by Jack Whyte
“What are they singing?” I asked Ullic.
“A song about our land — our mountains and our lakes.”
“It’s magnificent. I must see your mountains some day.”
“You will.”
“That Druid sings too well to be a priest.”
He looked at me and laughed outright. “Too well to be a priest?” He guffawed. “That’s why he is a priest, man! It’s their art! Druids are trained from boyhood to protect the history of our people in their songs. They are our history, Varrus… the Druids are our history! They are our pride, our bards, our singing joy in life, man. That’s why they are Druids. That’s why they ARE!”
I was somewhat taken aback by the force of his contention. “You mean they know your legends? All of them?”
“Nay, man! Not legends. History!” The singsong lilt of his liquid Celtic language had infiltrated his Latin heavily, making our Roman language musical — no simple feat. “Legends are what you people have. A legend is a story told by strangers, changing form as it is passed from mouth to mouth down through the years until the people that it happened to would never recognize it. Look here,” he said, “let me try to explain to you. Each time something great, something momentous, even something funny happens that is worth recalling, one of our Druids sings it as a song. And then that song is learned, word upon word, perfectly, and passed on. It is intact, you see. It does not change — the details never vary. That is the sacred trust of the Druids. They are the bearers of our history.”
“But… All of it? How many songs are there?”
He shrugged. “Who knows? Thousands, I should think. Thousands and thousands, maybe.”
“How then can men remember all of them? A man’s mind cannot hold so much!”
“Rubbish, Varrus! Who knows what a man’s mind can hold? Have you ever met a man whose mind was full up?”
“No, I don’t think I have.” I smiled at the thought. “And yet, thousands of songs, you say?”
“Aye. and hundreds of Druids. They don’t all sing the same songs, you know. There are some great songs every Druid knows, but each has his own that he is taught in boyhood, perhaps even some he made up himself, that he will teach to others, passing them on. It is their art, you see.”
I shook my head in wonder and listened once again to the song; the voices rose to one more crashing climax and then were still.
It had become quite dark, and another Druid now stepped into the firelight, bearing his own instrument. A silence fell, and he began to sing. There was a ghostly, fragile beauty to the song he sang, and as it went on. verse after exquisite verse, I found myself lost in the texture of the melody. He varied the strength and power of his voice widely, now soft and plaintive, now alive and strong, now angry, suiting his facial expressions to the mood. And then I noticed the faces of these men who sat and listened, enraptured by his song, and was astounded to see many weeping shamelessly. As his voice finally died away, the silence that ensued seemed unnatural; no one spoke, moved or applauded.
Ullic rose to his feet and stepped into the firelight. He looked around him at his men and mine and began to speak. As he did so, Cymric, our official interpreter, seated himself between Caius and me and translated for us; I saw many more of Ullic’s warriors doing the same for our men. He spoke to them as an equal, but with great authority. He told them the details of our meeting at Stonehenge and went on to say that, from this day forth, we were no longer to be known as Romans. We were Britons, born in this land like them, proud of this land and ready to defend it against their foes and ours. He told them that if and when the legions were withdrawn, there might be numbers of them left behind, and that, if these should turn to banditry, we were prepared to fight them, too, Romans though they might nominally be.
We had talked long that day, he, Britannicus and I, he said. The alliance that we formed between us now was to be no mere alliance of convenience. We were to seek true brotherhood, and if our people chose to intermarry, such marriages would be welcome. This was news to me, and to Caius, I could see, but I found myself admiring the vision of this man Ullic. He was no fool. He told his men that we would send our soldiers to their mountains, to train their people in the Roman ways of fighting, and that they in turn would teach us their Celtic ways. And he ended by asking them to welcome us as brothers and neighbours to this new land of Britain, soon to be free of foreign Roman rule.
As soon as he had finished, one of his men leaped to his feet and burst into a song that was taken up by everyone before the second line. It was obviously a song of welcome and of celebration, and its stirring tune swept us along. When it ended, they cheered us, and just as I was beginning to feel that we should reciprocate in some way, Caius stood up and walked to the fire. I wondered what was in his mind and what he would say, but I would never have believed, even after his outburst of the morning, that he would say or do what he did. He stopped in front of the fire and looked at the faces watching him expectantly.
