Red Queen, White Queen

by Henry Treece

  Bran pushed the knife carelessly into its sheath and plucked a feathery grass, which he began to chew.

  ‘The Prefect of the Second would not dare to touch me, Roman,’ he said. ‘My father, King Drammoch, is far too useful to him. More useful than you are, let us say. Besides, if the Prefect were so stupid as to lift a finger against me, my father would simply go over to the Queen of the Iceni, with all his warriors. It is as plain as that, Roman.’

  He smiled at Gemellus, who forced himself to smile back.’ The sunlight struck down on them both. It was too bright a day to quarrel. Gemellus said, ‘I understand you, Celt. Let us say no more about it.’

  But Bran’s face was suddenly serious. ‘I will only say this, Roman,’ he added, ‘I have seen that you are a man of honour. I am my sister’s guardian and am always on the lookout for a man of honour to whom she may give herself in marriage. I offer her to you, as your wife. It is perhaps time that she took a husband before she spoils herself. That husband shall be your self, if you so wish it. She is the only daughter of a king and will inherit lands and cattle.’

  Gemellus smiled and answered, ‘I am the son of a Centurion, a Roman soldier and citizen. Your sister would assume a place of some status if I married her. Besides which, she would become a Roman citizen too. You understand that?

  Bran nodded, eagerly; ‘Yes, we understand that, my father and I,’ he said.

  Gemellus turned his head away. So that was what they were after, he thought, Roman citizenship. It meant so much to these natives that they would barter anything for it—even their daughters. Perhaps Rome was not the old bitch, gone in the teeth, after all. Perhaps she had something to give to the world, some dignity, some honour….

  He turned back to Bran and said gravely, ‘I shall consider your proposal,’ he said. ‘But not until our mission is completed.’ The Celt’s face was troubled at these words. ‘It would be safer if you took her in marriage now,’ he said urgently. ‘Then she would be safe from the others. Besides,’ he went on almost haltingly, ‘if you took Eithne, the men of the tribes further to the east would look on you more as a friend and might help you when you needed their help.’

  Gemellus felt that the conversation had gone far enough His own face assumed the mask of gravitas. He was a Roman officer after all.

  ‘I think we have time to consider this later, friend Bran,’ he said, with what he hoped was a tone of finality.

  The Celt rose and bowed his head. ‘The offer will not be made again, by me at least, Roman,’ he said. ‘The son of a king does not hawk his goods round like a market beggar, especially to mere soldiers.’

  Then he turned and went back down the stream.

  Eithne came out of the bushes towards the Roman.

  ‘You are sitting on my gown,’ she said solemnly. She bent to drag it from under Gemellus.

  As she came near him, her breasts almost touching him, some devil of foolishness entered into him. He half-turned and reaching up, dragged her down beside him, intending to tease her.

  ‘Now what of the dragon’s tail?’ he said.

  The girl wriggled free and, while on her knees, swung round her arm so suddenly that the Roman could not avoid the smack she gave him in the mouth.

  ‘You are too late, Decurion!’ she almost spat at him. ‘Your brother, the Celt, is a quicker man. He values what is offered him and does not delay.’

  Then she snatched up her robe and ran in the direction which her brother had taken, towards the place where the horse was tethered.

  Gemellus was still rubbing his smarting face, half-angry, half-amused at the turn of events, when at the end of the glade Duatha appeared, smiling and singing quietly to himself.

  ‘Hail, brother,’ he said. ‘It appears that the little red vixen does not like Romans!’

  Gemellus felt his annoyance surge up so strongly that he could not resist his next words.

  ‘Her brother at least has offered her to me in marriage, my clever friend!’

  Duatha shrugged his fine shoulders as he walked on through the tall grasses.

  ‘That is fine,’ he said with a light laugh. ‘You wed her and I will bed her. Fair exchange among brothers, eh? After all, though I may give her amusement, from you she will get respectability!’

  Gemellus half-rose in anger at these words. Then he took control of himself and sat down again.

