The Mistletoe and the Sword: A Story of Roman Britain

by Anya Seton

  “What course of action, sir?” asked Quintus quietly.

  “Do you need to ask?” The general looked into Quintus’ earnest face, then glanced toward the pegs where his own magnificent armour hung, the crested helmet with the red horsehair fringe, the ceremonial shield, and gilded sword. “We fight.”

  “Thanks be to Mars,” Quintus murmured, and meant it Soon now the long-drawn-out suspense would be ended. Yet deep within him, for the first time he was aware of cowardly shrinking--a hollow feeling. On the plank floor it was as though he saw Flaccus’ dead eyes staring up at him. “I’m young, I don’t want to die yet.” The sentence flashed through his mind as though someone else spoke it but his face showed nothing as he stood respectfully awaiting orders.

  “Before we go out to hear the governor,” said Petillius after a moment’s silence, “there’s one--ah--detail--to be attended to.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Quintus, and waited. His general walked to the camp table and picked up a square of parchment and a white staff about two feet long.

  “For you,” said Petillius, handing the parchment to Quintus, who looked down to see his name jump out at him in heavy black script. “Quintus Tullius Pertinax, standard-bearer to the third cohort, Ninth ‘Hispana’ Legion of the imperial troops. . . There were a lot more words that Quintus skipped over in a daze, because all he could see were the last ones that seemed to ring out like a shout. “. . . from this time forth is promoted to CENTURION He read them three times, and his face and neck flamed.

  “For me. . . .” Quintus whispered, staring at the parchment. “Oh, General Petillius….”

  “For you, Centurion,” said the general in a carefully light tone. “You’re very young and sometimes foolhardy--but you have courage, intelligence, and leadership, and you’ve shown a remarkable amount of ability in dealing with the Britons since you landed. I wish you to be one of my officers. Here’s your badge of office.” He handed him the centurion’s staff. “Apply at once to the quartermaster’s department, for the proper helmet and shield. AND,” he added sternly, cutting across Quintus’ excited stammers of thanks, “I believe my men refer to me as ‘old fusspot’--nevertheless, I command that you have a shave, a bath, and a haircut before I have to look at you again. HURRY UP!”

  “Yes, sir,” breathed Quintus gratefully and ran.

  It was certainly the sprucest, shiniest young centurion in all the legions who emerged from the barracks just before Governor Suetonius mounted the earth platform to address the troops.

  The portions of Quintus’ old uniform which he could still wear had been brought from Chichester and cleaned and polished by one of the auxiliaries. The crested helmet and the shield with its great murderous boss in the centre were issued to him by the quartermaster. They had belonged to some other centurion whose use for them was over, but Quintus did not let himself dwell on that. His own sword hung again at his belt and he carried the deadly Roman cavalry lance in one hand, his staff of office in the other. There hadn’t been time to greet or saddle Ferox before Quintus strode across the parade ground with the proud long step of the Roman legionary, his tall figure followed by many approving eyes. Quintus had been popular in the Ninth, and the remnant of that demolished legion, now temporarily merged with the Fourteenth and Twentieth, had spread news of him. Dio and Fabian had been forbidden to tell the true story of their trip, but there were many who knew that, though the dangerous mission to Gloucester had somehow ended in failure, it had been gallantly carried through nonetheless.

  Quintus had not yet been told what ‘century’ would be assigned to his command, so he walked over to join Dio, who was standing near the altar to Mars.

  “Well!” cried Dio, bowing and saluting with excessive ceremony. “Will you look at what’s happened to our shabby little Silurian friend from the back hills! I tremble with awe. I am blinded by the glory.” And Dio covered his eyes with his hand.

  “Oh, don’t be an ass,” said Quintus, grinning and striking down Dio’s hand. “I’m the same simple boy at heart, no matter how gorgeous I may appear.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Dio snorted. “There never was born a sweet simple boy who was also a Roman of Rome. Masters of the Earth, you people are, and now you look it too.”

