The Microcosm

by Maureen Duffy

  ‘Who? The Etruscans? That’s just what we don’t know of course. It’s exactly in the fields of thought, beliefs and feelings that we’ve made the least progress in archeology because they don’t leave much visible trace and what there is we don’t know how to interpret yet. There ought to be some means of comparison based on a semi-statistical approach such as Ventris used in deciphering linear B but it’s so much more difficult to do and overflows into other things like anthropology and ethnology. It would need someone with a terrific breadth of knowledge to lay the bones of such a system.’

  ‘Is it really worth doing?’ Stag raised her glass. ‘Cheers everybody. I mean does anyone care?’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose they do but they’ll have to learn to care. We can’t go muddling on as we have done, in the areas of know ledge that deal with the human mind I mean. The more we can find out about how it evolved the more we shall understand about its present condition. You know, we’ve pushed material progress so far that in America anyway they’re talking about the day when machines and the passive witnesses who sit and watch them will take over almost all the everyday jobs humanity wastes so much time doing. When that happens we have to be ready for a tremendous liberation of mental energy that will have to be employed some way if it isn’t going to sink into apathy or turn in upon itself or even frenetically extrovert in some hellish science fiction fantastic, except that it isn’t fantastic any longer but just around the familiar corner ahead. You see we go on as if all the simple theories that we think applied to primitive man can still apply to us and we can kid ourselves with this because we don’t really have any idea what he did think. We’re just about as deluded as the people who swooned over the noble savage idea in the eighteenth century. We imagine a society in which men were men and women were women and never the twain did except for one thing; you know all those caveman jokes about his dragging her off by the hair and she loved every second of it. That was healthy and natural and that’s about as far as popular ideas about one of our most fundamental problems go. As far as anything to do with psychology most of us are still living in the dark ages. Our grasp of modern developments, inferiority complex and terms like that, is a not very subtle version of the theory of the four humours.’

  ‘You’ll find education a long and difficult process. Do you honestly believe that people are capable of assimilating ideas like you’re suggesting because I don’t. Even among the people with an education, my residents and their relatives for instance, I don’t suppose there’s a ha’pporth of understanding of our kind of problem and I certainly shouldn’t like to put it to the test to find out. I’m quite sure I’d find myself with four very empty hotels in a very short time. I’m curious to know though whether you think things have ever been any different for people like you and I.’

  ‘That’s very difficult. I think there have always been outstanding women, mostly rich of course because we don’t hear so much about the others. I mean if you were a queen in your own right you could do a great deal without anyone batting an eyelid and some societies were quite used to being commanded by women without anyone thinking they were stepping out of line except perhaps the enemy. Imagine us with a woman sealord or a general. We’re just beginning to creep into politics. Take someone like Boadicea with a dead husband and two children. I think one of the things that really caused her to raise a rebellion was the fact that the Romans had treated her as a woman rather than a queen and she simply wasn’t used to it. Raping her daughters and whipping her like a slave showed exactly what they thought was the position of women. But here was a presumably more barbarous backward nation who didn’t think in this way.’ He took a sip of wine, looked round at them and wondered whether he had them, whether they would listen. Seeing their faces a little flushed now, receptive with the good food and drink he decided to risk it. After all what was a feast without a story. He sipped again leant forward and began …

  Then the queen spoke; shook out her bright spear before all the hosting; long tresses in the firelight as beech drops its leaves in fall, burnished copper from the smith’s hoard hidden in the dark earth. Strong her voice in the ears of the princes, snarl of the wounded she-bear, said What shall we gain now by stillness under oppression? The harsher shall be our burdens as we bear them with patience. In the days of our fathers one king ruled his people. Now two are set over us: the governor to let flow the streams of our life blood, the procurator to leach us of our lands and goods. And all is the same for us the downfallen if they strive with each other or ally against us. The centurions of one and the slaves of the other heap injury on insult. Nothing is safe from their greed and their lust. See now my bruised body striped by their rods.

