After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Dinas did not react. Emboldened, the farmer added, “One solidus each, of course. Two solidi for the pair.”

  Dinas threw back his head and laughed. Pelemos laughed too, more in imitation than amusement. “I enjoy a joke as much as the next man,” Dinas said, “but I could buy a herd of horses for that amount. I’ll give you exactly what your animals would bring in the horse market: one siliqua for the pair. That will save you having to feed them through the winter.”

  The farmer looked offended. “You know nothing about horses. Those ponies are fine breeding animals.”

  Dinas put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Meradoc came running over the crest of the hill, leading the dark horse. The farmer watched in astonishment as the majestic animal trotted toward him. “That is a fine breeding animal,” said Dinas. Taking the stallion’s reins from Meradoc, he vaulted effortlessly onto his horse’s back. “Now let’s talk seriously.”

  The farmer gave him a long look, then turned to the boy with the ferret. “Go get the mares,” he said.

  During the negotiations Dinas insisted the farmer include bridles for the ponies. “You don’t want saddles,” he told Meradoc and Pelemos, “because you’ll learn faster riding bareback. If you get in trouble you can simply put your feet on the ground.”

  Meradoc was ecstatic to have a horse—a pony—to ride. He scrambled onto the little mare’s broad, fat back and flung his arms around her neck. Pelemos was more cautious. He mounted gingerly and sat stiffly upright, holding the reins in one first and clenching the mane with the other. When Dinas was not watching he stretched one leg downward and discovered he could, indeed, touch the ground with his feet.

  Even when Dinas held the dark horse to a walk, the mares had to trot to keep up with the stallion’s long stride. Theirs was the hard, jolting trot common to most ponies. Dinas watched the neophyte equestrians out of the corner of his eye. From time to time he offered suggestions. “Loosen the reins a little, you’re hurting her mouth. Don’t lean forward. Look between your horse’s ears to keep her going straight.”

  When they finally halted to relieve themselves Meradoc and Pelemos found it painful to dismount. Remounting hurt even more. Dinas rode away without waiting for them. They scrambled aboard as best they could and followed him. Onward and upward.

  As the earth tilted toward the sky the scenery changed dramatically. They entered a region of moor and bog interrupted by large granite outcroppings. Thick white mist rolled down upon them from higher slopes, obscuring the view ahead. Armies of conifers spilled out of dark defiles on either side. The atmosphere was at once threatening and intoxicating, the air so sweet Meradoc could taste it on his tongue.

  When the first flakes of snow swirled around them, Pelemos roused himself enough to ask, “Where are we now, Dinas?”

  “The kingdom of Rheged in the land of Cymru.”

  Meradoc was puzzled. “Not Britannia?”

  “Not according to the Cymri,” Dinas said. “Many soldiers of the Twentieth died fighting in these mountains, but Roman authority was never recognized here. Cymru is a place apart. It’s bordered on the north and west by the Oceanus Hibernicus, and to the east and south by the valley of Severn.”

  “What lies beyond the Severn?”

  “Beyond the Severn…” Dinas paused for effect. “World’s End.”

  Somewhat later, a vast dark shadow swept over the riders. Pelemos flinched, but Meradoc looked up in time to witness an immense golden eagle in full flight. His breath caught in his throat. “Did you see that, Dinas?”

  “The lord of the mountains comes down to welcome us.”

  Us. Meradoc glowed.

  As evening approached the snow began to fall in earnest. Meradoc was relieved when they came to a village located at the foot of a narrow pass leading into the mountains. Here a dozen small houses, roofed with slate, huddled together for comfort. He silently speculated on whether the houses were leaning against the hillside, or the hill was leaning on the houses.

  When the villagers emerged to greet their visitors Dinas spoke to them in their own dialect, which sounded, thought Meradoc, like water running over stones. After a brief conversation Dinas turned to his companions. “We’re welcome to stay the night here. We’ll be well fed and sleep warm, but I warn you, each of us will have to pay for the privilege.”

