After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “I have always attended to my lord’s needs,” Esoros said frostily.

  “I still would feel better if we had a physician look at him.”

  “Gratias has always been your father’s physician, but he and his family left soon after the raid.”

  “I know they did. I went to their villa yesterday to see if Viola was there and found the place boarded up. A neighbor told me Gratias took his daughters to Athens so one of them could study the healing arts, but I think it was just an excuse to leave the city. I wonder if they even made it to Athens, the way things are now. My poor Viola. What might have happened to her?”

  Esoros did not hazard a guess. Servants were expected to be unresponsive to their masters’ private lives. “Gratias was the last of the physicians to leave Viroconium,” he said, “and no replacement has been found. Now that the chief magistrate is back I am sure he will remedy the situation.”

  Cadogan was less sure. “Father’s not ready to take up his office again. You can see how shaken he is, Esoros.”

  “He was upset by your woman.”

  “Don’t be impertinent. And she’s not my woman.”

  “No, Lord Cadogan. May I inquire what position the lady Quartilla does occupy?”

  Was he smirking? Esoros could be an infuriating man. The steward of a great house ranked second only to his master, but he was still a slave—it would be well for Esoros to be reminded of that. Sometimes he gave himself the airs of a freedman.

  Cadogan said coolly, “It is enough for you to know that I brought Quartilla to Viroconium. She is to receive every courtesy while she is under this roof.”

  “Yes, Lord Cadogan.” But never “yes, my lord.” Vintrex was the steward’s only lord.

  Damn his eyes, Cadogan thought, the man definitely was smirking. But I owe him no explanation. I brought Quartilla with me because I would not leave her alone and unprotected in the hills. I could not send her to her own people because I do not know where she came from. She never tells the same story twice.

  I wish I could explain myself to myself.

  Days passed and still Vintrex lay on a couch, or in his bed, growing increasingly thin and pale. He took for granted that Cadogan would stay and act as head of the family—under his strict supervision—until he himself was well again.

  Quartilla took for granted that she would be treated as an honored guest in the extravagant Celtic tradition of the Britons until something better came along.

  With his own money Cadogan hired the carter who had brought Vintrex from Durovernum to stay on as stable master. Not an arduous task, since there were only four animals in the stables including the man’s team, but as a freedman he expected to be paid. It had taken him less than a day to ascertain that he had Cadogan at his mercy, since any sort of employee was scarce in Viroconium.

  Meanwhile Esoros burned the broken furniture and searched the city for more servants. No one had any slaves to sell. He finally found a couple of old women past their strength who were willing to give the house an indifferent cleaning from time to time, a young girl who seemed to be terminally lazy, and a slatternly cook whose food tasted as bad as she looked.

  When a meal was served that smelled like river mud, Quartilla rebelled. Throwing her plate onto the floor, she stalked off to the kitchen, where for an interminable time she made a great racket punctuated with vile language that, fortunately, could not be heard in the dining room used by the family. The meal she ultimately produced was excellent. Vintrex pronounced it “edible” and ate everything he was given.

  Taking Cadogan aside afterward, he said, “This Quartilla person. I’m not saying I approve of her, but if you restrict her to the kitchen and servants’ wing she can serve as cook until Esoros finds a better one. Then he can downgrade her to something more appropriate—cleaning the dishes, perhaps.”

  Cadogan was thankful that Quartilla was not present during this conversation. When he informed Esoros of his father’s decision, the steward flatly refused to give Quartilla her instructions. “That woman is nothing to do with me, my lord. She is your guest. You tell her.”

  “But she’s not my guest! I mean … if she is going to be a servant…”

  Esoros shook his head. “I do not want her under my command, she is too arrogant. No good servant is ever arrogant.”

  Except you, Cadogan thought to himself.

