by L. Sprague de Camp;Frederik Pohl;David Drake;S. M. Stirling;Alexei
The world came into focus around Herosilla.
She stood on a hill. The oak tree beside her had been struck by lightning so recently that the stump still burned. Splinters of the upper trunk smoldered in a circle thirty feet in diameter. A dead sheep lay at the edge of the blasted area with its stiff legs in the air. Other sheep faced Herosilla, their jaws working in a sideways motion as regular as the drip of raindrops from a gutter.
Two muscular young shepherds flung themselves on the ground. They were grunting something at her.
By the stars! The shepherds were calling her, “Goddess,” in the most barbarous Latin Herosilla had ever heard in her life!
“Get up, you idiots,” Herosilla snapped. She was dizzy and completely disoriented. There were no buildings in any direction unless the beehive of rocks a little higher on the hill was a shelter of some kind. “I’m not a goddess!”
Lightning flashed; Herosilla flinched involuntarily. The bolt struck one of the hills across the valley. Rain came in a rush, making the tree stump hiss and kick out clouds of steam.
Just a moment ago, Maternus’ slaves had been waiting with a furled rain canopy. Now they’d vanished along with every other aspect of the mansion. “Where on earth are we?” she said to the shepherds.
The taller, leaner man turned his head slightly so that he could look up at Herosilla without breaking his neck. He spoke a connected sentence. His stockier fellow watched Herosilla silently.
For a moment the sound was merely a series of grunts; then the syllables fell into focus in Herosilla’s mind. “Say that again,” she directed.
“We’re watching the king’s sheep in the north pastures,” the shepherd repeated obediently.
Their accent wasn’t barbarous, it was archaic! The lightning bolt had somehow flung her to the countryside so far from Rome that the peasants still spoke Old Latin. Herosilla couldn’t imagine how the flinging had been accomplished—much less how she’d survived it—but it was all perfectly natural. Like volcanos and earthquakes, excessive humors of one sort or another caused disruptions in the earth. There was no need to invent gods for the cause…
“Very well, my good men,” Herosilla said, shifting her speech as well as she could into the archaic dialect. “You may rise, now.”
She’d never expected that her studies of the ancient Laws of the Twelve Tables would help her communicate in the present day. Perhaps all peasants spoke Old Latin? Now that Herosilla thought about it, she didn’t recall ever before having spoken to a peasant.
The men got up hesitantly. They weren’t quite as young as Herosilla first thought, but she’d seen gladiators who weren’t so lithely muscular. Perhaps she should have visited the country earlier, and by more orthodox means.
“Goddess?” said the broader-built shepherd, though the stars knew neither man was wispy.
“Stop calling me a goddess,” Herosilla said firmly. Given her consistent failure to rid her wealthy peers of vain superstition, she choked off a lecture on the nonexistence of gods that these rural louts wouldn’t even be able to understand. “Now, take me to your supervisor.”
The men spoke to one another in voices too low for Herosilla to make out what they were saying. ‘King’ in their usage obviously meant the man who owned the land and perhaps owned the shepherds as well. Even if these louts were technically free, they were so unsophisticated that she felt it was better to deal with their immediate superior instead of demanding the shepherds lead her to the manor house themselves.
“We will take you to our father, goddess,” the stocky man said. He held himself straight, throwing out a chest that a sculptor could have used to model Apollo. Each shepherd wore a tunic of coarse wool and, in place of a cape, a whole fleece with the hind legs tied around his neck. Their legs were bare. For footgear they had crudely-shaped pieces of hide in which the soles and uppers were the same single thickness.
“Don’t call me goddess,” Herosilla repeated with a sigh. “You may call me lady or mistress. Either is proper. Now, let’s not delay further while the rain falls.”
The taller shepherd gave a penetrating whistle. The bellwether, a grizzled ram which might be as old as the man himself, blatted in reply and set off toward the south. Three baked clay rods hung around his neck. They clacked as he moved, guiding the remainder of the herd.
