After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

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  FOR SONIA SCHORMAN

  And always, always, for Charlie

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Map

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Author’s Note

  Glossary of Names

  Selected Bibliography

  By Morgan Llywelyn from Tom Doherty Associates

  Copyright

  History and myth are both suspect—

  and for the same reason.

  PROLOGUE

  In the beginning Albion was a shaggy wilderness belonging only to itself. When the glaciers melted and the seas rose Albion and the neighboring land of Eire became two large islands on the western edge of Europe. Stranded together in a cold ocean, they awaited an uncertain future.

  Their earliest human inhabitants were nomadic hunters whose existence depended on circumstance alone. In this respect they were little different from the wild animals they hunted. Life was lived at subsistence level and always a struggle. They were born and mated and died within a brief span of years, during which nothing much changed except the islands. Gradually these grew warmer. And greener.

  As a result the hunters became gatherers as well, collecting the random edibles produced by the improving environment. The long slow centuries rolled on and on. Eventually a few resourceful men and women began to plant seeds to raise their own grain, and domesticate wild animals for a reliable supply of meat and milk. A more settled way of life became possible. Stone was the all-purpose tool. The chipping and shaping of flint axes was almost an industry.

  When prehistoric farmers found the tough sward of Albion difficult to plow with Stone-Age implements, they turned to the forest that covered most of the island. The earth beneath the trees, deep and rich with leaf mold, was easier to cultivate. Where trees were cut down and light let in, crops thrived. The limitless abundance of timber provided both shelter and fuel. Worship, responding to an impulse buried deep in the human spirit, developed around the sacral trees. They were revered both for their practical and their spiritual value, little distinction being made between the two.

  After uncounted generations in solitude the islands were visited by a seagoing race. These voyagers, who navigated by the stars, roamed the western seaways. Wherever they went new art forms appeared and new rituals began. On Eire, west of Albion, the natives created stone- and earthwork monuments of astonishing complexity for observing the cosmos and employing the energies of the sky to improve their pastoral culture.

  On Albion the reaction was much the same. The first temples the natives erected were made of timber, but over time the wood rotted and had to be replaced. They began using stone instead. Under the guidance of their astronomer-priests they searched out massive boulders, which contained sky magic, and transported them long distances. Giant megaliths soared upward from the plain. Elaborate ceremonies demonstrated that earth and sky were one and man was joined to both.

  Albion celebrated the heavens.

  Centuries became millennia. A new wave of strangers from the vast land mass to the east reached the islands in the sunset. They stayed to found colonies and utilize such natural resources as copper and tin, the necessary components for making bronze. Bronze was more malleable than stone and could be used for everything from axe heads to personal ornaments. The extreme southwestern peninsula of Albion was particularly rich in tin; there as elsewhere, metal became a valuable commodity.

  The Bronze Age had arrived.

  The natives of Albion and Eire, who believed the earth was alive and sacred and anything taken from it constituted a debt that must be repaid, began burying metal artifacts with their dead.

  After generations of intermarrying the colonists considered themselves natives. Tribes were formed along the lines of ancestral heritage. Fertile fields were plotted and pieced together; claimed and named and fought over. On the hilltops tribal chieftains built earthwork fortresses and called themselves kings. In the valleys their followers fought with bronze weapons and called themselves armies.

  For more than five hundred years the two islands retained their small, scattered populations. Their seclusion ended with a fresh influx of settlers led by fair-haired warriors with sweeping mustaches. Ardent, impetuous and fearless, the Celts burst on the scene and quickly made themselves at home. The newcomers absorbed and were absorbed by the indigenous people. Celtic language and Celtic culture triumphed.

  In their original homeland on the continent the Celts had learned to work with iron. Albion had iron ore in abundance. The almost impenetrable primeval forest began to shrink as trees were felled and burned to make charcoal for smelting the new metal. The Bronze Age surrendered to the Age of Iron. As if by magic, smiths produced nearly indestructible iron cauldrons, spearheads, helmets—and chains to bind captives taken in war.

  Ruts made by iron plow scarred the land like sword slashes. The amount of available land for agriculture dwindled, but foreign trade increased along the coasts. Seaports were developed in the shelter of convenient headlands. Red Samian tableware and black glass jewelry from Gaul began to appear in chieftainly households. Such imported luxuries were purchased with quantities of native tin, as well as silver, lead, wheat and slaves.

  The name of Albion began to be known abroad.

  Yet the spirit of Albion did not change. Her gods remained nature gods. From Stone Age farmers to Iron Age kings, the inhabitants of the island were pantheistic. Life was lived according to the seasons. Man with all his accomplishments was recognized as a part of nature and not its superior.

