"Why have you brought me here, Ceawlin?"
He leaned close, so she could feel his breath on her ear; there was a stink of urine about him. "To see that green-sailed ship. It belongs to the Empire. It is bound for the coast of Spain — and from there, my note of credit will buy you passage to Rome itself. Once you are out of British waters, away from the raiding Germans, the sailing is safe."
"How much?"
"More than you can pay," he said lightly, as if it were a joke. "I know that you are a creature of Artorius, with no wealth of your own. There is nothing you own that I could want — your pathetic bits of jewelry are of little value..."
"Then why are we talking?"
"I do have other — ah, needs. Call it an appetite, perhaps." He lifted his hand to her breast. He pinched her through the layers of her clothes, hard; his hands felt strong despite their pudginess.
She closed her eyes. "So that's it. You disgust me."
"That hardly concerns me," he said.
"How do I know you won't betray me? Take what you want and—"
"—and leave you stranded here? Because I would be stranded, too. And you would no doubt go to Artorius, who would no doubt have me killed." He winked at her. "Of course you could do that now. Oh, you see, you already have the upper hand in our negotiation. I am a poor businessman!"
She nodded. "What now?"
He eyed her with an intensity she hadn't experienced since Amator. "Perhaps you could grant me a little on account." He began to pull up his tunic.
So there, in the shadow of the river wall, she knelt before him. His crotch stank of stale urine. As he grew excited he began to thrust, threatening to choke her.
"But it is not you I want," he said, gasping. "Not a fat old sow like you. Your daughter. That is the bargain, lady Regina. Send me Brica. If not I will risk the wrath of Artorius himself..." He grabbed her head and pushed her face into his crotch. "Aah."
• • •
Artorius faced his council. He was naked, save only for an iron torc around his neck, made for him by Myrddin. He had shaved his body, and the hair on his head was thickened with limewash so it stood up in great spikes from his head. This was how his ancestors had met Julius Caesar, he believed, and how he would challenge the latest holder of the purple.
His council gazed at him, frozen in shock. In the stony expressions of men like Ceawlin, Regina saw veiled amusement, even contempt. Only young Ambrosius Aurelianus stared at this savage, antique figure with something like awe.
You fool, Artorius, she thought.
Artorius said, "Many centuries ago — so the bards say — a great host of those the Romans call barbarians, the Celtae, thrust across Europe and burned down Rome itself. There were British among them — so it is said. What can be done once will be done again..."
He was calling for a great rising of the Celtae — for their culture had been swept aside, he argued, first by the Caesars and now by the Christian popes. It would be a campaign to free Britain and Europe once and for all from the yoke of Rome. And he would do that by taking Rome for himself.
"Some accuse me of seeking the purple," Artorius said now. "The mantle of the Emperor. But I seek the mantle, not of the Caesars, but of Brutus and Lear and Cymbeline, the forefathers of Britain. And the gods who will protect me are not the Christ and His father, but the older gods, the true gods, Lud and Coventina and Sulis and the triple mothers..."
Ceawlin maneuvered himself close to Regina. There was a faint stink of urine even now.
Regina closed her eyes. His stink made her gorge rise, as it had done that day by the river wall. And yet she must put that aside, and think with the clarity for which she prayed daily to the matres.
Brica would be harmed by her contact with this fat pig. But the family would be harmed more badly if she sat by while Artorius submitted himself to his suicidal venture, and all he had built was cast to the winds, all the protection she had carefully accrued dissipated. Brica was the most precious person in the world to her. But together they were family. And the family, its continuity into the future, was of more importance than any individual.
There was only one choice.
She whispered to Ceawlin, "One condition. Don't make her pregnant."
Ceawlin sat back, and the stink of him receded a little.
Artorius had done talking now. His colleagues — those who would follow him across Europe, and those who would betray him before he walked out of this room — cheered and yelled alike.
