Hadrian's wall

by William Dietrich

  "Yes, love." Marcus looked pensive. "The plebes marry for it, you know. The Christians attribute it to their strange skinny god. For people of my rank it's not so simple. I'm not sure I understand the word at all."

  "You don't understand, you feel."

  "She's so beautiful that it's… daunting. The fact that we don't know each other, I mean. And when I said I don't know women, I meant I don't know about living with them. What to do after the bed."

  "Here's the secret: they pretty much take care of themselves. Like horses, again. And they'll take care of you, if you let them."

  "You compare everything to horses."

  "Horses are what I know."

  "And now, for me, a woman." The groom stood straighter, mentally rehearsing his entrance. "I betrothed to get this posting, Falco. I could live in Rome on my family's fortune, wanting nothing, but that's not my destiny. My father made his fortune in salt but longs for martial honor. I want to prove myself. It was her father who suggested this union-"

  "Favored by the gods, as I said."

  So why did he feel such misgiving? Because in truth he was a scholar, not a soldier. The tribune he'd supplanted, this gruesome Galba, had seen through his martial pose and golden armor in an instant. He felt uncomfortable amid these rude people. Marcus feared the woman would find him out too, and mock his quiet nature. But if she could help him instead… "Valeria is sweet, if somewhat headstrong."

  "She seems to have a lively intelligence."

  "She half-suggested a Christian priest! It's her maid's influence.

  I told her I'll not have a cult that pretends to eat their god. Centurion Sextus serves the shrine of the garrison's spring. He'll do well enough."

  "And she agreed?"

  "She seemed to want to please."

  "Obedience is a good sign."

  "Yes." He hesitated. "I changed her mind, I suspect, but not her heart. Do you know that she told Galba's soldiers that she wished she could ride like a man?"

  "We've all heard of her courage."

  "She could have broken her neck, and she came to me looking like a harlot. My mother never rode. Nor my grandmothers."

  "So thank the Fates you're not marrying them! These are modern times, praefectus. New ideas are abroad in the world. Wait until you meet some of the wild women of the north: I've seen them fight, curse, plow, bargain, command, spit, and piss."

  Marcus grimaced. "That's why I want a bride who's a proper Roman, centurion. I didn't come a thousand miles to wed a barbarian. I came to defeat them."

  The banquet hall was on fire with light, its banked candles as thick as the glint of sun on a ruffled lake. The air was heady with the scent of spice, wine, male oils, and female perfume. And yet Valeria, in the traditional wedding gown of white with saffron veil, dominated the gathering as a jewel dominates its setting, her long dark hair a swirling river beneath its golden, translucent net. Her tresses had been braided into six parts and parted with the silver spearhead of Bellona, sister of Mars, and three curls fell past each cheek, in the manner of the Vestal Virgins. Her sandals were yellow and her waist cinched by an intricately knotted golden cord that only her husband could untie.

  Valeria found to her surprise that she wasn't as frightened as she'd feared. The groom was still a stranger but a handsome and earnest one, she judged, who'd been solicitous after the initial confusion of the ambush and compliant with her wedding plans. He seemed a bit stolid-his tolerance of tardy deliveries had pushed the date of their union to early unlucky May, despite her best efforts- but then he was a man of learning who said belief in bad luck was silly superstition. She looked forward to knowing him, while shivering slightly at the prospect of lovemaking. Would it enchant? Would it hurt? She wished he'd been bolder in their embraces so far-more experience would reassure her-but his shyness also made him less threatening. If he'd done nothing yet to ignite the kind of love that the druidess had forecast in Londinium… well, that would come.

  Lucinda had tried to explain it. "Men don't talk as openly of their heart, but they feel as much as we do. You'll see his moods and learn to read and direct and love him." "Like you and centurion Falco?" She laughed. "I'm still getting him in harness." "So love comes?"

  "His nature is to protect you. You'll teach him to hold you as well. And when he does-" The matron smiled. "That's when the pair of you becomes stronger than iron against all the cares of the world."

  The simple ceremony came first. Sextus, a good-natured and simple-spoken veteran of the Wall, did a creditable and diplomatic job, calling on his spring's goddess to let the couple's happiness well upward like a fountain. In deference to the varied beliefs of all those present, he asked for all the other gods-Christian, Roman, and Celtic-to join in blessing the union.