  He was left with no choice but to tell Quartilla himself, or explain her peculiar situation to Vintrex and leave the matter in the once-capable hands of the chief magistrate. He chose the latter. He waited until his father appeared to be in a relatively good mood as the result of a flagon of sweet wine Esoros had discovered.

  Indifferent to the cold weather, Vintrex was sitting in a basket chair in the peristyle. The pool had been thoroughly scrubbed and refilled with clean water so it could mirror the sky once more. Although the sun was hidden by clouds, the light reflected from the water cast a sickly illumination over the face of the old man.

  Cadogan seated himself on a stool close—but not too close—to his father’s chair. “You look better today,” he ventured.

  Vintrex twirled his half-empty wineglass, an exquisite creation blown in the far-off and now dying empire. “The fresh air does me good, Cadogan. I am not as enfeebled as you would like me to be.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Only that I am not ready to have you take over as magistrate of Viroconium.”

  “I have no intention of usurping your office,” Cadogan protested. “Even if I wanted to I don’t have the authority. Magistrates have to be appointed by a Roman governor and…”

  “And Britannia has no Roman governor at present,” Vintrex finished for him. “Unfortunately for you.”

  “What made you think I coveted your position?”

  “Esoros tells me you have been going through my private papers.”

  “This city is like a headless chicken now, Father. People keep coming to our door asking for assistance, and I can’t just turn them away. They expect their chief magistrate to help them. There are no other magistrates left in this area, so I’ve been listening to their problems and handling them as best I can—in your name, always. Sometimes I have to look in your records to see how you’ve handled similar situations in the past.”

  “You have no ambitions for yourself?” Vintrex inquired suspiciously.

  “To replace you? Of course not, Father. I’m not an ambitious man. And I certainly have neither the temperament nor the legal knowledge to fill your office.”

  “At least you have the humility to admit it. Call Esoros out here to refill my glass.”

  After the steward filled his glass and left the peristyle, Vintrex turned back to his son. “You did not come out here just to comment on my health. What do you want, Cadogan?”

  “I want … I mean, I feel that I should … should explain about Quartilla, Father. I have let you draw certain conclusions about her which are in error.”

  Vintrex carefully set the wineglass on the little table at his elbow. “Enlighten me then.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Cadogan related as much as he knew of Quartilla’s story—being careful to delete any references to Dinas. He was aware that his father’s inexplicable dislike of Dinas had reached mammoth proportions.

  Vintrex listened in stony silence. Yet behind his eyes every fact registered, every word and sentence was weighed and measured. For the first time Cadogan appreciated what it was like to face the chief magistrate in his official capacity.

  “Is that all?” Vintrex asked when Cadogan finished talking.

  “I … yes.”

  “You have not explained the circumstances of your first meeting with the woman.”

  “I thought I did. She was hiding in the hills, afraid of the barbarians.”

  “And you found her there?”

  Cadogan had great difficulty meeting his father’s stern eyes. “I … I didn’t find her myself, someone else did. He felt sorry for her, I suppos
e, and brought her to me because she had no place else to…”

  “He? He who?”

  Cadogan shifted uncomfortably on the stool. “Dinas. Dinas found her.” Seeing the look on his father’s face, he added hastily, “I didn’t go looking for him. As I told you before, he came to warn me there were raiders in the area of Viroconium.”

  “And brought the woman with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is she to him, his harlot?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Is she your harlot?”

  “No.”

  “I see. So what is she, Cadogan?”

  Cadogan shook his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “What do you propose to do with her in your capacity as a quasi-magistrate?”

  I will not let him goad me into losing my temper, Cadogan thought. “I’m hoping you can tell me how to find out about her family.”

  Against his better judgment, Vintrex was intrigued. “What good would that do?”

  “I don’t know who she is, Father, but I’m sure she isn’t some cheap whore. When I first saw her she still had henna staining her fingertips. She’s heard of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy. She might have been a high-class courtesan or the daughter of a well-traveled merchant. Someone, somewhere, must be wondering what became of her.”