Chapter 23
Lucia took a bus to the Venezia. From there it was a short walk to the Piazza Navona. She took a seat at an open-air café and sipped an iced tea. It was a bright January day.
The Piazza was a long, rectangular space surrounded by three- and four-story buildings. The square was crammed with street painters and vendors selling bags and hats and bits of jewelry from suitcases. There were no less than three fountains here. The one at the center was the Fountain of the Four Rivers, four great statues to represent the Ganges, the Danube, the Plate, and the Nile. When she was small Lucia had wondered why the Nile statue was blindfolded; it was because when the statue was created the source of the Nile had still been a mystery.
This pretty piazza was one of her favorite places in Rome. She wondered how Daniel could have guessed that. Then she decided she was being foolish; it was just coincidence. She glanced at her watch: a quarter past three. She sipped her tea and, masked by her blue glasses, flinched from the speculative stares of the passing boys and men.
Of course she had no right to expect him to be here. It had been three weeks since that chance meeting by the lake, and even that, contaminated by Pina's hostility, had only lasted a few minutes.
She was pretty sure Pina hadn't told any of the cupola what had happened before the Temple of Aesculapius. But since then Pina had found a reason to accompany Lucia every time she left the Crypt. For the first few days she had even followed Lucia to the bathroom. On her last trip out, though, Pina, busy with other chores, had let her go alone. Perhaps Pina had relaxed a little. Lucia hadn't dared do anything that day. Today, however, she had again managed to leave the Crypt's aboveground offices without Pina seeing her, as far as she could tell. And so Lucia had taken the chance.
But she had wasted her time. Twenty past three. This was stupid. She began to collect together her bag, the magazine she had spread on the table for cover. Maybe it was for the best, she thought. After all, if this boy had turned up, what could she possibly have said to him? And besides—
"Hi." He was standing before her, no sunglasses this time, that high forehead glistening with sweat. "I'm sorry I'm late. The damn bus broke down and I had to run."
She was sitting there, foolishly clutching her bag.
He sat down. "But you know what? I wasn't worried. I told myself that the Law of Sod wouldn't let me down. Today was the one day in three weeks I am late, so today is the day you would come..." He grinned. "Sorry."
She put her bag down under her seat, and in doing so nearly knocked over her iced tea. Daniel had to grab it. "Don't apologize," she said. Even her voice sounded awkward. "I'm the one who should be sorry. It's me who hasn't turned up for three weeks."
"You had no reason to. You don't know me." He looked more serious. "Anyhow, I know you have difficulties. That bulldog of a sister of yours is very protective."
"It's not as simple as that," she said defensively.
He studied her, his blue eyes wide.
A waiter in white shirt and bow tie slid past their table with menus. Daniel quickly ordered more iced tea for them both. The waiter smiled at them, and moved a little bowl of dried flowers from a neighboring table.
"How about that. He thinks we're on a date."
"We can't be on a date," she said clumsily.
He raised his eyebrows. "We can't?"
"For one thing I'm only fifteen."
"Okay," he said, nodding. She thought he was masking disappointment, repositioning. "We can still be fri
ends, can't we? Even if you're just fifteen."
"I guess so."
He glanced around the square, breaking the slight tension. "Look at that. It's January, and they're still stocking Befana dolls." There was a stall stocked with them next to an old painted wooden merry-go-round, around which small children clustered.
Befana was the sister of Santa Claus. She wore a kerchief and glasses, and carried a broom. She had missed the Three Wise Men on their way to visit the baby Jesus. In recompense she brought presents for good Italian children on the twelfth day of Christmas — and for the bad ones, bits of coal.
"To me she looks kind of like a witch," Daniel said.
"You don't have Befana in America?"
"No. I grew up with the Coca-Cola Santa Claus. But that was okay."
