‘Do you think you’ll come back to it?’ Julia asks.
‘I don’t know,’ says Suzanne. ‘I’ve got too much on my mind right now.’
34
It is while she is working the next day that Julia remembers her screaming of the previous night. Or more precisely she remembers those moments before it. Or were they hours?
And now she remembers.
She remembers it all. Everything.
It happened. There was a first time and then often after that, so that eventually, all the times ran into one.
Her mother was out. She can’t remember how old she was. Nine? Ten? Somewhere around there.
The things he did. They did. There was something not right about them. There was a strange feeling.
She felt strange but he seemed strange too – like he was a different person.
He said nothing while it was happening. And she knew that if she told anybody they wouldn’t believe it. For a long time she didn’t believe it herself.
Where was her mother? How did she not know?
It hits Julia like an express train and an even more gaping abyss opens up.
She did know.
All the time she knew and she did nothing.
They might not have believed Julia but they would have believed her mother. Even an animal takes care of its young. The thought keeps going around in her head. A bitch. A she-fox – a vixen. A lioness. A swan. Julia has an image of a mother swan frantically trying to protect her eggs against men. Any of them – all of them – would have protected their young, would have given their lives to protect their young.
Her father had been a pillar of the community. At the synagogue. Not that that had saved her. Not that it had stopped him. She got some small satisfaction from the fact that, as soon as she left home, she had stopped going.
She assumed that when the Germans came for him, her father had been escorted away by police just as she had been. She smiles at that. But he should have been escorted away by police years earlier.
Now that this door has opened, the memories come tumbling in on her. What had been one incident starts to separate out into many different ones. Not just the times themselves but their whole lives together. Normal times – if, now, you could call anything in that house normal. Meals together – within hours of him having come to her. Holidays. Things they talked about and did while all the time this was going on.
No wonder she had been driven to get out. Julia thought back to that day when she had to decide – stay or go? She knows now she would have died had she stayed. Somehow some part of her – was it her body? – had known. Get out while there’s still time. Before it kills you. Before he kills you.
No wonder she took so easily to the films. She had been doing that probably before any of the people she had worked with.
She remembers now how she used to wash, take baths. She never felt clean afterwards – no matter how hard she scrubbed herself or how fresh was the new underwear she put on.
And unlike Birkita, there is no revenge to be had here. Or is it that the Germans have already taken it for her? No – they have robbed her of the opportunity to see him stand in court and be accused and deny it.
But then nobody would have believed her. She’s back to that. It would all have been for nothing. Even if it got that far it would have been her word against his. And her mother would have tried to stop her. And if, by some miracle, it had come to court, her mother would probably have spoken up for him. Spoken up for him. All she-animals protect their young. What had been wrong with her mother? What flaw was in her that stopped her from doing that? That allowed it all to happen?
All these questions and no answers. The perpetrators dead. Nobody even to talk to about this.
But would she? Even to Suzanne?
That’s if Suzanne were here.
Maybe she would have. With the old Suzanne. But not now.
Julia’s mind picks over these memories like the ghastly leftovers of some vast feast.
She thinks about the book and how Birkita is poised to get her revenge. But that is just in a book. Julia almost sneers at the thought. Real life is never like that.
Chapter Twenty-four
Birkita’s Search (Julia)
Now that she was back in the place of her birth, Birkita began to talk to people, to understand what had gone on while she had been away. She learned that after the crushing of the rebellion, there was much killing and slave-taking. But with the onset of winter that had died down.
When spring had come, the Romans had begun to seize Iceni land and hand it out to their own people. When Birkita heard this, she was sure that it would only be a matter of time before the rich land that her village had farmed, would go that way. She was dismayed. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had had the vague thought that when the bull Roman was dead, she would return to her village and start to rebuild it. If what she was hearing now was true, there would be no return and no rebuilt village. It was another door to the future closed. She tried not to dwell on it, to think about the job still to be done.
She had to assume that the Romans who had killed her family had come from some place close by. The nearest town was called Venta Icenorum by the Romans. That was where she would begin her search.
Venta Icenorum had started life as a Roman army camp. Birkita’s father had recalled it being built. Since then, though the army was still quartered there, a civilian population had also grown up. Birkita had often been there to sell animals or crops and to buy supplies. She set off for there now. One of the people she had spoken to had told her that the Iceni were no longer allowed to carry weapons, other than a dagger for eating, so she hid her sword in some undergrowth near the village. She would return for it when the time came.
As she walked the road to Venta, Birkita’s thoughts returned to the kind of vengeance she would exact. She had thought first to kill the bull Roman, to torture him to death by crucifixion, just as he had done to her loved ones. In reality though, there was no revenge that could fit the crime. The bull Roman had taken everything and everybody she loved – even down to her dogs. On the scales of justice, what could possibly balance that out? If he had a family she could kill all of them before she killed him. But these, if they existed, were innocent people. It wouldn’t be right to kill them, no matter how much the sight of it might hurt him.