  What did it matter, after all, he asked himself? He was not interested in these native women. One day he would return to Rome, an ex-Centurion with money and land waiting him.

  He might even return with a fine Roman lady as his wife, for the daughter of the Prefect, the Lady Lavinia, was not a prize to be sneered at by any Decurion straight from the mud huts of Germany.

  15: Woodland Camp

  As dusk fell across the oak forest, they came to a broad clearing where the coarse grass was trodden flat and the damp ground scarred by the hoof-marks of many horses.

  Eithne was riding the pack-horse, silent and grim-faced, as though the day’s events had not pleased her, or as though her brother, who led the horse, had spoken sternly to her.

  But when she saw the hoof-marks, she held up her hand to halt the walking-party. Her brother, Bran, immediately knelt to examine the trail, like a questing animal on the scent of his prey; or a half-frightened animal startled by the spoor of his enemy.

  He rose and said in a whisper, ‘This troop of horse passed less than an hour ago. If we go on, we shall run into them wherever they have stopped to eat.’

  He had hardly spoken when the low bushes on either side of the party were swept aside and Gemellus looked up to see many men, their faces set and fierce, their arrows drawn to the head.

  They had walked into an ambush like children, wide-eyed and innocent.

  Duatha said with a faint shrug of the shoulders, ‘If these are Iceni, we might as well cut our throats here and now with the knives we are taking to finish Boudicca, brother.’

  Then a man stepped out towards them, tall and imposing, his dark face set in a cold smile. His jet-black hair was held high by bone pins; the silver rings in his ears reached almost to his shoulders; a heavy green cloak fell down to his ankles.

  Gemellus saw the horizontal blue war-marks on his checks and shuddered. This seemed to be a face from which one might expect no mercy.

  Yet, strangely, when the man spoke, his voice was gentle, though his words carried in them a certain menace.

  ‘Greetings, strangers,’ he said, with something like a sneer on his thin lips. ‘We did not think to meet anyone at this time of night in the forest. Yet there is no harm done, as yet, for we are many and you are but a few. I suggest that a fair bargain will be for you to leave the woman with us, and we will allow you to ride on without molestation, I have already observed that she is a pleasant-looking thing, and we are all in need of womanly consolation, being so far from home. No doubt you have had your fill of her and will be glad of the little bargain. After a while they become tedious, even the best of them!’

  Bran inclined his head slightly towards the stranger and said, ‘I am Bran the Prince, son of King Drammoch of the Catuvellauni. This is my sister, Eithne. It seems likely that she is to marry a Roman officer before long. She is therefore a virgin, stranger, and I would not have her ruined before the nuptials can be arranged.’

  Gemellus heard these words with a certain amusement, for he had no doubt as to the identity of the Roman to whom Bran referred. He glanced at Duatha, who merely smiled back at him and nodded, as though in approval.

  The tall stranger heard these words with a perfect composure and then replied, ‘I also am a Prince, of the Brigantes. My name is Gathwac, which in my language means “the protector of the weak”. I regret that I spoke of your sister, Eithne the Princess, as though she were a common woman. I ask that she pardons my words, and in return I shall treat her according to her rank, and shall respect her marriage contract.’

  Then he dropped his eyes for an instant before he went on. Gemellus n
oted how fine an actor he was.

  ‘But,’ he said, ‘if the Lady Eithne chooses of her own free will to console us, that is a different matter. She has that right, according to our law, and only her future husband may prevent her from fulfilling her desires.’

  Then Gemellus was aware that the eyes of the girl, of Bran her brother and of Duatha were turned on him, as though they were waiting for him to speak, to say that he forbade Eithne to lie with these men. But the Roman did not say a word. Instead, he felt suddenly incensed that he should have such a situation thrust upon him, should be forced to pledge his word to this woman without being allowed to follow his own free will. He told himself that he was free of any obligation towards her, that he did not love her, that she must do as she pleased as far as he was concerned.

