The Eagle and the Raven

by Pauline Gedge

  He glowered at her and answered her as though she were dimwitted. “They are laying the bed for the road.”

  “What happens next?”

  The man sighed but decided to reply. “The bed is covered over with more rock, which is pounded very small, and with flint and slag from the Catuvellauni’s old mines.”

  “I see. Will these men pound the rock and spread the gravel on the road?”

  “Of course!” the soldier snapped. “Move on, Lady!”

  “I see,” she said again, conscious all the time of the devouring eyes, the listening ears. “Would you please tell me who will use the road?”

  He roared at her in exasperation. “The speculatores, the beneficiarii, the legionaries, the…”

  “Ah yes, yes,” she cut in, her voice clear and unmistakable. “I understand. Thank you.” The centurion waved her on and she turned her horse into the trees, but not before a ripple of mirth fluttered from mouth to mouth through the chained Trinovantes. The whip sliced the air. The centurion cursed, and the men bent reluctantly to their labor. But many of them were smiling, already treasuring the joke to spread among their fellows when they returned to the compound for their soup that night. Boudicca cantered to catch up to Prasutugas and Agricola. She was noticeably silent for the rest of the day.

  Toward evening on the third day they drew rein and sat looking at Camulodunon. Boudicca tried to fit the memory of her last visit to the town, on the occasion of the dedication of Claudius’s temple, with the peaceful scene below her, but somehow the two would not come together.

  “It looks different,” she said almost to herself. “The town has grown, of course, and yet…”

  “Perhaps you saw it when the forest stood nearer to it,” Agricola offered. “We have cleared much land, or rather, the natives have cleared much land, and there are more acres under cultivation.”

  “Yes,” she said slowly, her eyes still on the sunlight that slanted long and mellow over the stubbled meadows. “There is more space around the town. But the fields are so big!”

  “Our plows are larger and heavier than yours,” he answered politely. “Consequently the fields must be longer. They can handle clay soil, too, which yours cannot.”

  She turned her head and smiled at him, with mischief sparkling in her eyes. “Of course the fields must be longer,” she said. “Of course the land must be cleared. More land under cultivation means heavier yields, more grain for Rome and the legions, more money in the purse of the procurator.”

  “Very true, Lady,” he retorted, as quick as light. “But what is good for Rome is inevitably good for her native subjects. More grain to fill everyone’s bellies.”

  “More grain certainly ensures a limitless supply of healthy natives to be chained for work on the roads,” she snapped back, and for the first time he felt anger. He stopped smiling.

  “Let us go,” he said shortly. “The governor expects us to dine just after sundown.” He spurred his horse and clattered ahead of her over the road. Prasutugas threw her a half-amused, half-cautionary look, and she wrinkled her nose, tossed her head, and trotted after him toward the guarded gate.

  They were quartered in a spacious house behind the forum, and an exasperated Agricola had to stand by and watch the chiefs pitch their tents in the neat, tree-filled garden. He had offered them lodging elsewhere but they refused to leave their ricon. As he took his leave of the lord and his lady they were already strewing their belongings on the dry dead grass and trampling the carefully nurtured rose beds.

  “An aide will come to escort you to dinner in one hour,” he said. “Meanwhile, the servants will see to your comfort.” He cast a rueful glance in the direction of the bruised garden and went away, and Prasutugas walked from the door, across the red and white tiled floor, to where Boudicca surveyed the tiny pool sunk into the floor, her hands on her hips.

  “It is too big to cook in, too small to swim in, and it would never raise fish large enough to eat,” she said. “Therefore it serves no pur pose.”

  “It is to look at,” her husband responded. “I rather like it, Boudicca. The necklaces you wear serve no purpose either, save that they are beautiful and delight the soul with the intricacy of their design. This pool does the same.”

  “I would rather sit beside living, running water, with the sun on it. My voice echoes here, Prasutugas, as though I were in some temple where I did not belong. I hate it. Whose house is this, do you think? This whole street has been built since we last came. And fountains! I glimpsed them through the archway as we passed the forum. Fountains in Camulodunon!”

