by Sheila Finch
His own horse snorted and stumbled, avoiding the fallen man. Two riders ahead reined their mounts and half-turned to see what had happened. They were assaulted by two more battle-painted Belgae dropping out of the arching trees that formed a tunnel over the narrow path that left Clausentum.
Blades rang against bronze helmets. Yelling, ululating men rushed out of cover and attacked the Roman line, their voices pitched to strike terror in Roman hearts.. Above the noise of attackers and panicked horses, the centurion shouted orders to the riders coming up the path.
The trumpet sounded the battle call “Spears up!”
He tore his gladius out of its sheath.
A face appeared beside his saddle, nostrils flared, eyes red with fury. A female Belgae face. A knife slashed perilously close to his cheek. He parried it with his bare arm, knocking it sideways. The woman’s expression darkened in hatred when she recognized that the rider she’d attacked wasn’t a Roman. Blood arced up as her knife caught his horse’s shoulder. Through the red mist he saw the shadow of a raven passing overhead.
The gods of battle gathered here. He was fighting Boudicca all over again. The gods condemned him to repeat the mistakes and suffering of the past.
The woman screamed in his ear. Blood lust took over and there were no more thoughts. He slashed at the attacker and she disappeared from sight.
He moved through the din and the confusion, hacking left and right with his gladius, his horse slipping in the mud, the jarring connection of Hispania’s best steel with bone, a silent space in the din of battle all around him. Deep anger rose in his throat, a scream for everything that was wrong in his land, Roman treachery, his own stubborn tribe, his family. The smell of blood, horse sweat and dung, and the acid smell of men’s fear filled his nose, intoxicating him. He yelled again and buried his gladius in another rebel’s throat. The body fell away and was trampled under his terrified horse.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Roman discipline prevailed. The squad stood fast against the attackers, war paint no match for men armored in leather and iron. There had been eight in the attacking group, all dead, including the woman. Two Romans had lost their lives in the ambush in addition to the first to fall. Three more were wounded. He himself had taken a deep cut on his forearm. He hadn’t felt it. Eight, he thought, only eight yet so much damage! He dismounted, found water and washed his horse’s wound. Stormfellow’s replacement had a lot to learn about battle, though he’d been the best the Gaulish horse-traders had offered.
This morning, they’d gone door to door again, searching for rebels and finding none home. They’d been fighting like this for more than a week, farther and farther away from Noviomagus, on the borderlands of the Regni and the Belgae, and it was always the same. The unrest that had begun as a revolt against new taxes was turning into full rebellion. They could have used more than the hundred men the centurion had brought with him.
The centurion rode up, his face flushed and bruised where he’d taken a swipe from a blade, sweat pouring off his horse’s flanks, blood that was obviously not his splashed over his tunic.
“Are you wounded?” Favonius shouted. “Can you still ride?”
He shook his head. “A flesh wound.”
“Good! We’ll regroup and ride on to Venta Belgarum. I want to reach the camp before nightfall. I’ve sent a message for more troops!” The centurion veered away.
The Belgae borderlands were always a hot point on the map. And Venta was deep inside the tribe’s territory. But there’d be hot food and medics in the camp, a cot for the night instead of the cold, hard ground, and the chance to add another squad to replace their losses. The rain that flooded the land they fought on stopped, and the low sun of early evening struck a million red sparks on the trees and the tired men’s armor. A barn owl flew low over his head setting out on its nightly hunt. He felt the air moving over his brow as he watched the bird.
There were no good omens for him here.
Exhaustion flooded him. The borrowed armor, made for a younger, more slender man, chafed his skin. His bones ached. He remounted his horse.
* * *
The next two days repeated the pattern as they hunted for rebellious units in the hilly no-man’s-land between the two tribes, uneasy allies in the best of times. They’d needed the extra support of the fighting men they’d picked up at Venta. The attacking groups, eight or ten – sometimes as many as twenty – blue-daubed men and sometimes women, were as likely now to be Regni as well as Belgae, though they were deep into Belgae territory. They materialized out of thin air. He didn’t think about what was happening. It was better that way. The mind shut down, but the body remembered its early training and knew what to do.
Marcus Favonius was a savage warrior. He took no prisoners, but before dispatching them to Hades’ kingdom – hardly more than youths, most of them, and not schooled in Latin – the centurion had Togidubnus question them in the Old Tongue. Recognizing him, one of them spat in his face. A legionary ran the boy through with his spear.
At least there was no more rain to slow them down.
The third night out they camped in a small copse full of fallen leaves. The orderly in charge of food served a meal of dark bread over which they drizzled olive oil, a little hard cheese, and some dried fish. The orderly’s young helper made his rounds with a jug of watered wine for the tired men lounging around the fire. In the sky that had faded to purple like the hem of an emperor’s toga, the Evening Star appeared.
The weather was turning cold, but the centurion had stripped off his armor and now wore sandals and a tunic, loosely belted and reasonably free of mud and grass stains. He strolled among the men, moving easily as if he hadn’t ridden all day, exchanging words with them. He stopped and gazed down at Togidubnus.
