by Anya Seton
“What I want,” repeated Lucius, his eyes shining. “How could anybody help but want it!”
“Well, I don’t,” said Quintus temperately, “which is lucky, since I’m in for plenty more years’ service here. But, as a matter of fact, I’m getting fond of the country. It has a lot of beauty when you get used to it.”
Lucius snorted almost in the old way. “You’re welcome to it, AND to the army. I’m through with that forever. Petillius said he’d write a letter to my father that would make it all right.” He paused, and Quintus, who had been about to offer congratulations, did not speak, for Lucius reddened and looked away, and moistened his lips in obvious embarrassment. He murmured after a moment, “I hope you’ll forget all--all the things I--I mean what happened here--Quintus, I’m awfully fond of you--I admire you. I always have.”
Quintus reddened in his turn. He gripped Lucius’ thin arm in a quick clasp. “Don’t be a fool,” he said gruffly. “We’ve both done a lot of floundering since we got here. I’ll miss you.” He cleared his throat and said, “Lucius, there’s something I want you to do for me when you get to Rome. Will you?”
“Of course.”
“Deliver a letter to my mother, Julia Tullia. I’ll get it ready tonight, because I’m going west with Petillius tomorrow. And also I’ve got a lot of army pay saved up. I want you to take a purse.”
Lucius nodded. “I’ll be glad to, and keep an eye on them too. You know my father--is not without influence,’* he added with a trace of the old arrogance.
“I know,” said Quintus, chuckling. “Someday I may write to ask you to use that influence to get Mother and Livia sent here to join me.”
“Great Jupiter! You wouldn’t do that to them!”
“Someday--perhaps,” said Quintus softly. “If there’s peace. I think they’d like it. But no use talking of that now. And mind you, don’t tell them about my wound, or anything to worry them.”
“I won’t,” said Lucius. “I’ll just tell them you’ve become a puff-headed centurion and gone completely native as well!”
They grinned at each other, and Quintus signalled the orderlies to carry him back to his own tent. When he got there, he lay for a while and wondered that his mother would think if he mentioned Regan in the letter, and knew that he could make her understand, but what was the use? He sighed heavily. Nor could he report the slightest success in the quest. Well, but Julia had never expected success anyway. She was a sensible woman. Quintus sighed again and set about composing a thoroughly cheerful letter that could in no way disturb his family.
CHAPTER XI
Eager as he was to get back to Stonehenge, Quintus was glad that the hundred-mile journey took them over five days, because he felt foolish in his horse-drawn litter and was extremely anxious not to appear before Regan in such a subdued, undashing way. He had looked ridiculous enough last time she had seen him as a fake Silure, anyway. So he gritted his teeth over the first sharp pains in his thigh, ignored his spinning head, and daily mounted Ferox for brief periods. And his strength came back fast.
Their marching time was below standard for several reasons. As far as Calleva, the Atrebate capital, they were accompanied by several cohorts of the Fourteenth who were bound for their own garrison at Wroxeter. And they all paused overnight at Calleva while Petillius and the general of the Fourteenth inspected the former Roman camp there and drew up plans for its rehabilitation.
Calleva itself was a city of mourning; doors were shut and barred, the streets were empty; but now and then at a window a woman’s face would look out and gaze at the legions with a listless despair. In some of the isolated farms, where the news of defeat had taken longer to penetrate, they were still keening for their dead. Once an old woman with matted grey hair rushed out of a hut and spat directly at General Petillius, while she waved her skinny arms and screamed curses. The general rode on apparently unnoticing.
But another time on the outskirts of Calleva they passed two well-dressed little girls with neat blond pigtails and bright tartan tunics fastened by rich brooches. The children were huddled under a tree, sobbing. They clung to each other frantically as the legions marched by, too frightened and bewildered to run away.
This time Petillius reined in his horse and spoke to the Regni interpreter who rode behind him. “Ask the children why they are crying.”
Quintus heard the children’s answer, when the interpreter had finally soothed their fear enough so they could speak. “Because we’re so hungry, and our father was killed, and we can’t find our mother.”
