HOME (The Portal Series, Book 3)

by Bowker, Richard;

  “The weather be damned,” Marcellus replied, and he picked up his cup and finished off what was left of his wine.

  They were all silent for a bit. Strangely, it was old Pompey who spoke next. He rarely had anything to say. “We are all doomed,” he announced. “Doomed,” he repeated, as if he liked the sound of the word. “We all complained about the priests, but we never knew how good we had it until the damn Gallians threw them out. Now the Gallians build their fancy palaces and fight their awful wars, and we are the ones who suffer.”

  Well, then. There it was. A statement plain enough to get Pompey executed, if the stranger was a spy. “Now, now, I’m sure you’re jesting,” Flavio said, glancing nervously at the stranger. No telling what the Gallians would do to Flavio if he let patrons say such things in his tavern.

  But Pompey wasn’t about to be silenced. “I mean it,” he said. “I don’t mind the taxes—I have no money to begin with. It’s the fear I mind. Why should I be afraid, at my age? And the wars. Everywhere a war.”

  “The Gallians have to put down the rebellion,” Flavio pointed out. “They have to stop the invaders. That’s only natural.”

  “Then let them do it with their own sons, not ours!”

  At that, everyone looked at Sulpicius.

  Sulpicius said nothing. But the feelings he kept inside him started to well up and threatened to break free.

  “War is a terrible thing,” the stranger murmured.

  Sulpicius should have ignored this. What did it matter? Everyone said such things, and he always ignored them. But there was something about the stranger—his sad eyes, his soft voice—that made Sulpicius feel as if the man had experienced war himself, over and over again, and his simple words summed up all that anyone could ever say about war.

  And so Sulpicius started to weep. The other men continued to stare; he didn’t care. He was talking to the sad-eyed stranger. He wanted the man to understand what he, too, felt. “My boy didn’t want to be a soldier,” he said. “He was too young. He wanted to stay here with his family. But the legionaries came to town and they just took him—some of you were there. They just pointed to him and said: You. And they grabbed him and threw him into their wagon. And that was the last we saw of him.”

  He looked around to see the other men nodding sympathetically. That had been a terrible day. And then he turned back to the stranger. “Marcus was a good lad,” he said. “Gave us no trouble. His mother doted on him. But the Gallians needed bodies to fight the rebels, and no one was volunteering. Who would want to fight for the Gallians? Pompey’s right—it’s their war, their problem. No one asked them to throw out the priests.

  “Marcus ended up in Egypt. Egypt! He wrote us, you see. He learned how to write in school. His mother insisted he go to school and learn such things. There’s talk the Gallians will close the schools. They think that peasants like us don’t need to read and write. But schools are good—the priests knew that. Marcus was such a good lad—didn’t want us to worry. He said they treated him well enough, but we knew better. He said there were awful, bloody battles in the desert, but he was safe. He said they expected more battles soon enough. And then, nothing. Nothing.”

  The stranger was nodding like the other men; his eyes were moist with sorrow and sympathy. He understood. Of course he understood.

  “Never a word to us from the Gallians, either,” Sulpicius went on. “We heard rumors about the war. The Gallians claimed they were pushing the rebels back. Claimed they were fighting the evil priests, who were going to take our land and give it to the barbarians, nonsense like that. I know some folks believe such things, but not me. The priests were never evil. Stupid sometimes, I’ll grant you. But not evil.

  “Well, finally we got a letter from a mate of his who had deserted. Said Marcus died in one of those battles. Said his arm was sliced off, and he died of the fever later. Said Marcus was a good comrade—cheerful, friendly, helpful. Said none of the soldiers knew why they were fighting. They just had to fight or they’d be beheaded. His mate said he’d be beheaded if they ever caught him. So he was on his way to someplace in Barbarica and never coming back.