  “And would welcome her back?” Vintrex suggested. “Surely you realize we have much greater problems than returning a stray dog to its kennel.”

  “She’s not a stray dog,” said Cadogan.

  “Then do as the Romans would do: hold burning bricks to her feet until she tells you the truth.”

  Beyond the sky a tiny shift took place on invisible scales. Cadogan’s respect for his father, nourished by generations of a patriarchal culture, crumbled. “That suggestion appalls me, Vintrex!”

  The older man stiffened. His son had never called him Vintrex before.

  “If torture is one of your tools of governance,” Cadogan went on, “I’m glad I shall never be a magistrate.”

  “As far as I can tell you’re not anything much,” retorted his father. “You say you have no ambition and I believe you. What have you ever accomplished?”

  “Since I left here I’ve educated myself in the building arts and constructed my own home. No shack, but a sturdy little fortress that even offers a few refinements. And I enjoyed it more than you can imagine. Enjoyed planning it, and working on it, and would like to do it again. There is a satisfaction that comes from creating something substantial with your own two hands that you could never know.”

  “You do not know what you are talking about,” Vintrex said. “I received tremendous satisfaction from having this house built.”

  “Having it built. Not building it yourself. If it was destroyed tomorrow and there were no slaves available to do the labor, how would you replace it?”

  “You posit an impossible situation.”

  “Once you would have said the departure of the Romans was impossible.”

  Instead of answering, Vintrex reached for his glass and drained it to the dregs. As he set down the empty glass Esoros returned to the peristyle. The steward’s face was ashen. He glanced at Cadogan, then fixed his eyes on Vintrex.

  “There is a problem, my lord.”

  “So? Take care of it.”

  “I fear I cannot take care of this one by myself. The barbarians are approaching Viroconium.”

  “What?!” Vintrex rose to his feet with more energy than he had shown in days. He doubled his age-spotted hands into fists. “Raiders despoiled my property once, they shall not do it again.”

  The steward’s expression was unreadable. “These are not merely raiders, my lord. They are an army.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Since the first limited attack on Viroconium there had been a spate of rumors about barbarian attacks elsewhere in the region. Bands of marauders were progressing from raids on isolated farmsteads and the wanton slaughtering of domestic livestock to terrorizing villages and towns. Population centers had become serious targets.

  By winter half the inhabitants of Viroconium had left the city. More buildings were empty than occupied. Carefree citizens no longer strolled along the wide, pleasant streets, beneath chestnut trees imported from Iberia. The market squares were no longer thronged with shoppers. No speeches were being made in the forum; no Greek or Roman plays were performed in the theater. A tribe of feral cats had taken up residence in the forum, venturing out at night to hunt the rats that swarmed through deserted shops and houses.

  The city walls Vintrex had planned to raise were still no higher than those of any other peaceful metropolis. The tall watchtowers Vintrex had designed had never been built. There was no trained and well-armed militia to occupy the unfinished guard posts, so the ordinary citizens of the town were taking turns standing watch at the gates, particularly the eastern gate, which was the main entrance to the city, and the southern gate, the commercial entrance.

  On this day the shop owner on duty at the eastern gate had been the first to raise a warning. He rang the large iron bell hanging on one of the gateposts. The clamor annoyed a nearby group of women who lived near the east wall and gathered every afternoon to drink honey wine, boast about their children and complain about their husbands. They angrily shouted to the bell ringer to keep quiet. Startled, he dropped the bell rope. Then he remembered his duty and rang again. Longer. Louder.

  Minutes later a second alarm bell had sounded from the south entrance.

  Meanwhile, those who were nearest to the main gate had hurried to close and bar the heavy timber doors. Just before they shut tight, one of the men got a glimpse of what was approaching. He whirled around and ran through the city, bellowing at the top of his lungs, “The barbarians are coming! A whole army of them!”

  This was the warning that alerted Esoros.

