A little guiltily, Gaius remembered how far the pony had carried him. When he had tethered the animal with a long enough lead to let it reach the dry grass, he went in.
Father Petros was setting out cups on a rough table. “What can I offer you? I have beans and turnips and even some wine; the weather is such, here, that I cannot fast as often as I did in a warmer climate. I drink nothing but water, myself, but I am permitted to offer these worldly things to such guests as come to me.”
Gaius shook his head, realizing he had happened upon a philosopher. “I will try your wine,” he said, “but I tell you plainly: you will never convince me your god is either all-powerful or good. For if he were all-powerful, why can he not prevent suffering? And if he can and does not, why should men worship him?”
“Ah,” said Father Petros, “I can tell by that question that you have been trained in the Stoic philosophy; for the words are theirs. But the philosophers are wrong about the nature of God.”
“And you, of course, are right?” Gaius’s tone was belligerent.
Father Petros shook his head. “I am only a poor minister to such children as seek my counsel. The only Son of God was crucified and returned from the dead to save us; that is all I need to know. Those who believe in Him will live eternally in glory.”
It was the usual childish oriental legend, Gaius thought, remembering what he had heard about the cult in Rome. He supposed he could see why the story appealed to slaves and even a few women of good family. Suddenly it occurred to him that this fellow’s ramblings might interest Julia, or at least give her something to think about. He set down his cup.
“I thank you for your wine, Father, and for your story,” he said. “May my wife call upon you? She is devastated with grief for our daughter.”
“She will be welcome whenever she comes,” Father Petros replied graciously. “I am only sorry I have not convinced you. I haven’t, have I?”
“I’m afraid not.” Gaius was a little disarmed by the man’s regret.
“I am not much of a preacher,” said Father Petros, looking somewhat crestfallen. “I wish Father Joseph were here; I am sure he could convince you.”
Gaius thought it highly unlikely, but he smiled politely. As he turned to go, there was a knock at the door.
“Ah, Senara? Do come in,” the hermit said.
“I see you have someone with you,” a girl’s voice replied. “I’ll come another time, if I may.”
“It’s all right, I’m just leaving.” Gaius pushed aside the flap of leather that covered the door. Before him was one of the prettiest young girls he had seen at least since his first sight of Eilan, so long ago. But of course he too had been very young then. She was about fifteen, he thought, with hair the color of copper filings in a blacksmith’s fire and eyes very blue, dressed in an undyed linen gown.
Then he looked at her again and realized where he had seen her before. Despite the Celtic coloring, there was a distinct look of his father’s old secretary Valerius in the line of her nose and jaw. That would explain her knowledge of Latin.
It was not until he was untying his horse that he realized he could have asked—what was it the hermit had called her, Senara?—how he might arrange a meeting with Eilan. But by that time the doorflap had closed behind her, and one of the few things he knew about women—not that he knew that much, and since his marriage he felt he knew even less—was that it was never wise to ask one woman about another.
It was well past sunset by the time Gaius reached the villa, but Julia’s greeting, if subdued, was friendly. Licinius was already awaiting them in the dining room.
Macellia and Tertia were playing with a toy chariot on the veranda; they had dressed Julia’s pet monkey in baby clothes, and were trying to stuff it into the chariot. He rescued the little animal and handed it to Julia. Sometimes he wondered how three small girls and one woman, with only seven servants, could make so much chaos in one house.
The little girls screamed, “Papa! Papa!” and Quartilla came running to join them. Gaius hugged them all round, called for Lydia to take charge of them, then went into the dining room with Julia.
She still had the monkey on her shoulder; it was about the size of a baby, and for some reason, seeing it dressed in baby clothes annoyed him. He couldn’t imagine what Julia wanted with the creature; it was a hot-weather animal and had to be cosseted as if it really were a child. Of all places to keep such a pet, Britain was certainly the worst; even in summer, he supposed, it was too cold for the little animal. “I wish you’d get rid of that wretched beast,” he snapped irritably as they sat down to the meal.
