“Horses!” he breathed, his eyes sparkling. “That’s better than dinner!”
“We will hope to get both,” whispered Fabian, drawing his companions behind a large hazel bush, “by fair means or foul. But let’s be sure he’s alone.”
They couldn’t see the man very well, because he was sitting on the other side of the campfire, but he seemed to be large, with a mane of shaggy blond hair, drooping yellow moustaches, and a plaid mantle of a type Quintus had seen on Britons in the towns. Behind him was a native two-wheeled cart with an ox between the shafts. Around the cart were seven rough-coated ponies tethered and grazing on the lush grass.
“He seems to be alone. Let’s try our luck. Quintus, let loose your best Celtic again.”
The three walked out from the hazel bush and advanced with their arms high in token of peace while Quintus called out a friendly greeting.
The man gazed at them through the smoke of the fire. “Oho!” he called in a deep bass voice. “And what do you want of a poor unfortunate, who is protected by the gods?”
Now what does he mean by that? Quintus thought, not sure he had understood. But as they walked nearer, he and the others paused in consternation.
In the face the man turned up to them, one eye was gone. Where it had been, there was a shrivelled pit, while the same blow had sliced off half his nose. Nor was this all, for on the ground beside one long tartan-covered leg, there was a stump bound neatly with the rolled up trouser. “One leg, one eye--” whispered Quintus. “He says truly that he’s unfortunate.”
The three looked at each other with the same dismayed thought. They needed food and wanted the horses and had planned to help themselves if the man resisted, but this was different. The man was a cripple.
“Who are you and where are you going, friend?” stammered Quintus.
The man flicked off a piece of crackling from the pig, ate it, and licked his fingers. The one eye peered at them sardonically. “I am Gwyndagh, a trader in horses. I travel where I wish, no man molests me.”
Which would be as true for Romans as it was for Britons. In both countries cripples such as this were considered to be under direct supervision of the gods who had punished them, gods jealous of their rights, and who would send fearful wrath on a person who mistreated one of their chosen.
“We need to eat, O Gwyndagh,” said Quintus, sighing and glancing hungrily at the roasting pig. “And we badly need horses to carry us on a journey of great importance. Can you think of any way we can get these things?”
It was hard to be sure, but it seemed that beneath the greasy yellow moustache there was a smile. The shrewd eye roamed calmly over each of the young men.
“Come here--all three of you,” said the horse dealer at last They came slowly and stood close to him. He raised his hand and pointed a finger at Dio. “Say the words ‘Caesar Augustus Nero, Emperor of Rome,’ “ he commanded. Dio was so astounded to hear this come out in passable Latin that he stifled a gasp and looked for help to Quintus, who did not know what to make of it either.
“Say those words,” repeated the cripple sternly, “or you have no chance of help from me.”
Dio swallowed and said, “Caesar Augustus Nero, Emperor of Rome,” very fast, while Gwyndagh listened critically. “Now you,” he said, turning to Fabian, who hesitantly complied, and then Quintus.
“So,” said Gwyndagh. “I thought so. You are Romans, though you try to hide it--legionaries too. I see by the shape of the swords.”
“You see a great deal with that lone eye, good Gwyndagh,” said Quintus, still trying to brave it out “But how can you be sure? My friends may have stolen the swords.”“That might be,” agreed Gwyndagh, twirling the spit nonchalantly. “But there is no way to steal the true accent of a Roman when he salutes his Emperor!”
So that was that. And no more use pretending.
“Well... “ said Quintus uncertainly, for he could not tell how this revelation of their nationality affected the man. “You are right. But we still need meat and horses. We have some money--Roman money, but not enough to pay you fairly.”
“You are honest,” said Gwyndagh, breaking off another piece of crisp pork skin. “It is not believed by many of my fellow Britons, but some Romans are honest. I might trust you with three of my horses. I might trust you with half my pig, except that you will soon fight the British forces and will certainly be killed. Then I would be quite out of pocket”
Quintus translated this to Dio and Fabian, while Gwyndagh listened intently. He understood much Latin, having lived in London and purveyed horses to the Roman government.”Then there’s nothing for it,” said Fabian to Dio and Quintus, “but to pay for the pig and take three horses, whether he likes it or not.”
