by Sheila Finch
A palace to hide in, like an animal gone to ground, in the far-away rainy Britannia. She knew this, but she kept trying to believe in her little dream that Nero intended it as a gift for his daughter.
“And you yourself?” Valentinus asked. “This barbarian king treats you well?”
“Tiberius is a good man. He’s been kind to me and to Lucia.”
“Then I won’t have to fight him.”
She saw he was smiling. “Now I remember how you used to tease me!”
“Yes, I was your favorite brother.”
It was best that she put thoughts of the emperor and his motives out of her mind. “And Lucia’s favorite uncle. She’ll be so happy to see you.”
“And I to see her.”
“I’ll send for her in a while. But you must be tired after that horrible journey – and hungry. Will you eat a little before resting?”
“Some wine would be good,” he said.
Hand in hand they wandered from the audience chamber down the colonnade where the bright blue and yellow paint on the columns wasn’t yet dry to what would be the smaller of two dining rooms when the next section of the villa was completed. Here, lamps spilled a warm yellow light, chasing the gloom. She saw Delamira hovering and sent her to bring refreshments. Valentinus’s slave followed Delamira.
The wine arrived in an earthenware pitcher, the slave carried a platter of olives and cheese. She sat with her brother at the table and poured his wine herself.
“I’m so happy to see you.” She handed the cup to him. “But you’ve changed so much. Tell me what it was like to join the legion?”
“Hard training, day after day, snow, shine, or rain, month after month. It makes a man out of a boy. Marching, fully armed, mile after mile on an empty stomach, hardens the spirit as well as the body. The legion becomes your mother and father, your family.”
She thought of Marcus and Gracila, how “family” had been lost to the legion’s demands. “I hope the contubernium the centurion took with him into the field will be back soon, so he and my husband may meet my handsome brother.”
“That’s a small force to take if the rebellion is serious,” he commented. “But I can’t wait for them to return. I must arrange for a messenger to ride out to them.”
“Tell me news of Rome, Valentinus. I’m starved for gossip.”
He set down his cup, his expression somber.
“What is it?”
A servant came into the room and trimmed the lamps, the oil sputtering and smoking before the flame steadied and grew bright. Valentinus waited till the servant went out again.
“The news is grave. The emperor has taken his own life.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “Surely not?”
“Either that or somebody took it for him. Believe whichever story you like. Rome is afire with both versions.”
“Nero – dead?” She saw his face clearly, as she’d seen him that time in the Golden House, the tumbled curls and puffy cheeks, the sharp, bright eyes of a bird of prey. He’d commanded her fate with the carelessness of a boy playing with sparrows. How could he be so suddenly gone from her life?
“Rome is on the brink of civil war,” her brother said. “It isn’t at all clear who will be the next emperor. The city is in chaos. The Second Augusta’s commanders must be notified.”
“Noviomagus Regnorum isn’t the legion’s fortress, Valentinus. We’re a Civitas here, but the legion’s command is two days’ march away. How could this dreadful news affect us?”
“The gods forbid the legions take sides! Yet it’s happened before. “ He took up his cup again and drank. Her own was untouched. “My task is to get the message to whoever has command here. He’ll send it on. Other messengers will carry it to the Second Adiutrix in the west, and I’ll carry it myself north to the Ninth.”
They were both silent, considering this. What did it mean for herself and Lucia? After a moment, she said, “When did this dreadful thing happen?”
“A month ago. Maybe two. I lost track of the days on that cursed voyage. We had bad weather the entire way – worse once we passed the Pillars of Hercules.”
She could sympathize with that. But Nero dead! The child’s father who’d sent her into exile. She could go home now in safety.
As if her brother knew what she was thinking, he said, “Don’t think about bringing the child back to Rome. With the emperor dead, the succession is in question. An heir to Nero – even a girl who could be married off to one competing party or the other – would be a dangerous addition to the situation.”
Was that truly what she wanted , to return to Rome? Once she had, but now the matter didn’t seem so clear. “I must think about this.”
“Don’t speak of this with others yet, Antonia. At least until I see which way the legions pledge their loyalties.”
She studied the dark shadows under his eyes and new lines on his brow. “Another night’s delay for the message won’t matter. Rest here tonight, Valentinus. You can ride into Noviomagus tomorrow.”
He gave her a dark look under furrowed brows. “Guard yourself, sister. Bad times are coming.”
CHAPTER FORTY
They camped again outside Soriodunum, in a small clearing in the woods on the border of Durotriges territory. They’d been out for so long he’d lost track of the days. His joints ached with oncoming old age, his throbbing head a reminder of the wound he received from unknown attackers in the woods outside Noviomagus. He had trouble remembering things, such as how to buckle his horse’s harness, and this morning for a moment he’d been unable to read the words on a map a legionary shared with him. Such moments passed quickly and he was able to continue, but they worried him. What he wouldn’t give to have Nicolaos here to heal him again!
