“These are dark times, friend, but the Pax Romana still stands in Asisium,” the officer spoke carefully but firmly. “State your name and your business, then leave your weapons with us.”
“I am Titus Vestius Laterensis,” Connor said, feeling suddenly unworthy of the name though he forced authority into his voice. “I am bucellarius to this domina, Lucia Montevaria Corvina. As such it is my right to carry arms for her protection.”
“Is that so, Domina?” the officer asked Lucia. Connor reasoned that he took Connor for a barbarian or bacaudae who meant to ransom his captive. Had it not been for Lucia’s jewelry and even his gold chain, the officer may have even inferred worse. Regardless, Connor’s life lay in Lucia’s hands.
“It is as he says, legionnaire,” Lucia said.
“What is your business, Titus Vestius Laterensis?” the officer asked. It was improper for him to address a noblewoman unless necessary.
“I am taking the Domina to her uncle,” Connor answered. “Lucretius Montevarius Corvinus. Would you be kind enough to point the way?”
There was a nod of recognition at the name, and Connor saw some of the legionaries glance at each other. So the man was known, and most likely quite rich. Connor could almost see the guards consider how they might turn this to an advantage. He could not drop his guard. Sensing his uneasiness, Fingal pawed the air with his right foreleg.
The officer cast one more glance on Lucia, then answered.
“Go to the agora then take the left way, uphill. It is the last villa you come to. Two of my men will see to it that you do not get lost.”
“And what is your name so that I might remember your kindness to Lucretius Montevarius?” Connor asked as two of the guards fell in behind them.
“Legionnaire Quintus Ancilo,” he said. “And remember Titus Vestius, that part of the city – this whole city, in fact, is well-guarded. If my men have any trouble from you they need only shout.”
Connor nudged Fingal forward with Lucia beside him. The two soldiers followed on foot as the guards at the gatehouse looked after them.
Connor was by now familiar with some of the hill towns of Italia and Gaul, but Asisium was different from any place Connor had ever been. Houses and buildings drew up close to the flagstone streets, shielding them from too much sun and giving the place an almost labyrinthine feel. All of the buildings – from the smallest townhouse to the municipal buildings were made from well-cut gray stone that shone with a rosy hue from the natural quartz within. The roof tiles were of fired clay, but also shone almost pink in the late afternoon light. Small trees and ornamental shrubs grew in urns outside of the doors, and flowers filled window boxes beneath the painted shutters. The town was built on undulating terrain, with all the streets rising or descending steeply. Even the agora in the center of town rose, though at a much more gradual and even pitch than the rest. Connor and Lucia passed the bubbling fountain and rode on past the towering temple of the goddess Minerva; whose magnificent carved doors stood closed behind the high Corinthian columns at the order of Theodosius. Another victim of the winds of change, Connor thought, the marble grandeur of the old being replaced by the simpler, more accessible, more rusticated new. Likewise, in a few short days the greatest city in the world may be bled dry by homeless, dispossessed warriors from the mountains and steppes of nameless lands. Was it a triumph or was it a tragedy? Whose side was he on? Connor looked back to Lucia who seemed less interested in her surroundings than he did, though this was to be her new home. He fought the urge to pull her onto his horse and ride away; to hide in the mountains until all this passed away and she understood his heart once more. Setting his gaze more firmly, Connor took the left road as he had been instructed and started to climb.
They went about another half mile. The townhouses, workshops, markets, and municipal buildings were gone, replaced by larger dwellings and more open space. Connor could see over the well-fortified walls out into the Umbrian hills and valleys. There were mountains still clad in dark forests, and open farmlands of pastures and vines. Despite the troubles of the times, despite even the proximity of Alaric’s army probably only a few dozen miles away, this town felt peaceful, secluded, quiet, and even melancholy. A church bell tolled, just out of sight ahead of them, telling the fifth hour past noon.
