by M. K. Hume
Once he was clear of the trees, Artorex remounted Coal with Gallia still in a dead faint in his arms. She began to return to consciousness as they approached the villa, but her eyes were dry and glazed. Something essential to her spirit had fled away with the news that Artorex had delivered.
‘They’re all dead,’ she murmured against his chest.
‘Not all of them, Gallia. Not all! Your brother struggles to put his father’s affairs in order, and he’ll come for you when his duties permit. The pestilence decided that many of your kin went to the funeral pyres long before they were fated to do so, but I have been assured that all the burial rituals were observed exactly as your father would have wished.’ He looked down at her upturned face. ‘I’d take your pain away myself, Gallia, if only I knew how.’
Absently, she squeezed his arm to express her thanks, but her mind was struggling to comprehend the depth of her loss.
‘I know you’d help me if you could, Artorex, but there’s nothing we can do, is there?’
‘No, Gallia, there’s not.’
At the very least, he could present her with the truth.
At the villa, Gallia’s maidservant came running and assisted her mistress into her quarters. Julanna had been disturbed by the fuss and now she listened to the report from Artorex with growing concern and horror.
‘Will this terrible year never be done?’ she moaned, and hurried to the side of her friend.
The evening meal was bereft of womenfolk. Ector was saddened by Gallia’s tragedy, but was fully aware that there was nothing he could offer to assist Gallia in her time of mourning.
‘We’re very fortunate to be so distant from Aquae Sulis. If the pestilence has truly passed, as the courier suggested, our isolation has been instrumental in keeping us safe.’
‘Aye, master. You acted wisely when you determined to keep us isolated from all contact with outsiders.’
‘I wish Lady Livinia was still here. She’d know how to ease the burdens that little Gallia must carry. It must be nigh impossible for her to linger here in comfort when her family is such a short distance away and yet not be able to help them in their suffering.’
‘Aye. The mistress would have known how to help little Gallia,’ Artorex agreed. But Caius remained non-committal and silent.
Frith reported that Gallia was now awake but remained dry-eyed, shivering and distracted.
‘Will she be well?’ Artorex asked.
‘Never fear, master, she’ll start to talk soon, and then she’ll remember the happy years and the joyful times she spent with her family. She’ll shed some good, healing tears. The little mistress is young, and her body is not yet ready for death, although she’s half mad with her loss.’
And so, old Frith, faithful Julanna and a few trusted maidservants sat with the grieving Gallia and tended to her needs. At first she was mute, and then the memories poured out of her as if the simple task of repeating tales of her childhood could keep her father and her brothers alive for a little longer.
The tears followed, and the nightmares, and yet more tears, until Gallia emerged from her bedchamber, pale, thin and as insubstantial as thistledown.
During her ordeal, a strange friendship had been forged. Julanna had the running of the household and the care of her child pressing down upon her narrow, girlish shoulders. Although she longed to ease Gallia’s sorrow, time kept her from the side of her loyal friend more often than she wished.
But, smoothly and naturally, as if she had always been there, Frith sat with Gallia beside her pallet or coaxed her to eat. When the girl wept in her restless sleep, it was old Frith who woke her, held her gently to her withered breasts and soothed away her nightmares with kisses and kind words. The first thing that Gallia saw when she awoke each grey, winter morning was Frith’s wrinkled, smiling face, and the last sound she heard before sleeping was the sweet sound of the old woman’s singing.
Gallia had barely risen from her bed of grief when her brother suddenly arrived at the Villa Poppinidii. New streaks of grey now bleached his black hair and he was without even a single manservant to attend to his needs and comfort during his journey.
After a tearful reunion, Gallia took to her bed once again, too worn and weary from tears and misery to face the tangible person of her last sibling. To pass the time, Gallinus sought the advice of Lord Ector, seeking an older head to guide him, while Artorex took pains to ensure that he was also present at the meeting.
