Legions of the Eagle Read online

  “You must be proud of such a father,” said Gwydion.

  “I thank the gods for letting us find him again,” said the young Roman. “And for giving me a comrade like you,” he added, but under his breath, for his education had been based on Spartan precepts, which taught that it was unmanly to make any show of the emotions.

  Gwydion looked away for a second or two, suddenly remembering that day above Camulodunum when his own father’s chariot tilted before the charging legions. Then, shaking the water from his eyes, he smiled and with a typical Celtic bravado, punched Gaius lightly in the chest.

  It was a blow which carried more love in it than any caress. It was also an expression of the boy’s relief that, so unexpectedly, they had found Gracchus again. At least this was something salvaged from the ruinous chaos that now seemed to be sweeping across Britain.

  7. THE BEEHIVE HUT

  The centurion lay still now. There was a long, deep wound across one temple which must have come from a javelin thrust or a sling-shot. His right leg lay twisted beneath him and had every appearance of being broken. But, as far as the boys could tell, he was not gravely wounded, - that is, if they could get him away to warmth and comfort before he caught a chill in the night air and took a fever.

  Now Gwydion began to run here and there among the debris of the field, searching for something which might act as a stretcher. He returned at last with the broken shafts of two banners and a cloak or two. He had also found various pieces of clothing, a tunic and a pair of brightly-coloured Celtic breeches, together with a belt. They had been lying in a heap, he said, as though foragers had collected them for future disposal but had left them temporarily.

  So together the boys wrapped up the unconscious soldier as best they could, and tied the cloaks about the flag-staffs to make a stretcher. As they rolled the wounded man on to this, he groaned and called out for his son. Gaius stroked his hand and told him that he was there, though it was apparent that the man did not understand what was said, for he continued to speak of Gaius as though he was not there.

  At last the boys began their slow march away from the grim battlefield of Mai Dun, bearing well to the east at first, in case later bands of armed men should visit the place of slaughter and discover them. By now both Gaius and Gwydion were almost exhausted with hunger and the long journey of the day. They had had little to eat and only spring water to drink; but there was no time now to think of that, and they staggered on under their heavy load, with each step putting a little more distance between the nightmare field and themselves.

  At the dead of night, they turned off their course into a small wood, and rested for a while in a moonlit glade. They moved on, however, when a skin-clad herdsman looked at them round a tree, threatening them with an ancient spear and shouting to them in a language that even Gwydion found it difficult to understand.

  After that, they trudged on and on almost till dawn broke, and at last, in a little valley, came upon a solitary house, in the old beehive shape, nestling in the shadow of a clump of pine-trees. From the carefully-tended fields about this house, it seemed that its owner was a hardworking, respectable person. As they drew nearer, a black-and-white shepherd dog ran out towards them, wagging his long tail and baring his teeth at the same time. The dog stopped a few yards away from them, and began to growl. Gwydion drew his knife, resting one shaft of the stretcher on his raised thigh, and threatened the dog; but this only made it bark more angrily. Gaius said, ‘fit is useless; this is a faithful beast, and it would be wrong to harm him. We must wait,”

  They set the stretcher down on the hillside and sat down in the damp grass of dawn, while the dog circled them, sniffing and barking at every step or so. At last a man came out of the hovel, carrying a billhook in his hand, and peering up the hill, shading his eyes with his hand. He whistled to the dog, which dropped its tail and ran back to him, belly close to the ground. Then he shouted, “Throw away your weapons and come down here. There is food for you if you come in peace.”

  He was a big man, but quite old. He wore a soft leather cap which dangled about one ear, and a loose gown of grey wool that reached down to his knees. Below this, the boys saw his wide Celtic trousers, brightly patterned in squares of red and yellow, held in tight at the ankle by leathern thongs.

  Gwydion said, “This is a man of the Durotriges. They are mainly farming folk, herdsmen, and do not go into battle often—though they are stout to defend what they call their rights. This one will be good to us if we do not try to trick him.”

  The boys walked down towards him with their hands wide apart, so that he could see their weaponless state. He lowered his billhook as they approached and said, “Who is that who lies up the hill on the stretcher?”