  “What I want to know is this,” Sulpicius said, addressing the stranger, as if the old man possessed some wisdom that the rest of them didn’t. “If the Gallians have these magical weapons, why don’t they use them against the rebels? That’s what the priests did in the old days against that Gallian king. Why make lads like Marcus fight and die for them? And if Prince Feslund has the power to cure the fever like people say, whey won’t he use it to save a lad like Marcus who is fighting to save his empire? Where’s the justice in this? Where’s the justice in anything?”

  He fell silent. He looked at his wine cup. It was empty, but he made no move to fill it.

  “Times are hard,” Flavio murmured.

  “We need to stop those bastards,” Pompeo growled.

  In his seat in the corner, Marcellus too was weeping.

  “Your suffering must be immense,” the stranger said to Sulpicius. “And I can offer you nothing but hope. Strangers pass by on winter nights, and sometimes they can make a difference—the gods know how. I will not forget you.”

  With that he rose and placed his hand on Sulpicius’s shoulder. Sulpicius shivered at the touch. Then the stranger laid some money on the table—ancient coins that none of them had seen before—and left the tavern.

  The men fell silent.

  Later Sulpicius went out into the night and looked for him, but he was nowhere to be found, and no one in the village recalled seeing the man arrive or leave.

  It was as if the stranger had disappeared into thin air.

  He told his wife about the man, and she dismissed his story. “You’re having fantasies,” she said. “The lot of you drink entirely too much. It’s addling your brains. You should all stay home at night.”

  But Flavio had those coins. And he showed Sulpicius one of them. “Do you see?” Flavio asked.

  Sulpicius stared at the face on the coin. It looked not unlike the stranger’s face.

  “What do you make of that?” Flavio asked him.

  Sulpicius had no idea what to make of that. He was a simple man, and the ways of the gods were far beyond his ability to understand.

  Forty

  Hieron

  The next day Hieron found Larry sitting on a bench next to Jubal. Poor Jubal looked especially bad today. His hands occasionally jerked up, as if trying to guard himself from someone or something. Then he would moan and drop his hands, as if he realized that his hands couldn’t help him.

  Perhaps someday they would learn how to cure Jubal, Veronique, and the others. For now, people like Larry could do nothing but be with them as they endured their terror.

  Larry looked glum. Hieron sat down next to him. “I returned to Terra,” Hieron said.

  That got Larry’s attention. “Why?”

  Hieron shrugged. “You and Affron thought things would not be going well there, under the Gallians. I decided to see for myself.”

  “You’ve never been back there since you left.”

  “No, never.”

  “And what did you find out?”

  “Ah, it is worse than I feared, Larry. The priests are gone, justice is gone, hope is gone. In their place are poverty, repression, and despair.”

  “Gone,” Larry repeated.

  Hieron nodded. “It seems that life in the empire has returned to what it was before me. For century after century the Roman empire survived. Sometimes there were good emperors; sometimes there were bad. But mostly they didn’t matter to ordinary people. The lot in life for such people was disease and privation, with no hope of improvement. And, of course, endless wars, large and small: an invasion here, a rebellion there. I changed that. Now Feslund and his family have overturned everything I tried to do. They care only about their own wealth and power. They kill or imprison those who oppose them or mock them. They levy unbearable taxes. They impress peasants into the army against their wi
ll.”

  Larry seemed to ponder this. “But you came back here to Elysium,” he said finally. “Like me.”

  Hieron nodded. “I came back. Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to Terra in the first place. I am old; I have lived far too long. I don’t have the energy I once did. I do not know what to do about this.”

  “It’s all my fault,” Larry pointed out. “The empire was working well enough until I came along.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Larry. I understand what happened. You did what you had to do. You were only trying to get home.”

  “Sure. But when I had the chance to use Via I turned it down. And now, when I actually did go home, I turned around right away and came back.”

  “Going home is hard,” Hieron murmured. He thought of the little village he had visited. The kerchiefed peasant women sweeping their doorways. The distant sound of a girl’s voice singing a song. The bitter taste of the wine in the tavern. The men weeping over their lost sons.

