The Lantern Bearers

  ‘When Theodosius came to drive out the Picts that old Kuno so dearly loves to talk about, his lieutenant was one Magnus Maximus, a Spaniard. And when Theodosius went south again, he left Maximus in command behind him. Maximus married a British princess, daughter of the line that had ruled in the mountains of Northern Cymru since before we Romans came to Britain; and owing in part to his wife’s blood, years later the British troops proclaimed him Emperor in opposition to Gratian. He marched to meet his fate, taking with him most of the Legions and Auxiliaries from the province; and his fate was death. That you know. But he left behind him a young son in Arfon—Constantine.’

  Aquila moved abruptly, the tale suddenly laying hold of him. ‘Constantine, who saved us after the last of the Legions were withdrawn.’

  ‘Aye. When Rome could do no more for us, and was herself a smoking ruin—though she has recovered in some sort since—we turned to Constantine of Arfon; and he came down from the mountains with his tribesmen behind him, and led us and them to victory and a sweeping back of the Sea Wolves such as there had not been for twenty years before. For upwards of thirty more, with Constantine holding the reins from Venta, things went well for Britain, and the Saxons were driven back again and again from our shores. But in the end Constantine was murdered in his own hall. A Pictish plot, but there have always been many of us believed that Vortigern, who came out of the West as a mere Clan Chieftain of the Ordovices to follow him in his later days and married his sister Severa, was at the root of it. Maybe he thought that if a wife’s lineage could raise her husband to the Purple once, it might do so again. Save that it wasn’t the Purple he wanted, but power of another kind. Always he has been the spearhead of the hothead party which sees Rome as the Tribes saw her four hundred years ago, which has learned nothing in the years since, which is blinded by its dreams and sees the danger of the Saxon hordes as a lesser evil than the rule of Rome. So Constantine died, and Vortigern contrived to seize the chief power in the land, though never the full power. But there were still Utha and Ambrosius, Constantine’s sons in his old age.’

  ‘Yes,’ Aquila said, ‘I remember. It caught my imagination because they were not much older than I was, and I must have been about eight when it all happened and they disappeared.’

  ‘They were snatched away by a few of their father’s household, back to Arfon, to the safety of the mountains; and for ten years Vortigern has held virtually all power in the province—if power it can be called, when he must rest his weight on a Saxon war band to hold off the Picts, and on the hated Auxiliaries of Rome to hold off the Saxons … ’ He moved a little, putting out a hand to feel for the rough edge of the step beside him. ‘Utha died a year or so since, but Ambrosius is now come to manhood.’

  Aquila looked at him quickly, realizing the significance of that; that the wild Cymric princeling newly come to manhood among the mountains, to an age to bear his shield, was by right of birth the natural leader of those who held to the ways of Rome. ‘And so—?’ he said.

  ‘And so—seeing that it was so, seeing also that the General Aetius, he who was Consul two years ago, was campaigning in Gaul, we sent to him, reminding him that we still held ourselves to be of the Empire, and begging him to bring us the help and reinforcements that we need, to rid the province both of Vortigern and the Saxon hordes, and resume it for Rome. That was last autumn.’

  Aquila caught his breath. ‘And that was the reply?’

  ‘No,’ his father said. ‘As yet there has come no reply.’

  ‘Then—what was the message that you sent?’

  ‘Merely a short agreed passage from Xenophon, copied out for me by Flavia. About the middle of each month the message goes through, by the hand of our friend the bird-catcher, or one of several others, to make sure that the signal route is still open.’

  ‘“It is all of two hundred miles from Venta to the Mountains”,’ Aquila quoted. ‘That is how you know that it is the right person to give it to.’

  His father nodded. ‘I wondered whether you would pick on the password.’

  ‘But it was last autumn that the word went out to Aetius, you say? And it is high summer now. Surely there should have come some reply long before this?’

  ‘If it is coming at all, it must surely come soon,’ his father said with a sudden weariness in his voice. ‘If it does not come very soon, it may well be too late to come at all. Every day adds to the danger that Vortigern the Red Fox will smell what is in the wind.’

