The Crimson Chalice

by Victor Canning

  She said, “Who are you?”

  “My name is Baradoc. I am from the far west where the land falls into the sea in the heart of which the father of all the oceans sleeps. Who are you?”

  “I am Gratia. But mostly I am called Tia. My father was Marcus Pupius Corbulo. He and my mother are long dead. I live with my brother, Priscus, and his wife …” She broke off for a moment or two and then went on, “That is, I lived with them until yesterday. They are both now dead—killed by our own farm workers.”

  Baradoc let his eyes rest on the bruise on her forehead and then they moved to the bundle, to the water-filled cauldron and the beaker by its side and on to the half portion of the flat wheat cake and the broken piece of cheese that lay on a large leaf alongside it. He said gently, “These are bad times. Men easily turn against their masters. Some do it because there has been a fear in them ever since it was known from General Aetius that there will be no Roman help for us from Gaul. And others because a new fear is growing with every long boat that brings fresh crewmen to join their brothers along the Saxon shore. They fear the new masters and turn against the old.”

  Listening to him, Tia was surprised at the masterly manner of his speaking, as though his knowledge and authority admitted no questioning. Before she could stop herself, she said, “When you lay there sleeping you talked in the speech of the camps and the barracks. Now you talk as I do.”

  Baradoc smiled. “I have known many old legionaries, and I talk as they did. But also I was for years a servant of a retired Chief Centurion. If I did not speak correctly I felt the weight of his vine staff. I am the son of a tribal chief, taken as slave when I was twelve years old. My master took my education seriously.” He grinned suddenly, deep creases bracketing the sides of his mouth, and added in soldiers’speech, “My belly grumbles for a taste of that cheese.”

  Tia laughed at the sudden transition and, in the midst of her laughter, considering all the darkness which still clouded her life, wondered that she could. She handed the cheese across to him. As he stretched out his hand and arm for it she saw him wince at the flex of his stretched muscles. She said, “When you have eaten I will massage your shoulders and arms. This was something I did often for Priscus in our bathhouse.”

  Baradoc nodded, his mouth full of cheese. Tia, watching him, was sure now that she had nothing to fear from him. There was, too, she sensed, a strength and self-confidence about him which he could readily muster against trouble.

  She asked, “This master of yours, is he alive still?”

  “No.” Baradoc scowled and his face suddenly turned grim. “The Saxons killed him a month ago. But long before that he had given me my freedom.”

  “You are going back to your people?”

  “Yes.” Baradoc reached for the water beaker and drank.

  “You could have gone before. Since you were free.”

  Baradoc smiled. “I could have done easily. But my master was good to me, and there were many things he taught me. To read and write and speak his language. About farming and fighting, and how to read the stars, and to understand about building and mathematics and geometry and history and about the rest of the world out there.” He waved the empty beaker vaguely southward. “So I stayed. One day I shall be the leader of my people. It is right that I should teach these things to them.”

  Tia smiled. “You will be a very important man, I see.”

  Baradoc chuckled. “Thanks to you, yes—since you came along and cut me down.”

  “Who hung you up like that?”

  Baradoc frowned and said stiffly, “Two—that called themselves friends. One day I shall kill them both. But that is no business of yours.”

  Tia stood up, suddenly angry at his words and his abruptness. She said sharply, “True. Perhaps, then, I should have passed the tree and left you hanging there since that, too, was no business of mine!”

  Baradoc reached out quickly and caught the edge of her mantle and said, “Hold now! Don’t fly off like a hen disturbed from her night roost. I meant no rudeness. It was just the thought of those two that stirred me up.” He let go of her mantle and grinned, his tanned face creasing. “You are full of Roman fire, aren’t you? But that’s good—especially in these days. But not good enough to take you safely through this country alone the way things are. So calm down and tell me where you want to go and I will see you safely there.”

  “Even though you go west and I should say Eburacum?” Baradoc laughed. “Why not? Even though you should say Vindolandia on the North Wall—though that might give us a little trouble. I owe you a life. The longest journey would only be a little paid off the score.”

