A Villa Far From Rome

by Sheila Finch

  There was time for one last visit on the way home, a group of salt farmers whose huts clustered together in a shallow valley where a wide stream made its way to the sea. He summoned up his remaining energy and urged Stormfellow forward.

  The sun was low over the Downs as he rounded a bend in the road and saw the steam ascending from the boiling pits on a rise above the sea. Drawing closer, he identified the large flat-bottomed settling tanks that held sea-water in the first stage of salt extraction. The fields around the tanks were bare, their trees having long ago been felled to fuel the fires. Which was harder, he pondered as he approached, toiling over kiln fires or salt-water boiling pits, or tending sheep in winter on the exposed Downs? By what stroke of fate had he avoided these heavy lives to be born into a chief’s family? His own problems became less burdensome when he contemplated the lives of his people. His hope had been that by adopting the laws and the advanced knowledge of the Romans, his people would come to live better lives. The Romans in their turn would benefit from the grain, cattle, wool and silver the island had to offer. Now, he wondered if the exchange could ever be truly balanced.

  The salt farmers were more vocal in their reception of his news. Six of them stood by a deep cistern that held the salt-laden water on the first stage, thick-armed men who wore very little in spite of the chilly late afternoon. They didn’t offer him hospitality of any kind. Instead, he was assaulted by questions about the demand for more money and arguments that they were already paying more than their fair share.

  “They need our salt,” a fat, middle-aged man with red cheeks and bulbous nose that betrayed his love of beer complained. “If we didn’t provide it, their meat would rot on the way to Rome! Let them remember that.”

  “Aye,” another man agreed. “We’re free men, not slaves to be worked to death.”

  “What if we all refuse?” a third asked. “What could they do?”

  He shook his head. The garrison at Noviomagus was small, but he had no doubt the Romans could quickly bring in enough troops to smash a revolt. He’d seen Roman power at work crushing Boudicca, and she’d been better prepared to face them than any of the farmers and craftsmen who’d found his news so unwelcome. Acceptance of Roman rule had to happen. Better for the Regni that it happen peacefully and not by the sword.

  “It’s not right that our king should support the Romans over his own people!”

  He left them arguing behind him and headed home.

  He was worn down to his bones by the past frustrating days carrying the unwelcome news. Stormfellow was tired too, plodding patiently along the narrow road that led back to Noviomagus. The sky darkened in the west, only a few purple streaks left to show where the sun had been, but the air was still warm. Any other time, he would’ve derived great joy from his visits. Nothing was more satisfying to him than observing the trades of shepherds and potters and farmers, learning the wisdom that didn’t come from books. His father and grandfather had taught him that he owed it to the people he ruled to understand what their lives were about. Until now, that had not been a burdensome task.

  Was he doing the right thing? He was certain that cooperating with Rome was the path of the future, but his people didn’t understand. Some of them saw it as betrayal. His mood darkened as he rode on. Even his own Breca had seen it as betrayal. And why should she think otherwise? She had been banished from his house as much as Gracila had been banished from the centurion’s. Though it had been Nero’s doing, not his own, hadn’t he accepted it?

  The way passed through a copse of young elms, in shadow as daylight slipped further away. Even the birds whose chatter he’d been aware of all day had quieted with the approach of evening. In the distance, he thought he heard the sound of a horse whinnying, but it was only the wind rising to stir the branches of the trees. Few people came this way; he had the road to himself. He’d heard the occasional story about thieves lurking amongst these trees, waiting for unwary travelers, but he discounted them. A thief might have to wait a long time and then encounter a poor man with nothing to steal!

  For a moment, a sliver of doubt entered his mind. Perhaps he should have accepted Gallus’s offer of accompanying him. He hadn’t seen the need. Yet a friendly voice would be welcome right now.

  Darkness fell over the wood. The moon had not yet risen, but the horse knew his way home. He doubted it would really come down to outright revolt. The Regni would argue and propose outlandish schemes to avoid paying the increase the centurion wanted. A lot of words would be wasted on threats and boasts and scorn for Roman citizens, but they’d find a way to do it. That was the Regni way. And in the end, they would know the benefit.

  As long as the Romans restrained themselves from their tendency to think every argument should be overcome with the blade of a sword.

  The back of his head exploded with pain and his vision went black. Pain raced through him like fire. He tried to grab for the reins which had slipped from his fingers but his hands were no longer under his control.

  Another blow, this one to his shoulders. He struggled to draw his gladius. Hands grasped his leg. Stormfellow reared up, whinnying in fear. He slashed with the blade at an attacker he couldn’t see. He felt himself being dragged off the horse –

  His last thought was regret that he’d never see Breca again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Antonia sat at Tiberius’s desk in the one part of the old house that hadn’t been demolished yet, looking over a page of plans Severus had given her to review. She needed to be of some use here, and if she couldn’t help Tiberius with his problems, at least she could supervise the construction of the villa – she’d made a determined effort not to think about its eventual destiny. But that was proving harder than she’d supposed.

