After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  The lack of another human voice was beginning to bother Meradoc, who was used to the babble of the town. “Why don’t you like to talk?” he asked Dinas.

  “I don’t dislike talking, I can go on for hours under the right circumstances. But I think of words as coinage. I give what I need to get what I want.”

  “You talk to the horse, I’ve heard you.”

  “That proves my point. I talk to him so he will understand me better, which helps us both.”

  “I don’t understand you, Dinas. Why did you invite me to come with you? You can take care of yourself very well without my help.”

  “Have you ever tasted anchovies?”

  “What?”

  “Anchovies. A small, bony fish, very salty, preserved in olive oil. Quite expensive, but worth it if you like them.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “Britannia is an island, did you know that? Anything we don’t produce for ourselves must come to us by sea. Our markets used to do a huge trade in imported items like anchovies and figs and Persian melons. Olives and oil from Iberia, oysters and dates and coriander and…”

  “I tasted dates once,” Meradoc said dreamily. “They were sweet.”

  “Very sweet,” Dinas agreed. “In the city where I was born, any host who failed to offer honeyed dates to his guests was considered a social outcast. After the Romans left there was no one to protect our sea-lanes, so now we have no more dates. No more anchovies. Yet merchant ships still sail the seas, dates still grow on palm trees, and fishermen still catch anchovies. Does that suggest anything to you, Meradoc?”

  The little man was startled out of a pleasant reverie involving the taste of dates. “Suggest? To me?”

  “I’m asking you to think,” said Dinas.

  No one had ever made such a request of Meradoc. Thinking was not one of the skills required of him in Deva. But it was not too late to start, so he spent the rest of the day thinking about Dinas. He had never met anyone like him before; a person who asked more of Meradoc than he thought he could do. People had always talked down to him. Dinas talked to him as if he had a good mind; as if he could learn.

  And I can. If I can work with my hands I can work inside my head.

  Thinking was challenging. One of Meradoc’s more interesting thoughts concerned the difference between Dinas’s flawless Latin and the Romano-British version commonly used in Deva. Dinas sounded even more educated than Ludno.

  Why would a man like that wear shabby clothes but ride a splendid horse?

  And why does he wander around the country alone, when everyone knows there are dangers beyond the walls? Does God protect pilgrims?

  And if he is a pilgrim, is he a Christian? He said no prayers last night before he pulled his blanket over him.

  And why is there anger in his face and sadness in his eyes, even when he smiles?

  Thinking seems to produce a lot of questions. That’s good. I like solving puzzles just as I like figuring out how things work.

  I must do a lot more thinking.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The man who stood in the doorway of the fort was considerably shorter than Cadogan, but with a wider frame. His torso was swathed in a curious garment woven of wool interspersed with hair from other animals—perhaps even humans. His hair appeared to be black, what one could see of it. The crown and area around the ears was plaited into countless tiny braids smeared with colored mud and twisted into an elaborate design.

  Around his shoulders he wore a robe of wolf fur, fastened at the neck with a large tin brooch depicting animals in a most realistic manner. Above this work of art his upper face seemed startlingly primitive: low forehead, broad, flat nose, eyes so black there was no differentiation between pupil and iris. The lower part of his face was concealed by something Cadogan thought was a beard.

  A vivid purple beard.

  The intruder was gnawing on a strip of dried venison he held in one hand. As he stared at Cadogan and Quartilla his jaws slowly stopped working. He said something unintelligible and backed into the house. Cadogan followed him.

  Quartilla went only as far as the doorway, where she stared in disbelief at the implausible beard. “It’s a tattoo,” she said in awe. “He’s covered his face with tattoos! Hit him, Cadogan. Drive him out, drive him away!” As if the stranger were a serpent to be swept from a cold oven.

  “Be quiet,” Cadogan said with a calmness he did not feel.

