The Boat of Fate (40 page)

I reined, looking round for the aggressor. A rustling, and a small girl rose into sight, pointing a drawn bow in my general direction. She was I supposed nine or ten years old, a slim, brown-skinned creature with a tangle of lustrous dark-blonde hair. She wore a diminutive white tunic; her face was twisted into a determined scowl. ‘Don’t move,’ she said again. ‘Keep quite still, or I’ll shoot.’

‘You won’t shoot anybody with that unless you learn to hold it properly,’ I growled. ‘Not even me. Your arm’s too tense to start with; you should keep it slightly flexed, and only straighten when you loose. And for God’s sake, girl, nock your shaft on the proper side of the stave. Here, come down and let me show you.’

A chuckle, and the bushes disclosed a second child, maybe a head shorter than the first. ‘I told you you were doing it wrong,’ she said. ‘But you never listen.’

They thumped on to the path. ‘Let me look at that thing,’ I said. ‘One of you hold the horse.’

The bow was passed to me. It was crudely constructed; just a greenwood stick, lashed optimistically at the ends to prevent it splitting. I flexed it and shook my head. ‘This won’t do at all,’ I said. ‘Where’s your arrow?’

They handed it over. The flights were glued on tolerably well; the head was formed from a flattened nail. ‘We made it ourselves,’ said the elder sprite. ‘Classius said he’d make one but he wanted paying. We hadn’t any money.’

‘Who’s Classius?’

‘The blacksmith. Are you an enemy?’

‘I hope not,’ I said. ‘Do I look like one?’

‘He’s the soldier Mummy wrote to,’ said the younger girl. She beamed at me. ‘I heard Felix say about it. He’s the doorkeeper. He always knows everything.’

I found a coin. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘Give Classius this. Tell him it’s worth at least three arrows. If you’re going to ambush people you want your shafts to fly true.’

She said, ‘Hello, Praefect.’

She had come down from the gateway. She was wearing a white dress, gathered by a girdle. The material hung softly, outlining her hips.

‘I’m glad you could come,’ she said simply. Then to the children, ‘Nessa, Melinda, what do you mean by this? How many times do you have to be told not to annoy our guests?’

I said, ‘They weren’t annoying me.’

Nessa, the elder, brushed the mane of hair back from her eyes. ‘He gave us some money for Classius,’ she said. ‘We’re going to have proper arrows.’ They ran for the gateway, whooping.

Their mother flared at them.

‘
Come here!
You’ll get my slipper behind you in a minute,’ she said. ‘Where are your manners?’

They looked contrite. They said, ‘Thank you, sir. . . Melinda grinned round a gap in her teeth. ‘Will you teach us proper shooting, sir? We’ll take you hare-spearing if you do.’

I said, ‘I’ll see.’

Once more the lamps glowed in their niches. But now there were no slaves. Only the dark girl I had seen before. Two couches were drawn up to the table. I lay on one; Crearwy reclined on the other. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is another of my shocking habits. Do you think it’s very bad?’

I said, ‘Not if it’s what the Domina wishes to do.’

She said, ‘Are you always so terribly correct?’ She paused. ‘You’re still angry with me, aren’t you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not with you.’

She shook her head ‘He didn’t mean it,’ she said. ‘Honestly. Not like that. He doesn’t bear ill will.’

I held my peace.

‘Did you like the meal?’

‘Very much,’ I said. ‘Except the snails in milk.’

She looked disappointed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said ‘I did it all myself. I thought you’d like them. I thought all Romans did.’

‘I’m not a Roman. And I seem to be pursued by shellfish.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘My mother used to do them. The same way, in milk. Father swore they were good for my brain. It always seemed unfair. They swell so much they can’t get back into their shells.’

She smiled ‘Tell me about your mother.’

‘There isn’t much to tell. She died when I was young.’

‘What did she look like?’

I said, ‘She was dark.’

‘Was she an Hispanian?’

‘No.’

She said, ‘You don’t like talking about your home much, do you?’

‘Not really.’

‘I’m sorry.’

A silence. Then she said, ‘Would you like to hear Pelgea sing?’

‘Does she sing well?’

She said, ‘I think so.’

She turned and spoke a few words to the girl. The slave nodded, picked up an instrument like a complicated lyre. She struck a chord, gently. The sound was like rippling water, or the wind in the trees. Her voice was like her face, wild and sweet. I said, ‘Where does she come from?’