Some days, there’d been time for him to ride ahead into a Belgae village or a settlement of the Durotriges, a chance to engage the Elders in urgent talk, a chance to persuade them, as fellow Celts, to see how useless it was to oppose the Romans, how the way forward for Britannia lay through peaceful cooperation. “How is cooperation possible with a slave master?” one grey-bearded Belgae Elder demanded. “I say kill them all and finish our kinswoman’s work!” Everywhere he’d heard this echo of Boudicca’s challenge. But they were doomed if they clung to that! He began to see more Regni in the rebel groups, recognizing them by the distinctive weave of their plaid cloaks. His own people were joining other tribes in increasing numbers. Stubborn fools! Fiercely independent like all Celts.
As he had been once.
This afternoon, grey and wintry, they’d been joined by two contuberniae from a fort near Vindoclada, and the men camped together under the stars. The newcomers brought cooks who prepared mutton roasted on a spit in addition to the usual bread and hard cheese. He should eat, but his stomach churned at the smell of the meat cooking. He couldn’t rid himself of the image of the two ravens that had descended out of the empty sky to pick over the dead on yesterday’s battlefield.
Favonius held council that night with Valerius Vericus, centurion of the Vindoclada units; he sat with them in the firelight. The uprising they’d encountered so far was spotty and uncoordinated, awaiting a spark to inspire it. Vericus spoke of rebellious groups raiding outlying settlements and small Roman posts, then retreating deep into these forests. At the moment, the uprising could go either way, the commanders agreed; better, therefore, to crush it completely now. Favonius argued that they should not wait for support from one of the main forts in Isca Dumnoniorum or Glevum; since both lay so far from here the fight might be over before troops could reach them. The man’s obvious hunger for blood turned his stomach as much as the smell of the meat cooking on the spit. He listened to the two without comment, oddly disconnected from the group and their strategies tonight.
He’d never been this far west of Noviomagus. The plains sweeping west toward sunset held a history older than the Romans, and older even than his own people. A long-forgotten race had once lived here, leaving tall standing ston
es as mute witness. Not even the Druids knew for certain who the Ancient Ones had been, though he knew they sometimes used the massive stone circles for their own rites.
As the moon rose, the talk around the fire dwindled until finally the centurions went to their beds and the rest followed. Unable to sleep, he sat huddled in his cloak, staring into the embers until the moon started its journey down the sky again. Try as he might, he saw no way forward for him. Loyalty to Rome, something he’d never questioned before now, had brought him to this. He was killing his own people by collaborating with Rome. Stubborn and rebellious the tribes might be, but how was this not betrayal on his part? He couldn’t find an answer, and the question remained in his heart like the lump of undigested mutton in his stomach.
Next morning, the weather had changed for the worse. Heavy clouds pushed in from the north-east, threatening heavy snow that would put an end to battle. Both centurions issued orders for their men to eat hurriedly, then load up the baggage and be prepared to move out. Before long, both sides would need to withdraw and return home until spring made battle possible again.
The next two days passed in a haze of snow flurries, noise, confusion, blood and exhaustion. Each day brought clashes with rebels who were better prepared than he’d expected, and fierce as Celts always were. This had begun as a revolt against the new taxes, although by now they were far beyond the area Marcus Favonius could claim to control, but it had gone deeper than that almost from the beginning. Sometimes he thought he was fighting with the Fourteenth Gemina again. The screams, the blood, the ravens picking at bodies in the snow were the same.
A boy appeared beside Warrior’s flank, knife in hand , his face a mask of anger. A Regni, hardly more than Amminus’s age, about to bury a dagger in his thigh. He parried the blow with his leather-shielded wrist.
It had come to this. He was fighting children from his own tribe.
“Go home! I don’t want to kill you!”
The boy clutched at Warrior’s reins, screeching curses, his eyes wide and filled with hate.
“Stay alive, you idiot!” He yanked the reins, trying to move the horse out of reach. The boy clung to Warrior’s long mane with one hand.
“Go home! Damn you!”
The boy screamed at him. The dagger plunged towards the horse, catching its neck. He saw the bright red beads of blood. Warrior staggered, squealing.
His vision darkened.
He ran the boy through with his gladius.
* * *
Fighting over for the day, the prisoners were slaughtered as Favonius ordered, their bodies hung on trees as examples to others who might be thinking of rebelling. He withdrew from the other men and sat near the horses, his back to a tree. He couldn’t remember details of the day. That was just as well, but he’d always been clear-minded about battle strategy and this lingering confusion in his head disturbed him. One thing was clear to him: He’d killed a boy of his own tribe. A boy, no more than his own son’s age. He was no better than Nero.
A shout from the camp’s sentry roused him. A man galloped into camp, drawing up in a cloud of snow. He slid down from the saddle, took out a rolled up letter from where it had been tucked into his tunic, and looked round for the centurion. The man was sweating as much as his horse, evidence that he’d ridden at speed for a long distance. Favonius strode forward; he took the letter the messenger offered and the two stood talking. Togidubnus heard their urgent tones, but not what they were saying. He closed his eyes, tiredness dragging him down.
“Vericus! Tiberius!”
He dragged himself to his feet and turned to Favonius. Vericus came over.
