by Henry Treece
But even as he grasped the Celt about the waist, there was a sudden clattering of horses’ hooves, and a party of auxiliaries cantered from a side road into the principal avenue.
Gaius stopped wrestling immediately and stooped towards his helmet. He put it on straight and stood erect on the pavement, so that no Roman soldier, barbarian or not, should see him behaving in a manner unfitting for an officer, Gwydion saw the expression of gravity come over his face, and gave a small giggle, which almost made Gaius burst out laughing again.
Then the auxiliaries drew nearer. “These are new ones, from Britain, I think,” whispered Gaius, staring at them coldly as befitted a decurion with five years’ service behind him, who expected a salute from this band of rough cavalry.
Then Gwydion drew in his breath with surprise. The leader of the party, a tall, eagle-faced man, wearing a bunch of heron feathers at the point of his leathern helmet, carried a little dog before him on the saddle, half-wrapped in the long regulation Roman blue riding-cloak.
“Why,” said Gwydion, “that is a little dog almost the image of Bel, my Bel, the one I lost so long ago.”
The band of horsemen were now almost level with the two on the bridge. The leader called out harshly in Celtic and the riders half-turned and raised their right hands, palm upwards, towards the unsmiling decurion, who gravely returned their salute. Gwydion stared at their young leader, whose dark eyes pierced him through and through. He noted the long face, the swarthy skin, the thin and faintly smiling mouth, the long black hair knotted below the helmet.
The resemblance to Math was extraordinary, but it was not he. This man had a fine arrogance which Math lacked, even at the height of his power.
Suddenly the leader stopped and called his men to a halt with an imperious wave of the hand. They stood still in the avenue while their leader rode forward towards the balustrade of the bridge. He looked down at Gaius, his dark eyes mocking, but his mouth unsmiling. “Have I your permission to speak with this civilian, decurion?” he asked, his dark and jewelled hand caressing the head of the little dog that lay across his broad sheepskin saddle.
Gaius said, “I have no objection, trooper, if the citizen wishes to speak with you, that is.”
The horseman half-bowed with mock-gravity and respect. Then he leaped lightly from the saddle and put the small dog into Gwydion’s hands.
“I journey far, my friend,” he said, “on Rome’s business; but not so fast that I do not recognise a fellow-countryman and, what is more, a man who loves a dog even as I do.”
He made a stiff military bow. “Take the dog, comrade,” he said, “and keep him well, as your own, for where I go there will be little time to think of dogs.”
Gwydion held the dog, looking down into its dark brown eyes and recalling Bel as he used to be, leaping and running in the woods, barking in the sunlight for the joy of being alive, of being with his master. He looked back at the young horseman, feeling the tears already gathering in his own eyes. “Friend,” he said, “ride on your way to what glory you shall find, and ride with a quiet mind for this is the sort of dog I have dreamed about. It is an omen to me.”
Then, on a sudden impulse, Gwydion handed the dog to Gaius, for he wished to embrace this Briton who had been
so generous. Although the decurion was a little nonplussed at being forced to act the nursemaid before this troop of smiling foreign horsemen, who enjoyed seeing a stern-faced officer behaving like a human being for once, he was won over immediately when the dog began to lick his face, for, though he would never have admitted it, he had felt a little out of things when the two Celts got together so easily. Now the little dog was restoring the balance and showing that a Roman was as good a master as anyone else!
Just then the Celtic cavalryman turned and seeing the Roman petting the dog said, “It is good to know that one has a friend in this uncertain world—especially when that friend is one so eminent as a decurion!”
Gaius sensed the irony of the man’s remark. He began to frown a little, just to show the man that he could not expect preferential treatment. Then his good-humour returned and he said, “Don’t be so sure of that, trooper. If you are ever late for parade while you are stationed in Lugdunum, I shall make it my special business to see that you get extra punishment! Moreover, I shall see that your rations are forthwith reduced and your pay stopped completely!”
The young Celt threw back his head and laughed at this, with an equal, good-tempered sarcasm. “That would at least be a recognition on the part of Rome that I was entitled to rations and pay! And to tell the truth, decurion, I’ve hardly seen either since I took service under the Eagles!”
Gaius said, “Perhaps the paymaster doesn’t think you should have any until he is sure that you are worth it! We Romans have to be very careful with you savages, my friend!”
