Agrippina rolled, got her legs underneath her body, and pushed up with the others. The wooden planks covering their temporary tomb splintered and fell away, and dirt tumbled in around her. Then she found her shoulders pressing against a dense mass of carpet. They had expected this. Nectovelin drove his sword up into the weave and dragged it backwards to make a broad cut.
They thrust upwards into a soft light of torches and oil lamps. Agrippina blinked; it was the first light she had seen all day.
She took in the scene in a heartbeat. The granary had become a palace, the walls hastily whitewashed, a thick carpet with a richly woven pattern laid over the floor. Oil lamps splashed pools of light. Low couches and tables lay littered around the floor, the remains of the dinner party. Amid these bits of luxury Agrippina, standing in a hole in the floor, felt filthy, stinking, a beast in the world of humans.
And at one end of the granary a desk had been set up, heaped with scrolls and parchments. A man, unassuming, dressed in a plain-looking woollen tunic, was sitting at the desk. He was looking over his shoulder at the intruders. Slowly he got to his feet. He was perhaps thirty feet from Agrippina.
Nectovelin roared, ‘Claudius!’ And he threw his stabbing sword.
Claudius flinched, but shuffled aside. The sword slammed into the desktop, skewering scrolls. The attack had already gone wrong, Agrippina saw. It was chance that their hole in the ground was at one end of the long granary, Claudius’s desk at the other, giving him time to step aside.
Nectovelin bellowed his frustration, drew a dagger and began to run at Claudius. But the Emperor, recovering from his shock, called for his guards: ‘Custodiae!’
The first to respond were the two senior Romans of the day before in Camulodunum, the impressive commander and the Greek – though the commander’s armour was half undone, and the Greek wore a nightshirt. The commander, unarmed, unhesitating, hurled himself at Nectovelin’s legs and brought him crashing to the ground. Nectovelin struggled but the Roman, younger, just as heavy, was on his back, and in an instant he had taken Nectovelin’s own dagger and pressed it to his throat.
More soldiers burst into the room. Agrippina didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the Greek, easily twisting an arm behind his back, and cut his cheek with a savage swipe of her knife. The Greek screamed, his voice high, like a distressed sheep’s.
The Emperor seemed more concerned for the Greek’s fate than his own. He took a step forward. ‘Narcissus!’
‘Stay back,’ Agrippina snapped in Latin. ‘Let Nectovelin live. Or this one dies before your eyes.’
The crowded granary had become a tableau – the Emperor, Agrippina with Narcissus, Nectovelin with his own blade cutting into his flesh, and the guards staring wildly, their swords drawn. One of them had Cunedda in a bear hug.
The Roman on the ground looked up. ‘Emperor,’ he hissed. ‘Let me finish off this fat pig.’
Claudius was a small, middle-aged man. The single step he had taken was uneven, a limp, and his mouth opened and closed, gulping like a fish, as he took in the situation. The rumours in Gaul were that Claudius was a weakling, perhaps even deformed, the runt of the imperial litter. He wore thick socks, comically; perhaps he had poor circulation too. But he was an emperor, and after that first moment of shock he stood straight, and his voice was firm. ‘Let him up, Vespasian.’
‘Sir—’
‘Let him up! I am in no danger now.’ He glanced at one of the soldiers. ‘We will deal with the issue of my personal security later, Rufrius Pollio.’ The man, perhaps the commander of the guard, cowered. ‘But I would not lose my secretary to these grubby thugs. Let him up, I say.’
The Roman commander, Vespasian, clambered reluctantly off Nectovelin. He hauled the Brigantian to his feet with a massive hand at the scruff of his neck, and he kept a grip on Nectovelin’s arm. ‘One move out of you, you ugly bastard, and I’ll slit your throat no matter what the Emperor says.’
Nectovelin had not taken his eyes off the Emperor. Agrippina kept her knife blade at the throat of the Greek, Narcissus.
Claudius walked forward, his gait uneven but his command now obvious. ‘Another warrior woman. You were right about their temperament, Narcissus. But this one seems rather more presentable, under all that dirt, than the muscular hags you paraded before me today. That rather attractive strawberry hair…’
Narcissus, breathing hard, a knife at his neck, seemed to be trying to regain command of himself. ‘I apologise for my poor taste, Emperor.’
Vespasian growled, ‘Sir, we must end this.’
‘Now, legate, have patience. I would rather enjoy seeing how this little drama plays out. Quite a cast – a hairy savage, a beautiful girl, and a weakling boy who, from the moon-eyed glances he throws, is more in love than fearful.’
