by Anya Seton
Quintus smiled. He had developed considerable liking for the interpreter and he knew that it was returned, and yet he had not the faintest idea what Navin really thought or felt. Navin had kept to himself during the days of sacking the Icenian city, except when Catus called on him to interpret. He had made it clear that the fate of the Icenians was a matter of indifference to him. He was a Trinovante, and the two nations had not been friendly with each other.
“I was wandering along and doing some thinking,” said Quintus laughing ruefully, “about a girl, as a matter of fact. A little Icenian named Regan that I--I, well, took care of, back in that disgraceful brawl Catus produced.”
“Yes,” said Navin. “I heard that you rescued the Queen’s foster child. Regan is not an Icenian.”
“She isn’t?” said Quintus, startled.
“No. Regan comes from a different part of Britain, though she is distantly connected with Boadicea. When her parents died, her grandfather--” Navin paused and it seemed as though he changed his mind about something he was going to say. He went on quickly. “Regan’s grandfather brought her here six years ago to be raised by the Queen.”
“Oh?” said Quintus. “Then isn’t that Pendoc an Icenian either?”
“No. Quintus, you ask a great many questions and think too much. Until you give it up you’ll never make a good Roman soldier.”
Quintus flushed. “I am a good soldier,” he said hotly. “Just because I don’t lick the sandals of that fat civilian fool of a procurator--”
“And you’ve not yet learned to hold your tongue and hide your thoughts,” continued Navin imperturbably. “But you will have to.”
Whatever Quintus was going to reply he forgot as something about the Briton startled him. He stared through the waning light. “Navin! You’re in native dress!”
The belted tunic, the high military sandals, the brass badge of the hostage all were gone. Instead Navin wore tight plaid trousers. A tartan cape was thrown over his shoulders and fastened by a huge brooch of Celtic scrollwork. His chin and upper lip were covered with reddish stubble where before they had been carefully shaven like the Romans. And on his forehead was a circular patch of blue, the woad sign of the warrior chief.
“Even so,” said Navin, nodding and watching Quintus.
“But what does it mean?”
“That I have found things not to my liking in Colchester or in London, and throughout the country of the Trinovantes which once my father ruled. That in Rome I was lulled into believing that my people benefited by Roman progress, that they were contented. It is not true. I find them thrown out of their homes in favour of Roman veterans who bully and despise them. I find them crippled by debts. And now Seneca, that philosophical moneylender, has suddenly called in all the debts--without reason. My people can’t pay.”
“Well, that’s bad,” said Quintus unhappily. ‘The Icenian incident was shocking I know, but--”
Navin held up his hand. ‘The Icenians today. The Trinovantes tomorrow--and soon all the other tribes. That’s enough, Quintus. I too have said more than I should.”
There was silence. Quintus was dismayed, and yet he thought: they can’t really do much. The tribes aren’t even friendly with each other. This poor Navin will be caught and brought back. Then an unpleasant realization struck Quintus. It was his duty to seize now, this instant, what was, after all, an escaping and defiant hostage. His hand moved slowly to his sword hilt.
“No, my Quintus,” said Navin quietly watching. “You are very far from camp--and listen....”
All through this conversation Quintus had been half conscious of the yelping of foxes. As Navin motioned for silence, there was a short sharp bark nearby from a thicket. It was answered by others to the right, the left, and further off, and others fainter yet in the distance. They were surrounded by the harsh strange barks.
“Foxes--” said Quintus quickly. ‘They always make a noise like that when they’re mating. . . .” But cold ran down his spine, for Navin’s eyes had changed as much as his clothes had. They were now wary, sardonic.
“Those are not foxes,” said Navin. “Quintus, this is the last time we meet as friends. Go back now to the fort. You won’t be molested. The time isn’t yet ripe. . . . Go--”
Quintus turned and obeyed. As he walked glumly along the riverbank he felt the impact of a hundred watching hidden eyes. There were rustlings and movements in the blackness of the forest just beyond eyesight. And Navin stood where Quintus had left him, stern, implacable. Quintus reached the fort and reluctantly went to report this threatening incident to the procurator.
