Red Queen, White Queen Read online

  All that and his stomach had worried him enough. And now there was this envoy from the General, the Legate Suetonius Paulinus, ordering him to put the Legion into the field immediately and march to meet the Icenian Queen, before the insurrection covered the whole Province.

  The man stood before the marble table now, splendid in his purple cloak and the gold helmet with the lion’s head engraved on its visor, and the tall black horsehair plume’, after the old Greek style.

  ‘I tell you, Prefect,’ he said, in his Military Academy voice, ‘I tell you, the Legate is most concerned, most concerned. Reports have reached His Excellency that the only move you have made is to send four men, none of them experienced in such matters, to assassinate the Icenian woman. In the opinion of His Excellency, that is not sufficient action; it-is not good enough, I report his very words.’

  The tired Prefect of Glevum pressed his thin hands to his palpitating stomach and said weakly, ‘Sir, a man must do as he must. If I had moved the Legion earlier, the tribes of this area would have been up, and would have struck the Legate from the rear while he was in the West. I did what I considered to be politic. As a codicil to that statement, I would like to add that the Second Legion is not ready to march, and could not be got ready to march for at least three weeks.’

  The envoy broke in, ‘The Ninth Legion is ready to march, sir.’ ‘Yes,’ answered the Prefect drily, ‘the Ninth is commanded by a madman. A half-dead madman, sir!’

  The envoy drew himself up in annoyance.

  ‘A madman may often make a good soldier, Prefect, he said. ‘And the Ninth is commanded by a soldier.’

  The Prefect of Glevum rose unsteadily from his chair. He walked over to the splendid envoy, quite under control, and stood before him, swaying slightly on his feet.

  ‘Sir,’ he said gravely, ‘I am getting to be an old man, in body if not exactly in years. I am no longer capable of, or. even interested in, quick action. The Legate has known that long enough, yet has refused to consider my offer to resign. He said that there was nothing he cared to do about it, and now I reply that there is little I care to do about it. I shall stay here and hold Glevum, till the last tile is burned from the last house, and the last man lies grinning in the last gutter. But I will not march to meet Boudicca. I will not shift an inch from Glevum, though Caesar himself commands it.’

  The envoy sighed deeply and examined his fine fingernails.

  ‘As I see it, sir,’ he said gently, ‘you have only one course, open to you, if you refuse to obey the Legate’s command.’

  The Prefect walked over to the cabinet at the back of the room. In it hung his full armour, helmet, shield and swords— the short gold-hilted gladius and the long bronze spatha.

  ‘You mean the sword bargain?’ he asked, half-turning with a wan smile.

  The, envoy nodded, smiling as though they spoke of the merits of a racing dog.

  The Prefect gazed at his face for a moment, then said, ‘If you had to take the sword bargain, friend, which one would you choose to fall on, the long one or the short?’

  The envoy strolled over to the cabinet and surveyed the weapons with a critical eye. At last he turned and said drily, ‘Neither, Prefect. They both need cleaning. I should claim the privilege of changing my mind, and should march to meet Boudicca. The Celts keep their weapons polished at the least.’ On his way out, he met the Lady Lavinia, who was coming in to speak to her father about Gemellus once again. The envoy stopped, sweeping his purple cloak about his body in a fine gesture.

  The girl stared through him as though she had not noticed him. But she had; and what she was thinking was that Gemellus was twice the man this one was. And if, when he returned, she could arrange for him to hold Tribune rank, he would look four times the man.

  And she went in to her father, dreaming of the brazen trumpets blowing as she and her Tribune husband Gemellus entered their box at the theatre in Rome….

  22: Fourth Day

  The dawn of the fourth day found the three wanderers well into Icenian territory. Now the oak forests had given way for the time being to undulating wold country, where the hawk hovered above the limestone outcrops that jutted, here and there, like the teeth of a lichened monster, and the wolf howled distantly from hidden caves.

  Gemellus, unused to riding, walked ahead, leading the horse on which Eithne rode, mourning her brother. Duatha rode behind, his knees drawn up, his head bent. Dagda and Aba Garim had been his companions since he first took command of the troop of horse, and now they were gone, finished; he would see them no more.