She began to understand that the best vengeance was the one she had taken on Flavia and that that was why it had troubled Birkita the most. Kill somebody and they were gone; their suffering was at an end. But the thing was to prolong that suffering – and not just for a few hours or days, by torturing them – but to condemn them to a lifetime’s suffering. That was what the bull Roman had done to her. For as long as she lived she would endure the anguish that she woke to every day. Maybe it was possible that the years might lessen it a bit but it would always be there. That was what she needed to do to the bull Roman – to find a way to make him suffer for as long as he breathed.
But first she had to find him.
It was a market day and crowds of people with animals and produce to sell were flocking to Venta. Birkita joined the throng queuing at the Eastern Gate. The town still showed its origins as a Roman camp. A deep ditch ran round the perimeter and inside that was a raised bank with a wooden palisade. A bridge of logs with beaten earth on top crossed the ditch to the gate. Inside the buildings were mostly single storey and of wood. Occasionally, there was one on two levels, built of stone with a tiled roof.
Birkita went to the market square. There she found an inn with tables outside. She ordered some ale, cheese and bread and settled down to wait.
The first day came and went. Lots of Roman soldiers passed through the square, sometimes in ones and twos wandering amongst the stalls looking to buy things, sometimes marching in squads – but none of them was the bull Roman. The innkeeper became irritated with her for holding on to a table all day so she inquired whether he rented any rooms. He did and she took one
on the upper storey that overlooked the square. Here, she spent all of the second day gazing down on the activity below her but there was still no sign of her target.
On the third day, she thought she saw him – at the head of a squad of soldiers. The man had the same build and heavy features. But as she looked more closely, Birkita saw that the face under the helmet was very different – it was pale and with kinder, almost humorous, eyes.
As the fourth day dawned and Birkita took up her position at the upstairs window, it began to dawn on her just how stupid the quest she had set herself was. How was she going to find one Roman soldier in all of Britain? There must be thousands of them here. And this presumed that the bull Roman was still in Britain. He was a soldier – soldiers died, they got moved around. She wondered how many more days she should do this.
Then another idea came to her. She could go to the barracks and ask after him. That was it. She would pretend that she was pregnant and go to the gate and describe him to the guards. She could say that he had told her his name was ... Antonius. She could say that she wanted to speak to him.
But then what? Maybe the guards would just laugh at her and chase her away. And even if they didn’t and they brought him to her, what would she say then? If it turned out to be him, she could always say that he wasn’t the man. At least she would know then that he was there. It was a thin plan, but no thinner than what she was doing at the moment. She decided she would give it today and then see tonight whether this other idea was worth trying.
The sunlit square began to fill up. Farmers and stall holders set out their wares. People appeared in ones and twos and then gradually this became a steady flow as the morning progressed. It was nearly noon when Birkita saw a blocky man wearing a long brown tunic. The man’s tunic was tied at the waist with a belt and his belly bulged over it pushing it downwards. His face was very florid.
She noticed him only because of who he was with – a tall, thin woman with jet black hair and a strikingly serene face. They seemed an odd combination – apart from anything else the woman was taller than the man. But what was most notable about the face was not so much its beauty – because Birkita thought it was beautiful – but rather that it carried a huge blue bruise around one eye and taking up most of one side of her face.
There were also two young girls – Birkita would have guessed their ages to be about six and eight – the same ages as Banning’s daughters, her nieces. The two girls held one another’s hands while the woman walked slightly ahead, looking at what was on offer, picking up items, sometimes smelling them or asking questions of the stall owners. She carried a basket and occasionally bought something and put it into it.
As Birkita watched them making their way through the crowded square, she found that she had jumped to her feet. She would hardly have noticed this pair at all had it not been for that huge bruise, so striking against the woman’s pale face and red lips, framed in her straight black hair. She had only seen the man’s face for an instant and now he had his back to her. But he was the right build. How could she have been so stupid? All along she had been looking only at soldiers but what if he had left the army but stayed here? That he was one of the people to whom the Romans were giving the stolen Iceni land?
She ran downstairs and out into the market square, threading her way through the crowd. She thought for an instant that she had lost them, but then she saw the top of the woman’s head, her hair glossy in the sunlight. Birkita moved closer. Now she could see the man – but again it was his back, the thick neck with dark hairs on it, the powerful shoulders and muscular arms. Birkita squeezed her way between two stalls so that she was behind the stall holders. She worked her way along, moving in parallel with the man until she was slightly ahead of him.
From the side it could have been him. The build was right as was the ruddy face. One of the little girls must have said something because the man looked down. His lips moved as he replied. Then, as he was lifting his head back up, he seemed to sense that someone was looking at him. He looked directly at her and her eyes met his. They held for a few moments and then he looked away.
There was no doubt. It was the bull Roman.
