A Villa Far From Rome

by Sheila Finch

  The boy frowned. “I think a name in the Old Tongue would be better.”

  Lucia was crooning in the donkey’s ears, not listening. “Gallusina! Gallusina! We like you, Gallusina!”

  “That’s enough chatter!” It came out sharper than she’d intended.

  Her daughter’s face reflected her confusion. She laid a hand on Lucia’s shoulder, softening the hurt. It’s not the child’s fault! Memories of her own childhood with horses had flooded in, but she must learn to let that go. It was like poison in her heart.

  “Gallus, I need to speak with you.”

  The children went inside. Gallus waited with the donkey.

  “Do you know where my husband went?”

  The old warrior shook his head.

  “I worry that his return is so delayed. Could something have gone wrong?”

  “I offered to go with him – a spear to guard his back, if you like,” Gallus said. “But he said these are his people and they’re not at war, and he doesn’t need protection.”

  “Do you think he does?”

  Gallus shrugged. “The legion taught me that everyone with authority does.”

  “I want you to look for him, Gallus. I have a bad feeling about this.”

  The old legionary nodded. “I’ll leave right away.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Something – somewhere Something – buzzed with pain. He tried to think about that but couldn’t seem to keep the thoughts from floating away like bubbles in the surf.

  Hurting – very bad –

  It came to him suddenly that it was he who was hurting. An explosion of pain in his head followed the recognition. How long he lay like that before the pain subsided to a level he could manage, he didn’t know. Time didn’t exist in this country of suffering he found himself inhabiting. He was lying on his side, his right arm pinned beneath him. Gradually, he became aware of other places on his body that were injured: shoulders, one leg below the knee, arms. Fingers of the free hand stuck together.

  He wiggled them, and was rewarded with another explosion of pain higher up his arm. This time he realized the stickiness was his own blood. He lay panting for a while. At least, the fingers had moved, so they were still attached to his hand and his hand to the rest of his body, though there was obviously a problem somewhere along the arm between his head and his hand.

  His eyes, too, were stuck shut. But now he understood what the problem was. Cautiously, he moved the fingers of his free hand again. This time he was ready for the pain and it wasn’t so bad. Slowly he brought his fingers up to his stuck eyelids, and very carefully slid them along the cheek bone, trying to dislodge some of the blood. It was warm, not crusted, which meant a head wound was still bleeding. He managed to unstick one eye and opened it.

  Darkness. But not quite as complete as before he’d opened the eye. Trees above him, black branches spreading against the lighter blackness of a sky full of stars. He tried to remember what had happened.

  He’d been on his way home. Where he’d been and what he’d been doing remained sketchy. But he was lying in the dirt somewhere in a woods. On the way home. The road to – Noviomagus – the word entered his mind, and with it a flood of memory.

  Somebody had come up behind him and attacked him. More than one, most likely. He hadn’t seen who did it. Had they meant to kill him? Were they disturbed before they’d finished the act?

  Desperate men sometimes lurked in a forest to take money from unsuspecting travelers. The Romans were unable to completely stop that. But not in this part of his kingdom. And he’d had nothing on him worth taking. Even his horse was old –

  Stormfellow.

  He managed to get the other eye open, and moved his head. Fire raced through him. He stopped to catch his breath. Tried again.

  Listen! He strained to catch the rustle of a cricket, soft passage of a mouse on the way to her nest. No sound of his horse. Stormfellow never wandered off on his own. Once, he’d lain in dirt much like this after a battle, knocked off his horse by one of Boudicca’s warriors. When he’d come to his senses, he’d found Stormfellow quietly cropping grass beside him, oblivious to the sounds of battle not far away.

  “Storm – ” It came out as a croak – his throat felt full of dirt – and much too soft to carry far. He tried again. Nothing. The old war horse was either gone, stolen, or dead.

  He closed his eyes again at the realization he wouldn’t get very far without his horse even if standing and walking became possible at some point.