‘I couldn’t speak what is in my heart with little Gallia present. Ten members of my family are dead, and over half our servants have perished with them. The family business is in tatters. Oh, it is sound at the roots, for everyone needs fish, but I must labour hard to repair what the pestilence has stolen from us. The markets of Aquae Sulis are silent, the fleet from Abone is halved and the warehouses are stripped of those labourers who are necessary to carry out the physical work. Little Gallia knows little of trade so it will be difficult to tell her she is unlikely to have a dowry when she is eventually married.’
Ector rumbled his distress at this news.
‘Gallia has always been the little singing bird in our house,’ Gallinus sighed, and then continued. ‘She’s the youngest, and she has a tender heart.’
He paused once again, while Artorex grinned inwardly at the thought that Gallia was either fragile or tender.
‘I lack the words to explain to my sister the true circumstances of the disaster that has afflicted our house.’
Ector nodded his sympathy and understanding, but there was little he could say that would alleviate this young man’s concerns. Instead, in the Roman tradition, he attempted to keep his spine straight and his gaze direct.
Artorex watched Gallia’s brother impassively. Gallinus was disturbed and frightened, as any sensible man would be who was suddenly faced with the task of salvaging an extensive trading empire that had inexplicably been brought to its knees. His brothers were dead, and he was suddenly forced to assume control of his father’s many business interests at a time when he was ill prepared for the task before him.
After a few moments of silence, the young man began to explain his quandary over the future of his young sister.
‘My most pressing problem is Gallia. Our father intended that she should be wed months ago, but all past arrangements have failed to bear fruit. Unfortunately, Father’s most recent choice of husband was also a victim of the plague.’
He pondered his situation in silence.
‘To be frank, Gallia will have no possibility of dowry until she is much older, for I must use our remaining gold as wages for those fishermen, artisans and workers who have survived,’ Gallinus said softly. ‘I must diversify if I’m to survive, but I’m at a loss to know what to do with my sister, for who’d wish to marry a woman who is no longer young and fresh?’
‘She’s welcome to stay with us for as long as you wish,’ Ector replied. ‘She’s a charming young girl, and she brings much happiness to our Julanna.’
‘I thank you for your generosity, but the problem will continue to grow. She’s now more than fifteen years and will soon be past her first bloom of youth. By the time the family fortunes are rebuilt, she will be at least twenty years old. Heaven knows where I will find her a husband, for Aquae Sulis has been stripped of its suitable young men.’
Artorex interrupted before he had really considered the importance of the words he was about to utter.
‘I would make an offer to marry Gallia - and would do so gladly - although you may not want a lowly steward as the husband of your sister.’
Ector, Caius and Gallinus turned to face Artorex as one. They were dumbfounded by the proposal, and stared blankly at him.
‘I know I’m not worthy of her by birth and by wealth but I have a most sincere affection for your sister,’ Artorex added. ‘Nor will I always be a landless man, for I intend to make my mark on the world. But I will understand if you find my proposal presumptuous and insulting.’
Ector gave Art
orex a fleeting smile.
‘My foster-son is overly modest, and he need not be landless, for I can always settle a small parcel of Villa Poppinidii land upon him if he so desires. Further, the holy Lucius, Bishop of Glastonbury, would also settle gold on him if Artorex decided to take a wife of good lineage. It is a fact that Lucius prevailed upon me to raise young Artorex, and a priest of his renown wouldn’t take such pains if Artorex wasn’t of respectable birth.’
Belatedly, Artorex realized that Gallinus was actually considering his offer. He could readily understand that Gallia was one problem too many for a man beset by the trials confronting a younger son who was attempting to make his mark on the world.
As his stomach churned with a sudden attack of nerves, Artorex had no idea if he was more afraid of rejection or of acceptance.
‘I’ll sleep upon your proposal, good steward, and I’ll give you my answer in the morning.’ He smiled at Artorex. ‘And now, Artorex, if you aren’t offended, I’d ask you to leave me with Master Ector so that he can acquaint me with your character. I may be in desperate straits, but my sister is precious to me.’