  “Colchester. It is Colchester now, Boudicca, and do not forget it. I think it has been made very lovely, and will be lovelier still as the years go by. One day our own town will look like this.”

  “Andrasta!” The next cutting remark rose to her tongue, but sensing his preoccupation she left the pool and drew him back under the little pillars to where a servant was lighting the lamps. “You are weary. I can see it. Now, what are you expected to sit on?” The room was dusky, virtually unfurnished, and hung with brocades and linens of designs that the dim light made indeterminate. A dark oak table stood in the middle. Several folding stools were scattered about, and one deep basket-weave chair piled in cushions, its rich woolen cover trailing the floor. She went to it and dragged it toward the lamplight, determined not to allow the huge room with its long, unchecked shadows to intimidate her, but as her husband sank into the chair she was suddenly homesick for their own tiny wooden house and the coziness of its unpretentious welcome.

  “Who owns this place?” she snapped at the servant.

  “A merchant and shipbuilder,” he answered. “He is in Rome at the moment, Lady, and gave the governor his permission to house guests here.”

  “How very magnanimous of him. And he lives here without kin? How greedy! Go and bring the chiefs. I want them to stay here until my husband and I return.” The servant bowed, a little stiffly, a little contemptuously, and Prasutugas said, “Don’t be foolish, Boudicca. No one is going to creep in here and hide while we dine.”

  She ignored him, and signaling to the other servant she strode away. “Help him dress,” she ordered. “I will change my clothes, Prasutugas, and be back in a moment. My feet are hot, and the walls feel warm. How Priscilla would love such luxury!”

  Their sleeping room was also lighted, the lamps on their wooden stands glowing softly, and on a table by the bed were small jars of a delicacy. Boudicca picked one up and lifted the stopper. A pungent, lingering perfume assailed her nostrils and she sneezed and replaced it, picking up another. This one was squat, fat, a green and white marble pot filled with some thick oil that also hung rich and cloying in the air. She smiled. The merchant may have no kin, she thought with humor, but he does not live alone. She stripped quickly, and then a young girl appeared, as though she had been summoned. “Do you wish to bathe, Lady?” she enquired, but Boudicca, tired and dispirited all at once, asked only for a basin of hot water.

  I want to go home, she thought, and she did not mean to the sodden, bird-clouded marshes of Icenia. What does all this strange, foreign way of life have to do with my Albion? She heard the chiefs crossing the cloister, and their voices were loud and excited, their feet clumsy and heavy in the exquisitely polite atmosphere of the house. We are like wild ponies—shaggy, ugly, shy and proud, and naive in our simplicity. We are groomed and trained and put in the stable of some wealthy king whose horses are gently bred and highly strung. We do not understand what is happening to us, not even Prasutugas, who is able to bend with any wind. The water was brought, steaming and mingled with some other foreign scent, and when the girl moved to wash her, Boudicca ordered her out. When she was clean of her travel stains she dressed quickly, listening to the roars of masculine laughter around Prasutugas and the muted ripple of Lovernius’s harp, and as she picked up her jewels and left the room she admitted to herself that she was as close to shyness as she had ever come.

  An hour l
ater a young officer presented himself at the door with an escort of four centurions, and Prasutugas and Boudicca left the house and walked with him through the windy night. Leaves tore from the trees that lined the street, and sailed around them, dry and curled, and Boudicca glanced up as she hugged her cloak more tightly around her. The moon hung bloated in the blackness as though its weight might bring it tumbling down, and racing clouds swept over its face, but she knew that it would not rain. The air smelled as dry as the leaves that caught in her hair. At the end of the street the group swung left, followed the stone wall that surrounded the forum, and passed under the arch that invited them to a paved plaza, fronted on three sides by buildings of solid stone and wood. The fountain in the center splashed dark water into its little basin, and the shower of autumn leaves swooped over the walls to scrape and rustle over the courtyard and pile up on the steps of the temple, whose silvered marble columns ran high and true. Boudicca’s eyes followed their rise to the angled roof, then she shivered. The moon was above the roof, but between the moon and the roof’s clumped shadow the clouds fled by, making the roof seem to be leaning toward her. It tilted, falling and yet not falling, and she stumbled under the thrall of its lowering domination. The officer’s hand immediately shot out, and she thanked him absently. The sentries fronting the temple did not move.