  Tia slowly sat down. She said, “My brother and sister are dead. All that I have in this country now is an old uncle who lives near Aquae Sulis. It is in my mind to go to him.”

  “Then let it rest there. I will take you. And I won’t pretend that I’m not glad it’s on my westward road. Give me your hand.”

  “What on earth for?”

  Baradoc sighed. “I shall have trouble with you, I can see, for you are not easily led. Give me your hand.”

  Slowly Tia held out her right hand and Baradoc, smiling, took it by the fingertips. Then he turned and said two words in his own language to Lerg. The hound rose from the ground and came slowly forward and stood at Baradoc’s side. Baradoc raised Tia’s hand and placed it over the eyes of the hound, palm down, and he spoke again to Lerg in his own tongue. This done, he called Aesc forward and repeated the ritual. Then, ignoring Cuna, he gave an order to the three dogs and they turned and disappeared quickly into the forest.

  Tia said, “What does all that mean?”

  Baradoc answered, “You will see. Now remember always this word.” He paused and then said softly to her, “Saheer. You have it? Saheer.”

  Tia nodded. “Saheer. But what is it?”

  “It is my word, and now, for Lerg and Aesc, it is also yours. Whenever you are in trouble, call it as loudly as you can.” He grinned. “Go on—shout it now. As loud as you can.”

  Tia hesitated for a moment and then, taking a deep breath, shouted, “Saheer!”

  Almost immediately there was a crashing in the low forest thickets, and Lerg and Aesc came rushing to her and settled one on either side, alert and on their legs ready for action, growling and barking. A few seconds later Cuna arrived and began to imitate the action and growls of the other two.

  Baradoc gave the dogs an order and they relaxed into sitting positions around Tia.

  Tia said, “They will come—always—like that?”

  “At any time, anywhere—if they can. And the gods help any man who is near you.”

  “Why didn’t you give my hand to the other, the little one?”

  “Cuna? Because he’s young and still a little stupid. But the others will teach him. Sometime as we travel I will teach you the other words they know.”

  “These are words of your language?”

  “Na, these are our words. There is a magic in them because only the dogs, I and soon you will know them. Can you whistle?”

  “No, of course I can’t.”

  “Then you must learn because there could be times when you might need Bran.” Baradoc put his forefingers to his mouth and let out a sudden blasting whistle that made Tia jump.

  Within a few moments a shadow swept across the sunlit patch beyond the bower. Then with a noisy beating of his great wings and a raucous calling of carp carp Bran, the raven, swept under the spreading branches of the yew. He circled twice around Baradoc and then settled on his shoulder, eyes alert, the great ebony beak weaving from side to side.

  Drawing back a little, Tia said, “That’s Bran?”

  “Yes. And when he attacks he goes for a man’s eyes.” Baradoc reached up his right hand and Bran jumped to his wrist. “Take a piece of cheese and throw it into the air for him.”

  Tia broke off a piece of cheese and tossed it high into the air.

  Bran made no move to take it and the cheese fell to
the ground.

  “He’s not hungry.”

  Baradoc laughed. “Oh, yes, he is. Bran is always hungry. But he will take food from no one unless he, too, is given the word. Throw it up again.”

  Tia took the cheese and tossed it into the air once more and, as she did so, Baradoc called gently, “Aka, Aka!”

  Bran swooped from Baradoc’s wrist and took the cheese low to the ground as it fell and then flew off to the top of a nearby ash tree.

  Tia said, “So now he knows I am allowed to feed him?”

  “Yes. Though he fends for himself even better than the dogs. When you can whistle he will always come to you.”

  Baradoc stripped off his undershirt and rolled over onto his stomach, couching his head on his arms.

  Tia asked, “What now?”

  Baradoc grinned sideways at her. “You promised to massage me. My muscles are as stiff as salt-dry ropes.”

