The Mistletoe and the Sword: A Story of Roman Britain

by Anya Seton

  The legions turned north and marched some miles along the ancient British trackway until, in the heart of Epping Forest, they reached the strategic spot which had been previously picked by Suetonius. It was a funnel-shaped ravine, with just room enough for the disposal of the Roman forces at the narrow end, which was backed by dense underbrush and forest. The steep-sided funnel opened out onto a gravelly plain, also enclosed by rolling banks and forest.

  Quintus at first did not understand the special advantages of this site, until the governor ordered his whole force into battle formation, and they practiced over and over throughout the remaining hours of daylight, and on into the night, until every man knew his place and exact part. The foot soldiers, each armed with two javelins or pila, a light one and a heavy one, were wedged in the centre, thick and deep, for a thin strung-out line could not hope to hold against Boadicea’s immensely superior force. The cavalry were placed on the flanks which meant riding the lower rises of the ravine. The legions were not to move as the Britons came into view. They were to wait with their shields above their heads to form a roof, until Suetonius gave the signal to throw the first barrage of the deadly Roman javelins. Suetonius himself enacted the part of Boadicea’s force in these grim rehearsals, galloping from the north along the trackway into the plain in front of the ravine, judging the exact distance necessary to be kept between the two armies, scrutinizing the placement of all his troops, and finally watching the exact effect as he gave the signal for action.

  At midnight the troops were permitted to rest. Each man munched the dried beef he had brought with him and drank brook water. Quintus did the same and after presenting Ferox with a small bag of oats, went to find General Petillius.

  The generals and tribunes were in conference with Suetonius beside a small campfire on the edge of the ravine. The army had travelled unencumbered; not even the governor had a tent. Quintus had to wait some time before Petillius, with a grave nod of agreement to the governor, walked away from the fire, and saw him.

  “Well, Centurion, what’s the matter? Trouble with your new command?”

  “Oh, no, sir. They’re a fine bunch. Forgive me for disturbing you, but--did Lucius Claudius Drusus find you today?”

  “Lucius Claudius Drusus?” Petillius frowned. “You mean that Optio who deserted? Certainly not. What do you mean?”

  “This, sir,” said Quintus unhappily, and told the story of his meeting with Lucius though he did not say where it had happened or reveal Lucius’ hiding place. “I don’t know if I did right. He--I think now that he was desperately ashamed--underneath. I think he wanted to fight, and we need every man we can get--but--”

  “But he has a rotten streak. It’s the curse of aristocratic Rome nowadays and even our Emperor Nero--” Petillius checked himself. “No, you did right, Quintus. If he had come, I wouldn’t have been too hard on him. Forget it, and go get some rest”

  CHAPTER X

  Some of the seasoned legionaries slept a little that night of waiting in the ravine, but Quintus was amongst those who did not. He sat down near Ferox with his back against a rock; and, staring into the night, thought long thoughts. He thought about his mother and his sister in Rome, and about the quest which had brought him to Britain in the first place and which had once seemed the most important thing in the world. Then he thought of Regan. He wore her brooch still, pinned now to his white linen tunic beneath the shining centurion’s breastplate--Regan, far away on the other side of Britain in the Arch-Druid’s weird house of the living tree. It was there by the tree that he had kissed her, there they had both admitted the love between them.

  “You won’t remember this, Quintus--or I couldn’t have let it happen ...” But he did remember now! Suddenly, as he sat there in the ravine waiting for the battle, the last mists lifted. The herb of forgetfulness had ceased to cloud that strange day’s memory.

  “Regan,” he whispered, sending her a prayer of longing so strong that he felt it must reach her. Then he got up abruptly for the soft pink dawn was breaking through the trees. He examined Ferox in detail, his hoofs, his saddle, bit, and bridle, before he moved amongst his men, rousing those that were asleep, telling them all to check their own horses and weapons again.

  He said good morning to Rufus, who saluted and said, “Looks like a fine day, sir.”

  “It does indeed,” answered Quintus, turning to see Dio and Fabian behind him.

  “Fine day for walloping queens?” chuckled Dio. “We came to breakfast with you, a sentimental gesture. Viva the wheat cake!” He crunched one between strong white teeth.