Her eyes watered. “Secunda was so fond of it,” she whispered.
The comment made him wonder, not for the first time, if Julia had lost her mind. Secunda had been six years old when she died, and he didn’t think she had ever paid the slightest attention to the monkey. Still, if it pleased Julia to think so…Seeing Licinius’s warning glance from across the table, he sighed and abandoned the subject.
“What were you doing today?” she asked, making an obvious effort to speak cheerfully as the servants brought in the boiled eggs, a platter of smoked oysters and salt fish, and a selection of salad greens dressed with olive oil.
Gaius swallowed a piece of onion too quickly and coughed, mentally editing his day. He reached across the table for a fragrant roll of fresh bread. “I was trying to track those wild pigs and ended up on the other side of the hills,” he began. “The old hut in the woods down there has a new tenant, some kind of a hermit.”
“A Christian?” asked Licinius dubiously. He had never had any good to say of the oriental cults that were invading Rome.
“Apparently so,” said Gaius neutrally, letting the girl take his plate away while others brought in the dish of ducklings sauced with plums soaked in sweet wine. He dabbled his fingers in the bowl of scented water and wiped them. “At any rate he believes that his god rose from the dead.”
Licinius snorted, but Julia’s eyes filled with tears. “Does he really?” The helpless look in her eyes wrung Gaius’s heart even while it exasperated him. Whatever gives her comfort. He put down the duck wing, turning on his dining couch to face her.
“Do you think he would let me come and speak to him? Will you allow me to go?” she asked pleadingly.
“My dear Julia, I want you to do whatever will give you comfort.” He meant it in all sincerity. “Whatever makes you happy will please me.”
“You are so good to me.” Her eyes filled with tears again. She gulped apologetically, and fled from the room.
“I don’t understand her,” admitted Licinius. “I raised her to live a virtuous life and honor her ancestors. I loved the child too, but all of us will die one day, be it late or soon. I chose well for my girl,” he added. “You have been kinder to her than I could be, even though she did not give you a son.”
Gaius sighed and reached for the wine. He felt like a monstrous deceiver, but held his peace. He had become responsible for this woman’s happiness, and to hurt her feelings was the first of many things he did not want to do. But he could not help thinking that Eilan would never have been foolish enough to be seduced by some Christian monk’s ramblings.
When the sweets had been cleared away, Gaius went to the room where Julia was supervising as the little girls were put to bed. Gaius was glad to see the monkey had escaped; feeling very mean-spirited, he hoped it would run off and, if they were lucky, get caught by a marauding dog.
The slave trimmed the wick and he and Julia stood for a moment, watching the soft light flickering on smooth cheeks and dark lashes. Julia spoke a phrase of blessing, and touched the amulet against fire that hung on the wall. Of late she had become very superstitious. Of course a fire would be disastrous, but the house was newly built and not at all drafty. On the whole he had rather more faith in the fire-fighting abilities of their household slaves than in most goddesses or charms.
As they came out into the hallway, she said, “I think I will go to bed now
.”
Gaius patted her shoulder and kissed the cheek she presented. He might have expected that. The idea was that by the time he came to bed she would be—or pretend to be—so deeply asleep that he would not disturb her. He might as well not have a wife at all. And how could she expect him to give her another child if she would not sleep with him?
But it was pointless to censure her. He wished her a good night and turned towards his office in the other wing of the villa, where a scroll containing the latest installment of Tacitus’s Life of Agricola was waiting for him.
And there he discovered where Julia’s monkey had taken refuge; it was on his desk and had defecated, evil-smelling monkey excrement, all over his papers. He shouted with rage, grabbed the little beast and flung it with all his force into the yard. He heard an odd crunch and then a whimper, then nothing more.
Good. If the creature was dead, he would not mourn; and tomorrow he would have no compunction in telling Julia that a dog must have caught it. The Christian priest could comfort her, though he had heard that they preferred to have nothing to do with women. At the moment, he wished that he need not either.
