The Mistletoe and the Sword: A Story of Roman Britain

by Anya Seton

  Quintus fought as in a nightmare, slashing with his sword, seeing blood flow, yanking Ferox away from the darting British chariots, dodging spears, protecting, as long as he could, the standard of his cohort until it was knocked from his hand. Unbelieving, dazed, Quintus saw the main body of the legion, the foot soldiers, fall. The little valley was a sea of thrashing bodies that grew quiet, and a sea of Roman blood. Through the roaring in his ears, and the spine-chilling whoops of the victorious Britons, Quintus heard the command of his own general. “Retreat! Retreat!--Make south for London.”

  Quintus turned blindly to obey, but his forehead was gashed so that blood and sweat ran into his eyes. He did not see a huge Icenian sneak up behind him. His sword was flung from him. The Icenian seized Ferox’s bridle and the horse plunged and snorted, unseating Quintus, who fell to the ground on one knee. He knuckled the blood from his eyes and saw the Icenian pick up the sword and turn to raise it high with the point toward Quintus’ throat. Quintus floundered frantically and could not rise, for his leg had twisted under him. Helpless, he looked up into the murderous eyes.

  But the gleaming sword did not descend. Someone had grabbed the Icenian’s arm, someone gave a sharp command and then ran back toward the sloping hillside. The huge British warrior threw down the sword and suddenly scooped Quintus up, flinging him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He strode out of the melee and dumped Quintus on the ground beside the chariot of the warrior Queen.

  Boadicea did not see Quintus as she leaned far over her chariot and called in a great harsh voice to her men below, “Kill! Kill!”

  “We have killed, Your Majesty!” came a mighty roar in answer from the multitude of Britons, “Look how well we have killed!”

  “Andraste! Andraste!” shouted the Queen exultantly. “The sacred hare prophesied this when it ran toward the sun! Oh goddess of victory, we thank thee!” She raised her powerful arms toward the sky. Her body trembled. Her face was white and glistening with triumphant tears.

  Quintus, too dazed to think or speculate why he himself was not yet dead, tried to ease his leg and struggle to his feet The Queen’s exaltation died. She lowered her head and saw the wounded Roman beside her chariot “Why do you suffer this hell spawn to live?” she cried angrily to the warrior nearest her. Suddenly she peered hard at Quintus, “I remember him! This is one that came to my palace with the procurator. He watched them scourge me!” Her face convulsed. “Roman, Roman--it is well you are not yet dead. By Lugh, the sun god, and his life sap, the holy mistletoe, I swear you shall suffer the tortures of--”

  “No! No!” cried a terrified girl’s voice. “My gracious Queen, do you not remember? This is the Roman I told you of. This is the one I stopped Murdoch from killing just now!”

  Quintus turned and stared blankly at Regan’s tense imploring face.

  “Ah . . .” said the Queen. Her blue eyes lost their frenzied fire, they became cold. ‘Then I shall spare you for now, Roman,” she said in Latin. “As you spared Regan here. Because Icenians pay their debts . . . and I shall pay my debt to Rome too, never fear--” Her eyes glinted with implacable meaning. “We will rid this country of you, every one of you. Do you see my people--?” She waved her arm toward the plain below. “A few are dead but there are still fifty thousand of them--Icenians and their allies--Trinovantes, Coritani, Parisii--soon all the tribes of Britain will be with us--and do you see your proud legion, Roman?”

  Quintus looked down at the acres of mangled Roman bodies, the blood encrusted shields, helmets, eagles glinting in the sunlight. His throat choked.

  “Aye,” went on the Queen with a terrible laugh, “there is no more Ninth Legion, is there! And now you see how it will fare with all Romans everywhere.” She turned from him contemptuously. “The Roman does not speak. Bind him, Murdoch. He shall see what if feels like to be a slave.” The huge Icenian yanked off Quintus’ helmet and threw it away. It rolled and bumped down to the hollow below, where it stopped near all the other useless helmets of the dead. He bound Quintus’ wrists behind his back with leather thongs. He snapped an iron collar around Quintus’ neck, jerked him to his feet, and hauled him along by a chain. The twisted ligaments in his leg throbbed violently, but Quintus did not feel them. He tried to calm the panic in his head, to think collectedly, as he stumbled along amongst all the triumphant Britons who were heading back to their fort. They passed the edge of the battlefield, and Quintus, whose forehead wound had stopped trickling, suddenly saw a familiar breastplate amongst a heap of corpses. Beneath a battered centurion’s helmet he saw Flaccus’ pallid face, the eyes wide open as though they still could see the blue sky above. Bitter fluid rose in Quintus’ mouth; his stomach heaved; he turned away. May Charon give easy passage across the river Styx to poor Flaccus, he prayed, and to all these others.

