The Eagle and the Raven

by Pauline Gedge

  Dead silence had fallen inside the tent, but beyond it the axes rang cheerily and a shout of laughter rose as a group of officers passed by. Paulinus walked to the flap, lifted it, and stood looking out on the sparkling green of the ocean. The Iceni, and perhaps the Trinovantes. Say, certainly the Trinovantes. Better to err on the side of safety. How many people? Fifty thousand? More? Could the Ninth hold them off, let alone defeat them? Where would they go after they had sacked Colchester as they undoubtedly would, perhaps had already done so … Londinium, of course. A cold feeling of impotence began to steal over him. Londinium was defenceless. So was Verulamium, almost. So, he thought in resignation, is the whole of the damned lowlands. Ripe fruit waiting meekly to be picked and eaten. What was the matter with me? How is it that I did not put the pieces together and see the picture forming? If other tribes follow her lead, Britannia is finished as a province. If? Of course they would. He swung back into the stifling noon heat of the tent.

  “Sir, there’s the Second at Glevum,” Agricola said, and Paulinus stood looking down at the table.

  “I know,” he replied tersely. “Let me think, Julius. I have the Fourteenth here, on Mona. I have the Twentieth at Deva, sixty miles away. Two legions. It might as well be twenty for all the good they can do, stuck here over two hundred miles from Colchester. That leaves the Ninth, somewhere on the march, and the Second. The Second could reach Londinium in time, perhaps. Mithras! So many ifs and perhapses! I am responsible for this fearful mess. I should have read the dispatches with more care. I should have left at least half a legion in the south.

  “Go and find something to eat,” he ordered the scout, and when the man had saluted and gone Paulinus turned to Agricola. “Send a speculator to Glevum and order the Second to Londinium.”

  “The Second is divided, sir, and the legate is away. It will take the praefectus castra some time to mobilize the legion.”

  “It can’t be helped, there is no closer assistance. I want you to get half the Fourteenth off the island, march it to Deva, and join with the Twentieth. Then bring them both to Londinium. How long will that take you?”

  “Forced marching? Two weeks.”

  Paulinus rubbed at the black stubble on his chin and sighed. “Again, there is no quicker solution. With luck, the Second will meet up with the Ninth and keep the rebels contained until you arrive. Has it occurred to you, Julius, that in conquering the island of Mona I may well have lost the island of Albion?”

  “Not even Julius Caesar himself could have foreseen the revolt of a tribe such as the Iceni, sir,” the younger man protested. “The greatest strategist in the world cannot predict all eventualities. What are you yourself going to do?”

  “Take the cavalry and head for Londinium. The road is not completed, I know, but once we strike it we can make good speed. By the time we reach the city the Second should be there and the panic will be over.” He spoke confidently, but a depression settled over the two men, and his words sounded shrill and boastful. Agricola found himself thinking of Veranius, of Gallus, even of poor Scapula, and his doubts found voice.

  “This land is cursed, Paulinus. I sometimes think that even the ground under our feet hates us.”

  “Nonsense!” Paulinus dismissed him testily. “This is no time to be vainly imagining nonexistent perils. The real ones are bad enough. Send for the tribunes and my legates. We can surely hope that through the years of peace the tribesmen have forgotten how to fight.”

  Agricola saluted and hurried out and the governor put his hands behind his back and gazed at the gently sloping walls of the tent. I must retrieve this situation or fall on my sword, he knew suddenly, with no doubts at all. I am fighting not only for my career, I am fighting for my life.

  As he stepped out into the full glare of the noon sun, the primipilus of the Fourteenth hurried to him and saluted. Paulinus was so preoccupied that he brushed by the man without seeing him, but the primipilus matched his stride.

  “Sir,” he said. “Forgive me for troubling you, but there is a small problem.”

  Paulinus stopped. “What problem?” he snapped, dragging his mind from the memory of his own triclinium at Colchester where Boudicca had reclined opposite him, drinking the mead he had ordered especially for her, smiling at him with mingled familiarity and impudence. “What are you talking about?”

