’

I walked forward, one hand on the pommel of my sword, and stared down at him. ‘You always were a fool, Ulfilas,’ I said. ‘And you don’t seem to have changed with time.’

He grinned, with his lips. ‘It’s you who are stupid, Roman,’ he said. He nodded at the tent flap. ‘Where are your eyes? You’ve seen my people. One word, and you are dead. You and all your soldiers.’

I shook my head. I said, ‘Don’t think of it. You’re dealing with Palatini, not a rabble of slaves with sticks.’

The smile stayed fixed round his mouth. He said, ‘And you’re dealing with two thousand men.’

‘Ulfilas,’ I said, ‘I didn’t come here to bandy words with you. So listen, and listen carefully, because I shall only tell you once. I don’t know what your intention was in gathering these folk together, but you’re leading them, and yourself, to disaster. The country hereabout won’t support large numbers of refugees. There’s no work for you, no shelter, no food. Already your people, as you call them, are probably suffering from illness. Soon you’ll have disease; from bad food, bad water, bad sanitation. You’ll not seem much of a saviour, in their eyes or anybody else’s, once that starts to happen. If you’ve got any sense left you’ll know I’m speaking the truth. So this is what you’ll do. You’ll use your influence to disperse this mob now, while you have the chance. The towns in my care can absorb a limited number of them; the women and children at least, and husbands of families. The rest must go. Since I don’t choose to see people starve on my doorstep I’ll send you grain supplies for forty-eight hours. After that time you’ll get nothing. While if you persist in this absurdity I shall undoubtedly hang you.’

He said, ‘We shall not starve.’ He rose, came limping round the table. One leg, I saw, was withered; it had been smashed, and badly reset. He saw the direction of my glance, and sneered. ‘Roma gave me this,’ he said. ‘I left the mines a free man. Yet she followed. I was left for dead. But the strength of the Lord was with me. By his hand, I was delivered from my oppressors.’ His eyes blazed, hooded themselves. ‘By his hand,’ he said, ‘these people will be fed. By his hand they will clothe themselves in soft garments, by his hand they will be sheltered. For it is written, the Beast that sat on seven hills is dead. The lowly inherit the earth.’

I said, ‘They’ll make a saint of you yet.’

For answer, he spat accurately at my face.

For all his bulk, Riconus could move like a cat. One moment Ulfilas was standing glaring at me, the next instant he sprawled across the table, felled by a blow from the Celt’s huge fist. The bearded guard leaped forward, grabbing at his belt; but he was far too late. My sword-tip was already pressing into his neck.

‘Unfasten,’ I said. ‘Let your weapons fall. Slowly.’

Riconus grunted disgustedly. One brawny arm held the Goth in a vicelike grip; the tip of his dagger was laid against his victim’s throat. He said, ‘I wonder if his God would accept him minus his tongue and balls?’

I shook my head. ‘You won’t frighten him,’ I said. ‘He can only be killed.’

Ulfilas grinned lopsidedly. ‘Remember this, Alcimer,’ he said. ‘Never trust a Roman.’ He turned his head, with difficulty. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘what do you intend? Kill me, and you’ll never leave here alive.’

I knew, with a sick certainty, that it was true. I’d allowed tiredness and anger to cloud my judgement; I should never have entered the camp. A determined charge might take a few of the Palatini clear, but I would never drag him with me. Neither dare I leave him. I said greyly, ‘I think that’s a chance we’ll have to take.’