  “We could light no torches for you in the forum because of the wind,” he apologized, “but you will see it better tomorrow, in daylight. There,” he pointed, “is the office of the mayor. He is a tribesman, a Catuvellaun, but now a Roman citizen, of course, and he holds his office well. In the same building are the offices of civil administration. Beside it,” and his arm swung to the left, “are the courts of justice where civil suits are tried. The legions have their own system of justice. The governor and the procurator share the next building, the praetorium. The temple needs no explanation. The building there, under construction, is being erected by the merchants who need a place in which to gather.”

  “Where was Caradoc held?” Boudicca almost had to shout over the keening of the wind, and he peered at her with hesitation.

  “I…”

  “The arviragus. Caradoc,” she pressed impatiently, and she heard Prasutugas sigh beside her.

  “That block of cells has been razed,” the officer answered coolly. “The prison is just within the wall of the town now, but for important prisoners there are three cells in the courts of justice.”

  “Where are the public baths?” Prasutugas interposed hurriedly.

  “They are still under construction, outside the walls and closer to the river. An arena is planned, but as yet no ground has been broken.”

  Not enough native slaves? Boudicca was going to enquire, but thought better of it, and they passed the temple steps, scuffing through the crisp leaves, and turned in behind the praetorium. Here there were more houses, still sheltered by the wall of the forum, where the governor, the procurator, and the higher-ranking military and civilian staff lived. It was a place of quiet by night but by day must be enveloped in clamor, Boudicca thought. Then they were standing before a massive oak door flanked by guards who opened for them, and they stepped into warmth and lamp-light. Servants, silent and unobtrusive as the blue-gray tiles under their feet, took their cloaks, the young officer murmured a good night and vanished, and Agricola came toward them, his arms bare, his fingers ringed, his toga swishing about his sandals.

  “I did not intend for you to be blown here by the wind!” he greeted them gaily. “What a welcome! But come. The governor awaits you.”

  Boudicca picked the skeleton of a leaf from her hair, and in the moment when Agricola turned she whispered to Prasutugas, “When shall I begin to snarl and curse? Shall I wait until we are all half-silly with wine? I do not want to disappoint our new governor.”

  For answer he kissed her swiftly. “No one could possibly be disappointed in you, no matter what you do,” he whispered back. She took his arm and together they paced after Agricola.

  The house was no palace but, like the merchant’s dwelling, it was designed so that to shut the door was to shut out the hardships and dangers of a far, foreign province. The floors were tiled in blue, gray, yellow, and buff and from them rose well-spaced little wooden pillars. Folding chairs stood here and there, draped with warm red cloth that glowed against a background of green draperies. Sculpted heads sat discreetly in the small alcoves that they passed, and Boudicca did not know if they were gods or the governor’s ancestors. Against the walls sat smooth wooden chests, and the feet of unnameable animals held up low, heavy tables. Everywhere there were cushions and hangings to make an otherwise sparsely furnished, rather austere house gay and comfortable. Servants glided in and out of the shadows, bringing with them whiffs of hot food and perfumed lamp oil. Boudicca’s eyes scanned the walls, where Paulinus had already stamped his personality upon the house. Souvenirs of his governorship in Mauretania were hung about, strange curved swords in golden, filigreed scabbards, armor that had been made from the hide of horses, knives whose hilts glittered at Boudicca with blood-red gems that she had never seen before. Her fingers itched. They approached the atrium, its pool lying placidly in darkness, and the wind reached out for them from its shadow before they passed it and came to a halt at last in a brightly lit room full of servants. The table was laid, and silver sparked. The couches were drawn up to it, damask and more brocade, soft cushions in blue and scarlet, but she had time to do no more than pause, for a man was coming toward them, his gold-gripped arm outstretched, his purple-rimmed toga flowing with his thick, powerful body, the sandals on his big feet slap-slapping over the tiles. His smile came and went, a frugal nod to the proprieties, but as Boudicca took his wrist she knew that the small concession to good manners was not a deliberate affront. He was not a social animal, this Roman. His work was not done in the wine-and perfume-drenched rooms where ambitions were subtly advanced, and though he might be the perfect host, though the blue blood of Roman aristocracy flowed in his veins, he was a career soldier.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said, and before he turned from Boudicca to Prasutugas a flicker of humor in his eyes warned her that there was nothing much about her he did not know. “I have been looking forward to this opportunity to talk with you, and it is a relief for me to put aside duty and indulge myself a little. I hope you find your temporary home comfortable?”

