The Lion and the Lark (6 page)

     They had moved just a few feet away from the front entrance when they heard groaning from the bushes lining the path.

     “Hold the light aloft!” Claudius said sharply, gesturing to indicate what he wanted when the boy stared at him blankly.  As the torch was raised all three looked down at what appeared to be a bundle of rags.  Claudius bent closer and saw that it was an old woman, face down in the dirt and groping blindly for a hickory switch cane.

     Claudius took her arm and got her on her feet, handing her the stick.  She leaned on him heavily, adjusting her black veil and gazing up at him, turning her head to use her one good eye, as the pupil of the other was filmed by a milky cataract.

     “Get away from her!” a female voice suddenly said sharply behind them, in slightly accented Latin.  “Leave her alone!”

     Claudius whirled to face the speaker, surprised to see a young girl glaring at him from the shadows.  She stepped forward to take the old woman by the shoulders and turn her away from Claudius, as if his touch had besmirched her.

     “I meant her no harm,” Claudius replied.  “We found her on the ground by the side of the path and I was trying to help her.”

     The girl questioned the old woman sharply in Celtic, and she responded in the same language.  She evidently confirmed what Claudius had said, because the girl didn’t say anything else, merely stared at the two Romans with naked hostility.

     Claudius stared back at her, transfixed.

     She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen in his life.  Golden red hair streamed over her shoulders down to her waist, and in the torchlight her skin glowed like precious ivory, her huge turquoise eyes framed by reddish brown lashes several shades darker then her hair.  Her loose homespun gown was belted at the waist but did nothing to disguise the lush curves beneath it, and a striped knit shawl was tossed loosely over her shoulders against the night chill.

     Claudius realized he was gaping at her and said quickly, to disguise his reaction, “What are you doing abroad in the fort after dark?  You must know about the curfew for natives.”

     “I have permission to escort Maeve home when she works late in the Scipio kitchens.  She has a bad eye and can’t see well.  You can check with your general’s wife, she arranged it.”

     Claudius looked at Ardus, who shrugged to indicate his ignorance of such a plan.

     “We all must cater to the Scipiana’s convenience,” the girl added derisively.

     Claudius hesitated, trying to think of something else to say to detain her, feeling foolish.

     “You may go,” he finally said.  “I’ll send the boy here along to light your way.”

     “Don’t bother,” the girl replied dismissively.  “We’ve gotten back safely many times without Roman help.”  She tugged on the old woman’s arm, but the crone shrugged her off and moved back to Claudius, reaching up to touch his cheek.  She said a few words softly in Celtic.

     Claudius was startled; there was something eerie in the hag’s manner that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

     “What did she say?” he demanded, looking at the girl.

     She seemed alarmed too, but quickly assumed an impassive expression when she saw him looking at her searchingly.

     “Nothing important.  She’s just a silly old woman who talks a lot of garbage.”  She spat the last word,
purgamentum
, then grabbed the ancient’s arm and practically dragged her away as the crone looked back over her shoulder at Claudius.

     It was several moments before Claudius realized that Ardus was speaking to him.

     “What?” he said, tearing his gaze away from the departing figures, who rapidly vanished into the dark.

     “I was stating the obvious, telling you that she was a very pretty filly,” Ardus said.

     “Do you know her name?”

     “No.  They’re all pretty around here, and all nameless.  It’s courting death to sleep with one of them, though, they’ll slit your throat as soon as your eyes close.”

     “I wonder why she spoke Latin so well.”

     “Who knows?  Maybe her mother changed Caesar’s linen and brought her to work in his house when he was staying here.  I’m told that you’d be surprised how many of them know what we’re saying, but they never let on.  You always have to watch your conversation around them.  I’ve talked to some men who’ve been here a while and know the natives a little better than Scipio’s wife.  They say we should not underestimate the Celts, they are very far from stupid.”

     Claudius nodded, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal.

     “Come on, let’s go.  It’s late,” Ardus said.

     Claudius gestured for the torchbearer to walk on and fell in behind him slowly, his mind still on the red-haired girl.

     “Why did you say that to the Roman officer?” Bronwen demanded of Maeve as they walked through the gates of the fort.  The night watch knew them by sight and let them pass.

     “I felt the goddess whisper inside me and so I spoke her prophecy aloud,” Maeve replied.

     “That he would find his destiny in an Iceni woman?” Bronwen demanded

incredulously.

     The crone grinned at her toothlessly.  “He’s very pleasing in appearance.  Do you hope it will be you?”

     “Oh, go to bed, old woman,” Bronwen said irritably, opening the door of Maeve’s hut, which stood a short distance outside the gates of the garrison.  She could hear Maeve cackling as she went inside and lit a candle which showed through the window.

     Maeve had been her grandmother’s best friend and the midwife who attended Bronwen’s birth.  Maeve had outlived her whole family and Bronwen felt responsible for her.  She brought her food and clothing and looked out for her whenever possible, but the old woman could be a formidable challenge to patience and endurance.  When the candle went out and she knew Maeve was in bed, Bronwen mounted the horse she had left tethered nearby.  She rode home by the scant light of a new moon, following a route she had used since childhood and could have traveled without benefit of sight.  She remembered how the Roman had offered to send the Scipio torchbearer with her and smiled to herself scornfully.

     As if she would need such assistance.    

     Then she thought about Maeve again, and the smile faded.  She didn’t believe Maeve’s babble for a moment.  But it WAS a strange coincidence that the officer Bronwen had noticed as the new Romans arrived had been at the general’s home to aid Maeve when she fell.

