by Henry Treece
Lavinia knew that it was hopeless to pursue him; her own tender feet were already blistered from heel to toe, from the walking she had done while Marissa was having her turn at riding the white pony.
But she did walk over to the spot where the creature had taken fright, to find out what had so disturbed him. And there she too became suddenly disturbed, for behind a low barrier of hawthorn, and half-hidden by a bank of dock and willow-herb, lay a number of men, dead men, with blood on their faces and chests. One of them, his teeth bared in a white grin, was very dark-skinned. She thought that he looked like the Arab wine-seller who used to visit her father’s house, before they moved with the Legion to Britain.
She had been sick again, without the slightest pretence at delicacy, and had sent Marissa to see what lay behind the bushes so that she too should be sick. One’s slave must be prepared to suffer with her mistress, thought Lavinia, wishing her father were there to tell her the correct thing to do.
All the same, it is so much to the credit of the young Roman lady that she did not turn tail and head straight back to Glevum. On the contrary, these mishaps only confirmed her decision to seek for the young Decurion, Gemellus, until she found him, and then married him. She was, after all, a Patrician woman, of the same breed as Brutus’s Portia, who was not afraid to give herself a deep wound in the thigh, so as to prove her courage to herself.
Had Lavinia fully understood the difficult political situation in which she was involved, by reason of her race and status, she might well have changed her viewpoint and have run, blisters and all, back through the forest. But Mithras had not vouchsafed to her his own insight into human affairs, and so, though rather reluctantly, she and Marissa at length moved away from the glade, and by the late afternoon, came out into the undulating country that bordered on Icenian territory.
It was near to a deep gully, where a dead horse lay with its neck absurdly twisted, that they heard fierce hoofbeats, and slithered in terror down beside the horse, trying to hide themselves behind its stiffened body. Hardly had they done so, when a great troop of horseman thundered above them leaping the gorge with shouts and high screams. The Lady Lavinia observed that the leader of this savage warband was an old man, whose plaits flowed behind him as he rode. One of them was white, streaked with red. From his golden gorget and armbands, he seemed to be a native King, she thought.
And when they had gone by and the land was still again, she said to Marissa, ‘Girl, such men are our enemies. They are Celts, and Celts are fierce devils, who need the gentle teaching of Rome.’
Marissa had opened her white eyes wide and grinned as widely with her white teeth.
‘Oh, Mistress Lavinia,’ she had said, ‘you certainly have some strange ideas! Why, Celts are lovely men! Lovely fierce devils, mistress! I like them like that! Who wants the gentle teaching of Rome if they can have fierce devils?’
Lavinia decided that when they reached home again, she would confront Marissa with this absurd comment and, if she did not retract it, would have her whipped. No, she decided a little later, she would whip her herself, in private, with a silken whip, made vicious with little golden beads. Yes, she would thread the beads herself, with her own hands, to make the punishment more personal, in a way, more loving.
But Marissa did not know about this; she plodded on, her black head wagging from side to side, her broad feet flapping this way and that, until, topping arise, she looked down below her and called out in her high-pitched voice, ‘Why, Mistress Lavinia, did you ever see anything like this! A little hut! All ready for us to go in and shelter there!’
They ran down the slope, to where a little hut of boughs and bracken sheltered beneath an enormous boulder, overgrown with lichen. Near by, between two oak-trees, a clear rill burbled on its way to forgetfulness.
‘Why,’ said Lavinia, ‘but this is perfect! There is even bracken and fern on the floor to make it comfortable. I wonder if anyone lives here?’
The little negro maid was still three-parts a savage, despite her training in a Roman household. She bent and sniffed at the ferns and bracken. Then she looked up with a strange look in her wide white eyes.
‘Mistress Lavinia,’ she said, gulping, ‘someone was here not very long ago, a woman. She lay on this place here, without her clothes on.’
Then she sniffed a little further about the hut and said, ‘And here a man lay, a young man. There is no doubt about what was happening, Mistress Lavinia.’