  In battle the spoils are won by the bravest. Spear, shield and sword go to their master but our homes are torn from us by cowards grown soft with rich living, in the name of the Emperor. Sold into slavery or ravished our children; the warriors conscripted to fight for the enemy and only our own land are we unwilling to die for.

  Let us look at these conquerors who have trampled us under. They are only a handful compared with this hosting. Others across the sea saw this and cast off the yoke with only the narrow waters of the river between. We have the wide sea, grey gull’s road. We shall fight for our country, our wives and our parents while they fight but for greed and soft living. Now while our gods keep the governor in exile on Mona we take counsel together. Let us carry our spearshafts forward against them, not fearing the outcome. Bold be our warring. My stripes be your banner.

  So said the dread war queen, towering before them. Like a goddess her stature in the flicker of torches. Heavy the twisted gold at her throat and the folds of her mantle; her tunic many coloured as the sky at sunset when nightfall stains the blue with purple. Proudly the warrior rides forth to follow her from among all the kingdoms. Lifted up spears with a great shout, set forth to reclaim their own.

  Then fared they South past fenland and forest through the land of the Iceni. Forts fell before them; word was carried to the enemy. High in her chariot rode the queen. All men obeyed her. Brave warriors she chose before the people; sent them forth secretly to lie in ambush; hold the way of rescue. Princes of the Trinovantes were her cupbearers till they came to Camelodunum.

  Now they halt before the city, dwelling of the haughty, hated of the nations; the ancient seat of kings made a reward for the slayers of brave men. Fallen their Victory in the market place. In the wide waters of the estuary the colony is seen to burn in blood. Women run crying in the streets, Doom is upon us. The ebb tide leaves the prints of corpses in the sand.

  Defenceless it lies before them without rampart or palisade and only the temple of their gods to serve as stronghold. There they make their stand; a hated handful against the hosting. Fire took the city. It burnt in blood. Strongly they fought with flame on every hand. For two days and nights they strove, backs to the wall. Many were the deeds of valour, lasting the glory.

  On the third day the queen shook forth her spear, said, Now let it fall. Like a rampart of sand at the sweep of the sword wave it crumpled before us; the walls of the temple like a rock taken by the tide. None were left living. There died two hundred soldiers sent to assist them; the priests of the temple in their greed and rich robes. Of all who had betrayed us, Roman and Briton, not one escaped; women who had lain in the laps of the conquerors, children of treachery.

  The queen said, Let the city be built again on the site of our fathers below the hill where the ways meet. We are not Romans to live in fear on the hilltop. She drew with her spear the line of the earthworks. Ditch and rampart they dug where the kings had known them below the ashes of the enemy city. Men may see them still.

  Word came to Lindum where the soldiers sat at meat. Our triumph was told to the legate. Then he answered, Let us set forth at once and chastise these rebels in the midst of their boasting. They went forth in their thousands with trumpets before them, both horse and foot. Great was the noise of their going; sad their returning.r />
  Like the grey mists of the morning we rose from the marshes as she had directed the wise one who sent us. Useless their horses and the weight of their armour. Breastplate and helmet fought on our side; bore them down beneath us. The hands of the marsh spirits drew down their heels. Only the horsemen escaped from that slaughter; fled from our long swords following their leader. We rose up as many as reeds in the river and cut them down like rushes the women gather to trample under the feet of warriors. Two thousand were slain.

  The queen spoke, said, The way is open. She rode before us to Londinium, her mantle streaming in the wind of her passing like banners of the sunset. As we went the nations threw off the yoke of the conqueror; left the fields unsown to join us in our triumph. Fear took the procurator, hated of the people. He fled overseas.

  The governor rode to Londinium fresh from the slaughter, the massacre of our priests on Mona. Far in the West he heard of our victory. Bitter was his triumph. Threading the valleys at the head of his men where all faces turned towards him were hostile, came to the city before us. There met him the merchants and tax-gatherers, hated of the nations, entreated him with tears to defend them, knowing they were come to judgement. Steadfastly he turned from them, rode out again northwards, taking all who would follow him.

