The Queen's Brooch

by Henry Treece

  And when life seemed to come back into the young man’s cheeks, Orosius stood away and said to the decurion, ‘Now he is your responsibility. See that he is cared for, or I shall come looking for you, and I have almost as many kinsmen as our friend Ula. Almost, though not quite. I have only the one wife. But she has three brothers, and not one of them smaller than I am.’

  He rose and called, on porters to dismantle his stall. Then he went gravely down into the city.

  Geir stood above Marcus for a while, then poked him with the end of his spear and said, ‘Come on, now, my lad. On to your feet now. If you are what they say you are, we can put some war-gear on you and use you. We might even find a club for you to use, if the supplies have not run out. That is, if you have any idea of what real fighting is.

  Though, from the rough look of you, I doubt it. Come on, I then. Up with you.’

  He prodded again and Marcus rose and followed him, too exhausted to protest any longer.

  [19]

  Militia Man

  Life was not easy in the supply base station. Marcus was given a roughly shaped dub of bog-oak, a pair of sandals too large for him, and a leather cuirass that stank of its last three owners and was covered with dried blood. To guard his head he wore a turban of wool wrapped about a rusty iron ring.

  When he protested to Geir, his decurion, that man turned and called out to the slaves who were on their knees scrubbing the garrison floor, ‘See who we have come among us! A great war-lord, too proud to wear what our other lads have died in.’

  The slaves pointed their gnarled fingers at Marcus and laughed. When Geir made a joke in that place, they knew it was best to laugh, whether they understood his thick speech or not; and most of them did not, since they came from Gaul and the forested areas of Germany.

  One of them, a raw-boned youth from the distant northern islands, with lank ashen hair and stony eyes, even got up with his scrubbing-brush in his hand and advanced on Marcus, shouting, ‘Come, war-lord, I challenge you to combat. You with your fine weapon, I with my scrubbing-brush. Let us see whose gods are the stronger.’

  But then Geir became angry and beat the Frisian youth aside with his belt buckle. Walking up to Marcus he said, ‘You see where your pride will get you? It will make you the laughing-stock of slaves. Now be obedient and try to learn the discipline of a true soldier.’

  Marcus felt his own anger rising and was about to say that he had once been an officer, a Tribune of the Ninth; but he knew that Geir would not believe him. So instead he said calmly, ‘I have carried arms before. I have worn armour. I have stood where the arrows whined. But I would not ask any man to stand under the arrows with such gear as you have given me.’

  The vein in Geir’s red neck began to throb. And when he could get his voice again he said, ‘You, you starved beanpole! What armour could you wear? What weapon could such as you carry? What arrows have you ever seen, but the sticks that young boys shoot in play?’

  Marcus held his breath then answered, ‘Look, I am not here to be mocked. I came a long way down the dusty road to be of service to Rome. I did not come to have kitchen slaves point their fingers at me.. Take me to the captain of this garrison. I will put my case to him in the Roman way.’

  Geir started to say something else to the listening slaves. Then he thought better of it and swung on Marcus with a wicked smile.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘You shall go to the captain - and by sunset I shall hope to be present when he has the hide flogged off your mutinous back, you scum of the roads.’

  They went along many passage-ways until they came to a rudely-planed oak door, and Marcus stayed outside under guard when the decurion went inside to make his complaint. While the decurion was away, one of the militia who stood beside Marcus leaning on a crooked lance, said, ‘You’ve picked the wrong day for trouble, recruit. Old Marius the Belgian is in command. He’ll tickle you up with the whip. And no mistake.’

  He winked at his companion and made a great pretence of leaning against the wall with laughter. Marcus watched him for a time, then said, ‘What’s wrong with your legs, man? Can’t you stand up straight without the help of a wall?’

  The two guards were helpless with mockery when Geir came back and pushed Marcus roughly inside the low room. ‘Good luck to you, you spying hound,’ he said. ‘May the gods have mercy on your worthless hide.’

  Marcus saw a little hunched man sitting at a dirty table with many stained papers before him, pretending to read and making crude marks with a reed pen in the margins. For the space of ten breaths he did not look up. Marcus had time to note his bald head, his badly-bitten fingernails, his patched tunic and the poor quality of the weapons which leaned against his chair.