But the Lady Lavinia was once more in her world of dreams; she saw herself and her Decurion lying in this little hut. They would press down the bracken. No, there would be no doubt about what would be happening, when she found her Decurion.
Then she went to sleep, and cried out for her father in the night, calling him ‘Daddy’, and telling him to kill the unborn monster that was frightening her.
35: Evening of the Fifth Day
All was tumult in the great round space of the summer pavilion. At every hour of the day the tribes had been coming in, in their hundreds, as though it was to be a great Fair or a holiday outing, the horses bedecked with red ribbons, the wagons gay with flowers. And the men and women and children had flocked to pay their homage to the Queen, Boudicca, who would bring them riches and freedom, who would sweep Rome from the earth as though Romulus and Remus had never drawn breath.
And all day the warriors, the chieftains and the sub-chieftains, had taken the oath before the altar in the pavilion, kneeling before Boudicca, placing their hands within hers and vowing to serve her to death, and beyond death should Morigu, the War God, allow.
Men wearing bright yellow tartans, men with bull’s-horn helmets, men with bone pins in their hair, men who wore feathers dipped in wolf’s blood—all came to the summer pavilion and bowed their heads before the Queen.
‘Boudicca! Boudicca! Boudicca!’ they had shouted, their swords swung high in salute. ‘May she wade in blood, may she toss heads hither and thither like the leaves in Autumn, may she tear out the throat of Nero and all his children! Boudicca, we die for you!’
Out in the wagons, the mothers suckled their children and dreamed of the villas they would live in, the servants they would have to do the washing and the flour-grinding and the weaving.
Their golden-haired children played about the wagon wheels, under the very hooves of the war stallions, shaking sticks at each other in mock battle, some of them Britons, some of them agreeing to be Romans, though unwillingly….
It was going to be a great affair! they told each other, the men, the women and the children.
The horses snuffling the evening air pawed with their metal-shod war-hooves and snorted, tossing their heads, anxious for the blood-smell in their nostrils once more. This was the last evening many of them would know; but they were war-horses and asked little of life but conflict.
In the summer pavilion, Boudicca, dressed now in her golden breastplate, and wearing the leather trousers of a charioteer, stood surrounded by trophies, swords, spears, shields, daggers, helmets, saddles, javelins, all heaped high about her. Suspended from a silver chain, a light helmet hung at her back. The chain depressed the full flesh of her throat, giving her a strangely feminine look, as though it were a necklace, despite the masculine accoutrements with which she had surrounded herself.
In her right hand she held a bull’s horn full of mead. The sticky fluid dripped down her tunic and breeches as she leaned over to speak to this tribesman and that. She was slightly tipsy by now, for the oath-taking and drinking had been going on all day.
Sometimes she would speak gravely with a chieftain from the far north, whose language she could hardly understand, so different were the dialects; but at other times, when she met an old acquaintance, she would shout and laugh, and call out private ribaldries, which turned the ears of Gemellus red with embarrassment.
Boudicca had noticed him half a dozen times, and had smiled at him, for he stood but three paces from her, to her left, on the side of her heart. That had been his own c
hoice.
And once she had called out to him, when the chieftains were oath-taking, ‘Come, Doctor, I am tired of these sweaty hands in mine; let me have the touch of your cool fingers again! Let us see if you can find anything wrong, hey?’
Gemellus had bowed his head in respect. One of the tribes-men, a gaunt fellow from Brigantia, had said hoarsely to him, ‘She’s taken a rare fancy to you, Sawbones! Take care you don’t overdo the bedside manner, or you’ll find yourself under |the blankets with her! And, I warn you, you wouldn’t live till morning if that happened!’
The others about Gemellus heard these words and slapped him on the shoulder, good-humouredly. He had to feel the redhilted dagger a time or two, and think about it, and its purpose, to prevent himself from joining in the general high-spirits of the occasion.
