The Mistletoe and the Sword: A Story of Roman Britain

by Anya Seton

  “Exactly,” said Dio, smiling a little as he tightened the thong on his sandal. “Fabian and I some time ago came to the same conclusion.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Quintus contritely. He began to pace the tiny cleared space between the coffers. “What about Balbo?” he said after a moment. “Couldn’t he be overpowered when he puts the provisions in here?”

  “We never see the guard,” answered Fabian. “He shoves our food through that hole down there.” At the bottom of the door there was a square of about eight inches filled with a block of wood which barred it from the outside.

  “I see,” said Quintus wearily. “Yes, of course, most strong rooms are built so they can be converted to temporary cells.”

  “There is one very feeble hope,” said Dio slowly. “Friday’s pay day. They have to get at the money to pay the troops and they wouldn’t dare skip now when they don’t want them suspecting anything queer. Last Friday, Fabian hadn’t arrived yet and I was here alone when Balbo and Postumus rushed in here and counted out the coin they needed. They bound me, and you can imagine that with my size and unarmed, I could scarcely fight off that towheaded elephant . . . but with three of us . . . and you, Quintus, are pretty big yourself...”

  “Not that big,” said Quintus ruefully, but his eyes suddenly shone. “Yet that’s a great idea, wonderful, at least it has a chance ...”

  Fabian nodded, less impetuous than the two younger men, but no less excited in his quiet way. “We must plan this very carefully,” he said. “Think of every possibility and try to be ready for it.”

  The hours dragged by. They had no idea what time it was but could at least tell that it was day by a faint glimmer in the air shaft. Dio thought it had been about sundown when they had come for the army pay before, and, as the glimmer grew fainter, the three of them grew tense and silent. They had made what preparations they could, which consisted chiefly in transforming Quintus back into something like a Roman, as the Silure costume could only be an embarrassment in a Roman fortress--though indeed none of them dared think how they would get out of the fortress even if, by a miracle, they got out of the strong room. They had hacked off Quintus’ long native trousers, so that his knees were again bare, and covered his tartan tunic with Dio’s mantle. It was during this process that Quintus had been puzzled to feel something hard in. the breast of his tunic and discovered Regan’s brooch. He held it in the palm of his hand, and in spite of his tenseness, a feeling of extraordinary sweetness flowed over him--sweetness and reassurance. It was as though a shutter half opened, and, in the crack, he could see her face looking at him with love, and hear a low tender voice saying, “Yet--I want you to remember someday--this will keep you safe.”

  “Quintus, Quintus,” said Dio, craning over to see what Quintus was staring at, “surely not a lady’s brooch . . .? And a British lady’s brooch at that . . .? Though now I remember you made some offhand mention of a girl who guided you . . . surely our little blind god, Cupid, has not loosed a careless arrow?”

  “Oh Pax, Dio--hush up!” said Quintus with an embarrassed grin, closing his hand over the brooch. “I’m mighty glad to have this brooch, for I’ve a hunch it’ll bring us luck,” and he pinned it back inside his tunic.

  “Well, we need it,” said Fabian sombrely. “Nothing but the most extraordinary favour from Fortuna is going to get us out of this fix, and I hereby vow to build an altar to her if she protects us.”

  Quintus and Dio murmured agreement and fell silent. They waited.

  Quite a while went by before their sharp ears heard a noise in the vestibule, then the slow grating of the bolt as it was drawn back.

  The three young men instantly flattened themselves against the wall behind the door. Surprise was their only hope.

  The first part of the plan worked perfectly. The door opened wide. Balbo walked in carrying a bunch of keys for the coffers. He was dressed in helmet and full armour, his sword gleaming. The prefect followed, his mammoth body also armoured in ceremonial gilded bronze with red epaulettes, for he was to review the troops later. He wore no helmet, nor indeed would his head have cleared the ceiling if he had, and he had not bothered with a weapon, having perfect faith in the strength of his enormous hands.