  The sunlight faded while they sat silent after that, and the twilight came lapping up the valley like a quiet tide, and the sky above the long wave-lift of the downs was translucent and colourless as crystal. The scent of the honeysuckle in Flavia’s garland seemed to grow stronger as the light faded, and a bat hovered and darted by, pricking the dusk with its needle-thin hunting cry. Old Gwyna came across the atrium behind them to light the candles, scuffing her feet along the floor just as she had done for as long as Aquila could remember.

  Everything just as it always had been at the time of the ’tween lights; but he knew now that under the quiet surface the home that he loved was part of the struggle for Britain, menaced by other dangers than the chance raids of Saxon pirates.

  Suddenly he felt the passing moment as something that was flowering and would not flower again. ‘Though I sit here on ten thousand other evenings,’ he thought, ‘this evening will not come again.’ And he made an unconscious movement as though to cup it in his hands, and so keep it safe for a little longer.

  But he could not keep it. Their father drew his long legs under him and got up. ‘I hear Gwyna with the lights, and it is time to change for dinner.’

  Even as Aquila sprang up also and caught Flavia’s hand to pull her to her feet, he heard the beat of horses’ hooves coming up the valley. They checked, listening, and Margarita pricked her ears.

  ‘More comers. It seems that we are the hub of the world this evening,’ Aquila said.

  Their father nodded, his head at the alert, listening angle that was so much a part of him. ‘Whoever it is, he has been riding hard and his horse is weary.’

  Something held them there on the terrace, waiting, while the rider came nearer, disappeared behind the out-buildings and reined in. In a little, they heard voices, and the tramp of feet, and Gwyna came along the terrace with a man in the leather tunic of an Auxiliary behind her. ‘Someone for the young master,’ she said.

  The man stepped forward, saluting. ‘A message for the Decurion Aquila, sir.’

  Aquila nodded. ‘So—give it here.’ He took the tablet that the man held out, broke the sealing thread, and stepping into the light of the atrium doorway, opened the two wooden leaves and glanced hastily over the few words on the wax inside, then looked up. ‘Here’s an end to my two weeks’ leave, then. I’m recalled to duty.’ He swung round on the waiting Auxiliary. If it had been one of his own troop he might have asked unofficial questions, but the man was scarcely known to him. ‘Is your horse being seen to? Go and get a meal while I make ready to ride. Gwyna, feed him and bid Vran to have Lightfoot and the bay gelding ready to start in the half of an hour.’

  ‘Now I wonder, I wonder, what this may mean,’ his father said, very quietly, as the man tramped off after Gwyna.

  No one answered as they moved into the atrium. The yellow radiance of the candles seemed very bright, harshly bright after the soft owl-light of the terrace outside. Aquila looked at Flavia, at his father, and knew that the same thought was in all three of them … Could it be that this was anything to do with the appeal to Aetius in Gaul? And if so, was its meaning good—or bad?

  ‘Need you go tonight?’ Flavia said. ‘Oh, need you go tonight, Aquila? You will get back no sooner in riding in the dark.’ She was still holding her almost completed banquet wreath, crushed and broken in her hand. It would never now be finished.

  ‘I can be at the next posting station before midnight,’ Aquila said, ‘ten miles on my way. Maybe I’ll get my leave again soon and be back f
or our banquet. Put me up some bread and cheese, while I collect my gear.’ He flung an arm round her thin, braced shoulders, and kissed her hurriedly, touched his silent father on the hand, and strode out towards the sleeping cell to collect his gear.

  For Aquila, though he could not know it, the world had begun its falling to pieces.

  2

  Rutupiae Light

  TWO evenings later, Aquila and the Auxiliary were heading up the last mile of the Londinium road towards the grey fortress of Rutupiae that rose massive and menacing above the tawny levels, with all the lonely flatness of Tanatus Island spread beyond it: Rutupiae, fortress of the Saxon Shore, that had seen so much happen, that had known the last legion in Britain. And what now?

  They clattered over the timber bridge that carried the road in through the dark, double-gate arch, answering the sentry’s challenge that rang hollow under the archway, and in the broad space below the stable rows Aquila handed over the army post-horse that he rode to his companion, and set out to report to the Commandant.