  They were silent for a long time. And then Larry said: “I’m going back to Terra.”

  Hieron had half-expected this. “That is you choice,” he replied, “but don’t expect to defeat the Gallians. And it doesn’t matter, perhaps. They will defeat themselves, eventually.”

  “I won’t worry about the Gallians,” Larry said. “But I want to find the girl I abandoned there. Palta.”

  Hieron considered telling Larry that this would likely just cause him more heartache. Palta would have disappeared by now. Or died. Or—perhaps worse—married and borne children. Created a life for herself that didn’t include Larry. But he didn’t say such things. Because it seemed better to Hieron now to know the truth than to live in ignorance. Hieron himself had lived in ignorance for too long. He had just learned the truth of what had happened on Terra, and perhaps someday that truth would not hurt him the way it did at this moment.

  “Yes,” he said to Larry. “If Earth is unbearable to you, I think you must return to Terra.”

  Then they were silent again. A soft breeze blew along the silent street. Jubal raised his hands to protect himself against his invisible enemy. Larry touched him on the arm and murmured something to him, and Jubal lowered his hands, at peace once more.

  Forty-One

  Valleia

  “Mama, someone’s coming!”

  Henry stood in the doorway, pointing outside.

  Valleia was busy nursing Emily. “Who is it, Henry?” she asked from her seat by the hearth. “Is it Papa?”

  “No, silly. Papa’s at the barn. It’s a man. He’s walking. I don’t know who he is.”

  That was strange, Valleia thought. Henry knew everyone, and everyone knew Henry. Of course, strangers occasionally showed up in the village, even this far north, even this far from the King’s Road. But you had to go out of your way to reach their cottage.

  Valleia got up and walked over to the door, standing behind Henry as the man walked up the path. “Salve!” Henry called out. “I’m Henry!”

  “Salve, Henry,” the man replied.

  Then the man looked at her, and she looked at him. He smiled and inclined her head to her in greeting. She was confused for just a moment. And then recognition flooded through her, and her eyes filled with tears.

  He was a young man now, with broad shoulders and deep-set eyes. He was quite handsome, actually. But he was also still the boy she had first seen in that little store on Earth.

  “Salve, Valleia,” he said.

  “What’s your name?” Henry asked him.

  “My name is Larry. I know your mother. And your father. But I don’t know who that new person is that your mother is holding.”

  “That’s Emily. She’s my sister.”

  “Salve, Emily.”

  “She can’t talk yet,” Henry pointed out.

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Larry is a funny name,” Henry went on. “People in the village say that Henry is a funny name, too. But I like it.”

  “I think it’s a fine name,” Larry replied. “I once knew a boy named Henry.”

  “Come in,” Valleia said to him. “I don’t know—I didn’t expect—”

  “Of course.”

  “Henry, can you run to the barn and get your father?” Valleia said. “Tell him Larry is here.”

  “Yes, Mama!”

  Henry rushed off.

  Larry walked into the cottage. “What a wonderful boy,” he said.

  “Yes, he’s very…energetic.”

  “And you have a daughter, too. So much time has passed. I was wondering if you’d even recognize me.”

  “It took me a moment, I confess.” They sat down by the hearth. Emily fussed and Valleia changed her to the other breast. She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Would you like water?” she asked. “Ale? Are you hungry? William will be so excited.”

  Larry shook his head. “Perhaps when Carmody—when William returns.”

  “Oh, Larry,” she said, “we thought you’d gone back home to Earth. We were sure you’d never return.”

  “It’s a complicated story,” he said, “but here I am.” He hesitated. “I was wondering,” he said, “if Palta…”

  Valleia shook her head. “She’s not here, Larry. She left with Gratius, not long after you disappeared.”

  “Ah.”

  He was silent for a long moment. His disappointment was obvious. He had come back for her, she realized. She ought to have realized that. “Do you happen to know where…?” he said finally.