  Marcus stood stiffly during the recitation, as if afraid of making a mistake. Valeria was appropriately demure but stole glances at her new husband. When he took her right hand in his to promise fidelity, the firm grip was more suggestive of a treaty or business agreement than a touch of love, but when he took her left, it was with a gentle touch that he slipped a ring on that fourth finger that physicians teach leads with a nerve directly to the heart. The ring bore a sculpted intaglio of the goddess Fortuna: luck, perhaps, to counter her fears about the wedding's timing. Finally he lifted her veil, and she gave her new husband a tremulous smile. And that was that, because, as was proper, he made no move to embrace or kiss her yet. That must wait until the end of the feasting. Valeria was led to a banquet couch where, on her wedding night alone, she'd be allowed to recline at supper like a man.

  "And now eat and drink so that your joy might become theirs!" Sextus concluded.

  The party obeyed with gusto.

  There was song from the lute and pipes, games of wit, and poems of love. A village maiden leaped upward to dance a vigorous jig with the speed of swallow wings, kicking and twirling to the thump of ancient drums. The music was primitive and simple, but the song was so primeval that it seemed like blood pumping to Valeria's heart, an echo of a wilder world. Was that what it was like beyond the Wall? She felt superior, as reigning lady of the fortress and its civilization now. Yet what must it be like to be as free as this wild Celt, dancing and drinking and catching men's eyes…

  From duty comes devotion, and from devotion comes love…

  Slaves slipped in and among the guests like wraiths, refilling plate and goblet, furtively nibbling themselves, and secretly smiling at the growing drunkenness of the guests. One slave in particular was tall and well muscled but noticeably clumsy, with the feral look of a recent captive. What defeat, she wondered, had led him here? Had he left his own wife behind?

  The wounded Clodius, reclining on another couch, also studied the awkward servant, but with ill humor. While most of the assembly was boisterous, the young tribune was uncharacteristically quiet. He'd watched the brief ceremony that gave Valeria to her new husband with a tight smile, and now he watched the slave to keep his stare from fixating on the young bride. She reclined on her wedding couch like a ripe golden apple, her skin smooth and flawless, her dark eyes bright and triumphant, her hair like a bolt of Asian silk, and watching her was a kind of exquisite torture. Wed to a wooden man who seemed embarrassed even to have Clodius on his staff, a praefectus who had more appreciation for his office than for the woman who'd given it to him…

  Clodius also sat well away from Galba, who, he suspected, was laying the blame for the ambush on him. By the gods, it hadn't been bis decision to get those remounts! And yet it was he who had stumbled into a Celtic ambush, and he who had been made a fool of. Word of how he had greeted his commander, stripped of sword and mount, had swiftly made its way through the fort. One turma of soldiers had snapped to attention before him with red lines painted across their throats, grinning like idiots.

  Never had he endured such humiliation.

  How long this single year would drag! The few Roman girls at the party were plain and boring provincial brats, giggling and dull, while t
he Celtic lasses were rudely independent and, in any event, beneath his station. None came close to the beauty of Valeria. Worst of all, his neck wound ached where the bandit had cut it, forcing him to wear a humiliating neckerchief to hide the cut.

  What he could do was drink, and he did so industriously. He imbibed his wine as if parched and soon was observing the wedding party through an alcoholic haze. Everyone seemed to be having fun, which made his own gloom worse. Even the slaves seemed to be enjoying themselves, except the big one who kept dropping things. "Who's that slave over there, the tall and clumsy one?" he croaked irritably to a merchant named Torus. "The oaf looks like a mule in a pottery shed."

  The Briton looked where his seatmate was gesturing. "That's our grand Scotti prince, I'm told. Captured by Falco in recent battle. Odo, I think his name is."

  "A prince cleaning food scraps?"

  "It was Galba who set the trap for him."

  "Ah, yes, Galba. Our premier strategist." Clodius looked across the room. The senior tribune sat in the shadows quiet and alone, sipping little, never looking at the bridal pair, and ignoring attempts at conversation. "Our unconquered warrior. Except when allowing my throat to be cut."