  The intruder stopped. Glanced from Cadogan to the woman at the door. A smile appeared like the sun rising above the purple shrubbery of his tattoos. He addressed himself directly to Cadogan in a serious but pleasant tone, like a man bargaining in the marketplace. Once or twice he waved his strip of dried venison in the direction of Quartilla. Cadogan did not know his language but could guess its meaning—and the man’s possible origin.

  Quartilla said anxiously, “What does he want?”

  “If I understand him correctly, he thinks you belong to me and he’s asking for you. Very polite for a Pict.”

  She was horrified. “Kill him, kill him at once!” Her voice shrilled higher. “Kill him now!”

  The stranger looked toward her again, then back to Cadogan once more. His black eyes, almost hidden within their full lids, were sympathetic. Cadogan recognized the universal expression of kinship shared by men in the presence of a difficult woman.

  He smiled back at the man.

  With this encouragement the Pict now launched into an intense monologue punctuated with flamboyant gestures. At one point he dropped his strip of venison. Without missing a beat he retrieved the meat from the dirt floor, ripped off another bite with his teeth and continued talking while he chewed.

  Quartilla was on the verge of hysteria but neither man paid any attention to her. Establishing communication was more important.

  As Cadogan watched in fascination, the stranger pantomimed an explanation for his presence. He had been a member of last night’s raiding party. He became separated from the others when they were going through the forest. He had backtracked to the fort. He meant no harm to Cadogan and his woman, he was simply trying to make the best of his situation.

  Quartilla seized Cadogan by the arm. “You maggot, you goat dung!” she shouted in his ear. “Why don’t you act like a man? Why haven’t you killed him already?”

  Her interruption tore the frail fabric of understanding. “I’m trying to trade you for my horse,” Cadogan said. He meant it as a joke, but as soon as he heard the words the idea crystallized. He motioned to the intruder and galloped his fingers in the air to suggest a horse running. Next he pointed at the woman. When the man did not respond he added a passable imitation of a horse’s whinny.

  The stranger still did not understand, but Quartilla did. Curving her fingers into claws, she tried to scoop out Cadogan’s eyes with her broken fingernails.

  The Pict hurled himself forward. Not at Cadogan, but at Quartilla.

  He caught her around the waist and peeled her off Cadogan like peeling moss off a rock. She flailed and kicked but it was no use. He flung her to one side. When he turned back to Cadogan his voice rose in inflection, asking a question.

  Cadogan could only shake his head.

  Quartilla scrambled to her feet and leaped onto the stranger’s back, clamping him with her knees like someone riding a horse bareback. She hooked one arm around his neck and tried to claw his face with the other hand, but only succeeded in ripping out a section of braided hair.

  The Pict howled in pain.

  The interlocked pair went careening across the room, crashing into tables and stools. At that particular moment Cadogan felt little compunction to rescue Quartilla, yet he could not help himself. He ran after them. As he tried to separate the combatants Quartilla sank her teeth into the stranger’s ear. He lashed out with his fist and hit Cadogan square on the nose. Bone crunched. Cadogan cried out, and struck back. Now three people were floundering about the room, landing blows on whoever was near
est, all three sprayed with blood from Cadogan’s nose.

  Fighting the Pict was like fighting a swarm of hornets. The man was knotty with muscle and exceptionally agile; he easily evaded most of Cadogan’s blows while successfully landing a number of his own. Quartilla confused the issue. She struck out at both men impartially with elbows to the diaphragm and knees to the groin.

  When they blundered against the shelves at one end of the room the planks teetered, then showered them with tin pots and pewter cups and a great crashing of red pottery. Cadogan tried to catch a glass bottle the color of emeralds that seemed to fall toward him in a slow arc. His fingertips merely grazed the glass as an avalanche of scrolls cascaded over his head and shoulders. He shrugged them off and returned to the fray.

  For a brief ecstatic time Quartilla might have been the Celtic warrior queen Boudicca facing the Roman legions, spending her body and soul in one wild exultant burst of action.