‘I understand, sir, and I’ll leave you to your deliberations.’
What have I done? Artorex asked himself as he strode back to his spartan bedchamber. How can I take a wife when all I own is a horse? I must be moon mad!
The measure of the financial troubles besetting Gallinus was amply proved by his agreement to the marriage when he met Ector and Artorex the following morning.
Bemused by the unexpected turn of events, Artorex and Gallinus sealed their bargain with a clasp of hands and an assurance from Gallinus that, in time, a bride price would be paid so that Artorex could build his own small villa. Documents would be drawn up in Aquae Sulis and Ector had already agreed to give the young couple the field that bordered the Old Forest.
In truth, Ector gave very little, for the land was full of brambles and weeds, and would take a great deal of effort to set to rights. On the other hand, he would gain much from the match. His steward was now bound to Villa Poppinidii by the bonds of his coming marriage, and the villa had gained another Roman chatelaine.
Once again, the wily and affable Celt could not lose.
‘But what of Gallia? Perhaps she will not wish to marry me?’ Artorex suggested.
‘Gallia is of Roman lineage and she’ll marry whomever her paterfamilias chooses,’ Gallinus stated abruptly. ‘I know that Father indulged her but I don’t have time for such luxuries.’
Now that his mind was set on a course of action, Gallinus was sweeping aside all opposition to his plans, as if they were chaff before the storm winds.
‘I am, of course, forced to continue with the mourning period that is still left to me at my own home, so it is probably best that your marriage take place here at the Villa Poppinidii. I am certain that Gallia and Julanna will be cheered at the prospect of planning a wedding celebration. Ladies love such distractions.’
Artorex wasn’t so confident. Gallia was no blushing maiden, having proved that her small body hid a very large heart. And Julanna had learned through tragedy that duty ruled a woman’s life, not entertainment.
In the event, Gallia cried a great deal when Gallinus informed her of his decision. She didn’t know precisely why she wept, whether out of joy or terror, but she knew that Artorex was a man of honour and her children would stand tall in their world. She understood, too, deep in her inner self, that Artorex was destined for a noble future.
And so the tangled fates of Artorex and Gallia were sealed with the sponsalia, the formal betrothal. Although the confarrato, or sacred marriage, was not the norm in these far lands, the offspring of Gallicus ate barley cakes at their wedding feasts to show that they were wed for life. Joy might come for Artorex and Gallia, and strength, but a dark legacy had been born with the passing of the pestilence and now it waited for time to call it forth.
CHAPTER IX
THE IDYLL
In the last weeks of winter, Artorex wed Gallia of the House of Gallus with all the pomp and splendour that Ector could muster as a provincial lord. The time wasn’t propitious, for all good citizens of Roman blood married during the warm and fecund month of June when Juno, the goddess who guarded all girls, was at her strongest. But circumstances called for haste, a decision that suited none of the women of the villa, who bemoaned the absence of flowers in this inauspicious time. Snow had come to the lands around Aquae Sulis in unaccustomed flurries and the fires in the hypocaust had to be kept stoked so that the floors and walls could warm their guests.
Grunn, the cook, at the head of an army of kitchen maids, cooked and basted, boiled and candied, fried and roasted, until the villa was one long succession of succulent smells. Even Caius, mindful of his debt to Artorex, and now thoroughly nervous of his foster-brother, ordered wood cut for great iron braziers to warm the rooms. Old Frith was bursting with pride, and in her strange, barbarian fashion, went out into the forest where the ice on the trees cracked and growled as if the wood itself was in pain.
When she had dragged home her booty of fallen boughs, she decorated the lintels of the rooms with holly, festooned cheerfully with its red berries. She found old, long-dried logs from fragrant trees, and ordered the manservants to drag them home to sweeten the wood that burned in the braziers.
On one of her travels, she found one curiously shaped knob of wood that she polished with oil until the small thing glowed in the reflected light, and then she pierced the timber with an awl so a narrow silken cord could pass through it.
On the night before the wedding feast, she visited the bride.
