“Succat, my old friend,” he said, thrusting me back from him again, “let me look at you. I would never have known you.”
“Nor I you,” I confessed, my mind numbed by the strange fortuity of our meeting. Recovering myself quickly, I asked, “My family—what happened to my father and mother? Are they alive?”
“Alas, no,” said Julian with a sharp shake of his head. “Your father was killed in the fire that took your house.” He paused, allowing me to absorb this unfortunate news. “Your mother lived on but succumbed a few months later. She lost the will to live, I think, and simply wasting away.”
The thought of my toweringly capable mother wasting away through grief knocked me back a pace. Although I had prepared myself somewhat for the fact that, in all probability, my parents were long dead, the very suggestion that she, who bent all wills to her own, could merely surrender her life to the grave like some faithful old hound pining for a departed master was impossible to credit. I could but stand in blinking amazement that anyone could propose such an incredible, preposterous idea.
Mistaking my silence, Julian said, “I am sorry, Succat. There was nothing to be done. So many families were devastated that night…. We thought you dead, too.” He looked to the somewhat perplexed magistrate. “Did we not, Father? We all thought him killed.”
“We did,” said the magistrate, shaking his head slowly. “Calpurnius’ son…who could believe it?”
“This is your father?” I said. “You were magistrate of Bannavem.”
“Bannavem is no more,” he informed me. “Much has changed—and not for the better.”
This I had seen in my journey through the region, but his blunt assessment cast a pall of sadness over me, confirming as it did what I understood in my heart: The place I knew had vanished and would never return.
“Here, sit down,” said Julian, pushing me into one of the chairs. “I will get you something to drink.”
I sat for a moment—numb and slightly dazed while Julian poured out a cup from a jar on a nearby table. “Drink this,” he instructed, pressing the cup into my hand.
The wine was thin and sour, but it brought me to myself once more. I drained the cup and passed it back to Julian. “A priest now. How did this come about?” Before he could answer, I said, “What of Rufus and Scipio? What has become of them? Did they survive?”
“Indeed, they did!” He touched the cloth of my gray robe, feeling the weight and heft of the fabric. “But what about you? Tell me, how did you get here?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Come to that, where have you been these many years?”
I did not know where to begin to answer him.
Julian put up his hand. “Wait! There is wine at the priest house. We will drink. Are you hungry? Of course you are—you look half starved. We will eat together, and you will tell me all that has happened to you since we last saw one another.” He gathered me under his arm and led me from the yard. “How many years has it been? Six? Eight?”
“Six at least. I think. Seven maybe.”
“It matters not a whit. The important thing is that you are back—risen from the dead, as it were.” He shook his head in merry bewilderment. “Who could have dreamed it?”
A short while later, as we sat over our cups in the big house next to the tiny Lycanum church, he was still shaking his head. “Succat, back from the dead. It is a very miracle.” He paused, then added, “But, believe me, I always knew that if anyone could perform such a miracle, it would be you. I knew we would see you again. I never gave up hope.”
It was a lie, of course, a small one, spoken in the exuberance of the moment—a nothing, a whim voiced without a thought. But it rankled me nonetheless. In truth he thought no such thing. I could tell. Until he saw me standing before him, he had not given my plight a moment’s thought. Ever.
“Well,” I replied, brushing aside the unfortunate comment, “there were times I never thought I’d see any of you again either.”
“Here!” He raised his cup to me. “Let us drink to your return.”
We drank then, and I asked him to tell me of Scipio and Rufus, where they were, what they were doing—everything.
“It is easily told,” he replied. “After the legions left, Scipio and his family moved to Rome—can you believe it?”
“No,” I replied, smiling amiably.
“They have a villa outside the city. I hope to see it one day. He used to write to me from time to time, but not for a few years now. The letters do not get through anymore, you see.” He shrugged. “So much has changed.”
“And Rufus? What has happened to him?”
“Dear old Rufus is now a soldier, a very good one by all accounts—a centurion.”
“Is he stationed nearby? Can we see him?”
“There are no garrisons in Britain anymore. The troops were called away and have not come back. The governor says now they may never return.”
He dropped this extraordinary fact so casually it took me a moment to assess the grave enormity of what he was saying. “No troops at all?” I said. “Anywhere?”
“All were called to Gaul to man the northern borders.” Seeing my astonished expression, he added, “I wouldn’t worry about it. We are far from defenseless. We have the militia, of course, and—”
“What? A handful of fainthearted farmers with rakes and spades?”
Julian favored me with a smile such as one would give to a slow-witted child. “Still the same old Succat—in a lather over nothing.” He drank from his cup and filled them both again. “Now, then, as I was saying, Rufus is in Gaul. As it happens, I am due to leave for Gaul in a few days. My bishop is attending a council in Turonum, and I am going with him.”
“Then it is lucky I found you when I did.”
“Not at all. It is God’s own providence.” He looked at me hopefully. “I want you to come, too.”
“Julian, I—”
“We’ll have to get you some new clothes, of course. Why are you dressed in that ridiculous robe anyway? People will think you’re a druid.”