"We always had Befana, without Santa." It was true. Christmas was celebrated in the Crypt; there were great mass parties in the theaters and meeting halls where the age groups would mingle, and games and competitions would be played. And there were presents, toys and games and clothes, even bits of jewelry, cosmetics, and clothes, commercially bought, for the older ones. But Befana, a woman, was the central figure, not Christ or Santa, and the great celebration was always on Twelfth Night, the Feast of the Epiphany.
The waiter delivered their tea.
Daniel said, "You mentioned we? You mean your family? Let's see. There's you, and Pina, and your aunt from the Pantheon..."
"More than that." She managed a smile. "We're a big family."
He smiled back. "It's nice to see you look a little less worried. So, your family. What do your parents do?"
How could she answer that? I've never spoken to my father. My mother is a hundred years old... There was so much she could tell him; there was nothing she could tell him. He was, after all, a contadino.
He saw her hesitating, and began, smoothly, to tell her of his own upbringing. His father, as he'd told her, was a diplomat who had had a series of postings with NATO and the American diplomatic corps, culminating in his nine years in Italy. Daniel had seen a lot of the world, especially in his early years, and had decided he wanted to study politics himself.
"I always liked this square," he said.
"Me, too."
"It's got the kind of depth of history I like about Europe. I know that's an obvious thing for an American to say."
"Well, I never met an American before."
Reassured, he said, "It's built on a stadium, put up by the Emperor Domitian. Did you know that? The stadium fell into ruin, and the stones were hauled off to make houses and churches and whatnot. But the foundations were still here, and the houses were built on top of them, so the square keeps the original shape of the racetrack." He shook his head. "I love that. People living for two thousand years in the ruins of a sports stadium. It gives you a sense of continuity — of depth. Do you know what I mean?"
"I think so," she said seriously. She felt baffled by his rapidfire speech. How could she match such perceptions? She felt stupid, malformed, a child; she was afraid to open her mouth for fear of making a fool of herself.
He rambled to a halt, and looked at her shyly. "Hey, I'm sorry."
That made her laugh. "You are always apologizing. What are you sorry for now?"
"Because I'm boring you. I'm a seventeen-year-old bore. My brother says this is why I'll never get a girl. I always lecture them. I'm full of bullshit." He used the English word. "But it's just that I think about this stuff so hard. It just comes out... You know, you're beautiful when you laugh. And you're also beautiful when you are serious. It's true. I think we should always say what's true, don't you? That's what I noticed about you in the Pantheon. Your skin is pale, but there is a kind of translucence about it..."
She could feel her cheeks burn, something warm move inside her. "I like your seriousness. We should be serious about the world."
"So we should." He was watching her. The light was fading a little now, and his face seemed to float in the glow of the lights from the café's interior. "But not serious all the time. Something's troubling you, isn't it?"
She looked away sharply. "I can't say."
"Okay. But it's something to do with your sister, and your aunt... Your mysterious family."
She folded and unfolded her fingers. "It's a matter of duty."
"Are they trying to get you to do something you don't want to do? What — an arranged marriage of some kind? I've heard of that in southern Italian families." He was fishing.
"I can't say anything." She didn't even know herself.
Suddenly he covered her hand with his. "Don't be upset."
His skin was hot, his grip firm; she felt the touch of his palm on the back of her fingers. "I'm not upset."
"I don't know what to say to you." He withdrew his hand; the air felt cold. "Look, you may or may not believe it, but I've no designs on you. You're a beautiful girl," he said hastily. "I don't mean that. Anybody would find you beautiful. But — there's something about you that draws me in. That's all. And now I'm a little closer to you, I can see there's something hurting in there. I want to help you."
Suddenly the intensity of the moment overwhelmed her. "You can't." She stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"To the bathroom."
He was crestfallen. "You won't come back."
"I will." But, she found, she wasn't sure if she would.
"Here." He produced a business card from a pocket. "This is my cell number. Call me if you need anything, anything at all."
She held the card between thumb and forefinger. "I'm only going to the bathroom."
He smiled weakly. "Well, in case you get lost on the way. Put it in your bag. Please."