  The remaining inhabitants of Viroconium soon poured into the streets. Men—and not a few women—snatched up whatever weapons they could find. Men and boys seized hunting spears and garden pitchforks; they pried stones from the cobbled streets to use as missiles. Women who once had bathed in asses’ milk and anointed their flesh with oil of roses now drew the silver bodkins from their hair and prepared to do battle. They were Britons; they were Celts.

  Leaning heavily on his steward’s arm, Vintrex followed his son out of the house. Although his residence was a fashionable distance away from any of the gates, he could hear the roar of the crowd. Buoyed on a rising tide of belligerence. Inciting each other to combat. They were Britons; they were Celts!

  There just were not enough of them.

  Cadogan realized this as they entered the via principalis, the wide avenue that ran from the forum to the main gate. Some of the would-be defenders had turned around already and were heading back, looking frightened. It did not take long to discover the reason.

  A mighty boom of thunder reverberated through Viroconium. Cadogan glanced upward. The clear sky was a cold winter blue.

  “Battering ram,” Vintrex said through tight lips. His voice did not sound like his own. Cadogan had never seen fear on his father’s face before but there it was, clearly limned in every feature.

  “What should we do, my lord?”

  Vintrex did not answer Esoros. Instead he threw back his head and began marching toward the gate as if he thought he could turn back the others through sheer willpower. After a startled pause, his steward and his son went with him.

  Dinas never goes anywhere without a sword, Cadogan recalled. What a good idea. Why didn’t I think of it?

  Too late now.

  The men who were running away parted like a river to let the chief magistrate through. A few even turned to follow him. As they neared the eastern gate a second thunderous crash announced the mighty force pounding them from outside. The oak timbers bulged inward slightly; the massive crossbeam creaked, but did not give. A cry went up from the townspeople. Part anger, part despair.

  Vintrex felt the assau
lt on Viroconium as an assault on himself; an attack he personally could not hope to repel. But if he was going to go down he would go down fighting. He squared his shoulders and raised one fist in a defiant gesture.

  In that moment Cadogan was proud of his father. He reached to put an arm around the bravely squared shoulders.

  “Sounds like they’re climbing the poxy walls!” cried Esoros, abandoning his efforts at formal diction. “Where’d those shitholes get any poxy ladders?”

  “In the same place they found timber for a battering ram,” Vintrex said testily. “Even my fool of a son knows how to fell a tree.”

  Cadogan’s arm dropped to his side.

  Recovering himself, Esoros urged Vintrex, “You must take shelter, my lord. They’ll be on us in another minute.”

  Cadogan said, “Can we hide him below the floor?”

  “With the furnace?” said Esoros. “No, it is winter now and far too hot down there for an old man.”

  “Who are you calling an old man!” Vintrex demanded.

  The invaders began dropping down inside the wall.

  Vintrex cried out in horror, “Saxons!”

  Cadogan saw a swarm of thickset figures, taller than the Romans but shorter than the average Briton. Some of the Germanic marauders wore bronze helmets with noseguards and cheek pieces. All had full beards, though none was dyed purple. Absurdly, Cadogan thought, I should tell Quartilla—then realized she was still back at the house. With the Saxons coming.

  Cadogan flung his arms around his father and tried to drag him away from the gates. With the aid of Esoros he got the old man moving, though every step was a struggle.

  “I know he looks frail,” panted the steward, “but my lord is really as strong as an ox.”

  “I believe you,” Cadogan said through gritted teeth.

  “Let me go!” cried Vintrex. Squirming, kicking, almost sobbing. “You must let me go!”

  “To die? No, Father, we’re taking you home.”

  When the first scream rang out Cadogan scooped Vintrex up into his arms and ran. He was surprised that he was not frightened. His brain was functioning coolly; analytically. Later he might feel fear, but for now he could trust himself to do what had to be done. That meant getting back to the house, gathering up all possible weapons, putting the women in the safest place and barricading …