  Gemellus had lost no one; yet his grief was the most piercing of all, for he thought not of one person but of all the world. If these men of Britain behaved so to each other, like wild beasts flaring suddenly into murderous fury, then so did the men of Gaul, and Caledonia, and Hibernia, and Scythia. What hope was there for them? What had Rome the power to do that would change the nature of this violent barbarian world?

  And Rome herself, she was not free of treachery and this bloodshot disease of the spirit. At the head of all things, Nero arranged this man’s murder, that man’s torment; and below him, a hundred officials schemed and arranged this and that to suit their own purposes and ambitions…. What could Rome do to heal the savage world, when she herself was a savage beneath the white toga, the gay tunic?

  Then above him suddenly Eithne spoke, startling him out of his daydream.

  ‘My brother Bran is gone,’ she said, staring before her. ‘My father, King Drammoch, will disown me for giving myself, as he will say, to the Romans. I am alone now.’

  Then she began to weep.

  Gemellus patted her on the ankle, in a friendly fashion, and smiled up at her, though his heart was not smiling, to try to console her.

  ‘Have courage, Princess Eithne,’ he said. ‘There is a pattern decreed for each one of us. Mithras, the God of Light, will see to it that your pattern is fulfilled If only you will abandon yourself to it. You must accept what befalls you, without too much lamentation, for all the tears in the world will not change that which has already happened. You must accept.’

  The girl smiled ruefully and said, ‘Yet you would not accept me as your wife,’ she said. ‘I offered myself, and my brother offered me. Yet you would not accept that offer.’

  Gemellus said gently, ‘It is one thing to advise, another to follow one’s own teaching! Yet, if I had been convinced that you were part of the pattern of life decreed for me by Mithras, perhaps I should have accepted you, Princess.’

  Eithne answered, ‘If I were not part of your pattern, I should not now be leading you to the summer pavilion of Boudicca. It is clear to me that the gods decided I must go with you, so that when my brother died there would be someone to see that you fulfilled your mission, your destiny in destroying the queen. Is that not answer enough to all the questions we have asked ourselves?’

  The Roman smiled at the girl’s reasoning. Yes, Claudius Caesar had been right, very right, in complimenting the intelligence of these British Celts. They were expert in picking up any foreign idea which suited them, and in turning it to their own purposes.

  As they went on he said, ‘Yes, but the fact that you are a part of my pattern of life, of the design which the gods have drawn to represent my journey towards the grave, does not necessarily mean that I must marry you, Princess!’

  The girl suddenly turned away from him as she rode, giving a deep sigh of frustration and annoyance. ‘You go back on your own words, Roman,’ she said. ‘How can we Britons trust such as you when you use words to baffle your opponent, not to enlighten him?’

  Gemellus was thinking that many Romans had married Celtic women in Britain, and he had always despised them for going native, for losing their grip on the high standards of Roman life. And with a start he recalled once more that his own father, the Centurion, had done just that; though in his case things were a little different, for he had been blinded, and a blind man seeks comfort from the cruel darkness that fills his
brain. The woman, Centennial, had been eyes and warmth and protection to the ruined soldier…. But Gemellus thought that he could never marry a British woman and still keep his self-respect.

  He said, ‘Eithne, the Princess, I am an ambitious soldier. The Army is my life, my profession. When I have served my time, I shall sign, on yet again. And when at last I am no longer of use to the Empire, I shall be taken care of by Rome, shall be given money, a farm, cattle. You see, for the faithful servant of Rome, there is safety and comfort. There is another life waiting after one has finished one’s trade as a soldier. But consider the case of the Roman who marries a girl of this island; she does not understand the ideals of Rome. She is anxious only that he shall stop being a soldier as soon as he may. Sometimes she will even persuade him to desert, to break his oath to the Emperor, and to go away with her to some stinking village, where he will wear filthy hides, sleep on old rags, and become the father of a herd of squalling brats before he is forty. Then what is left for him, but poverty, a nagging wife, and his dreams of the Legion…….

  How could such a man be happy, left to live out his days among folk whose gods are not his, whose language is not his…?’

