by Henry Treece
For a while Cynwas stared in astonishment. Then his hands came from behind his back and he began to reach for his dagger. And at that moment the centurion Tigidius crossed the room in two long paces and struck Novantico a blow with the clenched fist that tumbled him into the hay on the floor.
Then he turned to the Celt and said, ‘That is something I should have done before, sir. I will see that he does not trouble you again.’
He ordered two legionaries to drag the man out and put him into one of the huts. Cynwas watched all this in silence. His face had gone very white and his hands were trembling, but he bowed his head slightly towards Tigidius and said, ‘Small dogs will yelp at big ones, whatever their breed. Let us forget it; I will call the serving-women in.’
Trestle-tables of oak were set up and benches dragged into the hall. Cynwas sat at the centre of the narrow board with his sister on his right hand and Marcus on his left. Tigidius sat opposite his Tribune, with the legionaries on one side of him and the tribesmen on the other. The women ran in with bowls of red earthenware which they filled with oat porridge, flavoured with wild honey. Then, before the great wooden platter of mutton was set before the chieftain, other women poured out sweet sticky mead into horn cups, or tart ale for those who preferred it. Tigidius said, ‘If our garrison cooks could bake bread half as kind to the teeth as yours, sir, we should be lucky men. But they are all from Spain, where the bread is hardly different from the stones of the dry riverbeds.’
Cynwas smiled again now and said, ‘Then at least there is something we can teach Rome, if it is only the baking of bread.’
That was a strange moment, a little silence in which all men along the feast-board stopped eating and drinking and turned their eyes towards their leaders, as though they thought the quarrel might flare up again. Marcus felt the hairs on his neck stiffen and a breath of chilly air pass down his back as though someone had walked over his grave.
Suddenly he leaned forward and unbuckled a medallion that swung at the front of his breast-plate. It was as round as a man’s palm and its rich gold surface glimmered in the torchlight. With a smile he reached before Cynwas and laid this medallion beside the wooden bowl from which Aranrhod was eating. ‘Here, lady,’ he said. ‘It has been in my mind to give you this for the last hour. Perhaps it will lessen your sadness about the horse. Or, if you chose, you could buy two horses with it. Will you accept it from me?’
At first Cynwas put out his hand as though to push the ornament back to the Roman; then he stopped and said quietly, ‘Well, sister, answer the Tribune yourself. You are old enough to make other decisions, it seems.’
Aranrhod had a piece of bread in her mouth and tried to swallow it so quickly that she began to splutter and to go red in the face. Cynwas slapped her on the back so hard that her golden plaits swung into her porridge-bowl and then everyone began to laugh. So the bad moment passed.
And when she had finished coughing, Aranrhod touched the moulded surface of the medallion and said, ‘It is very beautiful. What is it? Does it carry magic in it, Tribune?’ Marcus pretended to scratch his chin. ‘I do not know its history, lady,’ he said. ‘My father always wore it and, I think, his father before him. I do not remember anyone ever saying that it held magic in it though.’
The girl ran her forefinger over the design, tracing it carefully in the flickering light. She said at last, ‘I think that it must be a magic thing. See, it shows a god with horns upon his head.’
The tribesmen lower down the board began to suck in their breath and to stare at one another. Marcus said in haste, ‘No, lady, not a god. I think it is meant to be one of the great captains in olden times. Perhaps it is Alexander who marched all the way to India, and fought with Persians and Egyptians.’
Aranrhod looked puzzled. ‘Then why does he wear horns?’ she asked.
Tigidius saw the look in the Tribune’s eyes, so he said quickly, ‘They are not horns, lady, they are the two branches of a laurel crown. But they are now so worn with age and use that they look like horns, perhaps, in this light.’ Cynwas stared at him and said, ‘I think you are the sort of man who would speak the truth to a child.’ It was said like a question, and Tigidius answered from a stiff face, ‘Chieftain, I try to speak the truth to anyone, child or not. Few people who know me ever ask that question.’