They stopped even before the guards indicated. The villa rose ahead, almost at the eastern apex of the town. It was no villa by the standards of the Gallic countryside – no massive house surrounded by extensive grounds. But in the context of the town it was a mansion; a large two-storied dwelling cut from the same rosy gray stone, enclosed by an ivy-clad wall. Cyprus trees flanked the doors and the gates. Connor turned to the soldiers, who stood eyeing him, showing no signs of leaving.
He had come all this way for this. There was no turning back now. Connor dismounted and clanged the bell at the gate.
An old slave, bald, lean, and bent, came out of the front door. When he saw Connor at the gate he almost jumped, and seemed to consider running back inside. Mastering himself, he approached the gate, forcing an air of confident distain that he must have learned from those he served.
“What do you want?” the older man said.
“I would speak to your dominus,” Connor said.
“Indeed. About what, pray tell?”
“I have his niece, Lucia Montevarius.”
The slave stole a glance at Lucia, who remained in her saddle. He appraised Connor once more, suspicion and contempt evident on his countenance; then disappeared into the house with surprising speed.
So the house slave thought that he could look down on a warrior because he was a barbarian? Connor glowered, but then caught himself. How quickly he was learning the arrogance that came with freedom here.
After a few minutes, the slave returned with two bucellarii – big men each armed with a gladius, but Connor was used to sizing up what really mattered in a warrior by now and he found it lacking in both men. He wondered if they might not be lifter slaves cross-trained for the purpose.
Lucia dismounted and joined Connor as the slave opened the gate. Her nearness threatened to distract Connor, but he locked his discipline in. It would be time to be emotional later. He had a mandata to complete. He did not fear the bucellarii and the soldiers, but he recognized that his despair might make him reckless, and Gaiseric’s words came back to him – “They are dogs; but enough dogs can kill a lion”.
“The Dominus will see you and the maiden,” the slave said.
“You will call her Domina, for that is what she is to you,” Connor said.
“We will take your weapons,” the larger of the two bucellarii – a thick man of about thirty with a shaved head and a drooping right eyelid – said.
“I have not crossed the Alps and the burning lands of Italia to parlay with slaves. Now bring me in or bring your Dominus out. I will speak to him alone, and retain my weapons with which I am sworn to protect your Domina.”
The slaves seemed to discuss this wordlessly; then the older man nodded. A youth came from the house to take hold of the horses’ reins.
“If your dominus wishes, we will wait out here for a time,” one of the soldiers said. The older slave thanked him, and then led Connor and Lucia inside.
They entered into a foyer with a high ceiling and mosaic floors. The air was refreshingly cool, though the open windows let in ample light. Bouquets of flowers stood in painted urns. A slave boy stood by the door holding a large bowl of water, hand towels draped over his quivering arms. Lucia made use of the water and towel; Connor did not. The old butler led them on towards the courtyard ahead. Lucia was at Connor’s left side; one of the bucellarii was behind him and another at his right. Should they try something, it would be difficult to fight with Lucia in the way; but Connor already had a plan should he need one.
Blue skies and wispy white clouds were again overhead as the foyer opened up to the courtyard. Connor was reminded of Lucius, for the design of the courtyard his late Dominus had loved
was the same – a large square with a round fountain in the center, and ornamental trees growing in large urns. As in Lucius’ courtyard, the ground was covered with white stone. But this courtyard was dominated by roses – red, white, and pink, growing from large bushes or climbing up the pillars and over the railings of the second level walkway. Connor drew Lucia away from the armed men to a corner where they could see most of the doors. They did not have long to wait.
The master of the house entered the courtyard.
Connor did not know why he smiled, but he did as he saw Lucius’ brother. The man was shorter and not nearly so thin as Lucius had been; but his hair was the same color and cut in almost the same manner; his face rounder but similarly featured. His eyes were dark instead of gray, and the wrinkles of his face cut less deep from sun and care. Lucretius gazed on Connor with open suspicion, and Connor noted that the man’s left hand rested on the hilt of a pugio half-concealed within the folds of his toga. Then Lucretius saw Lucia, and his face opened up. Momentarily forgetting the armed barbarian in his courtyard, Lucretius rushed forward.