  Prasutugas answered him calmly, asked him for his impressions of Albion, and Boudicca found a cup placed gently in her hands. Agricola ushered her farther into the room.

  “You shivered,” he remarked. “Are you cold, Boudicca? Come and stand against the wall.”

  “No, no,” she said, smiling absently at him. “I am not cold at all, in fact I find your heating oppressive. Perhaps I am just tired after my long journey, and hungry also.”

  “We will eat soon. I believe that Icenian mutton is going to be offered, and the governor is very proud of the fact that he managed to procure a small barrel of mead, just for you.”

  “What a thorough man!” she exclaimed. “It is unfortunate that he cannot satisfy my other tastes.”

  “I am sure that he would be distressed if you lacked anything while you are here, Lady, but I believe you are talking about tastes that even a governor cannot satisfy, are you not?” Astounded, she looked full into his face. He was young, he was handsome, but for the first time she realized that he was also wise and had drawn her sting long before she had prepared to strike. These two are a team, she thought, perfectly matched even as Aulus Plautius and his second, Rufus Pudens, were. Fear stabbed her and she was bewildered, though she did not know why. She heard Prasutugas laugh, not a polite chuckle, but a full, healthy shout, and Agricola smiled into her eyes and sipped his wine. They have beaten me, they have beaten us already. Could these be the men who will defeat the west? she thought, and she answered him finally with a grudging respect.

  “You know I am, and I have no doubt that every odd yearning I entertain is well known to the
governor. Very well, I will not spoil the evening.”

  “Oh Lady,” he protested, his eyes lighting even further. “Are you never tempted to live up to your fearsome reputation?”

  “One day perhaps I will,” she said lightly, “but until then I am content to provide you Romans with your best joke in Albion. Tell me what the governor has been doing since he arrived, apart from nurs ing a bad cold, of course.”

  “What makes you think he has had a cold?”

  “Because so many of our governors have been unable to adapt to Albion’s unique climate.”

  He grinned, then laughed aloud, acknowledging Paulinus’s nod and ushering her to the table. “The Lady has been enquiring after your health, sir,” he explained as Boudicca folded back her green sleeves and reclined and he sought his own couch. Paulinus did not need to have the words spelled out for him. His economical, quick smile flashed out at her again before he snapped his fingers to the servants, who sprang to life.

  “My health is excellent,” he said to her. “It has never been better. I have lived for the last fifteen years in heat and dryness, it is true, but the mountains of Mauretania can be cold, wet, and uncomfortable, and I have had my share of all three.”

  “Were you sorry to be transferred to Albion?” Prasutugas asked him. He was not reclining. With only one arm it would have been impossible for him, and he sat upright in a chair that had been provided. Boudicca, watching him anxiously lest he should be unable to cut his food and thus make a fool of himself, saw that the portion being placed on his plate by the bending servant was already in small pieces. She looked down at her own plate and could not believe her eyes. Oysters. Oh surely not here, not at the governor’s table, she thought in mild despair. What is it about oysters that turns Romans into greedy hogs? But the governor was talking and she gave him all her attention, picking up her spoon and swallowing the shellfish with distaste.

  “No, not really. My first years in Mauretania were spent campaigning, but lately there was no fighting to be done and I must confess that the routine pursuits of administration bored me. It will be good to see action once more.”