Cynwas did not answer him, but turned to his sister and said, ‘You are a lucky girl, lady. You must hang this pretty warrior on a leather thong and always wear it round your neck. One day, who knows, you may be a queen in India or those other places the centurion has mentioned, and then the folk there will think all the more highly of you for wearing such an emblem.’
No more was said but as soon as she could, Aranrhod left the feasting and the men drank more mead and ale from the horns and cups.
Cynwas whispered to Marcus, ‘She will dream all night of this. No doubt, even now the medallion will be passing from hand to hand in the maidens’ bower; and every one who holds it will be making up some mad story or another about it. Come, Romans, let me fill your cups again. On a rainy night like this there is little left for us to do but sit by the warm fire and enjoy the sweet mead.’
[8]
The Dream
That night, lying curled in his cloak by the dying fire and with the rain still thudding on the roof above him, Marcus had a strange dream. He thought that he was in a dark forest at evening-time, with the rain rustling in the branches above him, and the damp leaves beneath his feet silencing all footsteps. From time to time he called into the dusk, ‘Father! Father! Where are you? I want to tell you something?’
He felt very sad as he said this, and at first did not know why. Then he remembered in his dream that he had given away the gold medallion. And suddenly a hoarse whispering voice came out of a hawthorn bush to him and said, ‘Why are you weeping, Roman? A man does not weep; he takes action when he is sad. A fine Tribune such as you should take action, or how shall you keep the respect of the gods that watch over you?’
Marcus gazed round, but could see no one in the bush. So he said into the darkness, ‘What action should I take? And who are you to tell me this?’
The forest seemed to be filled with mocking laughter then, and this time the voice came from over his head, in the thickness of the oak leaves. It said, ‘I am the voice of the earth, Roman. I live in the soil and the trees and the hissing barley. I live in the red foxglove and the little fishes of the streams. I live in the horn of the bull and the hoof of the deer. Now do you know who I am?’
Marcus shook his head and said, ‘I do not know you.
Come out and let me see you. Are you a man or a woman?’ A great wind got up and flung him against the damp green bole of an oak tree. Then the voice said from under his feet, ‘Now do you know who I am, Roman? Who else could throw you so hard against that tree?’
Marcus tried to wrap his cloak about him, but the wind dragged it from his fingers and he could not hold it. He said, struggling, ‘I have heard your voice before. I have known it since I was a little boy, but I cannot remember whose voice it is. Who are you, tell me?’
A low branch, caught in the wind, swept across his face like a savage blow, and while he reeled from it, the voice said again, ‘How dare you ask, you foolish fellow! Do you not carry my brooch in your pouch to remind you? Have you forgotten the great stones and the riders in the sunken lane so soon? Have you forgotten the queen with hair like a fox?’
Then in his dream Marcus fell to his knees on the wet ground and said, ‘Forgive me, Boudicca. I have never forgotten you, not in all these years. ”
And the voice, coming from behind him, said, ‘Nor have I forgotten you, my fine fellow. I shall know you again, never fear. I never forget a face, however many years pass by. I never forget a trespasser in my lane, Roman.’
Marcus said, ‘I do not know what to do, queen. I am lost in this dark forest. I have lost my father and the golden medallion he left to me. What should I do, lady? What action should I take?’
Then the high laughter seemed to fade away, over the tree tops, on the wind, leaving everything very still and frightening. Even the rain stopped coming down. And as Marcus stared about him in wonder, a little green snake with brown markings down its back slithered close by his knees, then suddenly burrowed swiftly out of sight into the leaves before him.
Then the voice came back out of the small round hole that the creature had made, and whispered like a hiss, ‘Put your hand under the leaves, Roman. Dare to feel under the leaves and you will find all you have lost. That is the action you must take, brave warrior!’
Marcus was so angry at being taunted like this, he drew back his sleeve and plunged his hand down among the damp brown leaves and began to feel about. For a while he found nothing, then all at once his fingers came on something hard and cold. But it was not the medallion, nor could he drag it up to the surface however much he pulled at it.
