by Henry Treece
Gemellus smiled, in spite of the pain which his bonds caused him, to recall that little officer, who had never been further abroad than Tuscany….
He wanted to tell that Staff Officer that Rome was already an old bitch, gone in the teeth; that her Generals were incompetent or senile; that the barbarians laughed at the greatest Power the world had ever known, and treated her soldiers like criminal idiots.
It came to Gemellus that Rome had never understood the Celts, the greatest of the barbarian peoples. Once, far back in history, the Gelt, Brennus, had sacked Rome, had humiliated her; and Rome, like some small-minded man, had never forgotten that slight on her pretty dignity. Rome had always ached to avenge that defeat. For half her history she had struggled to subdue the Celts, wherever she could find them—in Gaul, in Spain, in Germany, and in Britain.
Hundreds of thousands of Romans had died because Brennus had once stood in the Forum and flung his heavy sword into the balance to cost Rome more tribute; Caesar, even he, had imprisoned his old friend, Vercingetorix, for seven years, before leading him out in a triumphal procession and strangling him on the Capitol hill. That had been a token execution—a sign that the debt was being paid….
Yet the Celts were an old people; they had walked the earth for thousands of years, before Rome rose as a cluster of wattle huts behind a wooden stockade; before Athens, before Sparta.,..
Such a people could never be subdued; like a great river, they would burst their banks here and there and trickle away if men tried to dam up their power.
He was about to say something like this to Duatha, but when he whispered to his half-brother, the only reply he got was a snore, Duatha was fast asleep—in mortal danger, yet fast asleep —as though life was eternal, as though such imprisonment were nothing more than a temporary dream.
Gemellus marvelled at the man’s stoic fortitude. And when he called to Dagda there was still no answer. It was useless to speak to the Arab, for he was dumb and could be of little comfort in the darkness.
His thoughts turned back to his own situation. The Celts had absorbed his father—Centennial was almost a symbol of the strange vengeance that the barbarian world had had on Rome…. And now Lecithin’s son, Duatha, was absorbing him, by forging bonds of friendship, even brotherhood, which took from him little by little his feeling of separateness, of being different, of being Roman….
Who was Rome, thought Gemellus? In Britain, thousands of soldiers who called themselves Roman were Celts. How could that be? How could one avoid running mad, involved in such a pattern? What was Rome? What was the Celtic world? What was…?
And as his mind whirled about this problem of identity in the darkness, Gemellus heard the door of the hut opening, and saw a faint grey glimmer of light.
Bran came in, holding a rush-light, bending low to get under the low doorway. His sister, Eithne, walked behind him quietly. Now she wore a heavy cloak and hood, as though she was about to go on a long journey. Bran wore a leather jerkin and a pointed woollen cap. Both carried bundles slung on their backs.
‘Do not speak,’ said Bran in a whisper. ‘Listen to what I say, but do not speak.’
In the light from the taper, Gemellus saw that his friends were all awake. He saw them stretch their arms and legs as Bran slashed their bonds. Then he felt himself free once more.
Bran said, ‘My father sends to tell you that what happened last night was none of his choosing. There is a strong feeling against Rome in this part of the country at the moment. The men who struck you down last night had wind of your Roman identity. They wish to rise against Rome and to join with the Queen, Boudicca. My father had no alternative but to seem to be one of them. Had he done otherwise, his head would now grin from this rooftop.’
Duatha whispered, ‘What are we to do, Bran?’
The young man said, ‘My father has commanded me to take you to the place where you wish to be. My sister, Eithne, has insisted that she comes too, though what my father, the King, will say when he discovers she has gone, I dare not think.’
Gemellus said gravely, ‘We will take care of her, if she must come. Indeed, it might be a wise move for her to come with us, since few men will suspect a party of which the greater number are natives of this country.’
Bran said evenly, ‘I do not know what you are talking about. I only know that I am to take you to the summer pavilion of Boudicca, and there to leave you. Make ready; we must start now, before the tribesmen awake. There is one horse, which will carry my sister and what provisions we need. Hurry, for it will soon be dawn. My father must make what excuses he thinks fit, when your escape is discovered.’
