Cadogan’s new home would have light and comfort and a place for God. In the quicksilver air of a forest clearing he almost sensed a Presence; in the shadowed silence of the trees he almost heard a Voice. Away from the bustle and distractions of the city he was certain he could find the tranquility he longed for.
The residence in Cadogan’s imagination was very beautiful. Before he fell asleep lying on a blanket on the ground he talked in his head to Viola, telling her about the home he would build for the two of them. When she saw what he had accomplished, she would relent and return to him. In his dreams it seemed possible.
Reality did not conform to dreams. The stream that was to supply his water abandoned him. One morning it sparkled and sang. The following morning it was dry; the very stones in the streambed were dry. After some searching he found a trickle of water meandering off in another direction entirely. To his consternation, even that meager supply disappeared two days later.
When he went searching for an alternate water source he discovered that the nearest river was more than a mile away. He had no idea how to construct a viaduct. It was the sort of thing the Romans had known. In the end he had been forced to dig a well; three wells, in fact, before he finally struck water.
Nothing had worked out as Cadogan expected. Adapting to the materials at hand was only the first in a long chain of compromises that gave Cadogan a sneaking satisfaction.
Vintrex would not have approved. He considered compromise a sin.
The elegant multiroomed stone-walled villa became a timber cabin with no inner courtyard, no reflecting pool, and no tiles on the roof. Only sod and thatch to keep out the rain. At night Cadogan had to bring Kikero and his small harem inside to protect them from predators, and he learned to be careful where he put his feet. Yet he was proud of his achievement. Sometimes, after Cadogan had completed a task, he reached out and touched the well-set log, the perfectly smoothed plank, and said, “There now. There now.”
His home was not modeled on anyone else’s ideas; it was shaped by its setting and his need. Its flaws and virtues were his own.
As he and Quartilla emerged from the forest and he saw the fort waiting for him, his heart leaped. At that moment he could think of nothing he would change. He broke into a trot, anxious to be under his own roof again.
He stopped short when the door creaked open.
CHAPTER FOUR
After handing his cape and the stallion’s reins to Meradoc, Dinas ducked his head to enter through the low doorway. Brecon and Ludno followed, chanting in unison, “May the spirits of the martyrs be with us.”
The room was dimly lit by one fat beeswax candle in a tall iron holder. It took a few moments for Dinas’s eyes to adjust to the darkness. When he realized that Ludno and Brecon had dropped to their knees beside him, he knelt too.
Dinas had not prayed in years. He struggled to remember the words he had once known by heart; the forms he had forgotten when he decided to forget about God. Aware that the others might be watching, he bowed his head over folded hands and silently moved his lips.
The only sound was that of three men breathing.
Keeping his head down, Dinas covertly examined the interior of the chapel. There was no ornamentation of any kind. His parents, like other Christians of their class, had a special room in their home set aside for worship. A whole series of priests had conducted services in a dignified apartment plenished with the finest accoutrements the family could afford. Vessels of gold and silver were supplied for the Eucharist. Colorful tapestries depicting stories from the Bible were hung on the walls.
As a small boy Dinas had loved the vivid scene of Daniel in the lions’ den, with bones and human skulls lying scattered about.
The interior of the martyrium of Deva was paneled with well-polished wood but there were no hangings on the walls. The only furniture was a narrow oak table covered by an altar cloth of bleached linen. The chapel contained nothing more except the candle in its holder, a carved crucifix on the wall—Dinas recognized the artistry of Brecon—and a faint, spicy fragrance, almost but not quite like sandalwood.
I was right, Dinas thought; Deva is far too poor to be worth my interest. If the local Christians owned anything of value their shrine wouldn’t be so ostentatiously bare.
Ostentatiously?
The word caused an itch in his brain.
He unconsciously cracked his knuckles while he concentrated on clearing his thoughts. An image of the half-abandoned marketplace slowly appeared behind his closed eyelids. Every detail was as clear as if he stood in the town square. There was nothing ostentatious about the poverty in Deva, it was real. The market was the proof of that. Yet from his own observations he knew commerce had not ceased. Someone always had something to sell; others always wanted to buy. Men like Ludno would find ways to make a profit.