  Meradoc and Pelemos exchanged worried glances. “We have no money of our own,” Meradoc reminded Dinas.

  Dinas laughed. “Who said anything about money?”

  The meal came first, served in three different houses by three different women. Afterward everyone crowded into the largest house in the village. It belonged to the village leader; a knotty man with a face full of grudges. He met them at the door, asking, “You have the price?”

  “I do indeed,” Dinas replied. To the astonishment of his friends he held out his hands to the oldest woman in the room. In spite of her blushing protests, Dinas swung her into a long and sprightly dance while the other villagers clapped out the rhythm.

  When the dance concluded everyone turned toward Meradoc.

  During the dancing he had surveyed the room. In one corner he noticed a broken willow basket. Sidling over to it, he began skillfully reweaving the damage. When his turn came to pay he held up the mended basket with a shy smile. He was rewarded with ooohs and aaahs of appreciation, and a pleased nod from Dinas.

  Pelemos came next. He too had been considering what he had to offer. As an anticipatory hush filled the room, he got to his feet and stood with his back to the fire.

  Then he began to tell a story.

  He spoke slowly, hoping they would understand, and used broad gestures to help make his meaning clear. The tale he told was taken from the history of his people. As he spoke, deities from the Celtic past slipped from the shadows to gather around him. He could not see them but he could feel them. Cernunnos the Shapechanger and Goibban the Smith; Epona of the Horses and Nematona, Daughter of the Trees.

  The story lasted until the fire was reduced to glowing embers. Still held in thrall, the listeners went silently to their beds.

  In the morning the village leader watched as Dinas saddled the dark horse. “We have a few mares we could breed, but no stallion. How much do you want for yours?”

  “No amount would buy him.”

  “You tell a lie, my friend; everything’s for sale.”

  Dinas tightened his lips. “Not this horse.”

  “You must be as rich as Croesus, then,” the other man scoffed, “and you don’t look it to me.” Without warning he bent to run a hand down the stallion’s foreleg. Without warning the horse clamped his teeth on the man’s shoulder. Mighty neck flexed and powerful loin muscles rippled as the stallion sank back on his haunches. He lifted the hapless villager clear of the ground and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.

  The man screamed. Dinas barked a command. The dark horse dropped his bleeding victim.

  As they rode up through the pass into the mountains Dinas said ruefully, “That’s one place we can’t go for hospitality again.”

  Meradoc said, “Who’s Croesus?”

  “The ruler of an ancient kingdom called Lydia. He was said to have all the gold in the world.”

  “Are you as rich as Croesus?”

  Dinas laughed. “Nothing like it, little man. I have a bit of gold—and some silver and copper.”

  “In coins?”

  “Some of it.”

  Urging his pony closer to the stallion, Meradoc subjected Dinas—and particularly his torso, with the faint outline of the purse visible beneath his tunic—to careful scrutiny. “Not on you, surely.”

  “No, Meradoc, not on me. Carrying valuables around is the best way to lose them. A woman in the mountains keeps mine safe for me.”

  Taking one hand from the reins, Meradoc pointed toward a distant massif barely visible through curtains of cloud. “Those mountains?”

  “They are the peaks of Eryri, meaning ‘land of eagles,’” Dinas
said. “The first place God made, according to my mother.”

  Meradoc was delighted to think he had found another clue to the mystery of Dinas. “Does your mother live way up there? Is she the woman who keeps your money?”

  Dinas sat rigid on his horse. He said nothing, but a muscle twitched in his jaw.

  Meradoc was afraid he had gone too far. He allowed his pony to drift away from the stallion and concentrated on the mountains ahead.

  What would it be like to live so close to heaven?

  The pass was rapidly filling with snow. The thin air was not particularly cold, but the exhalations of horses and men formed little white clouds.

  Pelemos began humming to himself; an undertone that had become such a part of the journey that the other two barely noticed it. Sometimes the music was cheerful; sometimes it was dark and as bitter as tears. Today it was dark.