  “She’s in Egypt.”

  “Egypt?” he repeated.

  “She was in Egypt, I should say. But she could be anywhere by now. News travels slowly here, of course. She sent us a letter—we can show it to you. But that was months ago. It was a miracle that it even arrived here. You would like to see it, I assume.”

  “Yes, yes I would.”

  But before she could get it she heard Henry chatting on the path, and a moment later he and William showed up in the doorway, Henry pulling his father by the hand to go faster and meet the stranger. “Here is Papa!” Henry announced.

  And there was William, grinning as he entered the cottage. “Welcome back!” he said. Larry stood up, and they embraced. “It’s good to see you,” William went on, in English. “You’ve grown so much. You’re a man now.”

  “Papa, what are you saying?” Henry demanded.

  “We’ll speak in Latin,” Larry said to him. “Don’t worry.”

  “I’m saying how much he’s grown, Henry,” William explained. “We haven’t seen Larry since before you were born.”

  Henry had little idea what life was like before he was born, of course. But he was a curious boy, and someday he’d learn that they hadn’t always lived in this cottage here in Scotia. What would he make of the story they would eventually tell him?

  A question for another day. Emily had gotten all the milk she wanted and fallen asleep. Valleia brought her over to the crib by the big bed that she and William shared. Emily fussed for a moment when Valleia put her in the crib and placed a blanket over her, but then she quickly settled herself.

  Meanwhile William had poured cups of ale for himself and Larry. Valleia sat back down, and Henry climbed up onto William’s lap.

  “The letter,” Larry reminded her.

  “Ah yes.” Valleia rose and retrieved it from the bottom of the chest next to their bed. She handed it to Larry.

  “It was brought to us by a merchant, who received it from another merchant,” William explained. “Palta paid them, I’m sure, but still, it was long odds that it would arrive safely.”

  “Who is Palta?” Henry asked.

  “Another old friend,” Valleia explained.

  Larry unfolded the letter and began to read. He looked up almost immediately. “She is with Decius in Alexandria?” he said.

  “The news is stale, I’m afraid,” William replied. “She apparently joined a rebellion with Decius, and the rebels somehow conquered Egypt. The last rumors we heard were that the rebels were u
nder attack, and their grip on Egypt was loosening. The Gallians have apparently come to their senses and are throwing all their forces against them.”

  “She says that she is ignoring her work and spending time at the library,” Larry said. “That seems odd.”

  “The library at Alexandria is the greatest on Terra,” Valleia pointed out. “I think she wants to learn—she never had much of a chance to learn anything in her life.”

  “That’s true.” Larry returned to the letter. Moments later he spoke again. “And Gratius is dead?”

  “Yes, alas,” Valleia said.

  “I don’t know any of these people,” Henry complained.

  “You may go outside and play,” Valleia said to him. “But stay close.”

  “Yes, Mama.” Henry squirmed down from William’s lap and scurried outside.

  “It seems that the Gallians were looking for Affron,” Larry said. “And possibly you.”

  “Possibly us. But Affron is who they want, I’m sure.”

  “Have you had any trouble since Palta and Gratius left?”

  “None,” Carmody said. “It’s been a quiet life.”

  “Affron is still alive, you know,” Larry said. “I saw him yesterday. He sends his love.”

  And that made Valleia’s heart lurch with joy and wonder. She felt almost dizzy hearing it. “Is he…well?”

  “He’s never been better, actually.”

  “And is he here—in Scotia?”

  Larry shook his head. “That is part of my story. But let me finish reading.”

  Larry looked down at the letter again, and finally he read aloud the sentences that Valleia knew would interest him the most. “If Larry ever returns, tell him that I had to leave, but I will never forget him,” he said softly.

  They were all silent for a moment. “She really did have to leave,” William said finally. “It’s lovely here, but she couldn’t stay. She had to find a life for herself.”

  “Of course she did,” Larry replied. He handed the letter back to Valleia.