“Spread! Spread!”
A loud crackling of branches told her the pursuit had begun. Her bosom was labouring, her breath came in gasps so that she thought her heart must stop. She had a moment’s wish that it would stop and thrust the wish aside. One of the men was close upon her heels. Between her and the angle of the road, and above her, there were others. With a distracted sob she ran on, but her pursuer was too near. She dropped behind a bush and drew her cloak over her head and face. She made herself very small, a blot upon the ground in the shadow of a bramble. She heard the rush of a man past her hiding place. Then the sound of rustling twigs ceased altogether. He had lost her. She waited, holding her breath, until she choked for want of air. The man came back slowly and halted. She dared not steal a glance lest the whiteness of her face should gleam in the darkness. He remained very still, listening, and suddenly above her head he laughed. Before she could scream he had wrapped her cloak close about her head. He lifted her up in his arms as if she were a child. She struggled, she tried to cry out.
“Let me down.”
If not the words, her meaning reached the man. He was Bran, and he answered her savagely.
“I lost a dog today. He joined the soldiers. Women and dogs — they follow marching men.”
He carried her back towards the hollow, and suddenly he found her weight increased. Sergia had fainted.
Half an hour later a small procession moving very stealthily crossed the garden to the big door of the house. Not a light shone anywhere. But someone was watching and, as the procession mounted the steps to the broad corridor, the door swung silently open. The little company with their burdens passed in and the door was closed again. Then a small lamp was lit and held high in a hand. It was Prasutacus himself who held the lamp. He led the way into the recesses of his house.
In the camp on the top of Bignor Hill, sentinel called to sentinel that all was well.
XI. THE PLEDGE
THERE WILL BE one hour where for the first time one man will perceive the mighty thought of the eternal recurrence of all things.
— Nietzsche
An hour after daybreak the first half of the Sixth Legion, Victrix, Pia, Fidelis, swung down to Gumber corner and took the long slope to Regnum. The Tribune of the Double Cohort was missing from his post, but the Legion marched to a time-table. Precisely at that hour the second half tramped out of Hardham Mansion seven miles away across the Weald. Room must be made for it; and, as Sempronius Proculeius had said, Tribunes were two pence the big bunch. So long as the muster of Centurions was complete the Legion could carry on. Enquiries were made, but although Attilius had many friends who brought their stories to him, he had none in whom he confided. Since Calpurnius Scapula had gone he had stood a little aloof, a lonely youth of a ready and kindly humour but a tireless sentinel of himself. None knew of that green hollow on the flank of the hill. At Regnum, the primus pilus who had been seconded on Attilius’ mission of secret service sought permission from the Legate to stay behind. But since Attilius was absent, the less could he be spared. Information of the young Tribune’s disappearance was left at Regnum, but the Legion embarked for Gaul and was swept out of sight across the Channel.
It was watched from the thickets along the road and from the shores of the harbour; and the news of its movements was carried to Prasutacus who cowered in his great house, now thrilled by his audacity, now upbraiding himself for a lunatic. One moment it would be: “They’ll crucify me to my door and then burn my house down”; at another he would strut about, as arrogant as a peacock: “The Romans! Puff! I’d rub their faces in the nettle-beds as soon as look at them.”
It was the latter mood which Bran, the steward, who was always at his master’s elbow during these two days, was at pains to inflame. He was an ignorant, bumptious Mr Know-all who carried his brains in his sinews.
“There’s too much talk about the Romans!” he cried. “Fine fellows they make themselves out to be. But I fought against them with the Iceni. I know.”
“You fought against them?” Prasutacus asked, pulling at his little beard and scanning the great hulk before him with his little eyes. He had heard that story often enough and, though he wished to believe it, was never sure there was any truth in it at all.
“Heu! I fought with the Iceni,” Bran repeated, striking an attitude. “And there you have it! Now they’ve all gone helter-skelter back to their own country.”
“All?” Prasutacus asked, puffing at his lip. “I want to be sure of that. What of the Wall?”
