A.D. 30
The military attaché’s voice cut, harsh and unfriendly, across the great thatched and timbered hall. “By Jupiter and his seven-headed dog, but I can show you a sort of magic to beat that!”
Heavy with the native mead, he clattered and stumbled through the peat-smoke towards the log-fire in the centre of the hall, the silver bracelets at his wrists making gleaming arcs in the firelight as he swung his long arms about drunkenly. He was a short man, almost as broad as he was high, bull-necked, and bow-legged from much riding, swarthy as an African, with curling black hair and bright Spanish eyes, an ex-centurion, risen from the ranks, whose coloured ribbons, hanging from the shoulders of his body-armour, proclaimed the service as a soldier in India, Scythia and Germany that lay behind him.
“Damn me, but I’ve seen a one-eyed Russian who could show a thing or two to your wizards! This stuff is only fit to trick you blue-faced, sheep-eating mist dwellers! By God, but it wouldn’t do for Rome! We like real entertainment there, I can tell you!”
He laughed loudly and stupidly as he swayed on his feet by the fire. His grotesque, dwarfish shadow leapt and pirouetted against the heavy skin hangings on the walls, and for a moment there was cold silence in the hall.
The tribal leaders, magnificent in their long tartan cloaks and gold gorgets, suddenly stopped talking and laughing and drinking. They stared in amazement at their Roman guest, smiling just a little ironically. Two slaves, lying shackled with iron chains by the wall, put down their harp and flute and listened, mouths wide open in wonder, for they came from a far western tribe that had no contact with Rome and did not understand its language; yet, from the sudden tense atmosphere around them, among their Belgic conquerors, they knew that something strange and perhaps dangerous was happening. They guessed that the black foreigner was about to do something unusual. Even the treasured war-horses, standing knee-deep in straw at the dark end of the hall, ceased pawing the ground and were still, snuffling the thick air; and the three great woolly-haired sheepdogs that lolled in a privileged position close to the fire turned their white heads towards the man who had dared to shout in the King’s presence.
Then another voice called out from the long tables. “Silence, Lepidus; remember that you are a guest in Britain. Remember that you are at the King’s table. Come back here and sit down!” It was the Ambassador to Camulodun himself, Arminius Agricola, an old German who had in his time broken more Roman heads than most until they made him a citizen of the Empire. He was a moderate man, the warrior turned diplomat, and always anxious not to provoke the tribes among whom he was stationed. One could not afford to upset the tribes just now. Not while they were so amenable, taking on Roman ways and paying their tributes with no complaints. It wasn’t as though Rome had any real right to tributes, or any real reason for keeping an ambassador among the Catuvellauni, except that, after Caesar the “Hairy One”, the Senate had thought it might be advisable not to relinquish the Empire’s moral hold, fragile as it was, on these Britons of the south-east. And here was this idiot, Lepidus, letting himself get drunk on the native wine and acting like any soft-headed barbarian! But what could one expect, sending a Spaniard out to act as military attaché! The Spaniards weren’t even fit yet to be citizens. They were too headstrong, altogether too fiery. There was too much African in them. What was needed were more Germans or more Gauls. They could keep their heads among these Britons. They knew how to drink. They knew more about the British gods. In fact, Arminius speculated, the British gods weren’t so very different from the German gods. Just a name or two, here and there, but the sacrifices were the same, as near as made no matter. Yet here was a Spaniard making fun of the British magic, and that involved gods. Arminius glanced down the long room and saw that the chief druid, Bydd, the King’s brother, had got up from the table and was making his way outside, muttering and waving his arms about. He saw him kick out at one of the slaves as he passed. That was a bad sign. One might laugh at the druids in their white shirts, and their savage wreaths of mistletoe hanging round their ears, but they were a power not to be despised.
