“Probably,” he laughed in turn. “And what are you?”
“I am fire, Roman.” She pushed her horse into a rapid canter. “All fire!”
They rode together over the high ground back towards the dune. He was beginning to get the feel of the grey now, to sense the animal’s rhythm. When they reached Sorviodunum again, he dismounted.
“I should like to ride the grey again,” he said.
“You can’t,” she told him gaily.
“Why not?”
“My father bought it to give to my bridegroom. I just let you ride it once.”
For a second he paused.
“And who’s your bridegroom to be?” he asked evenly.
“Who knows?” she replied with a laugh. “Whoever my father chooses.” She turned her horse’s head. “So long as he can ride,” she cried. She caught the grey’s leading rein and cantered away, while Porteus stared after her thoughtfully.
That night was restless. Half awake, half asleep, he lay on his hard mattress and turned over the day’s events in his mind. He thought of Lydia. Which of the four elements was she? She was cool like water, it seemed to him: refreshing, sensuous. And once again he remembered her perfect olive skin. But just before he fell asleep, a vision of flaming red hair rose before him, and the sound of a voice being carried by the breeze: “I am fire, Roman. All fire.”
Two days later a letter arrived from Lydia. It was very short.
My dearest Caius,
I am betrothed to Marcus and by the time this letter reaches you, we shall be married. I think this is for the best, and hope you will agree. I often think of you, and Marcus speaks of you warmly. Perhaps we shall all meet again one day.
Your loving Lydia.
It was the final blow. Yet, as he read the letter with tears in his eyes, he could not blame Lydia, and after a few minutes raging at the treachery of his friend, he had to admit that he had nothing really with which to reproach even Marcus. He had known in his heart that Graccus would never allow him to marry his daughter now, and if he could not have her, it might as well be Marcus, who was a noble fellow, as anyone else. Sadly he sat down and wrote to congratulate them both, adding a separate note to Marcus.
My dear friend,
I know Graccus would never have let me marry Lydia now – so I’m glad that the girl I love has been lucky enough to find one whom I know to be the best of fellows. Speak well of me in Rome.
Caius Porteus.
In the hope that it would drive Lydia out of his thoughts, he worked harder than ever on the estate. And to his own surprise, he began to take pleasure in the work. The land was good; often at the end of a day’s work on the long summer evenings, he would ride slowly over the place, looking at all he had done and at these times it almost seemed to him that the ancient lands of Sarum were his own.
Once or twice on these rides, he had encountered Maeve, and in the evening the two of them had walked their horses quietly over the ridges. He noticed that she had become a little awkward in his presence of late, and there was no repetition of the wild ride they had taken with the grey.
At the edge of Tosutigus’s valley one evening the two of them gazed over the waving fields that seemed almost crimson in the light of the evening sun, and she said softly:
“I think you like this land, Caius Porteus.”
He nodded because at that moment it seemed to be true.
“It’s good land,” she said simply. “Worth having.” And she rode quietly away.
Her message was clear; but if there had been any doubt in his mind, it was resolved shortly before the harvest when Tosutigus asked him to visit his farm one afternoon.
This time the chief was not wearing a toga, but the simple paenulla of the people. He had laid on no special entertainment. When Porteus arrived, the little enclosure at the farmstead was bustling with people: he passed the squat form of Balba, smelling as acrid as ever, sorting bales of newly woven cloth in the door of one of the huts. The men, helped by their women, were preparing the linings of the big circular grain pits for the approaching harvest. It was in every respect a busy Celtic farm.
Tosutigus greeted him, then motioned him to follow as he led the way to a small thatched house at the side of the enclosure and ushered him in quickly, closing the door behind him.
It was the family shrine. Inside it was dark: the only light coming from a small, high, square open window in the far wall, under the thatch eaves; but as his eyes grew accustomed, Porteus could make out the contents well enough. Opposite him, some twenty feet away, stood a small stone altar, and on it was a wooden figure whom he recognised by its attributes as Nodens the cloudmaker, a Celtic god whom the Romans had easily recognised as being one and the same as their own god Mars. Beside the image of Nodens stood a battered but carefully polished helmet with huge horns. He bowed his head respectfully, to show proper reverence for the family’s gods.
“Nodens protects our family,” Tosutigus stated briefly.
“Each Roman family has its lares and penates,” Porteus answered. “But few families have more revered objects than these,” he indicated the helmet.
“My grandfather’s. He was a great soldier,” the chief replied. “But there is more than this that I wish to show you, Roman.”
To the side of the shrine, Porteus saw that there were two large heavy wooden chests, bound together by thick bands of iron. Tosutigus now moved to the first of these; bending down slowly, he reverently opened the lid and took from it a long, iron sword of the ancient Celtic type, pitted with rust generations ago, but obviously now carefully preserved.
“This is the great sword of my ancestor, Coolin the Warrior,” the Celt said. Porteus nodded gravely. “His bride was Alana, last of the ancient house of Krona, who built the stone temple.” Tosutigus closed the lid of the box heavily. He turned to face Porteus.