And Bran threw back his head and roared with laughter. “The Wall! God bless you, Master, there isn’t any Wall.”
“No Wall?” exclaimed Prasutacus, his mouth hanging open.
“The Wall’s the great Lie to keep us all quiet. There you have it! I fought with the Iceni. I know.”
Bran stood there beaming. He was all swagger and bounce. Prasutacus was eager to be persuaded. For he was playing with an idea which suited his humour perfectly. It would be pleasant to have one of the conquerors as his slave, especially one who had wronged him, to set him to the meanest work, to house him in a kennel on a chain and put him up for the mockery of his friends, with a little torture to make him lively. Very delightful, but he must be sure that the Romans had gone. Rumour was out of its reckoning by three hundred years, but Prasutacus was not to know. Late in the second day, a spy returned in haste. The harbour of Regnum was empty. The soldiers had gone. A story of disaster on the Danube, of a great insurrection in Gaul, of Rome itself beleaguered, was running like fire through the town.
Prasutacus was encouraged to take his risk. He ordered his dining hail to be lit with candles and lamps as for a great feast, so that its painted wall glowed and the shining stone which faced its pillars flung back the light like mirrors. He robed himself in scarlet and clasped circlets of gold about his arms and neck. Then he dined alone on rich foods and very slowly, drinking his mellowest wine from an amber goblet and savouring even more than the wine the pleasant hour which lay ahead of him. When he had done, he washed his hands in rose water and had the table removed from before his couch and said: “I want my daughter to be brought to me.”
Sergia came proudly, though a woman of the household escorted her as her gaoler. She wore a gown of white silk and held her head high, and, though her cheeks were as white as her gown and her heart shook with fear for her lover, she met her father’s eyes so that his dropped from hers.
“You will sit here, my daughter,” he said, pointing to a chair beside his couch. “You shall thank me for my gentleness. I ask nothing more from you but that you shall sit here very quietly for a little while.”
Sergia took her seat. She was not deceived by the smooth words. But there was no escape for her. Her father had planned some dreadful vengeance. She could only wait upon opportunity and pray that it might come.
“Now,” said Prasutacus, “I can receive my guest,” and he rubbed the palms of his hands softly together, wetting his lips with the tip of his tongue.
A serf ran off, and in a little while the clang of a heavy door far away resounded in the silent house. Prasutacus was in no hurry. He had many senses to satisfy and was minded not to hasten over the satisfaction. Here was one sense to be tickled very pleasantly first of all — the sense of hearing. He leaned up on his elbow, with his eyes upon the tiles of the door. He wanted to hear, not see. He heard heavy, important footsteps — Bran, the gaoler, making the most of his gaolering. Prasutacus smiled. Just in that way Bran would convoy his prisoner. It was all very delightful. But the sound for which his ears ached did not come. He wanted to listen to a step that faltered and dragged upon the tiles and weakly stumbled, the step of a young man wounded and starving. He heard instead the pacing of a sentry.
The smile disappeared from his lips. He would not yet look, but he stretched out his head, and his neck stiffened till he had the aspect of a snake poised to strike.
“Rome!” he muttered in spite of himself. There was all Rome in th
at impossible steadiness. A man on parade, a rock that moved, indifference itself!
One tiny comfort was vouchsafed to him. He heard a moan break from his daughter’s lips, he saw her rise and sink back again as though her knees could not sustain her. There was an agreeable spectacle waiting for him when he should lift his eyes. That was evident. But hatred had dowered Prasutacus with a subtle cruelty. He regretted that he had not ordered Attilius to be brought into the hall behind his back. Then in one of those square and shining pillars of white phegnite he might have watched, as in some blurred and faulty mirror, the approach of his victim and half imagined, half descried the ravage which imprisonment had wrought in him.
Prasutacus looked up now and drew a long breath. Attilius’ hands were still bound behind him by the leather thong, on his right temple and cheek the blood of his wound was caked black, his face had thinned, the little marks of authority and time which Sergia had named were obvious now. He was a man in pain. But even so Prasutacus was vexed. Attilius stood erect; he had not a glance to spare for his captor; his eyes were on Sergia, encouraging her, as though she alone needed consolation.
