The Boat of Fate (39 page)

The master of the house clapped softly. Dishes of aperitifs were produced. I hadn’t seen food like it since leaving Gaul. There were oysters with cumin sauce, bonito, truffles, mushrooms and fresh eggs; a tree fungus with a delicate, woody flavour, platters of plump stuffed dormice. I was being shown, it seemed, just how a wealthy Briton lived.

Better was to follow. The bowls of honeyed wine were removed, the heavier vintages of First Tables took their place. With them came peacock rissoles, a sucking pig garnished with early vegetables, and a spectacular delicacy I at least could have done without; wombs of sterile sows, served grandly with silphium, liquamen and vinegar. Beside me Valerius ate steadily, reduced at last to silence; while through it all Censorinus droned on, voice rising and falling in a monotonous rhythm. We discussed the state of local farming, the new troop dispositions in the Province, the Empire at large; and succeeded in saying, as far as I can recall, nothing at all.

I had been wondering about her name. What was it, Crearwy? It had a strange ring. Barbaric. Something else too was pricking at my consciousness. A sense of non-surprise, almost fulfilment. It seemed I already knew her face; the forehead, narrowing slightly from the cheekbones, the level, unplucked brows. Which was curious, for I had certainly never met this woman before. Maybe, though, she had once watched up from a mosaic; while her cloak blew, baring the broad, lovely hips, flowing in a non-existent wind. And a fountain splashed and sang.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Your pardon?’ Censorinus had been talking again; and I hadn’t heard.

‘No, sir,’ I said. ‘I’m not from Latium. My home Province was Hispania.’

‘Was, Praefect?’

It was a surprise to hear her voice. As if stone could indeed speak, a little huskily.

‘Yes, Domina,’ I said. ‘It’s been many years since I left.’

‘Then we’re both strangers to Britannia,’ she said. ‘For I am Scotic. My father owns lands in Dalriada, beyond the Wall.’ She inclined her head. ‘My husband is from Brigantia; it’s been a long time since either of us saw our homes.’

There were many things I could have asked her, but Censorinus gave me no chance. His voice flowed on remorselessly, still with its smooth cadence. He was talking about the Province again, probing and questioning delicately. Tammonius Vitalis he knew well, had known for many years; the Count of the Saxon Shore he hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting. What sort of man was he? An efficient soldier, by all reports. What loyalty did he command among his garrisons? And what was the state of the troops now holding the Wall? Could they withstand a concerted attack? He had heard a little of my activities in Deva. At one time the garrison had been deserted; he took it this was no longer the case?

The food was superb, the wine more than adequate; I was rested, refreshed and at ease. Under the circumstances quite why I became so unconscionably annoyed is hard to say. Maybe it was his manner, the glacial calmness, the bland authority with which he directed the talk; certainly I hadn’t come here to be quizzed like a new Tribune giving his first report. I found myself answering more and more shortly, drinking deeper from the endlessly replenished wine-cup at my elbow. Trays of sweetmeats were passed; stuffed dates and wine cakes, figs and fruit. I was aware of Valerius watching me narrowly; aware of the startling woman at the end of the table; aware, too, of the mosaic of the Anadyomene. Only here were no fountains. The little alcove where we sat was becoming stuffy with heat.

Night had fallen during the long meal. More lamps were brought in, and still the rigmarole went on. Crearwy, it seemed, had finished with eating; she sat expressionlessly, watching down at her plate. I spat a pip deliberately into my palm, and made an effort to turn the conversation. I had heard, I said, that my host had business connections in Gaul. I had served in the Province myself for some years, before being ordered to Britannia.

Yes, this was true. The Domina affirmed it; Censorinus seemed undisposed to comment. Her husband’s interests were varied, but mostly they lay in mining. Had I perhaps had some experience . . .?

I was drinking at the time. I coughed, feeling the wretched stuff sting the back of my nose. I set the cup down carefully. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I have had some experience of mines.’

Then I might be able to advise Censorinus on several technical matters that had been causing concern. But for the moment... the talk veered back, inexorably, to those subjects I was keenest to avoid. What, for instance, were the Praefect’s reactions to this new notion that seemed to be gathering ground, this idea of an expeditionary force to Gaul? A British force, British led. To all intents and purposes, the Province had been deserted; but at all costs, surely her links with Rome must be maintained?