  The tide of battle carried the trio to the other end of the room, where they hit the stone basin on its pedestal and almost, but not quite, dislodged it. The collision upset their precarious balance. They fell in a heap across Cadogan’s bed, with Quartilla on the bottom.

  The intruder laughed. He was the first to scramble to his feet, then extended one hand to help Cadogan off the bed.

  Cadogan lurched over to the basin and thrust his face into the cool water. The water turned red.

  The Pict was at his shoulder, chattering away like a man relating a blow-by-blow account of a glorious victory. When Cadogan straightened up the man gave him a comradely slap on the shoulder that almost knocked him down, and laughed again.

  Never in his life had Cadogan felt pain to equal that of his crushed nose. His only experience of fighting consisted of the Greco-Roman wrestling matches favored by the noble youth of Viroconium. Highly stylized, closely refereed, they were more of an art form than a battle. The most he ever suffered was a bruise or two or a strained muscle. Now the center of his face was a throbbing agony that radiated outward like the sun. Blood streamed over his lips and chin and onto his heaving chest. When he tried to speak, the coppery taste of it in his mouth made him gag.

  He became aware that Quartilla was sitting on the bed crying. Trying to put his pain aside, he went to see if she was hurt. She was very pale and looked shaken. When he bent over her the motion made his nose throb more violently. A fresh spate of blood poured down. Quartilla gave a little shriek and scrambled away from him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. The natural resonance of his deep voice caused a matching resonance in his broken nose.

  “I was almost killed and you didn’t care!” Quartilla accused.

  He eased himself down beside her. “I tried to help you, but you kept hitting me.”

  “Because I hate you.”

  Cadogan noticed the stranger pawing through the wreckage of his possessions. “Leave those alone,” he called. More resonance, more pain.

  The man went on searching.

  Cadogan stood up, intending to stop him—and suddenly was violently dizzy. There was a sickening ache in his groin where one of Quartilla’s knees had done its damage. He bent over, cradling himself, and waited for the dizziness to pass. When it abated Quartilla was still crying—and the Pict was gone.

  * * *

  Cadogan stood in the doorway, gazing down the sloping meadow. Shadows were lengthening across the grass. “It will be night soon,” he remarked. His voice was muffled by the cloth wrung out in water that he held over his nose.

  “And we have nothing to eat,” Quartilla said tartly. “How could you let that monster carry off all our food?”

  “‘Our food,’ as you put it, was almost gone anyway, thanks to you. All he took was the rest of the venison and one sack of the corn. You wouldn’t eat dried venison if we still had any, and I don’t feel like grinding corn to make flour. Unless you’d care to do it?”

  She looked indignant. “What do you think I am, your servant? I’m no slave!”

  “I don’t have the slightest idea what you are, Quartilla. A while ago you were fighting like a barbarian.”

  “You’re the barbarian, insulting me like that! I should leave right now.”

  “The door is open,” said Cadogan. He resumed his gloomy perusal of the landscape.

  “Where would I go if I left here? You said yourself it’s getting dark. And what would I eat? For that matter…” A sly note crept into her voice. “What are you going to eat?”

  “Nothing, tonight. A knee in the balls has an astonishing effect on a man’s appetite. If I feel better tomorrow I’ll go to the nearest village for fresh supplies.”

  “How far is that?”

  “It was an easy ride on my horse. On foot it could be several hours.”

  “You were a fool to lose that horse, Cadogan.”

  He glared at her. “I wish to the good Lord that barbarian had killed you.”

  She began to cry. Hiccupy sobs, punctuated by blowing her nose on her sleeve.

  He awoke in the middle of the night to find a woman curled up against him in the narrow bed, crowding him to the edge. For one heart-lifting moment he thought she was Viola. He almost reached for her. Then he remembered.

  He did not remember going to bed, however, nor inviting Quartilla to join him. All he could recall of the evening was pain. When he shifted his legs a wave of nausea rolled over him. He lay still until it passed, then tried touching his nose with a tentative forefinger. He flinched.