  Gaius said, “It is my father, sadly wounded at Mai Dun.” The old man gazed up the hill, seeing the tartan that covered the body. “There is always room in my house for a good Celt,” he said. “Bring him down. He will die of cold up there, for the sun has yet to warm the air.”

  He paid no more attention to them, but turned and went into his house. When the boys returned with the centurion, there was a blazing fire in the middle of the earthen floor, and steam already rising from the metal pot which swung on a tripod above it.

  When they had eaten and had forced some nourishment into the throat of the Roman, Gaius stood up and said simply, “Master, I am a Roman and this is my father. I have no wish to deceive you. If you tell us that we must leave your house, we shall go, as soon as my father is warmed; and we shall thank you forever in our prayers for your kindness.”

  The old man lay beside the fire stroking the dog, which was now quite docile, and seemed to have taken to the visitors. He drank from his horn-cup without looking at the boy and said, just as simply, “It was wrong of you to wrap your father in the tartan of the enemy, for that is deceit, and a man should be prepared to face the world without such tricks. But you are a young man of truth, I can hear that in your straight speech, and such folk are not many in the world today. I say to you, that whether you be Roman or Celt, it matters not, provided you act fairly with me. I serve no lord here; I am my own master. I shall not run off to tell anyone that you are here. You may stay until you wish to go. If you are handy lads in the field, or at keeping an eye on the sheep, then I shall count it a blessing that you came this way. As for the man, I have some skill in herbs and cures, and what I can do, that I shall.”

  Gaius held out his hand to the old man, who took it, smiling that a mere boy should behave in such an adult manner.

  “Now sit you down again,” he said, “and drink another cup of this hot broth, while I look at the man and see what injuries he has gathered.”

  So, after many weary miles, the boys found a home, and Gaius and his father were reunited.

  Part Three

  1. WHO DARES PICK HERBS?

  Gracchus, the centurion, recovered but slowly. The wound in his temple healed within a few weeks, but his broken right leg took months to knit properly, and it was spring again before he could walk without pain. At first, overjoyed that his son had found him, he did not wish for any other company than Gaius, and Gwydion often wept in the dark to think that Gaius had a father, but that his own was gone for ever. But later the centurion took to the Belgic boy once more, and often said how glad he was that he had treated him well after Camulodunum, for Gwydion had been the real reason for finding him on the battlefield. Gaius would never have left Lugdunum, had it not been for his friend.

  The old farmer acted with great kindness towards them all, and seemed to enjoy having them in the hut, for he was a lonely man, he told them, since his daughter had gone away to be married among the Silures.

  The boys helped him as much as they could, with the ploughing and the sowing and in tending the hives and watching the sheep and goats. While they were busy on his behalf, he would sit in the hut with Gracchus, talking, or would walk slowly about the hillside with him, supporting him by the arm when his leg became tired or stiff.


  Gracchus said one night, “My army passed on and left me for dead. I am no doubt crossed off their list now, for they imagine me to be sleeping the long sleep on the field of Mai Dun. It is a great temptation to let them go on thinking that. It would suit me to stay here, and build another such house on the next hill. I have a hankering after a quiet life! I would not even regret leaving the house in Lugdunum, and the pension I am entitled to from Rome!”

  Gaius gazed at him in joy. “I would like that too, father,” he said. “This is a place where a man could be happy.”

  Gracchus nodded thoughtfully. “Yes,” he said, “an ordinary man—but not a Roman soldier; not a centurion, my lad. For a soldier still has his duty to do, even though his friends have given him up for dead. My training in the Legion has been too long for me to forget it. I must put aside my dream of becoming a quiet Celtic farmer, and as soon as I can, I must report back to the Legion.”

  The boys looked at him in disappointment. The old man shrugged his shoulders and went out to milk the cow. “A man must do as he must,” he said, as though he felt that Gracchus was foolish, nevertheless.

  Later that evening, when they were all seated about the fire again, their hunger appeased by the old man’s honey-cakes and good strong cheese, the centurion said, “Where is the Roman army now, my friend?”