“I sense a distaste for our work.”
“My opinion doesn’t matter.”
“Your Britanni are a cunning lot, and they don’t always give up their secrets. But we need whatever information we can get.”
He would’ve called the Britanni fools, not cunning, for risking war with the legion, but he didn’t feel like replying.
“This uprising seems to be inspired by the work of someone we know,” Favonius said. “Someone whose loyalty you assured me was firm.”
He’d suspected Tarvos, minor princeling of the Belgae had broken his sacred oath given under the mistletoe. If he is a devout man, Arto had said, at that long ago Yule. But who could be relied on to be devout these days? The old order was breaking down; oaths taken in the name of Celtic gods couldn’t hold any more. The Roman gods had taken away their power. The tribes didn’t accept the message that cooperation with the Roman occupiers of what had been their land was to be tolerated. They didn’t believe that it would ultimately be to their advantage to submit. Did he himself still believe it? He’d gathered shreds of this truth from prisoners he’d interrogated before Favonius killed them, words uttered in bitterness and bravado that he kept to himself and didn’t translate for the centurion.
“We’ve found no evidence of his hand in matters so far.”
“So far,” Favonius repeated. The centurion walked away.
He sat cross-legged on the damp earth, watching a trail of ants going about their business. He looked down at the wedge of dark bread in his lap but wasn’t hungry. He accepted a cup of wine when it was offered and drank it down quickly, hoping to put out the embers of a headache that had troubled him all day and now threatened to break loose. The wine only made things worse.
He felt disconnected from the earth, lost, adrift under a black sky. The dark river of blood and death that men set out on seldom flowed toward peace. What would it mean for his dream of the future of Britannia if the tribes wouldn’t keep the peace even in this small, relatively settled part of the island? What would it mean to him and his family? The fates sent troubles so thick upon each other’s heels there was no time to think about them. But even the fates, goddesses though they were, grew tired, jus
t like old warriors.
Overhead, the Bear marched across the night sky. Someday, there’d be time to build the dream up again. If he lived that long.
He was an old man. He wished he were home.
Tomorrow, he knew he’d kill again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
“It continues through this room to the next.”
Severus pointed out the path of the new hypocaust under the floor. Behind his shoulder, Aron gazed solemnly at her. She was glad for his presence; Severus was so overbearing.
“And through this archway here, we come to the large heated bath chamber and the cold plunge. It will be very convenient when it’s completed. The servants’ wing is just beyond. Don’t fail to notice the fine work of the masonry vaulting over your head.”
She glanced up. The architect wasn’t exaggerating; the stones had been worked till they resembled lace brought back to Rome from the conquest of some Gaullish tribe or other. Stray beams of pale sunlight filtered through the unfinished windows, dappling the work.
This misty morning was the first time he’d let her inside the almost completed wing. He hadn’t discussed the plans, so she’d had no chance to offer suggestions or make her wishes known. She was certain that was intentional. They picked their way carefully over the unfinished floors. Aron held out a hand to help her at one point where the floor was uneven. He gave her a shy smile.
Good to know the villa was going to be warmer this winter than the last, once the furnace was going and the floors were warmed by the hot air. There was frost on the ground in the mornings, and the nights were becoming cold. For a moment, she thought of Tiberius, somewhere a long way away, fighting rebels. Was he cold too, wherever he was? Surely the legion carried good supplies of blankets for the soldiers?
From outside, she heard the shouts of the workmen, and an overseer issuing orders as a new shipment of supplies came up the road from the port.
Craftsmen who’d been brought from Rome to work on the villa were laying the mosaic floor in a black and white checkered pattern. Another thing she hadn’t been consulted about. The emperor had one just like it, the architect said, ending the discussion before it could begin. Was he like this with all his clients, or did he simply find her young and provincial?
One feature she found particularly pleasing was that the interior walls had been painted in bright colors, panels of yellow and red and a beautiful blue like the sea. The colors lifted her spirits. A big new villa needed lots of new things to furnish it, and though much could be purchased from local craftsmen, in her opinion the best still came from Rome. She would furnish the villa with the elegant things this design called for, silver serving dishes, and beautiful colored glass, books for Lucia.. She could even deceive herself into believing she was back in Rome.
“Notice the use of locally obtained blue-white limestone, and the imported white marble from Carrara. How they blend well together. You must appreciate the difficulty here of working at such high standards so far from Rome! And of course, the fine tesserae being used for the floor mosaic. No expense has been spared for materials or craftsmen.”
The marble was smooth and cool to the touch. It came from a quarry up the Tuscan coast, and that was a nice thing to think about. She liked what she saw, the bright colors on the walls, the mosaic patterns, but she wished Severus would at least make a pretense of consulting her about the plans, even if he ignored everything she said. She was realistic enough to know he would do whatever he wanted in any case, but it would’ve saved her pride.
“Outside,” the architect said, “you will have noticed the colonnaded terrace between the house and the garden area. When it is finished, it will connect all four wings of the villa and serve for protection from the rain. The emperor is very fond of touches like that!”
