Dragon's Child (21 page)

Ector was the first to break the small, awkward silence.

‘Does pen Bryn speak the truth? The Villa Severinii has been burned to the ground?’

‘Aye, Master Ector. It was well alight when we departed. If the magistrate holds to his words, the foundations are being torn asunder as we speak, and the raw earth will be sown with salt.’

‘Gods!’ the bluff old man swore, ignorant of how close the Villa Poppinidii had come to a similar fate.

His head sunk low on his chest, Caius managed to suppress a sob.

‘If their Osiris is a kindly god, Severinus and Antiochus will soon be dead, if they aren’t dead already,’ Artorex said softly. ‘And the world is cleaner for their having left it.’

‘Llanwith told me that there were seven children buried in the crypt below the house,’ Ector replied. ‘And two others who had been buried elsewhere.’

‘Aye, Master Ector. Since his father died, Severinus and his mother have indulged in all manner of perversities.’

Ector turned to his son, who tried desperately to avoid eye contact with his father.

‘Did you know, Caius? You’ve been in that man’s company since you were a boy. He even ate food in our house. He breathed the same air as your mother.’

Caius flinched as if his father had struck him.

Artorex was watching his foster-brother very closely in the hope of catching him out in deceit or to discover a trace of guilt, but he couldn’t tell what Caius was thinking. The handsome, chiselled face was sombre and closed, the eyes were lowered and turned inward, and his lips quivered, but Artorex had no idea what prompted his foster-brother’s distress.

‘I knew he was wild and had strange tastes, Father. I was afraid of him, especially when some of his moods took him. He was terrifying and dangerous, a pederast, although he never dared to touch me.’ Caius looked up at this point, and stared directly into the eyes of Artorex.

‘You said something else when we questioned you a mere day ago,’ Artorex stated with the same blandness of face that Caius had adopted.

His foster-brother paled. ‘Very well, Artorex. I lied! Are you satisfied? Severinus raped me before I was fifteen, but I hoped to spare my father that shame.’

‘Caius!’ Ector gasped, aghast.

‘It’s better to tell your father the whole truth and be done with it, Caius. Your father is owed an explanation of why Severinus had such a hold on you.’

‘I didn’t know what Severinus did to those children, Father,’ Caius swore.

Even Artorex, who knew about his foster-brother’s role in the first murders, could have wagered that he told the truth. But the words were false, although those few who could prove it were now either dead or dying. With newly educated eyes, Artorex recognized the open face of Caius’s guile.

‘He had a terrible power over me, Father, that I cannot deny. He ordered me to attend a feast last night, and I was overcome by my fear of him. And now, neither you nor the gods will ever forgive me.’

In truth, Artorex wasn’t entirely sure if Caius was deliberately telling a falsehood to his father or if he had already convinced himself that his sins lay at the feet of Severinus. And perhaps it was true that many of his faults were caused by his friendship with Severinus, Artorex thought to himself, knowing, even as he made this excuse, that Caius was still the young man who had brutalized the mare, Aphrodite, and beaten his young wife.

Artorex watched a tear trickle out of Ector’s eye, only to be dashed away as the master wrapped his right arm around the shoulders of his son.

‘Your mother forgave you, Caius,’ Ector said sincerely. ‘So it’s up to you to justify the belief she had in you.’

So, Lord Ector has chosen to forgive his son’s sins, Artorex marvelled. He is choosing to blind himself to his son’s character for love of Livinia. But Caius is too old to change - and the mistress knew it.

Compassionately, he kept his thoughts to himself, for his mind was heavy with dread and guilt. How could he blame a fond father for trying to protect every father’s dream - the heroism and success of his son? He himself had been complicit in the whole cover-up; Ector only knew what his steward and his friends told him. If Ector was at fault, so was he.

His respect and love for his mistress, as well as the oath she had wrung from him on her deathbed, was a yoke around his neck.

‘I must ride to the village, master,’ Artorex interrupted his circuitous thoughts with action. ‘I have been charged to return the remains of the children to their families, and I must set their souls to rest.’

Ector nodded in understanding. In truth, Artorex welcomed the horror of this task as his punishment for his sins of omission.

