That night, lying curled in his cloak by the dying fire and with the rain still thudding on the roof above him, Marcus had a strange dream. He thought that he was in a dark forest at evening-time, with the rain rustling in the branches above him, and the damp leaves beneath his feet silencing all footsteps. From time to time he called into the dusk, “Father! Father! Where are you? I want to tell you something?”
He felt very sad as he said this, and at first did not know why. Then he remembered in his dream that he had given away the gold medallion. And suddenly a hoarse whispering voice came out of a hawthorn bush to him and said, “Why are you weeping, Roman? A man does not weep; he takes action when he is sad. A fine Tribune such as you should take action, or how shall you keep the respect of the gods that watch over you?”
Marcus gazed round, but could see no one in the bush. So he said into the darkness, “What action should I take? And who are you to tell me this?”
The forest seemed to be filled with mocking laughter then, and this time the voice came from over his head, in the thickness of the oak leaves. It said, “I am the voice of the earth, Roman. I live in the soil and the trees and the hissing barley. I live in the red foxglove and the little fishes of the streams. I live in the horn of the bull and the hoof of the deer. Now do you know who I am?”
Marcus shook his head and said, “I do not know you. Come out and let me see you. Are you a man or a woman?”
A great wind got up and flung him against the damp green bole of an oak tree. Then the voice said from under his feet, “Now do you know who I am, Roman? Who else could throw you so hard against that tree?”
Marcus tried to wrap his cloak about him, but the wind dragged it from his fingers and he could not hold it. He said, struggling, “I have heard your voice before. I have known it since I was a little boy, but I cannot remember whose voice it is. Who are you, tell me?”
A low branch, caught in the wind, swept across his face like a savage blow, and while he reeled from it, the voice said again, “How dare you ask, you foolish fellow! Do you not carry my brooch in your pouch to remind you? Have you forgotten the great stones and the riders in the sunken lane so soon? Have you forgotten the queen with hair like a fox?”
Then in his dream Marcus fell to his knees on the wet ground and said, “Forgive me, Boudicca. I have never forgotten you, not in all these years.”
And the voice, coming from behind him, said, “Nor have I forgotten you, my fine fellow. I shall know you again, never fear. I never forget a face, however many years pass by. I never forget a trespasser in my lane, Roman.”
Marcus said, “I do not know what to do, queen. I am lost in this dark forest. I have lost my father and the golden medallion he left to me. What should I do, lady? What action should I take?”
Then the high laughter seemed to fade away, over the tree-tops, on the wind, leaving everything very still and frightening. Even the rain stopped coming down. And as Marcus stared about him in wonder, a little green snake with brown markings down its back slithered close by his knees, then suddenly burrowed swiftly out of sight into the leaves before him.
Then the voice came back out of the small round hole that the creature had made, and whispered like a hiss, “Put your hand under the leaves, Roman. Dare to feel under the leaves and you will find all you have lost. That is the action you must take, brave warrior!”
Marcus was so angry at being taunted like this, he drew back his sleeve and plunged his hand down among the damp brown leaves and began to feel about. For a while he found nothing, then all at once his fingers came on something hard and cold. But it was not the medallion, nor could he drag it up to the surface however much he pulled at it.
Then a cold sweat broke out over all his body as he realised what it was he had found.
He cried out in anger and sadness, “You have tricked me, woman. It is my father below the leaves. I would know that ring on his finger anywhere, though I cannot see it.”
He was still shouting out and struggling when his eyes opened and he saw Tigidius above him, staring down at him with wide eyes.
“Be still, Marcus, be still,” the centurion was saying. “You are all wet, as though you had a fever. You have been dreaming some bad dream. But the time for dreaming is over. There are things to be done now that cannot wait.”
The centurion took his hand from the Tribune’s mouth. Marcus sat up shivering and looked about. It was broad daylight and the sun was coming in through the window-holes of the hall. The fire had burned down to white ashes and no servants had built it up again. Two legionaries were standing at the far end of the hall, looking white-faced and afraid. Outside there was much shouting in the Celtic tongue, and horses seemed to be stamping about as though their riders were swinging them round, this way and that.
Marcus said, “What is going on, man? What has happened?”
But before the centurion could answer, Cynwas burst into the hall with his hair flying. He was dragging like a madman at the buckle of his sword-belt to fasten it.
“I’ll tell you what has happened,” he said. “Rome has betrayed us once again, my friend. That is what has happened.”
Now Marcus stood up and passed his hand across his damp face. “I was asleep,” he said. “I do not understand, brother. How has Rome betrayed you?”
Cynwas stormed up to him as though he would strike him in the face. Then he seemed to hold himself back and hissed, “Your brave decurion has left in the night and has taken most of the Romans with him. All you have left now are these two, who stand trembling here like bullocks who smell the butcher coming. And I swear by Mabon, the butcher will come if Aranrhod is not returned to me.”
Marcus gasped, “What! The men have deserted and have taken your sister with them? This cannot be true. No, it cannot be true.”
One of the soldiers stepped forward a pace then and said in a dead voice, “Sir, it is true. We saw them creep out and heard them gallop away. We did not know what to do. We reported to the centurion, but it was too late then, they had gone.”
Tigidius nodded gravely. “I tried to wake you, Marcus,” he said, “but it was as though you lay under a deep spell.”
Marcus glowered about him, then nodded. “I think I was,” he said. “And the dream has not left me yet. I cannot see clearly. I can scarcely understand the words that are said to me.”
Then Cynwas took him roughly by the shoulder and shook him. “The sooner you break from your dream the better, Roman,” he said, “for there is blood to be paid now. The guard at Aranrhod’s door lies stark with your decurion’s knife in his back. My sister is dragged from her house. Our horses have been stolen. What price shall be paid for all that, do you think, Tribune?”
Marcus drew away from him and gazed at the two soldiers. “Can you men ride?” he asked coldly. They nodded. “Then,” he said, “if we mount without losing more time and take the road to Lindum, we may still cut off these mutinous dogs before more harm is done.”
Cynwas stared at him without belief for an instant, then suddenly he said, “I do believe that you are an honest man at heart, Roman. Come, there shall be ponies for the four of you and we will take the road you say. But, when we catch these murdering thieves, do not think to save them with any Roman arguments. They shall suffer the punishment of our people, and nothing you can say shall save them.”
Tigidius stepped forward and said then, “There will be no argument, Cynwas. But you will not punish them—I shall. And their punishment will be according to the law of men and not of beasts.”
For a moment Cynwas was speechless. Then he said through clenched teeth, “Very well, centurion. Very well. But if my sister is not returned to me unharmed, then you too shall share the punishment. And it will be such that all men shall remember it and shall call it The Judgement of Cynwas.”
He turned then and led the way from that still hall, to where tribesmen held horses ready for the pursuit.