by Mika Waltari
Vespasian put his great fist on my shoulder and said gently, “You are still young, so I’ll forgive your touchiness. Perhaps you’d better come with me on a tour of inspection to Colchester, the veteran town. Then I’ll give you a cohort for a few months, so that as a prefect you can have all the formal military training you need. Your British blood brothers will only respect you more when you go back to them in the spring. Then in the autumn you can rewrite your book.”
In this way I received my rank of tribune in the same year, although I was only eighteen. This appealed to my vanity and I did my best to show myself worthy of the responsibility, although active service in winter was confined to garrison inspection, building work and practice marches. Somewhat later I received from my father a considerable sum of money and the following letter:
Marcus Mezentius Manilianus greets his son Minutus Lausus. You will have heard by now of the changes that have taken place in Rome. In order to reward more fully my wife Tullia for her services in exposing the conspiracy, rather than my own services, Emperor Claudius has bestowed on me the privilege of wearing the broad purple band. I have now a seat in the Curia. Behave accordingly. I am sending you a money order to London. Here it is said that the Britons have made Claudius a god and raised a temple with a turf roof in his honor. You would be wise to take a suitable votive gift to the temple. Aunt Laelia is well, as far as I know. Your freedman, Minutius, lives with her at the moment, making and selling a Gallic soap. My wife Tullia sends her greetings. Drink to my memory from your mother’s goblet.
So my father was a senator, something I could never have imagined. I was no longer surprised that Vespasian had been in such a hurry to promote me to tribune. What had happened in Rome had reached him more quickly than it had me. I felt bitter and my respect for the Senate lessened considerably.
Following my father’s advice, I went to the wooden temple the Britons had built in Colchester in honor of Claudius and presented a brightly painted wooden carving as a votive gift. I dared not give anything more valuable as the Britons’ own gifts were worthless articles-shields, weapons, cloths and clay jars. Vespasian had given nothing but a broken sword so as not to offend the British kings with a too valuable gift. At least, that is what he told me.
As the summer came in, I gladly shed my insignia of rank and Roman armor, painted blue stripes on my cheeks and threw the colored cloak of honor of the Brigantes over my shoulders. Vespasian pretended that he could not possibly let the son of a Roman senator loose to be murdered by savage Britons in the forests, but he knew perfectly well that under the protection of the Druids, I was safer traveling in all the countries of the Britons than I would be at home in the streets of Rome.
Recklessly, I promised I would be responsible for myself and my upkeep. Out of vanity, I should have liked to have taken my own horse to prance in front of the noble British youths, but Vespasian decisively refused to allow me to and praised, as usual, the staying power of mules in British terrain. He had had a horse dealer crucified for trying to smuggle a shipload of horses in from Gaul, to sell at high prices to the Britons. My stallion, he said, would be much too great a temptation to them. They had been trying in vain to breed up their own small horses after experiencing the superiority of the Roman cavalry over war chariots.
So I had to content myself with buying suitable gifts for my hosts. First I loaded my mules with jars of wine, for the British nobles were if possible even more given to wine than the legionaries. That summer I spent the longest day of the year at the Sun God service in the round temple of giant stones. I found gold ornaments and amber in an ancient tomb, and I made a journey to the tin mines, to the harbor of which the Carthaginians used to sail hundreds of years ago to buy tin. But the greatest surprise was Lugunda, who during the winter had grown from a child to a young woman. I met her at her hare farm, dressed in her white hare-priestess cloak with a silver band in her hair. Her eyes were shining like those of a goddess. When we had embraced in greeting, we both drew back in astonishment and no longer dared touch each other. Her tribe did not allow her to accompany me on my journeys that summer. In fact it was to flee from her that I left the Iceni country. But as I journeyed on, a living image of her followed me. I thought of her the last thing at night and the first thing in the morning, whether I wished to or not.
I returned from my journeys more quickly than I had meant to, back to her, but I had no joy from it. On the contrary, after the first delight of seeing each other again we soon started quarreling, with or without cause, and we hurt each other so bitterly that I could go to bed hating her with all my heart and convinced that I never wanted to see her again. But when she smiled at me again later and came with her favorite hare and let me hold it, I relented and became as weak as water. It was difficult to remember that I was a Roman knight and my father was a senator and that I had the right to wear the red cloak of a tribune. Rome seemed distant and dreamlike to me as I sat on the grass in the warm British summer with her wriggling hare in my arms.
But suddenly she pressed her cheek to mine, snatched the hare into her arms and with glittering eyes, accused me of deliberately tormenting her. With the hare in her arms, her cheeks flushed, she looked at me so provokingly that I regretted not having given her a good spanking in the days when I had had her in my power in the camp.
On her friendly days, she took me around her parents’ vast grazing lands and showed me the cattle, the fields and villages. She also took me to the storehouse and showed me the cloths, ornaments and sacred objects which were passed down from mother to daughter in her family.
“Don’t you like the Iceni country?” she teased. “Isn’t it easy to breathe here? Doesn’t our corn bread and our thick beer taste good to you? My father could give you many teams of small horses and chariots decorated with silver. You could have for the asking as much land as you could get around in a day.”