‘Of course,’ Ector agreed. ‘Do you think we should accompany you?’

No, by God! Artorex thought. The very sight of Caius would only rekindle all the suspicions that still lay just beneath the surface.

‘No, master. The villagers may be embarrassed to show their grief when they are in your presence. You can trust me to say all that is needed. I’d lief not go myself but I’ve vowed to do so.’

‘That’s understandable, my boy, entirely understandable.’ Then Ector sighed heavily. ‘Livinia goes to the fire tomorrow. You may inform the villagers that food and drink is to be gifted to them in her name. Perhaps they might pray to their gods that her shade finds rest.’

‘I’ll relate your sympathy and good wishes to the villagers, my lord,’ Artorex replied.

Before taking his leave, Artorex turned to Caius, and nodded to him.

‘Young master, could I have a private moment of your time?’

Caius followed Artorex to the doorway, where Artorex slipped a ring into the palm of the young man’s hand.

‘I’d advise you to avoid such roads as those you have travelled in recent years,’ Artorex warned. ‘Even my fond memories of your mother won’t save you from my retribution should you fail to heed my words. I’ll always treat you with the respect due to the son of Ector but you must beware, Caius, for if you act in any way that is unseemly, I can promise that I’ll find some way to bring you to justice, oath or no oath. Don’t test my resolve!’

Caius appeared vulnerable in his humiliation. His obvious relief made Artorex long to strike him down.

‘I’ll gladly promise you that, and I thank you for your kindness.’

And those few words have almost stuck in your teeth, Artorex thought sadly, as he strode away to the stables to prepare for his visit to the village. Difficult tasks may only be tackled directly, Targo had taught him. But they need good preparation.

How he could possibly offer comfort to the parents of the vanished children was a daunting problem for Artorex, for he could not anticipate how their kin would react to the unexpected return of the children’s remains.

Artorex realized that the innocents had already become the stuff of legend. In the wider world of the region, the common folk now whispered that the boys had been stolen away by creatures from the otherworld, wraiths that the superstitious swore dwelt in the chaos between the real world and an imagined place where the rules of men didn’t apply. Those villagers who had experienced the actual loss of their children were driven by more primal needs for revenge and, for them, the loss of the vanished children was no tall tale designed to frighten children around the firepit. It was real. These villagers knew that men had ridden forth, had taken their innocents and had burned the lives of their families into ashes.

‘I must find a way to bring them peace,’ Artorex murmured. ‘And still protect Master Ector.’

‘Lord?’ said a bright-eyed stable boy with tousled blond hair and strong shoulders in response to Artorex’s words.

Artorex emerged from his dark reverie. He’d made his way to the stables without conscious thought, and now he stood before Coal’s stall with the reins hanging loose in his hands. The stable boy took the leathers from Artorex’s limp fingers and began to prepare Coal for the steward’s departure.

‘I’m sorry, it was nothing. I was thinking aloud of how fair and good it would be to know nothing of the evil that exists in the ways of the world.’

The stable boy snorted in derision, just as Artorex would have responded in those long-past days before he had been forced to become a man.

‘Begging your lordship’s pardon, sir, but I’d rather ride a horse than walk.’

Artorex gave the boy an affectionate cuff about the ears.

‘A wise answer, young man. Do you desire to work with horses when you are grown?’

‘I want to ride with you, sir, whether to ruin or to triumph. Walking is for those who have no choice.’

Artorex stared with interest at this sturdy boy.

Under the grime and smut, a pair of very sharp hazel eyes gazed back at Artorex respectfully, but without a hint of fear. The boy’s hair was almost white in its blondness, and his light eyes were very clear and pale.

‘What is your name, young wise one?’

‘I am Gareth, my lord, great-grandson to Frith of the Villa Poppinidii. She said I am now old enough to work, so here I am.’

‘I am no lord who has warriors to ride behind him, young man. If you believe such nonsense, then you are bound to be disappointed. I was a boy, just like you, not so very many years ago.’

‘Everyone knows that, sir.’

‘A good morrow to you then, wise one. I will watch for reports of you.’

As Artorex kneed Coal into movement, the boy ran after horse and rider into the sunshine.