  When Bran spoke again, it was with some bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Gathwac of the Brigantes,’ he said, ‘you are many and I am one. How can I protect my sister if no one will come to my aid? I ask only this, that you give me a sword and let me finish myself honourably here before you all. My ghost may then return to the house of my father, King Drammoch, without shame.’

  Bran stepped forward, holding out his hand. But Gathwac came to meet him, striding impetuously and holding out his own hands.

  ‘It would be a shame for such a dutiful brother to spill his own blood here in the forest,’ he said gently. ‘Let us not speak any further of this affair, since it causes you so much pain. After all, we are simply birds of passage through your country, and have no right to make such bargains about such a valuable lady. We are merely wandering tribesmen who thought to gain a little profit by the disturbed state of the midland country; we have come south and have picked up a few dozen horses, cheaply…’

  He smiled as he spoke that last word. Gemellus had little doubt about what that word implied.

  Then Duatha spoke and said, ‘Prince, this is a fortunate meeting, for I too am of noble blood. I am Duatha, son of Queen Centennial. I am in a way fortunate above other men, for my father was a Centurion of Rome.’

  The Brigantian Prince bowed and smiled with sarcasm.

  ‘Hail, Roman,’ he said. ‘And how did you find your friend the Prince Nero when last you supped with him?

  Duatha’s lean face flushed, yet his words were quiet and controlled. ‘He was well, Prince Gathwac,’ he said. ‘And sent his greetings to you, saying that he might, soon visit you to collect the taxes on your recent bargain with the horses. He asked me, furthermore, to request you not to mistranslate your name to strangers, for some of them may chance to know your language, and they would tell you straightway that it means, not “the protector of the weak”, but “the long-nosed liar who peddles horse-dung”.’

  The men at the edge of the clearing snorted with anger and drew back their arrows once again, in preparation for the death. The men about Duatha drew in their breath, in fearful expectation. Gemellus was about to step forward, to speak up for the Celt, to say that he was impulsive and not to be taken seriously, when Gathwac, the Prince, spoke again, holding up his long hands as a signal that his men should not let their arrows fly.

  He said, ‘Duatha, son of the Queen Centennial, greetings. I had thought to find a little Roman lapdog, but I find a true man, a Celt of the tribes whose honour has not been shrivelled up by living in houses and drinking Italian wine. Greetings, Duatha, and may we remain friends.’

  He held out his hands, and Duatha came to meet him, his impulsive face suddenly alive with pleasure. The two men embraced in the middle of the glade, and thenceforth walked together as far as the spot where the great herd of horses was tethered.

  Then Gathwac set him upon a black stallion and rode beside him on a white one. No one else of the Roman party was offered a horse. Bran led the pack-horse, grumbling to Eithne, who stared before her, her blue eyes cold with anger. The others trudged behind, now weary after the excitements and the journey of that third day.

  At darkness, they sighted bright fires ahead in a clearing, and heard the Prince Gathwac call out, ‘Sound the horn, Guman; let the cooks know that we have arrived. The rascals shall give us warm broth, or I will set their heads on their tent-poles as an encouragement to all the other servants!’

  Then they rode, laughing and blowing horns, into the clearing.

  16: Aba Garim

  In the middle of the glade, a young man danced in the light of many fires. His shadow mocked the movements of his arms and legs, throwing grotesque echoes among the seated tribesmen, as they ate their meat and drank their barley beer.

  The young man snapped his fingers as he jumped over the crossed swords on the turf, and sang in a high-pitched nasal voice, accompanied by pipe and drum played by a bent and white-haired man who sat at the edge of the clearing, alone, in a world of his dreams.

  The dancer sang:

  ‘We who are here as the sun sinks

  And the night-breeze stretches his arms;

  We who have watched the banners float,

  Frightening away the eagle,

  Threatening the hawk;

  We who have dared, and loved, and hated—

  Combat and leaping, fair women, enemies;

  Soon we shall pass into the dust

  ‘Soon the green grass will cover us,

  And the tree’s roots will entwine our necks

  which have known the white arms of gay girls;

  And we shall forget the surge of the chariots,

  The neighing of horses will have left our ears.