  Fifty-five years before the birth of Christ a small military force landed on the southeast coast of the island. Having crushed Gaul, Gaius Julius Caesar was turning his attention to Albion. After fierce fighting Caesar had advanced only a little distance into the country when he learned that many of his ships and supplies had been lost in a storm. He called off his troops and left. A year later he tried again. His second incursion was terminated when a revolt broke out in Gaul and Caesar was needed. Yet within a matter of years those early expeditionary forces were followed by a full-scale Roman invasion.

  The invaders were not interested in agriculture, but in empire building. In Albion the Romans saw what they perceived as ignorant savages infesting a land ripe for the taking. As far as they were concerned the island’s resources had but one purpose:
to serve Rome. The struggle was long and bloody. In the end, Albion was renamed Britannia and Roman rule was the law of the land.

  Britannia Prima—the Western Empire—was not an easy posting. The damp cold was a palpable presence, like a brother; known and familiar, to be endured or ignored. Born to it, the British tribes were indifferent to the weather until the Romans came. The legionnaires in the tavernae, drinking imported wine late into the night, talked continually of the palm-fringed coasts of the Mediterranean until native Britons began to dream of sunnier climes.

  In place of hundreds of elected tribal kings ruling over a patchwork of territories, the Roman administrators installed a highly organized system of central government. To provide the large number of civil servants this required, the authorities set out to educate selected natives. These were mainly chosen from chieftainly families. Many of the noble Britons, already besotted with imported luxuries, were eager to embrace a more materialistic lifestyle. Thus was created a Romano-British aristocracy, which maintained control over the lower classes for their Roman masters. They were rewarded with tutors for their children and rare holidays under the Iberian sun.

  Latin became the language of the privileged few. The upper and middle classes aspired to Roman fashion, Roman food, Roman architecture. Some gave their children Roman names. Abandoning the life of field and forest, they settled into new towns and cities built after the Roman pattern. “Urbanus” became a compliment; “rusticus” an insult. Urban men exchanged the hooded cloak for the toga; urban wives and daughters copied the hairstyles said to be fashionable in far-distant Rome.

  Urban homes were warmed by hypocausts: tubes molded of kiln-dried clay carried smoke out of the house from an underground furnace while transmitting heat to the interior walls. Urban centers were proud of their public privies, which could seat as many as eight or ten at a time. A statue of the Roman goddess Fortuna was kept in public bathhouses to protect men when they were naked and at their most vulnerable. For almost three centuries these bathhouses served as a focus of city life, a sophisticated meeting place where the social elite could gather to sneer at the “peasantry.”

  Then the Romans left.

  Their armies were recalled to defend the Roman Empire from the hordes of barbarians that were sweeping across the continent. The last legion departed Britannia in AD 410. Unwilling to remain without an armed force to protect them, the Roman-born administrators and their families fled with the soldiers.

  They did not take with them the educated native members of the civil service. Beneath a veneer of Latin sophistication many of the Romano-British still possessed the passionate, impetuous temperament of the Celt. They would not be welcome in Rome. Only a few generations removed from paganism, they practiced a Celtic version of Christianity at variance with the official version. They remembered and sometimes even used the language of their ancestors. Worst of all, they retained a stubborn belief in the rights of the individual over those of a monolithic state.

  They were left behind to try to make the best of things in a land that was no longer Albion.

  And could never be Rome.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Dark.

  The moon is dark; the stars are smothered by clouds. Autumn is upon us now. This morning the rain rushed down the hills like silver snakes, yet nothing is moving tonight. Even the mice and moles cower in their burrows. The earth holds her breath as if waiting for disaster, but the disaster has already happened.

  Civilization has collapsed.

  Lucius Plautius, who studied with the Athenians, would say I am suffering from depression. He could be right.

  Dinas, who laughs at everything, would say there is no such thing as depression. He could be right.

  * * *

  Cadogan leaned his shoulder against the door, braced his feet and shoved again. Nothing happened. The oak planks did not even creak.

  The door was like the woman on the other side. Obdurate. The woman who had slid the bolt across the door. There was no other way in. The walls were constructed of solid logs. The few windows provided ventilation and a modicum of light, but they were too narrow to admit an intruder. In cold weather they were shuttered with two planks.

  Cadogan stepped away from the door and rubbed his shoulder. He was weary to the bone. He had been riding for most of the night. Alternately trotting and cantering through the haunted darkness, up and down hills, splashing through streams, dodging trees at the last moment only to be slashed by low hanging branches. Trusting his horse to take him home.

  To sanctuary.