But another day she would say, “Tell me about Rome. I’d like to walk on paved streets, see big temples with columned halls and war trophies from every country, and get to know women who are different from me, to learn their customs, for in your eyes I am evidently only an uneducated Iceni girl.”
In honest moments she said, “Do you remember how you held me in your arms one cold winter night in your wooden hut and warmed me with your own body when I was homesick? Now I am home and the Druids have made me a hare-priestess. You’ve no idea what a tremendous honor that is, but at the moment I’d rather be in your wooden hut, holding your hand and listening to you teaching me to read and write.”
I was still so inexperienced, manhood or no, that I did not understand my own feelings or what had happened between us. I was informed by the Druid Petro, whom Vespasian had freed and who had in the autumn returned from a secret island where he had been initiated into an even higher grade of priesthood. He had watched our games without my being aware of it and then he had sat down on the ground, covering his eyes with his hands and leaning forward in a holy trance. We did not dare wake him, for we both knew that in his dreams he was wandering in the underworld. But we forgot our bickering and sat down on a hummock in front of him, waiting for him to awaken.
When he had collected himself, he looked at us as if from another world.
“You, Minutus,” he said, “have beside you a large animal, like a dog with a man. Lugunda has only her hare to protect her.”
“That’s no dog,” I said indignantly. “That’s a real lion. But of course you’ve never seen such a noble animal yourself, so I’ll forgive your mistake.”
‘Tour dog,” went on Petro, unmoved, “will hunt the hare to death. Then Lugunda’s heart will break and she will die if you have not parted in time.”
“I wish no harm at all to Lugunda,” I said in surprise. “We’re just playing like brother and sister.”
“As if a Roman such as he could break my heart,” snorted Lugunda. “His dog can run himself out of breath. I don’t like nasty dreams, Petro. And Ituna is not my brother.”
Lugunda looked at us, her eyes yellow with anger, but she did not dare oppose the Druid’s order. Petro remained seated cross-legged, picked up a stick and absentmindedly began to draw with it on the ground.
“One day the Romans will be thrown back into the sea,” he said. “Britain is the land of the gods of the underworld, and the heavenly gods can never conquer those of the underworld as long as the earth remains. Even if I he Romans cut down our sacred groves, tip over our sacred stone slabs, build their roads and teach the tribes they’ve subjected their own farming methods to make them into slaves, the Romans will still one day be thrown back in the sea when the time is ripe. Only one man is needed, a man who will persuade the independent tribes to unite and light together and who knows the Roman art of war.”
“That is why we have four whole legions here,” I said. “In a generation or two, Britain will be a civilized country with Roman peace.”
When we had in this way both expressed our points of view, there was nothing more to say on the matter.
“What do you want from Lugunda, Ituna Minutus?” asked Petro.
He looked sternly at me and I looked down and was ashamed.
“Have you ever thought of entering into a British marriage with her and giving her a child?” Petro asked. “Don’t be afraid. Such a marriage would hardly be legal in Roman law and would not stop you leaving Britain whenever you like. Lugunda would keep the child, and she would have a permanent memory of you. But if you go on playing with her as you are now, she’ll break her heart when you finally leave.”
I was frightened at the mere thought of a child, even if at heart I had already admitted what it was I wanted of Lugunda.
“In Rome they say: Wherever you are, I am too,” I said. “I’m no adventurous seaman or roaming merchant, marrying here and there to get my own way. I don’t want to do that to Lugunda.”
“Lugunda would not bring shame upon herself in the eyes of her parents or her tribe,” said Petro. “Your only fault is that you are a Roman. That is the difference. With us, women have great freedom and power to choose their husbands themselves, even to send them away if they are not pleased. A hare-priestess is no Vestal Virgin who must promise to remain unmarried, as it is said to be in Rome.”
“I shall soon be leaving and going back to my people,” I said stiffly. “Otherwise, Britain might prove too cramped for me.”
But Petro talked to Lugunda too. That night she came to me, wound her arms around my neck, looked into my eyes with her amber-colored ones and trembled in my arms.
“Minutus Ituna,” she said softly, “you know I am yours only. Petro says that you are going away and will never come back. The very thought cuts deep into my heart. Would it really be a shameful thing if you married me in our way before you went?”
I felt very cold.
“It would not be shameful,” I said in a trembling voice. “It would simply be unfair to you.”
“Fair or unfair,” said Lugunda, “what does that matter when I can feel your heart thumping in your chest as loudly as my own?”
I put my hands on her shoulders and pushed her away from me.
“I was brought up to understand that it is more virtuous to control oneself than to give in and become a slave to one’s desires,” I said.
“I am your legal spoils of war and your slave,” said Lugunda obstinately. “You have the power to do what you like with me. You would not even agree to receive the redemption money from my parents last summer.”
I shook my head, unable to speak.
“Take me with you when you go,” Lugunda then begged. “I’ll go with you wherever you like. I’ll leave my tribe and even my hares. I am your servant, your slave, however you wish it.”
She fell to her knees in front of me.
“If you only knew what these words have cost my pride, you would be appalled, Minutus the Roman,” she said.