  “Now where are they?” he said to Balbo. The three had known that they could go undiscovered no more than a second, but it was that second which they counted on. They sprang around the door. Fabian, flourishing the little knife, leaped out sideways at Balbo, while Quintus and Dio made a concerted rush for the prefect’s knees and, grabbing them, exerted all their combined force to jerk the big man off balance.

  For an instant Quintus thought they had succeeded. The prefect tottered and, letting out a sharp grunt, he swayed, while Quintus with desperate strength pounded upward with his fist against the massive chin. The prefect’s great head wove from side to side; astonishment, rather than Quintus’ blows, stunning his slow mind. He tried to raise his arms but could not, because Dio was clinging to them like a monkey, while Quintus went on hitting.

  Suddenly the prefect let out a bellow of rage. He shook Dio off and seized Quintus by the neck. We’ve lost! thought Quintus. Red mist swam in his eyes as the huge fingers tightened on his windpipe then he heard a resounding thwack, and the fingers round his throat went limp.

  He blinked and staggered back to see with amazement that the prefect was clutching at the air, reeling. Then he sprawled face down over one of the coffers.

  Dio sprang to Quintus’ side and they stared at the fallen giant.

  “What happened?” stammered Dio. They both swung around at the same moment, remembering Fabian.

  Fabian was standing by the wall gazing open-mouthed, not at the prefect, but at Balbo, who was in the act of hurriedly sheathing his sword.

  “HE did it!” gasped Fabian, pointing at the guard. “He knocked Postumus on the head from behind with the flat of his sword.”

  “Aye,” said Balbo, “I did it, or you young fools’d have had every bone in your bodies broken. Now be off with you quick, before he rouses.”

  The prefect was already beginning to snort and groan.

  “Be off with us?” repeated Quintus. So sudden was this reversal of their expectations that all three young men were having trouble taking it in.

  “Back to your legions, back to the governor! May Jupiter Maximus get you there safely,” and Balbo added on a lower note, “May the great god also take pity on this legion and commander which have disgraced Rome forever. Go out by the southern portal. Titus is on guard there. Tell him only that you’re sent back. No more. And the password today is ‘Gloria et Dignitas’--glory and dignity are brave words for the brave ‘Augusta’ Second Legion, are they not?” He said with indescribable bitterness, “Go! Your weapons are in the corner of the hall!” He bent over the prefect.

  The three young men obeyed, picking up their weapons and walking with controlled speed out of the staff-quarters door. Most of the legionaries were lined up in the forum waiting for their pay. No one noticed the three. They came to the south portal and gave the password as Balbo had told them. Titus, the sentry, let them through without comment, until Quintus, who was last, stepped through the gate. Then Titus whispered, “I’m glad you fellows are all right. What’s been happening up there?” He looked toward headquarters. “Are we marching soon?”

  Quintus dared not answer but hurried away after Fabian and Dio on a track that led toward the east.

  CHAPTER VIII

  The young romans marched for a long time without speaking: Quintus, a cavalryman, had not been as well trained as the two official messengers in the long easy stride that the legions were taught; a pace designed to cover a steady three miles an hour, no matter the conditions. But he was taller than the other two and had no difficulty in keeping up with them along the hilly trail. Fabian led because he had travelled this very route last week on his way to Gloucester from London.

  The moon shone as it had the night before, so that when the sky suddenly c
louded over, they had come a long way across several ridges, and through brooks and copses. It had begun to drizzle when they reached a clearing, in the centre of which was an ancient burial mound, a long barrow surmounted by a cairn of stones. Here Fabian stopped.

  “I think we should get some rest,” he said. “I remember seeing a cave over there on that hillside when I came by before. I’m sure it was up here to the right of this cairn. We could keep dry in the cave.”

  They were in a deserted part of the Cotswolds and had seen no native huts at all since leaving the fort. The cairn and the track were evidence that Britons sometimes passed .along here, but no Roman road had as yet been built in this direction.

  “Well, I’d be pleased to keep dry,” said Quintus, as they struck off the trail and began to climb the hill, “but I’d be a lot more pleased to have a square meal. Even those wheat cakes would help.”