Suddenly Gemellus said, ‘How do we know we can trust you, king’s son?’
Bran said solemnly, ‘Here is my knife. If you doubt me, plunge it into my heart.’
14: Third Day
Before the true light of day shone down on them, they were fortunate in putting some miles between themselves and the town of King Drammoch, though always Bran’s ears seemed to be alert for the sound of drumming hooves behind them to the west, and he did not spare the rod in beating on the horse which carried their two sacks of provisions and his sister, Eithne.
At first their way ran through gullies and dried up watercourses, among the rolling hills; but as the day grew older they came to the beginnings of the Midland oak-forests, the vast green abode of many woodland tribes, and the haunt of lawless men.
Now Duatha was out of his depth; he had never been so far to the east of Britain as this and became a little restive.
As he walked at the tail-end of the column with Gemellus, he said, ‘Brother, I wonder if we are doing right. It seems that we have walked into this affair like men in a dream. Ask yourself why we are here, being guided into a dark forest by a man and a woman we do not know. Why should we be going to kill a British queen, a woman we have never seen and may never have seen but for this.’
Gemellus answered in a whisper, so that their conversation should not be overheard, T too have had these thoughts, but I have put them out of my mind. I am a Roman soldier by trade; it is all the life I know. I only know that I must obey the orders given me by my officer. You see, you and I, in our anger, broke the law in Glevum by attempting to fight with each other. The Prefect, a tired man, even a cowardly one, has taken his chance to punish us by using us as tools to achieve his own purpose, that purpose being to destroy Boudicca before she destroys Rome.’
Duatha shook his tawny head and smiled ruefully. T do not understand you Romans,’ he said at length. ‘You make policy, theories, philosophies, out of simple occurrences and relations between men, you use men to substantiate your ideas. We Celts are more direct, perhaps more simple, but certainly more honest. If we hate a man, we kill him, one way or the other; if we love him, we protect him and give him gifts. Yet here are we, being punished by being put into danger of our lives; yet, if we submit to our punishment graciously and carry out our task efficiently, we are to be rewarded by our punishers! Sometimes, I do not understand why I have chosen to work for you Romans, at all.’
Gemellus dared to say, ‘Is it not because you wish to be a Roman yourself? Your father was a Roman, and at the end of your service with the Legion you will be given citizenship. Is it not simply that?’
The Celt replied, ‘Who truly understands what drives him on through life? Sometimes I have envied the power of Rome, seeing the Legions march along the roads, singing to battle as though they were out on a holiday jaunt, whistling even in the face of a chariot charge. Sometimes, I have thought that if I were a Roman, I might bring the gifts of Rome to my village, make my mother a great lady, give her people fine houses…. Yet at other times, I think that I accepted the command of a troop of Roman cavalry simply to learn Roman ways, so that one day I might be better able to help my people to conquer their conquerors.’
As he said these words, he looked sharply into the eyes of Gemellus, as though testing his opinion.
The Roman said gently, in his restrained
voice, ‘We are like beetles crawling in the sun. We crawl this way and that, to seek food and shelter. And as we crawl, we invent stories to console ourselves for the hardship of seeking food where there seems to be none. Sometimes we are so angry that we must suffer hunger that we dream we are immense beetles—so great that we will stamp our feet and destroy the earth if food does not come quickly. Then by chance we find food—and we become hardworking little beetles again, without the wish to destroy the earth at all. We two are such little beetles, getting our food by doing what Rome tells us to do. At the moment, our food, which is our ambition, call it what you wish, seems far ahead of us; we do not know even whether it exists. So we are discontented, and think of stamping our little feet to destroy the world of Rome. But it will be all well again tomorrow, and we shall go on with our task.’