‘My lady?’ Frith called softly, as she scratched at Gallia’s door. ‘My lady, have you a moment for old Frith?’
‘Come in, Frith, and welcome,’ Gallia cried, and sat up in her warm bed.
Her hair was still very short, but Frith could see that the tumbled curls suited the young woman far better than the tortured coifs of great ladies.
‘You would ease old Frith’s heart if you would wear this talisman when you are wed,’ Frith said, and pressed the little piece of wood into Gallia’s hands.
‘It looks like a small pregnant woman,’ Gallia marvelled. ‘It is so smooth and warm in my hand. What wood is this?’
‘It’s made from a knot of hazel tree, little one. The Druids forbid us, on pain of death, to cut the hazel for it is a holy tree. But I found this fragment on the earth, so it is a bride gift to you from the tree itself. It’ll keep you safe and make your children strong.’
Gallia lifted an elegant, golden amulet that hung round her neck. ‘My mother placed this bulla round my neck when I was born, to protect me from evil until I was a woman grown. Mother has been dead since I was ten, so she can no longer remove this amulet on the night before my wedding, as is custom. You’d honour me, Frith, if you would remove the bulla of my mother and replace it with your amulet.’
Frith’s old head dropped, and a few tears snaked down her weathered cheeks.
‘Aye, mistress. I’d be honoured to stand in place of your mother.
Bend your head, sweet Gallia.’
As Gallia obeyed, Frith tied the simple cord round her neck and the amulet fell into the warm cleft between Gallia’s breasts.
‘I thank you, Frith. This is a gift fit for a queen, and I promise to keep it always.’
Frith would have left Gallia to her rest, but the girl asked her to stay for she was too excited to sleep.
‘Where are you from, Frith? Your eyes and hair are different from the colouring of the Celts, and there is something about you . . . something . . .’ Gallia struggled for words.
‘Alien, my lady?’ Frith smiled, with only a touch of irony.
‘Yes, although that word is very harsh for one as devoted to the Poppinidii family as you are.’
‘My lady!’ Frith exclaimed. ‘The Villa Poppinidii owns me, body and soul. Didn’t you know?’
Gallia was quite shocked. In many ways, Frith was more of a do
mestic despot than Ector.
‘Yes, mistress. My sweet Livinia’s father, Livius, purchased me when I was a child. They say I was found as an infant in the floating shell of a boat after a great storm off the Isle of Vectis in the south. Where I lived, or where my family came from, was a mystery, for I was alone in a battered, barbarian ship. Had I grown with dark hair, perhaps I would not have ended up on the slave block, but my hair was white, little different from what it is now.’
Frith paused, before continuing.
‘When I was about three years of age, I was sold to the Villa Poppinidii by traders from the north, when Livius was still a young man. I raised his only child, Livinia, and I buried her too. But I am still a barbarian, Mistress Gallia, and at times my ways are strange, for all that I was a babe when I was found.’
‘Did you ever marry, Frith? Did you have children?’
‘Of course, mistress,’ Frith boasted. ‘I wed a good Celt from the village - for all that I would not leave the villa to live with him. I bore seven living children for him.’
‘Did they become slaves too?’ Gallia asked with unintentional rudeness.
Fortunately, Frith was not offended.
‘Mistress Livinia set me free years ago, with scrolls of manumission and all that the law requires. But I told her then, as I tell you now, that we should always master our own fate, and I chose to remain a slave at Villa Poppinidii. I bear no slave collar because Livinia wouldn’t permit me to wear it again, but I remain a slave because I chose to burn my manumission. The villa has owned me for as long as I can remember. Everything I love is here; everyone I have ever cared for lies in this soil or works this land. I belong to the Villa Poppinidii. But Master Ector is also a slave, if you look closely at him. And so is my dear Artorex. And so, in time, will sweet Gallia also be a slave to our house.’
She smiled across at the young girl.
‘Now, goodnight, my lady. For tomorrow you become wife to my beautiful Artorex.’