Chapter Twenty-five
The Wheat Field (Julia)
It was early afternoon when the bull Roman, his woman and children finished whatever they had to do at the market. They stood in a little group while he appeared to issue the woman with orders. Then they split up. The woman and children went one way, disappearing off into the now-thinning crowds. Birkita followed the bull Roman. He made his way to the inn where she had been staying and, choosing a table in the shade, he ordered wine.
Birkita watched him from the corner of a building across the square. She was in absolutely no doubt. He had gone to seed a bit since leaving the army but it was the same man – the heavy build, florid complexion but most of all, it was the face that she remembered. The balding head, the thick eyebrows, the probing, ratty eyes, the nose like the prow of a ship, the thin mouth. He sat now looking like a labouring man at the end of a hard day’s work enjoying a well-earned drink. Yet this was the same man who had casually given orders to crucify children.
During the rest of the afternoon, several of the man’s friends came and joined him. They all had the look of ex-soldiers about them. They talked, laughed, made jokes, slapped or prodded one another playfully. The scene was redolent of sights Birkita had seen in her village before it had been destroyed.
Finally though, the bull Roman stood up, said farewell to his friends and began to make his way out of the square. Birkita followed him.
The town was emptying now. Stallholders were packing up what they hadn’t sold and the last of those who didn’t live in the town itself were heading out into the country and home.
The bull Roman took the West Gate. The road was busy enough that Birkita could follow him from about a hundred paces back and not be noticed.
Once beyond the gate, the road crossed a slow flowing river and then divided into two. The left hand road was the busier of the two but the bull Roman took the right hand road, as did a few others. Birkita allowed herself to fall further back but since the terrain was completely flat she was still able to keep him in view. They passed through land all of which had been cultivated. There were onions, cabbages, peas and golden fields of wheat. Dotted around were farmhouses – square or rectangular buildings with white walls and red tiled roofs. The Roman way of building was so different from the one she had known. Tracks led from this road to the various farmhouses and, as they went further out into the countryside, the number of people on the road reduced as, bit by bit, they took these tracks.
Finally, Birkita saw the bull Roman turn off to the left. She continued walking. The track the bull Roman had taken ran along the side of a wheat field. As Birkita got closer she saw that parallel to the track and to the left of it was a waist-deep drainage ditch. Then came the wheat field. The bottom of the ditch was dry now due to the summer weather. The bull Roman slid down into the ditch and then ran up the far side. Now he walked along the very edge of the field and ran the flat of his hand over the stalks of wheat. It was a tender action almost like a caress and she could almost feel the stalks tickling his palm. From time to time he would catch some heads of wheat, hold them for a moment and then let them slip through his fingers.
So. Our soldier is a farmer.
At the end of the track was a cluster of three buildings around a small yard. The largest was a square farmhouse with small windows high up in the white walls, the other two appeared to be barns or sheds of some kind. Looking back over her shoulder, she saw the bull Roman leave the field of wheat, re-cross the ditch and after a few paces, disappear into the house.
Birkita kept on walking for another ten minutes. Then she turned around and started back the way she had come. The summer sun hadn’t quite set but it was low on the western horizon in a great bank of orange. A hawk hovered overhead floating on the warm air. There was no breeze and the golden field of
wheat was quite still. Birkita smelt the air and looked to the south west. Clouds were gathering there. There were just a few and they were small and white and fluffy but they looked promising. And she had plenty of time.
She returned to the inn where she retrieved her dagger and a flint from her pack. Then she went downstairs and had some food and ale. When it began to grow dark, she put her cloak on and went outside and looked up. Just as she had suspected, the clear sky of earlier was gone. She could see no stars. Instead a blanket of cloud hung high overhead. And there was a slight breeze. She smiled.
She left Venta before the gates were closed for the night. Once clear of the town she found that the wind had come up and was now actually quite strong. It was from the south west and at her back as she walked, blowing her hair around her face. It would rain, of that she was certain, but not for a couple of hours.
The gods were with her.
The wheat field was an almost perfect rectangle. Its long side ran east-west parallel to the track that the bull Roman had taken and its short side lay along the road. The wind was blowing from the south west to the north east. The ceiling of cloud obscured the moon and the stars but Birkita had always had good eyesight, especially at night. She made her way along the field to the south west corner. Here she knelt down and using her cloak to provide shelter, she struck a spark on to a handful of dry grass. Her ear was almost to the ground as she blew on the spark gently and it became a tiny flicker of yellow flame consuming the grass.
She broke off a few stalks of wheat and twisting them together to make a torch, she lit one end of it. The flame ate up the dry stalks greedily. Now Birkita rose and with a whispered prayer to the gods, she set fire to the wheat. Quickly she moved along that side of the field touching her makeshift torch to the bone-dry stalks. Each time she did so the flames appeared to hesitate for a moment and then took off, scorching the stalks black and moving on to neighbouring ones. When her torch had finally burned down and she had to drop it, she looked back.
The Paradise Ghetto Page 25
