The Eagle and the Raven (102 page)

“I saw myself also,” another man interposed. “I was running through a forest, lost and without weapons.” A murmur of agreement rose, and Paulinus turned to the primipilus again.

“You?”

The man looked uncomfortable, and answered softly. “Yes, sir. I saw myself and my brother, drunk and fighting. My brother had drawn a knife against me.”

Paulinus favored him with one astounded stare, then strode to the body and looked down. It lay with its face resting a little to one side, blood-spattered silver glinting about the throat. The spear that had gored it still protruded obscenely from the broad chest. It was a man just past the prime of life, Paulinus thought, his eye traveling the wealth of waving brown hair, the rude health apparent in the long, strong legs, the well-muscled arms. He could have been a gladiator, but he was only a Druid. The white, sleeveless summer robe still shone, though much of it was crusted red brown with old blood. On the limp, curved fingers of one hand, rings of curious design winked as the leaves above moved to let the sunlight through. He squatted to scan the face more closely, aware as he did so that the men behind him were watching intently. His eyes found the other’s, wide open, immobile eyes, and then he had to bite back a startled exclamation. He was looking at eyes that were the milky white paleness of a winter dawn, tinted faintly with blue, the eyes of a blind man. Or seemingly blind. He bent closer. For a moment, all he could see was the shadow of his own face, but the shadow darkened, took on color and definition, and he found himself looking at Boudicca’s freckled skin. Red hair blew about her face from under a winged bronze helm. Her own eyes stared back at him with a chilling purpose and she was speaking, the large mouth forming words he could not hear, but their gist was carried to him by the grim face, the thinning, hard lips. He inadvertently craned to hear, knowing somehow that she was not addressing him, then he found himself so close to the corpse’s face that its outlines slid out of focus and he drew back carefully, slowly, so that his men might not see his agitation. Pale, blue-tinged eyes once more gazed over his left shoulder. He got up, and in the moment before he turned around he had composed himself. He deliberately glanced up at the dipping, tossing leaves high above, then he walked to stand by the primipilus.

“There is nothing to see but one more dead Druid,” he said firmly. “If the eyes seemed to show you visions it was simply because the leaves above the body are troubled by the wind and their shadows pass back and forth over the face. Now pick him up and carry him to a fire.”

They loosened and began to move reluctantly, and the primipilus sprang to life. “That was an order!” he roared. “Move! Hurry up!” Paulinus nodded to him, took his salute, and walked out from under the trees. Shadows, he thought. Of course. What else? This accursed place is the heart of the native superstition and I ought not to wonder at the fears of the men, but I am surprised at my own. Boudicca fills my whole mind, and the leaves in the wind did the rest. He did not see the men gingerly raise the heavy body, and place it on the litter. The primipilus walked beside it as the soldiers carried it out quickly from under the gloom of the forest into the bright sunlight, and as they passed from shade into blinding light, he glanced down. The face still mirrored a calmness, but the eyes were no longer pale. They had turned as black as a raven’s wing. Shuddering, the primipilus reached out and drew the lids down over the spell-burdened darkness he saw there. He had no wish to see his commander-in-chief enraged by another mutiny.

Paulinus left Mona with twelve hundred cavalry, and struck out south and east. There was no time to gather provisions and, in any case, wains and pack animals would have slowed them down. Each man carried his needs in his pack. The weather was mild and sunny by day and cool and still by night, a perfect spring melting into a perfect summer, but Paulinus, rolled in his blanket under the trees, had no time for the weather. Every hour was a nightmare that stretched his nerves tighter as the miles lengthened between the safety of his legions in the west and the dark, unknown fate that waited. At any moment he expected a horde of western tribesmen to issue from the dense woodland and end all hope, and by the time he and his officers made camp for a few brief hours at night his spine ached from the tension of imaginary spears in his back. He did not dwell on his position. The decision had been made, his escort was the elite of the army, and there was no panic and no grumbling. If the gods ordained that he should be ambushed in spite of everything, and die in some forgotten, lonely spot, then so be it. Sporadic sleep was followed by hours in the saddle. There was no time to send scouts ahead, no time to cook proper meals or erect a proper camp each night, no time for anything but haste and more haste with the whispering trees clustered before and closing in behind and the incessant thrum thrum of hoofs on turf. They felt their vulnerability under the white stars, and when at last the town of Penocrutium suddenly appeared before them, nesting in its little valley, and they saw the road to Londinium begin beyond its clustered houses, their fears were eased. There was a small detachment and fresh horses here, though not enough for Paulinus’s host. Here also was a message for him, from Poenius Postumus, the praefectus castra of the Second. Paulinus stood with the commander and listened, shock giving way to an astounded rage.

