‘Never shall the hero Niall
Kneel to any other.
Witness, all You Gods, my words,
Aware I tell the truth.’
The last notes shivered away. Cheers thundered from benches to ridgepole. The King took from his arm a heavy coil of gold. Standing up, he put it in the hands of Laidchenn. ‘Have this of me in token of thanks,’ he said amidst the din, ‘and let me ask of you that you abide with me a long while – for ever, if I may have my wish.’
Flushed, breathing hard, eyes asparkle, Niall sat back down. The druid Nemain stroked his beard and murmured, ‘Your fame grows by leaps, darling.’
Niall tossed his head. ‘What a poet says is true. He may find fresh words for the clothing of truth – but – you would not be denying that I wedded the Goddess of the land, would you?’
‘I would not,’ replied Nemain, ‘nor speak against anything I have heard tonight; for indeed truth is a lady who has many different garments to wear. I would simply lay caution upon you. Not qualm, only caution, for sadly would we miss our lord should he fall, and worst if it was needlessly.’
Niall did not hear. Again his head was aflame with dreams. Long though the nights still were, he did not look for much sleep in this one, if any; for among the gessa laid on a King of Mide was that sunrise must never find him in bed on Temir. It did not matter. He was the King.
As host, he should make a speech of welcome. Rising, he lifted his goblet – Roman glass, loot from Alba. Out of full lungs, he shouted: ‘It’s glad I am to see so great and fair a company here, and glad Herself must be, and every God. If I name not the kings and nobles among us and their honours, it is because dawn would break well before I was done. Let us instead make merry, let us no more grieve over our losses or brood on our wrongs, let us look ahead to a year of revenge and victory!’
III
His father’s house felt strangely empty to Gratillonius.
Or not so strangely, he thought. When he arrived the evening before, joy was too tumultuous for him to pay close heed to his surroundings. Notified in advance, Marcus had had a feast prepared for his soldier son. The food was local, fish and meat and dried garden truck, but seasoned with such things as pepper and cloves, scarce these days, while the wines were from Burdigala and Narbonensis, not a mediocre Britannic vineyard. If the tableware was of poor quality and the attendant an untrained yokel, talk between the two men made up amply for that. When it turned to Gaius’s older brother it grew evasive – Lucius was ‘studying in Aquae Sulis; you know what a bookish sort he’s always been, not like you, you rascal’ – but then the news quickly came that his youngest sister Camilla had married an able farmer, Antonia and Faustina continued happy in their own homes, and another grandchild was on the way. And his old nurse Docca had earlier hugged him in arms crippled by rheumatism, and he learned that three or four more of those who had been dear to him in boyhood were still above ground.
Soon after supper weariness overwhelmed him and he went to bed. It had not been any route march to get here, only a few miles from Isca to the Sabrina, a ferry ride across the broad rivermouth, and a little way inland beyond that. He had, though, been at work since dawn preparing, as he had been for days previously. It won him an early enough start that he could justify spending two nights at home before he began his journey in earnest.
Thus he awoke ahead of sun and household. When he got up, the air nipped and the floor was cold. He recalled that the place had been chilly yesterday too, nothing but a couple of charcoal braziers for heat; he had avoided asking why. Fumbling his way through murk, he drew aside a curtain that, as spring approached, had supplanted shutters. On the leaded window, bits of leather were glued over three empty panes. The glass must have been broken in some accident or juvenile mischief. Why had his father, who always took pride in keeping things shipshape, not had it replaced?
Sufficient moonlight seeped through for Gratillonius to use flint, steel, and tinder. When he had ignited a tallow candle, he dropped the curtain back to conserve warmth and took care of his necessities. Clad in tunic and sandals, candlestick in hand, he padded forth in search of all he remembered.
The house reached shadowy around him. It had grown, piece by piece, for almost two hundred years as the family prospered; but his grandfather had been the last to make any additions. Doors were closed on this upper storey, though only he and Marcus occupied bedrooms. (Once the hall was a clamour of footfalls and laughter.) Well, no sense in leaving chambers open when servants were too few to keep them dusted.
