by Anya Seton
The legions’ work from then on had been easy, and they had carried it out with merciless thoroughness.
Thousands of Britons had been slaughtered by twilight of that day when the groans and shrieks of the dying lapsed to a silence broken only by long-drawn-out wailings--the Celtic keening for the dead.
For Boadicea lay there too amongst her people, on the ground. Her shield was beneath her head, her spear beside her, the golden hair outspread. The terrible face of fury was calm now and white, and still. When she had seen the last of her people fall, she had not waited for the Roman capture, which she knew would come. There had been a tiny vial of poison hidden in her bosom, and she had swallowed the contents.
She had died on the British trackway at the north end of the battlefield with no one near her but her daughters and four old Icenian noblemen, her relatives. It was the dirge of the two princesses that wailed through the evening of the Roman victory.
The Romans did not disturb them. This forbearance was General Petillius’ doing. Suetonius would not have been so merciful. Even in the midst of his great triumph, he had been infuriated that Boadicea had eluded capture. He wished to seize the princesses, at least, and drag the corpse of the rebel Queen throughout the land as an example.
Petillius had had the courage to combat his governor, pointing out that such a course would make a martyr of Boadicea and keep the British flame of hatred so hot, that never could the Romans hope to rule here peacefully.
“Show them that Romans can be merciful, Excellency,” he pleaded. Suetonius consented grudgingly to let them mourn the Queen until he decided what to do with the princesses. But before he had decided, they had gone. The six had taken their Queen with them and rolled away in a wagon along a secret path through the forest to bury her with their own rites.
While the dreadful keening of the princesses could still be heard down the plain, Quintus and General Petillius had gone to Lucius, taking stretcher-bearers with them.
Lucius lay beneath the tree where they had put him. There was bloody froth on his mouth, but he looked up at them with a faint smile, and said, “We won?”
“We won,” said Petillius. ‘The most glorious triumph against the worst odds Rome has ever had. Thanks be to the gods. I believe we’ve not lost over four hundred men, while all the British forces are wiped out--and Boadicea dead.”
“Good,” gasped Lucius painfully. He turned toward Quintus. “I surprised you, didn’t I? You never thought to see me die a hero’s death!” His weak voice still had an edge of bitter mockery.
Petillius made a sign to the bearers, who carefully moved Lucius to the stretcher. “I believe you will not die, Lucius Claudius,” said the general gently. “You’ll live to find that your brave act on the battlefield today has wiped out all that’s gone before. It is forgotten.”
Lucius sighed and shut his eyes. The stretcher swayed as the bearers picked their way amongst the scattered corpses. Petillius and Quintus walked on either side. Suddenly Lucius spoke again in the dream voice of half consciousness. “And yet I did not fight today either. I waited on the hillside watching, until the moment that I saw the general in danger--then only I forgot my fear.”
“I know,” said Petillius. “All that came before your slaying of the Trinovante chief is forgotten.”
“I’m a patrician. I’m of the blood of our divine Emperor Claudius,” the voice went on unheeding. “I wasn’t made to be a common soldier in a barbarian land, I’ve been miserable--full of hate and fear--hate and fear--”
“Hush!” said Petillius sternly, and the rambling voice stopped, though the laboured breathing continued.
Quintus’ eyes stung, he swallowed hard against the dread that Lucius might die. He didn’t try to understand the complex misery that Lucius had suffered--from self-indulgence, from cowardice, and arrogance combined--the rotten streak which had been redeemed by one selfless gallant action. He felt only pity and the old affection, purged now of contempt
They put Lucius down on a bed of leaves at the back of the ravine, amongst the other wounded, and the Fourteenth’s skilful surgeon examined his injury by firelight and gave the young man a powerful medicine to drink. “I think he may pull through, sir,” said the surgeon to Petillius. ‘Too soon to tell--Hello,” the surgeon added, looking at Quintus, “you seem to have quite a bit of gore yourself, Centurion. Is it yours or some Briton’s?”