Catus was lolling on his couch listening to Hector strum a little lyre. When Quintus approached saying, “O Procurator--I’m sorry but something’s just happened I think you should know,” Catus impatiently wiped some cake crumbs from his chin and, turning on his elbow, frowned.
“Well, well. What is it? You KNOW I’m not to be bothered at this hour. Jupiter! I never get any peace and quiet!”
Quintus briefly related the encounter with Navin, and the procurator, who was drowsy, full of wine, and completely unwilling to bother with anything, said pettishly, “And you consider this stupid story important enough to disturb me with! I never liked that Navin anyway. Let him dress in anything he wants to and flounder around in the wilderness. He’ll come back when he gets hungry, all right.”
“But, sir, you don’t understand. Navin means trouble. There’s resistance getting underway, and those fox barks--”
“Those fox barks!” cut in the procurator with scorn. “You’re always imagining things, like that Druid in Kent. I suppose you think they were ghost foxes.”
Quintus reddened, but he said as quietly as he could, “No, sir. I’m quite sure they were made by Trinovantes, by Navin’s own clan which, I know, has the fox for its totem.”
“Well, let ’em all bark in the woods then--sounds just like the Britons.” Catus rolled over and poked in a red pottery dish for a candied fig. “Go away,” he ordered, turning his back on Quintus, and said to his slave, “Go on playing.” Hector picked up the lyre.
So what in Hades can I do, thought Quintus angrily, as he walked out.
The next noon they reached Colchester again, and Quintus thankfully received orders to depart next day for the north, for Lincoln, where General Petillius and the Ninth Legion were stationed. He was to travel with a squad of auxiliaries who were bound further north into Yorkshire where the Romans had a fort in the wild country of the Brigantes.
Quintus enjoyed himself that night in Colchester. He went first to the great public baths and had a thorough steaming and soaking and rubbing down. Then he went to see a gladiator fight a bear in the circus. The gladiator got badly mangled but in the end he killed the animal with his bare hands. It wasn’t like the wonderful spectacles at home, but it was exciting. And there were dances afterward, performed by some Spanish slave girls who belonged to a wealthy Roman merchant of the town.
Nor did Quintus neglect his religious duties. He entered the magnificent Temple of Claudius and bowed down before the statue of that Emperor-god, as everyone was expected to. In the vast shadowy temple there were other little altars and he duly lit some incense on that of the soldier’s god--Mars. He paused by the altar of Venus, the goddess of love, and thought suddenly of Regan which was of course utterly ridiculous. He was annoyed with himself, passed on quickly, and went out into the forum where the colossal winged statue of Victory shone white against the sky. In the forum there was the usual bustle of togaed Romans and town-dwelling Britons, and Quintus, back in a city atmosphere as normal as home, began to think that perhaps he had been foolish to give so much importance to Navin and his fox barks. Or indeed to that whole time he had spent with the Icenians. Well, anyway, he thought, he’d soon be seeing Lucius and other friends in his own cohort--even Flaccus seemed worthy after Catus’ ruffians. He bought himself some wine at the corner shop, teased the admiring and very pretty wine-monger’s daughter, and altogether passed a
n agreeable evening.
During the night a peculiar thing happened. Quintus’ barracks were close to the forum, and it seemed to him afterward that mixed up with his dreams, he had heard a loud noise at some point, a sort of shattering crash outside, but it had not really awakened him. He was, however, awakened at sunrise by the murmur of many voices and the shuffling of feet.
Quintus rubbed his eyes, yawned, and went out just as he was, in his undertunic, to see what was going on. It was a hushed crowd that thronged the edges of the forum, all staring down at something on the marble pavement below. As Quintus edged through to look, a woman’s voice cried out on a long quavering wail, “It is an omen! A dreadful omen!”
What is? thought Quintus, and then he saw. The colossal statue of Victory had fallen off its pedestal. It lay broken into a dozen pieces on the pavement of the forum.
“An omen! An omen!” The frightened whisper ran like wind through all the crowd. “Victory has deserted the Romans.”
