After Rome

by Morgan Llywelyn

  The roar behind them mounted in intensity. There was more screaming, then the terrifying crash of gates made of solid British oak finally giving way. If they can climb over the walls, Cadogan asked himself, why do they need to break down the gates?

  He and Esoros were not the only people who were running; everyone was running now. The inhabitants of Viroconium fled like rats being pursued by the cats from the forum. The Saxons pounded after them, whooping and laughing. Laughing! For some reason that added to Cadogan’s anger.

  “Let me go!” Vintrex was still shouting. “I can stop them!”

  Lucius Plautius would say he was delusional. Dinas would say he was mad. They would both be right.

  As they advanced into the city groups of Saxons broke off from the main party. Rampaging mindlessly, they began trampling gardens and ripping up small trees; kicking dogs who ran out to bark at them and knocking down any unfortunate child who got in their way. Like a river that had burst its banks, they raged without reason.

  Others had a reason. With wooden cudgels and iron bars brought for the purpose, they forced their way into private houses and public buildings and began carrying out loot. Their reason for breaking down the gates quickly became clear. The Saxons had large carts on wooden wheels, some drawn by oxen, others pulled by themselves. As soon as the gates were open the invaders brought their carts into the city and began loading them up. They showed no discrimination in their choice of objects to steal. If they could carry it, they took it. If they could not carry it, they smashed it. Furniture, rugs, tools, even marble statuary were piled into the carts with reckless abandon.

  A torch was put to the first of the plundered buildings.

  The angry shouts of men and frantic shrieks of women filled the air.

  Vintrex was muttering something. Cadogan tried to hear him. “What, Father?”

  “Vandals, they are like the Vandals. They are not human, they are insane with the lust to destroy. The Angles were never…”

  Cadogan shook his head and stopped listening. This was no time to discuss the differences in barbarian tribes; only time to run, to try to survive. He felt the responsibility for his father as a great weight on his shoulders. Yet also—and for the first time in his memory—as infinitely precious.

  A large group of Saxons were gaining on them, howling like hounds out for blood. Esoros abruptly ducked into a narrow laneway at right angles to the avenue and Cadogan followed him, thankful to leave the via principalis. When the steward made an abrupt left turn Cadogan stayed close behind. It sounded like some of the Saxons had come after them, but he did not look around. Running with Vintrex in his arms took everything he had.

  “Follow me!” Esoros called as he led the way into a veritable labyrinth of squalid alleys whose geography was unfamiliar to Cadogan. This was the realm of slaves: the man-made circulatory system designed to maintain the less attractive functions of the city. Here the sun never shone. A permanent twilight existed.

  After a few minutes Esoros ducked under a low brick archway into an alley littered with rubbish and bounded on both sides by a high concrete wall. There were small drifts of dirty snow in the corners but the center of the unpaved alley was clear. Following the steward’s example, Cadogan slowed to a walk. The alley smelled as if something had died there recently. Cadogan glanced down at the man in his arms. Vintrex wrinkled his nose in disgust but said nothing. His face was livid.

  They came to a long, low, tile-roofed building. The windows and doors were boarded up and lime-washed plaster was flaking off the brick walls, but Cadogan recognized something familiar about the architecture.

  At the far end of the building the alley opened onto a service yard traversed by covered tile drains of varying sizes. On either side of the drains were sunken, brick-lined pits. A distinct odor of decay emanated from the pits in spite of their heavy wooden covers.

  Setting Vintrex unsteadily on his feet, Cadogan asked, “Do you know where you are, Father?”

  “The bowels of Hades,” the old man replied.

  “I think this is the servants’ wing of the house of Ocellus,” Cadogan said, glancing at Esoros for confirmation. The steward nodded.

  Vintrex balked like a mule. “You cannot drag me in there, I will never go into that house again!”

  The Saxon roar was closer now; not in the alley but on the other side of the wall. Very near indeed; then going past; going on toward …

  “My house! We must protect my house, Esoros!” cried Vintrex. He bolted in that direction.

