32

News of the slaughter of twelve men from the garrison at Segontium, twelve men out on manoeuvre in the mountains, twelve men who just happened to be initiates of the Mithraean temple, and the supposed consignment of their bodies to the icy depths of Llyn Llydaw on the slopes of Yr Wyddfa, reached Elen before her husband heard the news. His response was a raised eyebrow, hers a quiet thank you to Branwen, wherever she now was.

Macsen was distracted by other more pressing events.

His decision to march south towards Italia and Roma was made. However popular, efficient and unopposed Macsen's rule over Britannia, Gaul, Hispania, and North Africa had been, he was not content with half the empire. He wanted more. And his spies had told him that Valentinian was at last about to make a stand. The boy, with Theodosius's support, was ready to fight him the moment he reached Italia.

Macsen told Elen the evening he first received details of his rival's decision. He had put his army on notice of imminent departure and only then did he tell his wife what the future held. She had already heard the gossip of course; the news had flown round the fortress at Treverorum as soon as the -commanders of the army and his ruling generals had left the imperial audience chamber. When he arrived in their private apartments Elen was waiting for him, tight-lipped. ‘So, finally you come to tell me.'

He seemed surprised that she already knew.

‘The entire town knows, down to the lowliest slave,' she retorted, simmering with anger. ‘It appears I am the only person you forgot to tell. Well, I have news for you. This is the moment when I return to Britannia and to my own kingdom and my children will return with me.'

‘No.' He was in no mood for opposition. ‘You will accom-pany me at the front line of my forces and my children will all be with us. Flavius Victor will ride at my side. Not in actual battle, of course, if there is one,' it was a small enough concession, ‘but until then my men will see that my son and heir is with me.'

‘He's a little boy!'

‘He is my co-emperor, I have given him the title Augustus.' He was implacable. ‘Valentinian is a boy too. He is sixteen years old. He will not fight. Not when it comes to it.'

She knew there was no point in arguing. White to the lips, she turned away from him, arms folded into her shawl as she walked away from him. They were alone. She knew that her servants and her ladies were huddled in the next room as near the door as possible, already knowing what was to -happen, already knowing her arguments would be fruitless. The -smaller children were safe in their nurseries with their own attendants, but they too had probably picked up on the general atmosphere. She wasn't sure where Victor was. His tutor had collected him from his schoolroom earlier saying the emperor had sent for him. No doubt the little boy already knew he was to ride his beautiful chestnut pony beside his father at the head of the entire army, not for a parade, but to take possession of Urbs Aeterna, the rightful capital of the greatest empire there had ever been. He would be proud, a little nervous but knowing he mustn't show it. He wouldn't look back for his -mother or the nursemaids or the cuddly woollen rabbit he secretly hugged at night. He was a prince, a royal child, son of the emperor and of the royal line of Britannia and he would one day be sole emperor of the whole of the Roman Empire. He was born to lead.

‘No!'

It wasn't Elen speaking, it was Cadi as she threw down her pen. She looked at her watch. It was 1.30 a.m. Charles had left a couple of hours before to walk back through the silent village. They had talked for a long time, companionably, at first in the quiet dark of the garden, then as the grass became cold and damp with dew, indoors, where Cadi lit the fire, and they sat together with glasses of wine, staring into the flames. ‘Do you think Ifan was in the meadow?' she asked him.

‘I think it's unlikely. He wouldn't want to risk being questioned if there was anyone around. It may be his land but he obviously doesn't want people to know about his connection to you or he would have mentioned it by now. I should think he wants to keep a low profile at the moment.'

‘But he was willing to risk walking up here and hanging around my house.'

‘I doubt if that was a rational decision.'

‘You think he couldn't help himself?' she smiled. She took a sip from her glass and then bent forward to throw another log on the fire. ‘What a mess.'

He wasn't sure if she was referring to Ifan or the body in the field, or the whole development debacle.

The room filled with the scent of the apple branch burning, fragrant and spicy in the dim light of the single lamp on the desk. They sat in silence for a while.