“But I am,” I told him. “I mean, I was.” A curious feeling of pride surfaced inexplicably, and I suddenly found I could not bring myself to renounce my training. “That is,” I added, “I was a filidh under instruction.”
Julian threw back his head and laughed out loud. “That is possibly the worst jest I’ve ever heard.”
My ears reddened and burned with embarrassment, but I determined to stand my ground. “It is no jest.”
“Do you expect me to believe this?” hooted Julian. “You—Succat the Druid?”
Rank resentment hardened in me. Although I imagined I could put it on and take it off as easily as the robe I wore, instead I found that I felt profoundly protective of my bardic association, and I did not want anyone belittling it. “I am in earnest.”
Julian, now the disapproving priest, favored me with a superior frown, his mouth turned down in distaste. “Come now, it is a guise, certainly. Tell me the truth.”
“What I am telling you is the truth,” I insisted, and began relating what had happened since the night I had been captured and taken as a slave to Ireland. Julian, to his credit, listened without comment and let me speak as I would. I did not tell him everything, of course, but enough for him to know how I had fared in Éire. “When the chance came to serve in the druid house, I took it,” I concluded. “I joined the bardic order and have been studying to become a filidh ever since.”
“Well,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “that is a tale and a half. I never would have thought you would become a tree-worshipping barbarian.”
“But they are not barbarians, Julian—that is to say, not all of them. They are different from us, true, but there are some among them as wise and good as any Briton you care to name, or any Roman either.”
“Hoo!” he snorted. “Listen to that! Next you will be telling me you took one of the sluts to wife.”
Seeing how he had taken my first admission, I decided i
n that instant to keep any mention of Sionan from him. I did not want him demeaning her memory with his insolent and ignorant mockery.
But I was not quick enough. Julian saw my hesitation and pounced on it. “You did! You married a barbarian bitch.”
His accusation stung. I denied the charge. “No,” I said.
“Yes you did. I can see it on your face.”
“No,” I smiled, fighting to keep my voice even. “I never did.” Although the words were true, my heart knew I spoke a lie. Sionan was as much wife to me as any woman who ever loved a man.
“You can tell me, Succat, I am a priest. Your secret is safe with me.”
I smiled and shook my head. “There is nothing to tell.”
He gazed at me with fierce intent. I returned his scrutiny with calm defiance, and he blinked first. “Hmph!” he snorted. “Well, it is of no importance. You have returned to your kin and countrymen, and that is all that matters. Now, then, as I said, I must leave very shortly. You, my friend, must come with me. I insist. Indeed, I command it.”
“Julian, please understand. I cannot. I have been traveling for—for I don’t know how long. Months at least. The last thing I want is another journey. I have just returned home, and I mean to stay.”
“And what will you do now you’re here? Hmm?”
“Why, I’ll—I mean, I have to…” Here I faltered. I had not yet worked out what I wanted to do.
“You see?” Julian said. “There is nothing.” He smiled pityingly. “You are home, but your home is no more. It grieves me to say it, but there it is. You and I both know there is nothing here for you now.” He leaned forward. “Come with me to Gaul.”
I gazed at him. Sadly, he was right: There was nothing to hold me here anymore. “I will think about it,” I replied reluctantly.
Julian was no longer listening. “Now, then, first we must do something about your clothes as I say. Fortunately, I know someone who can help. Come, we will begin at once.”
“Thank you, Julian, but I don’t—”
He held up his hands. “No need to thank me. I am placing myself at your service. It is the least I can do for a friend of my youth.” He rose and started off at once, bidding me to follow.
I remained seated. “There is no need,” I declared. “I am happy as I am.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed. “We must get you looking like a true-born British nobleman—which is what you are.” He pulled me to my feet and hustled me out the door.
“Julian,” I protested, “I appreciate your concern. I do. But believe me when I tell you there is no need. My clothes are agreeable to me. I am not ashamed—nor, I think, should you be embarrassed for me.”
“Oh, I do not blame you, Succat,” he said without slackening his pace. “I can see they have turned your head—indeed, it would be unnatural, I suppose, if they had not. But that will pass. Trust me. It will go. A few days back among your people and you will begin to forget all about the unpleasantness of the last few years.”
Before I could say anything, he dashed on. “You survived, Succat. I knew you would. You are free once more, and you have a chance few people ever get: You can begin again.” He placed his hand on my shoulder; it was a fatherly gesture, and I resented it.
“You do not understand, Julian.”
“No, I suppose you are right. I do not understand. Probably no one ever will. But that will matter less and less in the days to come. You’ll see. In the meantime you must begin again, and you will, Succat. You will. Never fear, I will see to that.”
Thus I was carried along in the strong current of his determination to make me, as he saw it, a suitable human being once more. Although it does me no credit to say it, I confess that I began to soften under his benevolent bullying. After so long a time living by my own wits, so often alone, so often confused and overwhelmed by forces beyond my control, I might be forgiven for allowing someone else to take an interest in my affairs.
The rest of the day was spent, as Julian put it, organizing my restoration and return to civilization. He found me a place to stay—a small room in the priest’s house—and purchased new clothes for me. This last I was less pleased about, but inasmuch as I insisted on keeping my druid robes also, it did not make much difference.
