She was alive—he was certain of it. She had definitely made it off the ship, for he had spotted her himself, and even if she had not been able to swim effectively, the sea would have eventually delivered her to shore.
There was no doubt in Ven’s mind that she was alive. Somewhere, she was alive and waiting for him to come save her, just as his mother had done long ago. Even if she had been injured in their escape, she would have not given up easily. There was simply too much fire inside her heart.
He arrived at the deep-water docks and studied the giant cargo ships tethered in a long row. The Pax was among them and, as he neared its tall prow, he remembered his final moments with Vita. She had taken his hand without any hesitation, had trusted him to lead her in to a wondrous future.
He wondered if he should not dive into the river anyway and let it take him where it would. He had failed her, after all. He had promised her to keep her safe and had instead lost her.
He spied a broken jar at the end of the dock. Tiny black balls spilled out of it like marbles. They were black olives—probably shipped in from Spain. Days ago, he might have seized upon such a discovery, but he was long past hunger now. Instead he gazed up at the large ‘basket’ ship from which the tiny imports had come.
The ships docked here were full to brimming with trade goods. They moved up and down the river day and night, bringing the delicacies of Rome to Britannia’s soldiers and settlers.
Roman immigrants to Britannia were not the only ones enjoying Roman goods. The Britons did, too. When Ven was a boy, he had known many men from his tribe who privately traded with the Romans. They grew bumper crops of grain in secret, just for the privilege of purchasing an amphora of fine Falernian or a jar of Spanish olive oil.
Indeed, most of the tribes here in the south had now made formal alliances with the Romans for the sole purpose of securing trade, their chieftains apparently believing that pungent fish sauce and sweet grape syrup was worth more than freedom.
It occurred to Ven that it was not legions that would ultimately conquer Britannia, but the contents of these hulking ships.
It was also the reason he needed to get out of here. There were vigiles in Londinium just as there were in Rome and commercial docks such as these were regularly patrolled by them.
He made his way along an empty part of the river shoreline and concealed himself among some large boulders. The rain continued to fall and he opened his mouth, letting it quench his thirst.
She was alive. Somewhere, right now, she was alive. Perhaps she was even turning her mouth to the sky, welcoming the sweet liquid and praying for a miracle.
But there was no such thing as miracles. There was only patience and tenacity and endurance—the kinds of skills one needed in a hunt. And Ven was nothing if not a hunter.
His stomach rumbled, and he gazed down at its concavity. Even beneath the thick hemp of his tunic, he could see the bones of his ribs. In his long, desperate wait for her, he had let himself become weak, but no more.
No more waiting, no more hoping. Just doing. He would search all of Britannia for her—his Roman-Celtic princess with mystic eyes and a voice of soft silk. He feared neither cold nor privation—nor even the cursed legions themselves. He had failed his mother once, but he would not fail Vita. He would find her, or die trying.
* * *
The first fortnight was the hardest. Not because of her bonds—tight leather straps around her wrists. Nor due to the relentless travel by horse, which scrambled her thoughts and rattled her bones. Nor even because of the rain, which did not so much cease as ebb and flow like the tide.
It was because she knew he was waiting for her.
She imagined him standing outside Londinium’s central baths, trying to keep himself concealed. Surely Lepidus had sent out word of his disappearance. Every centurion and slave catcher in Britannia was probably on the hunt for him.
Every day she did not meet him at the baths, he faced greater danger.
Her heart ached with his absence. With each new sunrise, she felt sadder. With each hoofbeat, her heart broke more. There he was in her mind, lurking in the rain, searching every woman he saw. Waiting and waiting and waiting.
She did not ask her captors where they were taking her. She did not want to know. It was away from Ven—that was all that mattered. Away from freedom and a future worth having. Away from the man she loved.
The hours passed like days. Her captors offered bread, but she did not eat it. They offered water from their udder bags, but she drank without satisfaction. Each night they placed a fur over her to protect her from the cold, yet she failed to thank the gods for her good treatment.
