Legions of the Eagle

by Henry Treece

  That was what impressed Gwydion most of all, that these Romans did not seem to make a sound when they were fighting. They even suffered death in silence, it seemed. He admired that, and wondered what this crew would have done, had the positions been reversed.

  Then he was conscious that Gryf was standing by him, smiling, his arms still folded. “You would think that they knew that old trick by now,” he said. ‘‘But these Romans never seem to learn the simple things. They are always on the look-out for some complicated move—and it never comes, at least, not from us! We either use ballast or oil!”

  Gwydion looked so puzzled that the other said, “If we have real difficulty with them we tip a barrel of oil on to them, and one of the men throws a torch into it. I have even pitched the brazier into it; but you can’t always be sure of your aim when these launches carry archers. It’s easier with javelin men; you can see them coming more easily!”

  The boys looked at his smiling face, and shuddered. Gwydion remembered how pleased this man had been about his new-born son, and for a moment the boy wondered how a man could be so tender, and yet so cruel. He had yet to learn that when men go to war, they do not think of their opponents as being of the same nature as their own families.

  Now the signal came again from the shore, and the anchor was lifted. The boat began to move slowly towards the distant beach. Gaius stood, still staring towards the spot where the Roman launch had been, his eyes vacant and wondering. Gwydion knew that he was stupefied that his own great fellow-countrymen could so easily be defeated by a group of untrained rogues like these Veneti.

  Then the boat grounded, and Gryf jumped into the water and called to the boys to let themselves down into his arms. He was enormously strong, and carried them both to the shore, one on each arm. As he staggered along with them, the waves lashing him waist-high, he whispered, “I had to take you both. I didn’t dare leave either of you aboard with him!” He nodded his head back towards the helmsman, who stood watching them, a disappointed expression covering his dark face. Gryf went on, “He’d just as likely to set sail again and leave me here, if I’d left one of you aboard. He’d make good money from either of you!”

  Then he laughed and said, “You can’t choose your companions when you are a pirate like me! And he’s not such a bad fellow in the usual day’s work!”

  Then he tumbled the lads on to the sand, and wished them goodbye. Gwydion called out that he would keep his promise, and then they made their way towards the wood that came down almost to the water. Under the overhanging boughs, a group of men were waiting, and Gwydion went expectantly towards them, for he believed them to be Belgae. But when their leader came forward to look more closely at the boys, Gwydion realised his mistake. These were lawless men, wanderers, he thought, who sold to the highest bidder and had no tribal loyalties. Their leader was a big man whose sandy hair hung down in rat-tails from below an old skin cap. His face bore blue woad-marks, and was tattooed horizontally, in the fashion of the Picts. Gwydion observed that he lacked two fingers on his right hand. This was not a man whom he could trust, any more than he could trust the others, that half-dozen of skin-draped savages who stood behind him, whispering in the dusk.

  The leader stopped before Gwydion and said thickly, “Who are you? Have you come to join us?”

  Gwydion spoke up boldly, taking a chance, and said, “No, I am blood-brother to Gryf yonder, and am of the Veneti. If you touch us, Gryf will come ashore and tear out your eyes, never fear.”

  Gaius put on as brave a face as he could, doing his best to appear like a boy of the Veneti, though it must have gone hard against his tough Roman grain to do so.

  The leader sneered down at Gwydion and said, “If I chose, I should take you with me, Gryf or no Gryf! What is to

  prevent me from taking you two now and not stopping to unload the cargo in that boat?”

  Nevertheless, the man withdrew back to his muttering fellows, and the boys then realised that this Gryf was a man of some notoriety, in spite of his unprepossessing appearance.

  Yet it was obvious that they had little time to waste, for they could not afford to travel with this band of rogues through the woods that stretched before them. Gwydion acted quickly; he tugged at his friend’s jacket and began to run inshore, away from these men. Luckily he struck a path, which made the going a little easier, yet all the same the boys heard footsteps following them for a while through the darkness, until at last, even these fell behind, and then the fugitives settled down to a rapid walk, unwilling to find themselves out of breath or exhausted when they might most need their speed. Nor did they stop, for more than a few minutes at a time, until dawn; but continued their journey northwards, as far as they could judge, until at last they came out into more open country.

  Then Gwydion stopped as the first rays of the dawn sun struck through the leaden clouds to their right. “Over there, far away,” he said, “are the great stones. Now I do not know which direction we should take.”

  This question was settled for them in a grim manner before they had travelled much farther, however. On the crest of a small hill, against the pale morning light, a well-harnessed horse was cropping the turf. There did not seem to be anyone with him, and Gwydion ran up the hill, hoping that he might bring the horse down without a fight for their own use. As he drew nearer, he saw to his horror that the gaily-painted Celtic saddle was covered with blood, and that the horse’s flanks had been sadly gored by spear or short sword. He shrank back for a second, and as he did so, a weak voice from the coarse tussocky grass called out to him, “Oh friend, do a soldier one last service.”

  Gwydion beckoned to Gaius, who ran after him towards the voice. A Belgic cavalryman was lying on his back among the rough grass, an arrow still protruding from his side. He was a young man, and must have been wearing his armour for the first time, for it was still newly burnished from the smith’s forge. He said, “Pull out my sword and place it where I can roll on to it, for I am past all help.”