  Fabian gave Quintus his slow smile and said, “Dio’s only concern is his stomach, as you may remember.”

  “I remember,” Quintus grinned back, deeply glad to see them, knowing, though neither of them gave any indication of it, that they had wanted to say good-by--in case. “Where’ve you two been placed?”

  “In the middle of the Fourteenth, fifth cohort, just behind the shock troops,” said Fabian. Both young messengers were dressed in full legionary armour today, carrying the light and heavy javelins and the short sword. Their oblong shields hung ready on their backs.

  “I, in fact, am in a superb position,” announced Dio airily., “It’s a handy thing to be somewhat small--by scrunching a bit I find I can keep myself thoroughly hidden behind the enormous Gaul in front of me--most convenient.”

  Quintus and Fabian, who both knew Dio’s courage, ignored this nonsense, and Quintus said, “I wonder what time we may expect to be honoured by Boadicea’s arrival.”

  “Not long after sunrise, I should think,” answered Fabian. “One of the Cantii spies was sure she camped this night at Braughing.”

  As he finished speaking, a trumpeted “alert” sounded through the ravine. “Well, here we go on our merry way,” said Dio, clapping Quintus on the shoulder. “Good hunting!”

  “And to you,” answered Quintus. They shook hands all around. As Fabian and Dio sped back down the sides of the ravine toward their posts, they each paused at a rude little stone altar to Jupiter that the men had set up. They touched it reverently in passing.

  Yes, thought Quintus, who had made vows at that altar earlier. May the great supreme god have Rome in his keeping this day. . . . He turned to make sure that each of his men had mounted.

  The sun rose brick-red over the forest top. Its rays slanted briefly into the ravine where the legions waited, but then clouds gathered and the sky turned pearl grey. A cool breeze began to blow from the north. Still nothing happened. The horses moved uneasily, now and then nibbling at the sparse grass. The men murmured to each other in subdued tones. There was a break in the tension when the governor rode up on his huge bay horse, while Quintus and his company snapped smartly to attention.

  Suetonius ran his eyes over the men’s positions and equipment. “Repeat your orders, Centurion,” he said to Quintus.

  “Wait. . . . Don’t move while the legions make the first onslaught after your signal, Excellency. Then charge here”--Quintus pointed right along the slope--“following General Petillius Cerealis around our own men below and veer down amongst the enemy to meet our left cavalry wing behind enemy lines.”

  The governor nodded. “A pincer action. General Petillius will decide when to veer.” He jerked his bridle and rode off to inspect the next centurion and company behind Quintus. In two hours Suetonius had checked on all his troops and returned to a place in the centre rear of the foot soldiers.

  This is a dream and nothing is ever going to happen, Quintus thought after a while, when like all of them he had repeatedly strained his eyes toward the far end of the gravelly plain outside the ravine. There was no hint of sun now, nor any rain either, only the murky grey sky and the fitful breeze.

  It was the breeze that brought them the first warning, just as Quintus had tested for the twentieth time the sharpness of his lance’s nine-inch iron point and shifted the weight of the heavy shield on his forearm.

  A quiver ran through the silent mas
sed legions as they heard a distant hullabaloo, a confusion of rumblings and shoutings from the north. The governor’s trumpeter let out a low pulsating blast.

  As one man, the legions behind the front row raised their shields and clanked them into place above their heads to form the famous Roman ‘testudo,’ a metal roof impervious to falling spears, arrows, or stones. And they waited. The sounds to the north grew louder, but there was still nothing to be seen.

  Quintus, concentrated on watching the plain ahead, did not hear rolling pebbles and stumbling hoofs behind him, until Ferox shied as another horse’s nose hit his croup. Quintus turned sharply and saw Lucius looking at him with the same expression of uncertain bravado he had had when he appeared by the Isle of Thorns.

  “What in Hades--” breathed Quintus. “How’d you get here?”

  “Followed the legions, waited through the night--came along the trail--down the side of the ravine.”

  “Well, get over there, out of that man’s way! Don’t raise your lance or move, until you see me move. Watch General Petillius up ahead on the white stallion for the signal, d’you understand?”

