by Henry Treece
“That will have to come off, my boy,” she said. “We can’t I lave you the laughing-stock of Lugdunum. Roman-fashion or nothing!”
Gwydion leaped up and looked round for a weapon, but the look of anguish in Gaius’ eyes was so great that at last he gave in and let the busy little woman crop his hair short with her best scissors. She was not very good at this operation and often tugged his scalp as she snipped away at the thick hair; but Gwydion did not flinch. Yet, as he saw his bright locks falling to the mosaic floor of the kitchen, he felt almost sad enough to weep. Then he remembered that his father himself had once said what a nuisance in battle this long hair was, and how he wished the king would set a new style in warriors’ hair-dressing by having his cropped. Then, as he recalled these words, he did not feel so bad about losing his hair, and even forced himself to laugh at his new reflection, which Gaius showed him in a steel mirror that was kept on one of the tables in the kitchen for the use of the women slaves, who liked their own hair to be well-kept, in its plaits and braids, when they worked in the steam of the boilers and the heat of the great ovens.
So the boys sat down to eat together, and when twilight came Gaius’ aunt got them both at her knee and made them promise to respect the house where they lived, and not to bring discredit on their family. She seemed to assume that Gwydion had accepted the family, in which he now found himself, as his own. The Belgic boy, overcome by all the unexpected kindnesses he had received, promised, as did Gaius, to do as the lady commanded. So they were sent to bed, in the same room, overlooking a little square courtyard where figs and grapevines grew under a sheltering wall that was ridged with terra-cotta tiles.
Gwydion found it hard to sleep that night, for the moon came in through the window-hole on to his face, and the doves did not seem to wish to sleep, but kept up their purring on and on into the night. At last he turned over in bed, trying to settle down, and saw that Gaius was also awake, watching him silently, with great brown eyes. In the semi-darkness, he was very much like Math, thought Gwydion; but now the positions are reversed—I am the slave, and he is the master.
But Gaius put out his hand and took that of his slave. “I am glad you have come, Gwydion,” he said. “ I think that we shall get on well together, don’t you?”
Those words made Gwydion feel even more sad, in a strange way; but all the same, he fell asleep now, to dream of the great fight under the bridge, but holding the dark hand of his new friend almost till dawn.
2. DEATH KNOWS NO FRIENDS!
This was a happy period for Gwydion in many ways.
Everybody spoke Celtic of some sort, and when they found it difficult to make their meaning clear, Gwydion could always manage a little Latin. He and Gaius would spend many hours walking together along the riverside, or sometimes even going away for a day at a stretch to climb the misty blue mountains that encircled the shining town. They chattered away incessantly, for each wanted to know much about the other’s way of living; from Gaius, Gwydion learned of Rome, and the story of the great Legions, of the old gladiators and of the Triumphs, From Gwydion, the Roman boy heard strange tales of the stones near Sorbiodunum, and the sacrifices that went on each year on the dawn of midsummer day; of the scythe-wheeled chariots, the fierce war-hounds of the tribes; of the Celtic gods of sun, and moon, and oak, and river. Gaius knew much of this already, for he was living in a Celtic land—but a land, nevertheless, which had lost many of its old customs, having been under the rule of Rome for so long.
All told, they passed the last weeks of summer happily, watching the squads of soldiers drilling in the square, and calling out cheeky comments to the decurions in charge; or swimming in the baths, near the river side; or occasionally helping, for the fun of it, in pulling grapes, or treading at the wine-presses.
Occasionally news came through from Britain. Gaius’ father managed to send messages with the wagon-drivers who passed that way, on their road to the Middle Sea, The boys learned that the Roman army had settled down near Camulodunum, and intended to make a permanent town there, slightly away from the old foundations; that the Belgic king had moved to the west, and that the Legion would probably have some tough fighting to do before the country was finally brought to its senses. Gaius was always very honest with Gwydion, and when there came difficult news like that, he would simply pass the paper on to his friend to read, without trying to hide anything; for Gaius was a true Roman, of the old school, who believed in telling the truth, in straightdealing of every sort, and in honesty.