‘I know nothing of such a force,’ I snapped. ‘And nothing of such a scheme. Nor, I warrant, does Mediolanum. If these rumours are circulating, and personally I haven’t heard them, they’re baseless. Furthermore, they don’t even make sense.’ He had stopped, chin raised and blinking, affecting an air of mild concern. ‘But surely, Praefect,’ he said, ‘is it not an obvious move? In face of the threat from the Rhine?’

The wine seemed to catch fire inside my head. I slammed the cup down on the table. ‘And I say it’s lunacy,’ I said. ‘And dangerous lunacy at that. Ask your friend Tammonius, if you don’t want to take my word.’ I ticked off points on my fingers. ‘In the time of Severus,’ I said, ‘Albinus stripped this Province of troops to fight in Gaul for the throne. What was the result? The Wall was overrun, the country wasted as far south as Eburacum, while Clodius Albinus died. In Diocletian’s time, Carausius and Allectus usurped the Purple. The result? The Wall was overrun, the country laid waste again. Carausius and Allectus died. In Theodosius’ reign, your own time, for God’s sake, Magnus Maximus declared himself Augustus. The Wall was overrun, the Province laid waste; and Magnus Maximus died. You know the results, you saw them with your own eyes; you all still smart from the Chain. What do you want, another little King? Can’t Britannia ever learn a simple lesson? How often does a plain fact have to be repeated before it’s driven into her skull?
She can't hold Gaul
. . .’

If he was nettled he didn’t show it. ‘She has held Gaul,’ he said. ‘And Hispania.’

‘She didn’t hold Hispania. She was tolerated in Hispania.’

Crearwy said anxiously, ‘Surely the trading routes must stay open. The Province has to trade to live.’

‘No, madam,’ I said. ‘The Province has to trade so that her tradespeople can live.’ I stared round the table. ‘How long do you think you’d be safe yourselves if the Wall went down again? What have your children done, to have a Fate dragged on to their heads?

Censorinus said, ‘Britannia is stronger than she looks.’

‘For the past twelve months,’ I said angrily, ‘I’ve done little else except ride her borders. I know her strength.’

He said mildly, ‘She can raise more men.’

‘Where from? Brigantia?’

For the first time I thought I saw a glimmer in his eyes. If it was there it was instantly veiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘at a need. The North has been effective in the past.’

I wasn’t going to have his tribal pride rammed down my throat on top of all the rest. The words were out before I could stop them. ‘Effective at stabbing a Legion in the back,’ I said. ‘I certainly agree.’

He stared at me palely. He said, ‘We were being oppressed.’

‘You were being protected.’

‘Protected? From what?’

‘Among other things,’ I said sweetly, ‘the effects of royal adultery.’

There was a silence. Then he rose. Valerius swung his feet from the couch, looking alarmed, but Censorinus merely spread his hands, benignly. Our discussion, he said, must be postponed, interesting though it had proved. He hoped to resume it at some future date. For the moment, several pressing matters demanded his attention. If I would excuse him, he had arranged a little entertainment; he hoped it would meet with my approval. He left the chamber, quietly, attended by a slave with a lamp. Gratianus stood in his turn, bowed silently and padded after him. The door swung to with a click. I sat back, still fuming, and met the Domina’s eyes. They were unreadable, but her expression was nearly one of pain.

My cup was refilled. The door opened again. Musicians filed in, struck up a lively tune; and they came.

There were three of them. The Fates surely, or Harpies from old legend, raised by necromancy and chained to earth. One was old, one gap-toothed; all were fat. They bowed to the table and began to dance. Their feet slapped and whispered; breasts and bellies jiggled, gleaming through diaphanous robes. Dancing women I had seen, but none like these. The gesture, I supposed, was fitting; from a British aristocrat, to a ruffian from Rome.

‘Valerius . . .!’

My bellow brought the capering to a halt. I was on my feet, and the wine was spilled, and the room was tilting and revolving. He ran for my sword and cloak. I buckled the weapon, saluted the Domina and left, heels ringing on the pavement. The horses were waiting, held by slaves with torches. I clattered through the archway, left riding like the wind. I didn’t slacken till the great house was out of sight, hidden by the folding of the hills.