  And Cadogan hit him. Hit him squarely on the jaw with enough force to render the old man unconscious.

  Esoros gasped. “What have you done?”

  “Saved his life, I hope,” said Cadogan. “Remove that cover over there and help me put him in the pit.”

  “You cannot put my lord in…”

  “I can and will, whether you help me or not. It’s one place the Saxons will never look for him.”

  The expression on the steward’s face said more plainly than any words: I do not condone this and am no part of it. Yet he helped Cadogan double up the unconscious Vintrex and lower him gently into the pit. There he lay on a bed of decomposed vegetable matter and animal bones while the two men replaced the heavy wooden lid.

  “Pull it slightly toward you,” Cadogan told Esoros, “to let in some air. Not too far … that’s better.”

  “What if my lord comes to and tries to get out?”

  “He’s not strong enough to lift the lid from the inside,” Cadogan said. Hoping it was true. “Don’t worry, I’ll come back and get him as soon as we have his house secured. Am I right in assuming we’re not far from there now?”

  “Of course,” Esoros replied huffily. “Why do you think I came this way?”

  The two men continued down the alley, walking as silently as possible. In near darkness Cadogan tried to avoid the pipes beneath his feet but they did not seem to be a problem. “Just a little farther,” Esoros muttered. Then, “Here…”

  And there they were. At a brick wall twelve feet high, sealing off the alley. A ledge of snow topped the wall. At its foot was a pile of rubble left by the builders.

  From the other side of the wall came a muted roar of Saxons.

  * * *

  Vintrex awoke with the worst headache of his life—and he was prone to headaches. He lay very still, trying to locate the source of the agonizing throb. Temples? Forehead? No. The pain was emanating from his jaw. Strange; he never had a headache in his jaw before.

  Nor had he ever experienced a dream like the one he just endured. He had dreamed he was being folded up like a woman’s handkerchief and put into a box. Demeaning! He attempted to stretch his legs to prove that he was not in a box. With a jolt of alarm, he discovered he could not extend his legs.

  His eyes snapped open in darkness. Not quite darkness; there was a triangular sliver of light somewhere above his head. When he reached out with his hands he felt, at arm’s length, a curving surface of disgustingly slimy bricks. And what was this underneath him?

  Bones!!!

  Vintrex screamed.

  * * *

  “You’ve led us into a trap,” Cadogan growled at Esoros.

  The steward remained calm. “Not a trap, merely a slight difficulty. Shortly after his brother left Viroconium my lord had this wall erected between their insulae, though he was careful not to close off any drains.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The wall was built over the sewer,” Esoros explained. “You could not be expected to know that, Lord Cadogan. The houses in the theater district have their own sewer system.”

  Esoros searched through the snow-covered rubble until he found a large brick. Lying prone on the ground at the foot of the wall, he pounded on the earth with his brick until something under the shallow layer of soil broke with a loud crack. The steward pounded some more, then got to his feet and began stamping on the ground. A hole the size of a man’s head opened in the earth, the sides coll
apsing downward. By scuttling in the dirt like a hen giving itself a dust bath, Esoros soon was able to crawl inside. He disappeared under the wall. “Follow me!” he urged, his voice echoing strangely.

  Cadogan crossed himself and cast a wild glance around. Hoping for a miracle.

  There was no miracle, nothing to do but follow Esoros. Drawing a deep breath, Cadogan tried to squirm through the hole the steward had opened. It was too narrow for his wide shoulders.

  “I can’t make it, I’ll get stuck,” he called in an urgent whisper.

  “Come or I’ll leave you,” the answer floated back.

  Cadogan pawed frantically at the earth until he had enlarged the hole sufficiently to force his body through. He dropped head first into a large concrete sewer with a stream of viscous liquid running through the bottom. The smell was nauseating. Ahead he could dimly see the soles of the steward’s feet.

