She knew how badly Ven wished to do good for his tribe—not just for the ones who lived, but for the ones who had died as well. She knew that it was this important work that would allow him to finally forgive himself for his failures so long ago. To stand in the way of his path would not only be selfish, it would be loveless, and Vita loved Ven with all her heart.
He could not be Roman and she could not be Brigante and it seemed clearer to her every day how dangerous their love had been. The only thing that could have come of it was woe.
Freedom was the prize and now that Ven was free to do what he must for his tribe, Vita was free to live her life, too. No more invisible prisons—only a very real wall and Ven and Vita on either side.
It did not matter, or so Vita told herself. What mattered was cleaning up this mess, or fetching that soldier’s beer, or finishing these lines of stitching before the lamplight ran out. She kept herself as busy as she could and thus managed to keep her longing at bay.
* * *
Her capes had begun to sell faster than she could finish them and, by the time that spring arrived, she found that her pockets were full. Very full.
She should have been delighted. With the money she had earned from the tavern and her sewing, she could buy whatever she wished. The problem was that she did not wish for anything at all.
That was not true. She wished to know that he was all right. Was he eating well? Had he found a new place to live? Did he miss her the way she missed him—so badly that it felt like a stone inside her stomach?
She decided to rent a room. The tavern floor was rather hard and there was a small room attached to the wheelwright’s shop that was being offered at a fair price. On her first night inside the small dwelling, she could hardly believe her good fortune. After nearly a year of searching, she had finally found a room of her own and without even looking.
The space had a large hearth and a fine raised bed for which she was able to make a cushion in no time. She purchased a simple table and chairs from the local wood smith and was able to acquire an old cooking pot from Avidia’s stores.
She was surprised by the privacy the room afforded. She could leave out her sewing and not worry about it getting stained and the place warmed up quickly even during a freeze. It was a true sanctuary amid the bustle of the vicus, yet she did not feel the kind of joy she might have expected at such an acquisition.
On the contrary, most nights she felt rather lonely in the room. She tried to keep herself busy with her sewing, but often found herself thinking of Ven. She especially dreaded the moment she arrived home each night, for it was when she missed him the most.
Some nights she would lie in bed and construct elaborate fantasies about him. She would envision Ven as a soldier and she his secret wife. There were many women in town who enjoyed such arrangements. They were easily recognisable by small apartments they kept—often accompanied by children.
Soldiers’ wives led hardworking lives, but they struck Vita as a rather merry group. Most days they would go about their work in the vicus, selling and trading and gathering gossip. Then, every fifteen days, they would reunite with their husbands for three days of secret reunion.
A married soldier would always arrive outside his wife’s room at night, in order to avoid detection. He would tap his fist against the door, then disappear into the private dwelling without a sound. Normally, he did not emerge until three days later, when he would sneak back to the fort under cover of darkness.
Tap, tap.
Vita imagined what it would be like to hear that gentle sound upon her door—the harbinger of the man she loved. She envied secret wives, though she knew she could never be one herself—not unless the Roman army suddenly began accepting Brigante recruits!
Still, she indulged the fantasy nearly every night, picturing Ven arriving on her doorstep after fifteen days had passed and quietly giving the sign. In the vision, she ushered him inside soundlessly and sat him down before a bowl of soup. The soup was always presented, but it was never consumed, for they always had more interesting things to do.
* * *
Vita had passed most of the rainy spring months basking inside those rosy visions. Then one morning in May, the rain finally ceased. The sun came out from behind the clouds and shone over the lush green hills outside the fort, making them sparkle.
The three women emerged from the dark tavern and lifted their faces to it and for the first time in months, Vita felt the sun on her face. ‘It feels better than the sun of Rome, does it not, Avidia?’
Her friend nodded. ‘Like the sun god finally had a bath.’
‘I had nearly forgotten there was a sun,’ remarked Gislinde.
‘The tavern is closed for the month!’ Avidia pronounced suddenly. ‘We all need a change of scenery. Let us go down to Londinium and do a few errands.’
Gislinde jumped and clapped her hands. ‘I have always wanted to see that fabled city!’
‘Londinium?’ Vita asked the girl. ‘But what about Rome?’ Gislinde frowned, as if it was the first she had heard of the place. Vita turned to Avidia. ‘But why go all the way to Londinium? It is such a long way and not without risk.’
‘Work is not everything and risk is the very spice of life!’ replied Avidia. ‘We must keep ourselves moving, Vita—lest we grow stale and blue with mould.’ She flicked a bit of dust from Vita’s shoulder and shook her head. ‘Besides, we are due for some procurement around here—pitchers, cups, and the like. And Gislinde here could use a new tunic.’
Gislinde shrieked. ‘A new tunic!’
‘Procurement?’ repeated Vita, still confused.
Avidia expelled a long sigh. ‘Vita, we are going to go shopping.’
* * *
Avidia and Gislinde took less than a day to prepare for their trip to Londinium—a ten-day journey by carriage. ‘Are you sure we cannot convince you to come?’ Avidia asked Vita.
‘I am rather tired of road trips,’ Vita replied. ‘Besides, I had enough of crowded streets back in Rome.’