  When he first reported at Rutupiae to join his troop, the great fortress, that had been built to house half a legion, and where now only a few companies of Marines and three troops of Auxiliary Horse rattled like dried peas in the emptiness, had seemed to him horribly desolate. But the hunting and wild-fowling were good, and he was a cheerful and easy-going lad who made friends easily with his own kind. And in the business of learning his job, and his growing pride in his troop, he had very soon ceased to notice the emptiness. But he was once again sharply conscious of it this evening as he threaded his way through the square-set alleys of the great fort, heading for the Praetorium. Perhaps it really was emptier than usual at this hour—though indeed there were sounds of something going on very urgently, down towards the Watergate and the harbour. A troop of horse trotted past him on their way up from stables; but otherwise he saw scarcely a living soul, until he came to the Praetorium buildings, passed the sentry at the head of the Commandant’s stairs, and stood before Titus Fulvius Callistus as he sat at his big writing-table, filling in the duty rotas for the day. At least that was just as usual, Aquila thought; but as he cast a passing glance at the papyrus sheets on the table, he realized that they weren’t the usual duty rotas at all, but lists and papers of some other kind.

  ‘Reporting back for duty, sir,’ Aquila said, with the informal salute demanded by the fact that he was still in civilian dress.

  Callistus ticked something on his list, and looked up. He was a leathery little man with a piercing eye. ‘Ah, I hoped that you would be back tonight,’ he said, and ticked off three more items on his list. ‘Any idea why I recalled you?’

  ‘No, sir. Your messenger didn’t seem to know anything, and he wasn’t one of my men—didn’t care to ask him much.’

  Callistus nodded towards the window. ‘Go and look out there.’

  Aquila looked at him an instant, questioningly, then crossed to the high windows and stood looking out. From this room high in the Praetorium there was a clear view of the Watergate, and, between the jutting bastions of the Curtain Wall, a glimpse of the inner harbour and the roadstead beyond. One of the three-bank galleys—he thought it was the Clytemnestra—was made fast alongside the jetty, taking on board supplies; he could see the small, dark figures on the gangways. There was a swarming of men about the Watergate, stores and fodder and war supplies being brought down under the watchful eye of a Centurion of Marines. Felix, his particular friend, who commanded another troop of horse, was down there struggling to disentangle a mishap of some kind. He saw him waving his arms in his efforts, as though he were drowning. He heard a trumpet call, and beyond in the roadstead the other galleys lay at anchor, quiet above their broken reflections, yet clearly waiting to be away.

  ‘Looks like making ready for embarkation,’ he said.

  ‘Looks like what it is.’ Callistus laid down his pen and got up, and came across to join him in the window. ‘We are being withdrawn from Britain.’

  For a moment Aquila could not make the words mean anything. They were so unbelievable that they were only sounds. And then their meaning came home to him, and he turned his head slowly, frowning, to look at the Commandant. ‘Did you say “withdrawn from Britain”, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ Callistus said, ‘I did.’

  ‘But in Our Lord’s name, why?’

  ‘Question not the orders of the High Command. Possibly it is considered that our few companies and crews will die more serviceably under the walls of Rome the next time the barbarians choose to sack the city, than here in the mists of this forgotten province in the North.’

  Forgotten province; yes, they were that all right, Aquila thought. They had their answer to that desperate appeal to Aetius, all the answer that they would ever have. He heard himself asking, ‘Is it a clean sweep? All the remaining garrisons?’

  ‘I imagine so, yes. Rome is scraping the lees from the bottom of the cask. We have been here four hundred years, and in three days we shall be gone.’

  ‘In three days,’ Aquila said. He felt that he was repeating things stupidly, but he felt stupid, dazed.

  ‘We sail on the third evening tide from now.’ Callistus turned back to his littered table. ‘And since that leaves little time for standing idle, go and get into uniform and take over your troop, Decurion.’