“And brave my curse? The curse of the gods? Of the all-powerful Lugh who rules the earth and skies?” cried Gwyndagh in a great solemn voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Quintus, “but we must chance it. And the curse of Lugh will doubtless not affect a Roman.” Gwyndagh considered this in silence, then appeared to make up his mind. “Very well,” he said. “Give me what money you have, and do as you like. In truth I am pleased to ill serve the Icenians since it was an Icenian chariot of the whirling knives that did this,” he pointed to his face, “some years ago. This”--he pointed to his amputated stump--”came from another cause we won’t go into.”
“Many thanks,” said Quintus fervently, and the other two echoed him.
Gwyndagh shrugged. “If you are not killed--which, I repeat, seems improbable--I’ll find you again some day, never fear. And get back my horses.”
“You shall have them!” cried Quintus. “And a pouch of gold as well. We promise you!”
Fabian made a grimace at this exuberance, but he said nothing. They sat down beside Gwyndagh and since the pig was roasted, split it carefully. They ate a portion of their half, stowed the rest in their bags, paid Gwyndagh all their coins, and departed with the three likeliest ponies.
The last they saw of the horse dealer, he was clambering into his cart, managing skilfully on his one leg. He saw them looking after him and raised his arm in a philosophic wave, that showed he bore no resentment.
“I think our luck has turned,” said Dio. “And now we can really hurry--thanks be to Fortuna!”
CHAPTER IX
After leaving the horse dealer, the three Romans forded the Thames and slept a few hours in the Vale of the Great White Horse, within sight of that strange chalk beast, big as a village, which the ancient people had long ago carved out of the green hillside.
The white horse with its long spindly legs and snaky head was worshiped by the Atrebates, and this was the heart of their country. The three young men, therefore, proceeded with great caution, but they had no further adventures. They climbed to the Ridgeway track which they followed for some time. It was almost deserted. The natives they did pass occasionally were old or very young, and incurious. It was clear that the vigorous portion of the Atrebate population was not there, and all too easy to guess where they had gone.
Calleva, the Atrebate capital near Silchester, also seemed deserted, a circumstance which Fabian found sinister. He told the others that once there had been a Roman camp adjoining the British town, where for some years following the Claudian conquest, the Atrebates had lived on friendly enough commercial terms with their conquerors. But now the Roman camp was as abandoned as the town seemed to be, though the three young men dared not investigate closely.
But they found mute testimony of what must have happened as they picked up the road again the other side of town and nearly stumbled over the body of a man in a Roman jerkin. The jerkin was marked with the sign that showed him to be a veteran of the legions. The Roman sprawled face down as though felled in a frantic rush to escape. The back of his head was crushed in; the blood-stained slingshot stone which had crushed it lay beside him.
“There were sights like these along the way when I marched down from Lincoln with the Ninth,” said Quintus grimly, turning from the de
ad Roman. “And we dare not even take the time to give him burial rites.”
“No,” said Fabian.
Nobody spoke again for a long time. They followed the good road that the Romans had built, and the next noon came upon a milestone that said “A Londinio XX.” The milestone had been overturned; filth and the half burned entrails of some animals were scattered on it.
They gazed at this small senseless expression of hatred, then Fabian said, “Twenty miles to London, or what was once London, but ‘Caesar’s Camp’ is considerably nearer. We’ll soon know now if Suetonius is there.”
They kicked the horses’ flanks and broke into a rough gallop.
The sun came out from behind clouds. It shone upon the loops and windings of the Thames and it shone--after they had struck through forest and emerged onto a broad heath--upon the sight they had all prayed to see. Above strong circular ramparts made of earth and timber and stone, the eagle standard reared itself proudly and the imperial flag was flying!
They dismounted by the great ditch which was the outer ring of fortification, and suddenly all three of them looked at each other, and joined hands in a firm quick clasp. They needed no words to seal their friendship; the recognition of all they had been through together, and of what was still to come, was enough for each of them.