  The thought of a sneeze terrified him.

  In the morning a temporarily contrite Quartilla made an effort to restore order to the fort. While Cadogan went to fetch water from the well she righted the stools and tables, returned the lamp to its place and the household utensils to their shelves. Among the broken bits and pieces on the floor she found several shards of emerald glass. She held the largest piece up to the light, then balanced it on one outstretched finger like a ring. Her pleasure was interrupted by Cadogan’s return. He was carrying two brimming buckets. After he set them down she showed him the piece of glass. “What was this?”

  “A container for perfumed oil. My mother’s. She took it with her to the public baths.”

  “I’ve never been to the public baths.” Too late, Quartilla realized how much that admission told about herself.

  Cadogan filled the pitcher and basin and washed his face and neck, being careful to avoid his nose. Quartilla followed his example. Splashing lavishly so he would be sure to notice. After tidying her hair and smoothing her gown as best she could, she said brightly, “Are you going to get food now?”

  “I suppose I must.”

  “Do you have money to pay for it? Money that monster didn’t find?”

  “I have money you couldn’t find, Quartilla. Come along now, we’d best make a start.”

  “We? I couldn’t possibly walk for four hours!”

  “Eight hours,” he corrected. “Four there and four back. You can do it; you walked all the way here from wherever Dinas found you.”

  “But surely you don’t need me to go with you.”

  “I need you to help carry supplies,” he said bluntly. “If you don’t carry you don’t eat. Of course I could leave you in the village, but I don’t think they would feed you. Not unless I paid. Which I wouldn’t. So make up your mind now.” He started for the door.

  She scurried after him. “You’re a brutal selfish man and I hate you, Cadogan.”

  “We’ve already settled that,” he replied.

  There was no road to the nearest village. Cadogan’s infrequent visits over the past two years had left no discernible trail to follow. He made his way through the forest by memory while Quartilla stayed close beside him, treading on his heels. She expected another horde of barbarians to spring out at any moment. If Cadogan shared her fear he did not show it. The ongoing pain of a broken nose and the lingering discomfort in his groin distracted him from larger worries.

  They emerged from the forest into a rav
aged landscape: an unfolding succession of barren hills scarred by extensive woodcutting during the Roman years. A few mighty oaks still lay where they had fallen when the last axes were laid down. Surrounded now by seedlings and saplings, the dead giants were both parent and nursery to the young trees.

  The denuded hills offered no opportunity for an ambush. Quartilla relaxed a little, though she continued to complain about walking. To her relief, the hills gave way to moorland studded with sheep. “Why don’t we take one of those, Cadogan? I’m fond of roast mutton.”

  “They aren’t mine. They belong to the local smallholders.”

  “Surely they wouldn’t miss one sheep.”

  He said in exasperation, “Is that how you propose to go through life, taking things that don’t belong to you?”

  “I have to survive!”

  “That,” he retorted, “is increasingly debatable.”

  His remark stung her into silence. For a while.

  “Cadogan?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it much farther?”

  “We’re about halfway there, why? Are you getting tired?”

  “Are you?”

  In truth he was. Not tired, but eager to give his nether parts a rest from the concussion of walking. “We can stop here for a while,” he said, “but not for long, or we’ll be going home again in the dark.”

  “Can’t we spend the night in the village?” she asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  While Quartilla reclined on the grass, Cadogan remained standing. Sitting down would hurt too much. But in spite of his discomfort he could think. Was cursed with a compulsion to think.

  The words were blazoned across his brain. Nothing will ever be the same again.

  Cadogan still could not fully comprehend, let alone accept, the changes that had come to Britannia. There had been warnings, of course, for years and years. At first they had consisted of subtle alterations, each no more than a slight annoyance. The quality of imported fabrics such as silk had declined. Exotic fruits no longer appeared in the markets. Other luxury goods to which the middle and upper classes had been accustomed became scarce and prohibitively expensive. Then one by one, they ceased to be available at all.