Then he looked round for Duatha, who had got separated him in the general press. The Celt stood facing Boudicca, in a good position, if he wished to rush forward and plant his dagger suddenly. Gemellus complimented him silently on his manoeuvre.
He himself would have to push a fat old chieftain aside to present his own gift to the Red Queen. But that should not be difficult; the old man did not wear a weapon, and looked ready to drop after all the excitement of the day, anyway.
Now dusk fell, and the hawks outside in their wicker cages screamed with fury as they were swung hither and thither by the passing tribesmen.
This was the moment they had been waiting for. Now Gemellus would watch for Duatha to wink at him, and then they would do what had to be done as rapidly as possible, and then run through the hide curtains, into the darkness.
Quintus Petillius Cerialis would be waiting for them in a rocky defile, less than a mile to the north of the pavilion; that was the arrangement. Along the Ermine Street.
It was at this moment, when time seemed to stand still, that the hide curtains swept aside, and the evening breeze blew cold upon all within the pavilion.
And then King Drammoch stood in the doorway, his right arm held high in salute, his fierce face alight with excitement.
‘Hail, Boudicca,’ he shouted. ‘May you live forever. I, Drammoch of the Catuvellauni, come to offer my allegiance!’
He strode forward and knelt at the feet of the Icenian Queen. Boudicca regarded him coldly, her face set.
Then he stood and waved towards the doorway. Two tribes-men hurried in, half-pushing, half-dragging, a young woman, whose red hair was unbound and hung, tangled and wet, about her body. Gemellus gave a great start as he recognised the face of Eithne. Eithne, ragged and muddied by travel, her eyes wild, her hands bound behind her.
The tribesmen flung her at the feet of Boudicca.
‘This, is my only daughter,’ announced the King. ‘I offer her to you as a hostage, Boudicca. I offer her as one of your own women, to do with as you please! She is yours, great Queen! To prove my loyalty!’
As the girl fell sobbing and speechless beside the altar, Gemellus felt a great surge of emotion run through him. For an instant he almost ran forward and plunged his knife first into Drammoch and then into Boudicca. But something halted him in his rush.
For Duatha gave a high shout and fell beside Eithne, on his knees, holding out the red-hilted dagger to the Queen, handle forward. His eyes were full of tears, his limbs were shaking.
‘Accept my offering, O Great One,’ he said. ‘I who am a
Prince offer you my homage, too. I am your dog, to do with as you will!’
The shouting in the hall died suddenly, to be followed by a moment of dead silence. Then, as suddenly, the voices rose again in a confused, mad babble of oaths and laughter, of singing and of curses.
Gemellus saw a mist before his eyes, which turned from grey, to red, and then to black. He heard himself shriek, ‘Death to all traitors!’ Then he found himself plunging forward, the red-hilted knife out and thrusting. The old chieftain before him fell groaning to the ground. Then Gemellus heard King Drammoch shout, ‘Strike the Roman down! Kill the dog before he kills your queen!’
Eithne lay somewhere before him and below him. He heard her voice calling to him, but could not distinguish the words she spoke.
For a brief instant he thought he might slash free her bonds, Stab the Queen, and escape into the darkness with his loved one. Then they would fly away to the Isles of Happiness, the golden Isles, where it was always summer.
But the Brigantian who was behind him raised the shaft of his heavy ash spear and knocked the Roman’s hand aside. His arm fell by his side, paralysed. The red knife tinkled on the floor at the feet of Boudicca. Gemellus saw for a moment the cold expression of dismay and anger on the Red Queen’s face. He even smiled at her; shrugged his shoulders and smiled at her, and Boudicca stoutly smiled back.
Then, like baying hounds, the tribesmen closed in on him, too near to each other to cut him down without injuring each other. He gave a great bound and burst through them. At first he thought that he had gone scot free, but then a bitter glaring pain shot down his arm, and he glimpsed a man standing near him, smiling, a red sword in his hand.