Quintus looked down in astonishment and saw that his left thigh and upper leg were a shiny mass of clotted blood. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said ruefully, though now he remembered the streak of fire he had felt in his thigh.
“You will,” said the surgeon grimly, while he washed the leg in warm water. “Stiff as a log this’ll be tomorrow! You’ll have something to remember the battle by for quite a bit.” He drew together the edges of a great jagged spear gash. “Lie down there beside your friend while I bandage this.”
So Quintus lay down on the leaves beside the sleeping Lucius, and found that he was very glad to do so. But he was happy. An exultation shared by all the exhausted troops, too deep for loud rejoicing, almost too strong for realization; and yet some, like Quintus, suspected that this was a moment the world would not forget Roman rule was once again established in Britain.
The next three weeks were a haze to Quintus, whose wound festered as almost all wounds did. He developed a high fever and was only dimly aware when he was taken back to base camp on the other side of the Thames and put in the tent hospital there. Various impressions penetrated the jumble of battle dreams, home dreams, and love dreams that chased each other through his confused brain.
He knew that Dio and Fabian had both escaped injury beyond a few cuts and bruises, and that they came to see him. He knew that of his own company only one auxiliary had been killed, that the over-all fatalities had been miraculously few and almost entirely suffered by the infantry’s shock troops.
He knew that Lucius, who lay in a different hospital tent, still lived, though he was not out of danger.
At last there came a day when Quintus awoke without fever, felt an interest in breakfast, and managed to sit up shakily to consume it While he was eating, Dio trotted into the tent bearing a plate on which reposed a bunch of fragrant purple grapes. “Aha! So we’re much better, I see!” said Dio, squatting down by Quintus’ pallet, and shoving the grapes under his nose. “Look what I’ve brought you!”
“Jupiter Maximus!” whispered Quintus, sniffing. “I haven’t seen anything like those since I left Rome. How in the world...?”
“A ship, loaded with provisions for us, arrived yesterday from Gaul. It’s tied up at London, which, by the way, we’ve already started to rebuild!”
“A cargo of grapes?" exclaimed Quintus, with the first real smile he had produced since the battle.
“Well--no. There were a few bunches destined for His Excellency. I happened to be around when they were unpacked--and so--” Dio shrugged expressively, pulled off a grape, and popped it in his mouth. “I doubt whether the governor’s much interested in grapes right now anyway.” “Oh?” Quintus leaned back on the straw pillow. “Not trouble?”
Dio looked around quickly before replying. Quintus, as an officer, had been given a corner of the tent, slightly isolated, and the patient nearest him was asleep. “The trouble is of Suetonius’ own making,” said Dio seriously and very low. “We’ve got a new procurator, Julius Classicianus, sent direct from Rome. A really good fellow, not like that fat scoundrel of a Catus who started the whole Icenian mess. I’ve been back and forth a lot with messages to Classicianus, so I know what he’s like.”
“But what’s the trouble, then?” asked Quintus. “Unless Suetonius doesn’t like sharing the rule of Britain again with a civilian.”
“Exactly. Suetonius is a superb general and man of war, and he’s puffed up over his extraordinary victory. Can’t blame him. BUT, the trouble is he won’t stop fighting. He wants to go on slaughtering Britons and making examples and crushing what’s left of a peo
ple who are thoroughly beaten already. He’s even beginning to anger our allies, like the Regni. Classicianus wants all this stopped.”
“I believe General Petillius feels that way too,” said Quintus after a thoughtful moment. ‘That Rome has always managed to make friends with conquered nations--once they’re subdued. Look at the Gauls, the Spaniards, the Germans--and all the rest of them, they’re as loyally Roman now as we are.”
“As a matter of fact--I’m mostly Greek,” said Dio with his little chuckle. “Which clinches the argument. That’s enough deep talk for a dashing young centurion who’s been balmy as a butterfly for weeks. You scared me one day when you took me for an Icenian and tried to throttle me, but you terrified Fabian another time when you called him ‘Regan’ and tried to kiss him!”
“Great gods--” said Quintus reddening. “Did I?”
