[Illustration: The Burning of the Villa.]
The COUNT
of the SAXON SHORE
_or_
The Villa in VECTIS
_A TALE OF THE DEPARTURE OF THE ROMANS FROM BRITAIN_
BY THE
REV. ALFRED J. CHURCH, M.A.
_Author of “Stories from Homer”_
WITH THE COLLABORATION OF
RUTH PUTNAM
_Fifth Thousand_
London
SEELEY, SERVICE & CO. LIMITED
38 GREAT RUSSELL STREET
Entered at Stationers’ Hall
By SEELEY & CO.
COPYRIGHT BY G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, 1887
(For the United States of America).
PREFACE.
“Count of the Saxon Shore” was a title bestowed by Maximian (colleague of
Diocletian in the Empire from 286 to 305 A.D.) on the officer whose task
it was to protect the coasts of Britain and Gaul from the attacks of the
Saxon pirates. It appears to have existed down to the abandonment of
Britain by the Romans.
So little is known from history about the last years of the Roman
occupation that the writer of fiction has almost a free hand. In this
story a novel, but, it is hoped, not an improbable, view is taken of an
important event—the withdrawal of the legions. This is commonly assigned
to the year 410, when the Emperor Honorius formally withdrew the Imperial
protection from Britain. But the usurper Constantine had actually removed
the British army two years before; and, as he was busied with the conquest
of Gaul and Spain for a considerable time after, it is not likely that
they were ever sent back.
A. J. C.
R. P.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. A BRITISH CÆSAR 1
II. AN ELECTION 13
III. A PRIZE 21
IV. THE VILLA IN THE ISLAND 32
V. CARNA 47
VI. THE SAXON 57
VII. A PRETENDER’S DIFFICULTIES 70
VIII. THE NEWS IN THE CAMP 83
IX. THE DEPARTURE OF THE LEGIONS 94
X. DANGERS AHEAD 107
XI. THE PRIEST’S DEMAND 115
XII. LOST 124
XIII. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? 135
XIV. THE PURSUIT 144
XV. THE PURSUIT (_continued_) 152
XVI. THE GREAT TEMPLE 164
XVII. THE BRITISH VILLAGE 173
XVIII. THE PICTS 182
XIX. THE SIEGE 194
XX. CEDRIC IN TROUBLE 207
XXI. THE ESCAPE 216
XXII. A VISITOR 224
XXIII. THE STRANGER’S STORY 234
XXIV. NEWS FROM ITALY 245
XXV. CONSULTATION 256
XXVI. FAREWELL! 266
XXVII. MARTIANUS 271
XXVIII. A RIVAL 281
XXIX. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL 293
XXX. AT LAST 306
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE BURNING OF THE VILLA _Frontispiece_
PAGE
CONSTANTINE ELECTED EMPEROR 18
THE _PANTHER_ AND THE SAXON PIRATES 28
CEDRIC AT THE FORGE 58
JAVELIN THROWING 78
THE DEPARTURE OF THE LEGIONS 104
BRITISH CONSPIRATORS 112
THE CAPTURE OF CARNA 128
THE SACRIFICE 166
CEDRIC AND THE PICT 196
CEDRIC’S FURY 212
CEDRIC’S ESCAPE 222
CLAUDIAN’S TALE 234
THE COUNT RECEIVING THE LETTER OF HONORIUS 252
CARNA AND MARTIANUS 276
CARNA ON THE HILLSIDE 304
_THE COUNT OF THE SAXON SHORE._
CHAPTER I.
A BRITISH CÆSAR.
“Hail! Cæsar Emperor, the starving salute thee!”(1) and the speaker made a
military salute to a silver coin, evidently brand-new from the mint (which
did not seem, by the way, to turn out very good work), and bearing the
superscription, “Gratianus Cæsar Imperator Felicissimus.” He was a soldier
of middle age, whose jovial face did not show any sign of the fate which
he professed to have so narrowly escaped, and formed one of a group which
was lounging about the _Quæstorium_, or, as we may put it, the paymaster’s
office of the camp at the head of the Great Harbour.(2) A very curious
medley of nationalities was that group. There were Gauls; there were
Germans from the Rhine bank, some of them of the pure Teuton type, with
fair complexions, bright blue eyes, and reddish golden hair, and
remarkably tall of stature, others showing an admixture of the Celtic
blood of their Gallic neighbours in their dark hair and hazel eyes; there
were swarthy Spaniards, fierce-looking men from the Eastern Adriatic,
showing some signs of Greek parentage in their regular features and
graceful figures; there were two or three who seemed to have an admixture
of Asian or even African blood in them; it might be said, in fact, there
were representatives of every province of the Empire, Italy only excepted.
They had been just receiving their pay, long in arrear, and now
considerably short of the proper amount, and containing not a few coins
which the receivers seemed to think of doubtful value.
“Let me look at his Imperial Majesty,” said another speaker; and he
scanned the features of the new Cæsar—features never very dignified, and
certainly not flattered by the rude coinage—with something like contempt.
