by Henry Treece
Gwydion said, “But, mother, we could prove that he was a good, true man. Surely they would listen to my testimony.” The rough, good-natured legionary who stood near the commandant’s door, on guard, heard this, and smiled at the boy. “Rome is liable to do many strange things, my friend,” he said, “but that would be the strangest!”
Gwydion was angry at the man’s tone, and almost rose to speak his mind to him; but just then the soldier placed his gnarled finger on his lips, and stood smartly to attention. The door opened and Gracchus walked out, smiling, his wrists free of manacles. Gwydion began to run towards him, then stopped in surprise, A Roman officer was following the centurion; an officer with thin, fair hair and very tired eyes; the officer to whom he had been taken that night after Camulodunum! The commandant! Gwydion looked at him with an uncertain smile, and the Roman came forward and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Well, Gwydion,” he said,” thank you for looking after this silly old soldier of mine! Without you, Rome would have lost a good pensioner!”
Gwydion said, “Not a pensioner, sir—a centurion!”
But the commandant wiped his hand across his forehead, as though he was very tired, and had read too many reports that day. He said, “No, there you are wrong, for once, my friend! Allow me to know better this time! Gracchus has served Rome well, and was almost at the end of his service. Now, in view of the information which he brings back about the disposition of the forces in Siluria, I have been able to discharge him honourably, and even to increase his pension! That is so, isn’t it, Gracchus?”
The centurion turned, his face serious. “Yes, it is, sir,” he said. “But that’s your idea, not mine. No one shall ever say that I begged my release. I am prepared to go on serving Rome till my time has been served, aye, and even longer than that, if there is a place for me in the Legion.”
The officer patted him gently on the shoulder. “Get on with you, you old fire-eater,” he said. “Won’t you ever grow up! Why, I should be only too glad if the Emperor said to me what I have just said to you! But, alas, he won’t! A hard, hard man, that Emperor of ours, Gracchus.”
Then his tone changed. He came forward and said, “Gwydion, introduce me to your mother, about whom I’ve heard such glowing words from Gracchus here.”
Gwydion said, “But aren’t you going to question us, sir?” The officer said, “There’s only one question I want to ask. It is this: how are you going to like having Gracchus for your god-father?” He stood back and smiled at the look on the lad’s face. Then Gwydion’s mother put her arm round the boy’s shoulders as she smiled at the officer. “Did that old ruffian of a centurion say that he was going to look after me?” she said.
The officer said, “That is the main reason for my giving him his discharge from the Legion, madam. We recognise our duties to Britain, you know, in spite of all the harsh things you Celts think of us!”
Now Gracchus was swaying from foot to foot, his weathered face wrinkled in a self-conscious smile. He was too shy to speak.
“Well,” said Gwydion’s mother at last, “I must say that you breed fine soldiers in Rome, sir; warriors who cannot even ask their own questions, but must hop about from one foot to the other like country youths trying to ask a maiden to ride with them to the May Fairing!”
The officer smiled, “Oh, he would have asked you himself, Madam, if we had given him time, no doubt! But time is pressing and I don’t want him to wait another six months before he can screw up his great courage to talk to you! You see, we have a good ship leaving the Abus for Southern Gaul in a week or so and, if your agreement had been arranged by that time, you would then be legally entitled to travel with him to his place of retirement, since he has volunteered to take responsibility for the upbringing of your son.”
His mother was now looking so cross that Gwydion almost became afraid. But he walked over to the centurion and took his hand. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I am not going to let this chance slip even if mother is! I proclaim you my god-father before the commandant. That makes it legal, doesn’t it?” Then Gwydion’s mother had to laugh, and so, walking beside the centurion she led the way to the tent-door, saying she was anxious to visit Gaius and to see how his wound was progressing. Then suddenly she turned as though a thought had struck her, “My folk farm among the Atrebates in Gaul,” she said. “How would it suit you, centurion, to share our home and settle down there!”
