‘But you are Roman yourself.’
‘Aye, and so are you, in most ways at least, may Taranis forgive you.’
Ven gasped at the invocation of the barbarian god of thunder. ‘In my heart I am pure Brigante,’ he vowed.
It had been an ongoing debate between the two men. Who was more Roman: Ven the Barbarian Roman or Titus the Roman Barbarian?
‘Explain to me a world in which a Roman man wears trousers and invokes Brigante gods,’ Ven said, ‘and a Trinovante woman sends her prayers to Diana and extols the virtues of the baths.’
‘It is the way you live your life that makes you who you are,’ said Titus.
‘What I really wonder is why these southern tribes no longer even try to fight.’
‘Because they know they cannot succeed. The only time they came close to success was during Queen Boudica’s revolt, when they formed a great alliance, and still the Romans managed to destroy them. Meanwhile, the comforts of Rome beckon them daily, along with the stability of a world without raids. Wine, oil, weapons, gold, education—’
Ven shook his head. ‘The Romans are monsters. They paved over the sacred baths. They killed the druids. They make a desert and call it peace.’
‘And yet half the tribal warriors of southern Britannia are now Roman soldiers.’
‘Traitors, all.’
‘They fight for the promise of citizenship,’ observed Titus. ‘Are they traitors, or just men who want a place in the new world?’
‘This is no new world. It is the land of proud tribes who have existed for thousands of years.’
‘Without the Roman peace, those tribes would be warring and raiding with each other just as they have always done.’
‘The Roman peace is not peace. It is slavery,’ Ven hissed.
‘That woman from Camulodunum would not say so.’
‘Then she is a fool.’
Now it was Ven who stared into the flames. Perhaps he was the bigger fool. The town they had visited that day was no oddity, it was a vision of the future. The great warrior tribes of southern Britannia had fought and lost, and now they were being assimilated.
Surely the northern tribes of Britannia would be no different. They would resist the Romans for as long as they could; perhaps they would even mount an alliance, just as the southern tribes had done. There were many in Rome who privately believed that the Boudica rebellion might have succeeded were it not for the Roman commander Suetonius’s unique skill.
Perhaps the tribes of the north would encounter a weaker Roman foe. Perhaps they would fight and die together against terrible odds and be victorious. More likely, however, they would simply fight and die, and all so that their sons and daughters could put olive oil on their bread.
The world was turned upside down. Even if Ven’s tribe had not changed since he had lived among them, it would not be long until they did—though a deep part of him hoped that they would not go down without a fight.
Freedom is the prize, he thought suddenly.
A strange longing overtook him. It was not for the deep forests or windswept hills of his home territory. It was not even for his own kin. He longed for Vita. She was the only thing that seemed to make sense any more and he would not rest until he found her.
* * *
Orla’s babies would not stop crying. ‘Take Bodenius,’ she told Vita, handing her the boy.
Orla’s husband, the Brigante chieftain, had just toppled a table full of dishware, waking both babies from their naps. Now he kicked several of the fallen goblets against the wall, causing more loud clattering. The babies howled.
‘Cease, Rennyt!’ shouted Orla. ‘Control yourself!’
Vita feared for Orla. A Roman woman would not dare to speak to her husband in such a way without paying the price of a beating.
Vita moved to Orla’s side. ‘Give me little Amatus as well, Domina,’ she said and gently took the second babe against her chest.
‘I will not have you knocking over furniture in our home!’ Orla shouted at her husband. ‘Be calm.’
‘How am I supposed to be calm when the cursed Roman Governor has just doubled the price of tribute?’ the chieftain roared.
‘What?’ Orla asked, though she could barely be heard above her babies’ cries. ‘Quiet them, Vita!’ she commanded.
‘I am trying, Domina,’ said Vita, fearing for the chieftain’s wife. Vita stepped as far away from the couple as she could, then glanced about for some distraction. She caught Grandmother’s eye.
‘Sing them a song, dear,’ the old woman muttered.
A song? The only songs Vita knew were banquet songs in Latin, though she vaguely remembered her mother singing songs to her in her youth. She searched her mind for a Caledonian lullaby and at last was able to remember one.
‘The poor little ant thought he was so small...’ she began singing softly.
‘Why did he double the price of tribute?’ Orla asked.
‘Because the cursed Romans are bringing another legion to Britannia,’ he said.
‘Gods, no,’ said Orla.
Vita continued softly, ‘He tried to move the crumb, but it would not move at all...’
‘But why do they need yet another legion here? Is two not enough?’
‘Because of the wall, Orla. They have already begun to dig the trenches for it.’
‘The poor little ant was really such an oaf...’ Vita continued at a whisper.
Orla shook her head. ‘It cannot be.’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘What will become of us?’
The babies were nearly quiet and Vita finished softly, ‘Together with his friends they could move a whole loaf...’
Now the babies were silent, but their mother was weeping.
‘Did you not hear that, Wife?’ said the Chieftain.
‘Hear what?’
‘Your slave. Did you not hear her singing?’
‘What of it?’
‘Her accent.’
‘She is Caledonian—of course she has an accent.’
