by Sheila Finch
She put her wet fingers in her mouth. They tasted salty. She took a step closer to look. A wave hit her in the face. She gasped, losing her breath in the wind. She needed to sit down and catch her breath. Between the narrow beach and the turf there were some large rocks with flat tops. She dragged her feet through the water that now swelled about her ankles. The rock’s sides were slick. Something slimy and grey grew on them. Her fingers scratched and scraped; getting a firm hold of the rock was difficult. She was shivering now and couldn’t stop.
Just as she got her fingers in a crevice near the top of the rock and started to pull herself up, the biggest wave of all splashed over her head, knocking her hands off. She slid back down, powerless in the strong pull of out-rushing water. Her knees grazed against the rock. Terrified, she screamed, but water filled her mouth and choked her. She was off the rock and bobbing in the churning water, her palla still around her neck. She had to do something! Uncle Valentinus had told her never to go swimming with clothes on. But she hadn’t meant to go swimming! What should she do? She scrabbled at the palla – fingers so cold she could barely feel – and it floated free.
She was going to drown. Niko would be very angry because he’d warned her that the sea could drown her.
A thought popped into her head. The first day her uncle took her into that pool at home, she’d been scared of the water and started crying. Uncle Valentinus had told her to turn on her back and spread her arms. She could float like that for ever, he’d said. She wouldn’t drown. She tried to remember what his face looked like to help her, turned onto her back, and looked up at the grey sky. The water was calmer out here, but she was being carried far out.
A swell jostled her and she went under again.
When she opened her eyes below the waves, the light was green, and bubbles raced past her face. She needed to breathe, but when she opened her mouth the salt water rushed in and she gagged. She thrashed her arms and legs trying to get to the top again, and for a moment her head did break the surface. She took in a huge gulp of air. How far away the dock looked! I’m going to do it! I won’t give up!
A wave knocked her under again. This time, everything was a blur. Her heart hammered and her chest was a big lump of hurt.
Something nudged her shoulder, her leg. Something grabbed her tunic, dragging her –
Her head burst out of the water again and she gasped for air. For a moment, she bobbed in the water, throat burning and eyes tight shut against the stinging, too shocked to think.
Hands grabbed her shoulder – pulled her up.
“Here,” a man’s voice said in broken Latin. “Not fight me now! Let me get you into the boat.”
Her hips scraped the edge of the boat as he dragged her aboard. She lay choking on the bottom. Hands turned her over onto her stomach and she vomited sea water.
“Better.”
She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. An old man with white hair down to his shoulders and a very wrinkled face like an apple left in the barrel too long looked down at her. He had a lot of long hair under his nose too, just above his lip and curling out from his face. She’d never seen anything like it! It waggled when he talked. His eyes were the same grey color as the sky.
“Not good day for swimming,” the old man said.
She didn’t like being scolded by someone who didn’t speak very good Latin. “I didn’t mean to go swimming! I’m not good at it yet.”
“Truly?”
His voice sounded like laughing. She scowled at him.
He handed her a heavy wool cloak, grey patterned with green and blue diamond shapes. “Put this around you.”
As she took the cloak, she saw his bare arms – they looked as if somebody had scribbled all over them in blue ink, whorls and scrolls and curly bits. She wanted to ask who’d done such a thing to him, but was afraid he’d be angry.
The boat rocked violently and tipped to one side. She screamed and grabbed at the man. He leaned over the edge, reaching for something. A rush of something dark and furry fell into the boat. It scrambled to its feet and shook itself in a cloud of drops. A dog.
“She saved your life,” the old man said.
“Beech!”
The dog lunged at her and began licking her face. She shrieked with joy and hugged the animal.
“You know my great-nephew’s dog?” the old man asked.
Something hard had come into his voice. He leaned closer to her, screwing up his eyes as if he had trouble seeing her clearly. She’d offended him. Maybe he’d throw her back into the sea. Beech licked her nose.
Then the man did something frightening. His head lolled back and his eyes seemed to roll up into his skull. She clutched the dog.
Whatever had just happened didn’t last long. His eyes came back to their proper place and he looked at her for a moment, saying nothing.
“I – I’m Lucia Plautina,” she said in a small voice. My mother’s name is Antonia Plautina. We live in that house –”
He picked up the oars and started rowing. The boat fought the rolling sea, turning and heading in to shore.
Tiber stood on the dock, and Niko was with him. They were both frowning. They grabbed the rope the old man threw to them and pulled the boat in till it bumped against the wood, then fastened it. Niko reached down and lifted her, crooning into her ear that she was safe now and that everything was all right. The old man and the dog stayed in the boat.
“Arto,” Tiber said. He looked as if he was going to say something, but he shut his mouth.
The old man who’d rescued her spoke words in a language she didn’t understand, but she saw from Tiber’s face that he’d understood, and he didn’t like it.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Sulis was kind to this one,” Breca’s uncle said in the Old Tongue. “This child’s children shall inherit your kingdom.”