‘How quickly your definition of crowded has changed!’ Avidia remarked.
‘I would much rather navigate around the wise old rocks and trees than the grumpy old matrons and merchants,’ said Vita.
‘Promise me you will at least get outside,’ said Avidia. ‘Take yourself for a stroll, Vita. Get out of this muddy vicus and enjoy yourself for a change. It will be good for you.’
* * *
The next morning after seeing the two women off, Vita decided to take Avidia’s advice. She headed north, in the direction of the wall-to-be, and caught sight of a group of soldiers hard at work halfway up a ridge.
They were gathered around a wall nearly as tall as she, each performing a different task. She saw some of the soldiers mixing concrete while others were chiselling and placing stones, while still others hauled rubble from a set of nearby carts.
Vita watched and wondered at the men at work. The wall they completed would be a true feat of engineering.
And the end of the Brigantes.
Vita walked over to the masons, who greeted her with a collective grin.
‘Tell me, what is the true reason for the wall?’ she asked the men.
‘To keep out the barbarians,’ said one.
‘To keep us busy until the next war,’ said another.
‘To keep Gaius here from wandering too far from the fort at night,’ said another. The men laughed.
‘I think it is a tourist attraction,’ said a man operating a large chisel. ‘Egypt has its pyramids, Olympia its statue of Zeus and Britannia shall have a lovely wall. People will come from all over the world to stroll its scenic ramparts. They will stay in our inns and drink in our taverns.’
The man tipped an imaginary beer to Vita and she laughed. ‘Well, in that case, build away,’ she jested, aware that their levity came at the expense of an entire t
ribe. She wished there was a way for the Brigante way of life to survive this invasion, but she did not see how. If she and Ven could not even survive such a clash, how could they?
‘Will there be a walkway on top of the wall?’ Vita asked. ‘A place for soldiers to patrol?’
‘They have recently decided to add a walkway, yes,’ said the man mixing the concrete. ‘The new Chief Architect has added it into the plans.’
‘You speak of Lepidus Severus?’ Vita asked, her curiosity stirring.
‘No, I speak of his replacement, ma’am,’ said the soldier. ‘Lepidus Severus was recently relieved of his duty.’
Vita trained her expression. ‘For what reason?’
‘Incompetence, ma’am,’ said the soldier. ‘Apparently, his slave did all Lepidus’s work. After the slave escaped, Lepidus was unable to complete his drawings.’
Vita did her best to conceal her shock. She stepped back and bowed to the group. ‘Gratitude, soldiers, for your heartening discussion.’ She waved at the men and then made her way further up the slope, her head spinning.
Lepidus had not only been a wicked man, he had apparently also been a fraud. Nor was she any closer to answering the question than she had asked Lepidus so many months ago. What was the real reason for the wall?
She continued up the slope and soon found herself at the crest of an angled escarpment of rock—the highest point around. She paused and breathed the fresh air. There was a lovely view and the exercise seemed to have settled her mind.
She gazed north, admiring the fields and forests. The land seemed to stretch out before her like a great patchwork cape—one that she wished to follow to its fringe one day. She knew that somewhere at land’s end were the lands of her mother’s kin.
She yearned to meet the Caledonii, for she knew that they were a part of her in some sense. Not that she wished to adopt their ways—though they were probably not all that different from Brigante ways, which were not all that different from Roman ways. Really, she just wanted to be closer to her mother. She had been missing her more than ever lately.
Still, she knew she would never be accepted by the Caledonii. She was Roman—an invader—and not welcome in this land. It did not matter that Roman was just one part of her. By choosing one side she had tacitly rejected the other and she hated herself for it.
She had hoped her self-loathing would get better as the months passed, but the feeling had got worse. She heard stories at the tavern, terrible accounts of how the Romans treated the people of Britannia’s tribes. Threats, taxation, starvation, humiliation—the cycle was unrelenting.
She knew that the tribes were violent before the Romans arrived. Their culture of raiding was famous throughout the world. Still, they did not deserve the Roman ‘peace’ that was being imposed upon them. They had not asked for it.
When she had been with Ven she had felt part of the solution somehow, as if together they might find a way for the Brigantes to be saved. She had envisioned a great alliance of the northern tribes, brought together through blood ties and diplomacy, somehow keeping the north of Britannia free of Romans.
Ha! What a ridiculous dream! It was the recent in a string of fantasies in which she had been indulging to lift her spirit. In truth, after she had left Ven, all the joy had drained out of her and she knew what a fool she was to hope to get it back. Freedom was more important than happiness and she had made her choice.
But, gods, she missed him.
Chapter Eighteen
Ven was sitting in a tavern outside the fort at Eboracum when he finally found out where she was. It was the middle of May and most of the vicus was out enjoying the sunny weather. It was the reason he had been alone inside the dark tavern for most of that afternoon and that had been just fine with him.
He had not even acknowledged the man who sat down next to him.
He hardly acknowledged anyone any more, unless it was to ask after Vita. Since he had lost her back in January, he guessed that he had spoken to half the population of Britannia. He had gone up and down the island, from Vindolanda and Coria in the north to Londinium in the south, and everywhere in between. Not a single soul had heard of a woman such as she.