“The praefectus cannot come, sir,” the speculator told him uncomfortably. “The Second is divided and a quarter of the legion is keeping the western tribesmen engaged as far from Mona as possible, as you ordered. The praefectus sends his apologies.”

“The praefectus sends his … But it was an order! I sent him a direct command! Didn’t he understand the gravity of the situation? Doesn’t he know that the fate of the province hangs by a thread?”

“I am sorry, sir. I only carry the message.”

Paulinus swung away and began to pace, his agitation visible in the down-thrust head, the clenching hands. “It was an order! I don’t care for his reasons, he has disobeyed an order, and when this business has been concluded I will have him disciplined to the full extent of the law. Such a thing has never happened under my command before! If the legate had been on duty there would be no such weak excuses. Well.” He stopped pacing and looked up into the sun. “I must manage with the means I have, but without the Second I can do little for Londinium.”

“Be careful as you move father south, sir,” the detachment’s officer said. “The land is strangely empty, or so my scouts tell me, and there has been no word as to the whereabouts of the Ninth.”

Paulinus closed eyes already itching with fatigue. “There is no time for caution. Are the provisions ready?”

“Yes.”

“Then we will press on at once. As for Poenius Postumus…” He turned to the embarrassed, worried soldier. “Take this to your praefectus. He is under arrest as soon as the legate returns. His behavior is cowardly and incomprehensible, and you can tell him so.” That man has fought his way up through the ranks, he thought as he strode toward the road and to the quiet men who waited for him. He is no playtime officer. What ails you, Postumus? What strange spell of sudden fear turned your blood to water? He mounted quickly, took up the reins, and cantered onto the straight, deserted road lying like an invitation to a lonely nowhere. All of them had been emasculated by it at one time or another, he thought, settling deeper into his horse’s stride. This cloud of ephemeral, primitive magic that seemed to stultify the brain and mysteriously weaken the will. Scapula, Gallus, Veranius, even his good friend Plautius—all of them, he thought defiantly, but me. I have not, and will not, succumb. His men strung out behind him, their brilliant red cloaks floating in the sun.

They bypassed Verulamium, and six days after they had set out from Deva, the governor and his exhausted cavalry clattered into Londinium, dismounting and walking to the administration buildings, which were surrounded by a crowd of hysterically relieved citizens. Paulinus had come. He had not failed them. Now everything would be all right. They cheered him frantically, jostling to press cups of wine and morsels of food into the eager hands of his men, but he did not pause to speak to them and his cragged face was closed and grim under the shining helmet. He left his men to rest where they could, and went straight to the office of the mayor.

“Where is the Ninth?”

The man almost embraced him, babbling with relief. “Oh, sir, thank the gods you have come! I did not think…we did not know… Have you brought the legions?”

“How could I bring the legions in so short a time, you fool! Pull yourself together and answer me! Where is the Ninth?”

The mayor drew back, puzzled. “You don’t know?”

Paulinus removed his helmet and put it very slowly on the big desk, striving to hold onto his temper. “I am hot, filthy, and tired. I have ridden for two hundred miles, almost without stopping. I am faced with a matter of the gravest peril. Now where is the Ninth?” He roared out the words, hammering his fist on the desk, and the mayor fell back, his face white. Then he collapsed into his chair.

“The Ninth has been defeated. Petilius Cerealis was lucky to get away with his cavalry and a few auxiliaries. The last news was that he has retreated to the fort at Lindum.”

Paulinus stared at him. “Colchester?”

“Burned to the ground. No one escaped. Then the rebels doubled back to the northwest and met the Ninth on its way south. They are coming this way now.”