The shepherds bowed deferentially to Herosilla and walked to either side of her as they followed the ram. “It’s clear proof of my high station that the lady appeared to me,” the stocky man said to his brother as though Herosilla wasn’t between them.
“She appeared to both of us,” the taller brother replied. “And also to ten tens of sheep. They’re sheep of high station, belonging to the king as they do. Perhaps she was sent to them.”
The stocky brother snorted angrily. Conversation lapsed.
Herosilla started to shiver. The rain was cold on clothing that was never intended to be waterproof; and the walk also gave her time to think about what had happened to her…and how much worse it could easily have been.
The village was at least a dozen round huts with walls of woven twigs plastered with mud—wattle and daub. Brushwood laid on the roofs prevented high winds from blowing away the thatch. Among the outbuildings was an open-fronted shed in which women milked ewes from flocks whose herdsmen had returned before Herosilla’s pair.
Perhaps there were more dwellings; she couldn’t be sure because of darkness and the complete disorder of the village layout. Certainly there was nothing of any size or built of stone—unless you wanted to count the sheep pen made by laying rocks on top of one another without mortar.
The area between huts was a waste of mud and sheep dung except where the soil had been trampled down to bare rock. There were no proper streets.
“Dad!” Herosilla’s taller companion called. “We’ve a lady here brought by a lightning bolt!”
“She’s a messenger sent to me by Mars!” his brother said. He raised his voice even louder, perhaps hoping volume could compel belief.
Heads turned as soon as the brothers spoke. When the folk outside saw Herosilla in her silks and jewelry, their excited babble drew others from the huts.
“I’m a gentlewoman of Cumae, visiting Rome for the celebrations,” Herosilla said crisply. “My arrival here is a purely natural phenomenon, nothing to do with gods. I want you to take me to your master immediately. I’ll see to it that you’re all well rewarded.”
The rain had stopped. A full moon began to edge into the gap between clouds. She’d been sure—she’d thought—the moon had been in its last quarter the night before…
The brothers and Herosilla stopped in front of a hut no different from the others. The opening cut in one sidewall for a window was shuttered. There was no hole in the roof peak. Smoke from the fire within seeped through the thatch and lay like a cloud over the brush roof weights.
An old man hobbled from the hut, leaning on a staff and the arm of a woman who was possibly somewhat younger. The other villagers stood close but didn’t crowd Herosilla and her guides. The brothers’ ‘dad’ was the supervisor or at least first among equals in the community.
“Oh, she’s Greek!” the woman with ‘dad’ said. Switching to that language she went on, “Lady, I am Acca and this is my husband Faustulus. We make you welcome.”
To Herosilla’s further amazement, Acca spoke with an Ionic accent rather than the simplified common dialect. Homer might have sneered at Acca’s diction, but he wouldn’t have had any difficulty understanding what she was saying.
“Ah!” said Faustulus in the same archaic Latin that his sons used. “We’ve had traders come through here from time out of mind, mistress, but never a Greek lady before.”
“I—” Herosilla began. She’d planned to explain that she wasn’t Greek. She realized the effort would be pointless. All Herosilla cared about was returning to civilization: her books, her circle of learned friends; her home and the wink of waves on the Bay of Naples. If these yokels wanted to
think she was Greek, so be it.
She spoke the language, of course. Half of Rome’s population, Emperor Philip included, came from the east of the empire and spoke more Greek than Latin. Any educated person had studied the Iliad and Odyssey, so Acca’s dialect provided no difficulties.
Why on earth would the villagers equate traders with Greeks, though? Had the lightning cast her all the way down the toe of Italy to where families traced their ancestry to Greek settlements centuries older than Rome’s expansion into the region?
“I really need to see your master,” Herosilla said. Cold, exhaustion and the shock of whatever had happened struck her suddenly humble. “But may I buy some dry clothing? I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“We’ll have to hold a council on this,” somebody rumbled from the crowd.