Duatha smiled at him and said, ‘Maybe, Socrates, maybe! But let me add to your lecture. Sometimes the little beetle is going on happily, seeking his ambition from tuft to tuft of grass, when out of the sky drops a great hawk, gobbles up the patient beetle, and flies to the sun again. Then what of ambition and contentment? Can you not see Boudicca and her people as such a hawk? A Celtic hawk? She need only peck twice, then we are punished as surely as if the Prefect had had those stakes erected in the compound—and Rome is halfway to destruction in Britain; all at two pecks!’
Gemellus patted his half-brother on the shoulder and said, with a tone of finality, ‘There, there, brother Celt; that may be so, and it may not be so. We shall know the truth of it all on the morning of the sixth day.’
Duatha’s long face screwed itself up ironically, ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘if we are alive, on the morning of the sixth day, friend. I do not think we shall be.’
Suddenly they noticed that Dagda was walking beside them, smiling and nodding his head.
‘I have heard something of what you have been saying, my masters,’ he said. ‘Some of it makes sense, some of it does not. But it is not my place to say which is which. I will only tell you this, that a man has a pattern laid down for him even before he breaks from the womb of his mother. Whatever that man decides he shall do or he shall not do, matters not; he will follow the pattern that is born with him, whether he likes it or no. Our pattern is to travel across Britain together and to kill a Queen.’
The two friends had been listening to him tolerantly as they walked, but when he spoke those last words they stopped in amazement, their faces showing their concern.
Dagda stared back at them, smiling blandly. ‘Yes, masters,’ he said, ‘you thought that our errand was a military secret, known only to yourselves and to the men who sent us—the Prefect and his Staff. Yet, it is my thought that in every tavern from Glevum to Venta Icenorum, men will be talking of it, waiting for news that it has happened—or waiting to see our heads carried on pikes across Britain to mark Boudicca’s triumphal progress.’
Gemellus was angry that this man should have interrupted their conversation; but this anger was tempered by the fear that Dagda was right.
‘How do you know what our mission is, ‘’Dagda?’ he asked, no longer the imperious Roman officer.
The Celt spread his hands wide and said, ‘In the Mess Tent we have been waiting for this to happen for a week. The Tribunes are not discreet men, in their cups; the Prefect himself is a fool and unfit to command a Legion. Two days before you came to Glevum, the Prefect spoke to his daughter of this mission, in the presence of a water-seller of the Durotriges, who was filling the water jars at the time in the far end of the room. The man came out and immediately told the cooks what he had heard. The cooks told us when we rode in for our food!’
Gemellus said, ‘So, by now, the whole tribe of the Durotriges will have wind of the affair?’
Duatha and Dagda exchanged a sly smile, which Gemellus saw, wondering.
That water-seller had an accident,’ said Duatha smoothly. ‘Just outside the stockade gate, as he hurried aflame with his news, a party of horsemen rode him down, before they could stop. It was very sad, the whole thing. But they buried him decently, I will say that for them.’
Gemellus looked down at the ground.
‘I think I can guess which troop of horse took part in that unfortunate accident,’ he said.
Duatha nodded. ‘I think you can, brother,’ he said, with a smile.
They had passed through the thinner outskirts of the oak forest, and had entered a section of country where the trees grew thickly, their branches close-locked, their heavy foliage forming a roof above their heads. For a while, they moved within a world of green. Even the sunlight which beat down on Summer Britain took on the tinge of green as it pierced through the leaves.
The horse, used previously only to short journeys from the steading to the market and back, began to labour under his load, and under the necessity of stepping constantly over low boughs and of pushing through chest-high grass. Bran, the son of the king, stopped the horse beside a little stream which ran through that part of the forest, and off-loaded the heavy provision bags of meal and meat.
He called back to the Romans, ‘We may halt here safely for an hour. Rest while there is a chance, for we may have to travel on without stopping later.’
Gemellus left the others and walked along the stream. His feet were used to the thick-soled caligulae of the marching legionary, and these light deerskin brogues had made them tender. He took off his shoes and began to wade in the shallows of the stream, feeling the cold water sending shocks up his tired legs, feeling the roundness of the little pebbles on the chafed soles of his feet.