Morning sunlight lay across the villa lawns. A gardener was working on one of the flower beds; the scrape and click of his spade sounded clearly in the bright air. Hens cackled from the stable block; there was the clank of a pail, the stamp and snort of a horse. A cart lurched out through the gateway, headed away down the sloping lane beyond. Crearwy bit thoughtfully at a stilus and watched it go.

She had had a chair carried out for her, and a little folding table. She sat now in a new white summer gown, a wax tablet propped on her knee. She glanced down, frowned, made an erasure and began again.

From the Domina Crearwy,
she wrote
, to the Praefect Sergius Paullus, greetings.

My husband has been called to Gaul, with the Senator G. Gratianus, on urgent matters of business. Before he left I begged him to resolve, if possible, the enmity between us. In this he was more than agreeable. I add my voice to his; I urge you to accept my apology, and the apologies of the household, for a slight which, however sharply felt, was unintended.

If your many duties permit, I would be honoured if you would once more join me for dinner, when I can perhaps make recompense, however small, for the injury suffered at our hands. Give your agreement, I pray you, to the bearer of this note. Any day and time you stipulate will be suitable to me.

She frowned, poised the stilus, hesitated then wrote rapidly again.

I shall be disappointed if you refuse, but will try to understand. Meanwhile I wait in the hope of our continued friendship. I’m sure there are many topics, unconnected with either politics or the State, that we would find mutually agreeable.

The Gods preserve you, and send your answer quickly.

I put the thing down and stared at it. Then I picked it up again. It was unexpected, certainly; also vaguely disturbing. More indiscretions have been committed to wax than ever attained the dignity of paper and ink. In the end I shrugged, and sent for Valerius.

‘What,’ I asked him, ‘do you make of that?’

He studied the letter, frowning. Then he grinned. ‘I’d say under the circumstances it was rather a nice gesture, sir,’ he said.

‘Under what circumstances?’

He looked troubled. ‘Well, I suppose... the general set-up, sir.’

‘Meaning?’

He compressed his lips. ‘Nothing, sir. Just a figure of speech.’

‘You’re being singularly negative, Valerius. What would you do about it in my place?’

‘In your place, sir?’

I said testily, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake . . .’

‘I’d go myself,’ he said. ‘Like a shot. Particularly if they’re going to dish up grub like that.’

‘Tribune, I don’t really credit you with thinking with your stomach. You think I was wrong, don’t you?’

He hesitated, saw me staring at him, and shrugged. ‘I think you may have been a bit... hasty, sir,’ he said.

‘To be frank,’ I said, ‘I was as drunk as a newt. And that oily little Britisher succeeded in thoroughly rubbing me up the wrong way.’

He didn’t answer, just sat looking carefully vacant. I hadn’t seen fit to tell him I was suffering from a prejudice dinned into me in childhood by Marcus; and he knew nothing of the mines.

I got up abruptly. ‘Bugger you, Valerius,’ I said. ‘All right, I’ll make my peace. I’ll go tomorrow. No, in two days’ time. Satisfied?’

‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘Will you be wanting me again, or not?’

‘No thanks,’ I said tartly. ‘If I’m going to be made to look an ass twice running I’d rather there were no witnesses. Would you ask Petronius if he can find that messenger?’

After he’d gone I picked the tablet up again. I sat absently, rubbing the smooth wooden cover with my thumb. Work was piling up and I’d been planning to travel to Isca later in the week. Now I’d have to put the trip off. I shrugged. I had to admit my conscience had been pricking me. It had been a thoroughly childish display; I still couldn’t think what had got into me. I reached for a pen. The sooner the thing was resolved the better; I could get on with the job I’d been sent to Britannia to do. I finished the letter; then I sat and swore. Asking Valerius for his comments had been as pointless as it had been weak. From the first there had been no doubt about what I would do. I wanted to see the Lady Crearwy again; in that at least I was honest with myself.

The weather was perfect again when I rode for Censorina. Puffy white clouds chased each other across the sky; the air moved gently, smelling of summer. I took my time over the journey. This was good hunting country. I saw hares and deer; once a family of wild boars broke cover, trotted briskly across a distant skyline. The villa when I reached it lay bland and lovely in the sunlight. I turned my horse into the lane that led up to it. Twenty or thirty yards from the gateway a clump of bushes grew beside the path. As I was passing a voice rang sharply. ‘Halt,’ it shouted. ‘Who goes there? Don’t move, or you’ll get an arrow through you.’