The Count of the Saxon Shore; or The Villa in Vectis.<br />A Tale of the Departure of the Romans fro, Church and Putnam [summer beach reads TXT] 📗

“Yes,” replied Martianus, “but will they not return? They have gone before; but have they not come back? I take it these Romans get too much out of us to let us go willingly.”

“I have no fear of their return. If Honorius can make terms with this Constantine and his army, he will never send them back here; he wants them too much at home. He has got King Alaric to reckon with, and he has been long since drawing every soldier that he can from the provinces into Italy. No, depend upon it, at last Britain is free.”

“Free; yes, if it has not forgotten how to move.”

“We haven’t all learnt to play the slave,” said Ambiorix fiercely, as he started from his seat. [pg 116]“There are some who have not sold their birthright for the delights of the bath and the banquet, and who are too proud to ape the manners of their masters.”

“Peace, my son,” interposed the aged priest; “Martianus is not the less able to help the cause of our country because he seems to be the friend of those who oppress it.”

“These are but the wild words of youth, father,” said Martianus. “By a wise man they are forgotten as soon as they are heard. But let us hear what Ambiorix has to tell us about the force which we can bring into the field.”

The young chief entered into details which it is impossible to reproduce. Preparations had been made over nearly the whole of Britain, though the more northerly parts, owing to the perpetual attacks of their neighbours the Picts, had little to contribute in the way of help. Ambiorix knew how many men could be relied upon in every district; he was acquainted with the disposition of the representatives of the chief British families; he knew what each would want for himself, to whom he would be prepared to yield precedence, from whom he would claim precedence for himself. All his views and calculations were those of a sanguine temper; but he certainly could show—on paper at least, as we should say—a very respectable amount of strength. When he had finished his account of the resources [pg 117]of Britain, Martianus, who, whatever his faults, had at least a genuine admiration for ability, held out his hand—

“This is wonderful!” he said. “You have a true genius for rule. That you should keep the threads of so complicated a business all so distinct is simply wonderful. You certainly give me hopes that I never had before.”

“I never doubted for a moment,” returned the young man, “but that when this Roman incubus was removed all would go well. Besides, who is there to attack us? We have no enemies.”

“No enemies!” replied the other, in a tone of surprise. “Do you forget the Saxons by sea and the Picts by land.”

“I believe that neither will trouble us. They are not our enemies, but the enemies of Rome. They have harassed—they were quite right in harassing—the oppressors of the world: they will respect, I am sure, the liberties of a free people. When Britain is as independent as they are we shall be friends.”

Martianus could not help smiling sarcastically. “That is very fine. One would think that you had been a pupil in one of the schools of rhetoric which you so much despise. The most famous of our declaimers could not have put it better. But I am afraid that there will be some difficulty in explaining all this to them.”

“In any case, we can defend ourselves,” returned the young chief, “though I do not think that the need will occur.”

“Let us hope not,” said Martianus, but his tone was not confident or cheerful.

There were, it may easily be supposed, not a few other subjects for discussion, and the conversation lasted for a long time, the young chief showing throughout such a mastery of details as greatly impressed his companions. When he had finished a brief silence followed. It was broken by the priest. There was a special solemnity in his tone, which seemed to claim an authority for his utterances, quite different from the position that he had taken up while politics or military matters were being discussed.

“My children,” he said, “this is a grave matter. The weal or woe of Britain for many generations is at stake. If we fail, we may well be undone for ever. You cannot enter on so great an enterprise without the favour of the gods, and the favour of the gods is not easily to be won. For many years they have lacked the sacrifice which they most prize. I myself, though I have completed my threescore years and ten, have but once only been privileged so to honour them. The time has come for this sacrifice to be offered once more. Have I your consent, my children? But indeed I need not ask. This is a [pg 119]matter in which I cannot be mistaken, and from which I cannot go back.”

The young chief nodded assent, but said nothing. He was evidently disturbed.

“What do you mean, father?” he said.

“The sacrifice which the gods most prize,” answered the old man, “is also that which is most prized by men. The most perfect offering which we can present to them is the most perfect creature they themselves have made. Sheep and oxen may suffice for common needs; but at such a time as this, when Britain itself is at stake,