by Sheila Finch
“Lie still,” the Greek said. “You’ve suffered a quassatur and need time to recover.”
“The leg hurts worse.”
“Broken bones are easily set, if they’re a clean break. And cuts and gashes can be stitched. Bruises heal with time. Heads too, but you must limit movement.”
There were many matters he should be taking care of. Marcus Favonius hadn’t stayed long, but he’d grasped the centurion’s concerns about the signs of rebellion growing in the region and his own responsibility for maintaining order among his people. If war broke out, Rome would hold him responsible. He needed to be up and doing something, not lying prone like a suckling lamb.
Niko held a cup to his lips and dribbled a bitter liquid into his mouth. “This will help with the pain.”
He made a face. “Must physic taste so foul?”
“The gods need their amusement.”
“What is this poison?”
“A brew made from the bark of a willow.”
He closed his eyes. The headache made it difficult to think about the problem for very long, but he had to try. He felt Niko replacing the damp cloth with another, lapping it over his eyes too this time, and was grateful for the coldness. The thudding pain in his head subsided a little.
“Tell me how you know so much about healing.”
The Greek was silent for a moment. “I was a physician once. I traveled to the island of Kos to learn from an old Jew who knew more than Hippocrates, the school’s founder.”
He frowned, instantly regretting it; furrowing his brow brought the headache back. “Why are you so reluctant to reveal your skill? Surely, it would’ve gained you great advancement in Rome?”
“Someday I may tell you. Not now.”
He heard Antonia’s voice outside the door, more than one person answering. The door opened.
“Nephew.”
He recognized Arto’s voice and opened his eyes. Behind the old Druid he saw Catuarus. And Breca.
“We came to satisfy ourselves you were ... that you would recover from your wounds,” Breca said, awkwardly.
He saw how she avoided meeting his eyes, and knew instantly how ill at ease she must feel in this villa that already reflected great changes from their small home. He wanted to take her hand in his as if she was the one who needed comfort, but his arm refused to obey his mind’s command to move and the moment passed.
“You will recover, won’t you, Father?” his younger son asked.
“Of course he will,” Niko answered for him.
Thinking was difficult through the haze Niko’s potion had brought on. With effort, he lifted his hands and the boy took one. After a moment, Breca took the other. He closed his eyes again. He was hazily aware of Arto and Niko discussing the potency of the herbs the old man had brought with him. Niko had once remarked that the Druids too had a knowledge of herbs that evaded the Romans.
“Never fear, my son,” he said. “I’ll soon be well again.”
“Be patient, Catuarus,” Breca said. “Your father needs rest.”
“This is a time of danger for our people.” The old Druid glanced down at him. “The way through isn’t clear to me.”
“I’m old enough now to fight beside you, Father,” Catuarus said.
Breca hushed the boy.
“But I am! I can do many things now. I caught fish for you this morning in the channel. Two fat plaice. Just the kind you like.”
He tried to reply, to reassure the boy, but their voices receded as the physic Niko had given him took over.
“Fish will be good for him, Catuarus,” Niko said. “But now he needs to sleep.”
He wanted them to stay, especially Breca. He heard his son start to protest as Arto took him out of the room. Breca still held his hand. He didn’t want her to leave.
Niko said softly,” You may have a brief moment with him.”
He heard the door close behind the Greek. “Breca –”
“I’ll come again, Togi. Now, please rest.”
“My heart, it must be said –”
“I know. Hush.”
He felt the brush of her lips against his brow and his heart burned with love. She released his hand. Then suddenly he slept.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The old Regni who’d accompanied Tiberius’s native wife came out of the bed chamber with the boy. The old man looked gloomy, but the boy’s expression touched her heart, stricken as if he thought his father was already dead. Poor child, so young to have such worries! She remembered what it had been like to be so young and not understand the dangerous currents of politics surrounding you. One day, the wave breaks over your head and you’re drowning.
“Please stay. I’ll have Delamira bring food and drink.”
The old man shook his head, but the boy brightened.
“Yes, please, Lady.”
His Latin was almost perfect, Niko’s doing.
Delamira, who’d been hovering at the edge of the room, went to find refreshments. They waited in awkward silence.
“There’s a storm coming,” the old man said at last. “This house stands at the center.”
He had more of an accent than the boy, making his Latin harder for her to follow. For a moment she thought he spoke of the weather – not unlikely for a storm to disrupt the season’s mildness in this silly climate. But she saw from his expression he meant something worse than thunder and rain. Now she remembered a scrap of gossip Niko had relayed to her: Her husband’s first wife had retreated to live with her uncle, a Druid priest.
“There wasn’t time to exchange names when you arrived,” she said. “I’m Antonia Plautina –”
“I know who you are.” There was no impoliteness in his tone, just a depth of hidden meaning that stopped the retort on her lips. “I am Breca’s uncle.”
“Arto,” the boy said helpfully.
“Arto, and – ” She hesitated, then remembered what Lucia called her friend, “Catuarus. Be welcome to –” She was about to say my house but caught the words back in time. She felt the blood rising into her cheeks and was annoyed. It was her house.