  It didn’t help that somewhere in the house somebody was singing – if you could call the peculiar wailing singing. The horrible noise was causing her head to pound.

  She didn’t like to admit she couldn’t understand architectural drawings and was waiting for Niko to come and explain them to her. At this time of the morning, the Greek would be busy with the children’s Latin lessons or something, but she’d sent him a request, and he wouldn’t ignore that.

  The weather was finally warming – thank the gods! – and the rain that had settled over the island for ever had blown away. The sky was the clear, bright blue of summer, unsullied by the winter’s smoke haze of kitchen fires. Through the window came the sounds of workmen hammering and sawing, the occasional high-pitched oaths that the architect indulged in when things weren’t going his way, and the deeper, slower replies of his assistant, Aron.

  “Your husband didn’t return last night,” Niko said as he entered the room.

  She was irritated by the Greek’s lack of formality. Of course, he wasn’t a slave to bow and grovel when he came into her presence, but she could still hope for a small sign of respect. She was a queen, after all. What an odd thought that was! Obviously, she wasn’t ever going to get that level of respect from him.

  “Is that meaningful? He’s often gone for days on tribal matters.”

  “Gallus expected him at the temple site this morning. There are decisions he needs to make.”

  “What can I do about it?” She gritted her teeth. Whoever was making that appalling wailing needed to stop before her head burst. “Niko, find out what that noise is.”

  “It’s only Delamira singing.”

  “No wonder Rome destroyed Carthage if that’s what their singing is like!”

  “Do you know what settlements your husband planned to visit?” Niko was sorting though documents on the desk, obviously searching for something.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A book of animal stories in their original Greek that I ordered to be shipped here. I thought the children could benefit from them.

  “You’re teaching them Greek now? Lucia can’t even read Latin fluently yet!”

  “Now is the time.”

  She made a face to ex
press her displeasure and returned to the previous topic. “What makes you think Tiberius would discuss his plans with me?”

  “Because you’re his wife.”

  “You take liberties, Niko!”

  “Perhaps I do, but you do yourself no good by such displays of arrogance.”

  There were moments when she suspected Niko would treat her like a child no matter what she did. Why did she tolerate him? She needed him; there was no other she could turn to, especially with Gracila sent back to Rome.

  “You have no right to scold me, Niko. You have secrets of your own. Don’t think I haven’t noticed your little excursions into Noviomagus that last until well into the night.”

  He straightened up from the desk, a book in his hand. “Your father made me a free man. I don’t have to ask your permission.”

  “Oh – of course not!” She was suddenly full of apprehension. What would she do if he left her? “I’m sure Tiberius will be back soon.”

  Though how could she be sure? Things went more easily between them now, since her long illness, but she was ever aware of the shadow of the Regni woman that came between them. Courtesy would do; she didn’t need him to love her.

  At least, Delamira’s dreadful singing had faded and the room was quiet again.

  “I want you to look at these drawings, Niko. Severus has proposed a change in one room. Tell me what you think. Is it a good idea?”

  He took the scroll from her and unrolled it, laying it out on the new table Tiberius had bought from a shipment that came from Italia recently. It was a pretty table, a dark, carved wood with a rather lovely pattern of grain, and she’d been delighted when a porter carried it in. It surprised her that Tiberius actually thought about such things as the objects surrounding him in his own home.

  Niko studied the plans for a moment. “A villa the size this one’s going to be will need the expanded kitchen facilities he’s drawn to feed all the visitors who will surely come.”

  “Is that what those funny symbols mean? Kitchens?”

  He gazed at her without answering.

  “Of course I understood that! I just wondered –”

  “If they were going to be located in a convenient place,” he said smoothly. “Yes, I think so.”

  “You think I’m still a child, don’t you? As if I know little more than Lucia.”

  His expression softened. “To me, you will always be that little girl running through her father’s villa, hair streaming out of its ribbons, one sandal lost in the garden somewhere.”

  She laughed. “We were playing ‘Catch-Me,’ my brother Valentinus and I. His games always got us into trouble with Pater, but he always shielded me from blame.”

  “I remember how you chased the chickens in the courtyard too.”

  “I was gathering eggs! Oh, Niko, if only we could return to those days. Are you ever homesick? I don’t mean for Pyrgi.”

  “I don’t spend much time thinking about Greece.”

  She heard more in his flat tone than the words conveyed. She was certain there was some secret hidden in his past, before he’d been captured in some rebel skirmish and enslaved.

  The door banged open and Septimus Severus strode in, so secure in his position as Nero’s favorite architect that he never needed to ask permission. The man was hard to like, but he was building a beautiful house for her so she held her tongue. Behind him, hesitating in the doorway as if uncertain of his welcome, she saw Aron.

  “So?” the architect demanded. “Have you considered the plans? What do you think of them? Are you satisfied? The kitchen facilities will suit you?”

  His rapid fire questions didn’t really leave room for her to present her own ideas – if she’d had any. She felt sure he wouldn’t have listened in any case.

  She handed the rolled plans back to him. “Yes. I’m pleased.”