  For an instant of dismay, Quintus thought that Dio was jealous of his promotion, and was hinting that it had come from the usual preference shown by the High Command for officers actually born in the imperial city.

  Dio sensed this and his sparkling eyes softened. He shook his curly black head as he took Quintus’ hand in a warm grasp. “My silly jokes! Quintus, I congratulate you with all my heart, and so will Fabian when he knows. We expected it. And I’ll make a prophecy. You’ll be a tribune some day, and then a general yourself. A good one!”

  Quintus returned the handclasp, much moved by this generous extravagance and feeling guilty that he should be eligible for promotion when his two friends were not. Official messengers such as they were attached to a legion’s staff and bore no special rank, though they were very well paid.

  “I wouldn’t have got this,” said Quintus soberly, “if my legion weren’t so short of officers . . . and there weren’t considerable doubt as to whether….” He did not finish the thought aloud--whether any of us lives long enough for a promotion to matter one way or the other--but Dio understood, nodded quickly, and said, “Here comes the governor.”

  Suetonius’ approach was heralded by solemn horn blasts. He was a majestic figure as he mounted the platform and stood beneath the huge standard of imperial Rome--a solid silver eagle. Behind him were grouped the smaller standards of the legions represented here tonight, the Twentieth, the Fourteenth, and the Ninth.

  A spontaneous cheer broke from the packed troops below as Suetonius looked down on them, and the governor’s heavy face lightened into a smile. He raised his arm slowly in acknowledgment.

  When the outbreak had died down, Suetonius leaned forward and began to speak in a strong, confident voice which gave to the troops no inkling of the shock and dismay he had shown earlier in his tent.

  They would wait no longer for the Second Legion, said Suetonius. It was unfortunately delayed. But they could manage very well without it! One thoroughly trained Roman soldier was worth a dozen scatter-brained savages. They all knew that. And they had but to remember the many glorious Roman victories in the past when a handful of legionaries' had easily vanquished a whole host of the enemy. Besides, it seemed that the British forces included women, and were led by a woman!

  “Almost,” cried Suetonius with infinite scorn “am I ashamed to command that we do battle with such a weak and miserable foe! Yet too long this silly painted people, this woman-led rabble, has been allowed to have its head. Yes, there have been unfortunate incidents, it’s true. There have been disasters you all know of--to one of our legions--to the towns of Colchester, London and St. Albans--but we must forget these! Nor consider that they represent anything but temporary setbacks!”

  “H-mm,” whispered Dio to Quintus, “Brave words . . .”

  “And much needed….” nodded Quintus, himself impressed by the powerful assured voice, and wholeheartedly admiring the governor as he never had before.

  “You must not think of past disasters,” the voice continued, “EXCEPT as they fill your heart with zeal to fight and avenge Romans who have been slaughtered, and other innocent people who have suffered hideous fates, deaths inflicted by these unruly hordes who are little better than beasts--and here, there’s one thing I must warn you of! Like wild beasts these barbarians whom we shall fight make howlings and shriekings and fearful noises when they do battle. To this you will shut your ears, each one of you in grim determined silence performing your appointed task--as it shall be allotted to you!”

  Then Suetonius spoke to them in some detail, telling them the general plan he had made. They would march in the morning, cross the Thames, and take up a position north of it in Epping Forest, a position which he had chosen after long
consultation both with maps and with some of the London refugees who knew the terrain well. He had reason to believe that Boadicea’s forces were on the move and would arrive at that spot in about two days; then they would fight. More than that it was unnecessary for the legions to know. Their officers would acquaint them with special orders.

  In conclusion, Suetonius suddenly turned, and grabbing the great silver eagle from the chief standard-bearer, held it in the air and cried, “As our imperial eagle rises high above our heads, so will the winged Victory soar above us! And we shall win through to law and justice, win through to honour, win through to the greater glory of our beloved and eternal Rome!”

  “Ave! Ave! Ave!” thundered the troops. “Salve! Roma! Roma Deal” Then they cheered the Emperor and the governor, and clashed swords on shields in their exuberance.