What utter nonsense, Quintus said to himself, and at that moment the old philosopher, Seneca, suddenly appeared on a balcony and put Quintus’ thoughts into sensible words. “Fellow citizens and Britons!” Seneca shouted waving his arms. “There is no omen of any kind connected with this unfortunate accident. There was wind in the night and the statue was top-heavy, no doubt We will at once erect another one!”
The crowd listened respectfully to the grave and portly Roman, but Quintus heard some hissing words behind him. They were in Celtic, but he caught their meaning--venomous hatred of Seneca. He turned instinctively and caught two more words hissed in a sneering voice. Something about a rope, and the wind. He stared behind him. Yes, quite near there were Trinovantes, for all that they wore Roman clothes. Their type was unmistakable, the height, the light hair. But he could not tell who had spoken. There were a dozen of them, and their big, rawboned faces were all expressionless, turned up toward Seneca.
Quintus walked back to his barracks to prepare for the march north. “Rope . . . wind,” he thought, puzzled, and in a moment the solution came. Without a doubt it was not the wind but a stout rawhide Trinovante rope that had pulled down the statue of Victory in the night, had shattered the hateful symbol of Roman dominance.
He wondered if Catus would believe this if Quintus told him, but he knew that it was hopeless. Well, it they stop at symbols it’ll be all right, Quintus thought. But again later, when the sun was warm and he set out west with the auxiliaries on Stane Street, his apprehension seemed silly. It was market day, the entire town hummed cheerfully. British peasants from the country had set up little stalls and hawked their produce in deep Celtic voices. Some of them sold lengths of woven cloth or bronze trinkets ornamented with ruby enamel, some sold the red glossy Samian ware they had learned how to make from the Romans. Some sold beaver skins and capes of woven kingfisher feathers. A trading ship from Gaul had anchored in the river Colne, and its crew mingled cheerfully with the crowd. There was music and laughter, even the Britons seemed to be enjoying themselves. While above the whole scene rose the majestic gold and white Temple of Claudius, as solid and permanent as Roman power, no matter how many statues tumbled down.
“I’m really sorry to leave Colchester, after all,” Quintus observed to one of the auxiliaries as they rode out of town. “It’s a nice little city.” Nor did he have the faintest intuition that the next time he came here there would be no Colchester at all.
CHAPTER III
Though the first part of the journey to Lincoln ran through Trinovante country, nothing unusual happened; in fact until they turned north on the highway called Ermine Street, Quintus saw hardly anyone at all. There were no sounds except those made by themselves and the birds.
The third day, they passed along the edge of the fens. Quintus gazed out over the distant tangle of green marshes and wondered if there were fever mists in them like the Pontine marshes outside of Rome. At any rate, fever or no, these fens were a treacherous secret maze of islands and twisting waterways always avoided by the legions and indeed by the Coritani tribe, who dwelt on the western border of the marshes. There were quite a few villages now that they were out of dense forest land, and there was a peaceful feeling, because the sun stayed out for two whole days and shone on the backs of grazing sheep and shaggy little British cows. The Coritani tribesmen, who were very tall like the Iceni to whom they were related, seemed friendly. There were actually smiling faces as the auxiliaries marched by, and sometimes children ran out from the round wattle-and-daub huts to offer the soldiers bunches of anemones and buttercups.
The foreboding of trouble and disaster which Quintus had felt back in Icenian country now vanished completely. Though he was partly relieved, he was also faintly disappointed, as he resigned himself to the prospect of routine barracks life in Lincoln, and decided to concentrate on earning a promotion and finding some way to get sent to the west where he might start on the quest for Gaius’ remains.
After so many hours of marching through the flattest country Quintus could have imagined, it was a welcome change to see Lincoln’s sudden high hill jutting up against the sky. At last the company trudged up the steep road to the top and entered the oblong fort at Lincoln, station of the Ninth Legion.
Quintus was received with enthusiasm. Not only had he been popular with the men, but he was a welcome distraction. The Spanish centurion, Flaccus, ordered that broiled fish from the River Witham be added to the evening rations and issued an extra amphora of red wine as well.