Opening his eyes, Dinas surveyed the interior of the chapel again. He noticed a minute deviation in the color of the wood paneling behind the altar. His thoughts narrowed to a sharp focus. Like a man crossing a river on stepping stones, one at a time, he followed a series of seemingly unrelated facts to a single conclusion. Walked around it in his mind, looking at it from all sides.
And suddenly he was sure.
Afterward he would think of it as inspiration.
When he heard Ludno intone a pious “Amen,” Dinas stood up. “I am deeply moved,” he assured his escorts. “I must thank you for bringing me here, your martyrium is indeed a unique experience. Yet I wonder—how can you hold religious services in such a small space?”
“We only come a few at a time,” said Brecon, “as the spirit moves us. I myself frequently pray here.”
“But you don’t celebrate the Eucharist in this chapel?”
Ludno’s narrow eyes opened wide. “What made you think we did?”
“The altar.”
“The altar reminds us of the sacrifice our ancestors made on this very spot,” Brecon explained.
Ludno added, “For the Eucharist we would require holy vessels, and as you see, we have none.”
“But you have an ambry, do you not? A concealed repository for holy vessels?” Dinas sounded very casual, as if the question were merely an afterthought. An equally casual gesture indicated the panel he had discovered. The plain wooden panel disguised as part of the wall.
Ludno said sharply, “The recess behind the panel is empty.” He shot a warning look at Brecon.
“Don’t tell me you were robbed!” Dinas sounded shocked. “Surely a holy place like this should be safe from…”
“We were not robbed,” said Brecon. After another look from Ludno he added, “There was never anything in there to steal.”
Ludno smoothly changed the subject. “Since an empty cubicle is of no interest to a pilgrim, I would be happy to entertain you with a recital of the martyrs of Deva. I am an expert on the subject, having memorized all of their details. I can tell you who they were—men and women as well—and when they lived and how they died. The latter is of particular interest. The Romans were very inventive in their methods of killing. I can enumerate at least seventeen different…”
A horse whinnied loudly at the door of the chapel, interrupting Ludno’s lecture. Dinas bit his lip to keep from laughing; it was not the first time the dark horse had saved him. “I am sure your recital is most edifying, Ludno, but I’m being summoned. My horse thinks it’s time to be on our way and I rely on his good judgment.” Bowing to the crucifix on the wall, Dinas left the Martyrium.
Ludno and Brecon followed him into the daylight—or what now passed for daylight. While they were inside the blue sky had faded to a dirty white. A strong wind had sprung up, stirring the dust in the streets. Dinas put one forefinger in his mouth and then held it aloft to determine the direction of the wind. “Northwest,” he announced, “and getting colder. Winter will be here soon.” Taking his cape from Meradoc, he swirled the leather around his shoulders with careless grace.
“It’s a long ride to Mamucium,�
� Ludno observed, “and I should warn you that autumn storms are horrendous in this part of the country. No matter what your horse thinks,” he added, barely disguising a sneer, “you would be wise to spend the night here. There are two inns in Deva. The one I own is far superior to the other and I will give you a reduced rate. Special for pilgrims.”
“Or you can stay with my family,” offered Brecon. “There’s an extra bed in my workshop and my wife is a good cook. And I won’t charge you anything.”
Ludno glared at him.
Dinas weighed Brecon’s offer against the plan already formed in his mind. This was better; an invisible helping hand. “Thank you for your generous invitation, Brecon. I accept for one night only; I am accustomed to sleeping under the stars. Now if you’ll show me where I may stable my horse…?” He reached for the stallion’s reins.
Meradoc was slow to surrender his precious connection to the animal. He, who knew nothing of poetry, loved the poetry embodied in the horse. “Where are you going after Mamucium?” he asked Dinas.
“I don’t know.”
Meradoc cocked his head to one side. “If you don’t know where you’re going, how will you know when you get there?”