     Bronwen had recognized him right away; he was even more striking at close range, with large dark eyes and a full, sensual mouth.  He had stared back at her with such intensity that the memory was difficult to dismiss.  He’d spoken the crisp, round voweled Latin of the upper class, and he talked to her as if she were an equal, without the subtly contemptuous note that crept into the conversation of most Romans when they spoke to the natives.  He’d referred to her as
keltoi
, which was the word her people used for themselves, rather than
indigenae
, a slightly disparaging term the Romans used for the original inhabitants of the countries they conquered.  Bronwen was very sensitive to the nuances of Latin, and the respectful way he had addressed her surprised her.  Perhaps she was giving him too much credit, maybe he had merely been trained to be polite, but the lack of arrogance in his manner had been noticeable.

     Bronwen reined in her horse and bit her lip.  What was she thinking?  The man was a Roman dog, after all, and it didn’t matter if he treated her courteously or with the disdain he must surely feel.  She hated him as she hated all the rest of them.

     She stared up at the thin crescent moon, pulling her shawl tighter around her and patting the restive horse’s neck.

     Then she kicked his flanks smartly and galloped the rest of the way home.

      Scipio returned to Britain at the end of September, and the Iceni received their weapons from the Trinovantes at about the same time.  The uneasy peace was shattered immediately as the newly rearmed Celts began staging raids, gathering in intensity as the leaves turned colors and fell from the trees.  Claudius did not have time to notice the glorious seasonal changes, he was too busy battling the natives in every possible arena.  The Romans couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without being attacked; the Celts materialized from behind boulders, jumped down from trees, appeared out of nowhere like the wraiths their myths described so vividly.  The constant harassment wore down troop morale, as did the worsening weather, and the garrison was losing far too many men to the kind of warfare for which the Romans had no preparation, or indeed respect.  By the beginning of November over one thousand of the new arrivals were dead, and winter had not even established a firm grip yet. 

     Scipio knew from experience that the superior weaponry and training of the Romans were causing heavy losses on the other side as well, but he was also aware that the Celts would continue relentlessly on their current path no matter how grievously they suffered.  As he tallied the Roman dead and watched the temperature fall each day, he contemplated the future with a heavy heart.

     Claudius did not see the red-haired girl again.  He looked for her, but soon learned that the old lady she had come to escort home had moved into the Scipio servants’ quarters.  There was no reason for the young woman to return to the fort.  He had no idea who she was, but she lingered in his mind, surfacing in dreams which woke him with their disturbing intensity.  During the day he was too busy with warfare to think about her, but she came at night, like an incubus, and robbed him of sleep.

     The autumn rains became sleet and chill east winds whipped around the fort, seeping through the cracks in the barracks walls.  The Romans built up their fires, stuffed rags into the chinks between the boards and piled animal skins on their beds.  And still they shivered.  They had made war in Spain and North Africa and Greece, but these were all sunny Mediterranean climates; in Britain the weather was their enemy along with the Celts.  They fought on doggedly, too disciplined to complain, but their general remembered the previous year very well.  Tired of the cost of the endless skirmishing in time and Roman lives, in mid-November Scipio met with his officers to get their opinion and then sent an emissary to the Iceni camp offering new terms for a treaty.

     On a blustery morning when the gray sky threatened either a freezing rain or more snow, Claudius entered the headquarters building and knocked on the door of Scipio’s office.  He went inside when the general’s voice called him, and found Ardus, Cato and several of the other tribunes already waiting for him there.  A fire was burning on the stone hearth, fed by a pile of stout cedar logs, and as he unwrapped the others made room for him in front of the blaze.

     Scipio cleared his throat, his thin greying hair looking thinner and greyer this morning, his seamed face appearing pale with the final loss of his Roman tan.

     “As you all know,” he said, “I have sent word to the Iceni proposing a new treaty.  I don’t know why I use that term, since they have paid very little attention to the old one.”  His tone was matter of fact, and his audience listened gravely.

     “You will remember from our last meeting that I decided on this course of action since we are unlikely to endure cold weather fighting as well as the natives.  Even though we have better supplies and weaponry and superior resources the weather is bound to take its toll.  Last year we skirmished with the Celts all winter and were not the better for it.  It has been my goal since I returned from Rome not to repeat that fruitless experience.  I do not know what the Iceni response will be but I based my final decision to contact them on a piece of information I did not share with you at the time.”

     The soldiers waited.

     “Brettix, the only son of King Borrus, has been lost in the fighting and is presumed dead.”

     The men all looked at each other.

     “This is the kind of thing that will take the spirit out of a king, or a whole tribe,” Scipio said.  “The crown prince of the Iceni has disappeared, he was last seen wounded in the skirmish two days ago near the wood the natives call
Drunemeton
.  He may have fallen and been buried in the snow, and if so his body will not turn up until spring.  Or possibly never.  In light of this I hope Borrus will agree to my terms.  If so I will write to Mark Antony and tell him we have made peace with the Celts, at least until the spring thaw when they will undoubtedly be over their grief and start up again.”  His tone was dry.

     The men absorbed this in silence.

     “Questions?” Scipio said.

     “I assume our task will be to maintain our status through the winter and then make what gains we can when the weather breaks?” Quintus Septonius said.  He was another tribune, a veteran of the past season in Britain.

     “Yes,” Scipio replied.

     There was a knock at the door, and a centurion entered carrying a leather pouch, which he gave to Scipio.  The general held up his hand as he read its contents, and they all waited.