Then a cold sweat broke out over all his body as he realized what it was he had found.
He cried out in anger and sadness, ‘You have tricked me, woman. It is my father below the leaves. I would know that ring on his finger anywhere, though I cannot see it.’
He was still shouting out and struggling when his eyes opened and he saw Tigidius above him, staring down at him with wide eyes.
‘Be still, Marcus, be still,’ the centurion was saying. ‘You are all wet, as though you had a fever. You have been dreaming some bad dream. But the time for dreaming is over. There are things to be done now that cannot wait.’
The centurion took his hand from the Tribune’s mouth. Marcus sat up shivering and looked about. It was broad daylight and the sun was coming in through the window-holes of the hall. The fire had burned down to white ashes and no servants had built it up again. Two legionaries were standing at the far end of the hall, looking white-faced and afraid: Outside there was much shouting in the Celtic tongue, and horses seemed to be stamping about as though their riders were swinging them round, this way and that.
Marcus said, ‘What is going on, man? What has happened?’
But before the centurion could answer, Cynwas burst into the hall with his hair flying. He was dragging like a madman at the buckle of his belt to fasten it.
‘I’ll tell you what has happened,’ he said. ‘Rome has betrayed us once again, my friend. That is what has happened.’
Now Marcus stood up and passed his hand across his damp face. ‘I was asleep,’ he said. ‘I do not understand, brother. How has Rome betrayed you?’
Cynwas stormed up to him as though he would strike him in the face. Then he seemed to hold himself back and hissed, ‘Your brave decurion has left in the night and has taken most of the Romans with him. All you have left now are these two, who stand trembling here like bullocks who smell the butcher coming. And I swear by Mabon, the butcher will come if Aranrhod is not returned to me.’
Marcus gasped, ‘What! The men have deserted and have taken your sister with them? This cannot be true. No, it cannot be true.’
One of the soldiers stepped forward a pace then and said in a dead voice, ‘Sir, it is true. We saw them creep out and heard them gallop away. We did not know what to do. We reported to the centurion, but it was too late then, they had gone.’
Tigidius nodded gravely. ‘I tried to wake you, Marcus,’ he said, ‘but it was as though you lay under a deep spell.’
Marcus glowered about him, then nodded. ‘I think I was,’ he said. ‘And the dream has not left me yet. I cannot see clearly. I can scarcely understand the words that are said to me.’
Then Cynwas took him roughly by the shoulder and shook him. ‘The sooner you break from your dream the better, Roman,’ he said, ‘for there is blood to be paid now. The guard at Aranrhod’s door lies stark with your decurion’s knife in his back. My sister is dragged from her house. Our horses have been stolen. What price shall be paid for all that, do you think, Tribune?’
Marcus drew away from him and gazed at the two soldiers. ‘Can you men ride?’ he asked coldly. They nodded. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘if we mount without losing more time and take the road to Lindum, we may still cut off these mutinous dogs before more harm is done.’
Cynwas stared at him without belief for an instant, then suddenly he said, ‘I do believe that you are an honest man at heart, Roman. Come, there shall be ponies for the four of you and we will take the road you say. But, when we catch these murdering thieves, do not think to save them with any Roman arguments. They shall suffer the punishment of our people, and nothing you can say shall save them.’
Tigidius stepped forward and said then, ‘There will be no argument, Cynwas. But you will not punish them - I shall. And their punishment will be according to the law of men and not of beasts.’
For a moment Cynwas was speechless. Then he said through clenched teeth, ‘Very well, centurion. Very well. But if my sister is not returned to me unharmed, then you too shall share the punishment. And it will be such that all men shall remember it and shall call it The Judgement of Cynwas.’
He turned then and led the way from that still hall, to where tribesmen held horses ready for the pursuit.
[9]
The Gorse-Grown Hollow
They galloped away, swinging beneath leaning boughs, fording streams with a white scatter of foam, whipping their horses eastwards and then north. Cynwas went in the front, riding like a vengeful god, hunched in the saddle, his broad sword at his right hip. The four Romans held the middle place, going knee to knee with no thoughts of rank now, always aware that behind them came the Coritani tribesmen, their javelins across their thighs as they galloped.
