by Jack Whyte
"I wasn't ready." I poured for both of us and handed him a cup. "I would have told her eventually, but it was too soon and I hadn't had time to think things through." I tasted my wine. It was perfect. Chilled and delicious. "What did she have to say?"
"Not much, at first." He raised his cup to me and sipped his own wine. "God, this is nectar! No, she had little to say at first. I knew she was ashamed of me and angry at me for turning my tongue on you, but she was remarkably patient and showed her usual forbearance."
"Yes," I murmured, "but your sister is a remarkable woman. I've told you that before now, more than once. So, you discussed her... conclusions? Civilly?"
"Civilly, and thoroughly."
"And ... ?"
"And she is absolutely correct, of course. We have a problem of some magnitude, one that will have to be addressed."
"Hmmm..." I sat down again in my favourite chair. "Addressed by whom?"
"By all of us, Publius. Initially by you and me, I suppose, working together with Luceiia. Eventually, however, this is going to demand the involvement of everyone in our little society."
I moved to a more comfortable slouch, holding my cup carefully so as not to spill a drop of wine. "Why did you get so angry with me?"
"I don't know." He grimaced, tacitly admitting to the lie. "Yes, I do. I suppose it was fear."
"Fear?" I could not keep the surprise out of my voice.
"Yes, Publius, fear!" He sat down across from me and was silent for a few moments, staring into the fire, then he continued. "I've been aware for some time now that there are changes happening here, Publius, changes we can't control; changes I don't like; changes in the way people are thinking and behaving." He paused again and sipped at his drink. "On the surface, many of them don't seem very profound or serious. But they are. And the remedies are dangerous in and of themselves."
"I don't follow you."
He smiled, a small, enigmatic smile. "Oh, you will when you start to think about it."
"About what? What danger? There's no danger involved anywhere that I can see."
"Isn't there, Publius?" Caius sat up straighter and leaned forward, looking me directly in the eye and balancing his right elbow on his knee. "Then look at your own reservations from this perspective: the matters you brought to my attention this afternoon are all concerned with the common everyday things people do. Luceiia has noticed a... what was her word? Laxity? That was it. A laxity in the structure of life around here. And now you agree with her, since she brought it to your attention. I agree with her too. She's absolutely right. But it's not just here, Publius. It's not just on our villa. It's everywhere. It's in the towns we visit, in the cities and in the villages, and it's growing all the time. Have you put a name to it yet?"
I shook my head. I was fascinated because he had already taken me far beyond the boundaries of my own thinking. He carried on without waiting for an answer.
"It's called anarchy, Publius."
Now I responded, laughing in disbelief. "Anarchy? Cay, you can't be serious!"
But Caius was not laughing. "Yes I can, Publius, and I am. Oh, it's a very small degree of anarchy at this point, but it will spread like a pestilence."
I laughed again, trying to ease him out of this train of thought, but he was not to be put off and he silenced me with an upraised hand.
"Please, Publius, let me finish. I find no humour in this, now that you and my sister have forced me to confront it."
"Really, Caius!" I was still trying to laugh this off, to put it aside as trivial. "We said nothing of anarchy. Luceiia was upset about one of the carpenters, a drunkard who terrorizes his wife and children. You know how she is about things like that."
He nodded, his face troubled. "Yes, I do," he muttered, his mood changing instantly. He shook his head regretfully. "She still hasn't recovered from the deaths of the children, has she? And it's been, what? Four years?"
I thought for a while before answering his question. "Yes, it's been four years, and no, she hasn't really recovered, Cay, not deep down inside. I don't think she ever will... She blames herself — still thinks she was the cause. And she can't forgive herself for not having seen things developing sooner. She really believes she should have been able to prevent it."
"But that's nonsense!"
"Of course it is, I know that... we all do, even Luceiia, most of the time. Thank God for that, at least. But once in a while, she changes back to the way she was just after the children died... something sets her back, reminding her... and it usually happens when she hears about some child being mistreated or falling sick."
We sat in silence for long moments, each of us remembering.
During the long winter of the year in which I had killed Claudius Seneca, a withering sickness had swept through our lands. Its onset had been like the normal winter sniffles, but this illness was a killer, developing into high fevers, congested lungs, muscular spasms and paralysis. Very young children and old people seemed to lack the strength to resist it, and in our region alone scores of them died. Our household had been among the first hit, and Luceiia had convinced herself that she was responsible for bringing the contagion back from a journey she had made into Aquae Sulis shortly before the outbreak.
Three of our four daughters caught the sickness, and the two eldest, Victoria and Rebecca, born a mere eleven months apart, had died of it, Victoria mere days before her ninth birthday. Veronica, our third child, had just turned six at the time, and we thought for a while that we were going to lose her, too. But she survived, and the following year, she and her younger sister, Lucilla, were joined by another, Dorathea, our "gift from God" when one was most needed. Veronica, now our eldest, had been named after her aunt, Veronica Varo — wife to Quintus Varo, Cay's brother-in-law — who had been the first woman to welcome me on my arrival in the west, the year I fled from the wrath of the Senecas.