“Sometime soon, I’d like to speak to you about a grape vine in the garden.”
He ignored her. The smell of still-drying mortar and not-quite-dry paint wasn’t unpleasant, but she was eager to fill the rooms with the perfume of flowers. She could almost imagine the warm, rich smell of ripening grapes.
“We are laying out site marks for the three other wings that will enclose the garden –”
“Do we really need the villa to be so big?”
The small man drew himself up proudly. “I build not for you alone, Lady, not even for the emperor, but for the centuries to come. The entrance hall alone will amaze all who gaze upon it! The alcoves lining this hall will contain the finest sculptures carved from the finest marble all imported from Rome. The emperor, who has impeccable taste, picked the designs out himself. Nor have I forgotten your request for a place of honor for your own divine patrons.”
“Let’s speak about the garden. Besides hedges and flower beds, I want olive trees –”
He stared at her as if he thought she’d suddenly gone mad. “Olives and grapes won’t grow in this climate. And if they do, they’ll produce small, sour fruit.”
“Even so. I want them.”
Severus concluded his tour without another word.
Aron said in a low voice, “Don’t be concerned. It will be big, but it can’t be as big Nero’s palace in Rome. That’s almost a city in itself.”
He hurried after the architect.
The new garden she planned would be full of color and perfume, but for now the old garden was a ragged thing of stalks, brown seed pods and withered leaves. Yet here and there a brave flower defied the end of its season by flaunting its red and gold banner in the gloom. There might be enough for one small vase for her room. The stems were too woody to be easily snapped; she looked around for a gardening tool. In a shed next to the stables she found an old, rusting knife, forgotten on a bench, and picked it up. It was heavy in her hand, the kind of short dagger legionaries wore in their belt, a pugio. She ran her thumb carefully down the blade’s edge. This one had obviously been left out in the rain to grow dull and its blunt blade was badly knicked. Still, it would do for her purpose.
“Be careful, Lady. A rusty blade can poison the blood.”
She turned to see Delamira, her expression concerned. The girl was a good worker, not sullen or conniving as many of the slaves she remembered at the villa in Pyrgi had been. A conversation she’d had with Tiberius a while ago came to mind.
“Delamira, would you want to go back to Carthage?”
The girl looked at her as if she thought the Roman woman had gone mad. “How would I do that, Lady?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was only wondering.”
“I had an infant in Carthage, when the Romans took me. I don’t know what happened to him.”
“You don’t look old enough to have had a child!”
“As old as you, Lady!” the girl said sharply.
She was startled by Delamira’s tone. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
The girl’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that!”
She’d turned Tiberius’s words over in her mind a dozen times. Why not act now? “Delamira. I’m going to prepare the papers to free you.”
“Lady?” The girl gaped at her.
“I don’t want you to be my slave any more. Do you understand?”
“Are you not satisfied with my work?”
“Yes, of course I’m satisfied!” This exchange was almost stupid enough to make her regret her impulsive words. But she saw Delamira’s eyes were wide with hope. “Come to me tomorrow and I’ll have them for you.”
She didn’t want to wait to hear the girl’s expressions of gratitude. Instead, she went back to her task of looking for late-blooming flowers to brighten her room.
Aron was working on something by a half-finished wall. He looked up as she drew near.
“Some grape varieties might do well here,” he said. “We could try.”
“Without Severus knowing?”
He smiled. “He’s not as observant as he thinks he is. I have a cousin on my mother’s side who lives near the foothills of the Alps. He grows g
rapes, and that climate isn’t anywhere near as warm as Rome. I’ll send to him for some hardy cuttings.”
“You’re very kind.”
To her surprise, the young man’s face turned red. His embarrassment softened his bony features and made him seem even younger than she’d first realized. He was hardly much older than she herself.
He helped her find several blooms in autumnal colors. They worked in silence, and she sensed he was as reluctant to speak as she. Once their hands brushed against each other’s and both apologized at the same time. He moved a little distance away to prevent it happening again, but her hand still tingled from his touch. In a little while, he excused himself and went away.
She returned with four sprays of flowers to her own chamber, one of the rooms the builders had worked on first. She set them in water, sat on the side of the bed and unlaced her sandals, thinking about Aron.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Tiber had been gone for ages and nobody knew where he was or when he’d be back. Mater had shut herself up in her chamber. And even Niko had disappeared. They sat waiting for him in the little room where they did their lessons but he didn’t come. Only the man from Rome who was building the new villa was still around, but he was busy. Besides, she’d found out that he didn’t like children.
The day was too beautiful to waste sitting indoors.
“Let’s go out and watch them move the little river,” she suggested.
“Septimus Severus won’t like that,” Catuarus said.
“We’ll stay out of his way, Catu.”
“I don’t think so.”
She pouted. “We haven’t been anywhere since that day we had to get dressed up and go to the new temple. And that was boring!”
“You’re a Roman. You have to like the temple. Besides, we’re supposed to be learning things.”
“You can teach me more names of birds and trees.”
“The only birds still around here are the doves and house sparrows, and you know those. The rest are frightened of the construction noise and the mess.”