Arminius looked along the table. The chiefs were restive, and their glances becoming more and more hostile. They were a strange unpredictable people, the Britons, never the same two minutes together. Arminius stood up, pulling his tartan cloak about him, toga-fashion. “Sit down, Lepidus, I order it,” he began, but a rough, woad-streaked hand took the ambassador by the arm and pulled him back onto the bench. “Let the lord speak! If he is happy, let him amuse himself! No doubt he will amuse us too!” There was a certain menacing sarcasm in the voice, and Arminius suddenly became sensitive of the respect due to Rome. He turned sharply towards the tribesman who had spoken to him. He was a tall, red-haired man, whose blue-lined face was made even more sinister by the old sword-cut which had broken his nose and laid open both of his cheeks nearly to the ears.
“But he will bring discredit to the Empire, my friend,” began Arminius, a little too pompously. The broken-nosed tribesman scuffled and spat on the floor and then drank another noisy draught from his silver-rimmed mead-horn. “To hell with the Empire! To hell with Rome!” he mumbled. He began to turn towards Arminius, pulling angrily at his long moustaches, remembering his wounds. Then suddenly he coughed and slid down from his seat under the table, already asleep.
Lepidus began to shout again, turning from side to side, annoyed now by the sneering faces that showed wherever the fire gleamed. “Bring me a sword, one of you! I’ll show you magic! Bring me a sword.” For some time no one answered him, though here and there along the room hands slid down to sword-belts and steel glistened in the light of the torches. “Bring me a sword! You, with the eagle’s feathers in your hair, where’s your sword?” He stared across the hall, and a tall, dark-skinned chieftain out of the hills rose from the table. He inclined his head towards the end of the room, then turned and spat in the direction of the fire. There was a hush as he flung his long cloak over his shoulders and stalked from the hall.
Then, for the first time, the King spoke. Cunobelin, King of the Belgic Catuvellauni, whose dominion stretched from Belgium to the Welsh border; a massive man with a nose like the beak of a hawk and a red beard that hung in two great spikes from his chin, whose woollen tartan cloak was decorated with innumerable small silver acorns, so that wherever he turned he was followed by flashes of white light, whose great arms were bound from wrist to elbow with coral and amber bracelets, and whose deep vibrant voice filled the great hall, bringing down silence on all the tumbled mass of men and animals that clustered under his roof. When he spoke it seemed that the fire stopped crackling and the black cattle outside stayed in their bellowing. “Let the slaves play ‘The red bulls of Cader’,” he said, “or else give the Roman a sword and let him amuse himself.”
A serving-girl whispered to the two slaves, who shrank in the shadows as the King spoke, but they shook their tousled heads from side to side, with eyes wide with fear. A young courtier leaned towards the King. “The slaves do not know that music, sir,” he said. The King’s mood changed in a flash. “Then, by God, let the soldier have his sword. And mind that you give him a long one; I see that he needs support!”
Lepidus heard the King’s words and bowed arrogantly towards him. It was too dark now for him to see the King’s face as he spoke but the Roman sensed that Cunobelin was making a fool of him.
“Your honour!” shouted Arminius, rising to his feet again. But before he could go on, hands took him by the shoulders and forced him down into his seat. Then one of the clansmen slid a sword along the floor towards the Roman, and the tribesmen sat back to watch the fun.
It was a long sword they gave him, almost as long as the Roman himself, a slim, Moorish blade, set in a golden hilt, bartered for sheepskins and tin from some Gallic mercenary who must have served in an African campaign. Lepidus took the weapon and ran his eye along its edge. He bent the thin blade back and forth between his strong fingers, then into an arc above his head. He seemed very satisfied with his toy. Then he stepped away from the fire and, setting his feet firm in the rushes, made the bright steel whistle in silver circles round his shoulders. For some moments nothing could be heard in the hall but the hiss of the sword and the crackling of wood from the fire. The talk at the tables was still, and the tribesmen looked at the squat figure with interest, for he was undoubtedly a swordsman. Even the kept-men, the men-at-arms, rough undisciplined fighters who carried a sword or a javelin for the chief who was able to offer the most pay and loot, leaning against the skin-draped walls, drinking their fill or playing at love with the serving-maids, even they paused in their games to watch the Roman.