“Leave us!” Prasutacus said to his servants.
Bran remained. He carried a great iron hammer in his hand. Also the woman remained who guarded Sergia, standing at the back of the chair. When the five of them were alone, Prasutacus spoke smoothly: “I owe you thanks, my Attilius, and I am in the mood to pay them. You took my daughter. But you did not flog her, which, I understand, is the kindly Roman way. Nor did you rob her of her money. My daughter is more fortunate than even a Queen, Attilius. Attilius, accept my thanks!”
He bowed and smirked, a ridiculous figure if he had not been so viperish. As it was, his very grimaces made him horrible.
“See how I imitate your clemency, Attilius. A hundred thousand Romans paid with their lives for your treatment of Boudicca. I, for your treatment of Sergia, only ask for one.”
Attilius made no reply. Indeed, there was no reply which could be made. The robbery and degradation of Boudicca, that much- wronged Queen of the Iceni, were the blackest stains upon the Roman rule. The crimes had been committed in other days when Nero reigned and Seneca despoiled. But the memory of them remained and could not be gainsaid.
“I have another cause for gratitude, my Attilius,” Prasutacus purred. “When first you honoured my house, I had put on in error the striped tunic of a Senator. It was intended as a small flattery of our conquerors. But you took it amiss, my Attilius. You questioned my taste, I think. No! No!—” he broke off to lift a hand as if deprecating an apology, though Attilius had not so much as turned his head towards him. “You were right to correct me. I don’t blame you. Indeed, I have profited by your teaching, as you see. There is no more of Rome in my dress tonight than there is in the camps of Britain?” It was a question, rather than a statement, and it was asked anxiously. But again Attilius did not answer. He would not waste what strength he had in a dispute. Let Prasutacus think what he chose. His eyes fell upon the tiles at his feet. They made a mosaic, he noticed with a fraction of his mind — a mosaic representing, of course, some classic scene and made by a British craftsman. The eager life of the animals with their back-flung ears and staring eyes and the clumsy disposition of the man, the one man in the picture, were evidence of origin not to be denied. Meanwhile Prasutacus was talking — asking questions, it seemed — and repeating them. It was all very wearisome to Attilius. He wanted rest. He was half over the threshold between the house of life and the street of death; and he had stepped with the left foot first again. He remembered with a smile the young spark in the gay clothes who, centuries ago, had stepped thus from his lodging to find a soldier of the Praetorian Guard with an order of banishment. Himself? Yes, by Hercules the God of Labour and Endurance, himself! How could that be?
Meanwhile Prasutacus asked questions which plagued his wounded head. And that queer, ill-shaped mosaic man on the pavement at his feet seemed to be trying to talk to him too. To be telling him something which he must really open his mind to and understand. But Attilius could not be bothered. His arms, for one thing, hurt him horribly; and he was not quite sure that he could stand erect very much longer.
However, the figure on the tiles insisted. He opened his mind just a little, but it was as heavy to move as an iron door upon a rusty hinge. Something, however, slipped in. That stumpy, distorted figure was not a man at all. He was a God — more than that, he was the God — the God of Gods — Orpheus. There he was, piping on his lute in the forest — the forest of Anderida, no doubt — and round about, squatting on their haunches, were the charmed animals — all sorts of them from hares to lions. Very well! Now that he had recognized his Godhead, perhaps Orpheus would kindly leave him alone. For: “I am very tired,” he said, and realizing suddenly that he had spoken aloud, he drew himself smartly up. The words were meant for Orpheus, not for Prasutacus.
Prasutacus took them, however, to himself.
“No doubt! Answer me then, my Attilius, so that my questions may cease.”
And they began again. Had the Romans left Britain? Were the Germans at the gates of Rome? Prasutacus wanted a sign, a proof.
“No, no!” cried Attilius. “The Sixth and Eighth Legions are recalled. The Thirteenth takes their place.”
“What?”
