26

Branwen was standing in the shadows, only half sheltered from the rain by the spreading branches of a rowan tree, heavy with blood-red berries. She could hear, above the patter of the raindrops, the shouts of acclamation from the entrance to the -temple where the followers of Mithras met for their rites. -Brennius had warned her this was about to happen. The -German cohort still based at Segontium had been ordered out to join the forces of the high king after further raids from the northern Picts. A new initiate was to be admitted to their number and the senior officer had decided to conduct the ceremony before they left. There was no time to wait until the feast of Sol Invictus when like as not the ground would be thick with snow and icy winds would be screaming in across the Hibernian sea. The relief cohort would leave within days. A bull had been ritually slaughtered, so Branwen had heard, not in or near the temple, but by one of the slaughtermen from the vicus, its blood collected in a chalice and its entrails preserved to be burned on a ritual fire. And now, the mysteries completed, a feast was in progress within the inner sanctum of the temple. Some two dozen men had made their way quietly in procession out of the fort down the short path to the bottom of the shallow marshy valley to take part in this most secret celebration, following the road without light, their robes blowing round their legs. Only at the entrance to the narthex did each man briefly walk into the light of the torch pushed into a bracket in the wall and then plunge once more into the darkness of a passage heading down towards the temple itself which was lit by flickering lamps. She could smell the aroma of roasting meat on the air. As the last man passed the torch he took it out of its bracket, dowsed it with a hiss in a bucket of water and carried it with him into the utter darkness, leaving the night to the stars.

Branwen shivered. She made the sign against the evil eye and, to be doubly sure, the sign of the cross as she knew Elen would have done. Leaving the safety of the blessed rowan, she tiptoed closer to the entrance to the temple. Just in time, she spotted a man outside, leaning against the wall, his outline barely visible in the starlight. So, they had left a guard even though they must realise that the fearsome reputation enjoyed by the followers of Mithras would ensure that no one would dare spy on their ceremonies. No one that is except a woman protected by her own gods. She withdrew silently into the shadows. She had no need to see more and she had accomplished her mission, which was to identify the men who were members of this most fearsome cult, men who, according to her informer, had vowed to kill the high king, men who Macsen had trusted to guard the northern shore of this land, men who once they had murdered the high king had vowed to hunt down the emperor himself.

Back in the great round house at Dinas Dinlle, she sat before the blazing fire with the king of the Ordovices. She declined with a shudder a portion of the cawl made with meat, and accepted only a vegetable broth, warming her hands on the bowl. ‘I have no way of knowing if the information is true,' she said, her eyes on the men and women she could see through the doorway, sitting in groups out of the rain under the overhanging eaves of the large building. They were talking and laughing quietly amongst themselves and somewhere in the shadows someone was playing a harp, the sound almost drowned in the rattle of the waves crashing on the shingle below the cliff as the tide came in. ‘But I hear the men of the garrison guard the roads so no messengers can get through to the high king?'

The old man grimaced. ‘That is, after all, their job. They do as they are bid.'

‘And where is Eudaf now?'

Some weeks after Macsen had sailed for Gaul, the high king had left with his followers for a meeting with his son Conan. Without the backup and structure of the Roman legions and the regional officers, and the more recent and efficient but brief rule of Macsen himself, the countryside had lain unprotected as it basked in the summer sunshine. The local chieftains and kings needed oversight and the high king and his stepson were the men to impose it. Time had passed and the autumn gales threatened to make the roads impassable.

‘He is down south somewhere. It is not the high king they plan to murder, or not yet. They will start with Conan, who has returned from Armorica and is temporarily based at Eboracum. The word is that the emperor plans to send his second son back to Britannia to rule with Conan. Constantine, so they tell me, is a proven leader, unlike his elder brother who is an unsteady hand for any tiller. Both young men have adopted Christ as their god, like their father.'

‘So the followers of Mithras have vowed to kill them all?'

The old man nodded, his eyes fixed on the flames. ‘I am too old to go to warn them and I don't know who I can trust to take a message across the country to Eboracum.'

‘Except me.' She smiled quietly.

‘You know the old ways of travelling without being seen as you slip through the forests with the protection of the woodland gods. But even so,' he looked directly at her at last, ‘it is a large thing to ask of a woman alone.'

‘But you know I will go.'

‘You and your sure-footed mule.'

She laughed. ‘Pedr has carried me across the land -without putting a foot wrong. I am sure he can take me out of the mountains here to find my king. And the good thing is both thehigh king and Conan know me, and have known me since our empress was a child. They will trust what I tell them.' Shedid not add that the high king at least would probably be too afraid of her to do anything else.