But I was seized with the manly feeling that I who was the stronger should protect her against my own weakness. I tried to explain this to her as well as I could, but my words were powerless against her stubbornly lowered head. Finally she rose and stared at me as if I were a complete stranger.
“You have offended me deeply,” she said coldly, “and you’ll never know how deeply. From now on I hate you and every moment will wish you dead.”
I was so deeply hurt that I felt a pain in my stomach and could not eat. I should have preferred to leave at once, but the harvest was just over and the customary harvest festival was taking place in the house. In addition, I wanted to note down the customs at the harvest feast and find out how the Icenis hid their corn.
The following evening it was full moon. I was already dizzy with Iceni beer, when the noble youths of the district drove on to the stubble field and lit a huge bonfire. Without asking anyone’s permission, they picked out a calf from the farm’s herd and sacrificed it in noisy amusement. I joined them, as I knew some of them, but they were not so friendly as before. They even began to abuse me.
“Go and wash the blue lines from your face, cursed Roman,” they said. “We’d rather see your filthy shield and your sword spotted with British blood.”
“Is it true,” one of them asked, “that Romans bathe in hot water and lose their manhood that way?”
“It’s true,” answered another. “That’s why the women in Rome sleep with their slaves. Their Emperor had to kill his own wife for whoring in that way.”
There was sufficient truth in their insults for me to be angry.
“I can take jokes from my friends,” I said, “when they are full of beer and stolen meat, but I can’t have you speaking disrespectfully of the Emperor of Rome.”
They glanced maliciously at each other.
“Let’s wrestle with him,” they suggested. “Then we’ll see if he’s lost his eggs in hot water like other Romans.”
I saw that they were deliberately seeking a quarrel, but it was difficult for me to withdraw after they had insulted Emperor Claudius. When they had egged each other on for a while, the boldest of them rushed at me as if to wrestle with me, but in fact to hit me as hard as he could with his fists. Wresding is part of the legion exercises. So it was not difficult to make a stand, especially as he was much more drunk than I. I threw him onto his back and put my foot on his neck when he struggled instead of admitting defeat. Then they all fell on me to a man and pinned me to the ground with a firm grip on my arms and legs.
“What shall we do with the Roman?” they asked each other. “Perhaps we should slit open his stomach and see what his intestines foretell?”
“Let’s geld him to stop him running after our girls like an old hare,” suggested one.
“Best to throw him on the fire,” said another, “then we’ll see how much heat a Roman can bear.”
I was uncertain whether they were serious or just wished to frighten me in a drunken way. Anyhow, they beat me in no joking manner, but my pride prevented me from crying for help. They spurred each other on into a rage until I seriously began to fear for my life.
Suddenly they fell silent and stood back. I saw Lugunda coming toward me. She stopped and put her head on one side.
“I like seeing a Roman lying humiliated and helpless on the ground,” she said mockingly. “I’d like to tickle your skin with the point of a knife if I weren’t forbidden to besmirch myself with human blood.”
She struck her tongue out at me and then turned to the youths, whom she knew by name,
“Don’t kill him though,” she said. “That only leads to revenge. Cut me a birch switch instead and turn him over on his stomach and hold on to him properly. I’ll show you how to handle Romans.”
The youths were glad not to have to decide what to do with me. They quickly fetched switches and tore off my clothes. Lugunda stepped up close and gave me a rap o
n the back with the switch, at first carefully as if testing it out, and then mercilessly with all her strength. I clenched my teeth and uttered not a sound. This egged her on to beat me in a fury, so that my body jerked and trembled on the ground and tears forced their way into my eyes.
Finally her arm tired and she threw away the switch.
“There, Minutus the Roman,” she cried. “Now we’re quits.”
The youths holding me let go and backed away cautiously with their fists up, for fear I should attack them. My head was throbbing, my nose bleeding and my back on fire, but I stood silently licking the blood from my lips. There must have been something about me that frightened them, for they stopped mocking me and let me pass. I picked up my torn clothes and walked away, but not toward the house. I walked aimlessly in the moonlit forest and thought dimly that it was fortunate for all of us that no one had witnessed my ignominy. I could not walk far. I soon began to stumble and I sank to the ground on a narrow mossy hillock. Shortly afterwards the youths kicked out their fire and I heard them whistling for their chariots and driving away so that the ground thundered beneath their wheels.
The moonlight was frighteningly clear and the shadows in the forest horribly black. I wiped the blood off my face with a handful of moss and called on my lion.
“Lion, are you there?” I cried. “If so, roar and go after them. Otherwise I’ll never believe in you again.”
But I did not even see the shadow of my lion. Instead I was totally alone, until Lugunda came creeping cautiously, pushing aside the branches as she looked for me. Her face was white in the moonlight. When she saw me, she came up to me with her hands behind her back.
“How do you feel?” she asked. “Did it hurt? You deserved it.”
I was seized with a wild desire to take hold of her slim neck, throw her to the ground and lacerate her as I had been lacerated. But I controlled myself, knowing that nothing would be gained that way. But I could not help asking if she had arranged it all.