Lydia! As he stared at the shadows on the side of his tent, Porteus let his thoughts wander to his future bride. The picture that immediately arose was the same one that always did: it was a vision that was imprinted forever on his memory, that first magic time that he had seen her. The girl had been walking across the small garden in her father’s house in Rome and she had not realised that anyone else was there. It was her thirteenth birthday: her long brown hair was braided and wound round her head in the fashion of that year, and she was wearing a simple white linen dress, gathered at the waist. As she passed the small fountain in the centre of the little court, the sunlight caught her so that her naked form was perfectly silhouetted through the thin material, and he saw, with a gasp of wonder, the firm lines of her body and the soft young breasts newly swollen to their first perfect fullness. It was a sight he should never have been permitted to see, for high born girls like Lydia were kept in modest seclusion until they were married, but once seen he would never forget the girl’s artless grace. Porteus had fallen in love at once. At thirteen she was already of marriageable age, and he soon discovered to his delight that she was not yet betrothed. She had a perfect oval face, large brown eyes and that clear pale olive complexion that can last, almost flawlessly, for a lifetime. She was perfection. It was not long before the two young people discovered that they delighted in each other’s company. Lydia was young, innocent, and self-willed. He came to look forward to her sudden flashes of childish temper, followed by laughter and brilliant smiles. And the girl thought that her eager young lover was the most brilliant young man in the world. It was flattering.
Porteus sighed. His favourite day-dream, in which he had often indulged during the lonely months in the cold northern province, was of their wedding. It was due to take place in two years and by then, he knew, Lydia would have developed into a beautiful young woman. He could see it so clearly: the torchlight procession waiting outside Graccus’s house and singing the marriage hymn: “Hymen, O Hymenae, Hymen”, while inside, hidden from view in the family shrine Lydia would dedicate her child’s toys to the household gods, the Lares; then, following the Roman custom, she would step for the last time out of her child’s clothes, and her mother’s women would dress her in the long white wedding gown and the bright saffron veil in which every Roman girl of family was married. He could see it all. They would arrange her long hair in the style of the vestal virgins so that three perfect curls fell down each cheek. Ah, how he longed to run his fingers through her hair and bury his face in those long, sweet smelling tresses!
And then the torchlight procession would make its way through the streets to the bridegroom’s house where the bride would place wooden fillets on the door posts and anoint the door with oil before he carried her over the threshold while the guests cried “Talassio” and his young friends made lewder calls amidst the general laughter.
They were his most precious thoughts.
Now however, his dreams were interrupted by a gust of wind from the tent flap and the head of Marcus looking in.
“Writing love letters?” The young aristocrat gave him a friendly grin.
“No. Telling my parents about our victory.”
Marcus nodded.
“Not a pretty business I’m afraid; but necessary I daresay. By the way,” he smiled pleasantly, “you may as well know the governor thinks you handled yourself well at the crossing. Seems to think you might make a soldier yet!”
Porteus could not help blushing with pleasure. This was praise indeed.
“I’m planning to reconnoitre the west of this island tomorrow,” Marcus went on. “Thought you might like to come with me – just in case there’s a little action.”
“Of course.” He did not think he had done anything out of the ordinary during the battle, but there was no mistaking the message that Marcus was giving him: he had been accepted.
Marcus looked down at Porteus. A nice young fellow, he thought: good material. But how in the name of all the gods had he managed to get himself betrothed to the daughter of an important man like Graccus? Perhaps there was something wrong with the girl.
“What’s she like, this paragon of yours, this Lydia?” he enquired.
“I’ll show you,” Porteus replied, glad to have a further chance of impressing his mentor; and proudly he pulled out a miniature that he secreted amongst his papers. Silently he handed the little painting to the aristocrat.
It was no bigger than the palm of a man’s hand, but the work was beautifully done and the likeness excellent. Marcus stared at it in wonder.
“She is beautiful,” he marvelled.
“She is,” Porteus cried enthusiastically. “We’ll be married in two years when I return to Rome and then we shall visit Britannia and if you’re still here, you shall meet her.”
For a moment Marcus felt almost jealous at his young friend’s astonishing good fortune: the girl was exquisite; it would be a brilliant marriage.
“I look forward to it,” he replied thoughtfully. “Until tomorrow then,” he added as he went out.
As soon as he had gone, Porteus began to add a postscript to his letter to let his parents know about the governor’s good opinion of him. Then he sat silently for a period, lost in reflection.
His thoughts were not, this time, of Lydia; nor even of himself. His mind had instead returned to the political matter that had been nagging at him for so long. For young and inexperienced as he still was, Porteus was not a fool, and he had recently been learning important lessons about Roman statecraft – lessons that were affecting him more deeply than he had ever expected. After turning the matter over in his mind for some time, he finally picked up the piece of parchment that he had formerly discarded and wrote the following.
My dear father —
This must of course be between ourselves – do not even speak of it to my mother – but I ask for your wisdom and your advice.
The problems I speak of are many, but they are all caused by the fact that while we expect the islanders to learn our Roman ways, we take no account of their own customs, and they are coming to hate us.
For example: we have built a fine new temple to the imperial cult at Camulodunum in the east and, as usual, a number of native chiefs have been honoured by being made priests. But the temple is so large, its ceremonies so magnificent – and as you know, all these costs are charged to the priests themselves – that the cost of its upkeep is too heavy for them. Instead of inspiring them with love and respect for our emperor, it is only causing them to long for their own, and less expensive Celtic gods!