“Flaccus isn’t such a bad fellow, after all,” said Lucius languidly, as they all lounged in the barracks hall after dinner. “He’s as bored as the rest of us, up here on this hill, so we all go hunting when we’re off duty, and we’ve had horse races and discus throwing. The baths aren’t badly fixed up either for a piddling little outpost like this. Good steam room, and a dice game always going on around the massage table.”
Quintus laughed, looking at his friend with affectionate amusement. “Anybody ever do any work, up here?”
“Oh sure,” answered Lucius, wrinkling his nose. “Roads. Miles of ’em. We’re pushing north to the Humber. And patrols. Besides the usual drills and parade, you know.”
“Patrols . . . ?” repeated Quintus thoughtfully. “Any trouble with the natives?”
“Oh Jove, no--our Parisii tribe here are gentle as rabbits. They love us, they palm off all sorts of worthless junk on us, and their girls . . .” Lucius’ sleepy eyes brightened suddenly, “Big, strapping blondes, they--”
Quintus sat up straight and interrupted sharply, “You better not fool around with their girls, Lucius. These Britons all have a strict code of honour--”
“Oh twaddle!” said Lucius rudely. “What in the world’s come over you down there in the south? You come back clucking like an old hen. Bet you’re out of condition too, all this pampering by the procurator.” He suddenly delivered a fierce half-playful punch at Quintus’ stomach. Quintus gasped, doubled his fists, and retaliated. They threw off their tunics.
Soon with the ease of long practice they were in the thick of a fairly scientific wrestling match; rolling, scuffling, grunting, and thoroughly enjoying themselves.
The other men gathered around and laid bets. Flaccus watched with an indulgent and slightly envious eye. For all that these two were the patrician young Romans that he sneered at, they were tough and fit. Their strong-muscled bodies scarcely reddened beneath the pummelling they gave each other and they were well matched, though Lucius was slightly stockier and slower. Quintus had nearly knocked the wind out of Lucius, when the fight was abruptly ended by a messenger from the general who announced that Standard-bearer Quintus Tullius Pertinax was to report at once.
The young men disentangled themselves and got up. “Continued later,” said Quintus, panting and grinning at Lucius. “I almost had you.”
“Like Hades, you did!” wheezed Lucius. He growled some extremely vulgar taunts with what breath he had, and everyone laughed. Quintus did too. He was never
angry with his friend, no matter how hard they scuffled, or who won, though Lucius was of more uncertain temper, and hated to be beaten.
Quintus washed his face, buckled his breastplate and shin greaves, put on his helmet, picked up his shield and the cohort’s standard, then presented himself to the general.
Petillius Cerealis sat at a camp table in a bare whitewashed room, frowning at a map. He raised his alert young-looking head as Quintus came in, and said, “Good evening, Standard-bearer.” Quintus responded and waited. The general was in no hurry. His sharp eyes inspected Quintus from helmet crest to sandals. When he had finished, he said sternly, “Your sword hilt needs polishing, and your left sandal thong is frayed. Your whole appearance is slipshod. See that these matters are fixed by morning.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quintus.
“I know you’ve been on the road for days,” continued the general, “but I have pride in my legion. We’ve a hard job to do here and an example to set. No detail is too small to count.”
“Yes, sir,” repeated Quintus, and despite the reproof, felt a liking for the man as he had in Colchester, especially when the hazel eyes suddenly twinkled as they did now.
“The report on you sent by the procurator, Decianus Catus, is not particularly flattering.” Petillius shoved the map aside and fished a small piece of parchment out from a pile of dispatches. “Let’s see now--uhmm--‘slack, insolent, at one time actually insubordinate, given to association with the enemy....’ ”“The ENEMY!” cried Quintus, forgetting himself. “By the spirit of my father, sir, how anyone could call those wretched Icenians the ENEMY--and the way we treated them, the procurator ... by Mars, I guess they’re enemies now, all right--but--” He clamped his lips together as the general raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, sir.”