“News from Rome.” Favonius held up the letter. “The emperor is dead. Killed by his own hand – or by the hand of a very crafty assassin who made it seem so.”
“Nero gone?” Vericus queried. “And who is to succeed?”
“That, my friend is in question. The city may be on the brink of civil war.”
Vericus laughed. “As if that has never happened before on the occasion of an emperor’s death!”
Nero dead. Amminus too. There was no contract now to honor. His first thought was of Breca. Nothing to prevent him taking her back as his wife. Longing surged through him. What would become of Antonia and the child? Nothing would prevent them from returning to Rome. Good! But alone. Unprotected in a city filled with the chaos and unrest that followed the violent death of an emperor. Did he hate her that much? He needed Breca to hold him, help him know what to do.
His head pounded.
“The question is, which legions will support which candidate?” Favonius said.
Vericus nodded somberly. Backing the wrong candidate would be disastrous, as several legion commanders and the men they commanded had learned in the past.
This news was already old when it reached Britannia’s shore. By now the struggle for the imperial throne could well be over. And who could guess the ultimate winner, or his plans? It was hard to accept that such distant events could alter the path of his life.
“How does this affect us here in Britannia?” Easier to think about Britannia’s large needs than his small ones.
Favonius looked thoughtfully at him. “For the present, not much. Perhaps not at all. We’ll wait and see how the situation develops. But I should leave for Isca Dumnoniorium tonight to consult with the legion’s command.”
Vericus nodded. “I’ll return to my base.”
“The men need rest,” Togidubnus said. “Two days non-stop fighting has wearied them. I’ll take them back to Noviomagus tomorrow.”
“They may rest tonight,” Favonius said. “And the decurios will bring them in the morning.”
He glanced at the centurion, fastening his belt as he prepared to ride out, flaunting his virile youth, fresh and ready even after a hard two days of fighting.
“You won’t need to creep out of camp ahead of us again, Tiberius, trying to warn your kinsmen. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
The man was smiling confidently again, teeth showing sharp as a wolf’s.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lucia hadn’t forgotten her favorite uncle. She was chattering non-stop right beside him as he sat on the bed, pulling on his boots in the guest sleeping chamber. Antonia stood in the doorway, taking pride in the freshly painted frescoes of the guest room, the bed , the chair made of fine wood decorated with ivory that had been brought over from Rome, the chest where the blankets and feather-stuffed pillows were stored, the mosaic floor with its black and white pattern that Severus said was the current fashion in Rome.
Life in this remote island was beginning to be bearable, but she could never forget the city of her birth. The old pain had subsided, but the small, dull ache remained. Odd that now she had a new problem, going back to Rome might be possible.
She noted the mud her brother’s boots had tracked in yesterday, smearing the new floor. One of the Regni servants would be by to clean it up soon.
“Old Nev has food prepared for you, Valentinus. You mustn’t go up to Noviomagus without eating.”
Hazy morning sun shone through the window, but Niko had warned her to expect snow by nightfall. The garden was mercifully quiet for once, except for the song of a robin.
Valentinus looked up. “No time to eat. This is legion business.”
“How long does it take to eat a little porridge?”
“I’ll eat up at the garrison.”
“I hope they can prepare food as well as Old Nev can now that I’ve taught her the Roman way!”
“You said you’d take me riding, Uncle,” Lucia said. “Last night you said it would be like the times when I was little and I rode in front of you.”
“Later, little one.”
Lucia’s mouth puckered. “But, when?”
“Hush, Lucia. Your uncle has something very important to do first.” In the old days, Valentinus wouldn’t have let anything stand in the way of pleasing his little niece.
“I must carry this message to the
garrison command,” he added. “It can’t wait.”
She understood that Nero’s death was important news to the legions here in Britannia. A change in the emperor on the throne in Rome might affect them in ways she couldn’t begin to guess at. Legion affairs were complex, not something a mere woman could be expected to understand. The memory of Gracila came to mind again, sent away because she no longer fit with Marcus’s plans in the legion. The legion didn’t deal kindly with women.
It wasn’t trivial news for her and her daughter either. She’d spent the night thinking about the implications of Nero’s death for them, and the warning Valentinus had given her about possible peril for the child. He knew Rome and its conspiracies better than she ever would – but surely there might be some way? At the moment, the problem was smaller, more local. In the happy days of her childhood in Pyrgi, Valentinus would never have broken a promise to a child.
“I need to make arrangements to sail with the next ship going north, whenever that is,” Valentinus said.. “With winter just about here, and the wild seas around this island, I can’t take a chance. I need to leave as soon as possible,”
She gazed at him. “You said you’d been granted two days, Valentinus.”
“And this is the second.” He stood up and reached for his red cloak which was draped over the back of the new chair. “Be grateful, sister. At least now this villa is truly yours.”
She didn’t know what to say to him. The legion had changed him from the loving brother she’d been so happy to recognize yesterday, the boy who’d been full of plans to have fun, plans that never left her out even when her oldest brother thought she was too young, or “just a girl,” and balked at taking her along. Valentinus had always been her teacher, her playmate, her defender. Today he was all cold centurion; she didn’t recognize him.