The question confirmed Dinas’s hunch about the little man; there was more to Meradoc than met the eye. “I’ll know I’ve arrived when I stop traveling, Meradoc. Would you like to travel with me?”
“Are you serious?”
“Don’t tease the poor fellow.”
“I’m not teasing him, Brecon, I mean it. Would your family object, Meradoc?”
“I have no family. I was left outside the gates when I was a baby.”
Ludno exclaimed, “You can’t just ride in here and steal him, Dinas!”
“Do you belong to this man?” Dinas asked Meradoc.
“We have no slaves in Deva,” Brecon boasted.
“That is commendable and very Christian of you,” said Dinas. “And I agree completely. No one can own another; spirits are always free. If this man is not a slave I’m not stealing him.”
“Kidnapping him then,” Ludno argued. “It amounts to the same thing.”
“He’s not kidnapping me,” said Meradoc. “I want to go with him.”
“But I expect you to gather firewood for my wife!”
“Meradoc, did you promise Ludno you would gather firewood for his wife?”
The little man hesitated, thinking back. “No, I didn’t promise.”
“Then it’s settled.” Dinas faced Ludno squarely, and for the first time revealed the steel in his voice. “Without a binding promise a free man can do as he likes.” He turned to Meradoc. “Go now and gather the things you think you’ll need. You can meet me at the northern gates at the first glimmer of sunrise. No later, mind you.”
“Tomorrow night I’ll sleep under the stars!” Meradoc exulted.
* * *
They made their first camp in a hummocky meadow traversed by a rock-ribbed stream, one of the tributaries of the Dee. In early spring the watercourse would have contained a rushing river. By midsummer the flow had slowed to a trickle winding down from the foothills to the west. Now it was torpid, like a snake on a cold morning.
Dinas drew rein. “While I see to my baggage you can unsaddle my horse and rub him down with fistfuls of grass,” he told Meradoc, “but don’t bother to tether him. He’s free; he stays with me because he wants to. After you’ve taken care of him find a bit of level ground where we can spread our blankets, and a stand of trees to provide deadfall for a fire.”
Handing the stallion’s reins to Meradoc, Dinas untied his saddlebags and set them on the ground. He crouched down and began going through their contents. Clothing, blankets, a heavy winter cloak, food supplies, a drinking cup, a small cooking pot … and at the very bottom a bundle of lambskin, old and worn and as soft as silk. The bundle was tied with faded strips of wool that might once have been blue. Dinas stopped suddenly and looked up. Meradoc, busy with the horse, did not notice.
The pack Meradoc had strapped to his own back was much smaller, though it contained everything he owned. He did not expect the horse to carry it, nor did he expect to be offered a ride on the horse. The rigid class distinctions the Romans had bequeathed to Britannia remained in force.
This did not prevent Dinas from helping Meradoc to prepare the campsite. Working in a companionable silence, the two men cleared a sleeping area of stones and thistles and built a campfire. When Dinas produced a cork-stoppered water bottle from one of his saddlebags, Meradoc filled it from the stream. After they spread their blankets on the ground near the fire, Dinas took out bread, bacon and hard cheese, and sat down cross-legged to eat.
Meradoc was still standing. He shifted from one foot to the other.
Dinas glanced up. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“I brought a hooded cloak and my other tunic and a blanket, but…”
“But?”
“No food,” Meradoc admitted, ducking his chin in embarrassment. “I never thought about food. In Deva people feed me in return for my work.”
“You’re not in the town now, little man. Whatever we need out here we must supply for ourselves. I could give you some of my food but you wouldn’t learn anything from that, except to rely on me. You must find your own food tonight.”
Meradoc looked around. Grass. Trees. A few rocks. “Where?”
“What do you want to eat?”
Meradoc could not remember anyone ever asking him that question before. In Deva he ate what he was given, which was usually scraps. “Meat,” he decided.
“Then untie your boots and give me the thongs.”
Meradoc obeyed.
