by Henry Treece
In the dying firelight, they shook hands, the young boy and the gnarled old veteran. Then they wrapped their blankets about them and tried to sleep, under the bright stars, with the chill wind of late spring blowing over them from the broad river that lay a mile or two to their left hands.
Now the distance to Siluria was small, and if the Romans were to escape, they must do it quickly, for in three days at the most, the war-band would be knocking on the gates of Caratacus’s fortress.
3. PIRATES IN THE RIVER!
Sadly for Gracchus, the watchful comitatus of Math gave him no opportunity of slipping away unobserved before the party reached Siluria. Those blue-stained horsemen had eyes like hawks, and always rode as though ready, at the next beat of their horses’ hooves, to defend themselves against a hidden enemy, or to attack some unsuspecting prey, some careless warrior or sleeping Roman, at the next bend.
Once, in the still hours of the night, Gwydion persuaded the centurion to write a word or two for Gryf—though the boy hardly knew how such a message might ever be transmitted to Gaul; and once, as Gwydion ran alongside Math’s pony, holding the stirrup, well ahead of the rest of the band, he said to his old friend, ‘‘Math, I find a change in you.” The other had looked down from the saddle, with veiled eyes, smiling faintly and sarcastically, “Say on, dear friend,” he had answered.
Gwydion said, daring everything at one throw, “You are not the person I knew, the person I used to like. You are different—callous, hard, and arrogant.”
Math rode on for a while before replying, and when he did, his voice was strong and serious. “Then I was a slave,” he said. “Now I am myself again, a prince. A prince cannot walk the world barefooted; nor can he show mercy to every fool he meets along the way. I accept you again, my Gwydion, because in your fashion you were kind to me when I was a prisoner in your father’s house. I lack many qualities, but I do not lack loyalty. I never forget, Gwydion—no, not even the things you sometimes said to me when you remembered that you were the son of the house, and I the slave.”
Then Gwydion was so depressed that, had his mother not been living at the court of Caratacus, he would have thrown in his lot with Gracchus and Gaius, and have tried to break away at the first chance.
After that he did not attempt to talk to Math, and the last stages of the journey were oppressive with a heaviness that Gwydion had never experienced before.
Then, it was too late to think of these things, for the guard at the stockade let them through and blew three loud blasts on the bull’s horn which served him as a trumpet, to announce their approach. Men ran out and prostrated themselves before the young lord, Math, and led away the horses of the party, staring boldly and insultingly at the three new arrivals, as though they were slaves of the lowest order, and hardly to be considered as human creatures. Gwydion noticed that all the menial work within the stockade was done by dark-skinned Silurians and not by fair-haired Belgae. This gave him some hope, for he felt that Caratacus had already asserted his mastery over this earlier hill-folk, and that the king’s kindness would soon replace the sullen malice of the prince, Math.
It was with pleasure, even, that Gwydion found himself being pushed behind Math, into the great thatched hall of the king. The air was thick with smoke from the great central fire, and it was difficult to see at first; but Gwydion scanned the hall for the sight of his mother. He saw that there were no women present, and his heart sank.
Many men thronged the hall, standing three or four deep round its walls; while at the far end, the king sat in a high carved chair, surrounded by tall fair-skinned Belgae, his personal bodyguard. Math stood before Gwydion, facing the king across the long extent of hard earthen floor. Two of the bodyguard put horns to their lips and blew a long wailing blast, and Math, his right hand stretched up and out, in something like the Roman salute, walked forward towards Caratacus. Just before he began his march he half-turned and whispered to Gwydion, “Stay there, until you are called.”
Gwydion looked round for Gaius and his father, and saw that they were held by the arms, almost in the doorway, like prisoners. He saw that they stared indignantly at the Belgic king, and knew that this meeting might well turn out badly for one or the other.
He turned back and looked at Caratacus. He seemed to have aged in the short year since Gwydion had spied on him in the Council Hall of Camulodunum. He lolled, rather than sat, in his carven chair, his big body slack, his hands white and fat; Gwydion noticed that his hair was almost grey, though it had shone like spun-gold as he stood gallant in his chariot to take the Roman arrows. Now, in place of that bull-helmet, he wore a narrow circlet of gold about his brow, and a long toga-like purple robe of linen, that covered his feet. He was more like a dissolute Roman consul than a king. Now that fine, aquiline nose was pinched and cruel as an eagle’s beak; that mobile, humorous mouth had taken on the shape of petulant pride.
Gwydion turned his eyes to Math, who walked straight to the king, hand upraised. When the boy was within a few feet of the chair, Caratacus raised his hand too, so that they touched, palm to palm, and stayed in that position for the space of three. Then Math knelt before him, and at last stood at his side, turning to point towards Gwydion.
“That is my friend, Gwydion of the Belgae,” he said, so that all could hear, “Gwydion, whose father was your henchman, Caradoc; Gwydion who treated me well when I was a slave in his house.”
Caratacus smiled the length of the hall, ironically, as though he no longer trusted anyone, as though he no longer wished to be reminded of those whom he had known in that other life, before the Romans came. He said, slowly and indolently, “Yes, Gwydion! His mother will doubtless be pleased to see him again. Tell him that he may go to her later this evening, when the audience is over.”