Coinless and bereft, Ven had returned to the forests outside Eboracum, where game remained plentiful and his Brigante tribesmen were still far away. He landed many deer, gathered much coin and returned to the vicus outside the fort often.
In truth, he was miserable. He frequently forgot to eat and sleep did not come easy. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her. Sometimes she was rising up from a tranquil pool. Other times she was floating above it. And other times she was simply pulling back a door flap and beckoning him inside.
Always there were her eyes—luminous and full of facets. They haunted him, those eyes. They would always haunt him, though he still could not think of what they reminded him of.
He ordered another cup of un-watered wine and decided to consider the issue. He had just taken his first sip when the man sitting beside him decided to speak.
‘Hello, there,’ he said and Ven nodded grudgingly. ‘I am Priscus. Gaius Lucius Priscus, to be precise. I am—’
‘I know who you are,’ said Ven. A busy wine merchant, Ven had seen Priscus in the tavern many times before. The man ordered a cup of beer.
‘Here is to the Roman peace and all the business that it brings!’ he said. He raised his cup in the air and then waited for Ven to do the same. ‘Here, here!’ shouted the merchant.
‘Here, here,’ Ven repeated joylessly. He watched Priscus drink down the contents of his cup in a single gulp.
Ven shook his head.
‘Does something vex you?’ asked the merchant.
‘In fact, it does,’ said Ven. Of the dozen other chairs in this tavern, why have you chosen the one next to me to sit in?
‘You are a vendor of wine, yet you drink beer,’ Ven observed. ‘Why?’ He tried to sound curious. It was too early in the day to fall into a fight.
‘Does a fish drink the water in which it swims?’ boomed Priscus, apparently delighted by his own cleverness. Ven produced a tight grin of acknowledgement, yet the man continued. ‘I would be a fool to consume the wine I trade, for it is ridiculously overpriced.’
Ven gazed into his cup. He had never even considered the price of the wine.
‘You would cry at the prices they charge in the north,’ Priscus continued. ‘Do you not wish to know why?’ he asked, but he did not wait for Ven’s response. ‘Because they are moving thousands of soldiers to the forts along the River Vedra and the demand for wine has spiked. They are building a great wall there, you see.’
‘So I have heard,’ said Ven. He took a long drink from his cup. It pained him to hear about the construction of the wall. With the arrival of each new soldier, the tribute demands on the Brigantes increased. With each stone, the northern and southern Brigantes were being driven further apart. He yearned to help his brethren, but he could not do it until he found Vita.
Ven took another long drink. He should have been with his tribesmen right then, not sitting in some dark, sour-smelling tavern outside Britannia’s largest Roman fort.
Still, he could not reconcile his life. If he was protecting his tribe, then he could not be there to defend Vita. If he was protecting Vita, he could not work to defend his tribe. He was only glad he did not own a mirror, so he did not have to look at himself in the eye.
‘A working soldier tends to be a thirsty soldier,’ Priscus was saying. He tapped his cup on the bar, but it seemed that the barkeep had gone outside to enjoy a bit of sun. ‘Some taverns are better than others,’ he growled.
‘And which is the best tavern you have encountered in Britannia?’ Ven asked, beginning to feel his wine.
‘Oh, that is easy. Of all the taverns I service, the one in Vindolanda is the loveliest,’ the man said. ‘Pretty bartenders, good food, prom
pt service. They even have cushions on the chairs. Can you imagine that? Cushions!’
‘Cushions?’ Ven echoed. He finished his wine, trying to find his enthusiasm.
‘The place is full of Tungrians, of course. Their cohort is stationed at the fort. Coarse, ill-mannered men I find them. But if you can get over their grunting and burping you will encounter generous servings and very reasonable prices. And if a man over-drinks he is promptly offered biscuits.’
‘Bishcuitsh?’ Gods, was Ven already slurring his words? It was only just past midday.
‘The place is always full of customers and one would never guess who is the owner.’
Priscus waited patiently for Ven to ask the identity of the owner. Perhaps if Ven waited long enough the man would just go away.
‘Women!’ the man blurted. ‘It is run by women. Two Romans and a Batavian.’
Ven instantly sobered. He had long given up on finding Vita, but it had become a habit to listen closely to any information about Roman women.
‘Describe the Roman women, if you would be so good.’ Ven whistled outside to the barkeep. ‘Pour this man another cup of beer, would you?’ He stared at Priscus. ‘Go ahead. Describe the women.’
‘Well, they could not be more different,’ said Priscus. ‘The one woman is tall and thin with curly hair and a quick temper. The other is short and round and rather handsome. She is the one who brings the biscuits.’
Ven squeezed his cup. ‘About the round woman,’ he said carefully, ‘can you remember the colour of her eyes?’
The wine trader paused, searching the rafters above him. ‘I believe they are green. Or perhaps brown? Why do you ask?’
Suddenly, Ven laughed—a long, riotous laugh apparently disturbing enough to give the merchant reason to depart. ‘What is the matter with you, friend?’ he asked Ven as he headed for the door. ‘Was it something I said?’
The Roman Lady's Illicit Affair Page 23