by Anya Seton
“I gather,” said Petillius, leaning back in his chair, “that the procurator’s disappointment in you was also vice versa,” and to Quintus’ great relief, there issued from his general’s throat an unmistakable chuckle. “Now what really happened in the country of the Icenians?”
The spring passed pleasantly enough in the fort, on top of Lincoln’s high hill. Quintus’ duties were not hard. Frequently, under one of the tribunes or senior officers, he supervised the road building, and though this bored Lucius, Quintus had an aptitude for engineering and took an interest in the continual problems to be met. He learned the routine of clearing the way, while leaving brush and trees ranged alongside as fences. He learned to choose and lay the paving stones, to see that the gravel was packed properly, to build bridges and fords, and drive the new highway straight as an arrow’s flight through every obstacle, as they penetrated further and further into the northern wilderness.
The legionaries were well housed and fed; the baths--as Lucius had said--made a fine clubhouse and recreation centre. They even had music, for two of the foot soldiers played the lyre and flute. It was not a bad life at all. Quintus was too busy to think much about Regan or the Icenians. And he had a gratifying prospect to hope for. Flaccus one day had said that the general was soon intending to send some dispatches to the Second Legion headquarters in the far west at Gloucester. Quintus was interested by any mention of the west, where Gaius Tullius’ remains were, and he wondered if he might be chosen as one of the official messenger’s escorts. “You apply for the job and I think you’ll get it,” said Flaccus one night in the baths, as they came from the steam room. “It’s a sure thing nobody else wants it. Too much devilish magic goes on in the wild country between here and Gloucester. People turned into stones and stood up in a circle to shriek every night; animals that talk and cast spells on you--little black gnomes that bum you up in wicker baskets!”
“Oh come, Flaccus,” said Quintus grinning, “where’d you get all that stuff?”
The Spaniard shook his head darkly. “Oh, I’ve heard. . . . That’s Druid country that is in the west. Our Governor Suetonius may think he’s got ’em all chased to Anglesey, but I’ve heard there’s plenty left.”
“I wonder how our revered governor is getting on with his campaign,” drawled Lucius. “We might as well be on the moon for all the news that ever comes up here. . . . Jupiter, that’s cold!” he cried, as he suddenly plunged into the small swimming pool.
“You should’ve waited longer to cool off, idiot,” said Quintus from the edge of the pool. “What’s your big hurry tonight anyway?”
Lucius dove under the water and swam the length of the pool without answering.
So it was those blond girls in the British village at the foot of the hill, Quintus thought He gave an uneasy sigh. If the general ever found out how Lucius sneaked out of the fort almost every night and what he was up to--but there was no holding Lucius when it came to girls, even though the whole garrison had been given strictest orders not to enter the village. But Quintus had no intention of being told again that he clucked warnings like an old hen. So when Lucius clambered out and made for the dressing room, giving Quintus a wink behind Flaccus’ back, Quintus waved to him cheerfully, saying “See you later--I hope.”
To his great surprise he saw Lucius in half an hour, the time it had taken him to run down to the village and climb up again.
Quintus was throwing dice with a couple of standard-bearers from other cohorts and his teasing greeting died on his lips when he saw Lucius’ face. “What’s happened--” he began, and stopped as Lucius shook his head and jerked it sideways toward the corner of the hall. Quintus followed. “Trouble?” he asked briefly, restraining himself from an “I told you so.”
“Not what you think,” said Lucius. All his languid airs were gone, his face was pale and his round eyes worried. “Quintus, there’s nobody down there in the village. It’s deserted. Not a soul, even a dog.”
“Well, that’s not so strange. They’ve gone off hunting or on some religious expedition, they do that--”
“No, no,” said Lucius impatiently. “You don’t understand. Their furnishings are gone, everything, the ashes scraped out of the fire holes, their supplies. It looks as though they’ve gone for good, and yet they and their ancestors’ve lived there since long before Julius Caesar came to Britain. That isn’t all”--he went on as Quintus was about to speak--“look at this!” He drew a large clay tablet from under his cloak and held it out gingerly. Quintus peered at it and made a horrified sound. Rows of little figures had been crudely carved on the tablet, figures with crested helmets and breastplates. One figure held a standard with an emblem that was unmistakable. The standard of the Ninth Legion. Something else was unmistakable, too; spears were shown piercing each of the little figures’ breasts, and the whole clay tablet was sticky with fresh red blood.