  “There is a body in under the trees that no man will touch,” the primipilus answered almost apologetically. “Will you come, sir?

  “Go to your legate,” Paulinus said brusquely. “Don’t bother me with such a nonsensical detail.”

  “I cannot find him, sir, and the men refuse to return to work until this body is dealt with.”

  I have no time to give you! Paulinus wanted to shout at his senior centurion, but he controlled himself. His officers would be gathering, but it would be some minutes before he could address them. Take one step at a time, he thought. To run will be to awaken panic, and then disaster.

  “Very well,” he grunted. “Show me this thing.”

  The primipilus led him back behind his tent, past the roaring fires piled with bodies, which gave off a suffocating black smoke, and into the wood. It was cooler under the trees, and as they received the salute of the men hewing the oaks, Paulinus became aware of the breeze that stirred the upper branches and made the green leaves quiver. The drowsy sound served to calm him a little. The path curved, and as he and the primipilus rounded it they came upon a group of legionaries clustered a respectful distance from a huddle on the ground under a tree. When they saw Paulinus they broke apart and saluted, but one man stayed sitting on the ground, his arms about his bare knees, rocking back and forth. Paulinus strode to him.

  “Get up!” he shouted. “On your feet, you cowardly young bastard!”

  He looked up at the governor. His face was gray, and sweat stood out along his upper lip, and as he struggled to his feet two of his fellows bent to help him. Shakily, he gave the salute but he seemed dazed.

  “What ails you, man?” Paulinus pressed.

  The soldier swallowed. “I killed him, sir,” he croaked.

  “In other words, you did your duty,” Paulinus rapped tartly. “Are you ill?”

  “I killed him,” the soldier repeated, as Paulinus turned in disgust to the primipilus.

  “What is going on here?”

  “These men have been detailed to collect bodies for the fires,” the centurion replied. “They had been working well all morning, but then this body was found.” He indicated the quiet form. “The legionary you just spoke to took one look at its face and would not touch it, and the other men refused also.”

  “I killed him,” the young man said again, beginning to recover his balance. “As soon as I saw the body, I remembered, and then when I bent to lift him, and looked into his eyes…”

  “Well? What? Hurry up!”

  “I saw myself.”

  “Of course you saw yourself! What else would you see reflected in the eyes?”

  “No, sir, not like that. I saw myself lying dead, my breastplate gone and my chest an open wound.”

  Paulinus grunted, a sound of impatient exasperation. “You are a fanciful young idiot who will have to be disciplined for disobeying orders and spreading superstitious rubbish.”

  “I saw myself also,” another man interposed. “I was running through a forest, lost and without weapons.” A murmur of agreement rose, and Paulinus turned to the primipilus again.

  “You?”

  The man looked uncomfortable, and answered softly. “Yes, sir. I saw myself and my brother, drunk and fighting. My brother had drawn a knife against me.”

  Paulinus favored him with one astounded stare, then strode to the body and looked down. It lay with its face resting a little to one side, blood-spattered silver glinting about the throat. The spear that had gored it still protruded obscenely from the broad chest. It was a man just past the prime of life, Paulinus thought, his eye traveling the wealth of waving brown hair, the rude health appa
rent in the long, strong legs, the well-muscled arms. He could have been a gladiator, but he was only a Druid. The white, sleeveless summer robe still shone, though much of it was crusted red brown with old blood. On the limp, curved fingers of one hand, rings of curious design winked as the leaves above moved to let the sunlight through. He squatted to scan the face more closely, aware as he did so that the men behind him were watching intently. His eyes found the other’s, wide open, immobile eyes, and then he had to bite back a startled exclamation. He was looking at eyes that were the milky white paleness of a winter dawn, tinted faintly with blue, the eyes of a blind man. Or seemingly blind. He bent closer. For a moment, all he could see was the shadow of his own face, but the shadow darkened, took on color and definition, and he found himself looking at Boudicca’s freckled skin. Red hair blew about her face from under a winged bronze helm. Her own eyes stared back at him with a chilling purpose and she was speaking, the large mouth forming words he could not hear, but their gist was carried to him by the grim face, the thinning, hard lips. He inadvertently craned to hear, knowing somehow that she was not addressing him, then he found himself so close to the corpse’s face that its outlines slid out of focus and he drew back carefully, slowly, so that his men might not see his agitation. Pale, blue-tinged eyes once more gazed over his left shoulder. He got up, and in the moment before he turned around he had composed himself. He deliberately glanced up at the dipping, tossing leaves high above, then he walked to stand by the primipilus.