  At last he said, ‘I have a report to make, captain.’

  The man scratched on aimlessly, then at last blew out his breath noisily and said, ‘Did you speak, recruit? Can such as you actually speak?’

  Marcus repeated gently, ‘I have a report to make, captain. I think that you should hear it.’

  The man began to pick his teeth with the point of the reed pen. His eyes were red-rimmed and filmy. A trickle of moisture ran down on to his cheek, but he did not seem to mind it.

  He said at last, ‘You are offal from the streets. Your father was offal before you. If the truth were told, judging from the marks upon your body, you are a runaway slave. What report has a runaway slave to make to anyone, much less to a captain of militia?’

  Marcus felt the pulse beating in his forehead, but he clenched his hands and did not raise his voice.

  ‘Captain,’ he said, ‘I am not what I seem. I have been more than I seem, and I have important news to give to one in authority. I ask you to listen to me, for the fate of the city may depend on it.’

  Marius the Belgian got up from his chair and went to the window. There he stood picking his teeth and gazing out. At last he turned and said, his lips drawn in, ‘I am an old soldier. I have seen much service in Rome’s cause. I can judge a man when I see one. What do you say to that, you upstart byre-cleaner?’

  Marcus grasped his hands in front of him tightly, so that he should not run at the man and strike him down. He said in a low voice, ‘I am not here to exchange insults with you. But I can tell you that Marius the Belgian does not figure on any army-list of the three legions I am familiar with. It is a name unknown to me. But that is of no importance. What matters is that you should be aware of the danger that threatens, and should take precautions.’

  Marius did not give him time to finish what he had to say, but almost leapt at him and struck him across the cheek with an iron spatula that lay on the table. Then, as Marcus staggered back, the captain yelled out, ‘Take him away! Take him away! He has threatened me with violence.’

  Geir and the two guards ran in, flailing their spear-shafts. Marcus went down, unable to defend himself, and lay still while they beat and kicked at him.

  At last they flung a bucket of water over him, then dragged him down to a cellar underneath the guard-room and rolled him on to a pile of damp straw. The place was dug out of the earth and smelled of decay. There was no window-hole to let in air, so he did not know how long he lay there, hungry and thirsty, and feeling the pain of his wounds more sharply than ever.

  In the darkness he saw Tigidius, Aranrhod awaiting sacrifice in the wood, Boudicca blowing her bone whistle for the old soldier to be shot at Camulodunum. He even saw his father, in the distant days when he was a Tribune at Lindum. Now his father seemed very sad, as though every-thing had turned out wrong with Rome.

  Marcus had a fever from his wounds, and shuddered till all his body shook, down there in the damp earth. It was like being buried alive, and the fever brought him nightmares in which he screamed and yelled until someone beat on the trap-door and told him to be a man and take his suffering bravely.

  Then one morning they let him out again, and even helped him to climb up the rickety wooden ladder to the guard-room. And there Geir was waiting with a sta
ff in his hand. He said, ‘Perhaps you have learned your lesson now, byre-slave. If you have, then put on your gear again and we will see if we can make a soldier of you after all. At a time like this, we need all the men we can get, even poor scarecrows like you.’

  So Marcus put on his poof war-gear and marched about the city with the other militia-men, who had no more spirit than beaten dogs. Not once did he see a true Roman, a man of the legions, not even when he was set to mount guard over the big grain-warehouse from which the army drew all its supplies.

  Only one of the other militia would deign to speak to him. It was a youth named Gnithus, who had a shrivelled right arm that flapped about helplessly as he walked. He was an orphan and had no kinsmen in Londinium, but claimed to have many friends in important positions. Marcus said to him one night as they lay down in their blankets outside the supply-base. ‘Look, Gnithus, if you have such friends will you please get to one of them on your day off and warn them that the Icenian queen has raised all the eastern tribes and is on her way to burn this city to the ground? Will you, for the love of Rome?’

  Gnithus gazed at him blankly for a moment. Then he said, ‘Rome does not need such spies as you to save her. Rome is great and will last for ever. Such as the Icenian queen and all her tribesmen will fade before us when we march against them. Now go to sleep.’