  For some time Quintus had felt nothing but relief at their escape from the fortress, but now it occurred to him that their present situation gave little cause for rejoicing. Ahead there was a four-day march, at best, to find Suetonius’ forces, which they were not even sure of locating. Also they must traverse Atrebate country. Fabian’s encounter with an Atrebate on the way west would indicate that that tribe too had revolted against the Romans. Moreover, their weapons consisted of but two swords and Quintus’ clumsy native spear--hardly the most efficient means of killing game or defending themselves.

  “But I’ve brought some food,” said Dio unexpectedly, with his bubbling little chuckle. “I scooped it up from the table outside the strong room while we were getting our weapons. Guess what it is?”

  “Wheat cakes!” cried Quintus, with resignation, and gratitude.

  “Exactly. Our own daily allotment Balbo had ready to bring in to us.”

  “And mighty useful to have,” observed Fabian approvingly. “I was so thunderstruck, when I realized that Balbo not only wasn’t fighting me but was watching for a chance to bang Postumus over the head, that I didn’t have my wits about me.”

  Nor I, Quintus thought ruefully, aware once again of his own lack of forethought as well as his inclination to blunder and blurt things and act on impulse. For an instant, there was again that queer little stab of half memory. Somewhere, lately, he had stupidly blurted out something that had led him into unnecessary danger. Led him and someone else--Regan? But how could it be? Like an image in a pool, he glimpsed the cold angry face of a man in a green robe, against a background of tremendous upended stones. The image dissolved as Fabian said, “Look, there’s the cave!”

  Ahead on the hillside amongst a stand of white birches, they could dimly see a pile of rock and a black opening in the pile which, they found when they got nearer, led into a cave quite large enough to shelter the three of them, crouching. It had an overhanging ledge and was dry.

  They settled themselves comfortably against the rocky wall and began to devour the wheat cakes, which Dio produced from beneath his leather jerkin.

  The army’s standard wheat cakes might be monotonous fare, but they had been designed to be the best hunger-satisfiers for the least bulk. They were made from crushed whole wheat mixed with fat pork and water, then baked into hard flat biscuits. Three of them apiece took the edge off their hunger but left nothing for next day.

  “I wonder,” said Quintus, “if I could possibly spear a rabbit for us with this thing.” He balanced the spear on his fingers. “The Britons do, but I can’t seem to throw it straight, though I’ve practiced plenty.”

  “Beaver maybe,” said Fabian. “I noticed a dam on the brook below. We’ll see if we can’t get one somehow when it’s light. Beaver’s not bad eating, but I admit I don’t much fancy it raw.”

  The making of fire was a difficult process so the Romans were accustomed to carrying only dried or cooked provisions with them. In emergencies they commandeered a live ember from some peasant’s hearth.

  “I watched Pendoc--that was the Briton I told you about--making fire with two sticks,” said Quintus. “I could try. It seems to me that there are quite a few useful bits of knowledge neither my Roman school nor the army ever taught--” He broke off abruptly. “Listen,

  what’s that?” he whispered. “Something’s in the back of the cave.”

  They all stiffened, turning toward the small dark tunnel behind them, where there were faint scuffling noises mixed with higher sounds, like mewings or squeaks.

  “Oh, bats, of course,” said Fabian, who had had more varied experiences than the others. ‘They always live in caves.”

  The other two nodded. “Of course.”

  Dio yawned and said, “Well, I don’t need a bat’s lullaby to make me sleep. Call me when you’ve caught AND cooked that beaver, boys--and I’d suggest you add a little wine and truffle sauce to make it tastier!”

  “Hal You lazy lout,” said Fabian sternly. “Every man to his own breakfast.”

  Dio snorted, Quintus laughed. There were good-natured grumbles back and forth as to the use of the cramped space for sleeping; each one of them aware that they were joking so as not to think too much. Finally the three of them curled up on Dio’s mantle and spread Fabian’s mantle over the top of them.

  The white birches near the mouth of the cave cast faint shadows over the sleeping three as the sky greyed into early dawn.

