by Mike Ashley
‘Some talent, yes,’ Octavio echoed with noncommital irony.
‘Talent born of knowledge,’ his commander added slowly and deliberately, frowning at the younger man in a way that went over Crato’s head. ‘Marcus Gordius Octavio’s former legion had experience with a band of them in Gaul.’
‘Indeed?’ The philosopher turned again to Octavio. ‘Is it true that they believe their founder, Jesus ben Panthera, to have had the head of an ass, or is that merely another slander put about by their enemies?’
‘Whether they believe it was actually so,’ the young soldier replied stiffly, ‘I cannot say. It is true, however, that they frequently represent him with an ass’s head, mounted on a miniature cross.’
‘Ah! This would seem to echo those beast-headed Egyptian gods, in whose land the sorcerer ben Panthera is supposed to have learned his magical arts.’
‘Old friend,’ the legate remarked with a tolerant smile, ‘I see that you know something of these people, yourself.’
‘Not enough, not enough.’ Crato shook his bald head. ‘I would learn more, much more. Few in numbers they may be, but no manner of worshipping any god lacks interest for me, no matter how novel. Indeed, in every novelty I seek that kernel of tradition – that leaven remaining to us from the earliest ages, when God and man were closer – without which no worship can please its deity.’
‘If it were not for the danger,’ said Flavian, ‘I would have sent you to sniff out our local Christians.’
‘Danger? What danger? It is their reputation alone that makes such people dangerous. Well, well,’ the philosopher concluded regretfully, ‘far be it from me to offer myself in place of your soldier going about his duty. But should he find any Christians for you, might I beg the special privilege of meeting them myself?’
Flavian looked at Octavio, who returned his gaze steadily.
‘It would increase my stature in their eyes,’ Octavio told his commander, ‘if I were to bring them another catechumen – as he would seem – and one of Crato’s standing in the community. I think, however, that I should begin by reconnoitering alone.’
‘Go, then. Our friend can await your report here with me.’
Octavio saluted and took his departure. The legate summoned slaves and had them arrange chairs and a midday repast for him and his guest just within the peristyle, where the spring sun could warm them as they ate.
Crato, arguing that philosophy demanded maintaining one’s strength, nibbled away more conscientiously than the legate; but neither man showed much appetite for the plovers’ eggs, mussels, and barley bread brought out to them. Flavian emptied a full goblet of the local honey-wine he had set (saving his better vintages for Marcellina’s safe return), but he drank it well watered. In truth, their prandium consisted less of food than of conversation, and even that was desultory at best, and soon cut short by the arrival of Gnaius Metellus Lucian with Marcellina’s father by blood.
Striding in on the heels of his Roman escort, the young British chieftain made a striking – even magnificent – spectacle. He came only in leather breeches and a short bearskin cloak thrown over one shoulder and held together, by its own paws, beneath his other arm, leaving his chest open to display his widest expanse of woad tattooing. Blue whorls covered his arms as well; indeed, every inch of visible skin, even his cheeks and forehead. A rich golden torque, its twin ends tipped with lions’ heads of fine if barbaric workmanship, adorned his neck, while rough fur buskins covered his feet to the calf. Beside him walked a tall British woman, as sun-brown and woad-blue as himself, and similarly costumed, except that a band from waist to right shoulder, while leaving her left breast bare, modestly covered her right. The British couple carried nothing, but young tribesmen, still only partially tattooed, followed them bearing their spears and shields.
‘Rome!’ the chieftain cried, with neither preamble nor salute. ‘What is this? You have let my daughter be stolen?’
Flavian, who had risen to his feet at the chieftain’s entrance, shot back, ‘Horatius Marcellus Kynus of the British people! Or Kynon, if you so prefer to be called! If you have taken her yourself, do not attempt to hide your guilt from the eye of Roman Jupiter.’
‘We?’ exclaimed the woman at Kynon’s side. ‘Why should we take the child? We foolishly believed her safe beneath the eagle wings of your vaunted Rome!’
‘Who is this woman?’ the legate demanded to know.