The old man nodded, satisfied. He leaned forward and put his hand on hers as they sat opposite one another near the fire. ‘Your teacher would have been proud of you, Branwen. You, of all our elders, carry his learning and his courage with grace and strength.'

She returned to the fort next morning after witnessing the early muster in the parade ground. All the senior officers were missing and her casual enquiry as to where they were was greeted by the house steward in the praetorium with a snort of derision. ‘Important meeting of the lodge,' he said as he put breakfast food on the table before her. ‘Followed by a feast for the ini-tiates. Much wine would have been consumed.'

Shocked at his candour she looked at him and held his gaze. ‘Initiates?'

He shook his head and tightened his lips. ‘A word to the wise, domina . Don't ask. They will all be back on duty by high noon.'

She nodded. ‘Then that is a shame. I shall have no chance to make my goodbyes. I leave straight after breaking my fast. I've sent for my mule and my saddlebags are packed.'

He did not ask where she was going and she was not followed. Pedr set off at a brisk trot along the road towards Cano-vium and she found herself greeting imperial messengers, merchants, pedlars, and family groups on their way to visit friends and relatives, all friendly. The old man had been right. Thus far it had been safe for a woman alone to travel the roads, but she could not be certain it would remain so. She might if she were lucky be able to join a family group and with them find lodging in a caupona or a taberna on the road. Or she might be directed to a house of holy women and beg their hospitality, but it was more likely she would have to divert into the gentle safety of the woods and forests with, as the old man had predicted, the protection of her gods. She knew what Pedr would prefer. A warm stable and a net of good hay. She slapped his neck affectionately and he nodded his head in acknowledgement.

It took ten days to reach Eboracum and find the lodging of the king. Conan recognised her with astonishment as she found her way into his presence. He was even more surprised when she insisted on speaking to him alone.

‘I would expect a personal messenger from the Empress Elen to be attended with waiting ladies and slaves and a guard of honour,' he said wryly. ‘She is a very great lady now.'

‘Indeed, and would probably have given me such attendants had she known I was coming. I haven't come from the imperial court. I was in Segontium.' She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were alone.

He noticed her caution and led her out into the atrium of the villa he used as his headquarters in the north when he wasn't with the army. The silence was broken only by the sound of water splashing into the basins of the line of marble fountains. ‘No one can hear us here.'

‘I come from the king of the Ordovices. He gave me a warning for you and I have seen with my own eyes that he speaks the truth. In spite of the law of the Emperor Constantine that Christianity be observed throughout the empire without hindrance, there are many places where his decree has never held sway. Segontium is such a place.' She was choosing her words with care. ‘I know the Emperor Macsen is your brother-in-law and you respect him, so I know I can speak freely. He himself was a follower of Mithras and wore the ruby ring of the most senior initiate when he was here, but he has forsworn Mithras and turned to Christ.' She was studying his face. ‘The officers at Segontium maintain the temple to Mithras outside the fort; they still worship there and they have sworn to destroy any leaders of this land, be they officers of the legions or the -officials of the empire or the emperor himself who have ac-cepted Christian baptism. Your name and the name of your father the high king, have been mentioned, though I don't know if either of you were ever followers of Mithras or have become Christian...' His expression remained inscrutable. ‘And the elder sons of the Emperor Macsen were mentioned specifically as well,' she went on, ‘for being traitors to the sun god, having broken their oaths of allegiance. They too must therefore die. This is not a battle such as the legions carry out in the open, man to man and sword to sword. This is a secret and horrific oath pledged by men vowed to a bloody and unforgiving rule by the worshippers of the Unconquered Sun.'

Conan walked a few paces away from her and stood, arms folded, staring down into the water of the central fountain. ‘This is not entirely news to me,' he said at last. ‘Though I had no idea of exactly where the danger would come from. There are Mithraea all over the land and there have been no orders to close them, just as there have been no orders to close other places of worship. The emperor– both emperors– all the emperors'– he gave a wan smile– ‘understand that it is often more effective to win people over by persuasion than force, and such is the teaching of the Christ, I believe. Although I have also heard that our emperor,' he added wryly, ‘is more forceful. Since he was baptised by Bishop Martin he has become more zealous than the bishop himself, I gather. He has sentenced men to death for apostasy in spite of the pleas by the more merciful bishop. Maybe that is why now we have a threat of retribution and it is the initiates of Mithras who feel that my brother-in-law is the apostate. He is the only one of us, as far as I know, who was an initiate, so as he has betrayed those vows, in their eyes he deserves death. But the rest of his family as well?' He let out a groan of frustration. ‘At least we know now what to expect. Have you sent a warning to him?'