“Yes, yes, you hold your council,” Acca snapped, “but I’ll take this lady inside for something warm to put on and put in her besides. You’d like a bite of food, wouldn’t you, dearie?”
“Yes,” Herosilla said. She almost staggered at the thought of food. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until Acca spoke. “Yes, I really would. I’ll pay you—”
“Tush! Why speak of pay when there’s been no honor so great to the village in the time folk have pastured their flocks here?” Acca said, drawing Herosilla after her into the hut. The interior was dark and smoky, but the warmth was wonderfully comforting.
“You’re not a goddess, you say, lady,” Acca said. “But do you speak for the gods like the Sibyl of Samos does?”
“No, I’m a scholar,” Herosilla said. She thought about the question and asked, “Why do you say, ‘the Sibyl of Samos’, woman? If you’re going to mention one of the ten sibyls, why didn’t you say, ‘the Sibyl of Cumae’? Cumae is much nearer.”
“Oh, is there a sibyl in Cumae now?” Acca said in surprise. “There didn’t used to be.”
Acca stoked the fire with a stick of brushwood. By the light of fresh flames she rooted in one of several wicker hampers. The only other furnishings were the low bed and a loom on which she was weaving a strip of wool banded by selecting naturally colored yarn.
“My best,” Acca said with pride as she brought out a tunic. “I wear it to town on market days.”
Herosilla couldn’t see how the coarsely-woven garment differed from the one her hostess wore now, but it looked warm and dry which was all the recommendation required at the moment. Herosilla spread her arms, then realized that she didn’t have a maid to dress her. “Oh,” she said in embarrassment. “I…”
Acca nodded knowingly. “First we’ll feed you,” she said, switching back to careful Greek. “Then I’ll help you change. You’ve come from Chalcis, I shouldn’t wonder?”
She set the tunic on the hamper and took a shallow wooden bowl from a shelf. Tools and bundled vegetables hung from the roof beams. The shelves held utensils and more wooden dishes, but the only pottery was the earthenware pot on the fire and a small jug with a tawny glaze and a simple geometric design. Absurd as it seemed to Herosilla, the jug seemed to be kept as a showpiece rather than for use.
“I’m, ah…” Herosilla said. “I live in Cumae, actually.”
Cumae had been settled by colonists from Chalcis in Greece; by legend, shortly after the Trojan War, but certainly in the distant past. Why would anybody think a Greek lady came from a backwater like Chalcis now, though?
“You’re so lovely that I thought you were from Chalcis,” Acca said as she dipped a horn spoon into the pot. She filled the bowl with steaming porridge and handed it to her guest. “There’s many fine ladies there, I’m sure.”
Herosilla paused for a moment, then realized she was meant to slurp the meal with the aid of her fingers. She was too hungry to protest.
Outside, male voices rose in the rhythmic patterns of oratory. Apparently one facet of civilized society held true here: not even sex intrigued males as much as the sound of their own voices.
“I lived in Cumae for a time,” Acca said in a wistful tone. “That was long ago when I was young, though.”
She stepped behind her guest and carefully untangled the saffron-colored shawl as Herosilla ate. “Oh, what wonderful cloth! Could you teach me to weave like this, lady?”
Herosilla blinked. She wasn’t sure how to answer without insulting a woman whom both decency and self-preservation demanded she treat well. “I couldn’t weave these myself,” she said. “Someone else made them. This is delicious porridge, Acca.”
The porridge was remarkably tasty. It seemed to contain primarily millet and cheese, with no spices but a chopped onion and the natural pungency of ewe’s milk. Herosilla would have turned up her nose at the dish at a dinner party, but hunger made her willing to find excellence in simple things.
“Such lovely clothing,” Acca said, relapsing into Latin as she fondled the silk, “We can’t hang it to dry until the morning.”
“That will be fine,” Herosilla said. Grimacing, she urged more of the thick porridge toward her mouth with her fingertips. She thought of asking for bread, but she hadn’t seen any sign of an oven outside the house. “Can you get my necklace off?”