‘That is not a Caledonian accent,’ stated the Chief. ‘It is a Roman one. That woman is Roman.’
Orla turned to Vita. ‘You are Caledonian, yes, Vita? Is that not what you told me?’
Vita took a breath. ‘I am part-Caledonian, Domina, but I am also part-Roman.’
Orla let out a gasp. ‘Do you see?’ shouted the Chieftain. ‘I always knew it.’
‘Apologies, Domina, I—’
‘That is how they all are, Orla!’ said the Chieftain. ‘They lie like thieves.’
‘For shame, Vita!’ shouted Orla.
‘I do not want her around my children,’ ordered the Chief. ‘Give her another job. Laundry. Cooking. Make her go grind grain for all I care. Just do not let her touch my boys. She stinks of Rome.’
Vita handed over the twins and exited the roundhouse as quickly as she could. She ran to her laundry buckets and dived into her work. It was winter already and the cold wrapped around her hands, threatening to make them useless. Still, she could not bear to face the family to whom she was bound.
Vita plunged her mistress’s tunic in the soapy water and began to scrub. Several passers-by hissed and sneered at her as she worked. ‘Dirty Roman,’ they called. ‘Oil-swilling scum.’ News travelled fast at the hill fort—even faster than it did in the Aventine, or so it seemed.
She imagined her mother suffering similar treatment beneath her Roman masters. It was no wonder her mother always seemed so sad. She had once been like Orla—a strong British tribeswoman who stood up to her male kin and lived her own life. Then suddenly all of that was taken from her. By Romans.
‘Roman harlot!’ someone barked. Vita sucked in a breath, resolving not to let them break her spirit. She knew that over time, the Brigantes would begin to see her as part of their community, just as the Romans d
id with the barbarians who lived among them.
She rinsed Orla’s tunic and hung it out to dry, then plunged her own tunic into the soapy water. Though she was a slave, Vita counted herself fortunate. If she had not been discovered that day on the beach, it was possible that she might have been seized by less scrupulous captors. Even if she had made it to Londinium, it was not certain that Ven would have come to find her at all. Worse, Lepidus might have found her instead.
At least she had food in her belly, a roof over her head and furs with which to cover herself. She was lucky to be alive—something she reminded herself over and over as she scrubbed her tunic furiously, long after it was clean, as if to wash away her Roman-ness.
The sun dropped below the horizon and she found herself alone beneath a cold winter moon. Finally, the tears came, as they always did on nights when she missed him. And tonight she missed him terribly.
She pictured him running through a deep forest somewhere, chasing after a deer in the moonlight. No wonder he was called Hunter: he was so fleet of foot. Surely not even a deer could escape him.
Though, somehow, Vita had managed to escape him utterly.
She had not even had a chance to say goodbye to him—or to convey her gratitude. She had not been able to kiss him one last time and tell him that she loved him with all her heart.
He was the worthiest man she had ever met. He was kind and honourable, caring and valiant. He stirred her soul and ignited her lust. She owed him a debt that could never be repaid—for reminding her who she was, for making the world new again, for bringing her back to life.
Now, however, she had to let him go. To cling to his memory would be to invite misery. Love and longing were not just dangerous emotions for a slave, but for anyone who found herself inside one of life’s prisons.
She had to forget him. It would take time, but she knew that she could convince her mind that he never was and thus ease her own suffering.
Never again would Vita want what she could not have. It was that very desire that had led her to commit disastrous mistakes—first with Magnus, then with Lepidus. If she had not tried to recover her dowry, Magnus would not have tried to kill her. If she had not broken her contract with Lepidus, she would not have been enslaved. The path to her freedom had been laid out before her twice and twice her own avarice had been her undoing.
Never again. Now Vita understood that she had overreached and the gods were having their say. Vita’s mother had been a slave and now Vita would be, too: a just punishment for her ambition and greed.
She would not resist her bonds. She would serve her new family as best she could. Instead of yearning for what she did not have, she would be grateful for what she did have. She would no longer seek to escape her life, but to accept it.
* * *
When Vita at last returned to the roundhouse, all of the family was asleep. She fetched her blanket and curled up on top of her bed mat, just next to the door. A few paces away, Grandmother was snoring softly. Vita could not manage to stop her weeping and she feared awaking the old woman. She buried her face in her hands.
‘Are you all right, dear?’ she heard the old woman whisper.
‘I am all right, Grandmother. Gratitude,’ Vita whispered back.
‘You are trying to accept that something has been lost,’ said the old woman.
‘Yes, I am,’ said Vita, expecting the kind old soul to offer her words of comfort.
‘In that way you are like the Brigantes themselves—trying to accept what they have lost to the Romans.’
‘I suppose so, yes,’ said Vita.
‘A dangerous game, acceptance,’ Grandmother said, then she rolled over and returned to her sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
It was the kalends of January when Ven first glimpsed the ditches. The day was cold and clear and he and Titus had just climbed to the top of a hill that had been recently cleared of timber. The northern limits of the Roman province of Britannia spread out before them, a tapestry of brown fields and green forests.