TWENTY-FIVE
Gaius woke in the early morning. Today, whatever else happened, he must do something about finding his son. Ardanos must know how to contact his granddaughter. He was not anxious to talk to the old man, whom he suspected of being as much a fanatic in his own way as Father Petros, but he could see no alternative. The only problem that remained was how to find Ardanos, who no longer lived near Deva.
But while he lay contemplating the problem, he heard a peremptory knock on the front gate, and his steward complaining as he went to answer it. Gaius threw on a robe and slid out of bed, carefully, so as not to wake Julia. A legionary was waiting in the front courtyard with a request from Macellius for a visit. Gaius raised one eyebrow. Officially, his father was retired, but he was aware that the old man had made himself a trusted adviser to the Twentieth Legion’s young Commander.
If he was gone when Julia discovered the death of her monkey, he would not have to face her tears. Gaius rode through the town and directly to the gates of the fortress, exchanging salutes with the guard on duty, who knew him well from his stint as Procurator.
“Your father said you would probably arrive before noon,” said the soldier. “You’ll find him with the Legate in the Praetorium.”
On the bench outside the Commander’s office he saw a weary-looking woman. She was a Briton of the dark-haired, pale-skinned type like his mother’s people; somewhere between thirty and thirty-five, he guessed, dressed in a gown of saffron wool rather lavishly embroidered with gold. Gaius wondered what she had done, and when the legionary on duty ushered him into the presence of the Commander and his father, he put the question.
“Her name is Brigitta,” his father answered with distaste. “She calls herself Queen of the Demetae. When her husband died, he left his fortune in equal shares to her and to the Emperor, and she seems to feel this gives her the right to rule his kingdom. Sound familiar?”
Gaius licked dry lips. It was common practice for a rich man to split his estate between his own family and the Emperor in hopes that the Imperial co-heir would make sure the other heirs got their share. Agricola had done the same thing.
The Legate looked from Gaius to his father. Clearly it did not sound familiar to him.
“Boudicca,” Gaius said succinctly. “Her husband tried the same thing, but the Iceni had debts to some fairly prominent senators. When he died, they moved in, and she tried to resist. She and her daughters were rather…badly treated and she raised the tribe in a rebellion that nearly swept us out of this land!” That was the specter that Macellius was seeing when he looked at the unhappy woman sitting outside, especially since the Demetae were one of the tribes that counted descent through the mother’s line.
“Oh, that Boudicca,” said the Legate. He was called Lucius Domitius Brutus, and he seemed to Gaius rather young for such a major posting, but he was reputed to be a good friend of the Emperor.
“That Boudicca,” Macellius echoed disgustedly. “So you see, sir, why the tribune over at Moridunum scooped her up as soon as the will was read, and why we cannot simply carry out the terms of the will as they stand, no matter how much they benefit the Emperor.”
“On the other hand,” said Gaius, “it should also be clear that this woman must be handled like blown glass. I assure you that every native in this country will be waiting to see what we do.” A thought occurred to him. “I don’t suppose she has children?”
“A couple of daughters somewhere, I’ve heard,” said Macellius wearily, “but I don’t know what has become of them; they are only about three or four, worse luck, or I’d have them properly married off to a citizen. I have no particular stomach for this business of war against women and children; but if women will mingle in politics, what can we do? Rumor has it that she—or those who would like to use her—have sent messages seeking alliance with the Hibernians.”
Gaius shuddered, remembering the raid on Eilan’s home. “Take her to Londinium,” he suggested. “If she’s sent to Rome her people will think she’s a prisoner, but if she’s set up in a fine house in the city they may think she’s betrayed them. Tell her that unless she lives in Londinium she won’t see a sestercius of her husband’s gold.”
“It might work,” Macellius said, considering. He turned to the Legate. “I agree with my son’s suggestion. You’ve already got a detachment ready to strengthen the garrison at Moridunum; they can carry the news.”