Leading the horses, they strode to the first sentry post The lookout on the ramparts had already seen them and recognized Dio and Fabian.
Here there was no difficulty, no mystery as at Gloucester’s fortress. Here they were received with shouts of joy, and backslappings, and a chorus of eager excited questions. “Where’s the Second? Are they just behind? We’ve been watching for days!”
The questions were soon repeated by the governor himself, for they were ushered at once to Suetonius’ red and white striped tent in the centre of the fort He got up to receive them, his heavy-jawed ruddy face alight with relief. “Welcome! Welcome, imperial messengers!” he cried. “You too?” he added, recognizing Quintus with a smile. “So you are all together. Ah, this is good news. Where’s General Valerianus and the Second? Are you much ahead of them?”
“Your Excellency,” Fabian dropped to one knee, and, fixing his eyes on the governor’s gilded sandals, continued very low, “we bring bad news.... The Second Legion has not left Gloucester.”
“Not left Gloucester! But this is monstrous. I can’t delay battle much longer. It’ll take at least five days’ march to bring the whole legion. What’s the matter with them? When are they starting?”
Fabian grew very pale. He cast one quick glance toward Dio and Quintus, then-raised his eyes resolutely to the governor’s empurpling face. “They are not starting, I’m afraid--Your Excellency.”
The governor’s harsh breath rasped through the tent “Have they been slaughtered? Has the fortress fallen? By all the gods, what has happened?”
“Nothing has happened to the legion, Excellency, they’re all right--I--we--” Fabian looked beyond the governor to the officers and guards clustered around the back of the tent and the entrance.
“For the honour of Rome, Excellency, it is better that we tell you alone,” he said very low.
It looked as though the governor’s ready and violent temper might get the better of him, but he restrained it and made a signal. The other men left the tent, all but the general of the Fourteenth, and Petillius Cerealis of the Ninth, who had greeted Quintus with a quick look of welcome. These two stood behind the governor as Fabian explained what had happened to the Second.
“You mean,” roared Suetonius, banging his fist on the table, “that because Valerianus is a madman, and the prefect a coward, the Royal ‘Augusta’ Legion refuses to obey my orders? You mean that half of Rome’s military force in Britain is bottled up useless on the other side of the island, while the Britons are preparing to massacre us all?”
“It is so, Excellency.”
“Do you two say the same?” said the governor looking at Dio and Quintus.
They bowed their heads. “It is so, Excellency.”
Suetonius slumped heavily onto his chair. Beneath the brilliant gilt of his cuirass, his shoulders sagged. The thick fingers of his right hand drummed slowly on the table top, while he stared, frowning, at the wooden floor. “Leave me alone, all of you!” he muttered. “You’ll get your orders later.”
Silently, the two generals and the three messengers filed out of the tent.
General Petillius put his hand on Quintus’ shoulder as they started across the parade ground. “Come with me--I want to talk to you.”
In Petillius’ quarters, Quintus enjoyed the first full meal he had had in days. His general sent for a flask of Gaulish wine and indulgently watched Quintus drink and eat, forbearing as yet to question him.
“You don’t eat too, sir?” asked Quintus timidly, after a bit.
“No, I’m not hungry,” said Petillius briefly, though his tired eyes smiled. Quintus saw that there were new grooves in Petillius’ thin cheeks; he no longer seemed like a very young general. Suddenly Quintus guessed.
“This is your own supper I’m eating, isn’t it, sir?” he said unhappily. “Food must be getting very low in camp.”
“We’ll hold out a few more days,” said Petillius. “Boadicea’s forces too are short of provisions. They’ve descended like a storm of locusts on all the country north of the Thames. And they sowed no crops this spring--so certain were they of victory.”
“I wonder they haven’t crossed the Thames and attacked us,” said Quintus, putting down his wine cup. “We--Dio, Fabian, and I--were dreadfully afraid of that during these days we were struggling to get here.”
