Dreaming the Bull (41 page)

She tilted her head, searching the blind, noise-filled horizon for his voice. “My arm,” she said querulously. “My arm hurts.”

He took her left arm firmly, above the break. Her skin was greasy and fragile at once, not at all like the elder grandmother of his past. She stank of rancid wine and urine and neglect. Inwardly, he heard the voice of his own childhood,
I swear to be your eyes and limbs, until time or the gods relieve me of it.

From the same place, an old woman in a badger-skin robe said,
You abandoned me. I had no-one. Could you not have come home for me?

Shaking his head, he leaned closer. “Your wrist is broken,” he said. “It was my horse who trampled you. You will be recompensed and a bone-setter found. Is there anywhere else that hurts?”

“My chest,” she said. Awareness of it made her cough, liquidly. Blood threaded her spittle.

Valerius sat back on his heels and forced himself to think coherently.
I am Julius Valerius, decurion, Lion of Mithras.
He was in the suburbs of Rome, in a hostile crowd, in a procession whose timing had been arranged with utmost precision. Already, the delay was such that he faced possible death. If it lasted longer, he would be lucky not to join his foes on the nearest free cross. Whatever Caradoc might say, however he might be supported by the returning ghosts, Valerius had neither the means nor the time to aid a crippled grandmother.

He propped her up in the doorway. “Stay well. If I am alive when this is over, I will come back for you, I swear it.”

The guards had surrounded the cart, standing face out with their swords drawn, keeping the mob at bay. The centurion was named Severus and he had served on the Rhine in the time of Caligula. Valerius caught his eye. “Get the cart moving. Clear the way. If any of us is to live, we need to be at the edge of the plain in front of the camp before Claudius reaches it.”

The officer grimaced. “Do you think the muleteers can get their beasts to run up the rest of the hill?”

“They can if they understand their lives depend on it.”

I am Julius Valerius, decurion of the first turma, the Ala Prima Thracum
…

By the beat of the drum, Valerius knew where he was. His orders were etched in acid on his liver; he could have carried them out blindfold, with his ears stopped with wool, which was as well when the ground before him was so uncertain and the words he heard most clearly were in Eceni and all from the past. What had been merely unpleasant was descending
unchecked into nightmare. Ghosts of all his ages crowded on him, clamouring. They had not come at him so vividly in daylight since his time in slavery to Amminios. They were not yet close enough for him to hear the words precisely, but that made no difference; Caradoc’s voice replaced theirs, echoing from the prison.
What would you have done if you had known at the time that Breaca was still alive after the battle?

The god had asked the same question, and, forced by the presence of deity, Valerius had answered honestly. Here, on the emperor’s plain in the emperor’s procession, he would not—could not—do the same.

I am Valerius, decurion, sworn Lion of the god. I serve my emperor with my body and my god with my heart and soul
…

If he spoke aloud in the vault of his head, he could hold on to his sanity. He dared not close his eyes. The officer in charge of the procession was Marullus, centurion of the second cohort of the Praetorian Guard, the one who had branded Valerius in a cellar in another lifetime, his true Father for ever under Mithras’ care. His presence burned as the sun, keeping the god in focus, but did not dispel the voice or the memory of a man who had reached divinity and did not know it.

Caradoc is not the god. He never has been. If it seemed otherwise, it was the ghosts’ doing.

Out on the plains, nine cohorts of Praetorians and three of the Urban Guard—less the one century that was detailed to march with the prisoners—lined in perfect ranks before their camp; nearly six thousand men, armed and trained to the highest level the empire could achieve. From a distance, all that could be seen was the blinding reflection of polished helms.

Closer, the wavering sway of the officers’ plumes stood proud like reeds fanning a lake of silver. Bán’s mother—
Valerius’
mother—walked between them as if they were trees, a wren flying high above. He had found her charred body lying on a pyre after the invasion battle and had watched her soul begin the journey to the other world. He had not seen her since. His father, too, had been absent since the final day of the invasion battle. He stood squarely ahead of Valerius now, his shield face-on and his spear readied so that it would be impossible to ride forward except through him. It was best not to think of that.