  "It was a barbarian who cut you, not the senior tribune. Probably some other hotheaded buck just like you, or that Eiru slave there. All of you out to end life at its beginning, when the real purpose is to enjoy it to its end."

  "Yes. Like him." Clodius drained his cup. "Brother in arms to Britlet scum." He reached for a fig, eyeing Valeria morosely, and as his arm extended, he accidentally knocked over the flagon of his seatmate's drink. Before he could right it, beer foamed off a slate table in a white cascade. He looked at it numbly while heads swung to the clatter. Damn them for noticing.

  "My opinion of Briton beer!" Clodius shouted.

  A Roman laughed. Encouraged, the young tribune reared up and swayed unsteadily, making the assembled guests titter in anticipation. The tribune's scarf caused a whisper of explanation.

  "In fact, my opinion to date of bastard Britannia!"

  There were hoots and catcalls. "Beer takes you to the same place as wine," insisted an annoyed Torus, watching as a slave girl mopped the mess. "More cheaply and with heartier taste." Several guests applauded, and the merchant signaled for another cup. Odo was pushed forward.

  "Really?" Clodius slurred. "Well, may I offer an observation on the matter penned by the emperor Julian when he was stationed in Britannia? I find his wisdom appealing."

  "Yes!" shouted the assembly. "Recite the pagan emperor's critique!"

  Odo bent down beside Clodius to refill Torus's flagon.

  "The title is, 'Of Wine Made from Barley,'" Clodius announced. The other Romans laughed. Their disdain for crude northern drink was well-known.

  "Who made you, and from what?" Clodius recited, hoisting his neighbor's refilled cup for display and looking at it as if baffled. "By the true Bacchus, I know you not."

  There was snickering, a clap, and cries of disagreement. "The wine smells of nectar, as the poet wrote." Clodius cautiously took a sniff. "But this beer, alas, smells of goat!"

  Laughter, and applause. Encouraged, Clodius bowed. Then, impulsively, he tilted the beer goblet and dumped its contents over Odo's head.

  The slave went rigid. The laughter faltered. Odo stared straight ahead at nothing, blinking his eyes against the sting.

  Clodius looked down at the slave's wet head and smiled with amusement. "Little Celt! You don't like your nation's drink? Or are you hoping I'll pour you more?"

  The slave knew better than to risk an answer.

  Clodius waited, daring the man to respond, and then jerked the goblet toward the slave's face, making Odo flinch as he was spattered with the last drops. "I don't think our Scotti prince agrees with Roman taste, comrades. Perhaps he's too good for us."

  The room had gone quiet.

  Suddenly the slave shook his head, spraying Clodius and Torus with beer.

  Clodius exploded with rage. "Damn you!" The tribune flung the goblet, and it banged against Odo's head. The slave staggered.

  Now the bullying had gone too far. Falco jumped up. "By the code of Mithras, lie down, Clodius! You're drunk!"

  Clodius turned, still swaying. "On the contrary, dear host, I'm not drunk enough. Half of what I've imbibed has leaked out of this Celtic hole in my throat." He pointed to his scarf and laughed at his own joke, a quick bray.

  Galba was watching the little drama with intent interest.

  "Lie down, tribune." Now it was Marcus, his voice flat with warning.

  Finally realizing that he'd crossed the line of propriety, Clodius gave the groom a truculent salute and did what he was told. "As you wish." He plopped back onto his couch.

  There was a long moment of awkward quiet. Then the pipes and drums started up again, Torus was given a cloth to finish mopping himself, and the buzz of conversation resumed. The merchant moved angrily away from the Roman officer.

  Falco came over. "Odo, you're excused for the evening," he said quietly to his slave, who was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. The Scotti gave a curt nod and left. The centurion watched him go and then leaned close to the young patrician. "That's just the kind of foolishness that keeps trouble brewing in this country," he scolded quietly. "You don't have to drink Briton beer, tribune, but don't mock it, either. Or my slaves. Or my household."

  "My would-be tutor Galba says we must rule the island by fear," Clodius muttered. "I meant no ill will, but I've been in Britannia little more than a month and am already sick of it."

  "And have you asked yourself where Galba is, dolt?"

  Clodius looked across the room. The senior tribune's place was empty. "Indeed, where is his sullen face?"