At last Lepidus rested on his sword, a fantastic hunched figure in his great cloak and steel breastplate. He looked round the hall, conscious that all eyes were on him, appraising his skill, wondering what he would do next. “Throw me an apple!” he called to the tables. And a young clansman, less drunk or proud than the rest, tossed an apple through the air towards the Roman with a laugh. Lepidus watched the fruit as it swung through the smoke. The long sword swept out and the apple fell, neatly halved, at his feet.
There was some murmur of approval, though this was hardly the magic they had all expected. Most able fighting-men could do as much without attributing their skill to the spirits. Then the young Briton who had flung the apple turned and touched his forehead with the back of his hand towards the King’s shadowy figure at the head of the table. He vaulted easily over the table and stood beside the Roman. “Lend me the sword,” he said. And he stood and faced the fire, his back towards the watching tribesmen.
“Glyn, my friend,” he called, “do you throw me an apple as I threw one to the Roman.”
Once more an apple was thrown, and, as it reached its mid-point across the room, the young man turned and ran towards it. His long sword moved so swiftly that it was hardly possible for the eyes of the watchers to follow its full course. But it moved across, and then down, and the apple fell, this time cut into four parts.
Now the hall was filled with the noises of shouting and the banging of horn-cups on the solid tables. The young man bowed gravely and insultingly towards Lepidus and handed back the weapon. “It is your turn again,” he said roguishly. The Roman’s eyes flashed, and he made a wry face. Then he bowed, as insultingly as his opponent, and, swaggering across to the nearest table, plunged his hand into a dish and took from it a handful of plump round olives. In the firelight he selected seven of the largest and flung the others at the sleeping dogs.
“Now, my friends,” he said, “I want you to watch this very closely, for this is not the child’s play you are used to. This is the real magic.” But as Lepidus flung the olives into the air the young tribesman laughed out in amusement. The Roman stood still, glaring at him, while the olives fell back onto the straw-covered floor. For a moment Lepidus did not move, but continued to stare at his young rival. The clansmen at the tables rocked with laughter and beat their drinking-horns against their plates. So the Roman was a fool, after all! At first it looked as though he was going to turn out to be a swordsman! But he must be a droll, that one! The way he stared at the olives as they fell about his feet! Only Arminius was still serious and aloof. “Lepidus,” he ordered, “sit down at once, I command you!” The Roman’s face was dark with anger as he turned towards the ambassador. It was uncertain, in the guttering light of the torches, whether or not he made a gesture of contempt towards his superior, then, with an abrupt movement, he turned towards the young Briton. “Have the goodness to take the ambassador’s advice and sit down, sir,” he said evenly. “Your turn will come again, in a moment. I shall not be long in finishing the game.”
At first the young man bridled, and he made a fumbling movement inside his cloak, but a voice from the tables quietened him and he sat down to wait on a heap of skins by the fire. Then once more the sturdy little soldier selected himself seven olives, and once more he cast them above his head, this time, it seemed, with an utter negligence. His head moved rapidly as he watched their motion, then his sword sprang again, flying in and out like a silver humming-bird. And when the half-stupefied tribesmen could see again, the olives lay scattered all about the fire, each one cut in two.
This time there was no shouting, but only an awe-stricken silence in the hall. Then Cunobelin spoke again, wonder showing even in his proud voice. “Come here, Lepidus,” he said. “Such handiwork deserves an appropriate reward.” The King slipped off one of his coral bracelets and held it out, but Lepidus did not move. Looking above the King’s head he said gravely, “Thank you, King Cunobelinus, but I am a Roman soldier and my only reward comes from serving Rome.” His bright eyes stared arrogantly towards the King, and his thick lips curled almost contemptuously as he spoke. Arminius left his seat and went to the King. “Forgive him, sir,” he said, almost in tears, “but he is the worse for drink.” For a moment it seemed that the thunder would surely break out and the lightning strike down this too-daring soldier. Then, when the tension was at its greatest, a wizened old man, dressed in coloured rags, ran out into the circle of light and began to intone in a nasal, high-pitched voice, swaying from side to side, his eyes shut tight and his thin hands held high above his head.