“She’ll be a hostage then,” Domitius Brutus said. This he could understand.
As he left the office, it occurred to Gaius that the daughters, however young, could still be a danger. The woman stirred a faint pity; she looked so forlorn.
“Where are your little girls?” he asked in the British tongue.
“Where you will never find them, Roman, and I thank the gods,” she said. “Don’t you think I know how your legionaries treat young girls?”
“Not little children!” Gaius exclaimed. “Come now; I am a father myself, with three little daughters about the age of yours. At most we would find them suitable guardians.”
“I will spare you that trouble,” she said fiercely. “They are well taken care of!”
A legionary came up and touched her on the arm. When she flinched, he ordered, “Do come along quietly, lady. We don’t wish to bind you.”
She looked wildly around her, and her gaze settled on Gaius. “Where are you taking me?”
“Only to Londinium,” he said soothingly. He saw her face crumple, with relief or disappointment he did not know, but she went quietly enough.
The legionary on guard watched her go and said to Gaius, “You’d never think she would associate with known agitators, not to look at her now; but when we picked her up, it was reported she’d been seen about with a notorious rebel: Conmor, Cynric, or some such name as that. He’s said to be still in the area.”
“I know him,” Gaius said.
The legionary stared. “You, sir?”
Gaius nodded, recalling the high-hearted boy who had pulled him out of the boar pit. Was Cynric still in contact with Eilan? If they caught him, Gaius could ask how he could arrange a private meeting.
“Gods,” said Macellius, closing the door of the Legate’s office behind him and following Gaius down the corridor. “All this makes me feel old!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gaius answered him.
“The Legate wants me to do something to calm things down among the people. Use my old contacts, he says.”
Perhaps Brutus was not as stupid as he looked, Gaius thought. Macellius’s ability to get co-operation from the tribes had been legendary in his day.
“But I’m tired of picking other people’s chestnuts out of the fire. Maybe I’ll move to Rome. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen the city. Maybe I should go to Egypt where I would be warm for once.”
“Don’t be foolish,
” Gaius chided. “What would my little girls do without their grandsire?”
“Oh, come, they hardly know I’m alive,” said Macellius. But he seemed pleased. “Of course if you had a son it would be different.”
“I—well, I may have a son one of these days,” Gaius broke out in a sweat. Macellius himself had told Gaius about Eilan’s pregnancy, but when he had seen her and the baby in the hut in the forest, it was clear that the birth had been kept secret. If Macellius did not know that Eilan had borne him a son, Gaius did not think he should tell his father now.
Eilan dreamed that she walked beside a lake in a half-light that could have been either dusk or dawn. A light mist hung above the waters, obscuring the further shore; the mists were silver, and a silver sheen was on the waters; wavelets lapped softly against the shore. It seemed that across the water drifted singing, and out of the mists came swimming nine white swans, as fair as the maidens of the Forest House when they saluted the moon.
Eilan had never heard anything so beautiful. She moved down to the edge of the lake, stretching out her hands, and the swans circled slowly.
“Let me come to you, let me swim with you!” she cried, but from the swans came the answer, “You cannot come with us; your robes and ornaments weigh you down…” They began to swim away, and Eilan’s heart was torn with loss.
Eilan stripped off her heavy gown, her veils and mantle, and cast the golden torque and armlets of the High Priestess aside. As her shadow glimmered in the water, it was the shape of a swan. She cast herself into the lake…
As the silver waters closed over her head she woke to the familiar timbres of the Forest House in the dim light of dawn. For a few moments Eilan sat still, rubbing her eyes. This was not the first time she had dreamed of the lake and the swans. Each time, it seemed harder to return. She had told no one of her trouble. She was High Priestess of Vernemeton, not some silly girl to be frightened by an odd dream. But each time it happened the dream was more vivid, and the role she played while waking more and more unreal.