  But the general had got away, and some of the cavalry. Quintus had seen that, though in all the turmoil and confusion, the Britons had not noticed.

  I must think coolly, repeated Quintus to himself. I must make a plan for escape. Just think of that, nothing else.

  Yet there was no possible escape for a chained Roman amongst fifty thousand enemies. Except Regan. She had saved his life, it was true, but after pleading with the Queen, she had not looked at Quintus. She had gone back to the princesses and the other women, and they had all disappeared, riding on ahead in their chariots.

  Regan has paid her debt, he thought. There will certainly be no more help from her. He clenched his jaw and tried not to give way to fear.

  They marched two days before they reached the great ring of earthworks that circled the Icenian fort. The Britons started at once on a victory feast. They lay on the ground guzzling great skinfuls of their heather mead. There were whole oxen roasting at several fires. Murdoch wished to be rid of his captive. He chained Quintus to a small oak tree outside the earthworks and there left him. Night began to fall and Quintus grew faint from hunger and thirst. Nobody came near him. He groped on the ground behind his back until he found a sharp stone and tried to rub the thongs that bound his wrists against it. But the stone slipped away. He crouched on the ground beneath the tree, and his chin fell forward on the iron collar. He thought of his mother and Livia at home. He thought of Gaius, his ancestor, and of the quest which had seemed to promise nothing but adventure. Gaius himself had been captured like this and got free, for a moment, anyway. Ah, but Gaius had not been put in chains. The Britons had learned much from the Romans in a hundred years. From inside the earthworks the sounds of revelry grew louder. They were chanting triumphal songs, wild barbaric chants. The lights of their bonfires turned the sky red.

  An hour passed. Quintus dozed from exhaustion and jumped as he felt a touch on his arm.

  “Sh . . .” whispered a voice in his ear. “Don’t speak!”

  A strand of silky hair blew against his cheek as he looked dully up into Regan’s shadowy eyes. The warning pressure on his arm increased, and she shrank behind him. He saw then that where she was looking--on top of the earthworks--a tall man’s figure was dimly outlined. The man peered down for a few seconds toward the oak tree. Then the tall figure disappeared.

  “It’s Navin, chief of the Trinovantes,” Regan whispered. “I heard him arguing with our Queen. She wants to torture you tomorrow for a sacrifice, the torture of the--” She used a Celtic word he could not understand, and shuddered. “It’s horrible,” she whispered.

  Quintus swallowed hard. “What did Navin say?” he whispered back.

  “He said that because you had once befriended him, you should not be tortured, only killed quickly. She would not agree.”

  “I shall try to die as a Roman soldier should,” said Quintus grimly. “But then why did you save me today, Regan? I’d rather have died with my men.”

  “I know,” she whispered, “I did not think the Queen would be so--so cruel. I too hate Rome--I have tried--but I cannot--quite hate you. I’ve brought a knife,” she added very low. “Lean over so I can cut the wrist thongs.”
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  “May the divine gods bless you!” he muttered through his teeth, as Regan sawed away behind his back. The thongs fell apart and without thought he raised his freed hands and, pulling her face to his, kissed her fervently. She stiffened and pushed him back but for a moment he fancied he had felt her soft lips yield.

  “Fool!” she whispered breathlessly. “I do this only out of justice, and you’re not free yet.” She fumbled with the clasp of his iron collar. “Here, like this,” she said, guiding his fingers behind his neck, “it’s too stiff for me.”

  They struggled for agonizing seconds until the clasp loosened. “Now go--” she whispered, While he eased the collar and chain soundlessly to the ground. They uprooted a small bush to place it by the tree so it might look, from the ramparts, like Quintus’ crouching figure.