She smiled, slipped it into her bag, and moved into the shop. When she glanced back she could see his face, his blue eyes following her.
In the event, she didn't even make it as far as the bathroom.
• • •
They converged on her, Pina on one side, Rosa on the other. They grabbed her arms. Rosa's face was set and furious, but Pina seemed more regretful. They immediately began to march her out toward an open door at the back of the shop. There was absolutely nothing Lucia could do about it.
Lucia said to Pina, "You promised you wouldn't tell."
"I didn't promise anything. You made me think you were over this stupid crush."
"You followed me."
"Yes, I followed you."
They passed into the street, and Lucia found herself bundled into a car. Lucia couldn't even see if Daniel was still watching. She would never know, she thought, if she would have gone back to him.
"Pina was right to call me," Rosa said. "I'm glad somebody has some sense."
Lucia shouted, "Can't you leave me alone?"
"No," Rosa said simply.
"I just wanted to see him. I was curious."
"Really? Curious about what, Lucia? Where did you think this little liaison would lead? Do you really have a crush on this boy, this Daniel? But you've only just met him. Do you want to fall in love? Do you want romance so badly that you'll approach a perfect stranger—"
"Stop it," Lucia said. She tried to hide her face in her hands.
But Rosa wouldn't let up. "Listen to me. You are part of the Order. In the Order, there is no room for love or romance. In the Order, efficiency is everything."
Lucia, forced to look at her, tried to understand what she was saying. "Efficiency in what?"
"In relationships. In reproduction. I'm talking about the demands of survival, Lucia. Do you think the Order would have lasted so long if it had allowed its members to follow the random dictates of love?"
Lucia didn't understand any of this, but she felt a deep horror creep over her.
Pina, too, looked shocked. "You shouldn't be saying this, Rosa," she said in a small voice.
Rosa sat back. "It's the last time I will allow you out of the Crypt. The last time, do you hear? If I have to bell you like a cat..."
Lucia, r
eleased, turned away.
If she tried hard she could imagine the warmth of his hand on hers. When she thought about that she could feel heat in her lips and eyes, and a hot tautness across her breasts, and her skin tingled under her clothes, and there was a deep burning at the pit of her belly. In the dismal, silent interior of this car, despite the cold severity of Rosa beside her, she had never felt more alive. Rosa hadn't won.
And she still had Daniel's card in her bag.
Chapter 24
As their long sea journey drew to a close, despite the tension between them, Regina and Brica crowded together at the prow of the small ship, hungry for their first glimpse of Italy.
The early-morning air was already hot and dense, and the salt smell of the sea was exotic. The crew called coarsely to each other as they pursued their bewildering tasks, adjusting the ship's green sails as it approached the shore. This was just a small cargo craft dedicated to transporting jewelry, fine pottery, and other expensive and low-bulk wares, and the ship creaked as it rolled. But to the women, now veterans of an ocean crossing from Britain, the tideless rolling of the Mediterranean was as nothing.
It was Brica who saw the lighthouse first. "Ah, look..." It loomed over the horizon long before the land itself was visible, a fist of concrete and masonry thrusting defiantly into the misty air. Soon afterward a great concrete barrier came into view, cutting across the horizon. This was the wall of the harbor, one of two huge jutting moles. The ship was steered easily toward the break between the moles, and sailed past the lighthouse.
The lighthouse was centuries old. It had been constructed, like the port itself, by the Emperor Claudius, who had conquered Britain. But though its concrete fascia was weathered and cracked, it surely stood as solid and intimidating as the day it was constructed. As she passed, Regina could see how it was founded on a sunken ship, whose outlines were dimly visible through the murky, litter-strewn water. The story was that this great vessel had been built to transport an obelisk from Egypt, and then filled with concrete and deliberately sunk. The huge old lighthouse loomed over the ship, utterly dwarfing it. But the crew seemed oblivious to its presence, and Regina tried not to cower.
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