Gratillonius went downstairs. The atrium was still elegant, peacock mosaic on the floor and Theseus overcoming the Minotaur on a wall. Colours glimmered where the candlelight picked them out of darkness. However, most of the heirloom furniture was gone. Replacements were conscientiously built, but by carpenters, not artists.
An ebony table was among the few ancestral pieces remaining. Upon it lay several books. They were copied on scrolls, not bound into modern codices, because they too had been in the family for generations. Gratillonius’s left hand partly unrolled one. A smile passed faint over his lips. He recognized The Aeneid. That he had enjoyed reading, along with other hero stories, as he did hearing the songs and sagas of the Britons from those backwoods folk who knew them yet – and did emphatically not enjoy Fronto and other bores he was supposed to study so he could become a proper Roman. Learning Greek turned out to be impossible for a boy who could be rambling the woods, riding, swimming, boating, fishing, playing ball or war with his friends, alone in the workshop making something – later, hanging around neighbour Ewein’s daughter Una – Finally his tutor gave up.
Lucius was different, of course. Their mother had been proud of him.
Sadness tugged at Gratillonius. He left the atrium, went down a corridor to the west wing, and opened a door he knew well. Behind it was a room Julia had used for sewing and such-like lady’s work. And for prayer. Her husband let her have a fish and Chi Rho painted on a wall. Before them each day, until a fever took her off, she humbly called on her Christ.
Gratillonius’s free hand stroked the air where her head would have been were she sitting there. ‘I loved you, mother,’ he whispered. ‘If only I’d known how to show it.’
Maybe she had understood anyway. Or maybe she now did in whatever afterworld had received her.
Gratillonius shook himself, scowled, and went out. He wanted to inspect the kitchen and larder. That wasn’t supposed to be any concern of his. But every soldier developed a highly practical interest in grub. Though supper had been fine, what were ordinary meals like, in this house where they couldn’t pay to fuel the furnace? Gratillonius meant to make sure that his father was eating adequately, if perhaps frugally.
He should have looked into that on earlier visits. Even before he enlisted he was aware of a pinch that strengthened year by year. But his awareness was only peripheral, as stoic as his father was and as lost as he himself was in his dreams of Una, the lightfoot and golden-haired – until she perforce married elsewhere, and he flung himself into the army – She no longer haunted him, much. He should have become more thoughtful of his own kindred.
Yet regardless of Isca’s nearness, his appearances here had been infrequent, the last one three years back. And they had been short. He’d spent most of his furlough time ranging the Silurian hills, forests, remote settlements where men were friendly and girls friendlier; or else he’d be off to the baths and frivolities of Aquae Sulis, or as far afield as smoky Londinium. The recollection hurt him, on what might well be his last sight of home and these people, hurt him both with guilt and with a sense of having squandered a treasure.
When he had finished his tour, the sky showed wan through glass. The cook and the housekeeper yawned their way forth, too sleepy to greet him. He could forgive that in the former, who had been here longer than he could recall, but the latter was a young slattern. Gratillonius considered giving her a tongue-lashing for insolence. He decided against it. She would merely
be the surlier after he was gone. Besides, maybe she was the best Marcus could find. The older man had bespoken a dearth of good help. Not only was the countryside population dwindling as small farms were swallowed up by plantations or abandoned altogether by owners whom taxes and weak markets had ruined. Those folk who stayed were generally bound by law to the soil, and serfs seldom raised their children to much pride of workmanship.
As he re-entered the atrium, Gratillonius met his father coming from upstairs, and was especially filial in his salutation. ‘Good morning,’ replied Marcus. ‘I hope you slept well. Your old bed is one thing I’ve managed to keep.’
Touched, Gaius gave him a close regard. The dawnlight showed a face and form resembling his own; but Marcus’s hair was grey, his countenance furrowed, the once powerful body gaunt and stoop-shouldered. Thank you, sir,’ Gaius said. ‘Could we talk today … privately?’
‘Of course. You’ll want a walk around the place anyway. First, though, our duties, and next our breakfast.’