‘My name is Gareth, my lord,’ the boy called out once more. ‘Pray remember me!’

‘The world is very strange,’ Artorex muttered to himself, ‘when ragged boys want to follow me . . .’

The first village he visited was a drab cluster of wattle and daub buildings built around a well-defined roadway leading south towards Sorviodunum, which was situated on the Great Plain where the fabled Giant’s Carol danced. The village, which was nameless because it lay upon a minor Roman road, boasted a clean alehouse and a village elder, who sometimes called upon the protection of the men from Villa Poppinidii when the wolves were on the prowl in the dead of winter. Well-tended fields stretched out around the conical houses, and the multitude of healthy domestic animals was evidence of a prosperous community.

When the villa could spare him, Targo lived here with his comfortable, laughing widow and her two grown sons.

Targo and the village headman were standing at the point where the road bisected the small settlement. Behind them, dressed in their finest homespun and bearing armfuls of summer flowers, every man, woman and child from the village had gathered.

Puzzled, Artorex noticed that the mood of the village was festive, and not funereal. One short, heavy-set man pushed his way through the crowd and stood beside Coal, his jaw working under a play of powerful emotions. He abased himself and, to the acute embarrassment of Artorex, kissed the steward’s sandalled foot.

Artorex nudged Coal forward in surprise.

‘This man is Bregan, father of Brego,’ Targo intoned with all the solemnity that the occasion warranted. ‘He does not have the words to thank you for the life of his only son but he swears to make you the best dagger that his skill will permit.’

‘Good Bregan, you honour one who is the least important of those men who saved your son. I merely performed my duty.’

Bregan simply bowed his head in homage.

Artorex dismounted, for he was feeling uncomfortable towering above the simple village people. Still, his bright hair, his height and his grey eyes marked him as one whose station in life was far above the simple expectations of ordinary folk, and they knew it.

Artorex led Coal, with his precious burdens, into the crowded sod circle before the tavern. As he made his way through the throng, women made haste to throw flowers at his feet and men drew two bench seats out on to the roadway so that Artorex could rest himself.

He seated himself and motioned for the village headman to join him. Targo took up a position directly between the two men, while eager hands unloaded the pannier and laid the urns at Artorex’s feet.

‘Are there families here whose sons have been taken?’ Artorex called loudly, although the crowd was silent.

‘They have been found, Lord Steward,’ the headman answered formally.

He raised his right hand and the crowd parted to permit a small group of men, women and children to come forward.

‘Felix was lost three years ago,’ the headman intoned solemnly. ‘He is the son of the soldier, Kester, who is now dead, and Iemar, his wife.’

‘A noble name,’ Artorex murmured as a short, dark woman, supported by a taller young man with mud-brown hair, sobbed tearlessly.

‘What colour was his hair, good Iemar?’

Artorex drew out the hanks with their numbered tags.

The woman felt the texture of the pitiful remains between her work-scarred fingers until she came to the fifth hank, a lock of hair that was chestnut-brown with just a hint of curl.

She wept openly against the breast of her son.

‘That is the hair of our Felix,’ the young man confirmed.

‘Good Iemar, these are the mortal remains of your son. May he rest in peace.’ Artorex lifted the terracotta urn with the Roman numeral V marked on the side. He handed it to the sobbing widow.

‘Thank you, sir! Oh, thank you! Felix is home at last!’

Artorex bowed his head respectfully.

His grim business went faster then, with all the urns destined for the village finally being placed into the hands of their kin.

Afterwards, Artorex was offered fresh mead, which he refused, asking for water in preference. Then he stood among the assembled villagers and told them what they could bear to know about the Severinii family, their bloody fate and what had become of their children.

‘Severinus and other noble young men rode through this village on many occasions. Most were men of quality who were simply going about their business. But Severinus was different, for he followed the rites of the black gods and he became a monster who preyed on your innocents. Fortunately, there were only two others who followed him in his pursuits, and all three of these beasts have been found and punished. Severinus, as well as his mother, Severina, and his lover, Antiochus, have all been found guilty of their crimes and have been put to death. Your children have been avenged.’