He did not call Gwydion to him, nor did he seem to notice his existence any further, but turned towards Math and began to ask him about his hunting-trip, what quarry they had raised, what weather they had had, whether he had got as far as Mai Dun, and whether there were any pickings left there for lively riders.
Math answered him quietly, but respectfully, and was then waved to a stool set at the king’s right knee, where he sat, a puppet prince beside his powerful master.
A tall Belgic chieftain brought a horn of wine for the boy, but handed it to him in such a way that it spilled over his tartan trousers. Gwydion noticed that Math’s face did not change; he noticed also that the chieftain smiled as he did it, a smile which was reflected on the faces of the other Belgae who surrounded the throne. Gwydion sensed now that Math held his position against the wishes of the warrior chieftains who had accompanied Caratacus into exile, and in a way felt a slight twinge of sympathy for this lad, who, caught in the millstones of a country’s chaos, was forced to act as he was bidden. Indeed, Gwydion speculated, Math is still as much of a slave as he has ever been.
How long this sad farce might have dragged on, Gwydion could not tell, but suddenly he heard voices behind him, the voices of Gracchus arguing with his captors. The Roman’s voice was grave and undershot with the note of anger, though an anger which he knew well enough how to keep under control.
Caratacus looked up, from making some pleasantry with the yellow-haired spearman at his left side, and said loudly to Math, “Who are these other friends of yours, that they should think fit to break the king’s silence in the king’s hall? Are they too Belgae, dear Math?”
Now Gwydion’s heart beat fast, for the lives of his friends hung on the answer which Math should give. Both Gracchus and Gaius were clothed, Celt-fashion, in tunic and trews, and both now wore their hair long and plaited, Belgic style. Both spoke a form of Celtic, almost as a second language, for neither had known a time when there were not Celtic servants, or soldiers, or friends, in the house or in the Legion, with whom they must speak every day. Math had never inquired about them, not even once, during the ride to Siluria, and Gwydion had ventured no remarks about their true identity. He had taken it that Math considered th
em Celts with whom he had travelled from Gaul. Now, his heart beat for he waited for Math to say that these were Celtic friends of Gwydion. But Math looked them in the eye and said, “When the king demands, I answer with truth.” Caratacus whispered hoarsely and even menacingly, “That is wise, Math, for my pride would not stomach a lie; no, not from my very mother herself.”
Math’s face twisted with some emotion which Gwydion could not understand then, because of the beating of his heart; but he saw the boy rise from his stool and point towards Gracchus, and heard him say, as from a great, deathly distance, “My lord, that is the Roman centurion who came to take Gwydion away after the affair at Camulodunum. The other, the boy, I do not know, though I believe him to be a Roman also.”
Caratacus pushed Math aside, back to his stool, and held up his hand towards the guards at the door. Gwydion heard a sudden scuffle behind him, and swung round, to see Gracchus and Gaius fighting with a knot of Silurians who were trying to bind them.
Gwydion made a step towards the group when two guards ran out and pinioned his arms to his side, roughly. He kicked with all his force, but one of the men twisted his arm so viciously behind his back that he fell forward to the floor, and so did not see the end of the struggle at the door. When at last they allowed him to rise, the centurion and his son were nowhere to be seen. The hall was full of laughter and ribald comment as Gwydion stood again, a warrior on each side of him, to face the king. Caratacus regarded him, smiling, for a long while, and then said, as to Math, “This boy’s father was my trusted henchman. The son has given himself to Rome, it appears. What cure is there for such a disease, think you, Math?”
Math stood up and seemed about to kneel before the king. “Gwydion acted in a moment of hot blood, my lord,” he said. “He is tired and should be forgiven.”
Caratacus said, “Once the poison has entered the body, a man is never free of it.”
Math flung himself now before the Belgic king, but Gwydion strained forward, shouting, “Get up, Math, you fool! I will not have you abasing yourself for me. Caratacus could trust my father, and I am my father’s son. That should be good enough for him!”
At this there was a great outcry in the hall, but one chiefly of laughter from the assembled Silurians, though the Belgae about the chair looked angry, and even turned to cast threatening glances at their dark-skinned allies who leaned against the thatch walls.
Then Caratacus began to laugh too, his old laugh, the sound which Gwydion had heard him make when the mead-horn had passed freely at a feast, or when he had ridden up to their door to call for a cup of wine after a hard day’s hunting, and had listened to some dry story that Gwydion’s father had come out to tell him. Gwydion looked at the king in surprise, wondering what this sudden change might betoken. But the king’s face was open and amused. He called out the length of the hall,
‘Well said, young cock of the tribes! There spoke the true Belgic heart of you! Come here, Gwydion, son of Caswallawn and take the oath your father took! Come now, while the sun shines in my heart!”