  We shall forget the tunes, the strumming of strings,

  And the sweet words of the tunes will have gone from us.

  ‘Let us dance now and drink the merry beer;

  Let us sing songs until we wake the sun;

  Let us praise our chieftains with golden words;

  Let us sink our sharp teeth in the white bread;

  Let us take the gay women as they come,

  Regretting nothing.’

  As the youth came to the last phrase, he leapt high into the air; his voice rose to a shriek. Then he fell to the turf, in a low obeisance towards the Prince, who sat between Gemellus and

  Duatha.

  ‘What do you think of our Celtic songs, Roman?’ asked Gathwac, after he had thrown a ring to the perspiring dancer.

  Gemellus scratched his chin, searching for an answer which might not offend the Prince.

  And at length he said, ‘They are very sweet, Prince. Sweeter than the songs of my own people, perhaps, for we Romans are an unpoetic, practical folk when all comes to all. Yet, all the same, if I am to be honest—and I know that you would wish me to be so—I must admit that your songs seem to be too much concerned with death and sadness.’

  Duatha said, ‘Nay, brother, our songs are gay; if you listen you will hear that always we praise the things of Nature, and say that we must enjoy them while we may. What is there sad about that?’

  Gemellus answered, ‘What is sad about it is that your songs always stress that though one enjoys these things, death waits in the shadows to claim his payment for your joy. To know that a payment must inevitably be made kills one’s pleasure in the instant.’

  Men lolled everywhere at the edges of the glade, under the shelter of cloaks, or of awnings suspended from the branches.

  The glade was a little world of confused comfort and warmth and seeming friendship as the beer-jar passed round from group to group.

  Great haunches of venison hung from boughs, awaiting the knives of the cooks as they passed from group to group, feeding the weary horse-thieves.

  Gathwac smiled at the Roman and said, ‘Perhaps you are right. I should know that better if you were to sing us a song of your own folk, though. Would you do that, at the request of a Prince?’

  Gemellus rose and said, ‘I am no singer, Prince. My trade has been decided otherwise. Yet I could not refuse so courteous a request. You must forgive me if my voice does not match that of your own musician.’

  Then, in his strong
low voice, and without any accompaniment, he sang these words:

  The gold-haired girls of Germany

  Are comforting and sweet;

  The honey-cakes of Arcady

  Are very hard to beat;

  But the girls I think of marching,

  The wine I dream of parching,

  Are the black-eyed girls of Tuscany,

  The raw red wine of Crete!’

  Then, amidst the laughter, he sat down, his face a little flushed. Prince Gathwac slapped his thigh and said, ‘But, Roman, I will find you a place in my court any time you ask for one! That is the sort of song true warriors ought to sing!’

  Gemellus said, ‘That is only one of the songs we sing when we are marching, Prince Gathwac. Some of them are not so polite as that one, I can tell you!’

  Duatha said, ‘My brother is a polite young man, Prince Gathwac. You will not persuade him to sing you one of the rough songs of the Legions. But I am only an Auxiliary, and am not considered as having any right to be polite, in any case. I will sing you one of the ditties we gallop to.’

  He rose and took the little deerskin drum from the old man, and began to thrum out a galloping rhythm with his fingers. After the men about the glade had become accustomed to the beat of the song, he flung the drum back to the minstrel and then stood and sang in his light, gay voice:

  ‘Julia and Claudia and Sylvia too

  Sit on their bottoms with nothing to do

  But wait for the horsemen to ride into town,

  Then prices and honours and pants all come down.

  ‘Julia’s hair is as bright as spun gold;

  Claudia eyes are both modest and bold;

  But Sylvia’s treasures are both round and full

  If she can’t get a horseman, she’ll get a black bull!’