  “How do you know so much about sewers?” Cadogan wanted to know.

  Esoros responded with a noise that might have been a laugh or a death rattle; an eerie sound that reverberated weirdly in the narrow confines. “When I was a boy,” he said, grunting as he propelled himself forward with knees and elbows, “My job was … unh … cleaning drains. Small slaves are forced to crawl through them … unh … to keep them open.” He paused to catch his breath. “That was the life your father rescued me from.”

  From somewhere behind Cadogan, a creature squealed. A shrill, malevolent sound, quickly answered by a second squeal. Then another, up ahead.

  A living body slithered over one of Cadogan’s legs. With an exclamation of disgust, he drew both legs under him and reached back to flail the air with his hand.

  Something bit him. The pain was sharp and sudden; the astonishment lasted longer. “There are rats in here!” he cried out.

  Esoros made that odd sound again. “Of course there are rats in here, this is a highway for rats. And slaves. Hurry up.”

  The presence of the rats added considerable momentum to Cadogan’s efforts. As he crawled forward the stinking murk at the bottom was getting deeper. Wherever he put a hand he touched something slimy. Mud, feces, small dead animals. He was thankful that it was too dark to see anything clearly.

  “Is the tunnel getting higher, Esoros?”

  “It is.”

  “Why?”

  “Ask the Romans,” said the steward. “They were the only ones who really understood the drainage system. Can you see some light up ahead? That’s at the inflow from your house. Your father’s house,” he corrected. “We just might be able to reach the laundry room in the servants’ wing before they see us.”

  The steward’s choice of words was chilling. Esoros spoke as if he knew the Saxons were already in the house.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Knowing that Cadogan disapproved of his idea—and perhaps of Dinas himself—Dinas still could not stop thinking about his cousin. He mentally made and remade his plans, always beginning with one more visit to Cadogan. He must persuade his cousin to help him whether he approved or not. The sort of practical mind Cadogan possessed was essential if the undertaking was to succeed.

  Dinas wanted to make another visit to Viroconium as well. Much depended on what Vintrex had done. He was desperate to know—and dreaded knowing.

  In unguarded moments Saba glimpsed the darkness lurking in his eyes. She wondered if he was frightened of the task he had set himself. The idea was so unlike him. Dinas was a man who cherished his freedom, who never wanted to be tied down. What could have prompted his sudden desire for kingship and all the responsibilities that went with it?

  There was something else going on here, Saba decided; the unidentified problem he needed to think about. She would leave it up to him to tell her of his own volition. Their relationship was defined by the questions they did not ask each other.

  Meanwhile she was enjoying her unexpected guests. They were totally unlike Dinas—and unlike each other—yet the three of them together reminded her of a three-legged stool, with each leg providing its share of the balance. Was that why Dinas had chosen the other two to be his companions?

  Probably not. The Dinas she knew had always been a totally physical man, not given to analyzing himself or anyone else. Saba’s intense inner life was the reason she lived alone with her dogs and her flock. Dinas had bounded into her life like a force of nature, a storm that swept over her from time to time and moved on, leaving her to her own contemplative nature. From the start he had recognized the rebel in Saba that had alienated her from her tribe. Yet he had never explored the reasons for her rebellion.

  Seeing Dinas in the company of other men gave him a new dimension in Saba’s eyes. With Meradoc he exhibited an almost paternal pride. The little man possessed an uncanny intelligence, not in his head but in his fingers. Anything he could touch, could hold, he could understand and repair or duplicate. By the time he had been with Saba for a few days everything in her house that needed mending was as good as new. He then turned his attention to her lambing shed and sheepfold.

  When she tried to thank him he was so embarrassed he squirmed.

  “The only fault I can find with your friend Meradoc,” she told Dinas, “is the way he has seduced my dogs away from me. They still herd my sheep but when we come inside they lie down at his feet instead of mine.”