"Apparently," I resumed, picking up the thread of the conversation, "Lignus mistreats his children. That's what set her off in this instance. She suspects him of incest with his daughters. And of course, apart from that, she is worried about the rash of thefts that has broken out lately. Theft was unheard of around here until just very recently, and I understand her concern. Now all those things are worrisome, Cay, but I would hardly say they represent anarchy."
"Wrong, Publius. They all do. Each of them and all of them are symptoms of what I am talking about." He heaved a short, gusty sigh of frustration. "Don't you see? It's all part of what we're supposed to be preparing for, Publius — the breakup. The armies have deserted this part of Britain, for all intents and purposes. The garrisons are gone, to Londinium and Venta and Lindum, because that's where they're needed to hold off the enemy. The enemy is increasing in numbers and in ferocity from all directions, and the supply of reinforcements to us from overseas is nil! Every able-bodied soldier is on full alert — non-stop active duty. The military administration can't afford to leave domestic forces in non-priority locations, so they've pulled out the smaller, local and provincial garrisons and sent them where they'll be put to best use. That's fine, and it's sensible, and it's inevitable, but... but, Publius, there is one additional, unprecedented fact involved here: when the garrisons leave the provincial centres, for whatever reason, the machinery for enforcement of the law leaves with them."
I blinked and gazed at him, saying nothing, and he continued.
"The magistrates still rule, in name, but without the military they have no means of enforcement. Can't you see that?"
I considered it for a few moments and then shrugged. It seemed to me he was making too much out of a temporary inconvenience, so my response was dismissive.
"No, not really. Criminals are still being transported to where they can be punished, just as they've always been, aren't they?"
His response to that was scornful. "Criminals! We're not talking about criminals, here, Publius, we're talking about ordinary people who commit minor transgressions. Tax evasions, civil contempt, common a
ssault, unruly gatherings, public drunkenness — that's where the rot sets in. Murderers and arsonists will still go under escort for punishment to the nearest military base, but the smaller, petty offenders are going unpunished and unchallenged, because it's simply too much trouble to check them.
"In direct consequence, the boundaries between right and wrong are being blurred. The emphasis — even among the ordinary, common people — is changing from 'Don't do that, or you'll be punished,' to 'Don't get caught doing that...' That represents a major change in people's attitudes, Publius, and hand in hand with it walks corruption. Judges and magistrates begin to take bribes. Some always have, but they were held in some kind of restraint in the past by the presence of the army. I had a letter on the subject from an old friend in Aquae Sulis. The situation there is disastrous. There are armed factions springing up in several places around the town, ostensibly organized to augment the military forces there in an ongoing war against a highly organized band of brigands. These brigands have become so bold, and the military forces in Aquae are so powerless against them, that people are in fear of their lives from day to day. They have no certainty of justice. They no longer have redress for any wrongdoing they suffer."
"Wait, Caius, wait." He subsided, and I bit my lip, choosing my words carefully. "I don't doubt what your friend tells you is true, but that's in Aquae Sulis."
"It's happening elsewhere, too."
"I'm sure it is, but what bearing does that have on us here, in the Colony? I don't see the connection. Isn't that why we are here? To isolate ourselves from the rest of the country and the dissolution that's bound to come when everything breaks down?"
"Of course it is, but no isolation can ever be complete, Publius. Our people still have contact with the outside world. And what we are discussing is an attitude. It's an abstraction, but it is all-pervasive, and it is beginning to affect us here in our sanctuary. We are sinking into lawlessness."
I still thought he was over-reacting, but I had no doubt of his sincerity. "Lawlessness," I responded, "that's a big word, Cay, and I don't think things are that serious. You said yourself it's only now beginning to concern you here."
"That's true, I did. So?"
"So what?"
"So what are you suggesting?"
He had taken me by surprise again. "Me? I'm not suggesting anything. Or if I am, I suppose it's that we should do something about it, find some way of stopping it."
"I see." His enigmatic smile was back in place. "And how does one stop lawlessness?"
I blinked at him, suddenly beginning to sense where this was leading, and becoming aware of an urgent need to consider seriously what I was saying. "By making new laws, I suppose... to replace the old ones."
"Exactly. And you don't think that's dangerous?" His smile was wider now but there was no humour in it.
I was nonplussed, unsure of my footing, conscious of deep waters ahead of me. "Dangerous? Not particularly. What's so dangerous about it?"
"Tell me, Publius, what's the difference between a rule, a regulation and a law?"
He had me floundering now, and I couldn't answer him because I didn't know the difference. I shrugged and he took pity on me, his mirthless smile intact as he continued.
"Would you agree that a rule is a relatively mild, informal guideline prepared by, say, a society or a guild for the governance of its members? Nothing too formal or demanding, except that refusal to abide by it might result in the member's being mildly disciplined or even, in the last resort, being asked by his peers to withdraw from the society?"
I nodded in agreement.
"And then, as a soldier, you know that a regulation is a much more stringent form of rule, laid down by the army, and disobedience to the regulation involves physical disciplining of the culprit under martial law. And the guarantee of punishment is supplied by the authority of the imperial legions? Agreed?"
Again I nodded.