Panic gripped the governor’s head in a quick, merciless vise. No Second. No Ninth. The Ninth defeated. Mithras! Defeated! The ablest, most proficient legion in Albion! He forced himself to think calmly, rationally, and all at once his emotions disappeared, leaving nothing but a cold, fast-rolling core of pure reasoning power. A defence of the city with only twelve hundred cavalry was clearly impossible. Cavalry could not fight in the restriction of the streets anyway, and if he stayed it would be nothing but a futile, empty gesture. The Fourteenth and the Twentieth were all that stood between the rebels and overwhelming victory, and the two legions could not possibly arrive in time to save the city from Colchester’s fate. Nor was he, Paulinus, expendable. Without him, the province would collapse within weeks. He felt the sword of fate trembling above him, hanging on a slender, frayed thread that threatened to snap at any moment, and remorselessly he made the decision on which his reputation and the future of the province hinged. It was unfortunate, but Londinium would have to be sacrificed.

“Very well,” he said. “Have the storehouses opened. I want all the grain my men can carry on their horses, I need it. Then burn the rest. Boudicca must go hungry.”

The mayor whitened. “What are you saying?” he whispered. “Surely you cannot mean to…to leave!”

“That’s just what I mean. I’m sorry, but I cannot take the dubious chance of saving a town at the expense of losing the province. Any citizen who can keep up with the cavalry may ride with me, and I mean ride. On their own horses. No wains, no carts, no people on foot. I must move swiftly.”

“But you will be condemning us to certain death! Governor, there are more than twenty-five thousand people here, defenceless, decent people, women, children, looking to you for protection!” His voice rose uncontrolled, a burst of hysterical fear. “Do you have any idea what happened at Colchester? Blood lay in great pools, sir, it ran down the gutters like water after a flash flood! They burned soldiers alive, they skewered children on wooden stakes! I don’t want to die like that, I…”

Paulinus strode to him and gripped his shoulders. “Pull yourself together and listen to me! I must buy time. I have twelve hundred men with me, and the rebels number in the tens of thousands. I must leave. If I can meet the Fourteenth and the Twentieth there is a chance, a slim chance, that something can be salvaged, but nothing will be served if my men and I sit here and die!” He dropped his hands and the mayor slumped trembling, his face hidden in his palms.

“What shall I tell the people?”

“Nothing. There is no time to tell them anything, but if you must, tell them that two legions are on their way. Where is Decianus?”

“The procurator?” For a moment the mayor rallied. “He stripped the treasury and fled to Rutupiae when we heard that Boudicca was coming. I suppose he is safely in Gaul by now.”

Anger flared in Paulinus, and then sank beneath an icy determination. “The criminal fool. If I had minded his business as well as my own, none of this tragedy would have happened. See if you can have hot food prepared for my men, and lay hold on every horse available. Pay for them if you have to. I want to leave before sunset.”

The mayor nodded shakily. “Sir,” he said, “if you survive, will you make sure that the emperor knows of this…this supreme sacrifice his city is making?”

For a moment Paulinus was swept by regret, and a terrible, insupportable pity. His harsh face softened. “If I survive, the whole empire will honor you.”

“Nevertheless,” the man concluded, “I would rather have life.”

Paulinus had recovered his self-control and his face fell once more into its sharp, ruthless lines. “You have had more than many who will fall here,” he retorted, and he went swiftly out of the room.

Somehow the news of the governor’s intention to abandon them to their fate was spread among the people, and they reacted with an incredulous disbelief that preceded an insane burst of terror. Paulinus and the cavalry ate hot leek soup and wheaten bread in the safety of an empty warehouse, squatting silently and listening to the turbulent uproar of the townspeople, who milled about in the streets shouting and imploring, begging and promising, driven to a despairing fury as the black doorway that gave onto annihilation inched open behind them. When the men had finished the food they slipped from the building, walked quickly away from the river and the now-deserted wharves where cargo lay untended and the ships rocked at anchor on the rising tide, and mounted their horses under cover of a grove of trees. It was now late afternoon, the mellow summer light lay rich and golden, and the air was full of the hum of drowsy bees and the intoxicating odor of wild blossom. With a word of command Paulinus swung quickly onto the road over which they had ridden only hours before, and someone saw them go. A wail went up, a swiftly multiplying howl of betrayal and loss, and though Paulinus gritted his teeth and slashed at his horse, the desolation in that cry haunted him well into the twilight.