“Thank you!” he said. “Today, I stopped being Roman.” And then, in front of them all, he stripped off his beautiful toga and threw it on the fire. There was an astounded silence, and then a roar of approval, in the middle of which Ullic stepped up and draped his royal cloak around Caius’ shoulders. Caius thanked him, smiling, and held up his arms for silence. When it came, he cried, “Any of my soldiers attempting to do what I have just done will be court martialled immediately.” There were cheers and laughter and whistles from our men. He waited for silence again.
“Seriously, my friends. It is a foolish man who does not learn from history. Roman weapons and armour are the best ever devised for waging war. We will keep them. Perhaps we will change the colours. I like this red.” He indicated the cloak he was now wearing. There were more cheers and shouting, and a new cask of ale was hauled into the firelight. Before it could be opened, however, Ullic spoke again, lifting his voice high.
“Drink and make merry all you want tonight. But I want to be on the road before daylight! Thyrrwygg, it is your duty tonight. See to the sentries!” He waved and quit the fireside, beckoning to Caius and me to join him.
“Caius.” I said, shaking my head in wondering admiration, “that was inspired, burning the toga! How does your mind work? I could never plan something like that.”
He just smiled at me and squeezed my shoulder. It was years later that he told me the gesture had been totally unpremeditated. He enjoyed inspiring awe as well as the next man.
Within the hour, I was sound asleep.
XXXII
It often used to seem to me that Bishop Alaric had a God-given, almost mystical ability to anticipate our celebrations in the Colony and then to pre-empt them with other news of greater moment. He did it again on this occasion, arriving at the Colony before us so that he was there on our return and bringing news that quite eclipsed our own. Magnus Maximus, self-styled Emperor of Britain, Gaul and Iberia, was dead. The revolt was over. Theodosius was in command again.
To give him his due, Alaric restrained himself until dinner time, keeping his momentous news to himself until we had had an opportunity to exult over our own. When he did deliver his information, after our meal was complete, the news stunned me.
“How did he die?” I asked Alaric. “Was it the Frankish horsemen?”
He shook his head. “No, Publius. Theodosius himself had him executed. The news has just arrived. What did you last hear of him? Maximus, I mean.”
“That he was installed in the Germanic lands and hoping to claim Illyricum. That must have been two years ago,” Caius answered.
“At least.” Alaric nodded a head that was noticeably whiter than it had been the last time I saw him. “Last year he invaded Italy, and Valentinian fled to Thessalonica to escape him. He had lived in dread of Magnus since Magnus killed Gratian, the other silly co-emperor, in Gaul. With Valentinian gone, Magnus crowned his own son co-emperor, to rule with him, making four emperors again. Folly! But he was a real threat, and they took him se
riously. Not only Valentinian but Theodosius, too, recognized the boy.”
“Four emperors again.” Caius’ disgust was palpable. “God! This is obscene!”
“Aye. Anyway, Magnus divided his armies and struck back into Illyricum again. Both armies met defeat. Magnus was taken. They killed him out of hand.”
Caius’ face was suddenly filled with concern. “Both of Magnus’ armies beaten? What about his son? Does he still live?” I knew Caius was thinking of Picus, who might have died with either one.
Alaric shrugged his shoulders. “No one seems to know. It is presumed he fell. But I do have news of your son, Picus.”
“Picus!” Caius’ voice was avid. “What of him? Is he alive?”
Alaric laughed. “Aye, Caius, he is alive and well. He rides with Stilicho.”
Caius’ sudden frown matched my own. “Stilicho? Who is he?”
Alaric shook his head ruefully. “What, do you people hear nothing here? Stilicho is the brightest star remaining in the Empire’s battered crown. A brilliant young general. Picus is one of his protégés, it seems. I heard their names linked together only a week ago, up in Glevum, though no one present tied Picus’ name to yours.”