“Boadicea is so confident that she’s been in no hurry for the final showdown. These three weeks since the sack of Colchester, and our”--Petillius paused and went on through tight lips--”the disaster to the Ninth, she’s been fully occupied, burning and plundering--London, Colchester, St. Albans. She’s managed to torture and kill about fifty thousand civilians as well. She has--as I say--been busy.”
Petillius’ dry understatement awakened Quintus to the immediate gravity of the crisis. He felt a thrill of hatred for the Queen, a thrill intensified by the memory of her behaviour to Regan. And yet in justice he could not help saying, “Boadicea was terribly wronged, sir, in the beginning. I was there and I saw. I saw her while Catus’ slave flogged her. I heard the two princesses screaming when Catus’ men--”
“I know.” Petillius cut him short. “Rome has made a series of incredibly stupid blunders, of which my own is not the least. We have through our own folly let loose a monster of death and destruction. But this monster must be cut down so that peace can return to Britain.”
Peace here? Quintus thought--and could not imagine it
“Sometimes the sword is the only way to peace, Quintus,” said his general quietly. “Now I want you to tell me in detail exactly what has happened to you during these seven days since I saw you last at Chichester, when you were disguised as a very peculiar Silure, jogging on a native pony between a villainous looking Briton, and an extremely pretty girl!” The twinkle flickered briefly in Petillius’ hazel eyes.
“Yes, sir,” said Quintus, colouring a little. “But, sir--I don’t suppose you’d know about it, but I’ve been worrying a bit about my horse, Ferox. Do you suppose he was brought here from Chichester with the other cavalry horses? He’s an awfully good mount, sir,” Quintus finished quickly, loathe to have his general suspect sentimental fondness for the horse.
“Your Ferox is here,” said Petillius, smiling. “I saw to that myself.”
Quintus sent the general a look of passionate gratitude and launched at once into a carefully unemotional report of his journey.
Petillius listened without interrupting, and at the end he nodded. “Yes, there’re some bits of information here which’ll be useful, however disquieting. So the Dobuni and Atrebates are also joining Boadicea?--well, at least we’ve got the Regni with us.”
“As auxiliaries, sir?
”
“Yes. The old King Cogidumnus let us have a couple of thousand men. They’re not up to our regulars, of course, but they’ll fight all right”
“How many are we altogether, sir?” asked Quintus. He had been speculating anxiously on this question with Dio and Fabian and was not sure he would be trusted with such an important military secret. But Petillius had throughout this interview been treating him without consciousness of rank and he answered at once.
“Our force consists of the full Fourteenth, six thousand in all, a third of the Twentieth, plus the Regni and a sprinkling of Cantii warriors from Kent We have altogether a bare ten thousand.”
They were both silent, thinking of Boadicea’s forces, which now numbered sixty thousand at least--probably more.
“Yes,” said Petillius, reading Quintus’ expression. “It is not a very bright picture.” He made a sharp dismissing gesture with his hand and changed the subject. “All that Druid business you told me is interesting. So you think you have forgotten a day, do you?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure of it. I’m beginning to think I got to Stonehenge, for I keep remembering little bits. I think I met the Arch-Druid too--he was Regan’s--that’s the girl --Regan’s grandfather.”
“Aha,” said the general thoughtfully. “I met Conn Lear once--a remarkable man. I don’t agree with our governor that all Druids should be exterminated--but that’s neither here nor there. Tell me every single thing you can remember about the Druid stronghold.”
Quintus complied, and the general listened carefully. Then he said, “Quintus, you had some special reason for volunteering to take that mission to the west, didn’t you? I could see that.”
“Yes, sir, to find the bones of my ancestor, Gaius Tullius, who was killed there by the Druids during Caesar’s campaign.”
“And did you find them?”
Quintus shook his head. “I’m sure I didn’t. I seem to remember speaking about it, and that someone--Conn Lear, I think--grew frightfully angry.”
“And was the girl angry too?--ah, never mind, I shouldn’t have asked that,” Petillius smiled. He started to say something else, but they both turned as a messenger ran into the tent and, kneeling, murmured to the general. Petillius rose. “This is what I’ve been expecting. The governor has decided on a course of action. He’ll speak to the troops at sunset.”