Petillius smiled sadly down at the little girls and said to the interpreter, “Take them back into Calleva, put them with some kind trustworthy woman who can search for their mother. Tell them that the Romans are sending food to their town, and they need not go hungry any more, but give them some now.” He gestured to his orderly, who took a packet of marching rations from the general’s own supply and handed it to the awe-struck children.
See, children, Quintus thought, all Romans aren’t cruel monsters, as no doubt you’ve believed. And he hoped there would come a time when the beaten people might look on the Romans with something besides hatred, or the apathy of despair.
But as they left the land of the Atrebates and approached the great sacred plain, the feeling of the country changed. Here the war had brought no desolation or famine. The little farms looked prosperous; the natives watched the Romans pass with startled curiosity and drew together murmuring and wondering, for this country was apart from all previous Roman military travel, and the trackway they followed would have been hard to find without their Regni guide.
As it was, on the last day’s march when they had reached the edge of the great plain, they got lost. The Regni could not find a way amongst the myriads of tumuli and barrows that dotted the plain. These grass-covered mounds--the burial places of the ancient people of long ago--made a landscape so weird and yet monotonous that the Romans marched in circles amongst them. All that day there was no sun to help them get their bearings, nothing but a fine foggy drizzle through which they could not see more than a hundred yards.
When night had fallen, they gave it up and struck camp. Soon afterward the general sent for Quintus.
Quintus, who had seen little of the busy general since they left the Thames, limped hastily to Petillius’ tent and presented himself.
The general greeted him with his quick smile, said, “Sit down--I’m glad to see you’re getting around so well.... Now, have you any idea where we are?”
Quintus shook his head. “I’m afraid not, sir. I came into the plain before from the south, you know, and left it to the west, also I had a guide.”
“I thought I did too,” said Petillius dryly. “That Regni said he knew this country like the back of his hand, but he obviously doesn’t. What’s more, I think he’s frightened. He keeps saying the spirits of the dead are haunting him, and that the Druids have raised this mist so we can’t find Stonehenge.”
Quintus had a sneaking sympathy for the Regni. There was a strange atmosphere in the spot where they were. The dark silent mounds of the dead seemed to press around them, as though they were watching.
“It’s ridiculous,” said Petillius impatiently, “that six hundred men should be lost like this. We must hope for clearing weather.”
“I know we have to cross a big river--the Avon,” said Quintus hesitatingly. “It would be west of us--if we knew where west was--I’m sorry I’m not more useful, sir.”
“I’ll send scouts out at dawn to see if they can locate that river somehow,” said Petillius. Then he answered Quintus’ rueful apology with his usual crisp justice. “You can’t help our being lost. I didn’t expect you to be a guide. I’ve brought you along because the Arch-Druid knows you. WHEN we finally get to him, I hope he’ll be more willing to negotiate because you’re with us.”
“I don’t really know if the Arch-Druid likes me or not, sir,” said Quintus frankly. ‘There was a moment when he certainly didn’t.” He
thought of Conn Lear’s fury when Quintus had mentioned Gaius Tullius.
“Well--but his granddaughter likes you, I gather,” said Petillius with the sly twinkle, “and it’s amazing what women can accomplish when they want to.”
Quintus stiffened. His tone was cold as he said sharply, “I’ll not take advantage of Regan, sir, or any feeling she may have for me, since there can be nothing--no future--between us.”
The general raised his eyebrows, surveying the stem handsome young face, the resolute set to the mouth. “Indeed . . .” he said without any expression at all. “So. . . . Good night, Centurion, that’ll be all at present.”
Quintus went back to his tent, wondering uncomfortably if he had annoyed the general, and was startled at his own anger at the suggestion that Regan’s love might be made a tool of. Calmer thoughts later showed him that the general’s remark had been reasonable enough, viewed from the Roman side. But it was almost impossible for Quintus to use reason when it came to Regan, and one part of him actually began to hope that they never would get to Stonehenge.