‘The north. She’s been with me since she was tiny. She’s a Pict.’

‘I thought the Picts coloured their faces blue.’

‘The Romans think all barbarians colour their faces blue.’ The song ended. I sat quiet. I said, ‘Will she sing again?’

‘If you want her to.’

The new song was longer; plaintive, and haunting. The melody was strange. There was a lilt and shift to it like the movement of the sea. I said, ‘What’s it about?’

She pursed her lips. ‘A girl, and a young man,’ she said. ‘It’s a love song. The girl has died. Now her soul waits on the shore. It’s dark, her eyes shine like moons. Soon her lover will come to her. He’ll follow across the sea.’

I said, ‘She’s waiting for the Boat.’

Her eyes widened.
‘What?'

I said, ‘The Boat. From the Land of the Blessed. Tir-nan-Og.’ She would have spoken again, but I held up my hand.

The song ended. The singer bowed, slipped back into the dark. The villa was very quiet. I drank wine, brooding. It seemed something was close to me, closer than in years. A Shadow, that still sought the West. Crearwy said, ‘Who taught you about the Land?’

‘My mother.’

‘What was her name?’

I said, ‘Calgaca.’

‘Oh . . .’

It seemed I could talk to this woman, and be at ease. That in itself was odd. I said, ‘We were very close. She was very ... gifted.’

‘In what way?’

‘In many ways. She knew the Future.’

For a moment I thought she shuddered. She said, ‘She had the Sight.’

‘I don’t know what she called it. It was a strange thing. My father would never discuss it. Do you have it?’

She said, ‘No, thank the Gods.’

‘Why?’

‘I wouldn’t want it. Neither would you.’

I said, ‘She saw her own end. She knew I’d fail her.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I promised to bring her back. To Britannia. I couldn’t do it.’

She shook her head. ‘Will you be cross with me?’

‘Why?’

She said, ‘You did bring her back. In your heart. Now you can set her free.’

I said, ‘This is a strange conversation.’

She leaned back. She was watching me steadily. She said, ‘Have some more to drink.’

‘Domina, it’s very late. I ought to leave.’

‘Late, early, pooh,’ she said. ‘I only wake up at night. Have some more wine. To please me.’

I knew I should call for my horse, ride back. There was work to be done, too much work; the morning would come too soon. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘thank you. I’ll have some more wine.’

The liquid made a little tinkling sound. The bowl had been emptied, refilled, emptied and filled again. She seemed unaware. She said, ‘Are you still angry?’

‘No.’

She laughed. ‘Did you know you had a nickname?’

‘What is it?’

She said, ‘They call you the man who never smiles. ,’Is it true?’

I said, ‘Maybe I don’t often find much to smile at.’

She sighed. She said, ‘Sometimes you remind me of my father. It’s silly.’ She paused. ‘When I was little I was terrified of him. He had awful rages. You looked so black the other night. As if you could have killed me. When I said about the mines.’

I said, ‘I don’t want to talk about that now.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I promised, didn’t I? No politics.’

‘That wasn’t politics.’

There was silence. I broke it.

‘What was your father like?’

She said curtly, ‘Like a barbarian.’

‘Of course.’

She said, ‘Now you’re upset again. Please don’t be. I’m a queer old thing. Prickly. You’re prickly too.’

I said, ‘I’m not upset. What was your home like?’

Her eyes were cloudy. ‘There was a tower,’ she said. ‘On an island, by the sea. And a stockade where we drove the animals. And beyond, the sea again. Blueness and blueness, for ever.’

‘And beyond the sea?’

‘Nobody knows,’ she said. ‘Nobody can go beyond the sea.’

‘Except the Boat.’

‘It was my Boat,’ she said. ‘I saw it too. White, like a swan.’

I said, ‘You believe in the Land. Very much.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Don’t you?’

There was a night bird, with a bubbling cry. It sounded clearly in the quiet. I said, ‘I must go.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Not yet. Please.’ She sat up. ‘Will you do something for me?’

‘What?’

‘Come and meet the Nymph.’

‘Where is she?’

‘At the temple. It’s full moon. She always comes at full moon. She’s sad because nobody worships her any more. But it’s her temple, it was built for her. She’ll never leave.’

I said, ‘Won’t the servants think it odd?’

‘There aren’t any servants. Not in this wing. Except my own. And I always go there, anyway.’