  The boys looked at each other in doubt; yet each knew that to deprive the man of his last wish would be to bring dishonour upon him. Besides, the band of rogues from the shore might pass this way shortly and cause the dying soldier distress by stripping him of his armour and neckring while he was still conscious.

  Gwydion shrugged his shoulders and drew out the sword for the Celt. As the boy knelt beside him, it occurred to him to ask where the battle was. With difficulty the man told him that Aulus Plautius was attacking Mai Dun, a fortified earthworks about thirty miles distant. He gasped that the Romans were working their way westwards, on the track of the king Caratacus, who had fled after Camulodunum.

  Gwydion asked how the battle went, and the warrior whispered that the Romans were too strong in numbers for the defenders, though they had brought no siege engines with them and relied mainly on infantry. He said that Caratacus had left the fortress as soon as the battle began to go against the Belgae, and had ridden towards the north. But he could speak no more when Gaius tried to press him with questions about the Roman force. Reluctantly, the boys wedged the sword for him with two stones, and after stroking the stillgrazing steed, made their way back to the road. When they looked towards the warrior again, he was lying still, his arms spread out, and his head thrown back.

  They did not speak for many minutes, and when they did it was to wonder what would happen to the horse. “He could not have borne us in his present state,” said Gwydion. “Let us hope that he will graze on the other side of the hill when that band from the shore pass this way.”

  So they walked in the direction of Mai Dun, for Gaius was now almost certain that there they would find his father.

  6. AFTER THE BATTLE

  By nightfall, foot-sore and hungry, the boys halted on the moorland path which they had followed for most of the day, to see a red glow flickering in the sky. The sullen orange-red hues were reflected from the underside of dark clouds which seemed to stretch over that part of the countryside, making the early ev
ening ominous, almost frightening. Gwydion said grimly, “We do not need to ask the direction of Mai Dun now. That is the last of the fortress, and of the village at its foot.”

  Gaius said, “Have my people, the Romans, done this, do you think?”

  Gwydion shook his head. “It might just as easily have been the Belgae. They would not leave a fortress whole if they left it; which means that either way, we have been defeated.” Gaius put his hand on his friend’s arm as though to show that among friends there is no such thing as nationality or race. Gwydion smiled back at him, though a little sadly, and thought that if all Celts and Romans were like this, war would be impossible between them.

  Then stumbling now, from fatigue and the roughness of the road, they began their melancholy journey towards the burning stronghold, wondering what they might End when at last they reached the place of battle.

  The moon was high, when they reached the ruined earthworks, and shone down eerily upon tumbled men and horses who lay here and there upon the ground, throwing a gentle silver light upon this sad carnage, picking out here a raised hand, there a broken helmet; throwing a malicious illumination over things which seemed to cry out for secrecy and peace. High on the summit of the hill, the ruined fortress occasionally threw up a transient glow of light, as some last beam or stretch of thatch caught fire, and burned itself to an ember. The battle was over, and now across the broad and undulating field, men and even women were moving slowly, some of them carrying torches, seeking their dead, or tearing off the finery of those who were helpless to resist them.

  Of the Romans or the Belgae, there were no signs now. It seemed that the tide of battle had swept on, and that the field of Mai Dun was already forgotten history.

  The boys looked at each other in despair, for they knew now that their quest was a forlorn one. Gaius’ father, if he still lived, might be far away by now, with his infantry, pursuing the enemy westwards, ever westwards. Then, as the two stood silent, unsure what they must now do, an old woman to their right called out to her ragged companions, “Come! Come! Bring the knife! This Roman dog still breathes!”

  Gaius turned in a flash and ran towards the wizened creature who held her torch low so that her friends might do their evil work. He was upon them almost before they saw him, snatching the torch from the hag and bending low over the body. Gwydion, running to join him, his knife already out, saw his friend drop the torch and take the still body in his arms. Then the group of peasants closed in on the Roman boy, and Gwydion charged them, shouting “Belgae! Caratacus!” They were old people, such as are afraid to venture out until darkness adds its protection to their wickedness, and they were taken aback by this unexpected attack. As they fell away from Gwydion, his friend looked up and said, “Praise to the gods! It is a Roman, and alive!”

  “Stand back!” cried Gwydion to the group of people who moved about him in the shadows. “If you come nearer, you must taste the edge of this!” He thrust towards them with his knife, and they backed from him. Then the old woman spoke up for the others: “Young lord,” she said, “we are poor folk. Our houses have been fired by these Romans. Are we to have no recompense? We found the Roman soldier here; his armour and arm-rings are ours,”

  Gwydion would have given them more than they asked for, in his mood of that moment, for his anger was roused that his own people should be so callous towards suffering. He did not know that this stripping of the bodies always happened, as a matter of course, after a battle, that such people as these shivering wretches in their rags regarded it as their right to filch from the dying and the dead whatever they could lay their hands on. Gwydion, a true Celt of the warrior caste, only knew battle as something fine, and noble, and full of heroism.