  "Galba's as anxious not to call attention to that near-disaster in the forest as you seem anxious to commemorate it. He knows it was mere luck that got Valeria away from those brigands. Now you've reminded everyone else! So Galba told me he was going outdoors to spend this night with his men, organizing a guard of honor to restore his own. Don't think our commander won't notice his contrition."

  "Galba? Contrite?"

  "He's paying penance for both of you."

  The young tribune glanced around, suddenly deflated. Everyone was avoiding his look. "I've paraded my shame, haven't I?" he said gloomily.

  "Just give the province a chance to work, Clodius. Give the garrison a chance to come together."

  "The soldiers don't like me."

  "They don't like you because they're not convinced you like them."

  The tribune looked miserable. "I want to be them."

  "Then act like them. It's the end that counts, young officer."

  Clodius stood and swallowed, looking ashamed. "I apologize for my boorishness. I'm drunk, and you're right, I've not earned my opinion of Britannia. I too am going to spend this night in the dark and somehow set things to rights."

  "To rights?"

  "To somehow, like Galba, reclaim my honor."

  XV

  Bride and groom at last came together at feast's end. Marcus rose, tipsy himself by now, and crossed the room to where Valeria lay on her banquet couch, her eyes bright with anticipation. Lucinda, playing the traditional role of protective mother, bent to grasp the young woman's shoulders as if reluctant to let her go. The praefectus, painfully self-conscious at this ritual play, grasped Valeria's hand and pulled as if to abduct her. She sat upright, but Lucinda's arms encircled the young woman as if in protest. The groom seemed momentarily perplexed.

  "Grab her, you donkey!" someone yelled. "Surely your sword is stiff enough by now to win victory!"

  Valeria couldn't help but think of the firm grasp of the horrid barbarian who'd hauled her off her cart.

  "Don't yank her! Scoop her!" another suggested.

  Grinning uncomfortably, Marcus bent and put his arms around Valeria's waist and under her knees, hoisting her off the couch as Lucinda's grip obligingly fell away. The crowd roared approval, and Valeria put h
er arms around her new husband's neck, lifting her face. The praefectus pecked her.

  "By the gods, Marcus, she's not your sister!"

  "Let's take you home," he whispered. She hugged him tighter.

  The chariot in the villa courtyard was garlanded with spring fern at its rim, wild roses twisted around each spoke. Two white horses, their harness punctuated by silver coins and their backs warmed by bright red blankets, waited to pull. A bonfire crackled in one corner, and a dozen cavalrymen sat on their horses in full armor, their lances pointed at the sky. Their ceremonial gilded helmets included a full face mask of Apollo, each golden visage identical to the next. The effect was formal and eerie, black holes marking where their eyes gazed out.

  Marcus set his bride's feet on the chariot floor and stepped up beside her, tenderly fastening a long fur cloak of Briton fox across her neck. His composure having returned-now that he was at a distance from his audience and half shielded by the dark-he raised his arm in salute to the wedding guests pouring outside. "My thanks for your blessing!"

  "Talassio!" the guests cried in response, a wedding salutation inspired by the name of the Sabine bride that Rome's founder had kidnapped.

  "To long union!" some added.

  "To a long night!"

  "To a long spatha-and a receptive target!"

  Valeria flushed. Now she would become a woman.

  An officer shouted command. "Turma… to the right… ho!" It was Galba's voice, his face as invisible behind the mask as his emotions. What must he think about this marriage that sealed his demotion to second? And where was Clodius? Had he fled?

  The cavalry escort rode out of the courtyard smartly, lance heads bobbing, and Marcus let the chariot follow at walking pace. Guests tagged behind, each plunging a torch into the bonfire and then holding it aloft to form a chain of dancing flame. They sang drunkenly and called forward to the newlyweds with more ribald advice and jokes. It was three miles to the gate of the fortress, and as the procession traveled, it began to lengthen, stragglers dropping back from wine, age, or the need to relieve themselves. Still, it was a river of fire that crossed the arched stone bridge and entered the village of square-cornered Roman houses that stacked high toward the looming walls. Whitewashed stone gleamed in the night, and watch fires atop the guard towers beckoned. Far up the lane the fortress gate glowed with more torches, a portal of red, flickering light.