‘Did you think I would keep Marcella’s place empty in my bed forever?’ Kynon queried back by way of reply. ‘Bodicca is my wife now.’
‘Now and for all our years to come,’ the woman added, laying one hand proudly on Kynon’s shoulder. ‘This time he has a wife forever, now that Bodicca has finally found a man worthy of her.’
‘So you have taken a second wife,’ Flavian answered icily. ‘What better reason to steal back your child, for this second wife to rear?’
‘Roman,’ Bodicca demanded with cold fire, ‘do you suppose me incapable of bearing Kynon sons and daughters finer than any your own pallid offshoot could give him?’
‘Questions heaped on questions,’ Crato interposed, stepping forward and spreading his hands pacifically. ‘With all respect to my own gods, might this old philosopher suggest that there is a time and place for direct and simple answers?’
‘Well said, honored friend,’ Flavian approved.
‘Here, then, is my direct and simple answer,’ Kynon told them. ‘Neither I nor any of my people have taken or laid hand on my daughter Kyna, whom you call Marcellina, even though it would have been no more than my right to reclaim her. I left our dear child with Marcella, in memory of the love we once shared, for however brief a season. Now give me direct and simple answers to my questions: How did you, with your boasts of Roman might and Roman peace and Roman laws, allow this thing to happen? Did you not love your granddaughter enough to see to her protection? And how, after allowing it to happen, did you dare summon me here to accuse me of the outrage, rather than to beg a father’s help in saving his stolen child?’
‘I make allowance for your natural feelings,’ the legate replied. ‘From no other man alive would I permit any suggestion that this thing happened through failure of love on my part or my daughter’s. As for your other questions, when a child is seized with violence from her guardian within our very city walls, who else should we suspect of violating Roman peace, if not those who hold Roman laws in open contempt?’
‘We have accepted your standards among us,’ Kynon returned angrily. ‘We have lived in peace with you for generations. On what grounds do you charge us with contempt? Simply because we do not grovel?’
‘Husband,’ said Bodicca, sounding less like wife than co-commander, ‘this helps no one recover your child.’
Crato sighed. ‘Your lady shows wisdom. Let us lay aside all arguments of larger rights and wrongs until little Marcellina is safely home again.’
‘I am willing,’ Flavian agreed.
‘Well!’ said Kynon. ‘So am I, for the present. Let us begin by looking at how it happened. You said that she had a guardian, from whom she was seized within your very walls?’
‘One of Marcellus Flavian’s slaves was bringing her to my home for such lessons as her small and feminine mind is ready to digest,’ Crato explained.
‘One . . . of . . . your . . . slaves?’ Kynon repeated disbelievingly, staring at the legate. ‘This comes of your Roman habit of entrusting the work befitting free men and women to slaves instead!’
Flavian met the Briton’s gaze without blinking. ‘The man was struck senseless, and that from behind. Before he lost consciousness, he heard British voices speaking your name, or that of Kyna, and other words in your British tongue – another reason for my initial suspicion of you.’
‘But not the first reason, was it?’ Kynon said shrewdly, adding, ‘A true guardian would have given his life in defense of his charge, not merely lent the gods his poor wits for a few moments and then come back to them babbling nonsense. Wher
e is this slave who made such poor work of protecting a helpless child?’
‘His head was broken and bloodied,’ said Flavian. ‘His mother is nursing him in his own quarters.’
‘His mother is nursing him!’ cried Kynon. ‘While the gods know who is nursing the child entrusted to him, and with what sort of care? Bring him out and let us question him!’
‘He is my slave, and I have questioned him to my satisfaction.’
‘I do not trust the questioning of a man who coddles incompetence at sight of a little blood.’
‘I tell you,’ said the legate, ‘we know where and when it happened. I coddle no one. I demand as much of my slaves, according to their capacities, as of my soldiers. But I am satisfied there is nothing more to be learned from . . . Well? Let me hear your report!’ he interrupted himself, looking across his courtyard.
Octavio had returned, and was standing at attention waiting his chance to be recognized. On his commander’s order he stepped forward and saluted. ‘Hail, legate of Caesar. There are indeed Christians here in Camolindium, as I have proved by making contact with certain members of their sect.’ He stopped speaking, as if done with his report.