  “Of course you are,” the architect said. “After all, I built the magnificent villa for Nero. This shares many of the same features. How could it not satisfy you?”

  None of the dust of tearing down the old house or building the new ever seemed to cling to the short man’s tunic. His dark hair was always impeccably oiled and curled on his head – some of it trained to curl across a spot where the scalp had begun to show through. His overbearing arrogance intimidated her today.

  “I’m satisfied. But could we discuss the new garden some time?”

  “I’m an architect, Lady, not a digger in the earth!”

  “I could find diggers and planters too for you in Noviomagus,” Aron said softly. “And plants.”

  The architect glared at his assistant. “The only space for a garden is where the apple trees are now.”

  “Those are your husband’s apple trees,” Niko put in.

  “Old, hardly bearing any fruit, and what does grow is shriveled.”

  “Leave my husband’s apple trees. We’ll find somewhere else for a garden. But what I’d like is a grape arbor.”

  “Ridiculous!” the architect snapped. He led the way out of the room, motioning for her to follow him,

  The plans for the villa were grander than she could have hoped for or even imagined. When it was finished, he showed her, there’d be four long wings in a square around a wide grassy space that could contain columns and statues or fountains, even a flower garden if she insisted. The east wing, facing the road from Noviomagus to the sea, would have a wide entrance hall, just like the one she’d entered when she first encountered the emperor in Rome – without the enormous statue of Nero, she hoped! The audience chamber would be in the west wing, and very grand. The south wing would face the sea beyond another garden, a better vista than even Nero’s house on its hillside could boast of. Not that it would all be completed this year – or even next. Severus insisted he was an architect, not a magician. He lacked the expert builders and carpenters he’d had access to in Rome, not to mention skilled craftsmen to lay the mosaics. Some materials would have to be imported from Rome, and who could say how long that would take?

  Severus went on and on with his complaints, and she retreated into her thoughts. Lucia had asked if the emperor would come to visit them. Her heart pounded. In the end what happened here would have nothing to do with her, she thought. If events in Rome grew so dire –

  But that might never happen. No sense wasting thought on it.

  After a while, she allowed herself to daydream about the villa itself. Surely it would be complete – and magnificent! – by the time Lucia was grown. An attractive dowry when she came to marry. But of course, they’d have gone back to Rome long before then. A shadow passed over her heart at that, a feeling her old nurse had called an owl’s feather dropping on her tomb, a bad omen.

  She had a growing need to do something here, to be more than the wife Tiberius had been burdened with, unschooled and unskilled. There was something she knew, a skill she’d learned at her father’s side, even when he didn’t know he was teaching and wouldn’t have approved if he had. She knew how to make wine. And if she didn’t have grapes – which in any case would take several years before she could harvest them – she could use other fruit. Walking in the garden at the point where the beech trees grew, she’d noticed bushes still full of blackberries. Tomorrow she’d gather all she could find, then she’d summon Old Nev and together they’d make blackberry wine. It would be a productive way to fill the time.

  She realized suddenly that Severus had finished lecturing her about his building plans and gone away. Aron was still in the garden, staring at her. Flustered, she smoothed out the folds of her tunic. But it wasn’t a hostile stare, rather it proclaimed that they shared something between them that others didn’t, the verbal abuse of Septimus Severus. She smiled at him, and he smiled back and went away.

  Just as she was about to go inside, she saw Gallus coming down the road from Noviomagus, leading an animal. Puzzled, she watched as he grew closer. It was a donkey, an old one, judging by the white muzzle and the slow, shambling gait. Gallus stopped and raised a han
d in greeting.

  “I’ll just put this one in the stable with the horses,” he said.

  “It’s a donkey.”

  “Yes. She’ll do fine with them.”

  “But we don’t need a donkey – especially an old one.”

  He gazed at her. “I thought the little one would like to ride. This old girl’s not much good working on the building site any more – they’re bringing in a young one to replace her – but she’ll make a gentle playmate for a child.”

  “You’ll have to ask Tiberius about this when he returns.”

  The old legionary nodded. “Plan to. But Little Fox likes animals.”

  There was a rebuke hidden in there, she thought, but before she could reply Lucia came running across the grass, followed by Tiberius’s boy and the boy’s dog.

  “Ma! Ma!” Lucia cried. “See what Gallus brought!”

  The child petted the old creature who lowered her head to have her ears scratched. The boy hung back a little way, shy around her as always, and the dog bounced all around the children’s legs.

  “...not today,” Gallus was saying to the children. “She needs a few days to rest and get better –”

  “Is she sick?” Lucia asked.

  “She’s old. Worn out with work.”

  “But she’ll get better?” the boy asked.

  “If you take care of her. Give her lots of good food. Next week, maybe, you can take turns riding her. You need to be good to her.”

  “Oh, we will!” Lucia promised. “What’s her name?

  “I don’t think she has one. The builders called her ‘You!’”

  “We’re going to call her ‘Gallusina’ aren’t we, Catu? Because Gallus gave her to us!”