  Dinas laughed. “Let me tell you about my horse…”

  Saba liked Meradoc but Pelemos intrigued her. He was undoubtedly male and exceptionally strong; using her axe, he cut a year’s supply of firewood in a matter of days. Yet when she bathed her face and breasts in front of the fire he looked away. Should she try to lift a heavy object he insisted on doing it himself. If the snow was blowing hard enough to reduce visibility to a dangerous level and they used the night jar instead of going outside to relieve themselves, Pelemos tactfully retired to the loft while Saba used the jar.

  Strangely enough, Dinas was less impatient and more polite when Pelemos was around. He told Saba, “I have a theory about Pelemos. I think he was a prince who was stolen by a devil and turned into a farmer.”

  She smiled, humoring him. “Are there such things? Devils, I mean?”

  “If people can believe in gods they can believe in devils,” said Dinas.

  Most people never knew whether Dinas was being serious or not. Saba liked to think that she always knew.

  She began to dread the passing of days that would take the three men away from her. She who welcomed every change of light, every fallen leaf or springing bud, closed her eyes to the heralds of the season. She tried to imagine the cabin as a bubble outside of time, holding the four of them warm and safe inside.

  Some of the old people knew rituals that could control time. Half-forgotten stories were handed down from generation to generation; stories ignored by Saba’s small self, the youngest child of a loud and boisterous family that had quarried slate in the mountains since before the before. The thoughtful little girl who hated noise and loathed everything to do with cutting stone, but preferred to play quietly in a corner and be left alone.

  “Dinas said you are something of a storyteller, Pelemos. Is that true?”

  “I just repeat what I remember from my childhood.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean, Pelemos. Could you tell me some of those … memories … of yours? Perhaps in the evening, when we’ve finished the day’s work?”

  Pelemos was flattered by the request but afraid he could not live up to her expectations. The title of storyteller was, in the Celtic culture, the equal of a prince. “I’m only a farmer,” he confided to Meradoc.

  “Farmers can tell stories, all sorts of people can tell stories,” Meradoc replied, thinking of Ludno and his pompous recitals.

  “Can you? What tales did you learn from your parents?”

  “None, I’m afraid. I never knew my parents; my earliest memories are of carrying water and emptying slops for people in Deva.”

  “Who raised you then?”

  Meradoc cocked
his head, considering. “I suppose I raised myself.” The little man brightened. “But I once had a friend who was a cat.”

  “Cats are for catching rats.”

  Meradoc looked disgusted. “You say that because you think like a farmer with a store of grain to protect. But I tell you cats are for cats, just as Dinas said the stars are stars. Their purpose is simply to be, Pelemos. Cats and stars don’t belong to us.”

  “What about horses, then?”

  A dreamy look suffused Meradoc’s face. “Horses belong to the gods.”

  “I thought you were a Christian.”

  “I am. But I believe in a lot of things.”

  “Either you’re a Christian or a pagan,” Pelemos said. “There are no other choices.”

  Meradoc, who was realizing that living involved innumerable choices, did not reply.

  When the day’s work was done and the bowls were scoured clean, they gathered in front of the fire to hear Pelemos tell a story. At first he was painfully self-conscious. Dinas and Meradoc had heard him before, but Saba was different. He felt as if he stood naked before her.

  “Go on,” Saba urged. “We’re waiting.”

  Pelemos drew a deep breath and began to tell a tale.

  About a place called Albion.

  With the telling his confidence grew, until every word came sure and strong. There was a familiarity about them, as if they were permanently carved in his mind. The story developed its own momentum. Soon he was able to glance at his audience and gauge their reactions without losing the thread of the tale.

  Sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees, Meradoc was listening with the openmouthed wonder of a child. For him, Pelemos included a magical cat in the story and made it seem absolutely real.

  Dinas had been too distracted at first to settle down and listen, but finally was drawn in by a tumultuous battle fought between heroes. He dropped onto a stool, stretched his long legs in front of him and lost himself in deeds of high valor.