“Oh, may I?” Acca said, touching the catch. “Such lovely things.”
Herosilla let the hut’s warmth penetrate her muscles as Acca removed her clothing and ornaments. If Herosilla closed her eyes, she could imagine that she was in her study with a charcoal brazier beside her, preparing to write an account of her translation from Rome to this village. Lightning, an aspect of the element of fire, had rent the air—a denser element—as air itself bubbles violently through water…
The borrowed tunic itched terribly, the more so because Herosilla’s skin was still damp, but it was an improvement on wet silk. She put down the bowl, looked for a water dish to wash her fingers—and licked them instead, feeling terribly uncomfortable.
The male voices outside continued to drone. “What are they discussing, anyway?” Herosilla asked.
“Why, you, lady,” Acca said in surprise. “Nothing so important has ever happened to our village before!”
“I should have known,” Herosilla said. “Well, I’d better join them or they may never get around to choosing someone to lead me to the manor house. Do you have a wrap for me?”
Dealing with this village reminded her of the time she’d had to walk in mud when her carriage threw a wheel on a rural track. A process as simple as raising one foot, then the other, took three times as long as it would on civilized pavement. Perhaps mud conditioned every aspect of peasant life.
Her back and shoulders covered by a fleece that was even filthier than the ones the brothers wore, Herosilla ducked out of the hut. About twenty men sat on stones around a fire built near Faustulus’ hut. The village women squatted behind them, and children down to the age of toddlers stood at the back.
The shorter of Herosilla’s guides was standing as he spoke. When she appeared he gestured and said, “Behold, the god-sent messenger who proves the grandeur of my destiny!”
“Nonsense!” Herosilla said. “I just need someone to take me to the landowner. To your king, that is, or his steward if the king’s not in residence at the moment.”
Villagers moved out of the way as she strode to a place to the right of Faustulus. The man beside the leader jumped over the fire itself to make room.
The taller brother stood. “It’s my right to guide her.”
“I—” said the other.
“You took the lambs to town for the last feast,” the taller man said. “It’s my right.”
“For pity’s sake!” Herosilla snapped. “I’m perfectly willing to pay both of you. So long as I’ve one guide, I don’t care if you all come. I’ll reward the whole village, those who come with me and those who stay.”
“It’s not that, lady,” another man said. Toothlessness distorted the dialect to the point Herosilla could barely understand his words. “With both the boys gone at the same time, what if we’re attacked? It’s not safe.”
A man with short legs and long, hairy arms hopped at once to his feet but then waited, glancing diffidently at the brothers. They glared at each other for a further moment, then sat down in unison.
Roscio began to speak. He waved his arms in a fashion that seemed to have nothing to do with the emphasis in his voice. As best Herosilla could tell, the man was talking about a great battle in his youth. He appeared to be in his midtwenties now.
It struck Herosilla as she looked around the circle that there were only three real men in the gathering: Faustulus and his sons. The other males could have been molded from the surrounding mud. The brothers had fire inside, and their father had at least the warmth of coals beneath the crippling pain of his arthritis.
Most of the villagers watched Herosilla sidelong. The young woman standing behind the stocky brother glared straight at her. Herosilla hadn’t seen such hatred in another’s face since the morning she corrected a grammarian’s derivation of the word ‘rich’ (it really meant ‘well-manured’) in front of several wealthy patrons.
There was a rustle as Acca squatted behind Herosilla. Roscio continued to maunder; now he was talking about the time somebody had threatened him with a rock.
Herosilla leaned back and whispered, “The woman across the fire with the sour expression. Who is she?”
Acca put her lips to Herosilla’s ear. “That’s Ganea,” she said. “Jealous, I shouldn’t wonder. She and my boy have an understanding. But I think what he understands isn’t quite what she does.”
Herosilla looked at the stocky youth. Ganea glowered threateningly and put a hand on his shoulder. He swatted it off. His eyes measured Herosilla like a side of mutton.