  In years gone by a traveler might have found a comfortable inn along the way. In such an establishment Cadogan would have enjoyed an ample meal and a flagon of the local brew while the hosteler rubbed down the bay mare and gave her a heaping measure of oats. A few coins more would have purchased a dry bed for himself—with a minimum of fleas—so he could resume his journey in the morning feeling refreshed.

  There were no comfortable inns anymore. No lantern’s gleam to welcome weary travelers. Windows were shuttered if any shutters remained. Doors sagged from rusting hinges; arrogant weeds thrust through floorboards. Business was very bad indeed.

  The bay mare would have no oats tonight. Cadogan had removed her saddle and bridle and turned her loose to graze, knowing she would not wander far. She was too old and too wise to stray. This was the only home she had known for two years and she was content.

  He could hear her tearing up mouthfuls of dry grass.

  Cadogan stopped rubbing his shoulder and stood deep in thought. Then he walked around to the rear of the building, where he had stacked a quantity of firewood along the north wall. Heavy branches had been chopped into neat lengths, ready for burning. Kindling was wedged between the logs and the wall to create an added layer of insulation. Cadogan reached in and pulled out a handful of sturdy twigs. Ignoring the protestations of his aching body, he crouched and set them on the ground. Quietly.

  His night-adapted eyes could make out general shapes but no specifics. Still crouching, he ran his hands over the nearby earth until he found several thick clumps of grass. Dying grass left from summer. He ripped them up, roots and all, and carried them with the kindling to the west side of the building. The side nearest the forest. A single narrow window was set in the wall.

  Cadogan turned his back on the window and took two measured paces forward. He rolled the clumps of grass together until they formed a loose ball, which he placed on the ground before him. Loosening his linen underpants, he dribbled a few drops of urine onto the grass, just enough to dampen the center while leaving some dry tips. He used the twigs to fashion inward-leaning walls around the grass to hold it in place. Next he took a set of flints from the leather pouch on his belt and began striking sparks over his construction. After several tries, the dry grass tips ignited in a sizzle of red and gold.

  Cadogan crouched and blew gently on the blades to keep them burning, then sat back on his heels and waited.

  Although light was visible through the window, he did not call out to the woman inside. Not again. After taking care of his horse he had hammered his fist on the door. Called out his name. Expected her to welcome him. Instead she had bolted the door before he could push it open and enter.

  Obviously another method of communication was required.

  The smoke began to seep out of its enclosure like a timid creature poking its nose out of a burrow. Cadogan waited until it formed a pale cloud, dimly lit from beneath. The small ball of grass was too damp to fuel a substantial fire, but perfect for making smoke. He leaned forward and blew again. Sat back with eyes narrowed, calculating the exact moment when a final, well-placed breath would send the cloud upward.

  When the column of smoke had thickened sufficiently he stood up and unfastened his hooded cloak. Waving it in front of him, he began wafting the smoke toward the window.

  Some distance away, the mare raised her head and snorted.

  A nightingale called among the trees, immediately a
nswered by another. Even in the dark territories must be defined and boundaries respected. Nature’s laws were strict.

  Cadogan moved back and forth, almost dancing on the balls of his feet as he directed and redirected the smoke. Even something as diaphanous as smoke could be controlled with persistence.

  The woman inside called out, “Are you still there?” Her voice was unpleasantly sharp, with an edge like a knife. It was almost the only thing he remembered about her.

  He continued shepherding smoke.

  “Is that you, Cadogan? What are you doing?”

  Weave and twist, draw patterns in the air. Try to ignore the sudden stitch in his side.

  “Cadogan! You said I could stay here. You said!” Her voice shrilled upward. She could smell the smoke now. In summer the lightning, the random finger of God, set trees ablaze to renew them. And the trees were very near.

  “I’m in here, Cadogan!” she cried. “Answer me!”

  He flung his cloak over his shoulder like a toga and walked around to the front of the building. Flattening himself against the wall beside the door, he waited.

  He heard her groan as she lifted the heavy bolt and set it aside. The iron hinges, which he never greased, protested loudly when she pulled the door open. She thrust her head into the night. It was too dark to see anything. Holding her breath, she listened for the crackling of fire. Was it coming nearer? What should she do?

  She ducked back inside. Looked wildly about the room.

  The smell of smoke was growing stronger.

  When she ran through the open doorway Cadogan lunged forward and caught her. He could feel how thin she was beneath her gown. All angles, with no comfort in her body to offer a man. Strong, though; she fought like one of the savage wildcats from Caledonia. Screeching, squalling, writhing in his grip and trying to scratch his eyes out.

  A plague on the wretched woman! thought Cadogan. He immediately repented, reminding himself that he was a Christian. But even Christ had lost his temper with the money changers.