“You are not to blame here,” the old man said as if he heard her thoughts. “Your fate was controlled by another. As was his.”
She stared at him. Something about this grey-haired Regni reminded her of her father – not his appearance, certainly, but his air of quiet authority. It undermined all the defenses she’d built over the last year. It was as if he could read what was in her heart.
Breca came out of Tiberius’s room and stood hesitantly, as if she were unsure what to do. Catuarus went to his mother and put his arm around her. Antonia hesitated too, not sure what she should say. She’d thought about this moment, how she would be graceful and welcome Tiberius’s first wife to the house, even what topics they would talk about. But now the moment was here she was tongue-tied.
Delamira hurried into the room.
“Lady,” she whispered in Antonia’s ear. The girl’s eyes were bright with excitement at all the commotion in the villa. “There’s a messenger here to see the king! He says he has a letter from Rome.”
A man in a sailor’s cap stood behind the girl.
“He may be sleeping. But Niko will decide.” She was tired of having to deal with so much.
Delamira opened the door to Tiberius’s chamber, seeking Niko. Another servant stood in her place, carrying a pitcher of wine and another of water. The woman, a Regni that Tiberius had persuaded to come back to work for them, hadn’t asked permission to use the best serving ware – blown glass with swirls of emerald and ocean blue, brought at great cost from Rome. The contrast with what Gallus had brought to serve the centurion was shocking. For a moment she was ready to strike the woman for her impertinence. But could the servant be blamed for wanting to honor Breca who’d once been her king’s wife?
They were none of them to be blamed. Some malignant god had set up this situation and now laughed at their pain.
She took it upon herself to mix wa
ter with the wine in a cup for the boy while the servant served Breca and her uncle.
The emotions of the moment vanished, leaving her hollow and shaking. She couldn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she sat down and held out her own cup to the servant, and when it was filled she gulped it down. Warmth ran through her body, and she felt the urge to laugh at the preposterous story her life was spinning.
“Thank you for taking care of Togidubnus,” Breca said.
She wanted to jest, You think I was going to let him die? but realized that was the wine talking. She hadn’t eaten all day and it had gone quickly to her head. The only other time she’d drunk so much so rapidly was the day at Nero’s banquet table. Then as now, she realized, she drank to hide from things out of her control. She glowered at the Regni woman, wanting to be angry, but seeing in a rush of understanding the lines that marked Breca’s face. She was a thin woman, at least a head taller than Antonia, her dark hair streaked lavishly with grey, but she held herself as upright and proud as if she carried a warrior’s heart in her breast.
Antonia formed the words carefully. “He was badly injured, but Niko will look after him The Greek is very skillful.”
“His head’s wounded,” the boy said anxiously. “But he’s going to live, isn’t he?”
“Yes, Catuarus, we’ll make sure of that.” Poor child, his fear touched her heart.
“He will be needed,” the old Druid said. “But which side will he take? There will be an uprising among the tribes. Rome will not be tolerant. The result will be war. This house will not be spared the bloodshed. You must take your child and leave.”
The warm sentiment she’d felt a moment ago vanished. He wants me to leave so the woman and her boy can move back in! Well, they might be in for a surprise in that case, if what Aron had told her was true about Nero’s plans for the villa’s future. But what if the old Druid was right? What if the attack on Tiberius was a sign of things to come? Terrible things. If the tribes rose against Rome they would be crushed.
“There’s always unrest amongst the tribes isn’t there?” She spoke lightly, as if her words could themselves hold back the darkness she feared might be advancing. “The Belgae are jealous of the Regni.” She thought hard to remember the names Tiberius had used for the local tribes. “And the Atrebates distrust everybody...”
She broke off, aware how pitiful her argument must sound to them.
Arto put his hand on the boy’s arm and steered him towards the door. Breca turned to follow.
“Wait.” She didn’t know what she was going to say, only knew there was something in her heart she must say, even if there was little she could do about it. “I’m sorry for what has happened.” Such a lame apology. And for what? It hadn’t been her idea. But all the same, she needed to say it.“Visit him whenever you wish.”
“Thank you,” Breca said.
“I don’t wish to be your enemy.”
“Never that,” Breca said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
He startled awake again at the sound of a tap at the door, a voice.
“A messenger from Rome to see Lord Tiberius. He says he has a letter.”
“He’s resting,” he heard Niko reply.
Whatever it was, he needed to deal with it. “I’m awake, Niko. Let the messenger enter.”
A small, wiry-looking man with a sailor’s cap on his head came in carrying a letter. “I was given this to carry to Tiberius Claudius Togidubnus,”
Even at several paces, he recognized Amminus’s hand in the address – the boy was no artist with his letters! “Give it to me!”
His hand shook so much that it took a while to disentangle the letter from the strings that bound it and hold it to the light to read.
To my most honored and beloved father, Tiberius Togidubnus, from his most obedient eldest son. Oh, how I wish I could see you again, beloved father, and my mother! I am well, but I dream of home. I will not write more. Your loving son, Amminus.