“Lucia?”
“Uncle,” Lucia said, her voice cracking slightly.
Lucretius had his arms out, but at the last moment remembered his decorum. Open displays of affection were considered beneath the Roman upper classes.
“I have not seen you since you were a child,” Lucretius said. “But I could not help but recognize you. You are the image of your mother. What a fine woman you have grown into.”
Lucia bowed, still holding his hands. Connor was watching her closely. She was smiling, finally smiling; and yet her eyes were still so sad.
“Lucia!”
A pretty, slight-framed girl – perhaps a few years younger than Lucia ran out and embraced her, regardless of social decorum.
“Julia!” Lucia cried out. “You have grown so much.”
“Lucia, who is this?” Lucretius asked, remembering Connor.
Lucia broke away from Julia and looked back to Connor. Connor locked eyes with her – those beautiful green eyes. He stared at her, locking the sight into his memory, willing time away, wanting to live in these last few seconds forever.
“This is Connor,” Lucia said. “He has protected me on my journey here.”
Suddenly Lucia looked as if she might cry, as if she might drop the stoic mask and weep outright and never stop. But she pushed her will forward once more, with one more tremendous effort. Connor felt his heart caving in.
Julia put her arm around Lucia’s shoulders. A second woman entered the courtyard – a lovely, brown-haired woman in her thirties. She, too, came beside Lucia and laid a hand on her shoulder. Lucia acknowledged her aunt by taking her hand, but said nothing. Connor knew that she could not speak any more than he could.
Lucretius Montevarius looked at her, confused by all that he was seeing and hearing.
“Lucia, my child, follow Priscilla and Julia into the sitting room. I will be with you soon.”
Lucia gazed once more at Connor until Priscilla drew her away. She followed her two kinswomen out of the courtyard and did not look back.
“What in the name of Christ and all the gods is going on here?” Lucretius demanded, the warm-hearted uncle gone, the Roman of the Equestrian Order stepping forward. “Who are you?”
Connor was still staring at the door where Lucia had disappeared.
“You heard already,” he finally said. “And can figure out the rest. I am Connor. I rescued your niece and brought her here – the only safe place I could think to bring her. She is under your charge now. If I ever hear that you have mistreated her I will come back and tear this place down stone by stone to bury you.”
“How dare you speak to me of mistreating her – in my own house – while I am her true kinsman and you are barbarian thug?” Lucretius said hotly. He stepped forward to meet Connor’s stare of defiance, flanked by his bucellarii. The old butler retreated to the imagined protection of a doorway. But even as Connor glared he saw that his emotion had caused him to misspeak. He could see that Lucretius was a good man. The way he reacted to Lucia and the way that she reacted to him was enough evidence. Connor had chosen the right path.
“Where is my brother?” Lucretius demanded.
“Dead. Slain by evil men. I and my friends have avenged him. His son, Lorentius, is dead too; and though I shed no sad thought on his wicked bones I believe he too may be avenged before long. I have brought you Lucia from Lucius Montevarius’ lands in Gaul. When this war ends you can restore her to it. Meanwhile, see to her life and to her safety. Help her to find a happy match and to prosper. Live to see her children grow, and keep watch over them as your own.”
Connor turned to go.
“And if she ever asks what I said, tell her that I bless her. I bless her. And tell her that I wish I could have done better.”
“Wait,” Lucretius said, recovering. “I have more questions.”
“I have no more answers.”
Connor pushed past the two armed men and left the rose-fragranced courtyard. He crossed through the foyer towards the door.
“Good luck, kid,” he said to the boy holding the bowl. He jerked both doors open and strode out into the sunlight.
The soldiers jumped to their feet, hands on their spears. But Connor gave them nothing more to react to. He took the reins of his horse from the groom and mounted. He left Lucia’s horse behind.
Lucretius ran out to him before he crossed to the gate.
