INCEPTIO (Roma Nova)

by Alison Morton

  In the security room, heads turned in my direction, eyes fixing on me.

  ‘Fine words.’ Renschman’s voice grated. ‘You won’t risk it.’

  I heard Conrad laugh again.

  What was he on?

  ‘Now!’ came his whisper.

  Barely a nanosecond later, Faleria spoke into the mic and the glass panel behind the front desk flew open. Renschman’s attention was momentarily diverted and Conrad leapt out at him. I heard two gunshots, a third, followed by the high-pitched explosion of breaking glass. Another, the deep crack of something heavier breaking. Armed soldiers burst into the reception area. More shots. The monitors filled with figures in combat fatigues, shouts accompanying their rapid movements. Within seconds it was over.

  Faleria spoke a clipped command into the mic.

  One of the soldiers trotted up to the camera and gave her report. ‘Area secured. One enemy light casualty, one secured, one friendly medium casualty, two civilians unhurt but in shock. Medics on their way.’

  I closed my eyes. A hand on the back of my head forced it over, something touched my chest and I threw up into a wastepaper bin.

  Dexia smiled down at me, wiped my mouth and gave me a plastic cup of water. Then I started shaking.

  ‘Calm down, Mitela, looks like a flesh wound. He’s tough as hell. He’ll be fine,’ she said.

  Claudia Cornelia looked furious at Dexia’s casual tone. ‘That’s enough, Captain.’

  ‘No.’ I looked up at Dexia, then across at Claudia. ‘No, that’s okay. I want to see Conradus. Now.’

  Dexia took me down to the wrecked reception. The dark glass wall was intact but the reception desk gaped open in two shattered halves, surrounded by an oval patch of splintered glass. Renschman and another suit were lying face down on the floor, handcuffed and guarded by soldiers. I stepped around the glass and damaged furniture. A medic was kneeling on the floor, back to me, obscuring a beige-clothed body, one of whose legs was bent up at the knee. Another medic was setting up a collapsible gurney. She clicked the lock into place, joined the other medic side by side and lifted the body across onto the gurney. When they raised it to waist level, I nearly passed out. Conrad lay on it, desperately still. A large pad secured with a bandage was tied around his upper leg. Red stains were spreading through the fabric of his beige pants either side of the pad. His face was pale, pulled into harsh lines, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. One of the medics finished tying a second bandage around Conrad’s upper arm. He half-opened his eyes, looked around and saw me.

  ‘Why aren’t you in the safe room?’ he croaked, and frowned at me.

  ‘Do you think I would go skulk there while you were in danger?’

  He sighed. ‘It’s over. We’ve stopped him. Only sorry I didn’t get the chance to blow his head off.’

  I stared at Renschman as he was pulled to his feet by two soldiers. As they took him away, he limped and stumbled. He threw me a venomous look. I flinched like he’d struck me in the face.

  The medics had put up an IV drip for Conrad and wheeled him away, pushing through the chaos. I went to follow but a stretched arm prevented me.

  Dexia. ‘Let them sort him out.’

  Later that evening, I sat in the sick bay room I had left only a while ago, watching by his bed. Still pale, his skin sagged over his cheekbones. A plastic tube from his nose was taped above his lip, and the line from the IV drip was embedded in the back of his hand. Dark red stains under his fingernails from dried blood. The doctor had said the bullet had passed straight through his leg, avoiding bone or vital organs or veins. He would recover well because of his natural strength and acquired fitness, he said. But Conrad looked so ill and vulnerable, I didn’t believe him.

  He ran a light fever but it subsided after forty-eight hours. On the following day, although he looked tired, he was half-sitting up and arguing with me.

  ‘Is it always going to be like this?’ I touched his forearm. ‘I mean, you getting shot, me having an anxiety attack?’