The best news that came through for them both was that Gwydion’s mother had got away safely after the battle and was living somewhere well to the west, beyond the great inland forests. The centurion had made it his special business to find this out, for he knew that Gwydion would be anxious to know about her. He added the postscript that a certain Math was with her, but that no dog had yet been found.
Gwydion was glad to know these things, and told Gaius to thank his father in his reply. Then, one day, a carter called at the house and asked to see Gwydion. He handed the boy a small parcel, wrapped round with bound sheepskin, and said that the centurion had commanded him on pain of death to deliver it to Gwydion personally.
Mystified, the boy unwrapped the package, and saw, lying on the white fleece of the skin, his father’s gold arm-band, with the dragon-shapes embossed on its sides, and enamelled in blues and reds and greens. The boy’s eyes filled with tears as he put it on his own arm. When he tried to give the man a coin he had, the carter shook his head and said that it was an honour for him to carry out such a task. He then gave Gwydion a small roll of paper, and took his leave. The boy unrolled the paper and found that it was a note from the centurion, who said gravely that Gwydion’s father had been burnt on a warrior’s funeral pyre, as befitted such a man, and that the Romans had provided a guard of honour at the ceremony. He ended by saying that Caswallawn’s sword had been sent, against all rules and regulations, to his widow, if she would accept it, and if she could be found, with the message that if ever she should be in need, the Roman General, Aulus Plautius, pledged himself to succour her in any way, and to arrange that she be granted citizenship and a house in Rome.
When Gaius and his aunt heard of this, they were very glad, and made a small feast to commemorate the good news. Half-way between joy and tears, Gwydion drank the rough red wine of the district, and ate the sweet honey cakes that had been specially cooked for him.
The next day, with the last warmth of summer still in the air, the plague struck Lugdunum, and the boys, returning home from a long ramble on the hillsides, found the aunt of Gaius leaning, pale and faint, against the fountain that played in the courtyard. When Gaius ran to help her, she waved him away, and told him to run for the doctor. Puzzled, the two lads ran, one in one direction, one in another, in case the first doctor might be out already with some patient.
When they returned a short time later, they found that the lady was lying on a straw-pallet, near to the fountain, with the slaves weeping around her still body. The doctor turned to Gaius and shrugged his shoulders. “That is the way it is happening everywhere in Lugdunum,” he said. “Such diseases come almost every summer. What can we do about it? She was a good woman. The gods will take care of her.” Then he shook hands with Gaius and went away.
The burial was very simple, for now there were so many dead in the city that hired mourners were impossible to obtain. A slave woman, who had loved the aunt dearly, risked infection to light the torches at head and foot of the straw pallet, and to place a coin in the mouth of the dead lady, as was the custom. But there was no time for elaborate ceremony; there was no set funeral oration before the hall in the Forum, no sad blowing of horns, or procession of the family —who in any case, could hardly have been summoned from Rome at such a time, when diseases were rife within the city.
Instead, Gaius and Gwydion, together with the slaves, carried the body on its bier to the burning ground, outside the town gates, and there the ashes of the good lady w
ere placed in a small marble urn, and set in the ground, among the many who had perished during the summer months.
As they made their way home again, a harsh wind blew up through the valley, chilling them both, and depressing their spirits. Outside the house they found a squad of soldiers and a junior officer. He almost ordered Gaius to let him in, and then, without removing his helmet, to indicate that he was speaking officially and not as a guest, he told the Roman boy that as the son of a centurion, with no relatives to look after him, Gaius must regard himself as the ward of the garrison in Lugdunum. His affairs would be administered by the officer commanding the garrison, and his slaves would automatically become the property of Rome, until such time as Gaius came of age, or his father was discharged from the army.
