Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  A mutter arose amongst the men.

  “It’s the Furies themselves,” they said. And for a moment, he had thought they would not fight, until a wise centurion shouted derisively:

  “What, are you afraid of women now?”

  It had the desired effect: the soldiers had pulled themselves together, and prepared to surge forward.

  The battle was worse than anything he could have dreamed of. The disciplined Roman formations hacked their way through the native horde without difficulty. Men, priests and the women were butchered by the short broad Roman swords in ways that he did nor care to remember. The shallows were awash with bodies; the surf was red. After the fighting he had watched as two old Druids, toothless, with their long grey robes in shreds, but still screaming their useless curses, were tied together in one of their own wooden sacrificial cages and torched in front of him.

  “It’s what they do to their own people,” a soldier shouted. He knew this was not true: the Celtic priests meted out this cruel death to criminals only; but one did not argue with soldiers after a victory, and the two old men died horribly while the Romans laughed:

  “See them fry!”

  He returned to his letter, preferring to put the scenes out of his mind.

  I think the governor means to return to the new town of Londinium in a few days and I shall write to you next from there, no doubt.

  He was tired; it was time to close his letter.

  How grateful I am, dear parents, that Graccus the senator, whom I shall soon call my father-in-law, has made it possible for me to see these things and, I hope, to distinguish myself in some way.

  As for my dear Lydia, I think of her each hour, and count the days until I may see her in the imperial city, once again.

  Your son,

  Caius Porteus Maximus.

  Porteus sighed. Lydia – when would he see her again? In a year, perhaps. He thought of her as he often did, smiling and laughing with him: it seemed like a distant ray of sunshine in this cold northern place.

  It was a remarkable circumstance that he should be betrothed to her at all. She was the third daughter of Graccus, a powerful senator of ancient family; whereas he was of the provincial nobility, belonging to the second, equestrian order of Roman society – respectable, entitled to enter a civil or military career and aim for high office, but hardly a good match for the daughter of a great aristocrat. Normally they should never have met at all; but by some stroke of good fortune – a distant cousin was a magistrate in Rome and had taken Porteus to the senator’s house – he had met the girl and for both of them it had been love at first sight. In such circumstances, a young man like Porteus could have expected to be thrown out of the senator’s house for his presumption – politely and with no hard feelings, but firmly and permanently; and that was exactly what Graccus had tried to do. But Lydia had fallen in love: it was not a thing well bred Roman girls were supposed to do. She had complained and moped incesssantly; and by the end of a month her father, who had two sons and two other daughters to think of, became bored with the whole business and gave way.

  “There’s nothing against young Porteus,” the girl’s mother reminded him.

  “And nothing for him either,” the heavy, grey-haired senator replied irritably. Which was perfectly true.

  Young Porteus had vague aspirations towards a literary career, but these were based upon nothing more solid than some jejune epigrams that he had circulated amongst his friends and which Lydia thought wonderful. The income from the estates in southern Gaul was enough just to maintain the family’s modest social position, but no more; and although Porteus’s father had encouraged him to go into law as an advocate, so far his career in Rome had not been impressive.

  “The daughter of a Graccus does not marry a nonentity,” the senator growled. “I suppose we shall have to make something of him.”

  The solution he hit upon was sensible from every point of view. He had used his influence with the newly appointed governor of Britannia, Suetonius, to have the young man attached to his personal staff for three years.

  “Give young Porteus a chance either to win distinction for himself, or to get killed,” he said to that crusty general. “I don’t mind which.”

  It was an excellent opportunity. The cohors amicorum of a figure like Suetonius formed an informal staff around the governor: it often contained young men of aristocratic family who were being prepared for greater things, and by joining this elite group Porteus would have many chances to make important friends and to learn the inner workings of Roman administration. If the governor chose, he might appoint him to a temporary post in the new province, and at the end of his time there, the young equestrian would have fitted himself to hold important appointments in the future. Groomed for success, Graccus might be able to start him on a career worthy of a member of his family. In the meantime, he would at least be far away from Rome.

  “With luck Lydia will forget him while he’s away,” the senator confided to his wife. “She’s thirteen now, but I dare say it wouldn’t be too late to find her a husband in two years’ time.”

  “I’m sure he will do brilliantly and be a credit to us,” his wife encouraged.

  To Porteus the senator said severely:

  “You are betrothed to Lydia. If you want to marry her, make a success of this post. If you fail, I do not want to see you again.”

  It was, when all was said and done, a generous bargain that the senator was making: for the governor of Britannia was a man of consequence.

  Gaius Suetonius Paulinus was a pompous, red-faced and testy soldier who had distinguished himself in several campaigns, and most notably in the province of Mauretania where, as Praetorian legate, he had made a daring crossing of the mighty Atlas Mountains. War and mountains were what he understood and as soon as he had arrived in the island province he at once set out to find both.

  His influence in Rome was considerable: he was a favourite of Emperor Nero.