“We are leaving in two days, Succat,” Julian said. It was late; we had shared dinner with his superior, Bishop Cornelius, and had quit the dining room at last. “I expect you to come with us.”
“I thank you for all you have done for me, Julian. Do not think me ungrateful, but I have no wish to go to Gaul,” I told him—not for the first time.
“I know, I know,” he said impatiently. “But allow me to propose something.”
“Please, Julian, it is no use tr—”
He raised an imperious palm to stop me. “You do not know what I am going to say.”
“Very well.” I sighed. “What is it this time?”
“Although it saddens me to say this, it must be said.”
“Say it, then.”
He regarded me with a sober, fatherly expression. “Your lands are gone.”
“How can that be? The villa may be ruined, yes, and the barns and fields. But the land could be reclaimed.”
“And it will,” he said, “by someone else.”
“Who?”
“Does it matter?”
“Certainly it matters!” I snarled angrily.
“No,” he said, shaking his head firmly. “It does not matter in the least, because, you see, all abandoned lands have been claimed by the state and sold. It was by decree of the governor. You have to remember, after the raid there were many abandoned farms and estates. Something had to be done.”
“But our lands are not abandoned. I have returned. I will reclaim them.”
“Yes, but you have come too late, my friend. It was decreed that after five years any unclaimed properties would be sold. Who knew you were ever coming back?”
I stared at him, unable to speak.
“What is done is done, Succat. Look instead to the future. Come with us to Gaul. Begin again.”
“I want to see the estate,” I muttered grimly.
“Very well, I will take you tomorrow,” he agreed. “We can ride out there in the morning, and you will see what I mean.”
THIRTY-THREE
AS SOON AS it was light enough to see the road beneath us, Julian and I lit out for Favere Mundi. I had long ago determined what I would find, and now I steeled myself for it. Oh, but the reality was far worse than anything I could have dreamed.
From a distance it was almost possible to think that nothing had changed. The fields were overgrown with weeds, yes, and the trees were untended, but I could see the ruddy glint of the roof tiles over the grand entrance and imagined for a moment that all was well, that inside my mother shrilled at her lazy servants while my father growled and grumbled over his ever-rising taxes.
Closer, however, I could see that the entrance was all that was left of the central portion of the villa. It towered above a ruin so complete I could but wonder at the wreckage. It came to me as I stood looking that it was not simple destruction that had reduced the hall and wings to rubble; no, it was the plundering of stone by our onetime neighbors. No doubt they had carted off good building material by the wagonload.
Leaving my mount with Julian, I hurried through the entrance, scrambled over lumpy, weed-grown mounds of debris, and walked into the empty space where the great hall had been. All that was left was a low rim of broken stone that formed a ragged perimeter. In what had once been my favorite room in all the world, I knelt and scraped away the dried crust of dirt and scum to reveal the remains of that beautiful mosaic—a shattered expanse of tesserae scattered and loose like teeth in a broken mouth. I picked up a few of the little marble cubes and held them in my hand.
Then, as I knelt in the debris, the grief I had so long held at bay broke over me. I bent my head and wept for the loss of my home, for my dead parents, the ruined estate, and the cruel
waste of it all. I let my tears fall freely in the dust.
After a time I wiped my eyes, got to my feet, and picked my way out through the uneven clumps of wreckage to what had been the courtyard. The pear tree was still there, a few dry leaves yet clinging to mostly bare branches. The fountain was smashed; a large blackthorn bush grew up through a crack in the empty basin. The pedestal where the statue had stood was overturned, but the statue was still there; half buried in the long grass lay Jupiter, serene in defeat, his face blackened by mildew. “Hail, Potitus,” I murmured.
Looking out through the razed wings of the villa into what had once been tidy and productive fields, I saw a stack of hay and remembered what I had hidden there on the night I was taken. I went out and began pulling the ancient matter, rank with decay, from the stack and was soon rewarded by the sight of the wagon. My heart beat a little quicker as the wagon box came into view. The silver, the precious objects—could it all still be there?
Alas, no. I threw off the last of the rotten hay and saw that the wagon box was empty. No doubt some of the servants had remembered the wagon and come back for the treasure. Or perhaps the looters had found it and carried it off with the stone, timber, and tiles. I turned and started back to the house.
My father’s estate—land that had been owned by my family for three or more generations—had been taken by the state and sold to usurpers. What of that? Even if it was somehow possible to obtain the return of the lands, I had nothing with which to work them—no tools, no implements, no animals, no servants. The families that had lived on the estate were gone; there was no one to help me. With the little money I possessed, I might hire someone, but I had no money to buy livestock or seed and no funds to rebuild the villa, granaries, and storehouses.
Nor could I work the land alone and survive for very long. Even if the work did not kill me, a lone farmer was prey to every hazard from mice to marauders. With nothing set by in store, a single season of bad weather could destroy years of work, and what did I know about planting and tilling anyway? No, trying to reclaim the estate would be death through slow starvation, backbreaking labor—or both.