That night the rain came down as though it had never fallen before over the green midland countryside. It beat on the thatch of the hall and made everyone restless. Then it made its way in through a place where the reeds were thinnest, and ran down in little water-spouts, wetting the floor. Some of the Romans from the south of Spain shivered and grumbled, pulling their heavy riding-cloaks over their heads. But the tribesmen laughed at them and told them to move a little way up towards the hearth-fire where it was drier.
Novantico’s face was sour. He said bitterly, “It is a place where only green frogs could live, this Britain. How could any but savages tolerate this weather?”
Cynwas came up to him and patted him on the cheek. “There, there, little one,” he said in good humour. “Do not fret so. Our wind and rain will make a man of you yet.”
The Coritani were standing round, their russet faces gleaming with wet, their light eyes laughing to see how miserable a rain-storm had made these proud Romans in their cloaks and war-gear. Novantico swung round on them and said, “Only madmen grin at the truth. If you were in Rome, we would put you all in a play, with wooden collars round your necks and chains on your ankles, to amuse the people with your antics. I have seen apes from Egypt who were more like men.”
Cynwas did not smile now, but put his hands behind his back and gripped one with the other tightly, as though he did not trust what they might do. Then he said very slowly, “You are a little man with a big temper. That is not good, unless you are a general and have power enough to back up all your words. Be at peace now and do not work yourself up into more frenzy, or it will spoil your appetite when the food comes in.”
He began to turn away but Novantico suddenly reached out and grasped him by the sleeve, almost dragging him round. “Appetite?” he shouted. “Appetite for the sort of pig-swill that you folk gobble down? And as for generals, do not mention your generals to me, Briton. You had one once, and his name was Caratacus. Do you recall what we did to him? Do you recall that we chased him half over his own land, and then dragged him in chains to Rome, like an orchard-robber or a cattle-thief?”
For a while Cynwas stared in astonishment. Then his hands came from behind his back and he began to reach for his dagger. And at that moment the centurion Tigidius crossed the room in two long paces and struck Novantico a blow with the clenched fist that tumbled him into the hay on the floor.
Then he turned to the Celt and said, “That is something I should have done before, sir. I will see that he does not trouble you again.”
He ordered two legionaries to drag the man out and put him into one of the huts. Cynwas watched all this in silence. His face had gone very white and his hands were trembling, but he bowed his head slightly towards Tigidius and said, “Small dogs will yelp at big ones, whatever their breed. Let us forget it; I will call the serving-women in.”
Trestle-tables of oak were set up and benches dragged into the hall. Cynwas sat at the centre of the narrow board with his sister on his right hand and Marcus on his left. Tigidius sat opposite his tribune, with the legionaries on one side of him and the tribesmen on the other. The women ran in with bowls of red earthenware which they filled with oat porridge, flavoured with wild honey. Then, before the great wooden platter of mutton was set before the chieftain, other women poured out sweet sticky mead into horn cups, or tart ale for those who preferred it. Tigidius said, “If our garrison cooks could bake bread half as kind to the teeth as yours, sir, we should be lucky men. But they are all from Spain, where the bread is hardly different from the stones of the dry river-beds.”
Cynwas smiled again now and said, “Then at least there is something we can teach Rome, if it is only the baking of bread.”
That was a strange moment, a little silence in which all men along the feast-board stopped eating and drinking and turned their eyes towards their leaders, as though they thought the quarrel might flare up again. Marcus felt the hairs on his neck stiffen and a breath of chilly air pass down his back as though someone had walked over his grave.
Suddenly he leaned forward and unbuckled a medallion that swung at the front of his breastplate. It was as round as a man’s palm and its rich gold surface glimmered in the torchlight. With a smile he reached before Cynwas and laid this medallion beside the wooden bowl from which Aranrhod was eating. “Here, lady,” he said. “It has been in my mind to give you this for the last hour. Perhaps it will lessen your sadness about the horse. Or, if you chose, you could buy two horses with it. Will you accept it from me?”
At first Cynwas put out his hand as though to push the ornament back to the Roman; then he stopped and said quietly, “Well, sister, answer the Tribune yourself. You are old enough to make other decisions, it seems.”
Aranrhod had a piece of bread in her mouth and tried to swallow it so quickly that she began to splutter and to go red in the face. Cynwas slapped her on the back so hard that her golden plaits swung into her porridge-bowl and then everyone began to laugh. So the bad moment passed.
And when she had finished coughing, Aranrhod touched the moulded surface of the medallion and said, “It is very beautiful. What is it? Does it carry magic in it, Tribune?”
Marcus pretended to scratch his chin. “I do not know its history, lady,” he said. “My father always wore it and, I think, his father before him. I do not remember anyone ever saying that it held magic in it though.”
The girl ran her forefinger over the design, tracing it carefully in the flickering light. She said at last, “I think that it must be a magic thing. See, it shows a god with horns upon his head.”
The tribesmen lower down the board began to suck in their breath and to stare at one another. Marcus said in haste, “No, lady, not a god. I think it is meant to be one of the great captains in olden times. Perhaps it is Alexander who marched all the way to India, and fought with Persians and Egyptians.”
Aranrhod looked puzzled. “Then why does he wear horns?” she asked.
Tigidius saw the look in the Tribune’s eyes, so he said quickly, “They are not horns, lady, they are the two branches of a laurel crown. But they are now so worn with age and use that they look like horns, perhaps, in this light.”
Cynwas stared at him and said, “I think you are the sort of man who would speak the truth to a child.” It was said like a question, and Tigidius answered from a stiff face, “Chieftain, I try to speak the truth to anyone, child or not. Few people who know me ever ask that question.”
Cynwas did not answer him, but turned to his sister and said, “You are a lucky girl, lady. You must hang this pretty warrior on a leather thong and always wear it round your neck. One day, who knows, you may be a queen in India or those other places the centurion has mentioned, and then the folk there will think all the more highly of you for wearing such an emblem.”
No more was said but as soon as she could, Aranrhod left the feasting and the men drank more mead and ale from the horns and cups.
Cynwas whispered to Marcus, “She will dream all night of this. No doubt, even now the medallion will be passing from hand to hand in the maidens’ bower; and every one who holds it will be making up some mad story or another about it. Come, Romans, let me fill your cups again. On a rainy night like this there is little left for us to do but sit by the warm fire and enjoy the sweet mead.”