by Anya Seton
At this he was overwhelmed with a feeling of pain and loss, far greater than he could understand. For amidst the dream-like confusion, he had a certainty that there was nothing wrong with her. She was in no danger. Then she and Pendoc must have slipped away in the night, leaving him this extraordinary guide and the message? Could Regan write Latin? That was strange, and yet the only explanation. But then had Regan deceived him all along? Had she never intended to take him to Stonehenge and her grandfather at all? This , thought hurt him, even while a part of him denied it utterly. He knew that Regan was trustworthy. And yet so many things were strange; faint dream memories slipped in and out of his mind, bright sun and huge sinister stones, angry voices, a room of mysterious shadows, many trees. And something lost. Something beautiful and very precious. I’ve had a fever, that’s what it is, he thought. He touched his cheek and found it cool. Well, he was all right now, whatever had happened, and on his way to Gloucester. That was the important thing. His military mission. How long had he been delayed?
He read again the message on the leaf, then tore it into tiny bits. “Well, come on then, Bran! Hurry--on to Gloucester!” He reinforced his Celtic with gestures.
The man nodded and threw away the drumstick. He pointed toward two ponies Quintus had not yet noticed, though one was his own; the shaggy native pony, on which he had left the Regni fort. At least he was certain of that, Quintus thought slightly reassured. They mounted and Bran set off in the lead, as the mists lifted and merged into a grey sky.
They were in a fertile land of pastures, brooks, and fields of ripening grain, with here and there a prosperous looking native farmhouse. It’s queer, thought Quintus, as the rough little ponies trotted along tirelessly. I wonder why we don’t ever get to the great plain of the stone temple. The country isn’t at all what I expected.
Despite a maze of crisscross tracks, Bran, never hesitating, went as fast as even Quintus could desire. After a while they came in sight of some foothills and a ridge beyond, where Bran turned north along a river which they followed for a long time until they struck off to the left up a hill. When they reached the top, Bran drew in his pony and, grunting, pointed down below.
Quintus peered into the cup-like valley and was startled. There was a large cluster of houses on the bank of a river, not the round British huts, but substantial stone houses and a white edifice that looked very much like a Roman temple. A cloud of steam rose into the air from near the temple.
Surely those were hot springs down there, Quintus thought, and remembered that poor Flaccus had once mentioned hearing of healing springs in the west country. Could this possibly be Gloucester, though there was no sign of a fort?
He said the word for “Gloucester” questioningly to Bran, who shook his head vigorously and pointed further north. Then, by gestures of sleeping and eating, conveyed to Quintus that they would spend the night down below.
Quintus nodded reluctantly, anxious to press onward to the end of this difficult journey. But he was aware of badly needing sleep and food for they had finished the meat provided by the deerskin bag as they rode. During the last hour he had hardly been able to keep his eyes open, and his drowsiness extinguished curiosity as they entered the little town on a paved stone street which was lined with tiny shops and comfortable villas. Bran rode straight toward the temple, which, seen close, did not look quite as Roman, though it had rude columns built of whitish stone, and on the pediment above the entrance was a large sculptured face of an ugly woman, obviously some goddess, but none that Quintus recognized.
They dismounted and made for a sort of wooden shed from which clouds of steam were rising. Suddenly Quintus was jolted from his sleepiness by the sight of a Roman toga. In fact two of them! They were worn by very old men who were sitting on a bench beside the shed talking to an elderly woman in the draped blue palla and under-stola of a Roman matron. Quintus stared at her tiara of tightly curled grey hair, done in the fashion worn by his mother when he was a child.
“Why does that filthy Briton stare at us so, I wonder!” said the woman loudly to her companions. “And look at that ape man. Ugh! The most extraordinary people come to Bath. If it weren’t for my rheumatism--”
It took Quintus a moment to realize that he was the “filthy Briton,” and another to decide whether to disclose his true nationality. But after all there was nothing to be lost, and much to be gained by finding out what these Romans were doing in this remote spot and what they knew of the revolution that was shaking the east.
