by Jack Whyte
“So be it!” I said. “The heavens may not approve of what we are planning, but I don’t think we will hear thunderstorms of protest. And not too many men will judge us, either.”
“Caius Britannicus wouldn’t approve.” Equus sounded almost condemnatory.
“No,” I agreed, “he would not. Not of the means, at any rate. The end he might applaud.”
“You think the end justifies the means, Varrus?”
I turned and looked Tertius straight in the eye. “I couldn’t care less. I just want Seneca stopped, and I don’t want Caius Britannicus to hear anything about this until it is over. Do you both understand that?”
They nodded, and Pella scratched his upper lip reflectively with the tip of one finger.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve got good reason to hate Seneca, knowing the animal killed my son, but you, Publius Varrus, you don’t like the man at all, do you?”
“That’s as good a way of phrasing it as any, my friend,” I answered with a slight smile. “Go with God, Tertius. I’ll look for good news on my return from the south.”
Pella was looking over my shoulder. “Here comes Caius Britannicus. Tell me, what do you think you’re going to achieve at Stonehenge? Why are you even going? And who is this Celt, that he thinks he can summon Romans with a crooked finger?”
By the time Caius reached us we were well into a genuine discussion of the Stonehenge excursion, and the conversation flowed smoothly on from there. I felt only a small twinge of guilt at hoodwinking my friend Caius, but I knew that if I were successful, he would enjoy it. And besides, my anticipation of vengeance on Seneca left little room for guilt or regret.
Four days later, I found myself remembering that meeting and the hazy summer heat of that afternoon with nostalgia. I was cold and I was wet. And I was unimpressed by the fact that the great, lichen-crusted stone column against which I rested my back had been standing in this place for thousands of years. In front of me, the rolling hills of the great plain of Sarum fell away in swooping waves until they were shrouded in the drizzle that hid the horizon in every direction and defied the eyes to tell where the sky ended and the ground began. There were times when Caius’ beloved Britain left much to be desired. We had been here for hours, and so far there was no sign of Ullic and his Celts.
I suppose we had made a fine sight as we approached Stonehenge, but there’d been no one there to see us. The massive temple stood empty, outlined against the late afternoon sky. Caius and I were on horseback, leading two wagons bearing gifts for Ullic, and we were accompanied by a full maniple of men, arrayed in their finest trappings.
We had come late on purpose, but when we saw the great temple deserted, Caius was piqued and prepared to be angry. Seeing his mood, I was able to tease him out of it, pointing out that we had merely been outmanoeuvred, and so we camped for the night close by the temple itself, posting guards all around our perimeter. Caius had made a conscious decision, against all his training and better judgment, not to dig fortifications around our camp. We were, after all, on an embassy, and he felt strongly that this was a time for discretion, both in appearance and in deportment.
When Ullic Pendragon and his people arrived at last, at dawn, they made a spectacular entrance. They came in silence broken only by the hooves of their ponies and the squeaking wheels of Ullic’s barbarously magnificent wagon.
He must have had five hundred warriors with him, many on foot, some mounted on shaggy little hill ponies with their feet reaching almost to the ground. All of them seemed dressed for war in a welter of garish colours.
Ullic himself was a giant of a man, a full head taller than me. The big Celtic chieftain wore a leather helmet on his head, studded with iron, with armoured flaps that came down over his shoulders. But it was the decoration of his helmet that caught my attention. The head of a golden eagle crowned the front of it, the eyes, bright and alive-looking, glaring out at the world above the savage beak. I wondered how it had been preserved to look so lifelike, and how it was attached to the helmet beneath the ruffled neck feathers. The folded wings were fastened to the sides, and when he turned his head to look at one of his men I saw the spread tail feathers fanned out over the nape of his neck.