Then he kicked out, and saw the altar topple over, down the steps, scattering its fire among the panic-stricken tribes-men. He reached the hide-doors. A great wicker cage was within his hand. He flung it into the room, amongst the men who rushed at him. He heard the imprisoned hawks shriek with fear and fury, their wings fluttering.
Then, like a drunken man, or one who runs through a dream of impossible terror, he staggered down the steps into the darkness.
A horse stamped near a wagon. Gemellus flung himself on to its back and kicked its sides with terror-driven fury. The creature started forward, galloped through a windbreak, scattering women and children this way and that. Then, screaming with fear, it leapt across a fire. Gemellus felt the flames scorching his legs as it went. He laughed.
Behind him rose a great shouting, a screaming, a chaos of all the sounds that the human voice can utter.
Then he was outside the camp, heading northward. He fell the beast’s great muscles surging under him—again—again-again— Then there were no huts, no wagons, no people, only a turfy road, and windswept hawthorn trees, and the night breeze blowing through his hair.
Then there was only the pain in his arm and along his side. That and a strange darkness that was not outside him, but was slowly coming over his brain, shutting it into sleep, like a great iron door closing so gently.
And at last he rolled off the horse, but did not feel the ground beneath him. He thought he was still galloping.
The stallion sped on for fifty paces, then fell neck and crop, its great legs swinging over into the darkness. It had carried an arrow in its heart for the best part of a mile before its courage would let death enter.
36: Horsemen
Gemellus regained consciousnessto feel his head and body wet and cold. The night wind had dropped and now rain was falling again over the bleak countryside.
He shook his head and sat up. When he leaned on his right arm, forgetting his wound, it collapsed under his weight and he fell again. It hurt horribly in the darkness and he could not see it.
He would have lain there for a long time, wondering about his arm, and the strange gnawing pain that seemed to run up and down his side, but his ears suddenly caught a sound which filled him with fear once more. It was a steady, fast drumming, incredibly strong, that seemed to come up through the earth to his ears.
Then he knew what it was; it was horses, cavalry… and it was coming nearer rapidly, so rapidly that he became afraid that he would not be able to move out of the way before the horses thundered over him and crushed his body into the turf.
He got to his feet, and tried to stagger away from the road as best he could in the darkness. Then he heard a voice, a Roman voice, calling out, ‘Gallop, men! Gallop, you fools! We are within arrow-shot now!’
Gemellus waved his one arm and shouted with all the remaining strength of his lungs, ‘A rescue! A rescue! Help me, men of the Ninth! I am Gem
ellus! I am Gemellus of the Second!’ He was still shouting out his name when the ravaged troop of horse flashed past him. Few heard him, and only one man saw him, as a vague shape by the roadside. And this man yelled back, ‘Make your own way back, you swine! We can’t stop!’
And his horse tumbled Gemellus on to the turf as it strained onwards, an arrow-shaft embedded in its flank.
Gemellus rolled, only half-conscious, down the slope, still trying to call out, ‘I am Gemellus of the Second! You are my comrades!’
He came to rest with his head in a small puddle of water, Which damped his lips and revived him for a moment.
Then, above him, on the road, he heard a great and savage screaming, which he knew was not Roman; and the sound of many horses racing past, in a great rabble of confused noise.
He sank hack into the darkness as the first of the tribes ran out along, the northward road, the Ermine Street, shrieking, ‘Down with Rome! Boudicca! Boudicca!’
And as he lay, his lips ceased saying his own name, and began to frame themselves to another one.
‘Eithne,’ they would have said, if they could. ‘Eithne, my love… my love.’
37: The Man with the Crooked Nose
It was daylight and birds were singing outside the window. The new sun shone down again on a freshened earth, a rich black earth that would nourish vine and convolvulus impartially. To the sun, and to the earth, there were no weeds, no precious flowers; all were green and hungry, waiting to be fed. There were no hawks and no skylarks, only birds, that poised or sang, fished or soared, as their nature guided them. No good, or bad men— only men, hungry, needing to be fed; only men living, and men dying.