  The girl turned back to him and said gravely, ‘You paint the blackest picture, Gemellus Ennius. You describe some half witted mercenary soldier, who lies with the first slut of a common village girl to offer herself. It would be the same in any land, given two such people. The fault lies in them, not in the situation of which they are a part. But we are talking of something different. You are a Decurion, and an educated man. I am the daughter of a king. I assure you that my father has enough wealth to build us a house which would equal that of any great Roman Legate; and I assure you that I do not propose to fill my house with the herd of squalling brats you describe.’

  Gemellus looked up in amazement at the girl. She was quick and intelligent—she reasoned well and with dignity. He had met many prosperous ladies in Rome, the wives of merchants and Army officials, who had the reputation of breeding and education, but could not have expressed themselves as this native girl did.

  Yet, all the same, there was nothing in that to change his mind. Suppose something happened that altered his outlook completely; suppose he did fall in love with this girl and marry her; what future was there for her, in spite of her father’s wealth? She would never be accepted among good Roman families. Always they would be doomed to associate only with other people in the same state, or with the tribesmen… the men who lived in beehive huts and ate and drank from greasy wooden bowls, and paved their floors with dried cow-dung.

  He looked up at the girl and said, ‘Princess Eithne, I am conscious of the honour that you offer me. But I must refuse it. It would be unfair and unjust, both to you and to me, if I were to take you as my wife. Let us leave it at that.’

  The Princess Eithne drew her hood over her red hair and looked into the distance, where the grey hills loomed under a dark storm cloud.

  ‘Be it as you will, Roman,’ she said. ‘I have told you what was in my heart, and it has cost me some effort. Yet I am a Princess and must not cheapen myself further. I shall mention it no more. But before I am silent, I shall tell you for the last time that I love you.’

  Then she began to weep bitterly, and it was all Gemellus could do not to pull her gently from the horse and enfold her in his arms, he was so touched.

  23: The Storm

  When Duatha caught up with them, they had descended into a low valley, where the stream-bed was dried by the long summer drought and the stones which had been washed up in heaps here and there stood bare and polished, like so many skulls.

  The hill slope was covered with brown grass, bare scrub, and spiked gorse. It was a place of sadness, where the few creatures made their home.

  Above them the clouds had built up, layer on dark layer, until the faint blue of the sky could no longer be seen. And beneath the battlemented ranks of clouds, a wind suddenly began to blow, chill and foreboding.

  The first large drops of rain began to fall threateningly as Duatha drew alongside them. His face was flushed with emotion.

  ‘Why did you not wait for me, you two?’ he demanded, without gentleness. ‘You saw that I was far behind you, yet you did not wait. Is that the action of a friend, a comrade?’

  Gemellus patted the Celt’s knee and said, ‘We came on at a slow pace, talking, and thought that you would catch us up easily. There was no intention to leave you behind, brother. ‘

  Duatha looked down at him, sneering, and replied, ‘You call me brother when you wish to please me. Now that you know you are in the wrong, you think it will make it all right again if you call me brother. I do not care for such friendship, or such brotherhood. ‘

  The Princess Eithne said carelessly, ‘Gemellus should have called you “little brother”, for you are acting like a child, Duatha the Prince. ‘

  The man’s nostrils curved with contempt as the girl spoke. ‘Who asked you to speak, woman?’ he almost shouted. ‘You are like all the others, you meddle where your opinions are not wanted. ‘

  The girl, who had been brought up in a house where there were many slaves and servants, and where she had always held a position of some authority, flushed with anger at this and answered, ‘If my brother Bran were here, he would knock out your teeth for speaking to me in that fashion. ‘

  Duatha was suddenly beside himself with rage. He rocked in the saddle and smote one hand upon the other, as though he had lost all sense of his situation.

  ‘I wish to Mithras he were here,’ he shouted, ‘then I would kill him again for leading us into that ambush. And I would send you with him, for tempting the Brigantes with your breasts and your eyes and your legs, you strumpet!’

  Gemellus could stand this no longer; he stretched out his hand to grasp the bridle of Duatha’s horse, which was now beginning to rear and curvet as the large raindrops struck down on its body.