Angered, Togidubnus turned his back on the old man in the fishing boat and strode away. The Druid’s prophesying was unwelcome. The “kingdom” belonged to whoever the Council of Elders elected – and he intended for that to be Amminus, when the boy was old enough. The emperor had taken a lot away from him, but he couldn’t take that. Not now, since Boudicca’s uprising had shown how easily the tribes could be stirred up against Rome. The days when Julius Caesar could crush the tribes of Gaul with a couple of legions were long gone.
The wind was cold enough for snow, though it was far too early for that. He wished he’d stopped to grab a cloak when he’d realized the child was missing. A line of crows, breast feathers fluttering in the wind, cawed at him from the roof of the colonnade. They were clever birds, smart enough to make fun of events humans found important. Some of the old people believed their presence on the roof was a bad omen for a household, but he’d never believed tales like that.
Gallus came out of the house. The old legionary hadn’t returned from Noviomagus until well into the evening of the next day; then he’d come back reeling like a drunken pig. Gallus needed something to occupy his time. He’d taken the old man away from his life as a peddler on the streets of Rome and what had he offered in its place? Idleness. Doing nothing was not good for any man.
“Two men to see you, “ Gallus said.. “They seem to think you want to build something?”
“A temple.”
He’d been prepared for arguments with the Council of Elders, the exchange of favors, threats, bribes both open and subtle. But they’d put up little opposition in the days since his visit. What did their approval mean? Could he trust it?
Gallus laughed.“Little Fox building a temple! To Bacchus, I hope?”
In the black mood he was in this morning, he found this irritating. But a thought occurred to him. “When you were with the Fourteenth Gemina, did you have much experience building?”
“You know right well we did! We built roads and walls and forts for Vespasian. More than we fought, we built. Why’re you bringing that up now?”
“I might need your good sense as my overseer.”
“You want me to build a temple in Noviomagus?” Gallus sounded skeptical.
“I’ll draw up the plans. I’d want you to be in charge of construction. Acquiring the materials. Hiring the men. Seeing to it that they give an honest day’s work.”
“You’re serious about this temple.”
“Yes.” Something tightened in his chest and he didn’t want to talk about it. But he’d known Gallus a long time; the Roman was probably the only friend he had. “I’m building a temple to Neptune and Minerva. For Breca.”
“I can do it,” Gallus clapped Togidubnus on the shoulder. “You got a bad roll of the dice, Little Fox. But a warrior plays it.”
* * *
The elder of the two men who were waiting for him in the small room he used as an audience chamber had obviously worked so long with clay that the white dust had seeped into his pores. The skin of his hands and face was a chalky grey, giving him a corpse-like appearance. The younger one resembled an ox, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled and red-faced. Their presence filled the cold room with a faint odor of brick dust. Both men ducked their heads respectfully as Togidubnus entered.
He got straight to the point, asking in the Old Tongue. “How much experience have you had building such a large structure as this one will be?”
“I built the temple to Sulis Minerva in Aquaesulis,” the older one said.
“You’re a long way from home.”
The man shrugged. “My wife is Regni. So is this lad – my son.”
“This temple will honor Sulis too.”
“You have a drawing of what you want me to build?”
“Rough sketches for now, but I’ll have more details within the week. I know what I want.” He gestured to Gallus and switched to Latin. “This man has experience building for the Emperor Vespasian. He’ll oversee the work for me.”
The builder answered in heavily accented Latin, “And who shall see we get paid for this?”
“The Council of Elders and I will share the cost.”
He looked ahead to the day when Amminus’s schooling in Rome came to an end; once the boy was safely home, he’d petition Nero to undo what he’d done that night of the drunken feast and take Antonia back. He made a silent vow that the first ceremony to take place in this new temple he was building would be dedicated to the reunion of his family.
“How long do you expect this will take?” Gallus asked.
“Give me the sketches,” the builder said. “Then we’ll know. We’ll start to lay the foundation right away. After that, the gods will decide by whatever weather they send.”
* * *
He’d just left the audience chamber when he heard the clatter of horse hooves on the gravel path that veered off the Roman road to cross his land. The last light of day had just about faded from the sky, and the full moon was rising, half revealed in scudding clouds. He couldn’t imagine why anyone would be riding away from the city this late in the day. Nor were there any boats in port right now. Whoever the riders were – it sounded like more than one horse – they were coming here. He waited, listening to the sound of a pair of barn owls in the beech trees behind the house.
The two riders, silhouettes against the twilit sky, were obviously Roman. One of them had a crest of horse hair jutting above his helmet, a fashion among the troops that was fading in Rome. He wore a heavy cloak over his shoulders, and a sword, worn on his left, gleamed in the moonlight. The centurion, Marcus Favonius. Wearing metal greaves on his shins. Not here on a social visit. As used to Romans and their way of life as he was, he still felt a prickle of apprehension at the sight of armed warriors. Whatever it was, this was not going to be good news.
“Tiberius!” The centurion hailed him as the horses reached the colonnade.
“Marcus Favonius, welcome. What brings you to my house so late?”
“Serious business,” the centurion said, dismounting. “A cold evening! A cup of good wine would be welcome before we leave.”