After a few heartbeats, Flavian said, ‘Particulars?’
Octavio glanced at the pair of Britons with their legionary escort. ‘Particulars, sir, you might prefer to hear alone.’
‘Does this touch on the disappearance of my child by your commander’s daughter?’ Kynon demanded.
The legate looked at Octavio, who replied.
‘I cannot yet be sure, but I think that it may concern Marcellina.’
‘Then it touches me as well,’ said Kynon, ‘and I will hear it.’
‘And I with my husband,’ said Bodicca.
The Britons stood as if rooted in the ground as immovably as the trees they worshipped. After studying them for a moment, Flavian said in no uncertain terms, ‘Then let my centurion Lucian show your shieldbearers the hospitality of our barracks.’
‘We will allow him to buy them one cup apiece, well watered, in Bibulo’s wineshop, that stands hard by your house,’ Kynon answered with resolve to match Flavian’s. ‘Let them leave our weapons here.’
The two commanders stared at each other. Without dropping his gaze, Flavian ordered, ‘Be it so!’
Gnaius Metellus Lucian saluted, the young Britons laid their leaders’ spears and shields neatly upon the ground, and all of them departed together.
When they were gone, Flavian told his decurion, ‘Whatever you have to say, it can be spoken for their ears as well as mine. Being Marcellina’s father by blood, Kynon has the right to hear it, as has she who now shares his bed.’ Nobody mentioned old Crato, who also stood by listening with interest. Had he not already volunteered to play Octavio’s catechumen?
‘I lingered in the marketplace,’ Octavio continued his report, ‘furtively using my toe to draw their fish sigil in the dust. At length someone noticed it and replied by scratching her sigil beside mine. That woman . . .’ Again he hesitated, but, filling his lungs deeply, resumed unprompted, ‘That woman, sir, was your own slave, Myrtilia.’
Flavian’s shock was audible by his sharp intake of breath. Crato exclaimed softly, ‘So close to home!’
‘I had thought Myrtilia in her own part of my house, nursing her son,’ said the legate.
‘She left him long enough to buy some few ingredients for her nursing – salve, herbs to season broth . . .’ Octavio shrugged. ‘Learning my own pretended membership in their cult, she delivered me to their chief flamen, who proves to be none other than Dossemus, the one-eyed hunchback and mender of pots.’
‘Dossemus?’ said Crato. ‘I would have pointed to him in example of how little is actually needed to remain alive.’
‘I would have pointed to him,’ said Flavian, ‘as living example of filth, squalor, and idleness. Next thing to a beggar, that creature mends two or three pots only when he can no longer dodge the absolute necessity for some few small coins to rub together, briefly. Well? What did you learn from Dossemus?’
‘They meet this evening at nightfall,’ Octavio replied. ‘I won enough trust to learn when, but not where. When I seal the proof of my faith by returning with my new catechumen, they will take us both there.’
‘I will set spies to follow you and bring word back to me and our legion,’ said Flavian.
Octavio’s answer was filled with doubt. ‘Dossemus and his fellows have had reason and opportunity to learn every one of our faces by sight – regular legionaries, auxiliaries, and scouts, and all your slaves as well. Give them any suspicion whatever that they are being followed, and Marcellina is lost. Nor would I guarantee our honored Crato’s safety in such case.’
‘Is she still alive even now?’ Kynon cut in. ‘Cernunnos! How long you Romans take getting to the heart of a matter!’
‘She will be safe until deep into their ceremony,’ Octavio assured him. ‘They will not even bring her forth until after they have sent their catechumens away.’
‘What?’ Crato blinked. ‘Ah! Of course. This alleged abominable sacrament of theirs is for full initiates only. Well, then, we have no problem. As soon as sent away, I will return and lead you back.’
Octavio objected, ‘These Christians are slow to trust even one another. Had demonstrating the orthodoxy of my supposed beliefs and ritualistic knowledge as learned in Gaul been enough to satisfy Dossemus in full, he would have named the place and left me to find my own path there. Since he did not, no doubt they will blindfold both me and my catechumen before leading us to the site.’