  Dinas drew a deep breath. Nothing changed in his posture, but the horse felt the change in him. In a voice stripped of all emotion, Dinas said, “My mother doesn’t live anywhere, Meradoc. She’s been murdered.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Snow was falling. Tiny, powdery flakes, too small to be distinct but too thick to be ignored. They swirled through Viroconium like an invading army, softening sharp edges, blurring right angles. By late afternoon the tiled roofs and paved streets were white.

  The hair on his father’s head had turned white too, Cadogan noticed as Vintrex stepped down from a rather battered four-wheeled cart made of timber and wickerwork. The old man’s shoulders sagged and his features were almost submerged in wrinkles, but the red-rimmed eyes that met Cadogan’s were the eyes he remembered. Proud and remote.

  Vintrex greeted his son with, “Why are you here? It is a little late to be remembering your responsibilities to this house and family! Did you come crawling back to ask me to change my will again? I wrote you out of it, you know. Everything will go to the sons of your sisters.”

  “I assumed that’s what you would do,” Cadogan said calmly.

  His father glowered at him. “You assumed I am the sort of man who would disinherit his only son?”

  “I assumed you would do what you thought was right.”

  “Are you saying that to impress me?”

  “No, Father. I gave up trying to impress you a long time ago.”

  The conversation was taking a turn Vintrex could not control. He changed the subject. “The old emperor has died since you abandoned your responsibilities here, Cadogan. His death temporarily deprived the Empire of the West of a ruler. Not that Flavius Honorius was much of a ruler; a wiser man would have accepted the terms Alaric offered him and spared Rome the Gothic occupation.”

  Having delivered this announcement, Vintrex drew his travel-stained cloak about his body and stalked into the house. He left the cart and driver waiting outside the low brick wall that encircled his property.

  Cadogan directed the man to the stable, then followed his father inside. He found Vintrex in the atrium, staring at the broken furniture and torn tapestries piled in what had been the reflecting pool. “Where did this wreckage come from?” he asked Cadogan.

  “It was taken from the rooms the raiders ransacked.”

  The old man’s face turned to stone. “Raiders? Here?! When?”

  “A few days after you left for Londinium. Esoros didn’t want to burn anything until you came back and decided what was worth mending.”

  “We do not mend trash,” Vintrex said frostily. “Esoros should know that. Where is he now? Why did he not come to meet me?”

  “He went to the market, but he should return soon.”

  “It was Alia’s place to go to the market.”

  “Your housekeeper was killed by the barbarians during the raid.”

  Vintrex received the news stoically. “I see. I see that there is no new housekeeper and rubbish is piled up in the atrium. And you still did not tell me why you are here, Cadogan, or where you have been all this time.”

  “I was at home.”

  “At home?”

  “The house I built for myself,” Cadogan amended. “In the hills.”

  “I see.”

  “I returned to Viroconium three days ago because I was concerned about you.”

  “You only learned of the raid three days ago?”

  “No, Father. In late summer Dinas visited me long enough to tell me barbarians were in this area. I set out for Viroconium immediately, but by the time I got here the damage was already done.”

  “You were frightened and ran away,” Vintrex said.

  “I didn’t run away. I went back to protect my own home.”

  “Why would some shack in the hills need protection?”

  “It’s no shack, Father; I’ve put a lot of effort into it. Even Dinas said…”

  “Dinas said? Don’t believe anything Dinas says, he’s as mad as a boxful of fleas. That’s why his mother wanted to give the horse to you; she was afraid Dinas would ruin it. And from what I hear, he has. The stallion has a reputation as a man killer.”

  We’re going to talk about that horse again, Cadogan thought. Everything comes back to the dark horse. “As far as I know he’s never killed anyone, Father. Dinas likes to give that impression; he wants people to think only he could tame such an animal. But the last time I saw him he had a young man with him who could…”

  “I order you to stay away from Dinas, Cadogan.”