He settled himself in his chair and held out his hands. Gwydion felt himself tom between two ideals; that of fealty to his liege-lord, and that of faithfulness to his two good Roman friends. Even as he walked forward, in confusion, however, his quick brain told him that he could best serve his Roman friends by making himself a friend of Caratacus. There was no way out, indeed. And so Gwydion at last knelt before the king and placed his hands within the king’s jewelled hands. He looked up once to see that the king’s sharp eyes were boring into his own, boring down to his heart, searching for any treachery that might be hidden there. Caratacus may have got fat and soft in his habits since his defeat, but his old shrewdness was still there, as sharp and as strong as ever, like a well-tempered sword, which, though it has lain for many months in a stream, is still a deadly weapon, despite its rust.
Gwydion looked down in misery. This was not the manner in which he had once dreamed to take the oath of service. Then the king’s voice began to say the words which the boy was to repeat after him. Gwydion heard the first phrase and was about to say them again when just outside the door a shrill horn blew, urgently, distractedly, not to be denied. Then a great shout went up from the stockade, “Pirates in the river! The Irish pirates are coming in two longboats!”
Horses began to neigh outside, and the men in the hall placed their hands upon their swords, as though to be sure that they were ready as soon as the king should command them to move.
Gwydion looked up at Caratacus; the king was staring over his head, into the distance, forgetful now of oaths and loyalty, his old warrior-flame enkindled by this sudden offer of battle.
Gwydion felt the king’s hands go slack about his, and at last drop them. The king rose and said softly, “This can wait, Gwydion! There will be other times for you to ride with me. Go to your mother, and tell her the news of your long journey.”
Then the king was striding down the hall, his long robe swaying with the steps he made, giving him the appearance of a priest, a druid, rather than a warrior-king.
Gwydion looked up to see that Math was signalling to the Silurians about the wall, ordering them to follow him. Gwydion rose, but Math waved him aside. “This is a battle which I must fight with my own folk,” he said. “Your place is in the bower, until he has taken your oath.” So the men filed out of the hall, leaving Gwydion almost alone, save for an old man who crooned in a corner of long-forgotten wars.
4. THE SILENCING OF MATH
In her bower, Gwydion’s mother had finished weeping over his safe return. She sat beside him, gazing at him as though she had never seen him before; grasping his hands as though she would never let him leave her again. Then slowly and sadly she spoke to him of the sad change that had come over Caratacus.
“He is a bitter, disappointed man, my son,” she said. “If your father were alive now, he would love the king no longer.”
And she told him of poor Math, who was little more than a doll, to dance as Caratacus willed; Math, who was the prince in his own right over Siluria, but whom Caratacus had taken as his ward, since Math had once been a slave among the Belgae.
“When Caratacus has got all he can from the boy, there will be no more Math, Gwydion,” she said. “Then Caratacus will be the undisputed king of this country. He has lost one kingdom, but has now found another.” Gwydion said, “But will not Math’s own people fight for him, mother?”
She smiled sadly and said, “Gwydion, you know little of the world’s ways, even though you have travelled to Lugdunum and back! No, these Silurians are a beaten people, beaten already in their own hearts. They are fit only for midnight raids, or for foraging in small war-bands, attacking defenceless folk on lonely farms, or in woodland glades. They are an ancient people who had never known anything but new conquerors coming, wave after wave of them, defeat after defeat. All they want is a strong master to make them do as he tells them. They are like dogs, lazy if they are left alone, dangerous if they are set on by a cruel master. Math is not their master, though some of them, his war-band, I think, still remember his old father, and have sworn to follow him. But should the occasion arise, I think that even his war-band, his comitatus, would desert him in favour of our king.”
She spoke the last words with such bitterness that Gwydion had to look hard at his mother, to make sure that it was her voice he had heard. He had never heard her speak in this manner before. Then he said, “Mother, I did not take the oath today. The king went out and left me before I could swear to him.”
The noblewoman smiled and patted his hand. “Do not let that worry you, my son,” she said. “I have a feeling that your father would not have wished you to take the oath to this man now. Rest assured, those who are his liege-men will be called on to do many things before long which their honour would not have allowed them to think of, but for their fealty. That is the curse of oath-taking—it causes a man to act against his better judgement and his honour very often.”
Gwydion had never known his mother so cynical, so practical, before. It seemed that his father’s death had changed her in many ways. He said, “The Romans are imprisoned. They were good to me.”
She nodded and replied, “They were good to me, my son. Your centurion was the means of my travelling here unmolested. Did you know that he had arranged for me to be offered a home for life, as a Roman citizen? What Celt would have done that? None! They are too busy cutting each other’s throats, my son, to bother about sad widows after a battle.”
Gwydion said, “What are we to do? We cannot leave them to rot in the prison. He may even torture them if they do not bow to his will, and I am certain that Gracchus would never bend the knee to him. “
Then Gwydion’s mother smiled, the first gay smile that had crossed her gentle face since this conversation had begun,
“They need not bow the knee to him,” she said quietly, “nor need you, if you do not wish to.”
His face was so puzzled at these words that she bent towards him and whispered, “I too have a debt to pay to these Romans. They not only offered me peace, but they gave back my son to me. I shall pay that debt as your father would have done, Romans or not. In a short while you will hear the sound of the screech-owl, repeated three times. That will be a signal, and will mean that one of my servants, an old woman who used to work in the dairy when we were all together, has done what I have ordered her to do.”