  We camped before the city; our fires thick as stars on the hillsides. Then said the queen in council, Now there is no returning. The general has fled from our swords. She the wise one saw all. I dedicate the city to Andrasta our lady of the dark groves. We are not Romans to barter for prisoners or search for riches among the fallen. All shall be sacrificed to the goddess that she may give us victory and new life after.

  A great shout rose as we went forward in the morning. To Andrasta. There was no wall to hinder us. The dark goddess received them. No man stayed for booty. Their bodies were hung up in the sacred groves. None was left alive, and in the evening we feasted.

  Yet as the bards sang of the victory a shadow fell upon the queen; sat silent amid the feasting. Her eyes looked on the future. She rose from the table, the mead cup untasted. No man dared to follow her. Tall before the warriors she went forth.

  In the morning we left the city still smoking, marched northward to Verulamium, following their legions. This too we burned. There was no turning back now. All things Roman had grown hateful to us. We would make the land anew. Wherever she went in her chariot at the head of the host she drew all men after her as it had been the great goddess herself. Said, Let us show them they are hares and foxes who would rule over dogs and wolves. Even their emperor fears our power. Let us hunt them down; force him to leave our shores forever, flee like Julius; surrender the lands to those they belong to. So the host rolled still northwards by nations together, wives and children also in the waggons to see the end of the tyrants. Yet many were hungry and cried to the mothers who had nothing to give them. Wherever we came the granaries were burned, sweet smell of baking but no bread for our bellies; cattle driven off and the animals of the forest fled at our approach. No meat in our wallets or mead for our throats; only streams as we crossed gave water for our thirst. Yet we sang as we marched the songs of our triumph and the tales of our forefathers, north along the old ways, over the ridges into the lands of the Coritani, where the forests gathered about us and the winds moaned among the branches at night. He, the enemy, the cunning one drew us as Eloquence draws men after him on chains of gold. There at last we caught up with him on ground of his own choosing and there the battle was joined.

  The queen spoke, shook forth her spear before all the army, rode before the nations in her swift battle chariot whose wheels flashed blades of sunlight, her daughters riding up with her, the sun bright on breastplate and hair, burnished as the smith’s hoard, said to each of them, Often of old queens have led you to battle but I fight not as your queen descended from mighty forefathers, eager to avenge my stolen riches and kingdom. I fight as the least of you for my lost freedom, my bruised body striped by their rods, my daughters broken to the lusts of the Romans whose greed no longer spares either old or young. The high gods shall give us vengeance upon them. Those who opposed us we slew in their pride. The rest lie skulking behind the walls of their forts not daring to face the thunder of our thousands, stand to our charge or meet us face to face. We have come forth in our numbers thick as stars upon the night sky and now there is no returning. This day brings either Victory or death. That is my resolve taken as a woman. Let the men live to be slaves if they choose.

  The enemy stood before us. Their backs were to the forest; upon a hilltop with the plain before them. The warriors of the nations were like sand upon the shore. Their women fought beside them or watched with their children where the waggons were drawn up behind us. So we came on crying for victory as the hounds bay the boar. At bay he stood waiting our coming as we rushed the long slope; held back his javelins until he felt our breath. Bellicicus stood forth, challenged their warriors. A spear took him. None among them was brave enough to meet us sword to sword.

  At the word of their leader they let fly their javelins. Like hawks they hovered and plunged to the kill. Useless our shields heavy with their weight. We cast them from us. They let fly again, birds of ill omen. Many a warrior fell beneath them. The lashes of the women were wet with their tears.