It looked for a time next morning as though that hope were on the way to being granted. The drizzling mist continued. Petillius’ scouts, who had orders not to go out of shouting distance lest they too get lost, came back from various sorties to report that they saw no sign of a river, or indeed of anything but more mounds and rolling downs.
The general had just given orders to march anyway, in a direction the nervous Regni had guessed at, when the last scout returned with a captive. Quintus saw the commotion in front of the general’s tent and heard loud gobbling noises, so he rode over on Ferox to see what was happening.
The captive was Bran--the Arch-Druid’s ape man. He was standing in front of the general, thumping his chest and pointing over his shoulder into the distance.
“He was watching us from a mound over there, sir,” the scout was explaining to Petillius. “I can’t make out what he is, sir.”
Quintus rode forward and saluting said, “I know who he is, General Petillius. It’s the tongueless servant of the Arch-Druid that I told you about.”
As he spoke, Bran turned, and, upon seeing Quintus, broke into a wide grin; ducking out from under his captor’s grip, he ran to Quintus.
“I see he knows you, all right,” said Petillius. “Can you make out what he’s trying to express?”
Quintus, relieved to find that his general’s tone and expression were exactly as usual toward him, answered that he would try.
He questioned Bran slowly in Celtic, and the familiarity he had learned earlier with the stocky little man’s sign language helped him to understand.
“I think, sir,” said Quintus at last, “that he’s been sent out by Conn Lear to look us over.” As he spoke the Arch-Druid’s name, Bran nodded violently and flapped his hands like wings beside his head, to represent the high priest’s ceremonial crown.
Petillius nodded. ‘That seems likely, though how would Conn Lear know we were on the way?”
“Grapevine, sir,” said Quintus. “Some secret runner from the farms we passed. We’ve probably been watched all the time. I think Bran wants to guide us to Conn Lear--at least he wants to take us somewhere.”
Again Bran thumped his chest and pointed repeatedly.
“So it would seem.” Petillius studied the beetle-browed cave-man face, the long brawny arms, the garment of mangy otter skins. “But can we trust him? He might lead us into a bog--any kind of trap.”
“Bran would never’ve let himself be captured like that, sir, if he weren’t friendly. As for where he’s taking us, I’m sure--”
Quintus stopped. He was nearly sure of Bran, but there was a way to make certain, a way that cost Quintus a moment of sharp struggle. His sense of duty and loyalty won, of course, reinforced as they were by shame because he had snapped at his general last night.
But Quintus could not prevent himself turning brick-red, as under the startled eyes of Petillius, the scout, and several other officers, he fumbled inside his breastplate and pulled out Regan’s brooch--the brooch no Roman had ever seen except Dio and Fabian.
A snicker from one of the other officers was sharply suppressed by the general as Quintus, holding the brooch under Bran’s eyes, said solemnly, “Do you swear by this Druid sign of the ruby snake that you are leading us in peace to Conn Lear?”
Bran stared at the brooch in obvious awe. He nodded slowly. Then he leaned over and placed his forehead on the brooch in token of submission.
“Bran has sworn by this Druid emblem, sir,” said Quintus. “We can trust him.”
“Good,” said Petillius. “Then we’ll march at once.”
Bran led them in quite a different direction from that the Regni would have chosen, and in less than an hour they came to the river. Soon after they had forded it, Quintus’ heart began to beat fast. The mist lifted, a watery sun came out, and he recognized many features that he remembered; rows of grass-covered earth rings, a particular long barrow shaped like a crouching lion. And then they saw ahead the long avenue of upright stones that led to the great temple.
When Quintus had seen the avenue before, it had been thronged with Britons going to the festival of Lugh. Today it was deserted as the Roman cohort marched along it.
When they entered the avenue behind Bran, Petillius had motioned Quintus to ride up near him, but the general did not speak until they topped a rise of ground and saw ahead of them Stonehenge, huge and mysterious, its great up-ended stones looming dark against the green down and forest grove behind.”That’s most impressive,” murmured the general, in surprise and half to himself, as he stared. “I’d no idea.”