“You did, my lad.... Well, I better be going. Got to report in a few minutes. Hope I get sent to London again. It’s unbelievable how quickly it’s being cleaned up. Of course, we got all those troops in from Germany.”
“Troops?”“To be sure, you don’t know. Replacements for the Ninth. Your legion’s being built up fast. They landed last week. Suetonius announced he was glad they didn’t get here for the battle, more glory the way it was.” Dio grinned affectionately and turned to go, but Quintus stopped him.
“Wait a minute, Dio--I’ve been wondering--in my lucid moments--what about the Second? Did it ever come at all?”
Dio sobered and leaned over Quintus’ pallet. “Three days after the battle, Suetonius sent the general of the Fourteenth and a vexillation of a thousand men to Gloucester. They found the situation much as we left it; Valerianus still mad, Postumus still shut up by himself in an agony of pigheaded dumbness. But this time . . Dio paused with a shrug, letting his hands fall open. “This time the prefect, Postumus, was forced to face the truth. When they finally got it through that ox-brain of his how he had dishonoured his legion, made it a laughing stock, and shamefully disobeyed his governor and his Emperor . . . well... he ran himself through with his sword.”
There was a silence, while both young men thought of the strange experiences in Gloucester’s fortress. Then Dio added, “They’ve got a new general now. Promoted one of the tribunes.... So long Quintus, I’ve got to run.”
After Dio had gone, Quintus ate his grapes and stared up at the tent roof. His thigh wound ached, and he was weak, but his mind was quite clear and capable of thinking through certain personal problems.
His thoughts started with Postumus’ suicide and travelled back to the Arch-Druid’s house at Stonehenge. Now that every detail of that lost day was vivid to him, he remembered the surprise he had felt that Conn Lear had let him proceed to Gloucester, and suddenly he saw the old man’s sad stem face as he had said, “And you--young Roman soldier--will go to summon the Second Legion as it is your destiny to do, but--” And there had been the peculiar smile in his eyes, as he added, “No matter, you’ll find out for yourself...
And Quintus guessed now what he had meant. The Arch-Druid had foreseen that Quintus’ mission would be a failure. As everyone knew, there were some people who could tell the future. The augurs and the sybils could, and the prophets. And Conn Lear had said another thing. “There will be blood and yet more blood, anguish for my people--and in the end--” Disaster for them--those were surely the words Conn Lear had not spoken, and the reason for his dreadful sadness. He had foreseen that Rome would conquer, had seen the coming of twilight to the Celts.
In his ears now Quintus heard again the agonized wailing of the princesses by their mother’s body on the battlefield. He had scarcely noticed it then, had felt nothing but exultation that the fierce terrifying Queen was dead. But now there was no more cause for hatred and much cause for anxious uncertainty--because of Regan. She had said “Your people and mine . . . killing each other . . . it’s no use, Quintus . . . there can never be a future for us... But she had given him the brooch.
I must get back to her, Quintus thought, I must find out.... But how? He was a centurion responsible for a company. As soon as he was on his feet, he knew what his orders would be; either work detail in London or return to their own garrison at Lincoln. The life of a Roman soldier did not allow for romantic excursions.
Nor were these things the only barriers to his love for Regan. Roman soldiers were forbidden to marry Britons. He had managed to forget that fact in the vague rosy dreams he had had in the past. Impractical fantasies they were, he saw now with the clarity of convalescence and of the new maturity the violent experiences of the last months had given him.
It was a grave and quiet Quintus that Petillius found when he entered the tent that afternoon. “Surgeon says you’re out of the woods now,” said the general, smiling and accepting a camp chair from a bowing orderly, to sit down by Quintus. “That leg had us worried for a while. But you’re a tough young sprout. You’ll soon be riding Ferox as recklessly as ever. A very good horse that.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quintus with a faint smile.
Petillius looked at him keenly. “I’ve been sent a good many replacements and more’re coming. When you’re able, you’ll have your own proper century in the Ninth instead of those auxiliaries. We’ll pull out for Lincoln pretty soon, and after that we’re probably going to be stationed at York to keep order in the north.”