Two grey-feathered stock-doves sat on a bough above his head, purring to each other, lost in their own warm world of love. The Roman stopped, the waters swirling about his calves, and looked up at the birds, thinking how lucky they were to lead such carefree lives, without thought of intrigue or blood, of duty or responsibility.
They were citizens of the world, he thought; not mere citizens of Rome.
A voice said, ‘You have well-shaped legs, Roman. Is the rest of your body as well-formed, I wonder?’
Gemellus came out of his reverie and turned. Eithne stood in the long grasses on the bank of the stream. She had thrown off her cloak, and stood in her woollen dress, her red hair unbound, wafting in the wind. She was smiling at him, openly, her blue eyes wide and clear.
Gemellus had heard that Celtic women were unprincipled and loose; that they were allowed rights of speech and behaviour which other folk only permitted to men. He knew too that among the westerly tribes, men and women bathed together in the streams, often making cleanliness an excuse for lust.
But he had not thought that Eithne would share the freedom of lesser women, being the daughter of a king; especially as her brother, Bran, had warned them so violently not to touch her.
The Roman smiled back at her, inclining his head with courtesy. ‘My body is a strongly made one, lady,’ he said. ‘I have made it so in the performance of my military exercises. That is all I dare say.’
The girl nodded ruminatively, and said, ‘Your brother, the Celtic Duatha, is well-formed; but his legs are thin. That comes from riding all the time, when he should be walking, I think.
My brother, Bran, is well-shaped, too, though he is a little thick about the waist. Bran loves cream and honey, and in the winter time eats too much meat. Otherwise, he would be a perfect man. I have noted his body when he has been wrestling with the other young men in our compound. They do not allow the women to be present, but we watch from the high windows. It is well-known.’
There was something in the girl’s simplicity which appealed to the Roman, a quality of innocence which no Roman girl of her age would have had still.
Gemellus answered, ‘That is very interesting, Eithne the Princess, but you must now go back to your brother, Bran, or he will be angry with you.’
The Roman turned away then, to contemplate the doves, which were still talking to each other in their soft yearning voices. Suddenly he heard a little splash and the
n felt a wet touch on his face. Eithne was standing beside him in the stream, gleaming with water, her naked body lit by the sun which filtered through the foliage above them.
‘See, Roman,’ she said, ‘I too am well-formed, my women tell me so.’
She stood back a little so that he might admire her. Her hair fell over her white shoulders, giving her the wild look of a water nymph. Gemellus noticed that her arms and breasts were covered with a myriad of little freckles. The gold of her ear-rings arid spiralling bracelets gave her a curiously regal appearance.
With some surprise, the Roman observed that her legs, from knee to groin, were tattooed with an intricate design in blue and red. It was as though a Celtic dragon had coiled his tail round and round her.
Hall-teasing, Gemellus said, ‘Where does the design finish, Princess? I can only see part of it from where you stand.
The girl bent with a laugh and scooped up a handful of water. She flung it over him, blinding him for the moment. Then she turned and splashed away along the stream.
‘You must catch me, Roman!’ she called back, ‘if you wish to find out the answer to your question! I have been taught not to be too free with strangers, especially Romans!’
But Gemellus did not follow her. Instead, he waded back to the bank of the stream and sat down to dry his own feet and legs. As he did so, the girl’s brother, Bran, stepped from behind - the hawthorn bush where he had been standing. He smiled down at the Roman, and then sat beside him.
‘My sister is young, Roman,’ he said. ‘She does not yet understand that love is something more than a moment’s game with the flesh. I am glad that you did not treat her shamefully, for if you had done so, I should have thrown this knife into your back,
He held out his hand. In it lay a broad-bladed hunting knife with a heavy stag-horn haft. Gemellus took the knife and balanced it in his own palm.
It was very heavy, he found, but would be ideal for throwing. He handed it back wryly to the Celt and said, with a smile which twisted the corners of his mouth, ‘I too am glad that I did not let your sister tempt me with her naughtiness. Glad for and glad for you too—for the Prefect of the Second would no doubt have crucified you for killing a Decurion of the Legion.’