  He laughed. ‘Well, it’s hardly likely to be the other way round, is it?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  XXXI

  I shouldn’t have been surprised to see Steven Smith the next afternoon. We sat in the birchwood conference room with Favonius, Sergia and Gaia. Yesterday’s attack had caused a monumental diplomatic row. It couldn’t be hushed up like the poison letter. The legation had sent a strong condemnation first thing that morning to the American Secretary Of External Affairs – Junior Hartenwyck’s father. In diplomatic speak, that ranked one below declaring war. An SUV had been allowed into the legation grounds earlier in the day, under guard, to collect Renschman and his colleague from the secure basement room where they’d spent the night.

  I’d been petrified of being taken by Renschman on the outside, but somehow he’d got inside, into my safety cocoon. Twice. My head swam with reaction. I took another gulp of water. The July sunshine streamed through the window glass. I was grateful for the calming effect of the air-conditioning murmuring away in the background.

  ‘I think we’ll find they’re able to grant you a Certificate of Loss of Nationality immediately in return for the legation not publicising this incident.’

  ‘I just want it over, Mr Smith.’

  ‘I know. I do sympathise. I asked Favonius earlier today to insist they send a consular officer to hear your oath of renunciation within the next forty-eight hours. I understand this is scheduled for this afternoon.’

  I looked up from my study of the table. ‘Thank you so much for your support through all this.’

  ‘My pleasure, Carina Mitela.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘I know the certificate has to be issued, but it will be backdated to today. You’ll cease to be Karen Brown from this afternoon.’

  The certificate arrived four days later; even the formidable Favonius was impressed. We stood by the railing on the walkway outside his office, looking down at the garden.

  ‘I’m sorry you’ll be leaving us so soon, Carina Mitela, but I’m delighted at the positive outcome.’ I was astonished at Favonius’s friendly tone.

  ‘Yes, it’s ended well.’ I looked him straight in the eye. ‘I trust all this hasn’t endangered your agreement with the External Affairs Department. You must have put in a lot of hard work on it.’

  He went very still.

  ‘I’ve learnt one thing here that’s surprised me. I seem to be able to take life-threatening events in my stride. But then I come from tough stock.’

  Now he knew.

  ‘I’ll be sure to let my grandmother know all about how you’ve supported me.’

  I had a farewell meeting with Claudia Cornelia and her husband. He gave me his private email address.

  ‘Please don’t hesitate. I know what it’s like. There’ll be moments when you yearn for some trivial, stupid thing, like a Hershey bar.’

  He laughed when I made a face at the thought.

  ‘No, truly.’ He became serious. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, I think you’ve come through a rough time very well. I envy you the journey of discovering the pleasures of Roma Nova. I lived there for four years with Claudia before she was posted here.’ He smiled. ‘When we arrived in Washington, I was excited to be returning “home” to the EUS, picking up with former colleagues and friends. But you know what? I was disappointed. I found it superficial. I missed the committed sense of community, of responsibility, if you like.’ He glanced over to Claudia. ‘We’ll be posted home to Roma Nova within the next two years, and I’ll be thankful to be back there.’

  Was he pushing the official line, or saying it to make me feel better? Glancing at his serious face, I believed his words came from the heart.

  Conrad and I left in the same formation as we had arrived – SUVs ahead and behind us. I turned and waved to Gaia Memmia, Aelia, standing next to her father, and Grattius. Political stuff aside, they – apart from Favonius – had given me not only friendship but their unstinting support.
I was still as nervous as hell about going to Roma Nova. But not as relieved as shaking off the threat from Renschman.

  On the way to Sterling Dulles, I looked at the olive leather-bound book Grattius had given me as we shook hands under the legation portico. It was a set of Catullus’s love poems. What an old romantic. Conrad considered some of them were a bit ripe, but I didn’t care – it was a lovely gesture. A good way to enter my new life.

  Part II: Transition

  XXXII

  How surreal could it be?

  We boarded a Dassault private jet in the general aviation area of Sterling Dulles and were welcomed on board by a flight attendant with movie-star looks and matching charm. Conrad told me that an old friend of Aurelia’s, some French business magnate, had lent her his personal plane. Did he realise how like a television mini-series that sounded?

  It had everything: a sleeping area, where Conrad could lie and rest his leg on the bed, a tiny bathroom and luxurious sitting/dining area. You could do all the usual office things and probably conquer the universe in the afternoon with all the equipment on board. I spoke to my grandmother briefly; the flying palace had satellite communications, of course.