When he had delivered this message, he turned on his heel and walked to the door, stopping only to warn the boy that he must not sell anything without permission of the officer, and that he himself was to report weekly at the garrison to show that he was still in the city and in control of his household. “Otherwise, my boy,” warned the soldier as kindly as he could speak, “the State will be forced to appropriate your house and belongings, slaves, goods and chattels of every sort.” Then he smiled drily and went back to his men and marched them off.
Gaius turned to Gwydion and said, “Well, that looks like the end of our friendship, doesn’t it? You now belong to Rome, and not to me.”
Gwydion said, “Can’t your father do anything about it?” For he had come to believe that the grizzled centurion was the master of any situation.
Gaius shook his head. “The officer who spoke to me just now is far superior to my father in rank,” he said. “Besides, that is the law. We Romans live by the law; and that is the law.”
Gwydion said, “Now we are both slaves, of a sort, friend. Both slaves of Rome, though you have a few more rights than I have.”
Gaius said, “Things look black, Gwydion, but we must have courage.”
He even forced himself to smile at his friend, and then they made up a big fire and brought their pallets down to the kitchen, for it was becoming too cold to sleep in the airy little room with the open window-hole, above the courtyard.
3. THROUGH THE GATES AND OVER THE HILLS
The next morning the two boys sat on the parapet of the bridge where they had first met, but this time clad warmly in sheepskin jackets and thick woollen trousers, strapped from ankle to thigh with broad thongs. The autumn days were becoming more chilly and it seemed that winter might be on the town sooner than they had thought. The morning sun struck down across the path, into the boys’ faces, and they seemed at a loss to know what to say to each other.
Then suddenly Gwydion turned and waved his hand towards the misty blue hills that surrounded the city. “There lies freedom,” he said, simply, Gaius looked back at him in astonishment. “Why, that is just what I was going to say,” he said. Gwydion said, “Have you money with you?”
The Roman boy nodded. “I have half a year’s taxes that I was to deliver to the collector this morning after our walk,” he said, tapping the pouch at his side.
Gwydion said, “We have on our winter clothes; we have strength in our legs and stout shoes on our feet. The hills mean freedom.”
At last Gaius said, “If we stay here, we shall no doubt get into trouble of one sort or another. I imagine that since the house and stock belong to my father, a soldier, we shall be constantly plagued by the garrison now. Whereas, if we go, the officer will be forced to take over everything and keep it safe—they are very strict about such things—and we shall be relieved of much trouble. You see, they would make us survey our land again and take inventories, put proper crops in at the right times according to the book, pay a terrific wage to any wandering journeyman who poked his nose round the door to scythe a field or cobble a cracked wheel. Then, they’d make us whip the slaves if they didn’t work hard enough.. He stopped as soon as he had spoken those words.
“I’m truly sorry, Gwydion,” he said, putting out his hand. “My silly tongue ran away with me.”
Gwydion. shrugged his shoulders and smiled back at him, a sad but friendly smile.
“Let us run away with it, my friend,” he said. “That is the way to treat a wagging tongue!”
“Of course,” said Gaius, relieved. “That is the only thing left for us to do, really. You know the way, Gwydion. Why, we might even get as far as Britain, to see my father.”
Gwydion said drily, “I have a mother there, too. Britain is my own country. My people live there.”
Gaius flushed with embarrassment at his thoughtless selfishness. He was a little confused by Gwydion’s Celtic touchiness, too. It was at moments like these that he realised the difference between the races. He did not know what to say now, but Gwydion spoke and said, “I am now the slave of Rome, as even you cannot help reminding me, Gaius. What is the penalty for a slave who runs away from his owner? It is something which I must consider.”
The Roman boy’s face became serious now. He thought deeply for a while and then said, “Let us forget about running away, my friend. It was a foolish idea after all. The punishment is too great. Let us stay here, for I could not bear you to suffer like that.”