  For poor Claudius was now dead, poisoned six years before by his wife. It was his own fault: she was a young woman and the lame emperor was well into middle age: she had a young son from another marriage for whom she was ambitious and she persuaded Claudius to make the boy his successor. Once she had achieved that, she found little use for the ageing emperor. He should have realised this, and been on his guard. But Claudius had grown foolish – worse, he was even in love with his cruel young wife: she poisoned him, and young Nero succeeded.

  Nero was unstable, though brilliant. Once he was emperor, he murdered the mother who had given him the throne and set out to rule in his own peculiar fashion. It soon became clear that he loved above all to appear on the stage: and with his grotesque and lewd performances he shocked the Senate far more than poor stammering Claudius had ever managed to do. Of his favourites, however, some were men of genuine merit: the philosopher Seneca was one; Suetonius the soldier was another.

  Suetonius was a fine commander and he had collected about him a talented group. Amongst them was Agricola, the clear-eyed, hard-faced military tribune who had already shown early promise as a great military commander; several young bloods of the great senatorial families; and Marcus Marcellinus, the leader of this younger group. Marcus’s face was almost a perfect square; his features were strong and symmetrical, with a jutting nose and handsome jetblack eyes, over which the eyebrows met. He was twenty-four, but already bore himself like a man of thirty, and had carried out several civil and military assignments with distinction; it was clear that the soldiers, and even Suetonius respected him and that he would probably follow in the distinguished path of his senior, Agricola, and perhaps Suetonius himself one day. He was tall and powerfully built and Porteus was overawed by him.

  At first his life was difficult. The governor had only accepted him on sufferance; he had neither attainments nor great family to recommend him to the young bloods. It was Marcus who, after Porteus had tried for over a month to make a place for himself in the group with little succes
s, decided that something should be done.

  “It’s time we welcomed young Porteus,” he announced to the others. “The poor fellow’s doing his best and there’s nothing against him. We should give him a chance.”

  Thereafter life became easier. Suetonius, who had completely ignored him while they settled into their temporary quarters in the windy eastern colony at Camulodunum, now saw that the young officers were going about with him and started to give him small tasks to perform. Short as his temper was, he found nothing to complain of in the young man: he was industrious, eager to learn and not particularly stupid.

  “He needs to be tested in battle,” he remarked to the legates one night as they chatted over their meal, “but he could be worse.” And the legates knew that, from the governor, this was as near to a compliment as anyone was likely to get.

  “How did he come to be here?” one of them dared to ask him.

  “I had to please his father-in-law, Graccus the Senator you know,” Suetonius candidly admitted. “Foolish to refuse a favour to a man like that who can always do you some good in Rome. His daughter’s going to marry young Porteus – I can’t think why.”

  Lydia! As he stared at the shadows on the side of his tent, Porteus let his thoughts wander to his future bride. The picture that immediately arose was the same one that always did: it was a vision that was imprinted forever on his memory, that first magic time that he had seen her. The girl had been walking across the small garden in her father’s house in Rome and she had not realised that anyone else was there. It was her thirteenth birthday: her long brown hair was braided and wound round her head in the fashion of that year, and she was wearing a simple white linen dress, gathered at the waist. As she passed the small fountain in the centre of the little court, the sunlight caught her so that her naked form was perfectly silhouetted through the thin material, and he saw, with a gasp of wonder, the firm lines of her body and the soft young breasts newly swollen to their first perfect fullness. It was a sight he should never have been permitted to see, for high born girls like Lydia were kept in modest seclusion until they were married, but once seen he would never forget the girl’s artless grace. Porteus had fallen in love at once. At thirteen she was already of marriageable age, and he soon discovered to his delight that she was not yet betrothed. She had a perfect oval face, large brown eyes and that clear pale olive complexion that can last, almost flawlessly, for a lifetime. She was perfection. It was not long before the two young people discovered that they delighted in each other’s company. Lydia was young, innocent, and self-willed. He came to look forward to her sudden flashes of childish temper, followed by laughter and brilliant smiles. And the girl thought that her eager young lover was the most brilliant young man in the world. It was flattering.

  Porteus sighed. His favourite day-dream, in which he had often indulged during the lonely months in the cold northern province, was of their wedding. It was due to take place in two years and by then, he knew, Lydia would have developed into a beautiful young woman. He could see it so clearly: the torchlight procession waiting outside Graccus’s house and singing the marriage hymn: “Hymen, O Hymenae, Hymen”, while inside, hidden from view in the family shrine Lydia would dedicate her child’s toys to the household gods, the Lares; then, following the Roman custom, she would step for the last time out of her child’s clothes, and her mother’s women would dress her in the long white wedding gown and the bright saffron veil in which every Roman girl of family was married. He could see it all. They would arrange her long hair in the style of the vestal virgins so that three perfect curls fell down each cheek. Ah, how he longed to run his fingers through her hair and bury his face in those long, sweet smelling tresses!

  And then the torchlight procession would make its way through the streets to the bridegroom’s house where the bride would place wooden fillets on the door posts and anoint the door with oil before he carried her over the threshold while the guests cried “Talassio” and his young friends made lewder calls amidst the general laughter.