Prasutacus had started up. He was supported no longer on his elbow at his ease, but on an arm stiff from shoulder to wrist. There was terror in his eyes now. He had asked for a sign. He had it. Had Attilius said: “Other Legions will come” he might have taken it for a boast or a menace. But Attilius had named a Legion, carelessly, like a man speaking what tomorrow will be common knowledge. Slowly Prasutacus fell back, his shrewd little eyes sounding his prisoner. Attilius was too hard put to it to be practising any craft. The enterprise of Britain was to continue. The Thirteenth Legion was on its way, very likely had already disembarked at one of the eastern ports, Richboro’, or Lymne, or Dover. Prasutacus abandoned on the instant his pleasant dream of a slave and a whip and many evenings with a tortured Attilius for a butt. The whole affair, capture and punishment, must be done with, obliterated, tonight.
“You are quite sure, my Attilius?” he insisted. “The Thirteenth Legion takes your place?”
Attilius answered mechanically. It was harder than ever to keep his wits alert. Here was Prasutacus pestering him like a wasp on the one hand, and the God of the pavement at his feet pressing upon that reluctant iron door of his mind. The God had a message and was urgent to deliver it to him before he died. But he had no wish to be troubled with it. He was one dull throb of pain from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet. Even Sergia, sitting over against him in her white gown, her face a mask of grief, was blurred.
“Oh, yes, the Thirteenth takes our place, Prasutacus.”
“And it stays in Anderida?”
“It marches to the Wall.”
Upon that a great, empty guffaw broke from Bran behind his shoulder, and the smile even returned to the mouth of Prasutacus. He ran his fingers through his little beard and tittered.
“By the way, Attilius, I am very curious. There is so much doubt about it. But is there a Wall?”
Was there a Wall? What a question for him who had frozen for two winters on it under the unkindliest cold stars which ever glittered in a sky of ebony! But he was not called upon to answer that question. Bran answered it.
“Of course there’s no Wall. I know, my master. I fought with the Iceni. And there you have it.”
“And very wisely took refuge in Anderida.”
The retort occurred to Attilius, but he did not utter it. Where was the use?
“And the road runs to the Wall, Attilius, doesn’t it?” Prasutacus went on sniggering and grimacing at him like an ape. “Dear, dear, how you wearied me with your roads! A golden post isn’t there, Attilius? You see how I remember.”
And suddenly Attilius laughed aloud. So buoyant a laugh that Prasutacus shrank back upon his couch and
gazed about him in fear lest some rescue party had crept into the house. But peer as he might, there were none but the five people in the lighted room and there was no clamour outside it. Yet Attilius laughed. Before the eyes of Prasutacus he recaptured his youth. He was fire again, not lead.
And he owed his renascence to Prasutacus. Prasutacus with his jokes had pushed that iron door wide open and let the God and his message through. He had spoken of the roads. The Golden Post had proved a golden key. Attilius had flown back in his thoughts to the inn at Lyons where a ragged and drunken Cynic had first revealed to him the romance and magic of the roads. Daemonides had talked of other things that night — the great Orphic Mysteries and the doctrines of Transmigration. The souls descending from the High Godhead through the seven planets, clothing themselves with passions as they sank, becoming men, atoning for one life with another, until, the atonement fulfilled, they mounted again from planet to planet into the whiteness of the highest Heaven. That was the message which the God pictured on the mosaic of the floor had been striving to give, which, on the end, he had used Prasutacus to deliver. It was no wonder that Attilius laughed.
But there was still something hidden from him — behind a veil of mist which shifted and grew thin. The mist would roll away if he could have a little time — Oh, not long — almost he held the final truth — a few moments— “I laugh, Prasutacus, at your ignorance,” he cried in a clear, strong voice which drew Sergia forward in her chair, her hands upon the arms of it, her white face startled into hope. He talked. If he could keep Prasutacus frightened, uncertain, he would gain the little time he needed. So he talked. There was a quotation — useful on this occasion — often heard: “Wherever the Roman conquers, he settles.” Attilius flaunted the saying in Prasutacus’ face-a great, wise saying.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 620