Caius grunted. “No, they would not — not now. I am too long gone to think of. Yesterday’s soldier.” I saw pain in his eyes. “Tell me more about this Stilicho. My son is his friend, you say?”
“One of his best cavalry commanders is what I heard.”
Caius was mystified. “But how can that be?” he asked, frowning, “Picus was with Magnus. He left with Magnus.”
“Aye, but he also left Magnus.” Alaric’s smile was kind. “Picus is his father’s son, Caius. It did not take him long to see through Magnus and his posturing hypocrisy. We can only assume that, having seen the error of his ways, he surrendered to Stilicho and was pardoned. Stilicho is a very clever man, or he would not be where he is today. He would recognize Picus immediately for what he is, and he would want to retain the services and the loyalty of such a man.”
Now, belatedly, the rest of what Alaric had said registered in Caius’ mind.
“Cavalry?” he asked. “Did you say cavalry?”
“Yes, Caius, I said cavalry.” The Bishop was smiling widely now. “You asked me earlier if Rome was training horsemen. Well, she is. Legions of them. Heavy cavalry. Heavily armed and heavily disciplined. Your son, according to the talk I heard, is one of the key figures in the new techniques of horsemanship.”
“Picus? He’s but a boy!”
I heard the paternal pride in that statement, and smiled to myself as Alaric asked, “How old is he?”
“He must be twenty-three, or twenty-four.”
“Then he is no boy, Caius. Stilicho is only twenty-four and already he commands the Household Troops of the Imperial Court in Constantinople. The word is that he will be named Commander in Chief of the armies within the year.”
“Commander in Chief? At twenty-five? Has Theodosius lost his mind?”
“No, only his favourite niece, Serena. She is wed to Stilicho.”
“Oh God!” I groaned. “Imperial patronage!”
“No, Varrus, not so — not quite.” Alaric held up his hand to prevent my next outburst. “The troops who serve with Stilicho say he is the finest military mind since Alexander.”
“Huh!” I reserved judgment. “Stilicho. That’s a strange name.”
“He is half Vandal.”
Caius’ interruption was explosive. “Half Vandal? Another barbarian! Being half Vandal seems to me much like being half with child.”
His relief at knowing Picus to be well was making him sound most unlike himself, and Alaric’s next words were gently chiding.
“Caius, I have never known you so querulous before. Do you feel well?”
“Quite well, thank you. The Commander in Chief a Vandal. I’ll be damned!”
Alaric smiled at me. “If you die in this mood, my friend, you might be.”
I was grinning broadly, hearing Caius reproached, even thus mildly, at his own table.
“Thank all the Saints that Picus is doing well, Caius,” I said, “and don’t be such a critic. If he’s as good as they say, he might recall our talks of Alexander and teach some decent tactics to his chief, Stilicho.”
Stilicho. The name stuck in my mind. I felt excited by it, but not threatened. Somehow, I felt, this was a name to conjure with.
The news of Magnus’ defeat and death was timely. I imagined the demoralizing effect it would have on Seneca when I told him of it. Now the status quo in Britain would revert to what it had been before the revolt, and the Imperial Procurator of South Britain would be hard pressed to explain his long absence in the light of the evidence I intended to furnish to the returning imperial forces of Theodosius. I had to wrestle with myself to resist the temptation to tell Caius what I had decided to do about Seneca, but I knew that there was nothing to gain by doing so except argument and opposition. I held my peace and immersed myself that evening and most of the following day in the excitement caused by the outcome of our journey to Stonehenge.
It was clear that all our lives would be changed from the moment of that meeting, and there was a spirit of wild optimism among the Colonists for days after our return. For the first time, we had genuine allies who were prepared to protect our interests in return for our support in their own affairs.
I rose early on the morning of the second day after our return and slipped out of the villa before anyone was awake, having told Luceiia the night before that I was riding to Aquae Sulis that day. It was not a complete lie, for my destination lay only five miles south of that town. By the time dawn broke in the morning sky, I had covered more than ten miles, and my horse was eating up the remaining distance on the straight, solid road that ran for miles without a bend.