Dinas stood up and strode off across the meadow. “Come on.”
Meradoc trotted after him. When they were some distance from the stream Dinas crouched down and skillfully turned the thongs into two snares, which he concealed in the tall grass. “Watch me,” he instructed. Unnecessarily, since Meradoc was watching everything Dinas did, learning from the other man’s body language just as he learned from the stallion’s body language.
When the snares were in place they returned to the fire. Dinas resumed eating. Between bites he said, “This area is probably swarming with hares the legions imported to augment their food supply. Hares aren’t stupid; they were clever enough to escape and have been breeding ever since. With any luck you might have one to skin and roast in an hour or two. In the meantime I suggest you fish. There are some iron hooks in my saddlebag.”
“I’ve never fished,” Meradoc admitted in a barely audible voice.
“Sweet smoldering Hades, man! I thought you said you could do anything.”
“I can. If someone shows me the way you just did.”
“Prove it.” Dinas untied one of his own boots and handed the thongs to Meradoc. The little man perfectly replicated one of the snares he had made.
“Aha,” said Dinas.
Although they checked the snares several times, no hares were trapped that night. But after a little coaching from Dinas, Meradoc caught enough fish to feed himself. When he had finished eating and licked his fingers he asked Dinas, “How did you know about the Romans bringing the hares?”
“I had a Roman tutor,” Dinas said. “A most thorough fellow who stuffed our heads with irrelevant facts.”
“Oh.”
As they prepared to sleep, Dinas gave a low whistle that summoned the stallion from grazing nearby. The horse walked calmly to the blanket Dinas had spread on the ground and lay down beside it. To Meradoc’s amazement, he stretched out his neck to be a pillow for his master’s head.
That night two men slept under the stars.
Meradoc had thought he was too excited to sleep, but he was wrong. He awoke well before dawn, feeling better than he had in years. He slipped from beneath his only blanket and went looking for the horse, who was already up and grazing. The stallion gave him a friendly nudge in the chest with his muzzle. By the time Dinas stopped snoring the horse was rubbed down, t
he campfire built up, and four trout were sizzling on flat stones close to the fire.
“Remind me to show you how to construct a spit,” Dinas said as he stood up and began stretching himself. He stretched like a cat, slowly and thoroughly. Meradoc resolved to start doing that too.
The two men ate without talking. Meradoc thought nothing had ever tasted as good as the fresh-caught trout. When the meal was finished he rinsed out their cups in the stream, emptied them onto the smoldering coals of the fire, and kicked dirt onto the hissing remains. Dinas strapped the saddle on the dark horse and tied the bags behind it, then vaulted onto the horse’s back. “Forward, now.” They set off in the same configuration as the day before: Meradoc walking at the stallion’s shoulder.
Observing the location of the sun in the sky, the little man asked, “Are you sure we’re going toward Mamucium?”
“We’re not going to Mamucium.”
“We’re not delivering the horse to its owner?”
“I am the owner. He has no other.”
Meradoc digested this information with a sense of relief. He did not mind that Dinas had lied to Ludno. He would very much mind being parted from the dark horse.
Dinas rode in silence with his eyes on the horizon. Sometimes Meradoc watched the countryside through which they were passing, sometimes he watched his feet take one step after another. At last he ventured, “Do you want to talk?”
Dinas replied without looking down from the horse, “Talk about what?”
“Anything. I want to listen.”
“I don’t want to talk,” said Dinas. And that was that.
Too much walking made the dark horse fretful. He began tossing his head, shaking his heavy mane. Dinas reined him to one side and galloped him in a huge circle. Meradoc watched them dwindle into the distance with the stallion’s tail streaming like a black banner. He maintained his steady pace until he heard the rolling thunder of hooves approaching again. He welcomed Dinas with a cheerful wave. “Don’t ever hold him back on my account,” he said.
“I won’t,” Dinas replied.
When the sun reached midpoint they stopped beside a shallow stream. The men drank upriver of the stallion, then walked away from the watercourse to relieve themselves.
After Rome Page 6