Caius had drawn our men up in two ranks, at attention, and I flattered myself they looked as right as Romans ever had. Each wore a plain bronze helmet and a breastplate of hardened leather. A sword belt and a skirt of leather straps studded with iron hung from every man’s waist. Beneath his armour, each wore a plain white tunic that reached to just above his knees, and breeches of soft leather. On their legs they wore greaves and on their feet heavy, hobnailed, sandalled boots. Each wore a heavy cloak of homespun wool, and each held a spear and a heavy shield, the Roman soldier’s scutum.
Ullic dismounted from his wagon and approached, letting us see his dress. He was swathed in a huge, red cloak, trimmed with animal fur. Barbaric jewels glittered on his breast and his legs were covered by long breeches, crisscrossed with leather bindings. His tunic was belted at the waist by a thick cord woven with what looked like gold, and both tunic and breeches were the same red as his cloak. The man was utterly splendid — and barefoot. He stopped three paces from where I stood with Caius and looked us both up and down, from head to foot.
Caius was wearing a toga-like cloak, and I suddenly wished I had worn mine. But then he looked more closely at my clothes and I felt better. I was wearing a suit of finely worked leather that, in spite of its luxurious appointments, still managed to retain a military appearance. On my left arm I wore an arm-guard of solid silver, laced with thongs — a decoration, but a useful one, since it protected my arm against my bow string. The Chief eyed this, then ran his eyes along the ranks of our men. His eyes were bright blue and his beard and moustache were black, shot through with grey.
He looked again at Caius and finally broke the spell of silence. He spoke, his voice the rumbling sound of water in a cavern. I understood not a word. He raised a hand and snapped his fingers and Cymric stepped forward from the ranks of Celts and came towards us. Ullic spoke again. Cymric looked into my eyes as though we two had never met, and then turned to Caius.
“The King says, ‘Let us talk.’”
“King?” Caius replied, blinking in surprise. “I did not know he calls himself King!”
Ullic raised an eyebrow and Cymric rattled on in Celtic. The King frowned slightly, seemed to consider this, snapped out a word or two and then turned away and walked towards the temple.
“Come!” Cymric beckoned to us both. “Leave your men here.”
Caius turned to our soldiers. “Hold your ranks!”
Outnumbered as we were by four to one, we did as we were bidden and followed Ullic, who stopped to allow us to catch up. We walked in silence right into Stonehenge and I realized that, apart from Ullic, Cymric and Caius, none of the six hundred or so men gathered outside had said a single word.
We stopped in the centre of the massive temple, and Ullic turned to face us. It occurred to me that I had never been at such a loss for words, not even with the Emperor Theodosius, and then it struck me forcibly that I had seldom been in the company of such a man as this. The surprising word that came to me was regal; this man truly was kingly.
“So, Roman!” He was glaring, narrow-eyed, at Caius. “You are surprised that I am a king. Why?”
He spoke in Latin. Caius looked at me in surprise, and then turned back to him. I did not know the temper of this man, but I hoped Caius would be forthright.
“We —” Caius’ voice was husky. He cleared his throat angrily and spoke again, this time with his own voice. “We once had kings in Rome. We threw them out, abolished them.”
“You abolished them? Why?” His voice was soft.
Caius looked him straight in the eye. “They were unworthy. They used their kingly power to subjugate the people.”
“To subjugate the people. That is good.” A pause, then, “Your people subjugate the world, Roman!”
Caius considered that. “That is true.”
“But that is different? When did you last have kings, Roman?”
“Long ago.”
“Before the Empire?”
“Before the Republic.”
“But before the Empire?” His voice was rich with sarcasm.
“Aye. Long before.”
“And you found them unworthy because they tried to dominate you. So you got rid of them. What was it you said? You… abolished them. And then you turned around yourselves to dominate all men.”
It was well put. Caius had no answer. I decided I was well out of this. The big Celt spoke again.
“Roman, you have set out in the past four years to establish yourself as a force upon my borders. Why?”
Caius shrugged his shoulders. “My name is Caius Britannicus. Call me that, or Britannicus.”
