Tales of Long Ago

Pontus, the Roman viceroy, sat in the atrium of his palatial villa by
the Thames, and he looked with perplexity at the scroll of papyrus
which he had just unrolled. Before him stood the messenger who had
brought it, a swarthy little Italian, whose black eyes were glazed
with want of sleep, and his olive features darker still from dust and
sweat. The viceroy was looking fixedly at him, yet he saw him not, so
full was his mind of this sudden and most unexpected order. To him it
seemed as if the solid earth had given way beneath his feet. His life
and the work of his life had come to irremediable ruin.

"Very good," he said at last in a hard dry voice, "you can go."

The man saluted and staggered out of the hall. A yellow-haired British
major-domo came forward for orders.

"Is the General there?"

"He is waiting, your excellency."

"Then show him in, and leave us together."

A few minutes later Licinius Crassus, the head of the British military
establishment, had joined his chief. He was a large, bearded man in a
white civilian toga, hemmed with the Patrician purple. His rough, bold
features, burned and seamed and lined with the long African wars, were
shadowed with anxiety as he looked with questioning eyes at the drawn,
haggard face of the viceroy.

"I fear, your excellency, that you have had bad news from Rome."

"The worst, Crassus. It is all over with Britain. It is a question
whether even Gaul will be held."

"Saint Albus save us! Are the orders precise?"

"Here they are, with the Emperor's own seal."

"But why? I had heard a rumour, but it had seemed too incredible."

"So had I only last week, and had the fellow scourged for having
spread it. But here it is as clear as words can make it: 'Bring every
man of the Legions by forced marches to the help of the Empire. Leave
not a cohort in Britain.' These are my orders."

"But the cause?"

"They will let the limbs wither so that the heart be stronger. The
old German hive is about to swarm once more. There are fresh crowds of
Barbarians from Dacia and Scythia. Every sword is needed to hold the
Alpine passes. They cannot let three legions lie idle in Britain."

The soldier shrugged his shoulders.

"When the legions go no Roman would feel that his life was safe here.
For all that we have done, it is none the less the truth that it is no
country of ours, and that we hold it as we won it by the sword."

"Yes, every man, woman, and child of Latin blood must come with us to
Gaul. The galleys are already waiting at Portus Dubrish. Get the
orders out, Crassus, at once. As the Valerian legion falls back from
the Wall of Hadrian it can take the northern colonists with it. The
Jovians can bring in the people from the west, and the Batavians can
escort the easterns if they will muster at Camboricum. You will see to
it." He sank his face for a moment in his hands. "It is a fearsome
thing," said he, "to tear up the roots of so goodly a tree."

"To make more space for such a crop of weeds," said the soldier
bitterly. "My God, what will be the end of these poor Britons! From
ocean to ocean there is not a tribe which will not be at the throat of
its neighbour when the last Roman Lictor has turned his back. With
these hot-headed Silures it is hard enough now to keep the swords in
their sheaths."