Once, as they came fast towards a crumbling wall of old grey stone, Marcus called out to Cynwas, ‘Slower, man! Slower! You’ll have your pony down.’ But the Celt thumped in his heels even harder and took the wall like a bird, seeming hardly to waver in his travelling, and landing so lightly on the far side that his horse’s hooves scarcely disturbed the tall grasses. But Cynwas did not turn in the saddle, either to thank or to mock Marcus. He rode like a man alone in the world, ignorant of friends and enemies alike.
Tigidius grunted as his bony mount worked at the hard ground. He said to Marcus, ‘Hold your tongue, lad. He’ll tire first, then we can talk sense to him.’
But half a day passed, through woodland, beside rivers, along bridle paths, and Cynwas did not look back. And when the sun stood above the riders’ heads and the country opened out towards the great military road, Marcus said to the centurion, ‘This is madness. The horses will drop dead beneath us, and we shall be too weary to lift a hand to save the girl or to defend ourselves.’ He kicked hard at his pony’s ribs and drew away from the other Romans. Cynwas heard the thudding of hooves and glanced back, red-faced and furious. ‘Get back, Roman!’ he shouted. But Marcus urged his pony onwards until he was almost able to reach forward and touch the cloak of Cynwas as it flared out behind him.
Then suddenly the Celt swung round, his thong-whip hissing like a snake, and struck the Tribune full across the face with the heavy lash. The Roman gasped, tasted the salt from his broken lips, then with a cry of anger surged forwards until he could grasp at the flailing whip. For a moment he thought of dragging Cynwas out of the saddle. But then his fury died back a little and all he did was to wrench the thong away from him and, riding so close that their leg-bones jolted together painfully, he yelled, ‘If you are so much a fool as not to know friend from enemy, then gallop to your death, and good riddance to you!’ He had meant to veer away to the left then, where the turf was cropped by sheep and seemed easier going, in-stead of straight on, which led to a shadowy basin, grown round with gorse-bushes and straggling thorn. But before the words had left him, Cynwas had leaned across and had him by the belt, drawing him from the saddle. Then Marcus saw with horror that the Celt had slipped his sword from the sheath and holding it with shortened blade was about to push it at him.
Rolling sideways, he watched the bright iron slide past him, only an inch from his
body, ripping through the fabric of his padded tunic. He let loose the reins and with both hands took the arm of Cynwas, thrusting it down like a stick to be broken over the knee, and shouted, ‘You madman! If you will not be warned, then suffer!’
He saw the sword fly away to his left, the sudden wide staring of the Celt’s eyes, then both ponies were down, rolling over and over into the gorse-grown hollow.
Now all thoughts of hurting the Celt went from the Roman’s mind. He flung up his hands to cover his head and tumbled down and down, among thistles and daisies and dock, like a rolling ball. He heard the horses falling too, heard their great hooves thudding and scraping at the turf, heard the riders behind him shouting and slithering over the edge.
A fleck of foam from one of the horses flew gently through the air and landed on the Tribune’s cheek. In all that fierce falling he knew what it was, and even put his fingers to it, to wipe it away.
And then everything changed. He was no longer angry with Cynwas; no longer afraid that the horses would roll on him, or that the riders behind him would gallop on to him. For now, all at once, he lay among the dead, and what they looked like took his thoughts away from all other things.
At the dry base of the little round basin, where the ground ivy twined about the struggling holly shoots, Novantico lay white-faced and gaping, stripped of his armour, his arms spread wide. And above him and below him, their limbs twisted about bushes, their bodies scratched by wild brambles, lay the other legionaries. Between them all there was not enough cloth to cover a scarecrow.
Marcus was on his knees, staring at them, when he realized that Cynwas was beside him, staring also. And halfway down that steep slope the other riders sat aghast at what lay below.