  I gaped like a tourist out of the window several hours later when land came into sight: my first view of Europe. We landed early afternoon local time and, thirsty for a view of my new home, I glued my face to the window. Mountains stretched up into the sky in the background, conifers clinging to them under the snow line, fields and isolated houses below them. As the tyres touched the runway, I was disappointed to see it looked like any other airport, until I saw the terminal building with the sign PORTUS – ROMA NOVA. It was true, then.

  We taxied past the main glass-fronted building to a smaller single-storey one with three wide shallow steps and glass doors. A gold eagle crested the arch above the doorway. Two men in suits and a woman in a blue uniform stood waiting for our plane to stop. Fresh air flooded in as the door opened.

  ‘Ready?’ Conrad smiled at me and held out his hand. He stood awkwardly, leaning on a cane. His leg must have been so sore.

  Nervous didn’t describe it; I was extremely reluctant to leave the comfort of my leather seat.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I was wearing a new cream designer pants suit. I checked my hair and face for the hundredth time. I thanked the French crew as I stood hesitating in the doorway. I swallowed and placed my foot on the first step.

  Outside, it was warm, but not as oppressively hot as Washington had been. Above the sour smells of fuel and tyre rubber, I caught a fresh, sharp tang of pine resin. On the ground, the VIP suite manager and his assistant welcomed me with smiles and energetic handshakes. I didn’t catch the blue-uniformed woman’s role, but she and Conrad nodded to each other.

  In the glass-walled lounge, a tall, older woman in a chic forest-green suit rose to meet me. Assured and elegant, with an indefinable air of power, her direct look intimidated me. The heavy gold antique ring on her manicured right hand was curiously out of place. I did look like her, especially the eyes. I didn’t think I had such a defined jawline. She had the same slender build but, instead of my red-gold, her hair was all over different shades of grey.

  Conrad gave me a light push in the small of my back toward her and retreated. I took one step and stopped. My mouth dried up. She smiled and closed the gap between us in two paces.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she said and held her hands out.

  ‘Nonna.’

  I gave a nervous laugh as she embraced me. Honey and cinnamon. It was the cookie smell from when I visited as a little girl. I took a couple of breaths to steady myself. I didn’t know what to say.

  She scrutinised my face. I was unsure what she was looking for but, after a flicker, a tightening of anxiety in her eyes, I only saw warmth. She looked away for a moment or two, her face confused by sadness, by longing. But, almost instantly, the smile and warmth were reinstated, her eyes liquid.

  ‘I don’t know what you like,’ she said, ‘what your favourite colour or food is; what you enjoy doing.’ She coughed. ‘Never mind, we’ll get the hang of it as we go along.’

  She was as nervous as I was. But I think she understood almost by instinct how awkward, how disrupted I felt. I loved her from that moment.

  ‘You’ll find things are different here; some better, some worse, some unexpected,’ she said as we left the airport. ‘You seem resourceful and bright, Carina, but you must ask if you don’t understand something. If you’re unhappy, you must tell me, however trivial. It’s the small things that cause most misery.’

  ‘Thank you, Nonna. I’m determined to do my best and learn quickly. I don’t want to let anybody down.’

  ‘Carina.’ She took hold of my hand and looked straight at me. ‘Don’t do it for me, or for anybody else. Don’t try to please everybody or you’ll drive yourself insane.’

  Travelling from the airport to the house, I was fascinated by the buildings – cream stone with terracotta roof tiles mixed in with tall, much grander blocks. Modern stood alongside older, but somehow it all fit together. I couldn’t tell what most roads signs meant; how could they be so different? Cars looked more stylish and compact than in New York, and surrounded by clouds of bicycles. Shops with wide sidewalks in front, colourful awnings stretching over chairs and tables outside restaurants. People strolled along; some stood in groups talking animatedly; some were buying papers and small stuff from kiosks. They looked pretty much like people anywhere, but darker, neater, more self-contained.