“Well, he does not look exactly as a Cæsar should; but what does it
matter? This will go down with Rufus at the wine-shop and Priscus the
sausage-seller, as well as the head of the great Augustus himself.”
“Ah!” said a third speaker, picking out from a handful of silver a coin
which bore the head of Theodosius, “this was an Emperor worth fighting
under. I made my first campaign with him against Maximus, another British
Cæsar, by the way; and he was every inch a soldier. If his son were like
him(3) things would be smoother than they are.”
“Do you think,” said the second speaker, after first throwing a cautious
glance to see whether any officer of rank was in hearing—“do you think we
have made a change for the better from Marcus?(4) He at all events used to
be more liberal with his money than his present majesty. You remember he
gave us ten silver pieces each. Now we don’t even get our proper pay.”
“Marcus, my dear fellow,” said the other speaker, “had a full military
chest to draw upon, and it was not difficult to be generous. Gratianus has
to squeeze every denarius out of the citizens. I heard them say, when the
money came into the camp yesterday, that it was a loan from the Londinium
merchants. I wonder what interest they will get, and when they will see
the principal again.”
“Hang the fat rascals!” said the other. “Why should they sleep soft, and
eat and drink the best of everything, while we poor soldiers, who keep
them and their money-bags safe, have to go bare and hungry?”
“Come, come, comrades,” interrupted the first soldier who had spoken; “no
more grumbling, or some of us will find the centurion after us with his
vine-sticks.”
The group broke up, most of them making the best of their way to spend
some of their unaccustomed riches at the wine-shop, a place from which
they had lately kept an enforced absence. Three or four of the number,
however, who seemed, from a sign that passed between them, to have some
secret understanding, remained in close conversation—a conversation which
they carried on in undertones, and which they adjourned to one of the
tents to finish without risk of being disturbed or overheard.
The camp in which our story opens was a square enclosure, measuring some
five hundred yards each way, and surrounded by a massive wall, not less
than four feet in thickness, in the construction of which stone, brick,
and tile had, in Roman fashion, been used together. The defences were
completed by strong towers of a rounded shape, which had been erected at
frequent intervals. The camp had, as usual, its four gates. That which
opened upon the sea—for the sea washed the southern front—was famous in
military tradition as the gate by which the second legion had embarked to
take part in the Jewish War and the famous siege of Jerusalem. Vespasian,
who had begun in Britain the great career which ended in the throne, had
experienced its valour and discipline in more than one campaign,(5) and
had paid it the high compliment of making a special request for its
services when he was appointed to conduct what threatened to be a
formidable war. This glorious recollection was proudly cherished in the
camp, though more than three centuries had passed, changing as they went
the aspect of the camp, till it looked at least as much like a town as a
military post. The troops were housed in huts stoutly built of timber,
which a visitor would have found comfortably furnished by a long
succession of occupants. The quarters of the tribune and higher centurions
were commodious dwellings of brick; and the headquarters of the legate, or
commanding officer, with its handsome chambers, its baths, and tesselated
pavements, might well have been a mansion at Rome. There was a street of
regular shape, in which provisions, clothes, and even ornaments could be
bought. Roman discipline, though somewhat relaxed, did not indeed permit
the dealers to remain within the fortifications at night, but the shops
were tenanted by day, and did a thriving business, not only with the
soldiers, but with the Britons of the neighbourhood, who found the camp a
convenient resort, where they could market to advantage, besides gossiping
to their hearts’ content. The relations between the soldiers and their
native neighbours were indeed friendly in the extreme. The legion had had
its headquarters in the camp of the Great Harbour for many generations,
though it had occasionally gone on foreign service. Lately, too, the
policy which had recruited the British legion with soldiers from the
Continent, had been relaxed, partly from carelessness, partly because it
was necessary to fill up the ranks as could best be done, and there was
but little choice of men. Thus service became very much an inheritance.
The soldiers married British women, and their children, growing up, became
soldiers in turn. Many recruits still came from Gaul, Spain, and the mouth
of the Rhine, and elsewhere, but quite as many of the troops were by this
time, in part or in whole, British.
Another change which the three centuries and a half since Vespasian’s time
had brought about was in religion. The temple of Mars, which had stood
near the headquarters, and where the legate had been accustomed to take
the auspices,(6) was now a Christian Church, duly served by a priest of
British birth.
About a couple of hours later in the day a shout of “The Emperor! the
Emperor!” was raised in the camp, and the soldiers, flocking out from the
mess-tents in which most of them were sitting, lined in a dense throng the
avenue which led from the chief gate to headquarters.
Gratianus, who was followed by a few officers of superior rank and a small
escort of cavalry, rode slowly between the lines of soldiers. His
reception was not as hearty as he had expected to find. He had, as the
soldiers had hinted, made vast exertions to raise a sum of money in
Londinium—then, as now, the wealthiest municipality in the island. Himself
a native of the place, and connected with some of its richest citizens, he
had probably got together more than any one else would have done in like
circumstances. But all his persuasions and promises, even his offer of
twenty per cent. interest, had not been able to extract from the Londinium
burghers the full sum that was required; and the soldiers, who the day
before would have loudly proclaimed that they would be thankful for the
smallest instalment, were now almost furious because they had not been
paid in full. A few shouts of “Hail, Cæsar! Hail, Gratianus! Hail,
Britannicus!” greeted him on the road to his quarters; but these came from
the front lines only, and chiefly from the centurions and
deputy-centurions, while the great body of the soldiers maintained an
ominous silence, sometimes broken by a sullen murmur.