  Lucius swallowed. “You despise me, Quintus--don’t you--I mean, ‘Yes, sir, my Centurion, I understand,’ ” he added bitterly, but obeying, he moved up the slope to the place indicated by Quintus.

  Then Quintus forgot Lucius, forgot everything but the far end of the plain, as thousands of howling British warriors galloped into sight through the trees.

  The plain rapidly blackened with advancing figures brandishing clubs and spears and small round bronze shields. Here and there Quintus discerned an archer, and then he saw, thundering behind the mounted warriors, a line of war chariots, the murderous curved knives flashing around on the hubs of the wooden wheels.

  The Romans did not move. They made no sound. The Britons could have no idea of their numbers, because the funnel-shaped site disclosed only the point of the legionary wedge.

  The Britons, gazing down the plain toward the ravine, let out yells of triumph and paused well out of range apparently waiting for something. Quintus had a good view from the slope and soon saw what they were waiting for--when a large war chariot lumbered into view. There was no mistaking its occupants.

  Boadicea, tall as any of the chiefs in the chariots near her, was shouting and brandishing a spear. Her masses of tawny yellow hair whipped in the wind. On her head was a bronze helmet; on her chest, the gleam of the royal golden gorget. Behind her crouched the two redheaded princesses, clinging to the chariot’s high sides as their mother lashed the horses and drove frenziedly amongst her suddenly quietened forces.

  Quintus could see that she was shouting to her troops, and he caught isolated phrases. “Avenge!” “Rid our land of the hated tyrants!” “Kill them all--no mercy!” As she shouted this she reined in her horses and shook back a fold of her streaming mantle. A small animal jumped out and leaped to the ground.

  Quintus saw long ears on the little beast. Their sacred hare, he thought, as the Britons let out a wild tumult of exultation, for the hare had turned and darted away to the east.

  “Victory! Andraste! Andraste! The hare runs toward the sun for victory!” The Queen’s harsh cry of triumph could be heard over all the rest.

  They were drunk, Quintus thought, drunk with confidence as well as the heather ale they had undoubtedly been swilling all night. They seemed unaware that the Roman forces might have charged, by now, so absolutely certain of invincibility had the Britons become through their recent unchecked conquests. No doubt they thought the Romans held back from fear. But they were advancing now, the Britons, in a great disorderly mass, pushed forward by arrivals at their rear. There were wagons, hundreds of them, wagons apparently filled with women and even children; Quintus could see long flying hair.

  By Mars, and are they as sure as that! he thought with dismay that changed to anger. They had brought their families as spectators to watch the massacre of the Romans, as one might go to the Circus Maximus to watch the punishment of slaves.

  And there were so many of them! It was true then that half the British tribes had joined Boadicea, for there were many thousands of warriors in that packed advancing horde, not counting the civilians drawn up in wagons on the far side of the plain.

  Now it’s coming, Quintus thought, and a thrill ran through him though he felt no fear, only a cold calculating expectation. Boadicea’s chariot had disappeared back into her ranks while mounted tribal chiefs took her place. Toward the right, opposite Quintus’ position, he recognized Navin by the Trinovante helmet. “And so the time you prophesied is here, Navin, and we meet as enemies,” Quintus murmured grimly to himself.

  The British front line was quickly forming. It was composed of archers, as the Romans had expected, and stone throwers. Quintus glanced at Petillius’ erect back on the white stallion and then involuntarily behind at Lucius. The young man’s face was a glistening putty grey, sweat was pouring down it into his chin strap.

  “Good luck,” said Quintus softly, with a prick of pity, and never knew whether Lucius heard him or not, for the air exploded into a pandemonium of war whoops and battle cries, of twanging bows and the hiss of slingshots, followed by the harmless clatter and thump of the arrows and stones on the roof of shields above the legions.

  The instant after, came the Roman trumpet blast and Suetonius’ shout, “Legions charge!”

  The shields came down again as in one motion, the flying wedge ran forward and as it ran discharged the light pilum, the snake-thin, razor-sharp javelin that could fly as far as an arrow.