Cutting a path from east to west across the landscape was a familiar escarpment of rock. Ven knew the feature well, for when he was a boy he had often climbed the escarpment’s stone-pocked slopes and used them as lookouts for game. He never could have imagined its undulating heights might one day play host to his tribe’s ruin.
And yet there was the harbinger for that coming ruin right before his eyes—in the form of ditches.
They ran across the landscape like a trio of earthen serpents. The first, closest ditch lay at the southern base of the escarpment and was obviously the shallowest of the three. Ven might not have recognised it at all had it not been for the stumps of the trees that had obviously been felled to mark its path. It could not have been more than the size of a shovel in depth, a kind of demarcation line for something greater to come.
Ven wondered what that thing might be. For all of his architectural and military knowledge, he could not explain the purpose of that southernmost ditch.
The purpose of the northernmost ditch, in contrast, was abundantly clear. It was a first line of defence. Located just beyond the steep northern side of the escarpment, the northern ditch was large and full of souls—an endless line of men in military dress.
Ven noticed the stains of tribal tattoos on some of the men’s arms and guessed them to be auxiliary soldiers—probably recruited from the southern tribes. The ditch they were digging was as deep as the men were tall and flanked by even higher berms. It was less a ditch than an earthen wall, a formidable barrier in its own right.
The final ditch snaked between the two other ditches on top of the escarpment itself. It climbed over rises and plunged into canyons, tracing a path across the territory that Ven had once called his home.
Ven could see groups of men gathered at intervals along this third ditch. Some were moving large wooden cranes into place while others appeared to be stacking stones. Still others were standing inside the ditch itself, digging relentlessly.
‘There will be the wall,’ Ven remarked, though surely Titus had guessed as much. ‘Hadrian’s masterpiece.’
Titus grunted. ‘Now I remember why I never come this far north.’
‘And why is that?’ asked Ven.
‘Same reason the Princeps is building that wall. You northern Brigantes are a troublesome group.’
Titus was gazing beyond the northern ditch to a hill fort in the distance: the northernmost hill fort of the Brigante tribe. Ven recognised its tall spiked fence and thatched roofs instantly. The Brigante Chieftain and his entourage made his home at the hill fort along with hundreds of others and, as a boy, Ven had travelled there often with his father for meetings. Seeing the hill fort now, after so many years, brought a strange pain into Ven’s heart.
He turned away only to discover another familiar sight: a sprawling Roman settlement about a mile south of the southernmost ditch.
The core of the settlement consisted of an ordered collection of buildings: barracks, granaries, stables, workshops, offices, latrines and ovens surrounded by a large stone wall. ‘That is the Roman fort of Vindolanda,’ remarked Ven. ‘It has been here since before I was born.’
‘And will be here long after you are dead, I imagine,’ said Titus.
Outside the fort, a town had grown up: a haphazard variety of dwellings that appeared almost comical against the fort’s stern angles.
‘A day’s trip to the east of here is another fort called Coria,’ remarked Ven. Where a wicked man makes his home.
‘I have never been to Coria, either,’ remarked Titus. ‘They say the soldiers there pay twice as much for beer.’
‘Perhaps they would also pay twice as much for furs,’ said Ven.
Titus shook his head and gazed out at the sprawling forest. ‘Doubt that.’
Ven gazed west as far as he could see. ‘There are still many more fort
s to be constructed and many more soldiers to begin work. There will be twenty-two forts in all supporting the wall, along with a smattering of fortlets and other castra,’ Ven remarked.
‘For a barbarian, you know quite a lot about Roman military installations,’ said Titus.
‘Well, I drew up the plans for the wall myself,’ said Ven.
‘Ha!’ Titus slapped Ven on the back. ‘Good one! Now let us get out of here, by Hades. Did you not say your old settlement is near? I could use a warm stew and a soft bed tonight.’
The two men continued their journey, and by sunset they were standing outside a cluster of small roundhouses beside a quiet river north of the wall.
He found the finest-looking roundhouse and knocked on the door. A buxom, stern-faced woman answered. She held up a sharp gladius and frowned. ‘Who are you and why to do come here?’ she growled.
‘I am Ven, son of Tovin and Enica,’ Ven said in his best Brigantian Celtic. ‘I come from this place. Please, lay down your weapon. I am not your enemy.’
The woman held the blade even closer to Ven’s throat. ‘No, you are not, but the man next to you is. Tell him to leave.’
‘He is my friend and will do you no harm. I give you my word as a Brigante.’
‘He is Roman. Tell him to leave or I will cut his throat,’ said the woman. ‘I give you my word as a Brigante.’
Ven turned to Titus. ‘I am sorry, friend. It seems that our association ends here.’
‘As I feared it would,’ returned Titus.
‘May you find wealth and happiness.’
‘I already have,’ said Titus. ‘It is you I worry about.’
Titus turned away, then paused and turned back. ‘Remember, it is the way you live your life that makes you who you are,’ he said.
Ven felt as if he had just received some rare and precious wisdom. He bowed his thanks, but when he returned to standing, Titus had disappeared and Ven found himself locked in a pillowy embrace. ‘Cousin Ven!’ the woman cried. ‘I never thought I would see you again! It is me! Cousin Ertola!’
The Roman Lady's Illicit Affair Page 17