The wine had made me sleepy. I made two attempts to rise. She gripped my arm and laughed. The touch felt strange. The moon was high, riding a serene sky. The villa buildings seemed to loom from a greenish-silver haze. It was like a dream, or walking under the sea.

She moved ahead of me. Her sandals lisped against stone. Beyond the bath-houses a shallow flight of steps led upward. The shafts of the temple gleamed like tall bones. The shadows they cast were velvet-black.

There was a little pool, surrounded by a low stone coping. She sat dabbling her hand. She seemed to watch me, but the moonlight made her blind. The bird called again, close overhead ; the night breeze moved in the spinney, whispering the branches together. This, I thought, would make a fine tale for Valerius. I set my mouth.

She said, ‘Can you see her?’

‘No.’

She laughed. ‘You should have brought your wine.’

My head was spinning enough. I moved away a little and turned. I said, ‘I see her clearly now. She’s very lovely.’

She shook her head. She said, ‘She couldn’t come tonight. There’s only me. I’m not lovely.’

I said, ‘She wouldn’t come.’

‘Why not?’

‘She was offended. She knows her water runs to the latrines.’

She frowned. ‘Sergius, why didn’t you ever marry?’

‘I never had the opportunity.’

‘I’m sure you had loads of opportunity. Didn’t you ever find a woman you could love?’

I said, ‘They didn’t love me.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘I didn’t have enough to offer.’

She said, ‘I’d say you have a lot to offer. I don’t think they knew what they were missing.’

I was silent.

She said, ‘Why are you so bitter?’

‘I’m not bitter. Just a realist.’

‘You’re bitter. You’ll fall in love one day.’

‘No.’

‘You’ll find a woman who wants you. She’ll make it happen.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I know so.’

I said, ‘There’s always a latrine.’ I rose, unsteadily. ‘I’m sorry, I think I’m a little drunk.’

‘I don’t care. So am I. Let’s fetch some more wine.’

‘I don’t want any more.’

‘I do. I want to drink and drink. All night.’

I didn’t answer.

She said, ‘Please sit down.’

I sat.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing. The night.’

‘What about the night?’

‘Not wanting it to end.’

She said quietly, ‘Why don’t you want it to end?’

I thought before I answered. I said ‘Because nothing like it will come again.’

And that, I thought, is the result of too much booze. I hadn’t been serious about making a fool of myself twice. Now I was glad Valerius hadn’t come.

She said, ‘I don’t want it to end either. But you don’t believe that, do you? You’re a realist.’ She waited, but I didn’t comment. She said, ‘Where do you live? In Corinium?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘A scruffy little room. Bedroom attached.’

She drew her legs beneath her, clasped her hands round her knees. ‘Why do you think no woman will love you?’

‘It’s what I believe.’

‘You don’t love them.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘How did you hurt your hand? Was that to do with a woman?’

‘No.’

She said, ‘If the Nymph came, she’d make you love her.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You wouldn’t have any choice.’

‘I would.’

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘You’re mocking the Gods.’

I felt an odd, hollow anger. I said, ‘Then let them be mocked. . . .’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Sergius, no . . .’

‘Very well. If it displeases you.’

She licked her mouth. ‘If I loved you, would it teach you differently?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t,’ I said. ‘And can’t.’

She rose and walked towards me. Her face looked frozen, like stone. She sat, put her arms on my shoulders and drew me towards her. She opened her mouth, pressed my lips to her and pushed as deep and as far as her tongue would go. Then she took my hand. ‘Touch me,’ she said-‘Please touch me.’

I’d like to say the earth reeled It didn’t. Nothing much happened at all. I was too surprised

We lay in darkness. At first, shock had kept me limp. Now she moved against me, and my body rose. ‘Feel me,’ she said ‘Feel what you’ve done.’ I kissed her lips; and there was a second kiss, deeper and sweet. I had wondered, absurdly, if there might be pain. There was none. Just the smooth warmth. Afterwards I lay and laughed, feeling the sweat between us and the sliding of her breasts. I said, ‘I was a virgin.’

She said, ‘You’re not a virgin now.’

‘Crearwy . . .’

‘Hush,’ she said ‘Rest. Sleep now,’

When I woke there was grey daylight in the room. A solitary bird was piping in the woods. At first I couldn’t remember where I was. Then I reached across the couch. It was empty.