The young men looked sombrely at each other. “Where did you find this?” said Quintus at last.
“In the centre of their village courtyard, on a stone they use for an altar to that victory goddess of theirs. They’d been burning the--the insides of some animal on it.”
“Well….” said Quintus, on a long breath, putting down the bloody tablet, “the message seems clear enough. Charming little thing. We’ll have to take it straight to the general.”
Lucius bit his lips and stared down at the tile floor. “How are we going to say that we--uh--happened to find it?”
Quintus was silent a moment while he felt a distinct shock and almost contempt, quickly mastered. “You want me to say I found it, Luce?” he asked evenly.
His friend’s eyes shifted and he spoke very fast. “Well, but you’re a favourite of the general’s. He wouldn’t really punish you. The old boy can be mighty unpleasant when his orders are disobeyed. I--well, I didn’t tell you, but I was in a lot of trouble with him before you came.”
“All right,” Quintus cut in. “I’ll lie about finding the tablet, but I’m not so noble that I’m going to take blame for all the monkey business you’ve been up to. Come on!”
The young men walked silently to the general’s quarters, while Quintus held the sinister tablet by one corner. When they were admitted, Quintus said, “General Petillius, here is something we feel you’d want to see at once. It comes from the altar in the British village, but the Parisii have cleared out. Entirely. No trace of them.”
The general examined the sticky red tablet long and carefully, but his face showed nothing. His eyes were frigid when he looked up at Quintus. “How did you happen to visit the village? You know my orders.”
Here goes, thought Quintus with distaste. “I was on the ramparts and heard some strange noises from below, sir. I decided to investigate.”
“You must have exceptionally sharp ears, since the village is over a mile away and the wind in the wrong direction. Did it occur to you to report these remarkable noises to a superior officer before taking independent action?”
“No, sir,” said Quintus, staring at the wall above Petillius’ head.
The general’s stem eyes moved from Quintus’ face to the flushed and subtly defiant one of Lucius.
“Our Britons here have always been extremely friendly until recently,” said the general, “but there has been a change, and this”--he indicated the tablet--“is a declaration of war. I should like to know the reason.”
Both young men were silent.
“Can you think of any reason why the Parisii should become suddenly hostile to us, Quintus Tullius?” said the general, each word dropping like a stone.
“No, sir,” said Quintus, his eyes on the wall.
“Can you, Lucius Claudius?” continued the implacable voice.
“Oh, no, sir,” said Lucius quickly. “None at all.”
There was another silence, and the general sighed. Then he stood up with decision and called a sentry. “You,” he said to Quintus, “will accompany this sentry to the guardhouse to await my decision on your d
isobedience. . . . You,” he turned to Lucius, “report at once to your centurion. The whole legion will now be alerted. An attack on the fort seems likely.”
Quintus followed the sentry with a sore and heavy heart. As he crossed the parade ground, Lucius ran up to him and whispered, “I’m sorry, Quintus, I--I’ll get you out soon. You’ll see.”
Quintus did not answer.
The guardhouse was an underground prison below the west gate tower. It contained six cells, very small and pitch black, with ventilation holes, and stone floors, nothing else. Quintus was shoved into one of them and given a jug of water. His sword and armour were taken from him. The thick oaken door banged shut, the iron bolt clanged through the sockets. He was alone.
It was afternoon of the next day before there was a sound on the other side of the cell door. The bolt shot back and Quintus, blinking in the sudden light of a little lamp that someone carried, finally recognized Lucius.
“It’s all fixed now, Quintus,” cried Lucius in an excited voice. “You’re to come out!--general's orders.”
Quintus made a harsh sound. “So you finally told him the truth....”