  After a moment’s hesitation Tia went to his side and knelt by him. For an ex-slave he had an abrupt way of treating her at times, but she guessed that this came from his self-confidence and his pride in the fact that he was a chief’s son. The women of the remoter tribes, she knew, were of little importance except to do the bidding of their men. Leaning over him, she began to massage and work his shoulder muscles in the way she had often done for Priscus. As she worked she pushed from her mind as much as she could the thought of her brother and his wife. In a handful of savage hours her whole life had changed. The gods had been good to them all for a long time, and now the gods had turned away from them. When she got to Aquae Sulis she and her uncle would make their devotions to the gods of the Shades and set up a stone for Priscus and his wife. And then? What would she do then? Her uncle was old and would not last much longer. This country—her country, for she had known no other, but not hers in the way it was Baradoc’s—was falling apart. There was a darkness failing over the land. She could feel the coldness of its shadow touching her heart.

  Easing and working the stiff arm and back muscles of the youth, she said, “How long will it take to get to Aquae Sulis?”

  “Who knows? There is no marching these days along the west road like a century of legionaries, quickly knocking off the miles. We’ve got to take the old tracks and steer clear of towns and villages. It’s taken me three weeks to come down from Durobrivae and there’s not been a day without smoke in the sky from some villa or homestead going up in flames. Tell me, Tia—what have you got in your bundle? My two good friends, whose throats I’ll cut one day, took all my stuff and the packhorse as well.”

  “There’s not much. Some food. Some clothes. A few cooking things. A little money, the dagger, and a brooch that belonged to my mother.”

  “I see. Well, we’ll need to acquire a few more things.”

  “Acquire?”

  “Yes. Steal if need be.” He rolled over and away suddenly and, looking up at her, said firmly, “But one thing you’ve got to remember—if I tell you to do something, you do it—fast! Any bush or thicket can hold a cutthroat. Understood?”

  After a moment’s hesitation Tia said, “Yes.”

  “And we must cut your hair even shorter. You’ve got to look like a boy, even if a pretty one. So don’t pull a long face about it.”

  Although she hid it, there was a flare of anger in Tia at the way he spoke. Sarcasm edging her voice, she said with a little shrug, “If that’s what the great Baradoc, son of a chief, orders—then yes.” On her knees she made a mock bow.

  Baradoc grinned and said, “Don’t give me any of your sauce.” He stood up and began to flex his arms and shoulders and then bent over and touched his toes, loosening up his body. As he did so, he went on, “You must know this part of the country well.”

  “Yes.”

  He jerked his head toward the glade. “Where does the path lead?”

  “To the sea. It’s not far.”

  “Is there a village down there?”

  “There was until last year. A long boat raided it and it was burned. But there are still a few old huts the fishermen use when the shoals come along the coast.”

  Baradoc bent and threw open her bundle. He took out a thin woollen blanket, slung it over his shoulders and tied it about his neck. He smiled at her. “I’m going scavenging. You stay here.” He turned and said something in his own language to the dogs and then walked off. Lerg and the other dogs watched him go. Cuna whined for a moment and then was silent. As Baradoc disappeared through the trees Tia saw Bran lift himself from the ash treetop and slide away on the sea breeze, slanting low over the forest toward the coast.

  Tia moved to the open bundle and began to tidy the things that Baradoc had left in disarray. She arranged them neatly in the silk cover but left out the small cauldron and the beaker and her dagger. Before tying the ends of the coverlet together again she unwrapped from a piece of linen her mother’s brooch. It was a small gold oval set on a strong pin. On its face, worked in relief, were clasped hands. Around them ran the inscription “To Januaria Hermia, my dearest. Marcus.” The brooch had been given to her mother on her betrothal by her father.

  Holding it, Tia was struck by a sense of desolation. Alone now, with no need to cosset her pride or hide her feelings from anyone, she felt the strange dark knowledge of utter loss possess her. Resting back on her heels, she put her hands to her eyes and wept silently, her shoulders shaking, her head bowed.

  After a while she felt the warm lap of a tongue caress the back of her hands. Looking up, she saw that Aesc had come to her and licked her hands. Behind her Lerg sat upright on his haunches, his great tongue lolling from his mouth as he watched her. She fondled Aesc’s silky head and, as she did so, Cuna gave a little whimper, came to her and flopped his head into her lap.