  In the centre of the city, we drove past one side of a huge open square, surrounded on the other three sides by a forest of stone columns and grand buildings. My grandmother told me this was the forum, the buildings containing various public offices, including the Senate. The smaller ones were mostly temples. My sense of unreality grew – it was like a movie set from Gladiator with extras going up and down the steps, but in normal twenty-first century clothes.

  I shut my eyes for a few moments to attempt processing this. When I opened them, we were skirting a hill rising steeply to an old ruin perched at the top of a cliff commanding the whole river valley. Halfway up was a beautiful golden stone house, a mansion as large as any antebellum estate. With long, single-storey wings running out from each side, it looked like a bird poised for take-off.

  We rode on along a tree-lined street about five minutes from the centre, but quieter, with individual entrances spread out. As we approached a tall gateway, the arch carved with woven branches and small leaf motifs, the car slowed and the driver put his hand out against a screen set in the side post. The gates swung open.

  A square-built four-storey house with tall arched windows rose on one side of a wide gravelled courtyard. Single-storey buildings spread along two other sides, the whole framed by tall plane trees. I wanted to touch the gold and cream stone that reflected the soft light of late afternoon; it looked like blocks of honey.

  A solemn woman, around fifty, came down the steps of the house and opened my grandmother’s door, bowing as she did.

  ‘Domina,’ she said.

  Nonna turned to me as I followed her out, took my hand and said, ‘Junia, this is my granddaughter.’

  She bowed to me. ‘Welcome, lady.’ Her expression was deadpan, betrayed by eyes full of curiosity.

  ‘Junia runs the household along with Galienus, the housekeeper and under-steward,’ Nonna continued. ‘If you need anything, mention it to one or the other. Junia will take you round tomorrow so that you know where everything is.’

  Junia’s serious face relaxed a few millimetres to produce a half-smile. She exchanged nods with Conrad who had ridden in the front. The vestibule (as I later learned it was called) led to a long, high-ceilinged hallway lined with statues and portraits called imagines. It was like walking through a museum. At the end was a marble bust of a young woman, hair tied high. The sculptor had caught an air of wistfulness: tendrils escaping from the thin ribbons around her head and curling down around the hollows of her neck, a he
sitant expression, an other-worldliness. Marina Mitela, the inscription said. My mother. I stopped and stared. The tears welled, but I didn’t let them escape.

  As Junia pulled open the double doors into the next room, I gasped. A huge hall, open on one side with plate glass doors slid back, marble floors and a glass roof arching overhead, was golden in the sunlight. This was the atrium, the heart of the house, the enormous room I’d seen when I was four years old.

  Nonna and Conrad talked, their voices contained, sometimes rising, never loud, almost a background murmur as I detached myself and stared around. Lush green planting at the centre made it like a shopping mall but the light wood tables and easy chairs came from anybody’s living room. We were interrupted by the steward murmuring that a car had arrived to take Conrad home to Domus Tellarum. He looked exhausted. As I kissed his cheek at the entrance door, I whispered he should get some rest. He just smiled and left.

  Nonna led me back to the hallway and stopped in front of a wide door. She grasped the chased brass handle and beckoned me to follow her in.

  ‘I’ll leave you here to settle in,’ she said. ‘A lot to absorb all at once, isn’t it?’ The empathy in her voice was unmistakable, but I’d already started doubting if I could cope with the strangeness of it all.

  Next morning, Nonna took me to the censor’s office to register my presence. The censor herself came out to kiss cheeks and smile with Nonna while her assistant fitted me with a personal tracker – a tiny chip inserted into my shoulder that gave me ID, access and protection, apparently. Better than a wallet full of plastic cards, I supposed. At least I couldn’t lose it.

  Conrad had been put on medical leave. I visited him several times; Domus Tellarum was the other side of the city but only twenty minutes by car. On my fourth visit, I met his Uncle Quintus who in the flesh was a darker, shorter version of Conrad, hair more silver than brown. Although my Latin was pretty fluent by now, I wasn’t entirely sure about some of his jokes. We left Quintus answering the imperious ring on his cell, talking with authority and clicking fingers.