  “There is nothing to see but one more dead Druid,” he said firmly. “If the eyes seemed to show you visions it was simply because the leaves above the body are troubled by the wind and their shadows pass back and forth over the face. Now pick him up and carry him to a fire.”

  They loosened and began to move reluctantly, and the primipilus sprang to life. “That was an order!” he roared. “Move! Hurry up!” Paulinus nodded to him, took his salute, and walked out from under the trees. Shadows, he thought. Of course. What else? This accursed place is the heart of the native superstition and I ought not to wonder at the fears of the men, but I am surprised at my own. Boudicca fills my whole mind, and the leaves in the wind did the rest. He did not see the men gingerly raise the heavy body, and place it on the litter. The primipilus walked beside it as the soldiers carried it out quickly from under the gloom of the forest into the bright sunlight, and as they passed from shade into blinding light, he glanced down. The face still mirrored a calmness, but the eyes were no longer pale. They had turned as black as a raven’s wing. Shuddering, the primipilus reached out and drew the lids down over the spell-burdened darkness he saw there. He had no wish to see his commander-in-chief enraged by another mutiny.

  Paulinus left Mona with twelve hundred cavalry, and struck out south and east. There was no time to gather provisions and, in any case, wains and pack animals would have slowed them down. Each man carried his needs in his pack. The weather was mild and sunny by day and cool and still by night, a perfect spring melting into a perfect summer, but Paulinus, rolled in his blanket under the trees, had no time for the weather. Every hour was a nightmare that stretched his nerves tighter as the miles lengthened between the safety of his legions in the west and the dark, unknown fate that waited. At any moment he expected a horde of western tribesmen to issue from the dense woodland and end all hope, and by the time he and his officers made camp for a few brief hours at night his spine ached from the tension of imaginary spears in his back. He did not dwell on his position. The decision had been made, his escort was the elite of the army, and there was no panic and no grumbling. If the gods ordained that he should be ambushed in spite of everything, and die in some forgotten, lonely spot, then so be it. Sporadic sleep was followed by hours in the saddle. There was no time to send scouts ahead, no time to cook proper meals or erect a proper camp each night, no time for anything but haste and more haste with the whispering trees clustered before and closing in behind and the incessant thrum thrum of hoofs on turf. They felt their vulnerability under the white stars, and when at last the town of Penocrutium suddenly appeared before them, nesting in its little valley, and they saw the road to Londinium begin beyond its clustered houses, their fears were eased. There was a small detachment and fresh horses here, though not enough for Paulinus’s host. Here also was a message for him, from Poenius Postumus, the praefectus castra of the Second. Paulinus stood with the commander and listened, shock giving way to an astounded rage.

  “The praefectus cannot come, sir,” the speculator told him uncomfortably. “The Second is divided and a quarter of the legion is keeping the western tribesmen engaged as far from Mona as possible, as you ordered. The praefectus sends his apologies.”

  “The praefectus sends his … But it was an order! I sent him a direct command! Didn’t he understand the gravity of the situation? Doesn’t he know that the fate of the province hangs by a thread?”

  “I am sorry, sir. I only carry the message.”