  Quintus was sleeping heavily and dreaming of Rome. An extremely pleasant dream in which his mother was laughing with Regan, who was dressed in gorgeous clothes like those of Nero’s beloved Poppaea--all peacock satins and cloth of gold, which Quintus had somehow provided for her.

  He didn’t know what the sound was that woke him, but he sprang up grabbing his spear. The other two woke at his jump, and without knowing what the trouble was, both backed against the wall and drew their swords in one motion.

  For a second, between sleepiness and the uncertain light, they could not see anything, but then the sound which had awakened Quintus came again. A low snarling growl that raised the hairs on his neck. He had never heard that sound before yet he knew what it was, even before Dio whispered, “Wolves.”

  Then Quintus saw two huge shapes slinking toward them through the birches.

  “Shout!” cried Fabian. “Make a noise! They’ll go away, they can’t be hungry this time of year.”

  The young men shouted and yelled until the cave reverberated behind them, but the two sinister shapes behind the birches did not retreat They stopped and watched, their cruel yellow eyes glinting with menace.

  “Jupiter Maximus--?” groaned Fabian suddenly. “I know what it is--this is their lair and those were wolf cubs we heard in the cave. They’re going to attack us!”

  The great grey wolf and his mate had started to move forward again. They drew slowly nearer, and the horrible low growling grew louder.

  Quintus’ hand clenched around his spear. The mouth of the cave was too low. He couldn’t straighten up to aim. He began to edge outside, until his head cleared the rock ledge.

  “No, don’t--” whispered Fabian. “If you miss him we’ll have lost the spear. Get behind us, we’ve the swords--”

  Quintus did not hear. His heart was pounding, but his mind was cool and alert as he carefully counted the distance between him and the larger wolf, who kept advancing. Quintus drew his arm back and waited. He saw the white fangs bared, the slobbering red tongue. He saw the fur on the shoulders stiffen and rise, as the great beast tensed for the spring.

  Quintus drew a rasping breath and waited yet another second. The instant the wolf lunged, ,Quintus hurled, the spear straight at the lighter fur on the chest. There was a fountain jet of blood as the spearhead pierced to the wolfs heart. The wolf fell from mid-air into a twitching heap on the ground. And the other wolf, snarling and panting, stopped her stealthy advance and stood irresolute, the yellow eyes glaring at the heaving body of her mate and at the blood that spurted once more--and stopped.

  “Bravo, Quintus!” cried Dio. He and Fabian rushed together toward the she-wolf
. But she was too quick for them. She doubled back and flattening herself belly-to-ground ran past their drawn swords straight into the cave.

  “Whew--!” breathed Quintus, looking down at the dead wolf. “Thanks be to Diana, to Fortuna, even to the Celtic gods, that I’ve finally learned how to throw that thing.”

  He hauled and tugged until the spear came out, dripping red. He examined the flint head, which was undamaged. Even the rawhide which bound the flint to the shaft had not loosened.

  “Here, quick--help me,” grunted Fabian, who was on his knees beside the wolf, expertly carving out a piece of haunch with his small knife. “Get a stick.”

  Quintus found a long pointed one, and he and Dio skewered the hunk of meat on it. Dio hoisted the stick over his shoulder. “Interesting change of menu,” he said. “Wolf instead of beaver, one never knows--”

  “And one doesn’t know what that she-wolf intends to do either,” interrupted Fabian curtly, with a glance over his shoulder at the cave.

  “Won’t she stay by her young?” asked Quintus.

  “Probably, or by the body of her dead mate, but--”

  “We’d better be going,” Quintus finished the sentence.

  They started down the hillside with considerable haste, crashing through the thickets and brambles until they reached the barrow with its cairn of stones, and the overgrown rutted track. They started east again along the track and had gone a few yards when Dio, shifting the heavy hunk of skewered meat from one shoulder to the other, said, “You know, it suddenly occurs to me that we’ve left our mantles and helmets behind in the cave, Fabian.”

  “Yes, it occurs to me too,” said Fabian grimly.