  At least his mind was now a little clearer. He would think it through, find the pattern.

  Someone had attacked him. Someone who’d followed him. He didn’t doubt he had enemies outside the tribe. Inside, too? He thought of the hostile reception he’d received as he took the unpopular tax message to the salt farmers, the goatherds, the sheep-herders.

  He remembered the hate in the eyes of the chief herder’s son when the father struck him. He remembered how Tarvos had scowled at him and how the tribune had struck him that night high on the Downs, drawing blood. Twice now a spirited man had been shamed for opposing him. Nothing good would come of that. The Regni, like all Celts, were a proud people, fierce in their loyalty. Woe to the king who lost that loyalty.

  The proper ceremonies were never performed. Some of the Regni denied he was their king.

  Exhaustion overcame him, stopping further speculation. He fell into a fitful sleep filled with snatches of bad dreams – Amminus at Nero’s table – Breca turning her head away from him – Arto sitting in his little fishing boat with a half-drowned child in his lap – only it was Catuarus he held, not the Roman child.

  When he awoke, the sky had lightened to grey, gold and pink streaks in the east showed where the sun would soon appear. Wood doves made their mournful song, and in the trees overhead the branches were full of rustling, chirping life. Apart from a thunderous headache, his mind was fully restored to him.

  Someone had attacked him. Not to kill. But to what purpose? To leave a message, a warning?

  He sat up with great difficulty, stopping several times to let the pain subside. Even that wouldn’t have been possible last night. Something tickled on his brow and he put up his good hand to feel what it was. His fingers dislodged a small brown beetle that had discovered the drying blood.

  It was cold in the tree shadow. He’d lost his cloak and was shivering. He felt the urge to sleep creeping up on him. He knew he couldn’t allow himself to fall asleep again.

  Now he saw the trail of crushed grass and scuffed dirt that showed where he must’ve been dragged off the road to be left partly hidden under the trees. Whoever had done this to him hadn’t wanted him to be quickly discovered by any other travelers going up to Noviomagus. Still no sign of Stormfellow. No clue a horse of any kind had been in this place under the trees. The saddlebag with his gifts was gone too.

  He didn’t think the injured leg would take his weight, so walking was out of the question. He ran his good hand cautiously down the length and decided the bone was broken. Moving it caused fire to streak up his leg to his hip and started his head pounding again. Well, he’d crawl back to the road. But first, he’d rest a little to gain strength.

  After a while, he roused himself. The sun was high overhead now. In spite of the care he took, positioning himself on all fours, the injured leg and shoulder screamed with pain. It became difficult to think coherently. His head pounded. But he refused to give up. Slowly, inch by inch, one good arm and one good leg managed to drag the rest of him out from the shelter of the trees to the edge of the hard-packed dirt that formed the narrow roadway. He collapsed, sweat pouring off his brow, nauseous.

  The sun warmed him a little, and he closed his eyes to rest again.

  He must’ve drowsed off at some point. He became fully awake when he realized that what had disturbed him was a human voice.

  “Looks like you had a bad night, Little Fox,” Gallus said, leaning over him. “Let’s get you home.”

 
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Septimus Severus was giving workmen directions about where to unload the fresh supplies that had just been brought up from the port. Afternoon sun struck a gleam from the bald spot on his head. Unconcerned with the dramas of the house, the architect went about his work as if nothing had happened. Of course, Antonia knew, in his mind nothing that wasn’t about him or the villa he was building mattered. Aron trailed the architect around the unfinished walls and the outlined rooms, stooping a little to bring his head down to the level of the smaller man.

  She might as well have been one of the servants by the way Niko had ordered her out of the room when Gallus brought Tiberius home yesterday. Admittedly, she’d shrieked when she’d first seen him, covered in blood, his clothes torn and muddy, and only half conscious in the old man’s arms. But what woman wouldn’t have been shocked to see her husband in that condition? That was yesterday, and now the sun was well past its zenith, and still nobody had told her anything yet about his condition. At one point earlier this morning, Gallus had emerged to send Delamira to Noviomagus for an ointment Niko needed. Delamira was her servant, but Gallus didn’t ask her permission. Now here came the girl carrying a package – running, the girl never went anywhere slowly. It tired her to watch!