She shook her head. ‘There was no one I could trust at Segontium. I assumed you would have imperial messengers who can carry correspondence to his court at speed.'

‘Speed yes. But confidential? I'm not so sure. Their messenger bags are locked, but...' He made a hopeless gesture with his hands.

‘So, I should be the one to go?'

‘If you were to go with my messengers, they would keep you safe and nothing need be written down. You can be at his imperial palace in fifteen days.'

‘Not on poor old Pedr, I couldn't. He is exhausted after our journey from Caer Seiont.'

‘Pedr?'

‘My faithful mule.'

Conan laughed. ‘My sister's horse, Emrys, who is no cavalry steed, has a home here while she is away. We will keep your mule safe with him for your return. He will have a holiday, fed on the choicest oats. You have my word.'

She held his gaze. ‘I hope you mean that.'

To his intense surprise he felt the power of her gaze and shivered. ‘You have my word,' he repeated and this time he meant it.

The journey to Augusta Treverorum was made in the company of one of the imperial messengers, using relays of fast, well-fed horses, following Ermine Street to Londinium and then on to Rutupiae, stopping briefly for food and short overnight breaks at the army mansiones on the route, lucky enough to catch a fast trading vessel when a brisk wind was blowing in the right direction for once and riding on, following the well-marked roads across Armorica and Gaul towards the royal palace of the Emperor Magnus Maximus Augustus.

He refused to see Branwen and forbade her from seeing his wife. Stunned by her reception, exhausted and angry after the stress of her journey, Branwen was in no mood to be rejected. She stared at the emperor's aide as he conveyed the message, at first cocky, then merely insistent, and at last quailing under her furious ice-cold glare. She walked out of the reception room without a backward glance and he was left standing, staring after her, unsure what to do. She had no interest now in speaking to Macsen. She walked down the corridor, oblivious to her mud-splashed clothing and the untidy hair beneath her veil, approached the first reasonably senior-looking woman she saw and informed her that she needed to speak to the empress at once. The woman did not see any reason to question her and led the way to the empress's quarters. Later she did not even remember the encounter.

‘Branwen?' Elen saw the figure in the doorway as she was in conference with her secretary, another member of the household she found recently that she could not do without. She jumped to her feet and ran across the salon which she used as her office to hug her visitor, much to the surprise of the staff scattered round the room. Within a few minutes they had served wine and refreshments to the visitor, and the room was cleared of people.

‘What is it? What's wrong?' Elen had given Branwen one look and grown cold with dread.

Branwen looked round to ensure they were alone and, her voice no more than a whisper, leaned closer.

‘I was at Segontium less than a month ago and before that a guest of the king at Dinas Dinlle. He warned me of a plot against your husband the emperor, and the men of his family. Your family.'

It did not take long to relay the detail of what Branwen had been told, and what she herself had seen on that windy night outside the temple of Mithras. ‘King Conan will warn everyone who needs to know in Britannia,' she concluded at last. ‘We judged it best I came in person to warn the emperor, lest anyone try and prevent him receiving the news. It appears he is his own worst enemy. He refused to see me.'

Elen gave a wry smile. ‘That is because he would not have realised that you were the bearer of such serious information,' she said gently, ‘and also because he is suspicious of anyone from my own peoples. He knows how much I long to go home and he has forbidden me from leaving his side. No'– she raised her hand to forestall the indignant comment she saw coming– ‘it is his right, I suppose.' She slumped forward, chin on her hand, elbow on the table, deep in thought. ‘In fact, perhaps it is as well you've told me first. We can decide what should be done.' She gave a weary smile. ‘Bishop Martin was here recently. He came to try and dissuade Macsen from sentencing some men who have been accused of heresy. Macsen was determined they should die. Bishop Martin says this is not what Christ would have wanted. They quarrelled. Martin is as fiery a character as my husband when crossed.' She gave a reluctant smile. ‘If Macsen knows that the men who follow Mithras are after him he will want to slaughter every one of them and tear down their temples across the empire. These men are high ranking officers, legionaries, he can't afford to alienate them all.'

Branwen nodded. She allowed herself a sip of wine. ‘But the fact that they are embedded within the legions means they can come close to the emperor. Very close.'

Elen nodded gloomily. ‘Bishop Martin feels the right approach to the many cults and religions of the empire, and even among Christians themselves, is to convert by gentle methods, let them see the love of Christ in action. Win them over rather than terrorise them with torture and death. But that is so often not the way of men. They prefer the language of the sword. It is quick and it is final.'

Branwen shuddered. It was as if a black shadow had fallen across the room as Elen's words dropped into the silence.