Agrippina hissed, her anger overcoming her fear, ‘I understand every word you say, Roman.’
‘Yes, you spoke Latin, didn’t you?’ Claudius peered at her, his small face creased with curiosity. ‘But accented. Are you Gallic?’
‘I am Brigantian.’
‘I don’t know what a Brigantian is.’
‘An as yet undomesticated strain of British,’ Narcissus said tightly.
‘I was educated in Gaul,’ Agrippina said.
‘Then you must know who I am.’
‘You are Claudius.’
He smiled. ‘Tiberius Claudius Nero Germanicus, to be precise.’
Germanicus. Named with a German name…The recognition shocked her, and her blade at Narcissus’s throat faltered. Vespasian saw this; his eyes were hard, waiting for an opportunity to move against her. She summoned her concentration. ‘My name is Agrippina.’
Claudius clapped his hands. ‘A good Roman name! Your parents had sound instincts, even if you don’t share them. How ironic, then, that the logic of your life should lead you to this point.’ He turned to Cunedda. ‘And you?’
‘I am Cunedda.’ Despite his uncertain Latin he spoke firmly, and Agrippina was proud of him.
Nectovelin growled in his native Brigantian, ‘What are they saying, ’Pina?’
With interest Claudius turned to him. ‘Ah, your attack dog speaks too! But this hairy fellow has no Latin, I should imagine. Not very friendly, is he?’
Vespasian growled, ‘Emperor—’
‘Oh, don’t fuss, Vespasian. You,’ he snapped at Cunedda. ‘Speak to your comrade in his own guttural tongue, if you know it, and relate his words to me.’ Claudius turned back to Agrippina. ‘So you are here to kill an emperor.’
‘That was our plan.’
Nectovelin said darkly, translated by Cunedda, ‘And I swear by Coventina’s ravaged arsehole that if I get the chance I will do it, little man.’
Claudius nodded, as if this was quite matter-of-fact. ‘Of course you will. And who sent you?’
‘You have invaded the island. Every Briton, from the Brigantians to the Atrebates, is your enemy.’
‘Oh, come now! Do you expect me to believe that?’ Claudius spoke with the manner of a hectoring parent. ‘Out with it! Who put you up to this? Was it Valerius Asiaticus? Or Magnus Vinicius, who was nominated before me to my throne?’ He went on, listing senators and equestrians and freedmen with grudges, all of whom he suspected of plotting against him, or of scheming to restore the Republic.
Cunedda spoke up. ‘You think so little of us that you imagine we need a Roman to tell us what to do? This was for our own purposes, to rid our lands of you. And even if we fail today, with the men of the west and the druidh at his side, Caratacus will return, and you will pay the price in blood.’
Claudius seemed puzzled. He asked his secretary, ‘Caratacus?’
Narcissus said, his voice tremulous, ‘A son of Cunobelin.’
‘Ah, of course, the useful princes who harassed their neighbours, drove their rival chieftains into the arms of Rome, and made themselves healthy profits from the slaves they took.’
Cunedda frowned. ‘Slaves?’
Vespasian said coldly, ‘Your princes postured in defiance of Rome. But at the same time their raids on your neighbours won them a healthy flow of slaves to send to the markets of Gaul, in return for Roman gold.’
Claudius was watching Cunedda’s face. ‘You are actually disappointed, aren’t you? Are you British fussy about selling slaves? Was Caratacus a hero for you? But can’t you see that this is part of your conquest, that the Roman slave market distorted your politics long before a single soldier set foot here? Caratacus and his brother played two games at once, you see. They were not heroes, little boy. They were hypocrites and fools. And such men can never prevail against Rome.’
Nectovelin was as crestfallen as Cunedda, but he sneered, ‘We’ll see.’
‘How defiant you are! But how do you imagine you could possibly succeed, you or your Caratacus? Rome is a system, you see, a system that works on timescales far longer than a mere human life, even an emperor’s. And it feeds on expansion. The acquisition of wealth flows back to pay for the army, which then wins still more territory and wealth – on and on the wheel turns. Rome was always going to come here; it is destiny.’ His eyes sparkled; he was fascinated, as if this was all an intellectual game, Agrippina thought. ‘But emperors have been assassinated before, and no doubt will be again. Yes, if you had killed me it would have made a mess of things for a bit. Is that what you imagined, you hairy Briton, that history trembled at the point of your sword?’
‘You gabble, Roman,’ Nectovelin said. ‘You speak of destiny. But I have a Prophecy, given to me at the moment of my birth. A Prophecy of victory and freedom. That is why we will win.’
But you are wrong, Agrippina thought, her heart sinking.