“We are not senators in Rome,” he said slowly – and Porteus realised that he must know about Graccus – “but we are as ancient as any family on this island, and not without honour.”
He moved to the other chest. Slowly he opened the lid, and to his amazement Porteus saw that it was full of coins – not bronze sesterces, but the gold aureus and silver denarius. It was full to the brim. With calm deliberation Tosutigus pushed his hand down into the chest until the coins reached his armpit. Then he drew it out again. The chest, Porteus calculated, must contain a considerable fortune – the untaxed income from the estate over twenty years. The chief closed the chest without a word.
“My daughter is a fine-looking girl,” he stated, without looking at the Roman.
“She is beautiful,” Porteus agreed.
“I am looking for a husband who is worthy of her,” Tosutigus said, still staring at the box.
Porteus bowed his head respectfully once again.
Tosutigus said nothing more; it was obvious that the interview was over. Porteus made a few polite expressions about the chief’s family and left.
In the days that followed he thought many times about his situation. He had lost his position; he had lost Lydia; he was being offered a beautiful native bride and a rich estate.
“In my present position, I’d be a fool not to take it,” he acknowledged.
As he lay on his hard mattress and closed his eyes, he conjured up a picture of her, red hair flying, racing over the high ground on her chestnut mare, and he thought: I could do worse.
But then he thought of the warm skies over his family estates in southern Gaul; or of Rome with its noble basilicas, its theatres, its splendour; he compared the magnificent household of Graccus to the farmstead of this local chief, who was in truth little more than a peasant. In the middle of the night, the voice of ambition would remind him: the girl can barely speak Latin. She is beautiful: but there will be other beautiful girls in Gaul, or in Rome. You can still do better than this, Porteus.
“Perhaps,” he mused, “I should return to Gaul – begin my career again.”
While he was in thi
s uncertain state of mind, he avoided Maeve and her father as much as possible, and since the harvest was coming in, Tosutigus was in any case busy on his own estate. Once he saw the girl walking near the dune, but he did not approach her.
Then came the letter from his father. It was not long.
Unfortunately, my dear son, I am unable at this difficult time in your life to give you good news to cheer you. Our steward has made some most unfortunate transactions which have resulted not only in lost revenues but a lawsuit which I fear will prove very costly. I have had to sell the vineyard, the olive grove and the two best farms and I’m sorry to say that your inheritance is much depleted.
We are not absolutely ruined, but the estate can no longer support us. Let us hope that in the coming year either you or I can find some way to improve our family’s fortunes. Remember, truth, and good conduct will always triumph. Do not despair. Your loving father.
In a sense, Porteus was relieved. At least he knew now what he must do. Sarum might not be Rome, but it was all he had.
Soon after the harvest was in, he put on his finest toga, had his servant carefully groom his horse, and rode up the valley to the chief’s farm.
The sense of horror, the absolute, sickening terror that seemed to arise from the pit of his stomach, the feeling of desolation, did not come to him until quite late in the wedding ceremony.
The wedding took place at Tosutigus’s farm. The chief and Porteus wore togas; so did the three legionaries who were his only escort. But this was the only concession to Roman customs.
Two huge trestle tables were set up in the open enclosure and piled high with food. The men sat on benches while the women served them. It seemed to Porteus that every farmer in the region was there, dressed in their brilliantly coloured tunics and brats, so unlike the sober Roman dress. There were over fifty of them, including some of the more important craftsmen like Numex and Balba. The feast lasted from the early evening until late into the night, the men eating hugely the piles of venison, mutton and boar placed before them and drinking ale. The heat from the two enormous fires over which the spits were placed was so tremendous that Porteus felt his cheeks burning. The men with their heavy moustaches toasted him again and again in beer and in mead.
During the meal, Maeve did not appear; but at last, when it seemed impossible that the guests could eat or drink any more, Porteus heard the sound of bells and cymbals outside the enclosure. This sound was greeted by shouts of joy from the men; two of them ran to the gate and made a pretence of holding it closed while the party outside hammered on it, demanding entry. After they had begged to be let in three times, Tosutigus gave the order and the gates were opened.
The mummers came in to the sound of applause. There were nine of them – eight wearing blank masks painted in bright colours, with bells attached to their ankles which crashed loudly as they stamped and danced between the tables; two had reed pipes and one a pair of cymbals. The ninth mummer, a giant of a man, wore a huge wooden head carved like that of a bull with a magnificent pair of horns. They danced up and down between the seated guests, who roared their approval as the bull made clear by his lewd gesture that he represented the bridegroom. Finally, as the dancers reached a crescendo, the bull advanced towards Porteus. In his hand he was holding what seemed to be a drinking bowl, which he held out towards the young Roman while all the men shouted:
“Drink, bridegroom, drink!”
Porteus took the bowl. It contained a thick broth.
“Drink!” they shouted again, and he saw that Tosutigus was shouting with them.
He drank. It tasted salty, he thought. The men cheered.
“What is it?” he asked Tosutigus.
“An ancient recipe,” the chief grinned. “I had to wash in it when I became chief, in the middle of the dune. You’re really one of us now.”
“But what is it made of?” Porteus asked again.