“Wait!” he called. “Wait. I do not mean to be rude to you. I only have questions.”
“Lucia can answer them all,” Connor said.
“At least take this,” Lucretius said, offering a full leather bag the size of a fist. “If what you have said is true, then it is only a small part of what you deserve, but it is all I have within reach at the moment. Take it. If you could only stay and talk with me, I could perhaps get you more.”
“Save your gold,” Connor answered. “You may one day want to use it to put a price on my head.”
He turned Fingal toward the gate.
“Salve, Lucretius Montevarius Corvinus,” Connor said. “I loved your brother. I hated him at first, but he died my friend. And I love Lucia. Remember that much as the truth, whatever may happen and whatever you may hear.”
Connor spurred Fingal into a canter, crossing the gateway and turning up the road. He wanted to believe that from one of the windows of the villa green eyes gazed out at him. He suppressed the wish. He had hurt her enough. If the soldiers followed him he did not notice, and they would not have kept up for long. Connor’s mind was a torrent of insensible thought, but he found the prudence to leave through a different gate and was soon outside the walls of Asisium.
Dusk fell as he picked his way down Monte Subasio. He could not cry. He could not think or curse or pray. He could not remember and he could not forget. Darkness consumed him as he travelled the ancient road into the wooded hills.
XXIX
“What is the password?” the Visigoth patrolman demanded. His tone was unfriendly, but the way that he leaned on the horn of his saddle spoke more of indifference. He had no reason to feel threatened. It was not just the numerical superiority of his six men against one – the Visigoths had marched all the way to Rome and arrived at the walls unopposed. Apparently, there was no force in the world that would fight them.
“I have no idea,” Connor said. “I have been gone some weeks.”
The six patrolmen looked at each other. Baking in the August heat their horses stood languidly, exerting no more energy than they had to.
“I am Connor. I am one of Lord Valia’s men. I was away on a mandata to Umbria.”
“We have been here nearly two weeks,” the lead patrolman said. “Umbria is not that far away.”
“I got lost.”
“I can see that. You look like hell. So, if you are one of Lord Valia’s men then you are one of the heroes of the field of Ravenna, and we shouldn’t bar your way.”
/> Connor lifted his gold chain, though of course the men had seen it resting on his mail.
“I will tell you what chafes me, sir,” the patrolman continued. “What chafes me is men who flock to us at the last moment, ready to take hold of the prize we are about to rest without having shared in the sufferings that brought us here.”
“I assure you, Captain, I have suffered.”
“Rulf, see our friend to Lord Valia,” the captain said. The youngest of the patrolmen, a man of about fifteen or sixteen years, rode forward on a bay gelding.
“I do not wish to thin your patrol,” Connor said. “I can find my own way.”
“We would be remiss if we did not provide a guide for one of the heroes of Ravenna,” the patrolman said through a crooked smirk. “The camp is a big place. We do not want you to get lost again.”
Connor bowed without dropping his eyes. The patrolmen parted to allow him to follow Rulf down the broad Flaminian Way.
“Do not mind him,” Rulf said when they were out of earshot. “He believes that being unpleasant makes him seem fiercer than he really is. Are you really one of the heroes of Ravenna?”
“I was in the shield wall at Ravenna, along with my Lord Valia and the King, and many men who now lie in the ground.”
“Tell me about it,” Rulf said. “I have heard the tales around the fire of how the fighting went, but I have not heard from someone who was actually there. Tell me everything.”
The lad had heard the tales around the fire indeed, Connor thought – these people commemorated everything. He had left just a few hours after being rewarded for his service, and returned a few weeks later to find that he was already part of a legend. Connor was about to attempt to explain that he had not spoken to anyone in many days, and that even if he could generate the energy and the clarity of mind to relive such events that he certainly had no desire to right now. But as the wide road crested a hill and the vista opened up before him, all protests and explanations were silenced in his throat. Before him lay Rome, spreading out over seven hills.
The Songs of Slaves Page 40