  The oversure Britons were taken by surprise. The archers and slingers, with no chance to rearm, staggered back under the onslaught and went down beneath the javelins. The Roman wedge broadened, the heavy javelins followed the light ones. They penetrated to the line of wildly plunging horses. At this moment General Petillius shouted and put his stallion to the gallop. The right-wing cavalry streamed after him along the edge of the tumult. A spear whistled past Quintus’ ear, but he ducked his head unnoticing, watching the general, who raised his lance in signal and veered left, straight down into the middle of the enemy amongst the milling horde of British chariots and foot soldiers.

  The left-wing cavalry met them there, and the Britons, utterly bewildered found themselves battling enemies on all sides--enemies whose management of the lance, the short slicing sword, the bossed shield, far surpassed the Britons’ skill with cruder weapons. The heavy Roman armour turned blows for which the British had no protection.

  Quintus had lost all awareness of himself. He had become a machine that cut, thrust, sliced, parried, and that yet managed Ferox, wheeling him between the swirling knives on the chariot hubs, spurring him into a momentary space away from a brandished club, and twisting to plunge his lance at a tartan-covered chest. The world had turned blue--the blue of woad stripes and circles on the savage faces, and it had turned to the red of blood.

  At one time he felt a streak of fire run through his thigh and then forgot it. A wild Parisii lunged at Ferox’s bridle, Quintus leaned over and bashed his face in with the sharp boss of his shield. The Parisii fell across the corpses of British horses, isolating Quintus behind a momentary bulwark; the fighting had surged forward and beyond him, as the Roman legions advanced with disciplined and murderous precision.

  Quintus found that he was panting and forcibly quieted his breath while he soothed the trembling Ferox. Then he stiffened, paralyzed at a sight not far from him but across a barricade of overturned chariots and thrashing horses.

  He saw General Petillius on foot, the white stallion dead beside him, fighting desperately with Navin, the Trinovante chief, who was still mounted. Navin’s mouth was lifted in a snarl beneath the stripes of woad. His spear had knocked away the general’s lance. Petillius was parrying the continual spear thrusts with his shield and short sword, but the Briton was backing him steadily into a corner formed by overturned chariots. Navin’s spear darted down again and again; Quintus with horror saw
that Petillius was tiring. He lifted his own lance and aimed it at Navin’s constantly whirling back, praying that it could carry that far, and not hit Petillius.

  But while he still aimed and hunted for a chance to throw, a horseman streaked up to the fighting pair. Quintus saw the lightning gleam of a Roman lance plunging into Navin. He saw the spurt of blood from Navin’s breast, then saw the chief in a reflex action hurl his spear straight at the Roman who was knocked sideways by the impact and slid slowly off his horse and fell to the ground.

  Quintus spurred Ferox, galloped to a better spot, then jumped the barrier and reached the three he had been watching. Petillius was standing, staring at the two men on the ground. The general was still dazed from the blows he had received, from the shock of nearly fatal combat. He looked up at Quintus without surprise. “The chief of the Trinovantes is dead,” he said, “and it seems this lad has saved my life.”

  “Lucius!” cried Quintus, gaping at the crumpled figure lying beside the dead chief.

  “Ay--Lucius Claudius--so he came to fight after all,” the general said in a wondering voice. “But he’s still breathing!” Petillius gave himself a shake and became his usual brisk self. He glanced down the plain where the fighting now was--a plain strewn high with mangled corpses of men and animals. British corpses. “Here,” he said to Quintus, “help me carry him under that tree.” Navin’s spear had cut deep through Lucius’ armpit into the lung. Quintus and Petillius stopped the bleeding by binding the wound tight with Lucius’ undertunic, after laying him carefully down. He breathed in wheezing gasps as they left him, but his heart was beating well.

  “Your horse is dead, sir,” said Quintus. “Here’s mine.” The general nodded and mounted Ferox. “Follow as quickly as you can,” he cried and galloped along the side of the carnage.

  When Quintus arrived on foot at the scene of battle, it was nearly over. The Britons’ confidence had at last turned to terror. They had tried to flee, though the Queen herself hoarsely begged them to fight on. But blind panic had seized them, and they had surged back in mad confusion, only to be stopped by their own cumbersome wagons, which now blocked the retreat. The wagons were full of women who had come to watch the sport