“Why? Do you dislike ‘Roman’? You have not answered me. Why are you setting up a military force upon my borders?”
“We were unaware that you had borders. Or that our Colony was close to them!”
“Colony? What is this, this Colony? Are you trying to anger me, Roman?”
This “king” was being nasty with a purpose; I felt sure of it. And I felt that Caius knew it, too. If he felt anger, he was concealing it well.
“Have you ever met a king before today, Roman?”
Caius’ response was curt. “Several. I liked none of them. They were all petty tyrants. Every one.”
I winced inwardly, gritting my teeth. Tension was knotting my stomach.
“And I? Am I a tyrant? Have you heard stories of my tyranny?”
“No, I have not. I had not even heard of your kingship, as you know. What do you want of me?”
“Much, Roman.” Ullic was eyeing Caius steadily. “My people tell me you are training an army on my threshold. Why? What, or whom, do you look to conquer now?”
“Conquer?” Caius’ fists clenched by his sides, and I could now see the anger seething in him. He glanced at me, looking grim, and then turned his eyes back to Ullic defiantly. “We look to conquer nothing. We seek only to defend ourselves!”
“Against whom?” Again the sarcasm in Ullic’s voice was heavy, but now Caius seemed determined not to respond to it.
“Not against whom, King Ullic, against what, you should ask.”
His voice was as condescending as it could have been. In response to his tone, Ullic’s voice was lower, more menacing.
“Against what, then, Roman, do you arm yourselves?” Caius said nothing. “Answer me, Roman, and take care.” His voice was soft now. “I do not like liars.”
Caius told me later that the moment of truth that comes to each man had caught up with him then. Something inside him, he said, quailed, and he was deathly afraid to say the words he suddenly knew to be true. He had to clench his teeth and swallow to quell a surge of vomit in his throat, feeling like a small boy caught with a guilty secret. He knew what he had to say. He knew the truth.
“I am no Roman!” It came out as four toneless, disconnected words. I could not believe what I had heard. As for Ullic, he looked at Caius sardonically, his right eyebrow climbing high as Caius’ own was wont to do from time to time. Then he moved his eyes slowly down the toga-draped length of the man facing him.
“Your pardon, Caius Britannicus! I cannot think how I could make such a mistake. How I could think you Roman?” He bowed slowly from the waist. “But, if you are no Roman, what are you? You’re no Celt!”
“I am a Briton, as are you!”
Ullic laughed, a roaring bark of laughter. “A Briton? You? Boudicca was a Briton, man! So was Caradoc — Caractacus, your people called him! They and their people lived only to fight the likes of you! They were Britons! You are a foreigner. An invader!”
Caius’ response was immediate and vehement. “Not so. King of Pendragon! I am a Briton, born and bred of generations born here in this land. True, my name is Roman, and my loyalties, the facile ones, have been Roman — until now! And true, no Celtic blood flows in my veins. But I am of Britain by my name, Britannicus; and I am Briton by birthright!”
Ullic folded his arms in front of him during this outburst which could hardly have surprised him more than it did me, and leaned his back against one of the great stones that stood behind him. His eyes were fixed on Caius.
“Huh!” he said. “All right, for the sake of argument, I will call you Briton from now on. The original Britons were a tribe of Celts, you know. Your people all but wiped them out completely. But I will call you Briton, for now. You have yet to tell me why you train an army at my door! What is it that you seek defence against?”
Caius answered him squarely. “Against the end of the world.”
“The end of the world.” I heard amusement in Ullic’s tone this time.
“The Roman world.” Caius corrected himself.
“I must be dull of wit today. Explain that.”
I found myself nodding my head slowly in agreement with Caius, willing him on.
“The Roman’s day is over,” he said. “The Empire cannot survive much longer. It must fall. Soon.”
Ullic shook his head, pityingly. “But how can this be, friend Briton? Rome is Eternal. All the Romans tell us so!”