  Dinas would say attack is the best defense. “Why were you gone for so long, Father?” Cadogan retorted. “Surely you had more than enough time to get to Londinium and back. Or was there a problem with your business—was the journey unsuccessful?”

  His father’s normally aloof expression was replaced by a look of confusion. “Business? Successful? I was … I was simply trying to uphold the law. But when we are overrun with savages who have no respect for the law, how in the name of our Lord can I be expected to maintain…” His voice trailed away. He ran his fingers across his forehead as if to collect his thoughts. The back of his hand was spotted with age; the thin fingers were trembling.

  Vintrex steadied himself. “Unfortunately,” he continued in a normal voice, “I was unable to conclude the matter which took me to Londinium. A most brutal murder had been committed in my jurisdiction by a person of high rank. The matter was sensitive for a number of reasons, and required special handling. To my dismay I discovered that no one remains in the capital with enough authority to deal with the situation. To all intents and purposes, Londinium has ceased to be a capital; it is like a disturbed anthill with the queen gone and the workers running in every direction. So that my journey would not be a total waste, I decided to travel on to Rome and make a personal plea to the emperor for more protection for my city.”

  Abruptly Vintrex sagged against one of the columns of the peristyle, the covered walkway surrounding the atrium. Cadogan feared his father was about to collapse, but the old man waved away his supportive arm. “I’m all right, leave me alone. Am I not entitled to a moment’s rest? I have had very little rest these last weeks.”

  He straightened up with an effort. “There was a time, Cadogan, when a chief magistrate such as myself could have boarded a Roman trireme and been transported in comfort around Iberia and through the Mediterranean. Warships were expected to provide suitable passenger accommodations for officials of the empire. It was taken for granted. I never availed of the opportunity, though in my younger days I knew men who did. I used to wish that …

  “But no more. I shall never envy any man who has spent one hour of his life on the open sea!” As Vintrex spoke these words his face took on a sickly pallor.

  Ignoring his protestations, Cadogan hustled his father into the house and seated him on a cushioned bench in the hall. “You really are ill, Father. Stay here while I find someone to fetch Esoros.”

  Vintrex lay down on his side, drew his knees up to his chest and propped his head on one of the tightly stuffed cylindrical cushions intended as an armrest. There he lay
like an ancient baby while Cadogan went to find help. He met Esoros rushing into the house. “Is he here?” the steward panted. “Is my master really here?”

  “He’s in the hall; he arrived a little while ago.”

  Esoros pushed past Cadogan and ran to the hall, which was a large, oblong room facing onto the atrium. The hall was painted in dark red and olive green, with a frieze of marbled panels divided by columns, and Roman statuary set in niches. In the center of the room stood a table made of highly polished dark shale, displaying a collection of silver and bronze figurines. High-backed couches provided for both sitting and reclining; a lady’s basket chair with a silk cushion had been placed to give the best view of the atrium. Folding stools, padded footstools, small chests and cabinets inlaid with mother-of-pearl completed the furnishings.

  When the house was new and Domitia came to it as a bride, she had spent many happy weeks decorating the hall to her taste. Every piece of furniture, every work of art had been carefully chosen by herself. She had berated the painters until they were able to mix the exact shades she wanted for the walls. She had commissioned an elaborate iron brazier to burn charcoal—which did not smoke and would not stain the walls and furnishings—and directed that beautifully shaped terra-cotta oil lamps were hung from the ceiling with bronze chains. No matter how cold and gray the British weather, her hall was warm and bright.

  Since her death no one had changed a single item in the room.

  Esoros dropped to his knees beside the couch where Vintrex lay. “You have returned safely, my lord! I shall offer a sacrifice of thanksgiving to—”

  “No sacrifices,” Vintrex commanded. “Control yourself, Esoros; you are a Christian now.”

  “Yes, my lord Vintrex. Forgive me. Sometimes I forget myself.”