They rode on slowly, and even the tough legionaries in the cohort behind them let out murmurs of wonder as each in turn came to their first sight of Stonehenge.
Quintus, who had been on the watch, saw how they were to be met. “There’s Conn Lear, sir,” he said, pointing.
The Arch-Druid stood on a mound against the ‘Heel,’ or Holy stone that guarded the entrance to the temple. They saw the grey beard, the long white robe, the winged crown, and the golden sickle of office in his hand. Around him, densely packed, were a thousand Druids of all the orders; the Bards in green, the Ovates in blue, the priesthood in white. They were unarmed, except that, ranged on either side of Conn Lear, were twelve Druids-of-Justice with their golden spears. The spears were raised and lowered once, as the Romans approached, while from all the Druids there came a high weird chanting. Again the twelve golden spears were raised, and this time remained poised, aiming in the direction of the Romans.
“Is this a friendly reception, Quintus?” said Petillius with a dry laugh, staring at the spears. “It looks as though if we get nearer there may be one general the less in Britain--possibly no great loss. But it might be wise to alert the cohort.” He turned to give the command, “Javelins up.”
Quintus called sharply to Bran ahead. “What are you leading us to? You swore there was no danger!”
Bran gesticulated frantically and pointed.
“He wants us to go forward ahead of the cohort, I think,” said Quintus. “And see, Conn Lear is motioning.”
“Very well,” said Petillius after a moment. He spoke to a centurion behind him. “If they cast those spears at Quintus Tullius and me, you’ll know what command to give the cohort!”
The centurion saluted grimly and went back to the men. The general and Quintus continued to advance in tense silence, watching the golden spears in the Druids-of-Justice’s hands. The Druids’ strange formless humming pulsated through the air. It was like the rush of water, yet there was menace in it too, like the buzz of angry bees, an eerie sound, and frightening. Quintus felt the palms of his hands go moist on the bridle and sighed with relief when the sound suddenly stopped at a signal from Conn Lear.
The Arch-Druid descended majestically from beside the Holy stone and took three steps toward the general and Quintus, who were now two hundred yards ahead of their cohort.
�
��What brings you here--Romans?” called the Arch-Druid in Latin, his stem resonant voice echoing amongst the great stones.
“Peace! Conn Lear. Peace for your people and mine!” Petillius called back.
“Why then do you bring soldiers with you?”
“It was the command of Governor Suetonius that we bring a cohort. But would the centurion, Quintus Tullius, and I have dared advance alone in the face of your spears if we did not come in peace?”
“The Romans dare many things,” said Conn Lear coldly. “Advance further!”
The general and Quintus obeyed. The Arch-Druid also moved forward a few steps. “Now dismount!” he commanded.
They obeyed this too, and Quintus, while he tried to hide the stiffness of his leg, knew that Petillius must be much impressed by the Arch-Druid or he never would have acceded to this request.
Conn Lear walked yet three more steps until he stood before the general. “Now,” he said, “we are equal. You have come to me, and I have come to meet you. It is so that it must be, if you wish peace in Britain.”
“That is true, Arch-Druid,” said Petillius gravely. “We shall understand each other.”
Conn Lear turned and signalled to his guard. The Druids-of-Justice slowly lowered their spears.
“Leave your cohort there to camp on the plain,” said the Arch-Druid to Petillius. “You have no need of it Then come with me and we will talk together.”
“Shall the centurion, Quintus Tullius, stay with the cohort?” asked Petillius.
The Arch-Druid looked at Quintus directly for the first time--a veiled considering look, neither hostile nor friendly. “The centurion may come with us,” he said. “There is a foolish girl in my house who will be glad to see him.”
Quintus’ heart jumped. It took all his will power to keep his face impassive as he walked behind the general and the Arch-Druid on the road to the sacred grove. The Druid company followed at a distance. Quintus stared hard at the outside of the Arch-Druid’s strange house, and the enormous tree that grew up through its centre. The oak’s leaves and gnarled branches cast a canopy of shade, not only over the roof but all the palisaded enclosure around the house.