Gracchus smiled, but gravely, for this was a new development in the situation, and one which had to be treated with care, in view of the sensitivity with which most Celts regarded the question of hospitality.
“That sounds well,” he said. “But before we settle on anything, I would like you to inspect that little place I have in Lugdunum. That is, if the commandant can arrange for Rome to turn it back to me!”
But this time the commandant seemed to be in no mood to appreciate jests. He looked up from his maps and orders of the day, his thin smile frozen on his weary face. He surveyed Gracchus tiredly for a moment, as was his habit when confronted by senior non-commissioned officers who overstepped the mark, but could not be punished like ordinary legionaries. Then he looked away, seeming to find an interest in a tall glass wine-flask that stood, empty and forlorn in a comer of the tent, the receptacle only of flowers that some thoughtful slave had brought in from the woods above the camp that morning to please the great one. It was a very ordinary flask, not at all beautiful. In fact, they were thrown overboard by dozens when Roman ships docked at any of the ports along the eastern shore—often because they formed part of a cargo that the military had contracted to carry to Britain, but which had somehow become depleted on the way across. An ordinary flask. Yet he seemed to like looking at it. Then, when Gracchus was already beginning to feel like a very small boy, beginning to feel the confidence oozing out of his palms and his boot-soles, the commanding officer spoke. His voice was now cold and official.
“That will be a matter of form, centurion,” he said. “You must not bother me with trifles. It is your right, and consequently Rome will respect it.”
Gracchus saluted. “I should not have said that, I know, sir,” he said, “but sometimes, as one knocks about the world, one meets so much duplicity, so much double-dealing, that one becomes over-cautious.”
The officer raised a tired head from his documents and allowed his lips to smile at the soldier, but it was not a smile that most men would be glad to see.
“Yes, my friend,” he said, “but we are speaking of Rome now; and when it comes to Rome, one is always sure. Don’t you agree, centurion?”
Gracchus clicked his heels together as smartly as he could on the grass of the tent-floor.
“Of course, sir,” he said. “Of course!”
But all the same, he was glad to have the officer’s word for it; and glad, too, to be outside that tent again, for Gracchus was a soldier through and through, and like all other soldiers he knew that though military law was a fine thing, a splendid thing, a most glorious thing, it could also turn out to be a very dangerous thing—especially when dispensed by tired, and rather over-worked officers!
Outside the tent, Gwydion’s mother smiled at him, and he knew just what she was thinking. He did not dare to meet her eyes for a moment. Then suddenly, as though forcing herself to a decision which must be spoken quickly if it were to be spoken at all, she said, “Our gods are different, friend; our way of life is different, and I, like you, am too old now to learn new ways. But it runs in my mind that I have seen the best of the old dispensation and that it will never be so good again among my people. I would want my son to know an ordered world, where men know the law and obey it and where blood is not spilled in waste. I cannot come with you to Lugdunum, Gracchus, but I would want you to take my son. Take Gwydion and teach him your ways. Make him into a Roman, if you choose, but one like yourself, centurion. Then I shall be proud of him, as I am certain his father would have been proud of him. Yes, you will make him a fine man, centurion, a
lbeit a Roman!”
Gracchus mumbled in embarrassment and even put out his big spear-calloused hand to touch her arm in sympathy; but already, overcome by her own feelings, she had moved swiftly away among the tents and was gone.
Gracchus stared after her, “Yes, you shall live to be proud of him, madam,” he said almost vehemently, “or may men spit on me in the streets as I pass. But I’ll never make him fight for Rome, I promise you, unless he chooses to of his own free will!”
Then, as though suddenly ashamed of talking to himself in this manner in the darkness, he turned smartly, as a soldier should, and marched back to his billet.
4. MATH COMES AGAIN
Only one other occasion of note happened before the party boarded the wagon that would take them across Britain to the Abus. The night before they left, Gwydion was playing dice with Gaius in the tent of the young doctor, when a guard came to the tent-flap and said, “Master Gwydion, there’s a visitor to see you.”