‘Did Steve give you any clue as to when they will have the results of the carbon tests?' she asked at last. While he was in Cardiff, Charles had dropped in at the lab and Steve had shown him the bones. The two men had bent over the table studying the skeleton, which was accompanied now by an assortment of other bones from deeper in the grave. Steve had pointed to various slight differences in colour and consistency. The original skeleton had been dated to the modern era. The 1930s fitted. The others appeared to be Roman. The confusion had arisen from the extra bones that had found their way into the original dig and from the accumulation of artefacts, some fourth cen-tury, including the shoes that it had been assumed were worn by the man shot by George Harris.

They looked at each other and Cadi shook her head. ‘Are they going to do the tests again?'

‘What else can they do? They brought in an osteoarchaeologist. The theory is that this was a Roman-period burial pit. By good or bad luck, Harris dug a hole in the middle of it and buried his victim there without ever realising there were other bodies there already, probably not much further down. If there are any anomalies with our bones, owing to their possible weird origins, it would in those circumstances be very hard to prove. Which is probably just as well.' He grinned.

‘They'll never work it out, will they.' Cadi took another sip from her glass. ‘Is Steve coming back to work on the grave?'

‘He certainly wants to.' Charles gave a wry smile. ‘But I doubt anyone, even Meryn, is going to suggest the scenario we suspect as an option.' He downed his last drop of wine and stood up. ‘I must go. It's very late. Cadi,' his voice took on an awkward note, ‘is it all right if I come back in the morning? I don't want to intrude. I don't want you to feel I've imposed myself on this situation. Please say if I make you feel uncomfortable.'

She looked up at him, horrified. ‘You're not intruding. Of course you must come back.' She stood up and reached for his hand. ‘I'm sorry if I've been a bit touchy. This whole business with Ifan is... It's hard. I'd like you to be here.' She smiled. ‘You're part of the team.'

He grinned. ‘Good. Then I'll see you in the morning.' Gently, he withdrew his hand. ‘And we can decide if there's anything we can or should do? All three of us.' He turned towards the door.

‘You will be careful, Charles, won't you. If Ifan thought you and I are...' she trailed off, embarrassed. ‘That we are friends. He is– or he was– an insanely jealous man. I keep remembering how scary he was, and how awful those last months with him were. If he's out there somewhere—'

‘Don't worry about me.' Charles grinned. ‘Lock the door behind me. Among my hidden talents– in fact, one of my few hidden talents– is that I have a black belt in karate. I know it's hard to believe, and it was a comparatively long time ago, but I think if your Ifan jumped me he would be in for quite a shock.' He winked.

She closed the door silently after him, slid the bolt and quickly checked the back door in the pantry for the umpteenth time before going over to the fire, where she stood for a while looking down at the burning embers. When she returned to her desk and picked up the pen, she was hardly aware that she had done it.

Elen rode with her children, all except Victor, amongst the army followers. She refused to go to the head of the long columns of the massed cohorts and Macsen didn't insist. As the men marched out of the fortress the sound of their hobnailed sandals echoed round the city of Treverorum. They were bound south-eastwards, destined to confront the young Emperor -Valentinian in his base at Mediolanum.

The legions made camp at last outside the city of Lugdunum, which Macsen designated their temporary staging post. He took over the old palace buildings on the heights of the hill for himself and his entourage. Elen found herself in the imperial -apartments with the children. They were now on the very edge of Gaul and still miles from their target ensconced at Mediolanum. Valentinian knew they were coming but their messengers had already informed them that he had no intention of fleeing. He was, they were told, strutting up and down the walls of his city shaking his fists in defiance at anyone who would dare to threaten him. Macsen gave a grim smile when he heard the boy's response to his approach. ‘Stupid child! He will change his mind when we get closer. But for now I will let him sweat while we rest and allow our troops some time to train and replenish their stores. Then we will march on to Mediolanum.' He put his arm around Elen's shoulders. ‘Are you not pleased I made you come? The children are enjoying themselves. Our boy trains with the men. He is an excellent rider. And the little ones are thriving.' He turned his head slightly towards the long passage which led to the children's quarters. Shrill shouts and laughter echoed towards them, followed by the distant sounds of a remonstration from an impatient adult voice.

Elen smiled. ‘They do sound happy. They're tired after the long days on the road. They'll enjoy staying in one place for a time.'