  The old man said, “Only the young men, who ride about the land, know truly where they are. I have lost touch with such affairs, for the Romans would not trouble me in my little hut here. I should not bother to hide even if the beacon were lit on yonder hill, as it is in times of danger. I can only guess where they might be. From my daughter, who lives among the Silures, across the big river, many weeks’ journey away, I know that Caratacus has set up his new kingdom in Siluria, and has gathered together a great warband there. Now, it stands to reason that the Romans, having defeated him in the East will not permit him to become a great danger to them in the West. So, it is my belief that the Romans may try to crush him there. It is my advice, therefore, that he who wishes to find a Roman Legion had best make his way to Siluria, either now, or in a short while; for there they must surely be.”

  Gracchus nodded and thought over this news, his pale face grave. Gwydion sat in a dark corner of the hut, also thinking about the old man’s words, for he knew that where Caratacus was, there would his mother be, and with his mother, as the report had said, would be Math—his old, true, trusted friend, Math. Gwydion determined that, whatever Gaius and his father did, he would set off to the great river one day soon.

  The same idea had come to Gracchus, who now stared through the firelight at the young Belgic boy, wondering whether he would wish to accompany them, for the centurion no longer regarded him as a slave, but as a free person who had a right to choose where and with whom he would travel, if at all. He wondered how he could broach the matter to Gwydion; but, as the fates had it, the matter was taken out of his hands, quite without warning, a few days later, when Gracchus and the two boys were walking in the shallow valleys, looking for roots and herbs to add to the old farmer’s medicine store.

  2. YOUNG WARRIOR ON A HORSE

  The sun was hardly at its height when Gwydion looked up and gazed with consternation along the hilltop. A long line of horsemen, about a score of them, was moving above them, dark against the sunny sky. At first he thought of calling to Gracchus and Gaius to hide, for they were plucking herbs at the edge of a little green spinney, and might escape notice. Then they heard a sharp cry from the hilltop, and Gwydion saw that it was too late. The horsemen came swooping down the slope towards them, waving lances and long barbarian swords, their red woollen cloaks swinging out behind them in the morning breeze.

  As they drew nearer, Gwydion saw that they were not Belgae. Each man wore a round helmet of leather, decorated with feathers or with dangling strings of blue beads, and dark green trousers, strapped with leather from thigh to ankle, and supported by a broad leathern belt. They wore the upper body bare, their dark skin crossed with streaks of woad, and tattooed on breast and waist with long whitish scars, made with knife-sharp tattoo sticks. Gwydion observed that one or two of them wore short Sticks of bone thrust through the ear-lobes as decorations. It was this that gave Gwydion the answer to the problem—they must be Silurians, a wandering band of foragers, perhaps the comitatus of some Silurian prince, spending the time from seed-strewing to harvest in ranging the country to steal what they could.

  Then he had no more time to speculate on these horsemen, for they surrounded the three herb-pickers, riding round and round them until they were quite dizzy at watching the fast ponies and their bright, dangling harness. Then suddenly there was a shout, and the circling stopped; their leader broke from the ring and rode towards Gwydion, smiling, his long sword held loosely across his thighs, his black hair blowing across his painted face.

  “Gwydion! As sure as the gods live in oak-trees!” he said. Gwydion stared at him in wonder, then he ran to meet the other as he swung from the high sheepskin saddle. “Math, by all the wonders of the stones!” he yelled. “What great good fortune! Oh, Math!”

  The centurion and his son stood in amazement as the two hugged each other, and almost did a dance of pleasure at meeting so unexpectedly that bright morning. The other warriors sat upright on their horses, straight-faced and unsmiling, waiting only for the signal to ride on, or to cut down these three, whichever their leader ordered.

  Gwydion held Math at arm’s length; “But Math,” he cried, “What are you doing, dressed like this?” Then, for a moment, a small shadow passed across the Silure’s face, but it was gone in a flash and he was smiling once more. “Did I never tell you, friend,” he said, “I am a prince among my own folk!”