Two young servants hesitated in the shadow of the columns. Like all boys, they were curious about the late-arriving visitors. He beckoned to one of them.
“Hold the horses.” To the other he said, “Fetch wine and cups and set them in the dining hall.”
The second rider dismounted, a young tribune with his sword on the right hip as military custom dictated for his status. Togidubnus didn’t recognize him. Favonius, like most Romans, was shorter than Togidubnus once he’d removed his helmet, but the tribune was shorter still. He indicated the Romans should precede him inside; the servant was setting cups on the table. The aroma of roast meat drifted in from the kitchen where the cook prepared a light supper.
The centurion waited till his cup was filled, raised it, and nodding a quick toast to Togidubnus, drank it down. He lifted his own cup and returned the toast. The younger Roman, like most tribunes obviously more aristocratic than his superior officer – one of the oddities of Roman military structure he’d never totally understood – glanced around the small, sparsely furnished hall with barely disguised disdain, but made no comment. At some point, the centurion named his tribune, Didius Octavius, but the man made little attempt to join the conversation.
He waited, his sense of impending trouble driving away his earlier hunger. These men represented military authority in Noviomagus, he civil. But he had no illusions which of them backed up that authority with overwhelming might.
“Wine warms the blood, my friend,“ Favonius said. “We’ll need that before the night is done.”
“What great business brings you here?”
“Gracila reminded me you’re a king now, thanks to the emperor. And a king is just what I need to settle something that looks as if it might grow into a real problem.”
“A problem the legion can’t solve? Surely not.”
“There you’re wrong. Of course we could wipe the troublemakers out. The men would probably enjoy that! But I think Rome is better served when potential rebellions are dealt with by those who represent the very cause the troublemakers are agitating for.”
He wasn’t certain he’d followed that argument. “Who are rebelling? And why?”
The tribune made a derisive sound, covering it by raising his cup again when his superior frowned. In the silence that followed, Togidubnus was aware of a chill that wine couldn’t dispel.
“Not necessarily Regni,” the centurion said.. “That remains to be determined. I have word that one of Boudicca’s captains escaped that final battle and is here in your territory, stirring the tribes to seek vengeance. I’m told he claims you’re her relative.”
“A distant relative,” he said, controlling his rising anger. “I’ll remind you that I fought with the Second Augusta against Boudicca –”
“No one’s questioning your loyalty! In many ways, you’re more Roman than I am. I never spent time at the court of the emperor as a young boy! But I’m laying out the reasons why we need you to accompany us tonight and calm these hotheads down.”
“Tiberius,” a voice said behind him. “I didn’t know we had guests.”
Antonia stood in the doorway, wrapped in a loose white sleeping robe, her hair free and flowing over her shoulders. He was suddenly aware of the way her small breasts pushed against the thin fabric. One of the servants hovered nervously behind her.
The centurion and the tribune stood up from the table.
“Have you instructed the servants to bring food, Tiberius?” she asked.
He noticed that she didn’t take her eyes off the centurion, and Marcus for his part preened under her gaze. His wife. His house –
The recognition came with the instant realization that there was nothing he could do about it. The wine turned sour in his stomach.
“Thank you, Lady, but we took our meal earlier,” Favonius said.
“But surely, you’ll take more wine?”
“Unfortunately, Lady, not tonight.”
He heard the note of regret in the centurion’s voice, watched where the man’s ey
es went. A hawk eyeing a songbird.
“ I hope we’ll find another occasion?” she said demurely.
“I’m sure we will!”
She smiled at him, lowering her lashes. “I wouldn’t want to delay you on your official business.”
“Lucky man,” Favonius said when she’d left the room. “You’ve got a pretty piece there!”
All the emotions of the last few days boiled up in him till he felt like striking out in his rage. Attacking the centurion was not an option, not if he wanted to live. This was how the fox must feel, trapped by the hunters. He would bide his time.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’ve prepared a letter for the emperor,” Antonia said.“Will you take it to the dock and find a courier for it?”
Nikolaos looked up from the writing tablet he was using to teach Lucia her letters. “Do you think that’s wise?”
The sky was dark with rain clouds, filling the room with cold shadows. The weather had been wintry for the past week and she was sick of it. She was getting to the point that she couldn’t keep her mind on anything. It kept tumbling around from thought to thought.
“Ma,” Lucia said. “Look. I can write my name.”
The steady drumbeat of rain on the roof, the sound of the run-off cascading down into the water course that carried it away, the drip-drip-drip of leaks in this room or that. And the only rooms that were warm were the bath chamber and Tiberius’s own bed chamber. She couldn’t very well spend her days in either of them.
“Why shouldn’t it be wise? It’s much too cold here. We need a way to better heat the house. All I’m asking is a little money to do that.”
“Have you spoken to your husband about this?”
She folded her arms and stared at him. He held her gaze until she looked away.
“Imagine having to wrap oneself in musty old blankets in one’s own house to stay warm! This place is horrible. It’s too small. The roof leaks. The hypocaust doesn’t work properly. Everything stays wet, all the time. And I found mildew on the blankets.”