They knew nothing at all, Quintus soon discovered after he had addressed them in Latin, endured their incredulity, given explanations and received theirs.
The old men were time-expired veterans of the Claudian conquest, seventeen years ago. They explained that there were about a dozen others like them living here because the climate was gentle and the healing hot springs, called ‘Aquae Sulis,’ in which they bathed daily, kept them healthy. The Roman lady was a wife who had been sent for from Italy, during the peaceful years.
“Why no,” said the matron, still eying Quintus suspiciously, “we’ve heard of no particular trouble. But the natives, you know, Standard-bearer--if you really are one--well, one has to really understand the natives. They don’t bother us when they come here to the springs--and we let them keep their silly temple.”
She pointed to the sculptured face. “That’s their goddess Sulis, but we call her Minerva, and it doesn’t matter.”
A lot of things will matter to you, my dear lady, thought Quintus, exasperated--if Boadicea decides to include you in her plans. But he didn’t say it. These people were old and incapable of understanding the situation. One could only hope for their sakes that their smug isolation would continue.
“Have you any knowledge at all about the Second Legion at Gloucester?” he asked.
But the old people shook their heads, without interest. “The prefect of the legion, Poenius Postumus, an enormous German he is, came here only last year to take the waters,” answered one of the old men, “but he was a dull dog. Never spoke to anyone--ate too much--had some sort of stomach trouble.”
“Oh no, Marcus,” said his wife impatiently, “it was boils he had. You never remember anything right.”
“My dear Octavia, I believe my memory is quite as good as yours, and am certain it was stomach trouble the prefect suffered from.”
Quintus murmured hasty farewells and escaped, totally uninterested in whatever ailments had afflicted the Second Legion’s prefect.
He found that there were’ rooms for travellers provided near the bath shed and, after gulping some food, fell dead asleep.
CHAPTER VII
Quintus awoke in the town of Bath to a familiar though long unheard sound--the clatter and a creak of a chariot on flagstones, like the sounds that had awakened him many a morning in his own frescoed cubiculum at his mother’s villa in Rome. He jumped up and peered through the door of the wooden shelter to see the Roman couple, Marcus and Octavia, sedately rattling along toward the baths. Their large old horse--obviously a cavalry veteran--their bronze-studded chariot, the precise drapings of his toga and her stola, all looked so thoroughly respectable and commonplace that Quintus suddenly laughed.
Bran, who had slept on the floor, looked up alertly. “They might be my own aunt and uncle driving over from Ostia to spend the day with poor Mother, and scold her for household extravagance, or for spoiling Livia and me!” said Quintus whimsically to Bran, who naturally did not understand but grinned, then made gestures indicating that they should go.
“Yes, I know,” said Quintus, sobering at once. “Get the ponies, buy food--here.” He gave him some coins. “I’ll be ready when you are.”
While Bran nodded and went off to obey, Quintus ran to the baths. He had not washed properly in days and was delighted to find in this unlikely spot a fair example of Roman comfort and progress. The hot springs had been visited by Britons for centuries, and it had always been for them a sacred place of healing, under the protect
ion of their goddess Sulis. But the few elderly Romans who had so far discovered the virtues of the spa had naturally not been satisfied with a lot of steam and a muddy pool. They had begun at once to transform these into acceptable baths. Quintus, after he had soaked himself in the steam and heat of the shed which enclosed the springs, encountered Marcus and some other Roman gentlemen breakfasting on the edge of a great rectangular swimming pool made of stones bedded in ‘puddle’ clay.
“Ah,” said Marcus, who was sipping a cup of wine, “greeting, Standard-bearer, I must say you look -more like a Roman without those ridiculous native clothes on! You see what we’re doing here? Though it’s slow work and we’re extremely short of slaves. Every inch of lead for these pipes has to be dragged out of the Mendip hills, and we haven’t even a decent-tepidarium yet--fearfully hard getting anything done in the wilderness.”
“Yes--I see,” said Quintus politely, hurrying toward the stone step at the corner of the cold plunge, “but I think you’ve already done wonders.”