  There were two men following her on horseback. Romans. Marcus Favonius, and the tribune, Didius.

  The centurion wore no cloak, so his bronzed arms were bare in the summer sun. Her heart pounded wildly. Of course the centurion had come to see Tiberius. Nothing strange about that – Tiberius was king here and Marcus, as the representative of Rome, would be concerned with what had happened to him. But wasn’t it odd that he’d come himself this time instead of sending his tribune the way he had at Yule? Both men dismounted and walked across the grass to her.

  She was immediately ashamed of herself for the thought, with Tiberius lying wounded in the next room, yet she couldn’t stop the shiver of excitement that ran through her at the sight of Marcus. Sunshine turned his bare head to molten gold. He was taller and more bronzed than she remembered from that night he’d first come to the villa, his legs sturdy and muscular in their sandals. She couldn’t help it if she thought he was as beautiful as a god. An uncomfortable thought entered her head: Once, you thought of Nero that way. She dismissed it.

  “Lady.” The centurion bowed his head politely. “Have I been informed correctly about your husband’s unfortunate condition?”

  “Yes. He – I – I think – He was attacked.” She was furious with herself for stumbling over her words like an ignorant girl, but her mind was whirling.

  Marcus smiled, and she knew he’d taken note of her confusion. Heat crept into her cheeks.

  “May I enter and visit him?”

  “Niko’s with him – our Greek servant. If Niko allows ....”

  She stopped. How childish she must sound!

  The centurion apparently decided to let her retain her dignity. “Of course,” he said solemnly. “I wouldn’t wish to intrude. But are you certain you can trust the Greek?”

  “What can you mean?”

  He shrugged. “You must know he’s cinaedus, like most Greek men. Untrustworthy. I’m sad you have no better man around to serve you.”

  She stared at him, not following his argument. Both men smiled broadly at a joke she didn’t understand.

  “Well,” he said. “There are more important matters right now. This attack on your husband is of concern to Rome. The sooner we get to the bottom of it, the better.”

  Delamira, who’d gone straight into the large bedchamber in the newly built wing of the villa with her package now came back out again, followed by Gallus. The girl’s face was set in an exaggerated mask of grief, and for a moment Antonia thought Tiberius might have succumbed to his wounds and died. Seeing the two Romans, one of whom had recently been her master – she glanced at Antonia, then hurriedly backed out of the room again.

  “Centurion,” Gallus said. The old man’s tone was flat, polite, one Roman citizen to another and no more.

  “You were the one who found him?” Marcus asked. His voice was equally cold, the authority dealing with underlings, she thought.

  “Yesterday, Centurion, when he didn’t return as expected. He’d been beaten and left by the road, east of here. Apparently he was on his way back from the salt farms down by Bright Water’s Mouth. No sign of who did it.”

  “Do you have any thoughts on that?” the tribune put in.

  “No.”

  Something in Gallus’s tone and behavior jolted her out of her own confusion. The old legionary’s dislike of the centurion and the tribune was so obvious it bordered on the insulting.

  “I wish to question him briefly,” Marcus said.

  “He doesn’t remember much about what happened, Centurion.”

  “Open the door.”

  Gallus stood back – reluctantly, she saw – and allowed the centurion to enter the bedchamber. Didius, the tribune, remained in the antechamber.

  “Gallus. Is he – will he –” She was afraid to put her fears into words less the fates mock her and the fears became reality.

  “If it’s possible to pull him through, your Greek friend will do it,” Gallus said. “We’ll just have to wait.”

  Her legs felt as if they’d turned to water and she sought a bench to sit down. Of course she didn’t want Tiberius to die! That was not what she wanted at all. Tiberius was a good man.