  But Gaius was more practical. All his life he had lived among soldiers, professional Roman legionaries, who were hardened to the other side of war — the tough, mercenary side, in which a man fought for what he might get out of it, and not the honour and the glory of it. Gaius said, “Here you are, you scavengers! This Is his arm-ring; here is his breastplate; and his helmet lies at your feet if you will only take the trouble to bend and pick it up!” He spoke these words with a sneer, and then bent back over the soldier.

  The old rag-pickers of the battlefields took the things he offered and, mumbling and cursing, moved away to search the heaps of the slain for other prizes.

  When they had gone, Gwydion put up his knife and joined his friend, who bent over the Roman, a javelin-man of one of the crack cohorts by the ribbons that hung pathetically from his shoulders. He had been cruelly wounded by sword-cuts and shook his head, groaning, when they tried to raise him.

  “Leave me,” he whispered painfully, “I have my reward and expected no other. I have a mind to die in peace now, without being disturbed.”

  His head fell back and he seemed to lose all interest in the boys. They stood now, staring down at him, wondering what they should do next, when the man’s eyes flickered slowly and opened once more. He seemed to be surprised that they were still with him.

  “Go,” he said weakly, “you will find others more worthy of your aid than I am. Officers and centurions, men of true valour.”

  Gaius could not resist the question now. “Do you know Gracchus, Gracchus the centurion, my friend!” he said anxiously. “Is he on this field, think you?”

  The soldier turned away his head, a bitter little smile on his lips. “There are many called Gracchus, many who are centurions, it seems, to a common soldier. I do not know. Search near the hillside if you would find the honourable dead.”

  Then the man gave a great sigh and rolled on to his side and Gaius saw his friend’s lips moving and knew that he was saying the Celtic parting-words for one who was now going on a long journey. They covered the soldier with his cloak and began to pick their way towards the hill, silent and bewildered.

  At last Gaius said, “It is impossible for us to search this field. By daylight we might stand a chance of finding a man, but by night and in this confusion we are doomed to failure.”

  Gwydion put his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘We must search, friend,” he said. “If your father is here, he will need what help we can give him without delay; and if he is not here, then we shall know that he is either safe in Camulodunum or that he has passed on with the others towards the west, unharmed.”

  Now they were at the foot of the hill, where the going was made more difficult by the tumbled mounds of the lower earthworks. Here and there lay such debris as a battle would produce: the wheels of a smashed chariot, the broken totem-poles of a defeated tribe, the bodies of horses, killed either by the arrows of the enemy or pole-axed by their charioteers when they fell, entangled in their harness, in the mad rush from the approaching legions.

  Suddenly Gwydion gave a shout, “Look, over there,” he cried. “A Roman Eagle still standing! We must search there!” Then he began to run, stumbling in the half-light over tussocky turf and obstacles of war, closely followed by Gaius, who did not dare to hope that they might discover his father.

  Between two earthen ridges, where a gaunt ash tree bowed down low over the little enclosure, the two boys saw the great bulk of a Roman field-wagon, tilted almost on to its side, its axles broken by the great weight that it carried. It was an ammunition cart, laden with supplies of sling-shot, iron bars, for making horse-shoes, even the small portable furnaces that the Roman smiths needed for forging arrowheads or re-tempering swords.

  Above all the scattered armaments that lay piled near the wrecked wagon, an eagle standard rose, catching the moonlight on its bright surfaces.

  “They must have made a stand here,” said Gaius as he ran on towards it. “Only a man of some authority would be in charge of such a wagon.”

  Then Gwydion had raced on past him again and was already clambering over the tumbled sacks and bundles of iron. Yet what he saw caused him to halt, half-afraid, and to wait until his friend had come up with him. “They have made a gallant stand,” he said, gazing down at the men wh
o lay about the bright standard. “But I dare not go down among them to look.”

  Gaius did not seem to hear him, but pushed by him and bent in the shadows, working as gently as he could, like a creature possessed but hating the task which he had to perform,

  Gwydion half-turned away, by now sickened by the carnage of this battlefield, all hope gone from him. Then suddenly he heard his friend give a great gasp, of mingled amazement and gratitude, it seemed. Gwydion turned again hardly daring to look, and then he too slithered into the ditch to be beside his friend.

  Gaius looked up tearfully. “He lay beneath them all, at the very foot of the standard,” he said. “He must have fallen facing the first onrush down the hill.”

  Gwydion did not speak. There was nothing he could have said that would have let him express his thankfulness at this almost incredible piece of good fortune. Then a great fear struck him.

  “Is he…?” he began to say, hardly bearing to look at his friend’s shining face. But the question was unnecessary, for the centurion’s hand moved, as though he were even then waving on his forward troops into battle, and the boys heard him speak, faintly but still with the unmistakable tones of authority.

  “Keep down, you in the first rank! This is no game of hide-and-seek! These tribesmen carry edged weapons!”

  There was something in the centurion’s spirit that seemed indestructible, and suddenly Gwydion found himself weeping with pleasure as he clasped the cold hand of this soldier of Rome.

  Gaius smiled across at his friend, understanding the emotions which so moved the Celt.