  But Marcus took him by his sound arm and shook him. ‘Look, friend,’ he said, ‘I can tell from your speech that you have always lived in this place. I can tell that you are not a soldier. I beg you, listen to me and take word to someone in authority that the tribes are massing like birds before they fly away at the year’s end. They are coming in countless swarms. They have burned Camulodunum to ashes. They have almost destroyed the Ninth Legion. Can such as us, in this poor town, stand against those who have made Petillius Cerialis turn tail and gallop off? ‘

  Gnithus sat up, his blanket about him, and said, ‘They all say that you are a liar and a rogue. I was the only one who would talk to you, because I needed a comrade, being lame and mocked at. But even I can see now that you are a mischief-maker. I can see why none of the others will speak to you, and why our decurion spits when you pass near to him.’

  Marcus tried to smile. ‘Gnithus, my comrade,’ he said, ‘forget all that. Just rise now and go to one of your important friends, it does not matter which, and tell him that you have spoken to one who has seen Boudicca’s army on the march. Fetch him to me and I will tell him the rest. Then, with the help of Mithras, he will go to the magistrates and we shall get something done here before they come upon us.’

  Gnithus drew back his lips and laughed mockingly in the face of Marcus. ‘You traitor,’ he said. ‘You have seen the tribesmen because you are one of them. I will get up from my bed, to be sure; but it will not be to warn one of my important friends in the city. They are men of trade and need their sleep. But I will tell someone, that I can assure you of.’

  He rose and shambled away. Soon afterwards four militiamen came back with him and dragged Marcus to his feet. He was too weak now to wrestle with them, and let them drag him before Geir once more.

  The decurion was sitting in a tent beside the broad river, beating on the table with a riding-whip. When the men flung Marcus before him he hardly looked up, but said, ‘He is a madman. Only a madman would prate on so about Boudicca and her armies. The poor fool’s wits have been turned by something or other. I am a merciful man. There is no use in beating him further. That will not put sense into his thick head. Take him out by the city gates and tie him up to a stake. There his hot brain will be cooled, and he will be the first to see this Boudicca of his, if she does come. That should satisfy the fool.’

  Then he turned round and called out to a slave to fetch in the Saxon girl Gerd, to sing for him and pass the time away.

  And when they dragged him out, Marcus felt that truly he must be what they said he was, a slave and a coward, for now he had no more heart left in him to fight, and no more pride.

  [20]

  Gerd and the Merchants

  The day was hot again and the flies buzzed about Marcus in a black swarm. He could do nothing to send them away. His bound wrists were lashed above his head. His feet scarcely touched the ground. The stake they had tied him to was of rough pine that tormented his bare back with its bark and knots. But this was not as bad as the flies. They walked across his wet face and explored his nostrils. He had not strength enough to snort them away now. The arrow wound in his shoulder felt as hot as fire, and there was a deep ache in his chest from the spear blow.

  A rough-coated dog came sniffing towards him, then saw that he was alive and stopped, snarling, his hair bristling. Marcus said in a whisper, ‘Wait a little while longer, comrade. I shall not go away, I promise you.’

  Four boys came with stones and drove the dog away. Then they sat under the tall pine stake and gazed up at Marcus, not cruelly, but with curiosity. They spoke a very fair Latin, but from his half-shut eyes, Marcus saw that they were British of one sort or another - probably from among the woodland Cantii, he thought, judging by the iron-work of their belt buckles.

  The oldest of them, a red-haired boy with freckles under his blue eyes, said, ‘I will bet that he will die before tomorrow. I will lay my iron dagger on it.’

  The other boys laughed. One of them said, ‘Tomorrow! Why, this one is strong enough to last till Suetonius gets here - and that could be the day after. They are very strong, these Romans. My father says that you can stick a spear through them, and they will not die. He knows, he has done it many times.’

  The red-haired boy scoffed. ‘Your father,’ he said, ‘he has never even seen a Roman, that old man. He has never put a spear to anything bigger than a wild dog. He has never even faced a wolf, much less a Roman.’

  They lost interest in Marcus then and began to play at dice in the dust. Marcus tried to call out to them, to ask them for a cup of water, but his throat was too dry and at last he gave up trying.