Caius shook his head. “No. Rome is finished. The day will come, soon now, when the hordes outside will venture in. Rome no longer has the strength to keep them out.”
“And? So? How does this end the world?”
I looked at him in disbelief. Was he being humorous? Or could he really fail to see beyond the fall?
“When Rome falls, the world falls, King Ullic.” Caius spoke slowly and with great deliberateness. “The law ceases to exist. The army is no more. The cities starve. Their citizens go wild. There will be nothing to protect this land of Britain from invasion by people who will make the Roman invaders seem like children at play. Not a thing. Except the strengths her people build themselves. That is why we have moved onto your borders. We didn’t know you had borders, but we do know that we can hold the land we have, and we can defend it against marauders for as long as we have to.”
Ullic was silent for a space of minutes, staring Caius in the eyes. Slowly, he turned his head to look at me, and I was aware that I had not spoken since we met. And then he turned back to Caius and smiled, and he was transformed from a figure of menace to man of great appeal and charm. It was astonishing. He held out his hand to Caius, and, mystified, Caius shook with him.
“Caius Britannicus,” he said, “you may well be the first of a new race. The non-Celtic Britons. Defend your land, and you defend my back. Defend my back, and I’ll protect yours, too. Cymric! Send out the signal to prepare a feast! Our meeting here is done. Now we must tell the others what we have achieved.”
Seconds later I heard the blowing of a horn and then the sounds of cheering. I was in a state of shock, as was Caius. I felt an idiotic smile painted across my face as Ullic stepped across to me, his hand outstretched. I shook with him, feeling the giant strength in his mighty fingers.
“Publius Varrus,” he said, “we will have to change your name. You should be a Celt, with the love of iron that you have.”
“King Ullic…” I rasped, my voice dry from tension.
“Ullic will do. The ‘King’ is for display. I will be King again later. Now is the time for eating…” He stopped, staring across my shoulder. “Britannicus, you train your men too well. They still stand at attention. Will you not allow them to stand down?”
“In a moment. Tell me, Ullic, why did you toy with me? It’s obvious you knew the answers to your questions before you ever asked them. Was this fair?”
Ullic was smiling broadly now. “Fair? You mean just? Britannicus, I did not know you! I had to take the measure of the man. Varrus I knew about. But not Caius Britannicus. You hold your counsel closely to yourself. And so do I. Thus, if I were to know you, I must meet you face to face, and at your distinct disadvantage!” He grinned a giant grin. �
�I have met Romans whom I truly did not like, you know.”
Caius smiled back at him, and I felt relief flooding over me like cooling water.
“We can be friends, I think, Sir King,” Caius said through a smile.
“We will be friends, I know, Sir Briton!” He placed an arm on each of our shoulders and led us out from among the stones of Stonehenge into the brightness of the morning sun.
I allowed our men to break ranks and stand down as soon as we emerged from the temple. Ullic’s men had already lighted fires and were preparing food. I saw casks being unloaded from the wagons and heard voices raised in song. A party of Druids had joined the gathering and their white robes gleamed in the strong sunlight.
The remainder of the day was spent in feasting. There were footraces and contests of all kinds, including a demonstration by our men of Roman drill, swordplay and spear-throwing. The Celts were throwers, too, as well as archers, and the championship went to one of them, a skinny stretch of a man who threw a Roman pilum fifteen paces further than his nearest rival.
As the sky began to darken, a great fire was built up of logs the Celts had brought with them on a cart, for there were no trees on the empty plain. One of the Celts produced a stringed instrument much like a Roman lyre and began to play, and a Druid priest stepped forward and sang to the sound of the strings. His voice was magical — clear, vibrant and possessed of enormous strength. We were enthralled when, at one point in the song, everyone else joined in and the music soared to a great crescendo, dying off suddenly to leave the Druid’s voice shining alone. They sang in their own tongue and none of us could understand a word, but we had never heard such beauty coming from human throats. Again the Druid reached that certain point, and again everyone joined in.