  “Are you well?” Gallus asked. “Your face is the color of a pitcher of milk.”

  “I’m concerned for my husband,” she said with as much dignity as she could manage.

  “As are we all,” the tribune said smoothly.

  There was something distasteful about Didius. She couldn’t put a name to it, but she disliked him. He might have high-born and important relatives in Rome – all who held that office did – but he reminded her of a snake in her father’s garden. She distracted herself with domestic concerns.

  “Gallus, could you tell a servant to bring refreshment for the centurion? I don’t know where Delamira went.”

  Gallus went away. The tribune paced to the door of the bed chamber and stood as if on guard.

  Time passed sluggishly. The tribune continued to stare at her. She struggled to control her emotions. So much had happened to her in the last few years, so much turmoil and upheaval. So many tears shed and so few moments of happiness.

  “Stupid!” she scolded herself aloud and immediately covered her mouth in embarrassment.

  “Excuse me?” Marcus stood in the open doorway again, half-smiling.

  She was about to dissolve into idiocy under the force of his vividly masculine presence. Annoyed with herself, she stood up. “Are you leaving, Centurion?”

  “Marcus.” He held his hand out. “Antonia.”

  She struggled to control her voice. “Did you get the information from my husband that you came for?”

  He shrugged. “He’s in bad shape and not much help. His attackers were probably rebels. Britunculi.” ‘

  She flinched as she recognized the derisive term Romans used for the tribes of her husband’s country. She didn’t react to his outstretched hand. He came closer and lifted one of hers.

  “But it’s you I’m concerned about, Antonia.”

  She wished he wouldn’t use her name. It wasn’t right. It reduced her to a subordinate. “Me?” Her voice squeaked.

  He stroked her cheek with his other hand. “You.”

  This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? But what if Gallus came back into the room – or Niko? She realized Marcus didn’t care about other men’s opinions.

  “You’re a pretty little thing,” he said.

  She gathered her self-control enough to reply. “Centurion, my husband lies in that room behind you – possibly dying.”

  “So?” He sounded puzzled. “You think we should wait until he does?”

  Behind them she heard the tribune’s half-stifled laugh.

  It was as if s
omeone had emptied a pail of icy water over her. Her confusion vanished, replaced with anger.

  “I think you should leave this house now, Centurion.”

  She tried to pull her hand away but he held fast.

  His expression hardened. “I would remind you – ”

  “Delamira’s with the little one. Don’t know where Old Nev is. Here’s all I could find in the kitchen.”

  Relief swept over her at the sound of Gallus’s voice. “Thank you!”

  He held out a plain earthenware jug filled with clear liquid she was certain was water. The old man’s contempt couldn’t have been more obvious.

  Marcus released her hand. “I’m leaving now.”

  Gallus glanced from one to the other. She felt certain he knew what had happened here. Had he overheard? Her cheeks flamed again.

  Marcus strode out of the villa, followed by the tribune. After a moment, she heard the sound of their horses’s hooves on the gravel path.

  “That man has a black heart,” Gallus said. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Good.”

  She felt suddenly tired, as if the conversation with Marcus had been hard, physical work. Yet at the same time, something had lifted from her spirit. This was what life was really about, always struggling to find the right action, not always the thing that gave pleasure. Her father had thought so. Men she admired like her father and Tiberius made that the rule in their lives. She wasn’t a child any more, lamenting the loss of her innocence. She would try to do the right thing too. Dear gods, let Tiberius live!

  “We have more guests,” Gallus said, glancing out at the garden.

  She turned. An old man with shoulder-length grey hair and a boy were coming across the grass, stepping carefully past the construction materials littering the path. She recognized Tiberius’s son.

  With them was Tiberius’s Regni wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  When the centurion had taken his leave, Niko squeezed water out of a cloth, then laid it on Togidubnus’s hot brow. The water was cold and aromatic with the herbs he’d sent Delamira to procure.