“Did you get your massage?” called the old man. “We do have a slave who’s good at oiling and scraping the skin with strigils.”
“Haven’t time, thanks,” answered Quintus, diving into the chilly water. When he clambered out at the other end, Marcus was waiting for him on the brink.
“Have some of those wild eastern tribes really revolted?” the old man asked frowning. “You young people all exaggerate so.”
“They have revolted, sir,” answered Quintus shortly.
“Oh well. . .” Marcus said comfortably, as he wrapped a woollen robe around his skinny hunched shoulders. “Our legions’ll soon deal with the trouble. Probably all over already. By the way, if the prefect, Postumus, is still at Gloucester, you might just find out if it was stomach trouble he came here for last year. I’m positive”--he glanced toward a small arcade at the end of the pool where Octavia’s tiara of grey curls was bent toward that of another old lady--”POSITIVE it was not boils.”
“I’ll try to find out, sir,” said Quintus with control. He made a hasty farewell and ran toward the vestibule, where he had left his clothes. He threw them on and hurried out to the court where Bran was just riding up with the ponies.
The dew was still on the grass when Bran and Quintus climbed out of the quiet cup-like valley where Bath lay; and the last part of their journey was slower going than even the great forests had been because here they were in hill country. These Cotswolds were most lovely wooded hills through which the native track wound and climbed and dipped suddenly down to little brooks which the ponies stumbled and splashed through.
Though his anxiety mounted with each hour that brought them nearer to the goal at last, Quintus was aware of the special beauty of the country. Once when they paused to let the horses drink, Quintus looked down a small ravine that opened onto a view of hazy purplish hills beyond and thought that it would be a wonderful site for a country villa. There was ample water, shade, and lush meadows to turn into farm lands. And he discovered that in picturing his villa, which would be spacious, built of brick, well warmed, and decorated with fine mosaics, he was also picturing Regan there as the mistress of it. He had an image of her charming little face thoughtfully bent over the home fire, between two altars, one for household gods, the Lares and Penates, and the other for the gentle hearth goddess, Vesta.
A very silly picture, he realized impatiently. Regan had certainly emphasized her indifference when she had changed her mind about taking him to her grandfather, and instead deserted him in the forest and gone off with Pendoc. Also, if a young Roman soldier were to do anything as ridiculous as to build dream villas in the wilderness, and dream a wife to fit into them, let him at least dream the latter in the shape of a beautiful Roman girl, with neatly curled black hair, large melting eyes, lush olive skin. Like Pomponia, he thought, remembering the daughter of one of his mother’s friends who had given him definitely languishing looks last year at a banquet.
But Pomponia did not seem in the least attractive now.
Quintus jerked his pony’s bridle, and they started forward up the next hill. This time with Regan it’s finished for good! Quintus thought in sudden anger, exasperated by the sick yearning and sense of loss that came to him when he remembered her, and which he could not seem to control--a baffling feeling as though something had happened that part of him knew, but that was hidden where he could not find it.
They rode and rode, and then they walked; for even the British ponies began to tire. It rained gently at times, at others the sun came out warm on their backs. But finally it set, sinking in a blaze of rose and violet beyond a broad estuary that they could see shining far below.
They trudged on through the long northern twilight, until the moon rose like a golden plate, above the distant Welsh mountains.
At long last they descended to an open plain, and Bran gave a grunt of satisfaction. By the brilliant moon’s light, Quintus saw rearing up ahead the unmistakable ramparts and turrets of a large Roman fortress.
At last! thought Quintus exultantly. And as the fort seemed so quiet, he thought, They’ve gone, thanks be to Mars! He did not even feel disappointment that his long journey was for nothing, in relief that the Second Legion must now be united with Suetonius’ forces. It might even be that the smug old Marcus in Bath was right, and the revolt put down by now. This gave him a pang, that the great final battle should happen without him, but he decided stoically that he would have to take what comfort he could from having faithfully fulfilled his mission.