  He took a step and limped so badly that she gave a smothered exclamation. “Wait,” she said. ‘They’ve put your horse alone over by the grove of our goddess Andraste, for the sacrifice tomorrow. I think I can get it.” She disappeared while he waited feverishly. The instant he saw her appear between the trees with Ferox he whistled very low, and the horse responded at once, trotting to him. Ferox was still saddled. Quintus mounted and leaned over. “Regan--someday we’ll meet again. I know it, and I’ll tell you--tell you--”

  “Hurry--” she said. “Go quickly, quickly--may the gods of my people forgive me for what I’ve done this night.” She ran, light and silent as a moth, back toward the fort.

  CHAPTER IV

  If Quintus had any remnants of softness, he lost them on the desperate flight from Boadicea’s camp. He had no weapon with which to kill game, no means of making fire. He lived on berries and a tiny raw fish which he caught with his hands by great good luck, as he forded the river Lea. Ferox did better, for he could crop the sweet wild grasses, but Quintus dared give the horse little time to graze. He followed the road only at night; by day he slept in snatches or pushed his way through the forests, listening every moment for unusual sounds, and wondering--whenever he heard a badger call, or the scream of a wildcat, or the bark of foxes.

  At times he thought about Regan with warm gratitude. But then he would think of Colchester’s destruction, of the slaughter of the Ninth, of Flaccus’ dead eyes staring up into the sky, of the hideous torture Boadicea had decreed for himself. And he hardened his heart against all memory of Regan, who had paid her debt to him but who was still an enemy.

  On the third night he staggered into London and found it a city of dread. Knots of white-faced Roman citizens were gathered on the street comers, whispering to each other. The shopwindows were barred. A hush of uncertainty hung over the town--which Quintus did not understand, for as the poor lathered Ferox dragged him haltingly toward the centre of town by the Wal Brook Quintus saw that Governor Suetonius must have arrived. The royal eagle flag was flying from the government house, and in the encampment by the Thames he saw a crowd of pitched tents, with emblems of the Fourteenth and Twentieth legions.

  Thanks be to Mars! Quintus thought hazily, we’ll be all right now. He managed to reach headquarters and give his name to the startled sentry at the gate, but then, to his humiliation, his brain began to swim, the sentry’s face wavered in sickening circles.

  Quintus stumbled off Ferox, tried to speak again, and slumped instead to the pavement.

  When the black mists cleared, he knew he was lying on a couch. He felt the pressure of a cup to his lips and found that he was swallowing strong wine with a stimulating herb in it. He opened his eyes and saw who was holding the cup. Petillius Cerealis, his general. But the general was dreadfully changed, so haggard and drawn had his face become. And the hazel eyes looked down at Quintus with a terrible sadness.

  “He’s coming around,” said Petillius quietly to someone behind him. “Here, Quintus, drink--don’t try to talk yet.” As Quintus drank, he saw another face swim up next to Petillius’. A square, florid one above a bull neck. Crisp greying curls beneath the elaborately embossed helmet of the governor. The gilded helmet was dazzling, and Quintus shut his eyes.

  “This lad’s in pretty bad shape--loss of blood--exhaustion,” he heard his general say in a tone of bitterness, “but at least he’s alive.”

  “You were a madman, Petillius,” said the harsh voice of Governor Suetonius. “A dangerous fool. Pushing up into enemy country, letting yourself be ambushed. May the gods forgive you, for you’ve cost us a legion.”

  “By all the spirits of my ancestors, Excellency--” cried the general violently. “Don’t you think I am tortured by that night and day? The shame will never leave me. I did not guess Boadicea’s numbers, nor judge their fury. I’ve resigned to you my command--the disposition of my life--or death--is in your hands, yours and our august Emperor’s.”

  There was a heavy silence, while Quintus felt a stinging behind his closed lids. Petillius had said “or death . . with unmistakable emphasis. Yes, as every lowliest auxiliary knew, death was the most honourable course open to a Roman soldier who had bungled. The quick self-driven sword thrust was the end of shame to a Roman general who had lost his legion.

  “You know I would have joined in death my legionaries who lie rotting up there to the north--before this, Excellency,” went on the sad, bitter voice, “except that you have said you need me and commanded me to stay with you.”