From table to table a murmur spread. “Roddhu! It is Roddhu himself back again!” Men nudged each other and forgot even to drink. “They said he was dead!” . . . “My brother saw the sword pass through his throat!” . . . “Quiet, this one has died many times. He always comes again.” And all men stared towards the little moaning figure, half-aghast.
At first the smoke swirled out of the fire and completely hid him from view. Then the flames burnt blue and yellow and at last green, and Roddhu seemed to be standing in the midst of them. And as he swayed and sang it seemed to all men there that a great wolf ran the length of the hall, howling, and disappeared through the far door. Then a pack of hounds following him and baying. The air was full of dust and straw for a moment. Then men saw that the door was still closed and that the fire was burning clear again. And no one dared to speak for a time. Then Lepidus stepped from out of the shadows behind the fire again and touched the ragged creature on the shoulder. “Little master, you are clever, very clever. But can you do this?”
And he took two sharp knives from a table and, flinging them into the air, caught them both and balanced them on the thumbnail of each hand. As the firelight played on them, it seemed that they were solid limbs, so steadily did they stand from the Roman’s hand. Then, as the men round the hall hissed in approval of this feat, Lepidus tossed the knives above his head, only a little way, and bowed towards the King. All eyes in the hall followed the bright tracks the blades made, until, a yard above the Roman’s head, they disappeared, and no knives fell to the floor.
Only the little old man grinned, and nodded towards Lepidus, his eyes twinkling. “Yes,” he said, in his child’s voice, “you have learnt something. A little, perhaps; and you would have made a good pupil if I could have caught you before you learned pride. But it is too late now.” The old man turned to move away, but Lepidus was on him like a tiger. “Stay, old bungler,” he roared. “Let us play together, so that I can show your people a few gipsy tricks. You will not have seen their like, I promise you.”
The old man turned in his tracks, and as his face came round into the firelight the warriors at the tables gasped at what they saw. It was the face of an ape, and not the man they had seen intoning by the fire. And the voice was changed too; it was a deep voice that spoke words they did not understand. But they saw the Roman raise his long sword and thrust viciously at the wizard, and they saw the old creature leap back with a surprising agility, so that Lepidus had his work cut out to keep his balance. Then they saw that Roddhu had picked up a willow wand from the floor and was using it like a sword, and that each time the Roman thrust, the frail stick turned his bright blade away as though it did not exist. And suddenly they saw Roddhu touch the Roman lightly on the shoulder with his wand, and they whistled in amazement, for the Roman stopped dead in the midst of a thrust and stood quite still, like a frozen man or a statue.
Then Roddhu flung his stick into the fire, and when it had done twisting like a snake and had fallen to ashes, Lepidus moved again, like a man who has just awakened from a long sleep. At first he seemed puzzled, then hurt, and as the onlookers stared, they saw him shake himself, like a dog that has just come from the water, and plunge his sword as far as the hilt through the cackling bundle of rags that was Roddhu.
At this stroke of treachery, tumult broke out round the tables, and half the men in the hall were on their feet, bright blades flashing in their hands, their hearts turned towards the Roman. But before they could move clear of the benches they saw the old man, standing bolt upright with the long sword through him, pass his hands before the Roman’s face. For a moment the air was full of strange twangling sounds, and a smell like burning flesh came from the fire. Then they heard the long sword fall to the ground, and they saw it lying in the straw, with never a trace of blood on its blade. Roddhu was standing still, smiling with his old face again, waiting and gently rubbing his hands as he looked at Lepidus. And where the Roman had been standing they now saw a tottering skeleton, hung about with rusted armour. Then a strong and sickening stench of decay swept through the hall, and they saw only a heap of fine dust. A metal bracelet clattered to the floor and rolled away into the darkness, and a sudden gust of air, that set the torches fluttering, ran along the walls, shaking the sheepskin hangings and striking every man with a strange chill. And when they looked again, even the heap of dust had gone, nor was Roddhu anywhere to be seen.
Outside a wolf howled, and the men in the hall heard the black cattle crying out in fear. Then the voice of Arminius sounded, hysterical and afraid, “By God, you’ve slain him! You’ve slain him! The Senate shall hear of this, I tell you! Rome shall hear of this!”