As they got nearer he saw the dark shape of a sentry walking along the ramparts from turret to turret. Perhaps this was not surprising since they might leave some guard at the fort, though they shouldn’t. Suetonius had ordered complete abandonment because he needed every fighting arm to help him. But then Quintus noticed something else.
The legionary flag was flying! It suddenly flapped and billowed in a gust of wind, and below the eagle on the pole Quintus saw plainly the curious capricorn badge--half goat, half fish--that denoted the proud royal ‘Augusta,’ the Second Legion.
So, after all, they were still there! A standard moved with the legion.
Quintus’ heart began to beat fast. “Hold the ponies. Stay here! I’ll arrange for you later,” he cried to Bran, throwing him his horse’s bridle. But the little dark man shook his ape head and gobbled something vehemently, at the same time pointing south the way they had come.
“You mean you won’t wait?” Quintus asked, astonished. “But you must have food and rest.”
Bran shook his head again and made it clear that he was leaving with the two horses.
“Well, I can’t stop you,” said Quintus ruefully, “and I thank you for your guidance, but I wish I knew where you came from and where you’re going.”
Bran made the hoarse sound in his throat that meant a laugh, and even in the moonlight Quintus could see that the alert eyes were looking at him with a peculiar expression, as though he could have told some strange things if he could speak. Bran raised his arm in salute and, jumping on his pony, led the other pony rapidly off into the night.
Quintus had no time for conjecture. He called “Farewell, Bran,” then ran toward one of the four portals to the great rectangular fortress.
The sentry had seen the shapes moving below and heard the voice. He leaned over, poised his spear, and called out a sharp challenge.
Quintus started to shout back his name and rank and legion, but before he could get it all out, the startled sentry at the gate rushed forward waving his sword and crying, “Silure! Silure!” as he lunged at Quintus.
“I’m not a Silure--you fool!” cried Quintus, jumping sideways and barely escaping the sword point. “I’ve a message from the governor!”
He yanked off his native helmet and shouted the universal Roman army password, “In the name of Caesar Augustus Nero!” at the sentry, who slowly lowered his sword, while the sentry from the ramparts ran down to join him, crying, “What is it, Titus? What’ve
we caught?”
“You haven’t ‘caught’ anything, my friends,” said Quintus impatiently. “I’m as Roman as you are, a standard-bearer of the Ninth. Take me at once to General Valerianus!”
“Another one. . . .” said Titus slowly and cryptically to his fellow sentry. “I wonder what the prefect’ll make of THIS one.”
“Never mind the prefect!” said Quintus sharply. “Take me to the general. . . . Look men, here I have a message from His Excellency, Governor Suetonius Paulinus--”
He held out the piece of parchment that he had been given at Chichester. “It’s of desperate importance--desperate.”
“Well,” said Titus, shrugging, “desperate or not you’ll have to take it to the prefect, Poenius Postumus, and I daresay you won’t like the result.”
“Why?” cried Quintus, ignoring the last words, which he did not understand. “Why to the prefect?”
“Because he’s in command of the legion just now, that’s why.”
“But where’s the general, Valerianus?”“That,” answered the sentry, with a puzzling blend of rudeness and hesitation, “is a matter for guessing, and not with outsiders neither, my lad.” He made a quick sign with his fingers as protection against the evil eye, and added on a sharper note, “The general’s gone away.”
Quintus frowned, thinking--what’s happening here?--something queer. Though the sentries did not meet his eyes, they seemed not so much unfriendly as ashamed, or anxious.
“Then take me to the prefect,” said Quintus grimly. The sentry, called Titus, nodded and started in the army’s formal quickstep along the Via Principalis, or Principal Street, which bisected the vast enclosure inside the walls.
As he followed, Quintus noted unconsciously the usual layout of a legionary fortress; the acres of barracks built in blocks, and the granaries, kitchens, stables, baths, parade grounds--everything for the care of six or seven thousand men. Ahead loomed larger stone buildings, which were of a type always built as the headquarters of a fortress, to house the staff, the treasure chamber, and administrative offices.