“Niko. I have to get up – I have to go to Rome.”
“You aren’t well enough to travel. Perhaps in a week or two –”
“Now! My boy – I need to bring him home.”
He became aware of the messenger still in the room, twisting the sailor’s cap in his hands, his face cast in gloom. “Someone will pay you for your trouble. Niko, find a few coins – ”
“Not that,” the man said.
“What is it?”
The seaman looked at the floor.
He said impatiently, “If you have another message for me, give it!”
The man shook his head. He looked as if he were about to burst into tears.
“Now, man!”
“The day after the lad wrote this letter, he ...” The sailor broke off.
The air in the room suddenly turned to ice, and voices– his own with them – retreated down a long corridor. “He what? Speak up, man!”
The man studied the floor. When he spoke, his voice was so low Togidubnus strained to hear. “He died.”
The pain in his head had obviously distorted his hearing. “What’re you saying?”
Niko laid a warning hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t like having to say it – but – ”the man stammered. “Forgive me, Lord. He’s dead.”
“Explain what you mean by this!” He struggled to get up, head pounding, but Niko held him down.
“Don’t blame me, Lord!” the seaman said, his voice filled with panic. “I’m only the letter carrier! It seems there was an accident–”
“An accident?”
“I don’t know any more, I swear it! It’s all I was told.”
“An accident, you say?”
“They – the boys at court - were practicing with swords – playing. In the courtyard.” The man was trembling, his voice cracking. Sweat stood out on his brow. “It shouldn’t have happened. An unfortunate slip –”
“Who told you this – this lie about my son?”
“No lie, I swear it.” The man’s face was white with fear. “The emperor’s own servant – Satrias the dwarf? I know him well! He’s from my own village, see? He liked the lad – Satrias was his friend at court! Satrias came to my room the night before we sailed and gave me the letter. He told me.”
There was a wild roaring in his ears and his heart felt as if it were crushed under his ribs. His son. Amminus –
Dead.
No, that couldn’t be. His injuries meant he had misheard.
He saw from the expression on Niko’s face that it was true. He struggled to free himself of the Greek’s restraining hands but was too weak. The seaman hurried out of the bedchamber. He collapsed back onto the pillow.
Amminus. Dead.
Hadn’t he made the proper sacrifice in Neptune’s temple? Why had the gods allowed this to happen? This was punishment for not truly believing.
“Drink this,” Niko said, pushing a cup against his lips. “Now lie back. You mustn’t continue to stress yourself. You’ve caused your wounds to bleed again.”
“Niko –”
“We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“Now!” But his eyelids grew heavy.
After a while, he felt Gallus’s breath on his face. He opened his eyes and found the room deep in evening shadow. The old man was leaning over him. He struggled to get up, get his legs off the bed. His limbs didn’t obey him.
“I have to go to Rome, Gallus.” His voice came out in a whispery rasp. “I have to find out what happened – I have to kill whoever –”
Gallus eased him back down on the bed. “When you are well.”
“I’ll kill him, Gallus. I’ll kill Nero himself –”
“Hush. We’ll talk about what’s to be done tomorrow.”
He tried to argue, but there were no words for the torrent of grief inside.
“I can’t bring the boy back to life, Little Fox,” Gallus said. “But I’m going to make a start to break this curse you seem to have fallen under. I’m going to find out
who did this to you, and then I’ll kill them.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Later, as the villa filled up with evening’s shadows, long after the sailor had come back out of the chamber and left, Antonia found Gallus watching her. She set down the book she’d been trying to read, essays by a newly popular philosopher in Rome that Niko had thought she might benefit from reading.
Of all the people around Tiberius – Roman or Regni – Gallus disturbed her the most. His dislike of her might as well have been announced by a sign around his neck. She wondered now if he went so far as suspecting she’d had something to do with the attack on Tiberius.
“Is Tiberius sleeping? Shall I go in to him?” How childish she sounded to herself, almost as if she were asking this old warrior’s permission.
“Let him sleep. Niko gave him a potion. His pain is too much to bear right now.”
“His pain? But I thought Niko –”
“Some things even your Greek friend can’t mend.”
“But he will recover?” The boy had asked that too, she remembered.
“Of his body’s wounds, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
Gallus’s own face contorted with pain.
“I will hear it, Gallus. I am his wife.”
The old man said reluctantly, “His oldest son won’t be coming home from the emperor’s court.”
“Amminus?” That was his name, wasn’t it? “I don’t understand.”
Gallus shook his head. “Not for me to say more.”
He left the room. What could he have meant by those words? Many barbarian kings sent their sons to court in Rome. Some were little more than hostages – had Amminus been one? – but surely even Nero would treat them well. She’d never heard of one wanting to stay. But what if that wasn’t his own idea?
She needed to hear what Niko had to say about this.
Opening the door as gently as possible so as not to disturb Tiberius if he slept, she motioned to Niko who sat in shadows by the bed.