“Yes, sir,” said Quintus. “Thank you for telling me. . . . How’s Lucius today, sir? Do you know?”
The general nodded. “I’ve been to see him. He’s not been doing well. The lung’s almost healed, the surgeon thinks, but he’s been very difficult--wouldn’t speak or eat unless forced. But he’s better now, since I saw him.” The twinkle appeared in Petillius’ eyes. “Much better. Quintus, I’m invaliding Lucius Claudius out of the army and sending him back to Rome. You should have seen his face when I told him!”
“That’s wonderful for Lucius, sir!” Quintus cried.
“Yes. He was always a misfit, and I owe him that much, poor fellow. He wants to see you, Quintus. Have yourself carried into his tent.”
“I will, sir.” And Quintus thought that Petillius would certainly leave now, but he did not. He scratched his chin a minute, while gazing down thoughtfully at Quintus.
“His Excellency,” the general said at last, “is having trouble believing that the rebellion is over, except of course for scattered demonstrations which I feel should be dealt with firmly but without bloodshed. ... In fact most of the remaining north-east Britons are starving, since they were so sure of getting our provisions they didn’t bother to sow any crops. The new procurator, Classicianus, is trying to help them out, which infuriates Suetonius. . . . I’m speaking very frankly to you, Quintus. You’ll see why in a moment.”
Petillius frowned as though remembering an unpleasant incident. Then went on, “Classicianus has unlimited civilian administrative powers from Nero and has managed to curb the governor so far, but now Suetonius has started the Druid persecution again. If he can’t fight Britons in general, he wants to at least exterminate Druidism--ah, I thought that would interest you,” said Petillius, smiling, as Quintus raised himself on his elbow and began to breathe faster.
“Classicianus, being a typical Roman senator with tolerant religious views, isn’t at all interested in wiping out Druids, unless they’re definitely hostile to us. However, he’s compromised with Suetonius to the extent of permitting an investigation--a peaceful mission to that mysterious land of the western plain to confer with the Arch-Druid and ask his co-operation. The governor and procurator finally agreed on me as leader of this expedition, chiefly because I seemed to have special knowledge of Stonehenge and the Arch-Druid.”
The general paused and gave a dry chuckle. “I did not mention that my knowledge came mostly from an impetuous young centurion, who had got himself romantically involved with the Druids and, moreover, has managed to forget the most important day of his whole experience with them!”
“Not any more, sir!” Q
uintus cried. “It’s all come back!”
“Fine,” said Petillius, rising. “Then you’ll be useful, I hope. I’m taking a full cohort, by Suetonius’ orders, and we’ll leave tomorrow.”“Tomorrow . . .” Quintus whispered, glancing at his leg. “Then you’re not taking me, sir . . .” The disappointment was so black that he could not hide it and he bit his lips.
“Tomorrow, because I’m urgently needed in Lincoln and can’t waste much time down here, and yes, I am taking you. You’ll travel by litter until you’re able to ride. And those are your orders.”
“Oh, thank you, sir,” said Quintus, his face transfigured.
“Not thanks, Quintus,” said the general sternly. “It’s neither from favouritism nor a sentimental desire to please you that you’re included in this expedition. You’re going because you can help Rome. Any romantic hopes you may be nourishing are entirely irrelevant. More than that--they are forbidden. You understand that?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.” Quintus meant it with all his heart. His loyalty to his general, his legion, and to Rome had become the most important thing in life to him--and yet he could not prevent himself from thinking that at least he would almost certainly see Regan again.
In a little while Quintus had himself carried into the tent where Lucius lay, and deposited beside that young man, who greeted him warmly.
“By Mercury, Quintus, I’m glad to see you. Heard you had a bad time with that leg. . . . Quintus, did the general tell you...?”
Lucius, though he was pale, hollow-eyed, and had lost much weight, gave forth an eagerness Quintus had never seen in him.
“Did the general tell me he was sending you home?” Quintus asked, smiling. “Yes, he did. It’s what you want, isn’t it?”