  Then the red-haired boy got up from the ground and strolled over to him, whistling and not looking into his face. He said to the others, ‘Hey, he has a little pouch behind his belt. There might be something in it. If we took what was in it, no one would know, and he will not want it any longer.’

  Marcus made a great effort as the boy’s fingers searched in the pouch and he groaned out, ‘Behave yourself, fellow. You speak like a Roman, behave like one. Get away from me.’

  The boy stared up at him in astonishment. Then he turned to the others and said, ‘He is still alive. He can talk. Listen to him, he can still say words.’

  But Marcus had not the force left in him to speak again. He shut his eyes and heard the boys moving round him, slapping the pine stake and even trying to rock it in the ground. One of them said, ‘He is a Greek slave from Verulam. You can tell by his face and the marks on his body. He has had a harsh master and has run away to find work on a ship here. They often do. You can tell that. He must be a thief for them to hang him up like this. Greeks are great thieves, and they always tell people to behave.’

  The red-haired boy said, ‘Greeks are the biggest liars in the world. Not even Romans can tell as many lies as Greeks can, though they try hard enough.’

  Marcus was wishing that at least the boys would whisk the flies away from him, but they didn’t. Then he felt their hands dragging at his belt, and one of them feeling into the small deerskin pouch at his back. He tried to draw his body away from their fingers, but only swung on the hide-thongs. He heard them laugh at this, then one of them cry out, ‘Look what was in the pouch. It is a brooch. See it is a bronze brooch shaped like a stag leaping. This is worth something. The Greek must have stolen it. Now it is mine.’

  Suddenly he saw himself as a little boy, sitting on a horse in the sunken lane and the fierce queen handing this brooch to him. He had lost everything but this brooch, and now these boys were taking it away from him. In a strange way, he felt that once the brooch had been taken, he would have lost everything
in his life, he would be ready to die. With a great effort he opened his eyes and growled, ‘That is mine. A queen gave it to me. It is mine.’

  The three boys turned towards him and began to laugh, pointing at him. ‘A queen! A queen!’ the red-haired one mocked. ‘What queen, slave? Why should a queen give her brooch to a slave? ‘

  And all at once Marcus felt salt tears running down his cheeks. This was the final fall, he thought. This was what a man could come to, a soldier even, a Tribune of the Ninth. And now he wished that he could be dead, so that he could forget all the things that troubled him, all the pride and strength he had lost, all the friends he had lost.

  One of the boys said, ‘See, the Greek is weeping! He is a grown man, but he is weeping. We British do not weep like these cowardly Outlanders.’

  Then suddenly from behind him, Marcus heard swift footsteps running, and a sharp voice calling out, ‘Leave the man alone, you little rogues. What have you taken from him, you alley robbers! Give it back!’

  A girl of perhaps sixteen came rushing at them, her light golden hair flying, a stick in her hand. She had her blue gown tucked up above her knees and could move faster than any of the boys.

  The red-haired one cried out, ‘It is the Saxon, look out, comrades.’

  Another one said, ‘Do not hit us, Gerd, we were only looking at the brooch. We did not mean to steal it. He said we could look at it.’

  But she did not listen to them. Her stick flailed about and landed many times on backs and legs and shoulders. They flung down the brooch and ran away, threatening that they would bring their brothers or fathers, and that she would be sorry for what she had done before the day was out. But she called certain things after them that made even Marcus start with shock.

  Then she turned to him, the brooch in her hand, and said in quite a different voice, ‘Shall I put the brooch inside your tunic, what is left of it? It might be safer there.’

  He looked down on her and tried to smile. She reminded him more of his sister, Livia, than anyone he had seen. Then, in another light, she was like Aranrhod, only older. He eyes were deep blue and set wide apart. Her nose was straight and thin. Her mouth was quite broad and turned up at the corners as though she would rather laugh than cry. Marcus thought that she was very pretty. Wryly he thought that if only she were scrubbed and put into fine clothes instead of this ragged-hemmed gown of dirty blue wool,. she might even be beautiful. With rings on her fingers and a gold collar about her neck, she could pass for the daughter of a Senator.