Instead, she spent all her energy praying for Ven. In the mornings she prayed to the Roman gods. One by one she hailed them, willing them to hear her. By midday she had turned her attention to her mother’s gods. She knew only a few by name, but she gazed up at the sky and brazenly asked for their aid.
By the evening she was praying to all of nature. Protect him, she thought, looking all around her. She entreated the trees and begged the brooks. Keep him safe.
Late one night, she rose to pray beneath a sacred oak. Please, Grandfather, she begged. Keep him alive. Let him find his freedom.
* * *
On the final day of their journey, they paused at the edge of a field. Beyond it lay a hill covered with buildings surrounded by a high wall. The men approached the settlement with reverence and, when they reached the entry gate, one sang out the news of their arrival.
Vita remained atop one of the horses as the men dismounted and led the beasts inside the busy hill fort. She could feel a hundred sets of eyes upon her as she was ushered down the main street. She buried her bound hands beneath the fabric of her tunic and tried to maintain her dignity as the people whispered and pointed.
Soon she was ducking beneath the low thatch of a steep-roofed roundhouse where she was presented to a man with a large red beard who was dressed in several layers of furs.
‘For you, Chief Rennyt,’ said one of the men. ‘A gift.’
‘For my wife, you mean,’ the man said and motioned to a tall, red-haired young woman with two babes on her hips.
The woman handed Vita one of the children and grinned. ‘I am Orla,’ she said. ‘And that is little Bodenius. This way.’
Carrying the heavy toddler, Vita followed the young woman into a smaller roundhouse filled with the scent of mushrooms.
‘Change him,’ she instructed and Vita did her best to clean the small child while the woman looked on. She took the babe back into her arms and motioned to the hearth fire, where a pot of mushroom soup sat boiling. ‘Please keep the fire going until the soup is ready, then feed it to my grandmother here,’ she said.
Vita turned to discover a grey-haired woman stretched out on a mattress behind her. ‘This is a new slave, Grandmother,’ said the young woman. ‘They found her when they were in the south.’
‘Hello, dear,’ said the old woman.
‘Hello, madam,’ said Vita. She crouched next to the fire until the young woman departed. ‘Excuse me, Grandmother,’ Vita whispered, ‘but where am I?’
‘You are in the north,’ replied the old woman.
‘How far north?’ asked Vita.
‘North of where the Romans are building their cursed wall,’ said the woman. ‘But you are a captive so I cannot tell you more.’
‘What tribe is this?’ asked Vita.
‘We are the northernmost band of the proud Brigantes.’
* * *
On the fourteenth day after his separation from Vita, Ven awoke to the crying of gulls. It was strange to see the coastal birds so far up the river. He assumed it was because the fishing was good. He jumped to his feet and canvased the shoreline, quickly discovering a tall stick and sharp stone with which to whittle it. As he began to shape his makeshift spear, he considered w
hat he thought to be a logical plan.
He would begin his search for Vita along the southern shores of the island, starting with the area where she had likely landed. He would work his way up from there, canvasing the villages and interviewing any locals he might meet along the way.
He would continue his methodical sweep, and when he reached Londinium, he would enquire after Lepidus. By then the old man would have been well on his way north and Ven would find out if he travelled with a female. He would let that knowledge direct his path from Londinium.
There was only one problem: his tattoo. He could not allow it to be seen. He would have to purchase a hat and find something other than his slave’s short tunic to wear. Where would he find the money for all of that?
But first there was the problem of his empty stomach. Spear in hand, Ven studied the silty waters of the river, then lunged with his spear. He killed his first fish with an almost mystic ease, then gazed up at the pale morning sky. Sometimes the gods were kind.
Testing his strange fortune, he quickly speared another fish, then another, and by sunrise he had a dozen fish skewered on a long branch.