  They were his most precious thoughts.

  Now however, his dreams were interrupted by a gust of wind from the tent flap and the head of Marcus looking in.

  “Writing love letters?” The young aristocrat gave him a friendly grin.

  “No. Telling my parents about our victory.”

  Marcus nodded.

  “Not a pretty business I’m afraid; but necessary I daresay. By the way,” he smiled pleasantly, “you may as well know the governor thinks you handled yourself well at the crossing. Seems to think you might make a soldier yet!”

  Porteus could not help blushing with pleasure. This was praise indeed.

  “I’m planning to reconnoitre the west of this island tomorrow,” Marcus went on. “Thought you might like to come with me – just in case there’s a little action.”

  “Of course.” He did not think he had done anything out of the ordinary during the battle, but there was no mistaking the message that Marcus was giving him: he had been accepted.

  Marcus looked down at Porteus. A nice young fellow, he thought: good material. But how in the name of all the gods had he managed to get himself betrothed to the daughter of an important man like Graccus? Perhaps there was something wrong with the girl.

  “What’s she like, this paragon of yours, this Lydia?” he enquired.

  “I’ll show you,” Porteus replied, glad to have a further chance of impressing his mentor; and proudly he pulled out a miniature that he secreted amongst his papers. Silently he handed the little painting to the aristocrat.

  It was no bigger than the palm of a man’s hand, but the work was beautifully done and the likeness excellent. Marcus stared at it in wonder.

  “She is beautiful,” he marvelled.

  “She is,” Porteus cried enthusiastically. “We’ll be married in two years when I return to Rome and then we shall visit Britannia and if you’re still here, you shall meet her.”

  For a moment Marcus felt almost jealous at his young friend’s astonishing good fortune: the girl was exquisite; it would be a brilliant marriage.

  “I look forward to it,” he replied thoughtfully. “Until tomorrow then,” he added as he went out.

  As soon as he had gone, Porteus began to add a postscript to his letter to let his parents know about the governor’s good opinion of him. Then he sat silently for a period, lost in reflection.

  His thoughts were not, this time, of Lydia; nor even of himself. His mind had instead returned to the political matter that had been nagging at him for so long. For young and inexperienced as he still was, Porteus was not a fool, and he had recently been learning important lessons about Roman statecraft – lessons that were affecting him more deeply than he had ever expected. After turning the matter over in his mind for some time, he finally picked up the piece of parchment that he had formerly discarded and wrote the following.

  My dear father —

  This must of course be between ourselves – do not even speak of it to my mother – but I ask for your wisdom and your advice.

  The problems I speak of are many, but they are all caused by the fact that while we expect the islanders to learn our Roman ways, we take no account of their own customs, and they are coming to hate us.

  For example: we have built a fine new temple to the imperial cult at Camulodunum in the east and, as usual, a number of native chiefs have been honoured by being made priests. But the temple is so large, its ceremonies so magnificent – and as you know, all these costs are charged to the priests themselves – that the cost of its upkeep is too heavy for them. Instead of inspiring them with love and respect for our emperor, it is only causing them to long for their own, and less expensive Celtic gods!

  Another example: we have reversed our policy towards the chiefs. The late divine Claudius, as all the world knows, favoured client kings; but our present emperor hates them and now his procurator here, Decianus Catus who you warned me was a lazy and greedy man, has been busy confiscatin
g their property and saying it belongs to the empire. As you would expect, they are furious and they say that we Romans do not keep our word. It’s true – we haven’t.

  Yet another, perhaps worse: many island chiefs are deep in debt to Roman creditors. They say that one of the greatest creditors of all is the philosopher Seneca. It seems amazing: I remember as a student with what admiration we studied his philosophy which told us to live a simple life, to be merciful to all men and to eschew worldly goods! Well, it seems he has millions of sesterces out on loan to native chiefs here and that he and a number of other great financiers have recently panicked and are calling in all their debts. Since the chiefs are having their property taken, they can’t pay, and they’ll be completely ruined!

  It seems to me that if this province is ever going to be a success, we must not only win the war but also win the peace as well, and we can’t do that if no one trusts us. But the governor, who is a great man, thinks only of military mountain operations to swell his reputation amongst the other generals, and the procurator is no more than a rogue. The situation is drifting from bad to worse. It is particularly serious in the east, in the lands of the Trinovantes and the Iceni.

  I think perhaps others in the administration see this too, but no one says a word – if you met Suetonius, you’d see why: they’re all terrified of him, and so am I!

  I wish I could do something, but I don’t know what. Give me your advice.

  Porteus read this second missive over and grunted with satisfaction. He was pleased with its neat, epigrammatic statements; the views he expressed were both honest and perceptive. The question was, did he dare send such a dangerous letter at all when there was a risk it might be opened, or would it be wiser to burn it and say nothing?

  His ambition told him it was none of his business to worry about such things; but his conscience troubled him, and this difficult question was still unresolved when he fell asleep.