After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Only because you couldn’t run away as fast as I could.”

  “It would take more than speed to pull this off. You’d need a lot of men and a thorough knowledge of the western coast, Dinas, and you don’t have either.”

  “You underestimate me. Since I left home I’ve traveled continually. I know the Ordovici and the Demetae almost as well as I know our own Cornovii. I’ve even received hospitality from some of the Dumnonii—an interesting people indeed. Their accents are almost impenetrable, and their kings are said to wear a heavy crown to hide their ears because their common ancestor mated with a donkey.” Dinas burst into laughter. “That may or may not be true, of course; I never met their current king. But what I tell you next is true, Cadogan”—his voice sobered—“since the Romans left the old loyalties are breaking down.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “New kings and chieftains are driving out traditional leaders and carving up their land to suit themselves. They’re seeking allies wherever they can find them, even among the barbarians—who are also claiming land. Britannia’s descending into chaos and confusion, and not just because of the influx of foreigners. We’re doing a lot of this to ourselves.

  “Cadogan, do you remember what it felt like to be fifteen years old and full of juice, bursting to do something? No matter what tribe they belong to, young men today are frantic to do something, anything, and without Roman control they’re a seething mass of undirected energy. If a spectacular stag burst from the forest, some of them would even follow it. That’s why I’m confident I can recruit as large a company as I want.”

  “I’ve never doubted your confidence,” said Cadogan, “but…”

  “I’m well prepared for this,” Dinas insisted. “I’ve ridden the western coast from one end to the other; I know every beach and headland, I can tell you where every river and stream empties into the sea. I’ve explored the watchtowers the Romans built to protect the western shipping lanes and I know which ones are still usable. I’ve even found several possible locations for a stronghold.”

  Cadogan was shaking his head. “I don’t understand where I fit into this grand plan of yours, Dinas. Or Meradoc or Pelemos, for that matter.”

  Lying on the floor, Meradoc heard his name. His eyes were closed but his ears were open.

  “Meradoc is a treasure,” Dinas said with a smile in his voice. “He can do anything, he’s as handy as a little pot. When we get more horses—and we will need more horses—he’ll have charge of them, but there’ll be plenty of other work for him too.”

  “What about Pelemos?”

  “Ah, my splendid stag!” Dropping his voice so no one else could hear, Dinas said, “Did you ever see anyone who looks more like a saint? Having him at my side will attract others.”

  “Is he as saintly as he looks?”

  “How should I know? All he’ll have to do is sit on a horse—I think we’ll find a white horse for him—and look angelic. In a flock there’s always a bellwether the other sheep follow, and Pelemos will serve that purpose splendidly. But it’s the shepherd who’s in charge. And I’m the shepherd.”

  “So you’re just using him,” Cadogan said coldly. “Using a poor unfortunate man who hardly seems aware of what’s going on around him.”

  “Everyone uses everyone, Cadogan; don’t you know that by now? But I promise you Pelemos won’t suffer. He’ll be a lot better off than if I’d left him where I found him. He’ll share whatever we have and I’ll look after him—just as I would look after you.”

  Cadogan held up his hands. “Oh no! Don’t count me in on this, I want no part of it. What you propose is not only impossible, it’s illegal. And it would imperil your immortal soul.”

  “Where have you been? Nothing is illegal anymore, cousin. The rule of law left with the Romans, and there is no such thing as an immortal soul.”

  “Of course we have souls,” Cadogan retorted. He had long since learned to ignore his cousin’s rebellious heresies. “As for the Romans, they’ll be back. We just have to hold on and wait, they won’t abandon us. Don’t you remember what Lucius Plautius said? ‘Their laws and their swords will always protect us.’”

  “Their laws and their swords,” sneered Dinas. “Not ours. In case you haven’t noticed, we aren’t Romans. We learned to wear togas and speak Latin and pay for a seat in one of the public toilets when there were perfectly good bushes all over the country. But in reality we remained a conquered people.