  Then as one man they moved, drove through our ranks as the boar through the hunters, dividing us from each other; turned again to rend us. The wings of the enemy beat down from the hillside, fell upon our flanks. Seeing our agony the war queen led forth the chariots. Again and again she rode to our rescue. Yet we could not prevail. They fought not as warriors fight when brave man stands to brave man, when long swords clang together before all the nations but as cowards cling together, safe behind a shield wall, stabbing with the short sword as wolves hunt in packs.

  All day the battle swayed this way and that. Many were the deeds of arms; many the warriors won lasting glory. Weary in the evening they closed in upon us, cavalry and shield wall. Their bowmen loosed deadly rain of arrows, kept off the dread queen, the succour of chariots. Our backs were to the waggons when they made an end of us; slaughtered women and children and the beasts in their harness. Only the fortunate fled from that field.

  Shattered the hope of the Britons. Vanquished her warriors crept home by hidden ways through a land weeping to the kingdom of the Iceni; waited the coming of the conqueror, doom that should fall.

  The queen spoke for the last time, said, Come now my daughters. Let us not grace a Roman triumph to be dragged through the streets at the scorn of slaves. Our bodies they have already broken but our spirit never: As I spoke before the battle let the men live in slavery. The gods withheld victory but not honour. We are no less than Romans; it is easy to die. I am heavy for my people. I see the time coming when they must pay for their boldness in fire and in blood. Let us go forth together without fear and without shame.

  So spoke the war queen, last of her line. Drained to its grim dregs the goblet of death. Weary lay down, her long spear beside her; sad for her people sighed out her soul.

  Many days the Iceni mourned for her going. Wept for the dread queen; warriors kept watch by her. Then in her chariot they carried her far, bore her secretly no man knows whither. Laid her in the earth, wrapped in her mantle; her spear beside her, twisted gold at her throat. Last of her house took with her the royal treasure; her chariot also. Went before her people. Broken the goblet, shattered the spearshaft.

  The Romans came seeking her with sword and fire. Punished the people for their silence; laid waste all the country from Durobrivae to the sea. A long and terrible winter. Hunger walked among us because of the grain unsown, the ears unharvested. There was no mercy for those who surrendered. A proud, harsh man he, the governor took vengeance as the queen had foretold it. Yet we resisted through the lean months and in the Spring driven North to a bleak shore fell upon his ships as they lay upon the beach. The gods drew back the waters, delivered them to us with all their men. The smoke of their bu
rning was good in our nostrils.

  Waste the land, broken her people. The sword grows rusty hidden in the earth. Romans rule over us. They offer us slavery and call it peace. Limbs grow bent and weak under the yoke. Old age comes upon us. We are weary for death. New governors succeed and plant their cities amongst us. Our children learn new ways. As for the dread queen, last of her line, no man can say where she lies buried, hidden from the sight of the enemy. Crumbled the chariot, tarnished the breastplate once bright as the smith’s hoard. Leader of princes gone from her people; last of her line …

  ‘That’s fine, fine,’ Stag said, ‘but what does it mean?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all if you don’t want it to, can’t see it I mean.’ Matt leaned back in his chair, a feeling of palpable depression centring between his eyes. Somewhere along the line he had lost them. Recreate the whole thing for them and they still can’t see, hear only the top layer of the story with the surface of the mind.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Rae said, ‘but I think …’ She was used to him, used to his way of thinking. Irene too looked as if she might have understood. Perhaps it was only Stag. ‘I think the point is,’ Rae went on, ‘that there was a woman doing all these things and being completely accepted for it. In a sense she became Andrasta for them and yet she never stopped being a woman and probably was more successful than a man would have been. Like Queen Elizabeth I. She was another one who used all the undertones of being a woman to sway people.’

  ‘Why isn’t it possible now?’ Irene drew a diminishing spiral on the table cloth with her butter knife. ‘It’s partly Christianity isn’t it? St. Paul always upset me at school I remember. He made me feel as if the original sin was to be born a woman and there was no absolution for that one. Didn’t the Gnostics say that women would become men before they could inherit the kingdom? That was supposed to be one of Christ’s sayings wasn’t it?’