In spite of my early start, it was long after mid-morning by the time I arrived at the place where I had arranged to meet Tertius Pella. He was there, waiting patiently with one of his men, concealed within the trees that grew right to the edge of the road. We exchanged brief greetings and he led me away from the road and into the forest, along a track rutted by the wheels of farm carts. Only when we were well concealed from the sight of anyone passing on the road did we rein in to talk.
“How is our prisoner?” I asked.
“Safe and unharmed, I am sorry to say, save for a few bruises and chills.”
“Did you have any trouble?”
“A little, not much. One of our men was slightly wounded, no more than a deep scratch. He’ll be fine in a week.”
“What about the others?”
“What others? Ours or theirs?”
“Theirs, of course.”
He grinned at me. “Three of them died. We left the five survivors trussed and gagged. If anyone passes by the townhouse, they will be found and rescued.”
I did not like to think of the alternative. “And Seneca, how long have you had him?” I asked.
“Six days. He would probably say six long days. We’ve managed to make them highly unpleasant for him. You wanted him confused, disoriented and afraid. He is totally as you wished on all three counts.”
“Good. How far from here is he?”
“Two miles,” he said, pointing. “One mile straight in and another mile along a deer track to the little clearing.”
I pulled a package from my tunic. “You’ve done well, Tertius. Your men will be well rewarded. Now we have to think about timing.” I turned to his companion and held the package out to him. “Take this to the commander of the guardhouse at the garrison in Aquae Sulis. Tell him you were given a silver piece to deliver this to him. Here it is.” I flipped him a silver coin, which he dropped into the scrip that hung from his side. “The message tells him that the missing Procurator, Claudius Seneca, may be found in this place. There is a map to guide them, too. As soon as you have delivered the package, make your way back to the Colony, but make sure no one knows where you are going and be sure that you are not
followed. Is that clear?” He nodded. “Good. It should take you an hour, perhaps longer, to reach the garrison,” I continued. “It will take them half that long again to organize a search party, and then another hour to make their way here using the map I drew for them. From this point, they should be able to find their own way to the clearing. In the meantime, Tertius, you and I have to finish our job and then be gone from here by the time they arrive, which should be before mid-afternoon, so let’s get on with it.”
Tertius swung his horse back onto the path and I followed close behind him, leaning low along my horse’s neck to avoid the lower branches of the trees that hemmed us in.
We left our mounts some distance from the clearing and walked in, and I stopped on the edge of the camp they had set up. It consisted of two leather legion tents, a trestle table with a folding chair and a fire-pit. The fire was burning brightly, giving off flames that were almost invisible in the clear air. I could hear the sound of running water from a stream somewhere off to my right.
Beyond the tents, a massive old oak tree dominated the clearing and dwarfed the two men beneath it. One of these, the guard, whose name was Randall, was dozing against the trunk of the tree. The other, Seneca, stood naked by a thick stake that had been hammered into the ground. He was blindfolded and shackled at the ankles, and the chain of his shackles was threaded through the lower of two large iron rings fastened to the stake. His wrists were manacled in front of him and a taut rope, threaded through the upper ring, held his arms stretched downward. Above this ring, not passing through it, a second rope was tied to the first and looped upwards over a thick branch above the prisoner’s head. By loosening the one rope and pulling on the other, Seneca’s guard could dictate the position of his bound wrists.
I stared at Seneca for a long time, filled with revulsion, savouring the moment and the promised vengeance I would take for Phoebe. He looked terrible. His hair was matted and unkempt and his cheeks were heavy with sprouting, dirty-blond beard. As I looked at him he slumped and then pulled himself erect again, straightening up as far as the taut rope through the ring would allow him to. He could not stand completely erect, and so his back was bent. The guard was under instructions to yank him to his feet if he tried to lie down. As I looked at him, I was conscious that the sight of anyone else in that condition would have moved me to pity and to anger at his captors, but I had Phoebe’s sweet face in my mind and was able to stifle any feelings of compassion that might have stirred in my breast. I motioned to Pella to lean close to me and I whispered in his ear, “Has anyone spoken to him?”