He continued. "A law, on the other hand, is an absolute rule, drawn up by the State, and failure to abide by it draws down absolute punishment, administered resolutely and with the full power and majesty of the State behind it?"
"Agreed. That sums it up." My voice was very quiet.
"Very well, then, Publius. You were talking of making new laws for our Colony. Let's stay with the definitions we agreed upon. Now, did you mean rules? Regulations? Or were you really talking about laws? And whichever of them you meant, had you given any thought to how they might be drawn up? Or implemented? Or enforced?"
"Good God, Cay," I whispered, "I see what you mean."
"Do you, brother?" He took a deep swallow from his cup. "I wish I did."
I drank from my own cup, and suddenly the wine seemed flat and tasteless. "We don't have that kind of authority, do we?"
"No, Publius, we do not. Nor, I think, would we want it. We have power, in that we own this land, in common with the other villa-owners. As such, we control the Colony and are accepted as its leaders by the people who live here, but would we want those powers extended to embrace the power of life and death? I submit that neither you nor I, nor any of the others, would, or could, be comfortable with that kind of power."
"How so?" I was surprised again. "We've all held that power before, in the legions."
"Yes, but only as deputies."
"That's true, you're right. But we have to do something, if what you suspect is the truth. So what can we do? Where do we start?"
Caius got up and moved to the brazier to feed the fire. "We have begun. All we can do is talk about it and try to see some way to draw up a set of rules that all of us can live by. We have to assume the responsibility for being the catalytic force behind the movement, for while I have reason to fear what we are contemplating, there is no doubt in my mind that we are correct. And we will not be able to do this alone. The enormity of such arrogance would be self-destructive." He turned back to face me. "The laws exist already, that goes without saying. No need to invent new ones. But we lack the means of prosecution. We must have some means of enforcing the laws, Publius... and that is going to be a fearsome responsibility and a dreadful and daunting task."
"We'll have to set up some new kind of governing body."
"Absolutely. But it will also have to be a representative body. It can't be just you and me. The colonists would never accept that, nor would I wish them to. We could, however, extend the powers of the existing Council to cover legislation."
"You mean found a real Senate, along Roman lines?"
He grimaced. "Possibly. Something like that. That was our original intent, when we first talked of establishing a Council to govern the Colony."
I stood up now and moved closer to the brazier, extending my hands towards the heat. "I remember, but we decided against that degree of sophistication. Do you really believe we could go back to that now? It would be a major departure from all we've done since those days, Cay. A really big change. You think it could be done?"
"Of course it could, but it would have to be done in the right way, with the proper preparation and spirit."
"But what about enforcement? We'd still have to set up some form of disciplinary force. Our own soldiers?"
"Hardly, Publius. A military dictatorship?"
"What, then?"
"No idea. As I said, it's going to take a lot of talking and a lot of sober thought... But a strengthened Council, endowed with the bona fide senatorial authority to apprehend transgressors might be the answer... particularly if it were backed up by some form of tribunal..."
I could practically hear his mind clicking as he pursued the pros and cons of what he was saying.
"Yes, that might be it, Publius ... a tribunal... a systematic method of exercising the voice and judgment of the colonists, in conjunction with the Council. Public trials, and accountability for persons accused of public — even private — mischief. But no powers of life and death, none of that nonsense. Banishment only. The ultimate punishment would be banishment."
I wa
s dubious. "You really think that would be enough of a deterrent to criminal behaviour?"
He grinned at me. "Today? Probably not. But in five or ten years from now, when the world has gone to Hades, who knows? Let's bring Luceiia in on this now. We could use her common sense."
I think none of us could really have suspected that the discussions begun that evening among the three of us would become the basis for the entire system of law throughout our growing domain in the years that stretched ahead, although that is exactly what happened.
Luceiia, when she joined us, dismissed most of our concerns about lawmaking as being premature. Cay, she pointed out, was the owner of the villa and its lands and ipso facto had an absolute right to determine the code of conduct for everyone living on those lands, as did the other villa-owners on theirs. The Council was a relatively new body and was functioning reasonably well in its current form. Best to let it continue as it was and to let its authority and its functions determine themselves with the passing of time. As the population of the Colony grew, the scope of the Council would expand naturally to reflect that growth. Cay and I exchanged glances and agreed with her; she was right again.
At one point she stopped talking quite abruptly and sat deep in thought for some time before glancing shrewdly at her brother and then at me.
"Both of you are concerned about interfering with the rights of other people, aren't you? You can't see clearly where moral supervision, for the want of a better expression, stops, and plain interference and meddling begin. Am I correct?"
She was, as far as I was concerned, but as I cleared my throat to answer her, Caius began to speak.
"Yes, Luceiia, you are, as usual. I am particularly concerned about the carpenter Publius mentioned. It is an appropriate case, in this context. You say he is a drunkard. He would probably respond that he is a hard worker who enjoys a jug of ale or wine, or both, after he has finished his day's work. I do, too. So does your husband. We may simply be able to hold our drink better than this carpenter. Should we condemn him for that? Can we? You suggest he bullies and terrorizes his family, and that he is incestuous with his daughters. That latter is only hearsay, is it not? Is there any proof that he does?"