“Shut up!” whispered Lucius, quickly glancing at the guard who stood in the corridor. “No, it isn’t that--I didn’t have a chance yet--but something’s happened. Come on--hurry up!”
Quintus’ resentment toward Lucius and his relief at being released were both forgotten in amazement when he saw the parade ground. The entire legion of six thousand men was there in full battle dress, and forming into cohorts under the shouts of the centurions. The cavalry, already mounted, were quieting their prancing horses in a square near the stables.
“Jupiter Maximus! What’s up?” Quintus cried. “Have we been attacked?”
“No,” Lucius answered. “We’re on the move. A messenger came. The Iceni have risen. We’re going to the relief of Colchester. It’s besieged.”
During the desperate forced marches of the next three days, Quintus learned what had happened. An exhausted Roman messenger had tumbled into the Lincoln garrison at noon of the day Quintus spent in jail. He brought a frantic summons for help from the procurator, Catus, who was in London. The Iceni and the Trinovantes both had risen with Queen Boadicea as their leader. She had turned into an avenging fury. Her forces marching down from Norfolk had killed on the way not only every Roman but every Briton friendly to the Romans. And they had marched on to Colchester. There were thousands of them--nobody knew exactly how many, but there were women amongst them. Warrior women like the Queen. Something terrible was happening in Colchester. The procurator wasn’t sure what yet--he had only been able to send a few of his guard to its relief. He had sent a messenger to the governor way off in Wales with most of the army, but the gods only knew when Suetonius could get back. Petillius and his Ninth Legion must come at once and put down the insurrection.
“By the divine spirit of our august Emperor, I implore you to hasten,” the procurator had written. “I hear some of the other tribes have joined the rebellion, the Coritani, your own Parisii.”
The general had read this message aloud to the assembled legion. It was obvious why Quintus had been released from jail, aside from the fact that he was needed to fight with his men. The general had realized that the Parisii flight and defiant tablet were part of the great concerted rebellion and doubtless had little to do with any action of Lincoln’s garrison. Lucius had not had to confess. The minor incident had been forgotten in the crisis.
All the same, Quintus thought, as he rode down Ermine Street on Ferox, my name hasn’t been cleared. And he could not help wondering if Lucius ever would have told the truth about the visit to the village. There was no outward difference in the relationship between the two young men. They shared their scanty marching rations together, snatched sleep side by side in each night’s camp, but Quintus’ trust was shaken. It was painful, but fortunately there was scant time to brood on personal matters. They were constantly on the watch for attack. But there was none. The Coritani villages beside the fens were deserted too. They could see marks of the broad British wagon wheels on the road ahead of them, so that some force must have passed that way, but until they reached Braughing where Ermine Street joined the Essex Stane Street there was no sign of trouble. At Braughing there had been a small permanent stockade for the accommodation of passing troops; Quintus had stopped there on the way up. A time-expired Roman veteran had lived within the stockade with his wife and children, and acted as quartermaster.
Now there was nothing left of the stockade or its cluster of wooden buildings, nothing but a heap of ashes, while from the branches of a great oak tree, outside the ramparts, dangled four hacked corpses, the bodies of the Roman veteran and his family.
At this sight, the legionaries became silent, though before they had been lighthearted--pleased by the break in the monotony of garrison life, joking about how quickly they were going to subdue a yapping pack of natives led by a woman.
“Imagine fighting with women!” Lucius had laughed earlier on the way down. “We’ll spank all the little dears and send them home to their pots and pans.”
Lucius’ jokes no longer amused Quintus and he merely said, “You didn’t see Queen Boadicea. She’s as strong and proud as any man. So for that matter,” he added, “are many of our Roman matrons.”
Braughing’s fate was sobering but still did not prepare them for the sight of Colchester, which they reached next day. The smell of smoke had met them two hours before they got there, and as they came near, it became intolerable, suffocating. Quintus’ whole concentration for some minutes had to be given to Ferox, who plunged and trembled and finally bolted sideways up a little hill.