It was just past dawn and the area around the docks was still mercifully empty of souls. Still, Ven could not risk discovery, so he started downriver to find a place to eat his breakfast in safety. Just as he was passing the last deep-water dock, he noticed a tall, thick-chested man standing at its end.
The man wore a thigh-length tunic and long linen trousers—a typical tribal costume. His hair was long and rather tangled and he sported a strange geometrical tattoo on his arm. Beside him lay a small pile of furs.
‘Good day for a sail,’ the man said in Latin. Ven nearly stopped in his tracks. There was not even a hint of a Celtic accent in the man’s voice: his words were as crisp and learned as a senator’s. ‘Wind from the south, I mean,’ clarified the man. He nodded down the river as if he considered it his own.
Ven silently chided himself for his poor judgement. Despite the man’s strange appearance, he was clearly Roman.
‘Good day for sailing,’ Ven returned, noticing that the man carried a large, well-used leather backpack, as if he made his living through travel.
‘Fish for sale?’ asked the man.
‘They can be,’ replied Ven.
‘How much?’ The man dug in a pocket and emerged with a handful of coins.
Ven stood warily at the beginning of the dock. Slave catchers took many forms and the man could easily have been one in disguise. Still, a trade was a trade and Ven needed clothing. ‘You can have them all for the trousers you wear,’ Ven said.
The man grunted a laugh. ‘These trousers are worth more than a hundred fish.’
‘How about one of those furs, then?’ asked Ven.
The man laughed at Ven’s outrageous request. ‘I will give you some coin for the fish,’ he said.
Ven strode down the deck, figuring that if the man attempted to seize him, he could simply push him into the river—or dive in himself. Ven planted himself before the man and held out the fish. ‘Three sesterces,’ he said.
The man gave Ven a quick assessment, taking in his tattoo, his spear, even his sandals. He did not accept the fish immediately, but instead held out his arm. ‘I am Titus,’ he said.
‘I am Ven,’ said Ven, gripping the man’s elbow in the customary Roman greeting.
‘Ven? I have never heard of such a name.’
‘It is short for Venator.’
‘Hunter?’
The man glanced at the sky just as Ven had just done not moments before, as if in gratitude. There was a keenness in his eyes that suggested presence of mind. As he studied the pile of furs, the man’s occupation came to Ven at once: he was a hunter, too.
‘Can you hunt things besides fish?’ he asked and Ven could not help but grin.
‘What do you think?’
Chapter Twelve
Ven struck his flintstone against the iron bar and coaxed his blaze to life. Beside him Titus was clearing a place on the ground for a bed mat. He was taking a rather long time at the task, digging through several layers of earth before filling the small concavity with fallen leaves.
They had been travelling together for nearly a month, yet Ven still found it strange how long it took the Roman to make himself comfortable at night. For all his tough talk and rugged exterior, in many ways he was as picky as a patrician.
Ven smiled to himself. After twenty years of bondage to Romans, Ven had finally escaped, only to be enslaved to yet another nit-picking Roman. This time, however, it was all a ruse and bless the gods for that. Indeed, bless the gods for Titus.
The two men had struck a deal. Titus had agreed to claim Ven as his slave in exchange for Ven’s services as a hunter. Proceeds from the sales of their furs would favour the men equally, giving Ven a chance to save a bit of coin. Even better, Ven would be allowed to dictate the direction of their hunt.
It had been a slow, thorough, zig-zagging journey north, with a brief respite in Londinium, and no sign of her.
Ven blew gently on the tinder, while his hunting partner stared into the flames. He was instinctively aware of his surroundings—the twitter of birds, the swish of a nearby stream, the song of twilight crickets. Here in the wilds of Britannia the world made sense. Here life was simple.
Yet things had changed.
That very day, he and Titus had visited the Roman colonia of Camulodunum to buy bread and enquire about the local hunting. An old Roman legionary fortress, the town had been converted into a settlement in which the locals of the Trinovante tribe held the same rights as Romans.