Another example: we have reversed our policy towards the chiefs. The late divine Claudius, as all the world knows, favoured client kings; but our present emperor hates them and now his procurator here, Decianus Catus who you warned me was a lazy and greedy man, has been busy confiscating their property and saying it belongs to the empire. As you would expect, they are furious and they say that we Romans do not keep our word. It’s true – we haven’t.
Yet another, perhaps worse: many island chiefs are deep in debt to Roman creditors. They say that one of the greatest creditors of all is the philosopher Seneca. It seems amazing: I remember as a student with what admiration we studied his philosophy which told us to live a simple life, to be merciful to all men and to eschew worldly goods! Well, it seems he has millions of sesterces out on loan to native chiefs here and that he and a number of other great financiers have recently panicked and are calling in all their debts. Since the chiefs are having their property taken, they can’t pay, and they’ll be completely ruined!
It seems to me that if this province is ever going to be a success, we must not only win the war but also win the peace as well, and we can’t do that if no one trusts us. But the governor, who is a great man, thinks only of military mountain operations to swell his reputation amongst the other generals, and the procurator is no more than a rogue. The situation is drifting from bad to worse. It is particularly serious in the east, in the lands of the Trinovantes and the Iceni.
I think perhaps others in the administration see this too, but no one says a word – if you met Suetonius, you’d see why: they’re all terrified of him, and so am I!
I wish I could do something, but I don’t know what. Give me your advice.
Porteus read this second missive over and grunted with satisfaction. He was pleased with its neat, epigrammatic statements; the views he expressed were both honest and perceptive. The question was, did he dare send such a dangerous letter at all when there was a risk it might be opened, or would it be wiser to burn it and say nothing?
His ambition told him it was none of his business to worry about such things; but his conscience troubled him, and this difficult question was still unresolved when he fell asleep.
He never had to make the decision. Because at dawn he was awoken by Marcus in his tent, shaking him by the shoulder.
“Wake up, Porteus: quick!”
As he struggled into consciousness he saw that the young aristocrat’s face was set grimly.
“What is it?”
“It’s action, my friend. The Iceni have revolted!”
There was no need for him to send the letter to his father now: it was already too late; and as he soon discovered, the revolt was worse than anything he had ever imagined.
It was the procurator’s fault: King Prasutagus of the proud Iceni tribe in the east of the island had recently died leaving his widow and two daughters in the care of the emperor: but instead of protecting them, Decianus Catus had immediately confiscated most of their property and when the Iceni protested, Roman troops moved in.
It was a potentially explosive situation, created by the greed and stupidity of a worthless bureaucrat and an unsympathetic governor. Had there been a cool and more broad-minded administrator in the region to conciliate the Iceni, trouble might still have been averted.
When the troops moved in they found the Iceni in a state of justifiable rage. There were insults hurled at them and small skirmishes. Believing that their job was to teach these British natives a lesson, the officers led their men to the residence of the king’s widow, Boudicca, and ordered them to confiscate her possessions. This was the final insult to the powerful tribe, and the operation turned into a fiasco. The queen’s faithful servants began to attack those who, it seemed to them, had come to loot the royal house, and the Roman troops in no time were out of control. By the end of that day, Boudicca had been dragged out of her house and flogged, and her two daughters raped.
It was all that was needed. The fire of revolt against Roman oppression was lit – and the conflagration spread with a speed that astonished the conquerors.
The entire tribe of the Iceni and their powerful neighbours the Trinovantes rose at once. The arms which the Romans thought they had confiscated after Claudius’s conquest suddenly reappeared and a great horde, tens of thousands strong, began to move upon the eastern colony of Camulodunum.
Camulodunum was the first of the provincial centres the Romans had founded when they arrived. Its charter called it a
colonia
– the highest rank of provincial settlement – and it contained a forum, a temple, law courts and other administrative offices; around this walled centre had already spread the farms of the retired Roman legionaries who were normally given grants of land beside these
coloniae
in the provinces where they had served. It was a typical Roman colony: rich, complacent and undefended except for a small garrison, and the great horde swept towards it like an avalanche.
“We’ll burn the temples of the extortioners,” they cried. “We’ll destroy their gods who are devouring us and wipe out their settlements.”
Caught off guard, the local garrison discovered they were powerless. Messengers requesting help raced west towards Suetonius. “Camulodunum is being engulfed,” they said. But it was already too late.
Although he had come to disagree with his politics, Porteus could not help admiring the governor as he faced his staff that cold morning.
“The whole of the east’s in flames,” he said tersely. “This kind of fire has to be stamped out at once.
“The nearest garrison as we know is at Lindum and they’ve sent a messenger to say they’re already on their way south. But they’ll need reinforcements and plenty of them. We’ve no time to march on foot. I’ll take the cavalry with me this morning. The XIV and XX Legions will follow of course: forced marches. I’ve already sent a messenger to the garrison at Glevum, they’re far closer than we are, so I’ve told them to march east and we’ll pick them up on the road at Verulamium. Camulodunum’s probably lost by now. We’ll just have to try to save the port at Londinium. Be ready to start at once.”
And so, with only three hundred cavalry, the fearless governor rattled down the long road that ran diagonally across the island and which later centuries would call Watling Street, towards Londinium. It was cold, damp autumn weather, and by nightfall Porteus felt the steam from his horse condensing into ice on his face. Every few hours fresh reports of the rebellion had reached them and each one was more discouraging than the last. But on Suetonius these reports seemed to have no effect at all.