  Still dazed, Aquila saluted and left the room, hurried down the stairway and across the parade-ground below the Pharos. The vast plinth, long as an eighty-oared galley and three times the height of a man, rose like an island in the empty space, and from it the great central tower sprang up, crested with its iron beacon brazier against the sky. A few shreds of marble facings, a few cracked marble columns upholding the roof of the covered ways for the fuel-carts, remained of the proud days, the days when it had stood shining in wrought bronze and worked marble here at the gateway to Britain, for a triumphal memorial to Rome’s conquest of the province. But they had used most of the broken marble for rubble when they built the great walls to keep the Saxons out. The tower rose up bare and starkly grey as a rock, with the seagulls rising and falling about it, the evening light on their wings. The light was beginning to fade; soon the beacon would be lit, and the night after it would be lit, and the night after that, and then there would be no more Rutupiae Light.

  Aquila hurried on, across the parade-ground and up to his sleeping cell in the officers’ block. He changed into uniform, obscurely comforted by the familiar feel of leather tunic and iron cap and the weight of his long cavalry sword against his thigh, and went to take over command of his troop again.

  Later, much later that night, he scratched a few hasty lines of farewell to his father. He knew that among the men in the great fort who must sail in three days’ time, many would be making frantic efforts to arrange for wives and children to follow them, for all men must know that now Britain was doomed. One or two of his own troop had already come to him for help and counsel; a young, worried trooper wanting to get his parents out to Gaul, an old one in tears for a wife who must be left behind… He had done what he could, but he felt so helpless. It was no good trying to do anything about his own family. Nothing, he knew, would shift his father from a post of duty, even though it was duty to a lost cause; and even if that had not been so, he would never have abandoned the farm and the farm-folk. And Flavia would remain with their father whatever came. So he wrote his letter, sending them his dear love, and promising Flavia her crimson slippers one day. He gave it to an orderly for dispatch, knowing that there would be no time for any farewell message to reach him in return, and lay down to catch a few hours’ sleep before he turned out at cockcrow to early Stables.

  During the days that followed, Aquila seemed to be two people: one getting on with the business of making his troop ready for embarkation, the other all the while fighting a battle of divided loyalties within himself. It began after the letter to his father had gone, while he lay wakeful in the darkness with the sea sounding in his ears. One didn’t hear the
sea much in the daytime, save when there was a storm, but at night it was always there, even in a flat calm, a faint, persistent wash of sound like the sea in a shell. It seemed to be out of that faint sea-wash in the silence that the knowledge came to him that he belonged to Britain. He had always belonged to Britain, but he hadn’t known it before, because he had never had to question it before. He knew it now.

  It was not only because of Flavia and his father. Lying in the darkness with his arm over his eyes, he tried quite deliberately to thrust them from his mind, pretend that they did not exist. It made no difference; even without them, he still belonged to Britain. ‘How odd!’ he thought. ‘We of the Outposts, we speak of ourselves as Roman; we think of ourselves as Roman—with the surface of our minds—and underneath, it is like this.’ And they were sailing in three days’ time, less than three days, now.

  And presently the three days had dwindled down to a few hours.

  He longed to talk about it to Felix, good old Felix with whom he had so often gone wild-fowling on Tanatus Marshes. But he knew that Felix, who was also native born, though his roots were not struck so deeply in the province as Aquila’s were, would be having trouble enough of his own. Besides, something in him knew that this was one of those things that must be faced alone.

  Only there seemed so little time to think, to be sure. And now the last feverish hours of getting the horses into the transports were over, and the men had been marched aboard while the brazen orders of the trumpets rang above the ordered tumult; and there was scarcely anything more to do. A flamed and feathered sunset was fading behind the Great Forest, and the tide was almost at the flood, running far up the creeks and inlets and winding waterways; and amid the last ordered coming and going, Aquila stood on the lifting deck of the Clytemnestra. The stern and mast-head lanterns were alight already, as the daylight dimmed, and any moment now the great fire-beacon on the crest of the Pharos should have sprung to life. But there would be no Rutupiae light tonight to guide the fleets of the Empire. The last of the Eagles were flying from Britain. Any moment now the trumpets would sound as the Commandant came down from the Watergate and stepped on board, and the landing-bridge would be raised, and the Hortator’s hammer would begin the steady, remorseless clack-clack-clack that beat out the time for the slaves on the rowing benches.