The ghosts were fewer to the left, where the crowd waited. Looking over his shoulder, he could see them, a great massed array standing facing the militia, separated by a space of a mere ninety feet. They were less tangibly ordered but the layerings of rank and influence were no less distinct. Between these two, the paired tribunals of the Emperor Claudius and his empress, Agrippina, occupied a position of utmost visibility and dignity. Fifty senators, picked for their seniority, were seated on benches a short distance away, conspicuous both by their position and by their separation from the person of the emperor. In the open ground between them waited the shade of Iccius, the Belgic slave-boy who had seen the last days of Bán as he was and whose death had triggered his birth as Julius Valerius, officer in the emperor’s auxiliary cavalry.

I have stood in the presence of the Bull. Dear god, I have
touched
the Bull. Why will you not take this away?

The timing of the procession did not allow for incapacity on the part of one of its leading figures. At precisely the appointed moment, to a briefly deafening fanfare from
the cohorts, forty-eight sweating, heaving mules dragged their laden wagons forward into view. Slaves in sombre dress carried choice items alongside: shields of carefully worked bronze, the best of the mirrors, neck chains in solid gold set about with amber, jet and blue enamel. Through the jabber of his mind-noise, Valerius heard a blanket of silence fall on the humming conversation of Rome’s populace. This, at least, was predictable. No crowd in the world is so jaded that gold by the wagonload does not inspire the hush of avarice, however short-lived.

After, the tide of conversation rose again to a muted roar, louder than it had been. Goldsmiths and jewellers strained forward to see the intricacies of individual pieces. Others, who might perhaps commission an imitation, took note of the weight of the pieces and the more distinctive styles. In the other world that clashed with this one, a hanged Eceni girl child, three years old, skipped beside a cart, swapping the frayed rope at her neck for a necklace that had been her mother’s. Valerius did close his eyes then. When he opened them some time later, the child, at least, had gone.

The wagons were spaced apart so that the first had passed halfway across the parade area and the dust of its passing had begun to settle before the second had fully started. They moved in a crescent, beginning near the Praetorians, curving in towards the crowd and coming back to a station just behind the imperial tribunal where they were covered, temporarily, with hides. When all eight had completed their procession and were lined up together, the coverings were pulled back in unison, allowing the sun once again to meet the gold. The sudden blaze of reflected light
made a fulgent halo around the emperor, blessing him. As one, the crowd vented a long-drawn sigh. In the world between the worlds, the ghosts pretended awe which, having lived amongst the gods, they could not possibly feel.

Only the prisoners remained unmoved. From the wagon at Valerius’ side, Dubornos said, “Luain mac Calma did it better for Cunobelin.” It was not clear from his speech or demeanour whether he, too, saw the ghosts. Valerius hoped not.

Caradoc said, more thoughtfully, “The Trinovantes said that your emperor considered himself a god. Until now, I had not believed it true.”

Valerius stared into the blistering light until his eyes hurt. The gods of his past and his present hovered on the edge of imagining. Claudius was not amongst them. He would not allow Caradoc to be.
What would you have done if you had known
…

“You will believe it as you die,” he said. “Better men than you have called on Claudius to release them from life, naming him first amongst their gods. You will be no different.”

He wanted them to disagree. Caradoc nodded. “Our saying it will not make it true.” The ghost of Eburovic, father to Bán, agreed with him, sorrowfully.

A whistle blew from the beneath the scorpion standard of the Guard. The carts bearing women and children rolled forwards onto the plain. The gossiping crowds fell silent, not in appreciation, but in mannered boredom. The slave auctions would draw their interest again; until then, this was a necessary part of the spectacle but not one to speak of later at dinner. In the hush, the murmurings of business associates could be heard, using the time to deal with other matters. Valerius, sensitized as he had not expected to be,
noticed that the warriors amongst the women had moved to the outside and made a ring about the mothers with children. Their dignity was wasted on an inattentive crowd. A multitude of ghosts wept for them, bitterly.