  Duatha pulled away from him and struck down in his mad anger. His fist caught Gemellus beside the ear and tumbled him sideways a pace or two.

  ‘She is the cause of our comrades’ deaths!’ shouted the Celt. ‘But for her, Dagda and Aba Garim would be alive now! She is a witch!’

  Then, with a high cry, he set his horse at the hill and, amid a shower of stones and mud, gained the summit. He turned for a moment to look back and to shake his fist.

  ‘You pair of traitors!’ he called out. ‘You Celtic bitch! You Roman swine!’

  As he disappeared over the hilltop, the thunderstorm-broke and the rain fell as though it had not spent itself so since the beginning of the world.

  Gemellus rubbed the side of his face ruefully.

  ‘My brother is a strong man,’ he said, ‘and a fool.’

  Eithne sat still on her horse, her head bowed, the mad rain dripping from her shoulders. She did not seem to be aware that she was already wet to the skin.

  Gemellus went to her gently and took the horse’s bridle.

  ‘Come,’ he said, ‘we must find shelter, for it seems the gods are angry with us for questioning their ways. We must get out of this storm, Princess Eithne.’

  She allowed herself to be led along the dried-up river bed. The lightning flashed around them, but she gave no sign that she was conscious of it.

  When at last Gemellus found a shallow cave in the limestone scarp of the hillside, they were all wet through, woman, man and horse.

  24: The Fiery Cross

  The rain had dripped down on Boudicca’s encampment for half a day, and the narrow streets between the huts were almost knee-deep in water and mud and dung. Even the great summer pavilion let in this rain, which swept in mad gusts between the hide curtains and down between the hastily erected planks of the dome roof.

  The Queen lay in her sheepskin bed, silent and moody. Her daughters lay beside her, sleeping. Three tribal leaders crouched by the altar fire, trying to dry their leather jerkins and their sodden woollen plaids. Tire fire smoked, filling the place with choking fu
mes, as the rain sputtered into it from a hole in the roof.

  At last the oldest of the tribesmen rose and went towards the Queen’s bed, making a low obeisance as he drew near it.

  ‘Boudicca,’ he said, claiming the privilege of nobility and not using the woman’s title, ‘we cannot raise the tribes in weather such as this. The men could not march, the chariots could not run; the horses would founder in the mud; the supply wagons would sink axle-deep. It is not possible.’

  For a while the hunched figure of the Queen did not move. It was as though she had not heard a word the old man had said. But just as he was about to repeat his words, Boudicca flung away the covering of her bed and leaned on one elbow, her heavy hair falling in thick tresses over her full breasts.

  ‘Answer me this question, Gruoch,’ she said grimly. ‘If a mouse told a wolf that he must not hunt his prey any more, what would the wolf do, compliment the mouse on his good sense, or kill him?’

  The old man Gruoch stepped back a pace from the bed, but did not answer.

  Boudicca sat up in bed, ‘I am not holding polite conversation with you, old man; I am commanding you to answer my question. What would the wolf do, I ask again?’

  Gruoch’s old heart began to beat a little faster than he liked.

  Yet: he knew that he must answer.

  ‘Boudicca,’ he said, ‘you force this reply on me against my will. The wolf would kill the mouse, what else could a wolf do?’

  The Queen swung her legs out of bed and sat smiling up at the old man. There was something cruel, insatiable, gross, almost monstrous about the tattooed thighs and the heavily rounded belly. The old man looked away as the Queen smiled. Her husband, Prasutagus, he would have followed to the death, but this woman roused in him no feelings of loyalty. When he looked at her, heard her strong voice speaking her coarse words, he was repelled.

  Yet she attracted the younger tribesmen. Even distant peoples, like the Durotriges, the Atrebates, the Trinovantes, were flocking to her. She could call on twelve thousand men at any time. She was the eternal, fecund woman of their songs and stories, their myths; she laughed and showed her white teeth, she let her hair fall heavily about her white shoulders, she displayed her body, she made lewd gestures. And the tribesmen saw her as Earth Mother, the Giver of Life, the symbol of their own desires, their own birth and even death.