  “Rome conquered us with envy, not armies. We were willing parties to our own enslavement, Cadogan. Have you ever tried to catch a magpie? If you hang something shiny in a tree the magpie will be so eager to seize the prize it never notices the net until it’s too late. The Romans seduced us with their own version of shiny things—red wine and olive oil and underfloor heating—and we ran headlong into the trap.

  “Alaric and his Visigoths did us a favor by sacking Rome. When they battered down those gates they set us free; free to be ourselves again. Survival is nature’s law, Cadogan, but I want to do more than survive, I want to live. Freely, fully, in my own way, without anyone else controlling me. I’m offering you a chance to join me and do the same.”

  “A chance to behave any way I like without fear of retribution? Because that’s what you’re talking about, Dinas. How can you reconcile that with your Christianity?”

  Dinas snorted. “Why should I try? My parents claimed to be devout Christians, but between them they broke every commandment.” Cadogan had never heard his cousin, who laughed so often, sound so bitter. “They paid priests to worship in their houses and thought that would be enough to save their souls. They never noticed that the priests only bowed their heads to count their profits. At least I’m more honest than they were, I admit to being a thief. I won’t add hypocrisy to my sins.”

  Cadogan was taken aback. “You’re a thief? My own cousin?”

  Dinas raised one eyebrow. “How do you think I’ve been supporting myself? I left my father’s house with nothing but the clothes on my back and the horse I rode. Since then I’ve learned to sniff out the treasure other men hide, and I’m good at it.” Before Cadogan could respond Dinas asked, “How do you support yourself, cousin?”

  “Why, I … I mean … I have my own money.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “My father, of course. When I came of age he turned my entire legacy over to me.”

  “Where did Vintrex get his wealth in the first place?”

  Cadogan felt unaccountably defensive. “I assume he inherited property from his father, and as a magistrate he also received a generous salary.”

  “Paid for out of taxes,” said Dinas. “Taxes the empire collected from the Britons with or without their consent; hard-earned money taken from them by those with more power. The provincial government ostensibly served us, but in reality it was created to feed Rome’s insatiable appetites. Legalized theft, Cadogan.

  “People admire my father because they think he’s a clever businessman. He’s clever, all right. Ocellus knows a century of ways to get his hands on someone else’s property, and it’s always ‘legal.’ Legal because some magistrate says it is.”

  Cadogan bristled. “Are you implying that my father was complicit in…”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me. Figure it out for yourself.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “That’s your choice, cousin. If you want to believe the wealthy and powerful are that way because riches rain down on them from heaven, then do so. It’s no more absurd than believing in God.”

  Cadogan was aghast.

  Meradoc, lying silently on the floor, felt the world spin under him.

  “Rome justified greed in the name of need and oppression in the name of discipline,” Dinas went on. “Our class of people accepted that point of view, admired it even. Why? Because they wanted to be on top of the heap too, though they might never admit it. As long as Rome had the power they trotted after her like dogs following
a bitch in heat.

  “But we are not Romans!” Dinas burst out. “We have never been nor shall ever be Romans!” Jumping to his feet, he strode to the door and flung it open. He stared out at the slanting spears of rain, their silver illumined by the light from within the room. The popping sounds his knuckles made as he cracked them were like hail falling on stone.

  Eventually he returned to the fire and stood looking down at Cadogan. “You may not remember this, cousin, but when I was a young boy Ocellus imported a pair of wolfhounds from Eire—Hibernia, as the Romans call it. Great shaggy beasts they were, long limbed and fearless. I loved them on sight and they went everywhere with me. I could walk through a forest as safe as if I were surrounded by a legion. Ocellus sold their puppies for immense prices. Men came from as far away as the highlands of Caledonia to buy our dogs.

  “When the female was too old she had one last litter. Three big, robust males. They were too big and too robust, and she died giving birth to them. We also had a number of cats to keep the vermin down, and at that time there was a most unusual cat in the stables. She too was big, the largest cat I ever saw. Gwladys thought she was descended from Caledonian wildcats; she had their color and look about her.