They went forth together on to the verandah, sought its eastern end, lifted arms and voices to Mithras as the sun rose. It stirred Gaius more than rites in a temple commonly did. He paid his respects to the God and tried to live by the Law, because that was upright, soldierly, everything this man at his side – and this man’s stern father, once – had tried to make him become. But he was not fervent about it. Here, somehow, a feeling of sanctity took him, as if borne on those rays bestorming heaven. Tears stung his eyes. He told himself they must be due to the wind.
Everydayness came back. The men spoke little while they had their bread and cheese. Afterwards they dressed against the weather and left the house. ‘Let’s begin at the stable,’ Marcus suggested. ‘There’s a colt you’ll appreciate.’
Gaius looked about him more closely than yesterday. The house stood firm beneath its red-tiled roofs, and likewise did the farm buildings to either side, around a cobbled courtyard. But he saw where whitewash had flaked from walls, the cowpen and its barn gaped almost empty, a single youngster went to feed pigs and chickens where formerly the grounds had roared with life.
The wind shrilled and plucked at his cloak. He drew the garment tight against those icy fingers. Northwards he saw the land roll in long curves to the woods where boys went – sometimes in defiance of orders from parents who feared Scoti might pounce from the river and seize them for slaves – and where Gwynmael the gamekeeper had taught him how to read a spoor and set a snare. Closer in, the acres were cleared, but most had gone back to grass and brush, still winter-sere, although quickened by the faintest breath of new green. Through an apple orchard he discerned a cultivated field, dark save where wind-ruffled rain puddles blinked in the sunshine. Rooks and starlings darted above, blacker yet. A hawk high overhead disdained to stoop on them. Its wings shimmered golden.
A thought struck Gaius. ‘I haven’t seen your steward, Artorius,’ he said. ‘Has he died?’
‘No – ’
‘Good. He used to tell me wonderful stories about his days as a legionary. That was what started me thinking I’d want to enlist, myself.’ Gaius forced a laugh. ‘After I did, I discovered what a liar he’d been, but no matter, he’s a grand old rogue.’
Too old. Nearly blind. I retired him. He’s moved in with a son of his.’
‘Um, who do you have now?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘Nobody. Can’t find a competent man and couldn’t afford him if I did. I’m my own steward. The villa’s no longer so big or busy that I can’t handle it.’
They neared the stable. A hound sprang forth, baying, until a word from Marcus brought it to heel. A white-haired man shuffled out behind the creature. He stopped short, blinked, squinted, and quickened his pace. ‘Why, bless my butt if that’s not the young master!’ he cried in Belgic dialect. ‘We’d heard you were coming, but I thank the Gods just the same. Welcome, lad, welcome!’
Gaius took a hand gnarled into a set of claws, regarded a visage withered and well-nigh toothless, and remembered how Gwynmael had drifted like a shadow down forest paths till his bow twanged and the arrow found its mark. He hadn’t been nearly this aged three years ago. Well, Gaius thought with pain, you grow old, suddenly you can’t run fast enough, and Time the Hunter overtakes you in a pair of leaps. ‘Are you working here?’ he asked in the vernacular.
‘So ’tis, so ’tis. I’m no use any more for chasing off poachers or bringing back venison. But your dad’s a kindly sort and lets me pretend to earn my keep being his head groom. That’s easy, because except for a boy I’m the only groom, heh, heh. Not that I could’ve carried on in my real job after our woods got sold off.’ In his shock at hearing that, Gaius hardly noticed when Gwynmael fondled the hound’s ears and said, ‘Splendid dog, eh? Remember Brindle, what coursed the stags so well? Here’s a pup from the last: litter she bore. Too bad we can’t let this ‘un do what his blood meant him for.’ Taking the centurion’s elbow: ‘But come inside, young sir, come in and look at what we got in a stall. Juno foaled him last summer, and if he don’t live up to his promise, why, he’s the biggest braggart in horsedom.’
The stable was dim and warm, smelling sweetly of hay and animal, pungently of manure. Gaius stopped to stroke the two beasts he knew, mare and gelding – their noses were silk-soft, and Juno whickered for pleasure – before he went on to the stallion colt. That was indeed a superb creature, like a cross between flesh and wind. ‘Epona Herself ‘ud be glad to ride him when he’s full-grown,’ Gwynmael said. He had never made any bones about his devotion to the ancient Gods of the Belgae.