The door opened and Marcellinus joined them to discuss the state banquets for the city dignitaries they were to host once they were settled in. The city dignitaries in question had no doubt been summarily displaced from their homes by Macsen's outriders to allow room for the emperor and his family and his generals to make themselves comfortable in the old palace and the beautiful townhouses of the city. Macsen settled into his office with his scribes and contented himself with sending off yet another letter to the young emperor, demanding that he amend the agreement they had made three years before and recognise him as sole emperor of the West with his son as co-emperor. Then he sat back to wait for an answer. It was a respite. For a few weeks his young family settled into something resembling a routine. Elen saw little of Macsen and, she realised, she didn't much care. Life was too stressed and uneasy when he was there. His endless energy was exhausting, and his constant demands on poor little Victor made her feel helplessly angry for the child, though the little boy was doing his best to imitate his father and learn his duty, a duty that made him arrogant and hard to control and a nightmare for his older sisters. The three smaller boys he ignored. They were too young to be rivals and he barely noticed them at all. Only Elen saw the softer, frightened child still there beneath the braggadocio and because of that he avoided her whenever he could, only crawling onto her couch, his thumb in his mouth, when life became too much for him, snuggling into her arms, hiding his tears and trying to pretend he wasn't there.

No answer came to the emperor's letter and the date for leaving Lugdunum was set. The soothsayer came four days before they were due to leave the city and march eastwards towards Mediolanum, the centre of Valentinian's resistance.

The man had, it appeared, demanded to see the emperor. His demand was refused, so he turned his attention to the empress. Autumn had come early to the palace and the wind whistled through the corridors and huge pillared chambers. Elen was huddling by a brazier in one of the reception rooms, talking to the children's tutor. It wasn't only young Victor who was learning now, all the others were being given lessons, even little Peblig. The tutor bowed and retired after giving the visitor a haughty look, unable to believe that the empress had allowed the stranger to approach her. The long white beard declared him a non-Roman and his robe, though clean and far from ragged, was roughly woven and without decoration. He carried a staff and wore a pouch on a long ornate leather strap over one shoulder. That at least declared him a man of means. Elen guessed he might be a Druid, but did not show any recognition. Instead she waved her attendants back to the far end of the chamber and demanded his name.

‘I am Cador.' His gaze swept over her and his eyes narrowed. ‘You recognise my calling, I suspect. And will not be surprised to learn that I bring warnings. The emperor will not listen to me so I come to you. We are kin in blood, you and I. I come from Albion; my father was a chieftain among the Silures, your own people.' She waited, her attention fully on him though she sensed the restlessness amongst some of the crowd at the far end of the room. They could not have heard his words, but they were suspicious.

‘Greetings, my friend,' she said it very quietly. ‘What do you have to tell me?'

‘My dreams tell me the future.'

She looked at him uneasily. ‘And what do you see?'

‘Your husband. If he does not turn back now, he will never return to the west. And neither will your eldest son.'

She felt a clutch at her throat. ‘He does not plan to return to the west, my friend. He is set on reaching the eternal city.'

‘Theodosius will not allow it.'

‘Theodosius is far away.'

‘Valentinian will flee from Italia, and that will encourage Macsen in his dreams, but they are fruitless. At least save your children, lady. They are blameless and they are of the blood of Albion, the sacred isle. They are destined to breed a line of kings such as the land will never see again.' He was staring into the distance, his gaze fixed on some distant vision.

She had grown cold all over. ‘My husband will not listen to me. Warnings have been given before and he refused to listen. Besides'– she reminded herself– ‘magic and thus foretelling the future is forbidden by the teaching of Christ.'

He drew himself up to his full height with an air of wounded dignity. ‘I do not read the entrails of animals or ritually slaughter fellow men, as you should know, lady. I merely dream of the future and god, your god or perhaps my gods, give me messages so that disaster can be averted. I have listened and passed on the information. The rest is up to you.' He turned away slowly.

‘Stop!' The word rang out loudly before she could stop herself. She stepped back, her hand to her mouth, as everyone in the room turned towards them. ‘I am sorry. I should not have accused you. I believe your messages, but my husband'– she shrugged her shoulders in despair– ‘will not.'

‘I have done my part.' He half turned towards her, then he shook his head slowly. ‘I can do no more.'