  Again there was silence and the sound of the two men’s breathing. Then Suetonius said, “Aye, it is so. I need you and every help I can find. You’ve been a fine general, Petillius, and will redeem yourself. You shall continue to command the remnants of the Ninth and help me with the other legions.”

  Suddenly Quintus heard the sharp slap of sandals on the pavement as Suetonius began to pace the floor. “But where is the Second Legion?” the governor said as though to himself. "Where, where? I sent to Gloucester for them ten days ago. Why haven’t they come?” Then with a change of tone, as though he had remembered the unhappy general beside him, “Oh, I understand the fatal error that you made, but by the GODS, Petillius--there must be no more errors! Everything must be sacrificed--everything--to one aim.” His voice trumpeted out, “We must vanquish that she-devil of a Queen!”

  Later when he had eaten and recovered some strength, Quintus told to Petillius the story of his capture and escape from Boadicea, and learned that a couple of hundred of their cavalry had indeed managed to get back to London and had now been quartered amongst the two legions Suetonius had brought from Wales.

  And it was then that Quintus finally nerved himself to ask the question which had been occupying his mind for days. “What happened to the Optio, Lucius Claudius Drusus, my--my friend, sir? Did he get away?”

  “He did,” said the general grimly. “In fact he got away some time before I gave the order to retreat.”

  Quintus reddened slowly as he took in the meaning of this. “You mean, sir--”

  “I mean that Lucius Claudius turned tail and fled in that first moment when the Britons leaped upon the infantry. I saw him gallop off.” He added quietly, looking at Quintus’ shocked face, “Yes, panic is a fearful thing to some men--those who haven’t learned to control themselves.”

  Quintus moistened his lips and said, “Where did he go, sir?”

  The general shrugged wearily. “I don’t know. We’ve not seen him here. It may be that he escaped to Gaul by ship, as has the procurator, Decianus Catus. Ah, trust the procurator to save his worthless skin and leave us to the terror he brought on us!”

  Quintus bowed his head and stared down at the mosaic floor. So the procurator had fled to safety across the water.

  That was not surprising but--

  “I don’t think Lucius has done that too, sir,” he said unhappily. “He wouldn’t really desert you and our legion.”

  “Yes, you are loyal, Quintus. Foolishly so, I think. As I also think it was not you who visited the Parisii village that night back in Lincoln. I want the truth this time. Was it you?”

  “No, sir,” murmured Quintus. “But L
ucius would have confessed, he--”

  The general raised his hand and let it fall as though he cut something in two. “In the light of what came after, and what is still to come, that incident is trivial--forgotten. Lucius Claudius is not the first young aristocrat I’ve had sent to me for schooling, nor the first to break under discipline and fear. We’ve no time to waste on such weaklings now. Go to the barracks and get some rest. The next days will be gruelling if Boadicea’s forces get here before our plans are complete.”

  The next days were gruelling not because of battle but because of uncertainty. The governor had made a terrible but inevitable decision. He would not try to defend unfortified London. He explained this to a hushed populace from the rostrum before Government House. Until the Second Legion from Gloucester joined him, his entire army consisted only of the Fourteenth and part of the Twentieth. Less than nine thousand men. He must play for time until the Second came, and a few cohorts of raw auxiliaries who had been sent for from the north--if indeed these could get through the enemy lines, or did not turn traitor to Rome themselves and join the British forces.

  He was therefore, said the governor, abandoning London, and fast. Such refugees as could keep up with the army would be taken along. They would march south to Chichester in Sussex where the Regni tribe was still loyal to Rome. But he warned them that there was little surplus food for them. The army provisions must be hoarded, not wasted on non-combatants. And he was leaving at once. That night. After the army had crossed the Thames, the bridge would be burned.

  The Londoners received this ultimatum with weeping and protestations. Some of them made ready to leave, and it was the duty of Quintus and other junior officers to shepherd these evacuees across the river and start them on the road south to Chichester. But many more begged for time to secure their property first, to find means of transporting those too small or old or sick to keep up with fast marches. While many others simply did not believe that there was danger: they preferred to stay in their own homes and take a chance. Surely, they said, Boadicea would not bother with women and children and sick people. She would pursue the Roman army, if indeed her greed for vengeance had not already been satisfied by the havoc she had wreaked in Essex.