Gwydion said, “A visitor? Who can that be? Where is he?” The soldier said, “He is outside the palisade, we couldn’t let him in without permission. He’s a black-haired fellow, of about your own age. Wears feathers in his helmet, he does, and coloured trews. I should say he’s a chieftain of sorts among the southern folk. He wouldn’t give his name. He just ordered me to fetch you out to him. Cheek, I call it!”
Gaius said, “That is Math. He wishes to make friends again, Gwydion,”
Gwydion considered for a moment and then said, “What if he wishes to trap me; to entice me outside and then take his revenge for the indignity I have done him? One sudden thrust in the dark, and he would have his revenge.”
Gaius said, “Get the soldier to arrest him, then we shall know.”
But Gwydion only said, “No, let him go free, back to his own folk. The day when I wanted his friendship is past.”
The soldier nodded and went out, to send Math away from the Roman camp, and Gwydion and Gaius went on with their game again. Now they had their own life before them, a new life and a fine life. They were contented with what fate had brought them. Nor did they once spare a thought for Math. They did not see the look which passed over his face when the guard ordered him roughly to be gone. They did not see the dejection which his sagging body spoke as he climbed slowly into his saddle. Nor did they see the direction in which he rode, his head bent forward on his chest, his hands hanging loosely at his sides, as his horse took which way it willed, finally setting its head towards those dark woods which covered the sullen face of the land.
EPILOGUE - A.D. 51
THE BRIDGE AT LUGDUNUM
IN the long slanting rays of the late afternoon sun, two young men stood on the bridge at Lugdunum, lounging on the stone parapet and looking at each other, and laughing again and again, as though their lives had suddenly become very happy. One was a tall, fair-haired man with blue eyes, dressed in the fashion of a prosperous farmer of the area, his long hair plaited and braided, a well-worn but sound leathern tunic about his upper body, a bronze-studded belt about his waist, his long legs covered by dark green frieze trews, cross-gartered with strips of yellow hide. On his feet were strong caligulae, thick-soled and bound with heavy nails, to which the red-brown soil still clung. His companion was shorter, but broader in the shoulder, dark-haired and deeply tanned by the weather. This man was dressed in the uniform of a decurion of the Legions, his breastplate well-burnished, the knot of coloured ribbons at his shoulder, just above the loricae, fluttering in the early evening breeze. His long dress-boots were laced along the shin with silver wires, and were well polished in contrast to those of his friend. He held his round steel helmet under his left arm, and often gestured with his other hand, to emphasise a point he was making. He seemed confident and definite in everything he said; while his companion was a little more serious, perhaps more hesitant, and perhaps more deep-thinking.
They turned for a moment and looked over the balustrade of the bridge, down towards the broad stream. The Roman pointed down to the river bank and the other followed his gaze. Then they both began to laugh again.
“You gave them more than they expected that day, brother,” said Gaius, smiling at his fair-haired companion. Gwydion nodded and pursed his lips as though he were remembering a time long past. The Roman dug him in the ribs playfully and said, “And you could give most of us a good fight now, by the feel of the muscle in your back! Farming seems to suit you, otherwise I’d try to persuade you to join me in the Legion again! But I know that would be hopeless!”
Gwydion said, “I have had enough of fighting just for the sake of it! My folk were always farmers at heart, and I am happy now, looking after father’s acres and herds. Besides, the old man needs someone to keep an eye on him while you are away. He’s still just a boy at heart!”
Gaius laughed again. “He could still give us more than we bargained for, if we forgot our manners! He will never forget that he was a centurion once, and that I am only a decurion. Sometimes he speaks to me as though he was still in camp, giving out his orders for the next day’s routine!”