  “The cat gave birth to a litter at the same time as the hound, and in an effort to save the newborn puppies Ocellus put them with the cat to suckle. To everyone’s surprise, she accepted them. She fed those puppies along with her own kittens, nursing them and washing them. The dogs lived, they even thrived. When the cat weaned the kittens the pups continued to follow her around, mewling and begging for milk. She lost her temper and slashed them with her claws but they wouldn’t give up. At last the cat ran off into the hills to be rid of them.”

  “What happened to the young dogs?”

  “They skulked about the stables for a while. Ocellus tried to hunt with them but they were no good with wolves, they would only chase mice. They weren’t cats but they didn’t know they were dogs. Finally Ocellus had them drowned. Stones were tied around their necks and they were thrown into the river.” Dinas gave a sigh of regret. “If even one of those puppies had realized his true nature he could have avoided his fate. What about you, Cadogan?” he asked abruptly. “Do you know who you are?”

  “I am … I hope I am … a decent Christian man.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It is all I aspire to,” Cadogan replied with dignity. “That, and a quiet life.”

  Dinas curled his lip in scorn. “Listen to me. Life is an opportunity, one single, amazing opportunity. Life is the sun and the stars, the wolves howling and the rain lashing and the thrill of danger around every bend. If you want to waste yours trying to be safe—though you will die in the end anyway, we all do—that’s your choice. But I said it before and I’ll say it again: Cadogan, you’re a fool!”

  * * *

  In the morning they were gone. The three men had managed to slip away without waking either Quartilla or Cadogan—who had drunk too much beer in a vain attempt to keep up with his cousin. Now he was paying for it. His head was one gigantic throb. How does Dinas do it? he wondered. The man must have a lead-lined stomach.

  Quartilla was bereft. “How could he go off and leave me behind?” she moaned.

  “He wasn’t interested in you in the first place,” Cadogan told her. “It was all in your head.”

  “Not Dinas, you fool! I mean the other one, that gorgeous big man with the broad shoulders.”

  “Pelemos?”

  “Of course, Pelemos! Don’t be thick, Cadogan. From the moment he saw me he couldn’t keep his eyes off me. He never said anything because he was so smitten, but I could tell. I can always tell.”

  Cadogan spent the day in a state of confusion. Part of him wanted to join Dinas on what would surely be the adventure of a lifetime—if they were not all killed. Another part of him was thankful to remain in the shelter and security of the fort—though that security already had been breached. A third part—no more than a niggling little voice at the back of his mind—said neither was the answer for him.

  Quartilla accused me of hiding here and she’s right. But I’m still a young man. If I spent the rest of my life like a hermit I would probably go mad. Should I return to Viroconium, try to patch things up with Viola and wait for my father to come home? What if he doesn’t?

  What if he does?

  CHAPTER NINE

  They were heading southwest. The land rose slowly but surely from the lush, damp midlands toward the distant mountains. Meradoc, who had never been more than a few miles from Deva before he met Dinas, observed every change in the scenery. If they flushed an unfamiliar bird he stopped in his tracks to watch it fly away. God made you, he said silently to the bird. He often thought of God, to counter the heresy of Dinas.

  There has to be God. Who else could have made the dark horse?

  Pelemos trudged along with his eyes on the ground. He spoke if spoken to, but that was the extent of his involvement with his surroundings. He continued living inside himself, in a place where his wife was alive. Ithill. Ithill. And the girls.

  Sometimes he thought he could hear his daughters laughing.

  If they passed a likely farmstead Dinas sent Meradoc to ask the farmwife for food. A bowl of fresh milk or a loaf of bread was usually forthcoming. Few women could refuse the soft voice and the innocent blue eyes.

  Winter was a breath away. The fading sun slipped lower in the sky and a white haze hung over the distant mountains. Meradoc noticed that Dinas often fixed his eyes on them but never spoke of them, or of his destination. The trail he followed was old when Albion was young, and only visible to a few.

  The only time Dinas mentioned it was when he remarked on the quality of a stream where they stopped to drink. “There will be better water than this where we’re going,” he said.