  The enthusiastic cries resounded for some time unchecked, while Suetonius, with the two generals and his staff officers, walked back to his tent.”That was a good speech,” said Quintus on a long shaky breath. His eyes shone. “I’d no idea the governor was such an orator. He managed to remove all the qualms I confess I had. But how do you suppose he knows when Boadicea’s apt to turn up at the place he’s picked?”

  “Cantii spies,” said Dio, who had been talking with his friends during the time Quintus was cleaning up and dressing. “Several of them have been sneaking around up north keeping track of Boadicea’s forces. They tell me one of our spies got back here just before we came.”

  “Oh,” said Quintus thoughtfully. “And I suppose Boadicea has spies watching us?"

  Dio nodded. “It seems they caught two Iceni in that wood over there the other day. One wouldn’t tell anything even under torture, but the other admitted Boadicea’s forces were almost out of food, and she was on the march preparing to wipe us out and overrun the south, where she must think we’ve left more food than there is.”

  Quintus would have conjectured further as to the exact site Suetonius had chosen and the military tactics involved, but an orderly came up and, saluting, inquired if this were the centurion Quintus Tullius Pertinax? Upon receiving Quintus’ rather flustered assent, he announced that the new centurion was to report to headquarters for orders.

  The next morning at dawn when the Roman army marched from camp, Quintus rode on Ferox at the head of the century of eighty men that had been assigned to him. His company was composed of auxiliaries--all of them Regni from Sussex, on their native ponies, except for three men of the regular cavalry who had belonged to the Ninth, part of Quintus’ original cohort.

  Quintus was proud of his first command. The Regni were a tall fair Belgic tribe, much Romanized, as their Sussex coast, like that of the Cantii in Kent, had always been in close touch with Gaul across the water. They were fine horsemen, already well trained in the use of cavalry weapons, and were pleased to have been assigned to a real Roman who understood much of their language. They showed this by extra smartness and co-operation as the legions marched along the broad road, then forded the Thames at Chelsea.

  Ferox leaped up the far bank of the river in one great bound. The horse had had no exercise in days and was, moreover, so glad to see his master that he was prancing with excitement and had to be continually curbed.

  “Quiet down, you black imp,” Quintus whispered affectionately. “I’d like a tearing gallop just as much as you would, but we’re not going to get it!” He patted the gleaming black satin neck, and Ferox slewed a bright eye around and wuffled as though he had understood.

  Quintus reined to one side on the bank, carefully watching the remainder of his company splash through the ford, and found himself near one of his men, a stocky little Italian called Rufus, with whom he had played many a ball game in the garrison at Lincoln.

  “Ferox is so mettlesome today,” remarked Quintus amiably. “I’ll bet you he could beat your horse by a mile, pig or no pig!” This referred to a race he’d run against Rufus in Lincoln, which had been a standing joke in the garrison because of a pig which had entangled itself amongst the contestants. Rufus had never before failed to hotly defend the merits of his own horse, and Quintus was startled to have him smile politely and say, “Yes, sir. No doubt.”

  Jupiter, thought Quintus, he answers me the way we did Flaccus! A gulf had opened; he had become a thing apart, an officer. It was a rather lonely state, and Rufus had quite rightly reminded him of it. Quintus soberly counted his company, saw that they were all there, and gave the order to proceed.

  Ahead and behind Quintus’ century, the legions marched, four abreast, like a broad shining ribbon of gold unrolling under the hot late August sun.

  They advanced along the river road until they came to an island in the Thames on their right, the marshy Isle of Thorns, where there were a couple of native huts raised on piles, with blue curls floating up from the smoke vents.

  Governor Suetonius, with most of the legions, had already marched past the island, to the rhythmic pounding of sandaled feet, and Quintus’ company had reached a point near the island when he thought he heard a voice calling his name. He couldn’t be sure above the clop-clop of the horses, but he looked around startled.