  She fondled Cuna’s head, setting his stubby, docked tail wagging. The gods took, she thought, and the gods gave. There was no questioning their ways. Yesterday was one life; today another—and one for which she was utterly unprepared or fitted. Well, so what? She thought with a moment’s heartening defiance. She must learn to live a new life. And then, almost as though she could hear his voice, a favourite saying of her brother’s came back to her. The blackest night must die under the fiery wheels of Apollo’s golden chariot.

  It was close on sunset when Baradoc returned. He came with the blanket slung over his shoulder, bulky with his findings. He carried in his right hand a long, wooden-shafted fishing spear, its socketed three-pronged iron head missing a tang and the two others badly rusted. He dumped the bundle on the ground and, squatting by her, laid out his pickings from the fishing huts. There were some rusty hooks of different sizes; a length of worn hempen rope; part of a circular throwing net with some small stone weights still attached to its skirts; a tangle of old catgut lengths; a sail-maker’s needle with a broken point; a small wicker-woven birdcage with the bottom missing, into which he had stuffed odd lengths of cloth; two wooden platters, both badly cracked; a large lump of beeswax; a raggedly shaped piece of goat’s hide as stiff as a board; a thick woollen fisherman’s shirt, with a slit down the side, half a sleeve missing and the front coated with tiny, dried opaline fish scales; a well-worn piece of striking flint; and a small length of tallow candle with a rush wick.

  As he laid all these out, Tia watched in silence. He took no notice of her until he had pulled out the last of his finds, a pair of long coarsely woven leggings that reached down to the ankles, stained with rust and pitch marks and with a great hole in their seat. He dropped them on the pile and looked at Tia with a grin of satisfaction.

  “What do we want with all that rubbish?” she asked.

  He shook his head and said, “I know the kind of place you come from. Like my old master’s. You had servants and maids, fine clothes, and fine table furnishings. Aye, even glass in your windows and worked mosaics on the great-room floor. Baths and hot rooms and everything you wanted for the table. You’ve lived soft, wench—but now the world is upside down.”

  Tia jumped up and said fur
iously, “Son of a chief you may be, but call me ‘wench’again and I walk from here and find my own way to Aquae Sulis. My name is Gratia. As a mark of friendship, Tia to you. Name me so and not as a herd or kitchen girl.”

  “Whooah! Rein back! I meant no rudeness. Tia it shall be.” He reached up, took her hand and pulled her down. “Should we fight now, whose side would the dogs and Bran take since they have been given the word for you?”

  “I’m sorry. I have a quick temper.”

  “No, ’Tis pride and that is a good thing. I shall not offend it again—except by mischance, for which I ask forgiveness now to save further trouble. So, let’s get back to our rubbish which is no rubbish. What one man throws away another can use. A fish spear with two prongs is better than no fish spear. Fish can be eaten but first they must be caught. So I brought the spear, the hooks, the gut and the piece of net. I can sharpen a new point to the needle and with threads pulled from the cloth and waxed you can repair the shirt and the long hose.”

  “Who are they for?”

  “The shirt is for me. The hose for you.”

  “I wouldn’t wear those filthy things!”

  Baradoc was silent. For all that she had recently suffered Tia was far from realizing what change had come over her life. Never before had she ever had to think of a black tomorrow, of a tomorrow which would be as full of want as all the yesterdays. In this wilderness of place and evil times she was no more able to survive alone than a fledgling, unfeathered, pushed from its warm nest. He could have wished that it had been some simple herd girl who had saved him and who would have needed no teaching. Still … she was not. He said with good humour, “The clothes can be washed first and mended after. In long hose and the legs gartered you will be a handsome young fellow. And don’t frown at me—it must be so for your own safety. Now, do I have to explain the rest as though you were a raw recruit, goggle-eyed in barracks for the first time?” He took the flint and, holding the spearhead jabbed into the ground, struck the stone against one of the iron prongs and brought brief, blue sparks spurting to life. “Raw fish or fowl cheer no belly. Fire we must have to cook. And have I not brought two cracked platters to go with your cooking cauldron and that wicked little dagger you keep always close to your side?”