  Although he was unaware of it, Pelemos began humming to himself as he walked. Very softly, as if the music welled from his internal organs and was too personal for anyone to hear. Except for Ithill. All his songs were for Ithill. All his poetry was for Ithill, recited to her in the shadowy night as they lay with two heads on one pillow. She had called him her bard. “A bard is the memory of his tribe,” she said.

  Ithill, Ithill, with the stars in her eyes.

  Meradoc concentrated on thinking and learning. Walking, he discovered, was a wonderful way to learn. When he filled his lungs to the very bottom with fresh clean air his head was clearer. He asked all the questions that occurred to him, and if Dinas was in a good mood he answered them. Some of the questions were about taking care of the horse, and Dinas always answered those. He gave Meradoc a small iron tool from his saddle bag, and showed him how to clean out the V-shaped cleft on the bottom of the horse’s hoof, picking out stones and small debris.

  The first time Meradoc tried this he asked, a little uncertainly, “Will he let me pick up his foot?”

  “Of course he will,” Dinas said, “if you don’t startle him. Just act confident and he’ll think you know what you’re doing.”

  As they traveled the stallion continually tossed his head, making the reins carve patterns in the sweat on his neck. He resented having to adjust his pace to that of walking men. An occasional gallop in a large circle was not enough for him. When Dinas dismounted and walked with the others the horse relaxed a little, but not much.

  Dinas came to a decision. “This isn’t going to work until you two are on horseback. Meradoc—you’ve never ridden a horse before?”

  “Not yet!” the little man replied hopefully.

  “What about you, Pelemos?”

  “I can drive a team of oxen.”

  “It’s not the same thing, I assure you. We’ll find mounts for both of you. Someone along the way will have horses we can buy.”

  A light flickered in Pelemos’s eyes. “Buy? You mean with money?” He frowned as if trying to remember the meaning of the words.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Dinas told him. “I never go anywhere without a
little something tucked away out of sight.” He patted his side, where a leather purse was strapped to his body underneath his tunic.

  Meradoc had never thought about money before; about actually having money. Barter was the medium of the poor in Deva. “Are you very wealthy, Dinas?”

  “No man answers that question honestly.”

  “But you wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” The soft voice; the innocent blue eyes.

  “No, Meradoc,” said Dinas. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  The following morning they saw two ponies grazing the stubble of a cleared field. Short, sturdy mares whose thick coats warned of the winter to come. “They’re what we need,” Dinas decided. “If you two fall off while you’re learning to ride, it’s not so far to the ground.”

  The owner of the ponies was not easily located, but eventually a scrawny boy who was out hunting with his ferret directed them to a barnyard comprising a huddle of wattle-and-daub sheds mired in a sea of mud, surrounded by wooden pens holding an assortment of cattle and goats. Off to one side, in a sturdy pen of his own, a red bull sang the last song of summer in hopes of one final mating.

  Upwind of the barnyard was the farmhouse: a round dwelling built of mud and rubble stone that wore its thatched roof pulled tightly down around its shoulders. The farmer sat on a three-legged stool outside the door, sharpening an axe on a pedal-operated grinding wheel. Oblivious to the fate awaiting them, domestic fowl pecked in the dirt around his feet. As he concentrated on his task the man did not notice strangers observing him from the crest of a low hill.

  Dinas told Meradoc to take the stallion out of sight. He and Pelemos went down to meet the farmer. The scrawny boy, who looked remarkably like his ferret, trailed after them, curiosity stamped large on his face. The farmer stood up as they approached. He resembled the scrawny boy, and thus the ferret. His gap-toothed smile was wide but his dark eyes were wary.

  Following a lengthy exchange about the weather, the condition of the crops, and any relatives Dinas and the farmer might have in common—they discovered none—Dinas expressed a mild curiosity about the two ponies he had seen. The farmer extolled the many virtues of his ponies—his small, common, unimpressive ponies—concluding, with feigned reluctance, “I might be persuaded to take one solidus for such excellent mares, but you understand I’d be giving them away.”