“Milk, bull’s blood, herbs mainly.”
Slowly Porteus looked down at the mixture, and as he did so he saw that the bowl was made of a human skull, sawn across at the brow and fitted with a golden rim. For a moment he thought that he would be sick.
Tosutigus was getting up, and the men were calling: “Fetch the bride.”
It was then that Porteus experienced panic. As he looked round at the men with their big moustaches, at Numex and Balba sitting together on a bench, their solemn round faces swollen and scarlet with food and drink, at the mixture of bull’s blood he had just swallowed – as he heard again the voice of Tosutigus saying “you’re one of us now,” – his own inner voice seemed to shout at him: Caius Porteus – is this your wedding? Are these British peasants now your people and will you never escape from this place? What have you done? Yet this was his wedding: nothing like the one he had always imagined with Lydia. And his bride was coming! I am committing myself to be part of this, he realised suddenly. My children will call these people their own. For a moment he wanted to cry out: No! Never! But Tosutigus and the mummers were already coming towards him, leading his bride. It was too late. He had committed himself for a red-haired girl, a grey horse and a single chest of gold coins. He was lost.
She was dressed in a white robe; her hair was swept back and held by a single golden clasp. She wore gold bracelets and gold anklets.
As her father led her to the place where Porteus was standing, the men all fell silent and the young man knew every one of them was gazing at his bride and thinking: if I could have her tonight . . . And in the horror of what he was doing as he stretched out his hand to take hers from her father, he comforted himself with the thought: tonight she will be mine.
Later that evening, the whole party prepared to ride down the valley to Sorviodunum; but before they did so, a servant led out the grey stallion and solemnly handed the reins to Porteus.
Then with torches blazing, they made their way down through the darkness and entered the little settlement below the empty dune just as the moon was rising. At his modest quarters, Porteus carried his bride over the threshold.
And so Porteus the Roman came to live at Sarum.
The early days of his marriage brought him several surprises. The first was Maeve. From their first night he discovered that his young wife’s appetites were nearly insatiable. When they were alone together for the first time, Porteus smiled at her tenderly, anxious to reassure her; but to his astonishment the girl threw herself upon him with a happy cry; she was like a wild animal. She wound herself round him, pulled him down on to the mattress, and laughing, sat astride him while she tore at his toga with her hands. In the coming months, her behaviour did not change. She would appear suddenly when he was working and lead him back to their house; or she would ride out to where he was supervising the men in the fields and make him canter after her to some deserted spot where, without waiting for him to undress, she would again throw herself on him with a little cry of delight.
It was all so new to her – this handsome young man with his Roman ways; the excitement of her first passion. She was rich; she had not a care in the world. It seemed to Maeve that suddenly the familiar scenes at Sarum had all been recreated, in brighter colours and that each new day brought a fresh adventure. The gods had given her a husband for her pleasure; she meant to enjoy him. As to what went on in his heart, or what might lie in the future – these were areas of darkness, sealed behind doors in her mind that she never thought of opening.
Another thing Porteus discovered was that in taking Maeve as his wife, he was also marrying her father.
On the first morning after the wedding, when the sun was still hardly up, he looked out to see the chief waiting patiently outside the house. He had brought a present of sweetmeats for Maeve. Thinking that it might be a local custom, the young Roman politely ushered him in, expecting him to leave soon afterwards; but several hours passed before he did, and he promised that he would return in the evening.
He did. And the next day the same pattern was repeated. If Porteus was out, he would
sit with Maeve, or go out riding with her; if Porteus were there, he would remain and engage him in desultory conversation by the hour. His presence in their small house became so much of a habit that, although at first it annoyed Porteus, he soon found that he hardly noticed the chief any more.
Tosutigus was bored and lonely at the farm without his daughter. For the first time in many years he missed the company of a woman; he was also eager to take part in his daughter’s new Roman life.
“Now the young Roman is in the family,” he told Balba and his brother, “we shall see some changes at Sarum.” And he waited anxiously to see what they would be.
At first Porteus himself was uncertain what to do. As far as Rome was concerned, he was forgotten. His work on the imperial estate was excellent; from Classicianus he received praise, together with a handsome increase in his salary so that he was able to send money to his father in Gaul; and this act of family duty did much to relieve the pain he had felt at the failure of his career so far. But that was all. When, a year after his marriage he reminded the procurator of his hopes for a move, Classicianus said only:
“I can’t spare you from Sorviodunum. Not at present.” And again he warned him: “Rome is becoming more dangerous every month. Nero’s court is a snake pit. Stay where you are and build up your wife’s estate.”
But still Porteus was impatient to leave; and to his surprise he found that Tosutigus was his ally. For when he mentioned his wish to visit the imperial city, the chief rubbed his hands enthusiastically.
“I want to see Rome before I die,” he told Porteus. “Perhaps I shall meet the emperor.” And almost every day after this, the Celt would cry: “Let us go to Rome together!”
It was Maeve who showed no interest.
“Rome!” she would say with a toss of her head. “What can be better than this at Rome?” And with a sweep of her hand she would indicate the rolling landscape of Sarum.