Here Quintus managed to soothe the horse and incidentally to get a good look at Colchester. Except that it simply wasn’t there. The forum, the government buildings, and basilica, the neat streets of villas and shops, the theatre had all become heaps of smoking rubble. Quintus blinked and looked again. The enormous, magnificent white and gold Temple of Claudius wasn’t there either. In its place was fire, a vast bonfire with flames leaping high enough to touch the clouds.
“Merciful gods--” Quintus whispered. Suddenly as he realized the incredible extent of the destruction and thought of the concentrated hatred that had prompted it, he felt a thrill of fear. But where were the Britons? Where had they gone after destroying Colchester?
This was the problem which also occupied General Petillius. Nor was it answered for some hours. The general drew up his legion beside the river Colne, away from the city, while he sent men to search amongst the ruins for any sign of life. They came back with tales of frightful death. Every inhabitant of Colchester had apparently been slaughtered and the place was full of bones and half-burned corpses. At length they found an old Roman shopkeeper, who crawled trembling out of a cellar near the river when he saw the legionaires. They took him to the general, who conferred with him beneath a tree on the riverbank. Presently, Quintus, to his amazement, received another summons from his general, who greeted him without preamble, or apparent memory of Quintus’ disgrace, and said, “This old man thinks the British forces have withdrawn to the north where they are making plans to march next to London. You are the only one of my legion who has recently covered that road to Iceni country. Can you remember a likely encampment for their forces?”
Quintus thought a moment and said hesitatingly, “Well, sir, there were some earthworks and a hill up past the river Stour. The British use that sort of thing for a fort.”
The general nodded. “We’ll go after them at dawn. Take them by surprise, I hope.”
That night was a tense one for the Ninth Legion as they listened to the measured footsteps of the sentries or snatched what sleep they could. Even the war-scarred veterans of many a battle were keyed up and jumpy; more so than Quintus who had never seen actual warfare, or Lucius who got thoroughly drunk even under Flaccus’ watchful eye. No matter the circumstances, thought Quintus, Lucius always managed by devious means
to gratify his own desires. Flaccus grew more and more gloomy, his long Spanish face set in grim furrows. He pointed out that the waters of the Colne had suddenly turned blood-red as the legion camped beside it Nobody else had noticed but Flaccus said it was so, and he went to pray to Mars once again at the little altar which they had set up in the camp. And Flaccus said he heard the shrieks of spirits issuing from the burning Temple of Claudius, where some of the doomed inhabitants of Colchester had held out for two days against the Britons.
Quintus did not hear the ghostly shrieks, but as he forced himself to shut his eyes and relax his body as Roman soldiers were taught, he heard something else--something from the dark woods across the Colne; the sharp yelping of foxes, and more distant answers. And he thought that there was little chance of surprising the British forces, for there were unseen eyes watching every Roman move.
The Ninth Legion marched at dawn, heading north for the Stour. They marched in close formation ten abreast with the cavalry at the sides, as usual in times of danger, though they did not expect to find the British forces for many miles. It was a gentle summer dawn. There was no sound but the rustling of the trees. It seemed impossible that the peaceful day could hide any threat. I don’t believe they’re up this way at all, Quintus thought, looking at the blue sky--and as he thought it, the quiet air exploded with blood-curdling war cries. They heard before they saw, for the pandemonium of hideous sound came from all around them.
The legion had marched into a pocket encircled by slopes, and over the brow of these slopes, on every side, poured masses of yelling frenzied Britons--thousands of them. The legion’s shields clanked together, forming the solid battle fence they were trained to make, but the attack was so sudden and they were so grossly outnumbered that the whirling chariots, the shaggy British war ponies, the hate-driven howling warriors mowed them down in the first minutes. While the cavalry galloped to protect the infantry’s flanks, General Petillius shouted the order to charge. They could not charge. The Britons with their blue-painted faces and flying gaudy tartans were on top of them, while from a war chariot high on the hillside a woman yelled hoarse orders--Queen Boadicea, a spear in her hand, her long golden hair flying as she shouted encouragement to her army. Behind her were clustered other women and her two daughters.