  “Quintus!” cried the voice again--a man’s voice--and suddenly out from behind a thicket on the bank there rode a familiar figure. It was a Roman legionary on a drooping mud-caked horse, a legionary in tarnished armour. The face was half hidden by the helmet and chin strap, but before the horseman got near him, Quintus recognized the arrogant set of the head, and in the repetition of his name he heard a defiance not unmixed with nervousness.

  “So it is you--Lucius Claudius,” said Quintus tonelessly, as the newcomer wheeled his horse into step beside Ferox. “What do you want?”

  “The legions are on the march again.” said Lucius, his handsome face bent down, not quite looking at Quintus. “I saw Suetonius pass some time ago. I waited until you came along.”

  “You saw from where?”

  Lucius hitched his shoulder backward. “From there, the Isle of Thorns, where I’ve been--been--staying.”

  “You found natives to receive you--Lucius? To keep you in safety, even though Boadicea’s forces must have overrun this bank?”

  “No--not here. She turned north for St. Albans before she got here. I found a British woman, a Catuvellauni, who has given me shelter in her hut.”

  A woman, of course, Quintus thought. So that’s where he’s been this three weeks!

  “Then you had better go back to her, Lucius Claudius. You’ll have more need of her protection than ever, since we are going to fight, and Boadicea’s forces have grown immeasurably since that disaster to the Ninth, part of which you may remember.”

  Lucius caught his breath, his knuckles whitened on the bridle. “What’s happened to you, Quintus!” he cried sharply. “You were my friend. Oh, I see they’ve made you a centurion, and I suppose it’s gone to your head. But you’ve no right to speak to me like this! You all retreated. It was every man for himself!”

  Not until our general gave the command, Quintus thought, and as it happened I was captured--but he rode on in silence for a while, somewhat ashamed of the bitterness with which he had spoken, aware of the bond between them, the old friendship Lucius had invoked. And yet unable to really trust again.

  “Why have you come out of hiding, Lucius?” he said at last in a cold voice.

  “I’m sick of the filthy natives and that mud hut. I want to get back where at least I can hear my own language,” said Lucius flippantly.

  “Then gallop up ahead until you find General Petillius. Report to him. He’s a just man. He’ll decide what he wants you to do.”

  Lucius reached over and put his hand on Quintus’ arm. His lazy persuasive voice held all its old warm charm as he said, “Why can’t I ride along with you, Quintus? The High Command’d never know. You’re an officer, you can do what you like. I’ll fall behind amongst your men. No one’ll notice. By Mercury, I’ve missed you--my old comrade!”

  Quintus felt
a sinking in his chest. He remembered the cowardly thoughts he had himself suffered yesterday. He remembered all the loyalty he had once felt for Lucius. He thought that perhaps if Lucius was really ashamed and wanted to make amends, he should be spared further ignominy--until after the battle. But--Quintus forced himself to consider the other side, for he was an officer now with full responsibility--the legions depended on discipline. They were going forth to a great battle in which no individual’s private feelings should count. And Lucius was--quite simply--a deserter. The decision could not be Quintus’.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “You can’t hide here with me. If you want to re-join the legions, you must report to our general.”

  “He hates me, Quintus, he always has--he’ll put me in irons--he’ll have me flogged--I won’t--”

  “Then go back to the Isle of Thorns--where you can skulk the rest of your days. I’ll not give you away.”

  Lucius gave him a strange look. There was hatred in it, and yet there was appeal. The slack-mouthed young patrician face for a moment showed a sort of confused despair. Quintus set his jaw and turned his head.

  Lucius slowly pulled up his horse’s reins and rode out of the column. He stayed a moment by the roadside, then disappeared into the trees, in what direction Quintus could not see. And Quintus was miserable.

  Soon, on the march, they forded the little Fleet River and passed the ruins of London--acres of black rubble and ashes, a devastation even worse than Colchester had been.

  The faces of the legionaries grew pale and set as they remembered the thriving little town as it had been so short a time before, and remembered the thousands of wretched people who had stayed there to be slaughtered.