Suddenly Gwydion slipped down from the stone parapet. He stretched his long arms in the sun and yawned. “Come on, Gaius,” he said. “If we don’t make an early start we shall not be over the hills for two days at the least!”
Gaius stared down at him for a moment or two, then slipped down after him. “I had forgotten,” he said, smiling grimly, “we both carry hunting-knives. Well, if they try to take us back against our will, we shall have something to say to them, whether they are Romans or not, shan’t we, my friend?” Passers-by turned in astonishment to see two young boys, arm in arm, striding whistling down the main street and laughing as though their solemn city were a place of vast delight and entertainment!
And so the two passed through the gates and up the road, turning off from the public carriage-way when they were a few miles from the town walls and cutting across the heather-covered slopes that led westwards, towards Armorica, the sea; towards Britain once again.
4. AMONG THE VENETI
autumn turned to winter, and the trees now stood on hilltops like gaunt, black, foreboding sticks, the two boys travelled on slowly towards the coast. They soon discovered that even sheepskins do not keep out the cold when one has to sleep on the bleak hillside; that even stout shoes cannot withstand the hard flints of the road for ever; that even a half-year’s taxes are soon spent, when one has to buy food, or a meal at an inn, or a ride in an ox-cart. For grown-ups in Gaul at that time were only too ready to cheat such boys as these, with innocent faces and a pocketful of coins.
Once they fell in with a strange old German who was walking from village to village with a dancing bear. They stayed with him for a few days, until they woke one night to find the old man searching among their clothing to steal their gold. Many times they had to hide hurriedly in ditches, or in the fringes of woods, when Roman cavalrymen came clattering down the road, or squads of infantry suddenly turned out of villages and marched in their direction.
Yet, at last, with the snow on the ground and a harsh wind whipping inland from the leaden grey sea, they came to a small hamlet perched high on a cliff-side, and from the speech of the children who met them and talked to them, they knew that they were in Armorica, and, best of all, among the remnants of that rebellious old tribe, the sea-going Veneti, At first they were overjoyed, for it seemed now that they had but to go on board a sailing vessel, and the end of their long journey would be in sight. But they were doomed to disappointment.
Outside a tumble-down hovel of wattle and thatch, they saw an old man mending a fishing-net with shaking fingers. He wished them good day, in the courteous manner of these fisher-folk, but when Gaius asked whether he could take them to Britain, he merely laughed and then fell silent, as though they had asked him to fly to the moon and fetch them a bag o
f gold.
Gaius asked him again, thinking that he might be a little deaf; but still he did not answer. At last, rather impatient, Gwydion asked the same question. This time the old man looked up, recognising a Celtic voice, and pointed out at the long grey rollers of the sea. Then he pointed down at the tiny fishing coble that lay, newly tarred, on the pebbled beach below them. He looked Gwydion in the eye with his pale blue sea-coloured orbs, and shook his head slowly. Then he went on with his work, and the boys walked away to another cottage, farther down the cliff.
There they had the good fortune to meet a stout, red-faced woman, whose arms showed that she was kneading flour for baking. She smiled at them and said they might come in and eat, for they looked hungry enough. They were glad to accept her invitation, and during the rough but generous meal, Gaius asked his question once more; was there any man in the village who would ferry them across to Britain, in return for gold that would be paid, one day, when the Roman army was shipped once more across to Armorica?
The stout lady said, “Eat your bread, lad, and don’t ask silly questions. Hereabouts, we don’t care to be mixed up in the doings of Roman soldiers.”
Gaius didn’t understand this, and felt a little insulted; but in a whisper, Gwydion, who knew a great deal about the history of his people, told him how the Veneti had been cruelly punished after their sea defeat in the days of the great Caesar, Julius. Moreover, he told Gaius that he had better let him do the talking from now on, while they were with such a folk as the Veneti, who were very proud, in spite of their poverty.