  Paulinus swung away and began to pace, his agitation visible in the down-thrust head, the clenching hands. “It was an order! I don’t care for his reasons, he has disobeyed an order, and when this business has been concluded I will have him disciplined to the full extent of the law. Such a thing has never happened under my command before! If the legate had been on duty there would be no such weak excuses. Well.” He stopped pacing and looked up into the sun. “I must manage with the means I have, but without the Second I can do little for Londinium.”

  “Be careful as you move father south, sir,” the detachment’s officer said. “The land is strangely empty, or so my scouts tell me, and there has been no word as to the whereabouts of the Ninth.”

  Paulinus closed eyes already itching with fatigue. “There is no time for caution. Are the provisions ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then we will press on at once. As for Poenius Postumus…” He turned to the embarrassed, worried soldier. “Take this to your praefectus. He is under arrest as soon as the legate returns. His behavior is cowardly and incomprehensible, and you can tell him so.” That man has fought his way up through the ranks, he thought as he strode toward the road and to the quiet men who waited for him. He is no playtime officer. What ails you, Postumus? What strange spell of sudden fear turned your blood to water? He mounted quickly, took up the reins, and cantered onto the straight, deserted road lying like an invitation to a lonely nowhere. All of them had been emasculated by it at one time or another, he thought, settling deeper into his horse’s stride. This cloud of ephemeral, primitive magic that seemed to stultify the brain and mysteriously weaken the will. Scapula, Gallus, Veranius, even his good friend Plautius—all of them, he thought defiantly, but me. I have not, and will not, succumb. His men strung out behind him, their brilliant red cloaks floating in the sun.

  They bypassed Verulamium, and six days after they had set out from Deva, the governor and his exhausted cavalry clattered into Londinium, dismounting and walking to the administration buildings, which were surrounded by a crowd of hysterically relieved citizens. Paulinus had come. He had not failed them. Now everything would be all right. They cheered him frantically, jostling to press cups of wine and morsels of food into the eager hands of his men, but he did not pause to speak to them and his cragged face was closed and grim under the shining helmet. He left his men to rest where they could, and went straight to the office of the mayor.

  “Where is the Ninth?”

  The man almost embraced him, babbling with relief. “Oh, sir, thank the gods you have come! I did not think…we did not know… Have you brought the legions?”

  “How could I bring the legions in so short a time, you fool! Pull yourself together and answer me! Where is the Ninth?”

  The mayor drew back, puzzled. “You don’t know?”

  Paulinus removed his helmet and put it very slowly on the big desk, striving to hold onto his temper. “I am hot, filthy, and tired. I have ridden for two hundred miles, almost without stopping. I am faced with a
matter of the gravest peril. Now where is the Ninth?” He roared out the words, hammering his fist on the desk, and the mayor fell back, his face white. Then he collapsed into his chair.

  “The Ninth has been defeated. Petilius Cerealis was lucky to get away with his cavalry and a few auxiliaries. The last news was that he has retreated to the fort at Lindum.”

  Paulinus stared at him. “Colchester?”

  “Burned to the ground. No one escaped. Then the rebels doubled back to the northwest and met the Ninth on its way south. They are coming this way now.”

  Panic gripped the governor’s head in a quick, merciless vise. No Second. No Ninth. The Ninth defeated. Mithras! Defeated! The ablest, most proficient legion in Albion! He forced himself to think calmly, rationally, and all at once his emotions disappeared, leaving nothing but a cold, fast-rolling core of pure reasoning power. A defence of the city with only twelve hundred cavalry was clearly impossible. Cavalry could not fight in the restriction of the streets anyway, and if he stayed it would be nothing but a futile, empty gesture. The Fourteenth and the Twentieth were all that stood between the rebels and overwhelming victory, and the two legions could not possibly arrive in time to save the city from Colchester’s fate. Nor was he, Paulinus, expendable. Without him, the province would collapse within weeks. He felt the sword of fate trembling above him, hanging on a slender, frayed thread that threatened to snap at any moment, and remorselessly he made the decision on which his reputation and the future of the province hinged. It was unfortunate, but Londinium would have to be sacrificed.