The wagons of men came next, outstanding for their height and the barbarity of their dress, or their shameless nakedness and the outlandish markings on their skins. In the last cart were three dreamers who were also warriors. They saw what their countrymen did not. All three acknowledged Macha as they passed. Among the Romans, none save Valerius saw the gestures. The greater mass of people craned their necks to see the rearmost two carts: the family and the rebel king himself. Of the rest, Dubornos, who was more than halfway to a dreamer, began to understand. Watching him, Valerius saw the moment when his vision changed and the ghosts became part of his present. He acknowledged them, smiling with unfeigned joy.

“If it is Mithras who holds the souls of the dead as your myths teach, one could find it strange that he calls on the soul of an Eceni dreamer to stand watch over her son. Do you think perhaps instead that—”

“I think nothing. And we are moving. If you speak while the carts process before the people, the guards have orders to tear out your tongue. The ghosts of your past will not stop them.”

He was not certain of that, but he spoke with the certainty and authority of an officer and it seemed he was believed. Dubornos fell to arch-browed silence. At a hidden signal, the cart that carried Cwmfen, Cygfa and Cunomar rolled forward. The child’s hands had been untied; Caradoc had bound his son instead with an unbreakable oath not to
bring disgrace on his family and it had been accepted by the Praetorian centurion who had charge of the proceedings. Thus the three of the family stood upright, pale in their linen shifts, their uncut hair lifting slightly in the wind of their passing. They had the height and colouring of Gauls, but were less clearly cowed. The women, particularly, held themselves as queens, fixedly dignified. Word had passed that they were perhaps to be spared execution but not that they might also be spared slavery. In the foremost rows of the crowd, the wealthier and more daring of the senators’ wives began privately to bid for their services.

On the flat ground in front of Valerius, the shade of Eburovic raised his shield to battle readiness. On the plain, the cart containing Caradoc’s family reached the mid-point of the marked track. At the plain’s edge, the Praetorian centurion raised a discreet hand. Valerius felt his heart lurch, as at the start of battle. He hissed at the driver of the grey horses. “Get ready. When Marullus drops his hand, move at a walk. Follow the tracks of the others. If you value your life, don’t let the horses stop.”

The man nodded, his face a mask of fervent concentration. In this place, death hung close, like flies on a still day. A mistake in the emperor’s procession would meet with only one outcome; the only question would be the manner of their dying.

The drumbeat matched the cadence of the horses as they moved forward into walk. The cartwheels turned, whispering greasily on their shafts. The white mare was parade trained, and she stepped out like a war horse—and on through the shade of a man she had never known. Bán felt the cold judgement of his father wash through him, a man
he had respected above all others. Frost sheathed his heart. Only the willing warmth of his horse stopped him from toppling out of the saddle. As Valerius, he swore in Gaulish, Thracian and Latin. None of these helped.

Dubornos said, “He loved you,” and there were no guards close enough to tear out his tongue.

The crowd held its breath. The cart carrying the defeated rebel moved at a pace far slower than any that had gone before it. Drowning in the appreciative, lingering silence, Julius Valerius, decurion of the First Thracian Cavalry, rode by instinct, blindly.

“You’ve worked a long time for this; you should enjoy it more.” Dubornos was ebullient. One would not have thought him a man whose death would begin a few short speeches away and end with another dawn.

In Eceni, Valerius said, “I will remind you of that, come dusk.”

Ahead, the wagon bearing the rebel leader’s family reached its appointed place and turned. The boy, Cunomar, raised his head and asked a question of Cygfa; across the field Valerius saw it and cursed the fact that the child had not been given poppy to keep him pliable and silent. Caradoc’s cart reached the mid-point of the processing pathway and curved back towards the emperor. The sun-gold glare was blinding, Claudius a hazed silhouette in its nucleus. Agrippina was more easily seen, being less the focus of the light. She had dressed all in white, perfect as pearls, with her hair chastely hidden and no jewellery but small clutches of seed pearls at her throat and ears.

Sweating, Valerius counted the paces in to the tribunals.

Twenty. Ten.
What would you have done if
… A hushed
mutter from the crowd surged to a soft peak and subsided into silence. Five paces. A single horn blew, devastatingly loud. Blessedly, the horses ignored it. Two paces. Begin the halt …
you had known that Breaca
…