The horseman grinned and said, “Well, I don’t blame you! But we shall live down our bad record, and one day, mark my words, we shall send Britons to sit in the Senate in Rome, like any other citizens!” He bent his head closer to Gaius and said almost confidentially, “And, a jest for a jest, there could come a time when your Emperor himself might be chosen from my own people! Such things are not unknown!”
Gaius smiled grimly and retorted, “You try putting yourself up for election, my lad, and see what you’ll get! Ten years confined to barracks, if I have my way!”
The horsemen had gradually clustered round the group on the bridge now, and laughed to hear the Roman officer teasing their proud young leader. But Gaius turned towards them and immediately their faces froze and their lips lost their smiles. They pulled their horses out on to the broad road again and sat motionless, like statues.
Gaius smiled. “You have a well-drilled troop of horse here, my friend,” he said.
The young Celt shrugged his shoulders. “Decurion,” he said a little wearily, “I have had a troop of my own since I stood as high as your belt, and I dare say that what I don’t know about controlling cavalry isn’t in your Roman handbook!” He grinned at Gaius as he spoke, but the Roman, who usually discounted Gallic bravado, was prepared to take his words seriously.
“I think you are right, too,” he admitted. “You are probably wasted with this band of cut-throats! You must cultivate a little ambition, young man, and aspire to become a sergeant of horse, one day. Say the word, and though it runs against my conscience, I will speak up for you to the captain tomorrow. You would look well at the head of a whole company.”
But the Celt only grinned and waved the suggestion aside. “Sir,” he said softly, “I who was once a lord in Britain could not hope to become a real Roman sergeant! No, I know my place, decurion!”
Gaius flushed at this, for it seemed to him that Rome was being made the jest of these barbarians. Gwydion too sensed the change in his friend’s heart. He turned swiftly to the Celt and said, “Yes, and your place is not here, on the bridge, with the cruel night wind coming up the river. Your place is at my father’s table, drinking a cup of mead and sampling our ham and fresh bread. Can you not send your horsemen on to barracks and come back with us to supper. We are starved of news from Britain. Can he, decurion?”
Gaius said, “It is against the rules.” The soldier nodded, as though he knew that this would be the inevitable answer.
“But,” went on Gaius with a sly smile, “if I were to march them in, that would be in order.”
The horseman grinned cheekily. “I should enjoy it more if you rode at their head, sir,” he said. “You would make a fine sight, heading this column of men, most of whom have hardly walked a step in their lives!”
But Gaius gave as good as he got. “Don’t worry, my friend,” he said. “It is they who would make the fine sight, for I should dismount them and march them in, as I said! They shall learn a little Roman discipline whenever I take them in charge.”
For the first time the Celt’s eyes widened in genuine concern. “But, sir,” he said, “that is something that not even Rome can do—make a British cavalryma
n march! It is unheard of! They would mutiny rather than that!”
Gaius pretended to consider for a while. “Perhaps you are right, trooper,” he said. “We can’t have the British auxiliaries upset on their first night in Lugdunum, can we! Very well, they shall ride, and we’ll all go with them! Then when I have spoken to your officer, we shall go back to the farm and celebrate our new friendship. Will that do, do you think?”
But without waiting for an answer, he turned towards the troop of horsemen, who were beginning to smile again, and putting on his parade-ground voice, bawled, “Why, you undisciplined welter of unprincipled cut-throats, who do you think yon are, simpering your stupid heads off in Lugdunum? Have you no respect for Rome? Have you no respect for the Emperor’s uniform? Do you want me to flog the lot of you before lights-out? Do you, then? Who will give me an answer, eh?”
But they had seen the look on their own lord’s face and now they sat on their sheepskin saddles, almost lolling back, their long legs dangling at their horses’ sides. They saw that their lord was already arm-in-arm with the fair-haired farmer who spoke Celtic, and they were unperturbed. They knew that this decurion was only trying to scare them! But they were men who had seen Romans before, many times, and in bloody battle. They knew that this one was their friend, despite his blustering voice. They grinned back at him and began to cheer.
There was nothing for it. Gaius had to laugh too. “Come on,” he said, “or this lot will get me into trouble!” Then he gave the order and they all began to move across the bridge. And as they went the little dog frisked round the heels of the stem-faced soldier, and the last rays of the Gallic sun fell across the broad river, turning its blue currents to a rich red gold. Tomorrow, it seemed, would be a good day.
APPENDIX 1
APPENDIX 2