Gratianus was not a man fitted to deal with sudden emergencies. He was
rash and he was ambitious, but he wanted steadfast courage, and he was
hampered by scruples of which an usurper must rid himself at once if he
hopes to keep himself safe in his seat. He might have appealed frankly to
the soldiers—asked them what it was they complained of, and taken them
frankly into his confidence; or he might have overawed them by an example
of severity, fixing on some single act of insubordination or insolence,
and sending the offender to instant execution. He was not bold enough for
either course, and the opportunity passed, as quickly as opportunities do
in such times, hopelessly out of his reach.
The temper of the soldiers grew more excited and dangerous as the day went
on. For many weeks past want of money had kept them sober against their
will, and now that the long-expected pay-day had come they crowded the
wine-shops inside and outside the camp, and drank almost as wildly as an
Australian shepherd when he comes down to the town after a six months’
solitude. As anything can set highly combustible materials on fire, so the
most trivial and meaningless incident will turn a tipsy mob into a crowd
of bloodthirsty madmen. Just before sunset a messenger entered the camp
bringing a despatch from one of the outlying forts. One of those
prodigious lies which seem always ready to start into existence when they
are wanted for mischief at once ran like wild-fire through the camp.
Gratianus was bringing together troops from other parts of the province,
and was going to disarm and decimate the garrison of the Great Camp. The
unfortunate messenger was seized before he could make his way to
headquarters, seriously injured, and robbed of the despatch which he was
carrying. Some of the centurions ventured to interfere and endeavour to
put down the tumult. Two or three who were popular with the men were
good-humouredly disarmed; others, who were thought too rigorous in
discipline, were roughly handled and thrown into the military prison; one,
who had earned for himself the nick-name of “Old Hand me the other,”(7)
was killed on the spot. The furious crowd then rushed to headquarters,
where Gratianus was entertaining a company of officers of high rank, and
clamoured that they must see the Emperor. He came out and mounted the
hustings, which stood near the front of the buildings, and from which it
was usual to address gatherings of the soldiers.
For a moment the men, not altogether lost to the sense of discipline, were
hushed into silence and order by the sight of the Emperor as he stood on
the platform in his Imperial purple, his figure thrown into bold relief by
the torches which his attendants held behind him.
“What do you want, my children?” he said; but there was a tremble in his
voice which put fresh courage into the failing hearts of the mutineers.
“Give us our pay, give us our arrears!” answered a soldier in one of the
back rows, emboldened to speak by finding himself out of sight.
The cry was taken up by the whole multitude. “Our pay! Our pay!” was
shouted from thousands of throats.
Gratianus stood perplexed and irresolute, visibly cowering before the
storm. At this moment one of the tribunes stepped forward and whispered in
his ear. What he said was this: “Say to them, ‘Follow me, and I will give
you all you ask and more.’”
It was a happy suggestion, one of the vague promises that commit to
nothing, and if the unlucky usurper could have given it with confidence,
with an air that gave it a meaning, he might have been saved, at least for
a time. But his nerve, his presence of mind was hopelessly lost. “Follow
me—where? Whither am I to lead them?” he asked, in a hurried, agitated
whisper.
His adviser shrugged his shoulders and was silent. He saw that he was not
comprehended.
Gratianus continued to stand silent and irresolute, with his helpless,
despairing gaze fixed upon the crowd. Then came a great surging movement
from the back of the crowd, and the front ranks were almost forced up the
steps of the platform. The unlucky prince turned as if to flee. The
movement sealed his fate. A stone hurled from the back of the crowd struck
him on the side of the face. Half stunned by the blow, he leaned against
one of the attendants, and the blood could be seen pouring down his face,
pale with terror, and looking ghastly in the flaming torchlight. The next
moment the attendant flung down his torch and fled—an example followed by
all his companions. Then all was in darkness; and it only wanted darkness
to make a score of hands busy in the deed of blood.
As Gratianus lay prostrate on the ground the first blow was aimed by a
brother of his predecessor, Marcus, who had been quietly waiting for an
opportunity of vengeance. In another minute he had ceased to live. His
head was severed from the body and fixed on the top of a pike. One of the
murderers seized a smouldering torch, and, blowing it into flame, held it
up while another exhibited the bleeding head, and cried, “The tyrant has
his deserts!” But by this time the mad rage of the crowd had subsided. The
horror of the deed had sobered them. Many began to remember little acts of
kindness which the murdered man had done them, and the feeling of wrong
was lost in a revulsion of pity. In a few moments more the crowd was
scattered. Silent and remorseful the men went to their quarters, and the
camp was quiet again. But another British Cæsar had gone the way of a long
line of unlucky predecessors.