‘What sire?’ Gaius asked.
‘Commius’s prize stud,’ Marcus told him.
‘Really? Commius the senator? He must have charged you a pretty solidus.’
‘He did, but I should profit eventually. You see, I think I can fence in most of what land we have left, take out the scrub, sow pasturage, and breed horses. Blooded horses, for riding. Skilled help may not be too hard to come by in that business: veteran cavalrymen from the eastern provinces, especially, or their sons.’
‘But who could pay the price you’d have to set?’
‘The army. I may have swallowed the anchor, but I still get word from overseas, as far as Constantinople. Given the new Asiatic saddles, horsemen are the soldiers of the future. Cataphracts could roll the barbarians back – though we won’t get them in Britannia during my lifetime. However, I expect we’ll begin to see more and more cavalry in Gallia, and here I’ll be, prepared to export.’ Marcus’s smile turned grim. ‘Also, rich men everywhere will want fast mounts in case of raiders or uprisings.’
His moods gentled. He touched Gaius’s arm. ‘I’ll need this fellow for breeding,’ he murmured, ‘but I’ll set aside the best of his get for you.’
The son gulped. ‘Thank you,’ he said unsteadily. ‘I’m not sure whether – oh, we have to talk about all this.’
They went out and set off towards the Roman road. Little used, the wagon track alongside which they walked was not very muddy. Rounding the orchard, Gaius saw two men, no more, at work in the grainfield. They were ploughing with ards drawn by cows. Gaius halted. ‘Where’s the proper gear?’ he wondered.
‘Sold, like much else,’ Marcus replied.
Keen as its coulter there rose before Gaius the memory of a wheeled mouldboard plough and the mighty oxen that pulled it. Rage rose acid in his throat. ‘But this is wrong, wrong!’
‘Oh, the villa hasn’t enough land under cultivation to need better equipment.’
‘You’ve sold … still more? Besides the woods?’
‘Had to. They slapped an extra assessment on me for waterworks, after Tasciovanus went bankrupt, Laurentinus suicided, and Guennellius disappeared – ran off to Londinium and is hiding in its proletary, some say.’
‘Who bought your land?’
‘Commius. Who else?’
Fury lifted higher. Commius the gross, Commius the crooked, Commius the unmerciful squeezer of tenants, servants, slaves. Commius who bo
ught his way to senatorial rank – everybody knew that was a question of bribing the right people – and thus escaped the burdens of the curials, Commius who thereupon had the gall to boast how public-spirited he was because he maintained a theatre, whose pornographic shows must swell business at the whorehouse everybody knew he owned –
‘Calm down,’ Marcus advised. ‘His sort, they come and go. Rome’s had them since first the Republic began to rot, if not earlier; but Rome endures, and that is what matters.’ When he grinned, his leathery face looked, briefly, wolfish. ‘In fact, last year, at a series of council meetings, I had the pleasure of frustrating him. He wanted to close our Mithraeum as the Emperor had decreed. I got my friends behind me and we agreed that if that was done, we’d see to it that his precious theatre was shut down too. Those plays pretend to show myths of the ancestors, you know, and we’d claim this made them not “educational displays” but pagan ceremonies. An Imperial inquiry would have turned up more about his affairs than he could well stand – investments in commerce and industry such as are forbidden a senator, for instance. He stopped calling for any religious prohibitions. It was marvellous, seeing him flush red and hearing him gobble. The God does send His faithful a bit of fun once in a while.’
But the God’s faithful die or fall away, year after year, and ever fewer take their places, Gaius thought.
The sombreness dampened his wrath. ‘At least you’ve lowered your tax by selling off,’ he ventured, ‘and with this horse-breeding scheme you may win back to something better … for Lucius and the grandchildren he’ll give you.’
Marcus’s mouth drew tight. They trudged on in silence, except for the wind. Finally the father said, tonelessly, looking at the far hills: ‘No. I didn’t tell you earlier because it would have spoiled our evening. But Lucius has turned Christian. He’s studying under the bishop in Aquae Sulis, with the aim of becoming a churchman too. He talks about celibacy.’
Roma Mater Page 4