  Gwydion stopped smiling, for he had read Math’s unspoken thoughts. Math had been about to say—“and not your slave any longer.” Then Gwydion half-turned to the Romans and was about to introduce them to Math, but there was something in Gracchus’s eyes which forbade him. Instead, he said, “These are two dear friends of mine.”

  Math stared at them insolently; it was apparent that he did not recognise the centurion, who now wore Celtic clothes and had perforce grown a short beard while he had been ill and could not be shaven. Besides, without his Roman helmet, he looked a different man. Nor would Math know Gaius.

  At last he bowed very stiffly to them and said that Gwydion’s friends were his friends; though from the way in which he said this, Gwydion was not sure that he meant it. Indeed, he felt that a great change had come over his old friend in the year that had separated them.

  At last one of the horsemen rode up and spoke to Math, pointing to the sun, indicating that they must not delay. Math spoke back to him so roughly that for a moment Gwydion was afraid that they might come to blows. Instead the man bowed his head, and went back to his place, to wait silently until the young leader should decide to mount again.

  Math said to Gwydion, “Now that I have found you, I cannot let you go again. You must come with us.”

  Gwydion looked at the Romans, and could see that Gracchus did not wish to accompany this party. But Math glared at him and signed to one of his men, who rode just behind the centurion and drew his long sword. Then Gwydion realised that although no word had been said, they were in truth prisoners. He made himself smile at Math, and vowed inwardly that as soon as he got the chance he would give his former slave a piece of his mind for this manner of behaviour.

  Yet it soon became apparent that Math was interested only in Gwydion; he regarded the other two as being worthless, necessary encumbrances who could not be left behind lest they spread the news of his whereabouts. He would not even give them permission to return to the hut and wish the old man goodbye. This angered Gwydion, who rode behind Math on the strong pony, but he realised that now his friend was the powerful one, and, if anything, their former positions were reversed. Gwydion was now the slave, when it came to obeying orders!

  He turned once and winked to Gracchus and the lad, just to le
t them see that he was still their friend, and then the party set off northwards towards Siluria.

  Gracchus and his son were made to march much of the way, in spite of Gwydion’s protests; though the centurion would not allow the Belgic boy to say that he had but recently broken a leg, for, he whispered, a Roman must never beg for mercy.

  Sometimes Math was very cross when the Romans could not walk faster, and said that they were delaying the band. Nor would he allow Gwydion to let the centurion change places and ride on the pony.

  On such occasions, Gwydion often felt like asking Math what had come over him that he should be so changed, yet it came out one night as they all lay round a camp-fire, eating greedily from the carcass of a red deer which one of the men had run down. Math said, “I shall never forget the Roman camp, Gwydion. When they had taken you away, I was sure they were going to torture you, or kill you. I was frantic with suffering and fear, yes, I will admit it, fear! Then, before dawn while I was still waiting for my turn to come, I found a knife that someone had carelessly left near the tent. It must have been dropped in the battle and overlooked. I cut the bonds of all the prisoners who could walk. Two of those with broken legs made me cut their throats. Then we slashed a hole in the tent, stabbed the sleeping guard, and ran.”

  Gracchus listened to this with horror; Gwydion felt that he must tell Math who had left the knife, but a look in the centurion’s eyes once more made him stop.

  Math prattled on gaily, saying that from that moment he had become a new person; he had remembered his destiny as a prince, and had ceased to be a slave. Now he knew that, unaided, he could kill men, could defy the Romans. “So,” he ended, “you see me as I am, my true self.” But now Gwydion was not sure that he liked this new Math. He spoke secretly to Gracchus when the others were asleep that night, asking the man what they must do. The centurion smiled grimly and said, “Your course is plotted for you. You must go to your mother, whatever happens. But we are different. This young prince means us harm, I can sense it. We shall escape, if the chance arises, and make our way back to the Legion, No, do not protest, Gwydion, you may wake one of them. Just carry on as ever, and do not be surprised if you awake one morning to find that we have done what I say. Remember that our good wishes are always with you, and one day we may even meet again, and be friends as we have been in the past.”