Fancying themselves Romans, some Trinovantes had gone as far as to renounce their own heritage. The Trinovante baker’s wife had ignored Ven’s perfectly good Celtic, for example, and instead had addressed Titus in her broken Latin.
‘You will not find much game in the Forest of Camulus, sir,’ she had explained to Titus. ‘A group of Iceni chieftains and Roman tribunes hunt there regularly. I am afraid they have already taken the low-hanging fruit.’
Ven had been puzzled by the woman. Surely she had lost ancestors in the famous revolt of Queen Boudica against the Roman occupiers, yet there was no malice in her voice as she described the intermingling of her tribe’s leaders with the Romans.
‘We have no interest in low-hanging fruit,’ said Ven in Celtic and the woman frowned.
‘Your slave is rather bold,’ she told Titus in Latin. ‘Tell me, where are you staying tonight? We have a comfortable room above our ovens here for rent. Stays very warm at night.’
‘Our lodgings are outside of town, I am afraid,’ replied Ven on Titus’s behalf. Beneath the eternal stars.
The woman’s eyes flashed. Collecting herself, she smiled at Titus. ‘You must not leave before trying out our new baths. They are just down the way—a gift from Governor Nepos.’ She looked Ven up and down, barely concealing her disgust. ‘Your slave, of course, is welcome to use the river.’
It was all Ven could do not to roll his eyes.
The tribes of southern Britannia were obviously not tribes any more; they had become ‘populations’. They declared their loyalty to the divine Emperor and sacrificed cattle to his cult. They made their lives in Romanised towns, where they had mixed with the Roman occupiers so completely that Ven could barely tell who was Roman and who was not.
‘I think we should head north tomorrow,’ Titus said now. He had stretched out on his bed mat and was staring up at the orange-tinged sky. ‘There will be a greater supply of animals and fewer vexing townsfolk.’
Ven stood to gather more firewood. ‘A fine idea, though I should remind you that my journey ends when we reach Brigante territory.’
That was not entirely true. Ven planned to stay in the lands of his kin only long enough to gather information. His journey would not end until he found Vita.
&n
bsp; ‘I have not forgotten about your impending departure,’ said Titus, ‘though Brigante territory is a long way off and there is a long winter ahead. Still, the thought troubles me constantly.’
‘Clearly not enough to help me gather firewood,’ called Ven.
‘I am merely storing my energy to prepare our lavish meal.’
‘And what do you plan for us tonight?’
‘Boiled barley for the first course, flavoured with a bit of dust. That will be followed by shreds of salted venison and slices of apple from the sacred groves of...where are we again?’
‘The Forest of Camulus.’
‘The Forest of Camulus!’
Ven watched his companion stand and walk softly down to the river with his bronze pot. A twig snapped behind him and he stopped in his tracks. Ven chuckled as a tiny brown bird hopped through the underbrush at Titus’s feet. Titus lunged for the tiny creature, but it hopped out of reach.
‘A valiant effort,’ Ven cried, having never met someone so very similar to himself. The man was always hunting.
Ven was always hunting, too, but his primary prey was a brown-and-green-eyed goddess and, when he finally found her, he would not kill her, but festoon her body with kisses.
Fortunately, Ven had managed to find other prey as well. On the first day of his partnership with Titus, Ven had landed two deer in the forests south of Londinium. The men had sold the hides in the city and with his proceeds Ven had been able to buy a hat and a decent pair of trousers.
Since then, however, they had not sighted a single animal. The forests of southern Britannia seemed unexpectedly empty and now even the tiny bird fluttered away.
‘I blame the Romans for our ill fortune,’ said Titus, returning to the edge of the fire with his pot of water. He scooped in a handful of grain.
‘You blame the Romans for our poor hunting?’
‘For Romans hunting is a sport, much like everything else. There is no appreciation for tribal hunting boundaries, or any control on the take. The Romans are wretched, greedy men.’
The Roman Lady's Illicit Affair Page 16