‘I should recognize it once they unbandage my eyes,’ Crato said with quiet confidence.
Octavio looked at him admiringly. ‘Honored philosopher, it is fortunate I had you to name as my neophyte. All my own supposed orthodoxy might not have been enough, but they are eager indeed to number such citizens as you among them. May God, Who sent you to play this role, enable you to slip away from all other catechumens who may be present, and return here in time.’
‘But you yourself will remain for their most secret ceremonies?’ said Flavian. ‘How did you persuade them that you were fully initiate, and yet remaining a soldier of Rome?’
‘By pointing out the excellency of it as cover, for now, and explaining my supposed determination to remain soldier only in time of peace, and desert before obeying any order to go to war.’
The British chieftainess spoke. ‘With all these great suspicions of theirs, will they not have set someone to watch you, decurion? What will they have concluded upon seeing you come into the legate’s courtyard?’
‘Nothing, I hope. They know that a soldier must sometimes go about his commander’s business, and I took care to explain that another matter entirely – some little trouble in the barracks – was bringing me here today. They also know that Crato visits our legate not infrequently, nor did I see any reason to hide his present concern for Marcella’s daughter.’ He turned to the old philosopher. ‘Nevertheless, it will be best to avoid any chance of being seen leaving this house together. We are to meet Dossemus in the shop of Marcus the butcher. They will begin your instruction as soon as you arrive, even without me. But let me warn you, sir, to put your mind on guard. They will not let you see any sign that they have the child, nor hear any hint of what is to come after you are sent away. Their words to their catechumens are entirely fair, sweet, and in some specious way even noble.’
‘I will go at once,’ Crato said eagerly, ‘before my wife happens to come out. It would only worry her. Be sure to give her my fondest regards and tell her . . . tell her . . .’
‘That you have returned home to search out some scroll of philosophy most appropriate to comfort us in this hour,’ Flavian finished for him, laying one hand on his shoulder. ‘Go, old friend, with my thanks and those my daughter would add if she knew anything of this.’
It was only after Crato’s departure that Flavian sat, for the first time seeming to let his years weigh upon him. ‘Myrtilia!
’ he mourned. ‘My late wife grew up beside her, almost more like sister and sister than mistress and slave. She nursed our daughter from the cradle. Of all women in Camolindium, Myrtilia was the one, after Marcella herself and Crato’s good wife, with whom I would most have trusted Marcellina.’
Bodicca, who had never ceased eyeing Octavio, stepped forward and seized the young soldier by one wrist. ‘Show me,’ she demanded, ‘how to make this fish sigil!’
Pulling his arm free of her grip, Octavio looked to his commander. At Flavian’s nod, the decurion knelt and with his finger traced two curves in the earth, their tips meeting at one end while parting tail-like at the other.
Bodicca copied it twice, nodded, and said to the legate, ‘Now, direct me to this slave’s quarters.’
Almost wearily, Flavian gestured at the left-hand wing of his house. As Bodicca disappeared into it, he went on as if to himself, ‘And this is my reward for being so lenient a master as to allow my slaves their own outer door, for locking it only at night. Too long have I been gentler with my slaves than with my soldiers!’
Octavio cocked one brow, as if silently questioning Cassius Marcellus Flavian’s leniency toward his soldiers, but kept silent.
‘Will you confront this woman with her accuser?’ Kynon asked, drawing Flavian from his sad reverie.
The commander shook his head. ‘No, I think it is not yet time for that. God! How many of my slaves may be involved? Well, Octavio, return to barracks awhile on whatever errand you invented for the Christian flamen’s ears, and from there seek Dossemus out again when you judge the time ripe.’
‘Should I bid men prepare to march this evening, sir?’
Flavian shook his head. ‘Metellus Lucian will see to that. Do not try to heap his duties upon your own.’
Octavio came to attention, snapped his salute, and departed. Watching him go, Kynon muttered to the legate, ‘Bodicca does not entirely trust that man.’
‘You consulted with your new wife concerning him, did you?’