Gwydion said, ‘‘Well, my mother’s just the same! She can never forget that she ran the farm at Camulodunum! I get up to Northern Gaul about three times a year, when the wagons run, and present a report of my doings to her. And woe betide me if I seem a little late with the milking, or if I haven’t got the corn-seed in at the right time! She still looks after the dairy up there, and if anyone as much as puts his nose round the door, she skelps him out with a wooden ladle! Yes, they run all right! There’s no nonsense about it when she makes an attack! ‘If I could handle a centurion, ’ she says, ‘a real Roman centurion, none of your native officers, I can handle you! ’ And believe me, Gaius, I’ve seen warriors run when she goes for them! Men who would stand up without body-armour and face a chariot sweep!”
They laughed again, and then Gaius said, “Shall we borrow a boat from someone and row down the river while the sun still lasts?”
Gwydion said, “No, it is better here. We have much to say to each other before they send you back to Britain, and we can talk better on the bridge than in a boat.”
The other smiled and said, “Perhaps you are right. If we were ever in a boat again, I should remember that old tub which carried us from Armorica to Vectis, and I should feel sorry about that poor Roman officer, who was only doing his duty when they sank him with the boulder.”
Gwydion said, “I wonder whether Gryf ever got that paper? I sent a wagon-man with it, but never heard whether he got it in the end.”
The Roman said, “I don’t suppose he worries, really. He is probably too occupied with that young son of his, teaching him how to be a pirate, like his father! Gryf was a rogue, and no mistake, but the sort of rogue who will make a good citizen one day! Rome needs a few rogues in it to counteract the stupid statesmen who always seem to undo the good work that the soldiers do!”
A dark cloud seemed to settle for a moment over Gwydion’s red face. “I hope that the statesmen don’t undo the good work which you and your men have just finished, anyway,” he said gravely.
Gaius said, “You mean Caratacus?”
The other nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Now that Rome has finally broken that man’s pride and we have him prisoner and in Gaul, let us hope that the Emperor Claudius will treat him as he deserves, for all the suffering he has caused. Let us hope that Caratacus is never allowed to raise the tribes again, disturbing men’s lives and putting innocent ones to the sword. How can men work and till the land and harvest their crops if such madmen as Caratacus are allowed to carry on their ambitious ways unchecked?”
Gaius took his step-brother by the shoulders and looked into his face humorously. “Why, old Gwydion,” he said, “you are quite the solid Roman farmer these days! You have altered in five years, while I’ve been away in Britain. I never thought to hear you say things like that!”
Gwydion said, “Well, you may laugh, brother, but in the fields, under the blue skies of Heaven, I
have had many opportunities of thinking about life. And I have come to the conclusion that life isn’t given to us just so that we can exert our strength on other men and turn their lives inside-out for our own advantage…. It takes us a long time to see sense, doesn’t it, Gaius?”
The Roman nodded, a little sadly it seemed, as though he were being forced to admit to a thought which he had always held back from uttering. He said haltingly, “Men have to travel many miles, and suffer many pains, before they see reason, very often. You have had to become a farmer, and I a soldier, to see it. But the only thing that matters is that… we have learned our lessons. Now we are a true family and a happy one; and one day, when I have finished my service, I shall come back here and shall join you on this good red earth, and help you to cut the corn and raise the beasts!” Gwydion said, “I’m not so sure about that! You’ll be more handy with a javelin than a scythe! You can’t cut corn with a short sword, you know, friend! You can’t milk cows with your helmet on! The beast wouldn’t take kindly to that!”
Gaius replied, “Don’t sneer at me, young brother! You’d look well marching with the Legion in your smock, with your milk-pail in your hand! Yes, come to think of it, I’d love to have you on the parade ground, presenting arms with your shepherd’s crook!”
Gwydion pretended to be cross, and although he knew that it was against the law for any civilian to molest a Roman soldier, he took Gaius ’ arm suddenly and began to twist it behind his back, playfully. Gaius dropped his helmet, and swung round to take hold of his step-brother. “All right, young Gwydion,” he said, laughing, “I’ll do what I didn’t do before—I’ll give you a ducking myself, this time!”