Those eyes trapped the light, but nothing of the soul behind them escaped as a warning to those who would torment him.
With regret, the boy left the glade as the blades of light narrowed, then slid behind the dense foliage that towered above him. The air had a sultry heaviness, as if a storm was coming. He would have welcomed the steady driving rain from a downpour, but his empty stomach was warning him that he must return to the villa - or else go hungry for yet another night.
‘Farewell, rock,’ he whispered to the body-warmed stone. ‘Farewell, trees.’
Arriving in the forest was always more pleasant than returning to the villa. As the boy pushed his way through the waist-high grasses of the western field, avoiding the stinging nettles that grew in dense patches, he put on his ‘family face’ as he called it, and assumed his accustomed untidy shamble.
When he reached the outbuildings of the Villa Poppinidii, his back was bowed and his feet scuffed the crazy stone pathways between the stables and the piggery.
‘You’re wanted, Lump,’ a pert housemaid giggled at him as she emptied slops into the swine trough. ‘You’ve been wanted for hours. The master has visitors.’
‘Ugh!’ was the boy’s only reply.
Now he would have to bathe. He’d need to find a clean tunic as well, if Frith had found the time to mend his second-best clothing.
He eyed his filthy toes in their ragged sandals with ill humour. He’d be late - and Ector would not tolerate a tardy foster-son.
I’d best be moving then, the boy admonished himself with little enthusiasm. He sought out Frith in the kitchens where she was most usually seated, warming her old bones.
‘It’s a good thing I am fond of you, young rapscallion,’ the old woman mumbled through her broken teeth. ‘I’ve mended your tunic and found you a leather belt to fit that waist of yours. And don’t forget the perfumed oil,’ she called out after him. ‘Perhaps it will train that hair of yours - it’s full of twigs.’
‘I thank you, good Frith,’ he called back over his shoulder. ‘Sleep well by your fire.’
‘That Lump will never amount to much,’ the sour-faced cook snapped as he fiddled with a brimming pot filled with boiled eels and root vegetables.
‘Ah, but it’s amazing how balanced his temper is when he is treated with kindness,’ Frith replied tartly. ‘It’s also remarkable how agile the boy becomes when he thinks no one is looking.’ She had been nurse to the last Roman child born to the House of Poppinidii, the sweet and tiny Livinia, and she knew all the secrets of the villa.
‘Go back to sleep, Grandmother. You’ve been out in the sun too long,’ was the cook’s acerbic reply.
Pausing only in his narrow, airless cubicle to gather up his clothing, his old strigil and a small bottle of rather rancid oil, the boy ran to the very end of the east wing of Villa Poppinidii, taking care to skirt the atrium, the eating couches and the scriptorium in his haste. In truth, the boy loved to hear stories of the world beyond the villa, which only visitors brought. For him, a little scrubbing was a small price to pay for a night in the corner, listening to the men talk of strange and alien places.
Hastily, in the mosaic pool of the calidarium, the boy stripped and heated his skin in the hot water. He had scant regard for the proper civilities and order of the bathing rites, but concentrated on opening the pores of his skin, rubbing in the sickly oil while he tried not to breathe the stench in through his nose. The boy then dragged the old strigil over several days of accumulated dirt. He even paid cursory attention to his nails so that, eventually, the worst of the day’s excesses were removed.
Then, after a quick splash in the frigidarium to cleanse and close his pores, he gave himself a rough towelling and attempted to tie back his wet, wild hair with a leather thong. Finally, he donned a tunic, belt, loincloth and sandals, and ran through the silent colonnades to the room where all visitors were entertained.
‘There you are, boy,’ Ector snapped. ‘At least we must be grateful that you are clean.’ He smiled at his guests to soften the effect of his harsh words. ‘And now you can assist with the serving,’ he ordered. ‘As is your duty.’
Ector was a big man, thick in the body and broad of shoulder, but his legs were unnaturally short and bandy. His face was florid and almost smooth of wrinkles, for the master of the house rarely fell prey to extremes of emotion. His mouth was good-humoured and his pale, blue eyes were slightly protuberant, giving his face an expression of perpetual surprise.
But only a fool underestimated Master Ector, a man raised in the warrior tradition, to which the hard muscle of his body bore witness. Having served his time in the fortresses of the north, Ector now enjoyed his broad acres, his fat cattle and kine and the peace of a quiet middle age. However, should external peril threaten his house, like an old battle hound Ector would rise to fight with merciless glee.
Ector and his wife, Livinia, their son, Caius, and three unknown gentlemen were all reclining in the Roman fashion on carved couches around a low table that was piled high with delicacies. Eel in aspic, a boar’s head splendidly presented with boiled barley, a sliced haunch of venison, salted vegetables and periwinkles that swam in exotic sauces were displayed on the low, central table.
The dining room was quite large, as befitted the honour of Livinia’s ancient family, and gave directly on to the atrium where, under a pale moon, water danced and splashed from an imaginative bronze statue of a monstrous fish. Sweet-smelling oils burned brightly in rare glass vessels, and the best torches hung on heavy iron wall brackets, yet no unsightly stains of oil smoke marred a fine fresco of an olive grove. Ector might be a bastard Celt, but he had married the last child of an ancient family, and had taken the Poppinidii name as his own. In the nearest town of Aquae Sulis, he was deemed to be a man of significant wit - and extraordinary luck.
‘Yes, Foster-Father,’ the boy replied neutrally, then bowed formally to each guest, even the hateful Caius.
He sought out the villa’s steward, a Greek slave called Cletus, and collected large jars of honeyed wine from Gaul and the crisp, clean vintages of Spain. Ector was noted as a connoisseur of good wines, and it was the boy’s task at these functions to ensure that the gilded cups of the visitors were kept full to the brim.
The boy was also adept at becoming invisible. As the meal progressed, his presence was soon forgotten.
‘What news from the east, Myrddion?’ Ector asked with no little interest.
‘The wolves from over the narrow sea come to pillage almost every spring,’ a thin-faced man answered. ‘Fortunately, the barbarians rarely venture far inland, but I fear one day they will arrive with their women and their broods and build their own settlements.’
‘Then they will die here,’ Caius drawled in a way that he believed showed his sophistication.
‘Perhaps,’ the man called Myrddion replied vaguely.
‘Oh, come, Myrddion. What are a few savages to us? Londinium, Eburacum, and Camulodunum are heavily fortified, and the native legions are well trained. We’ll smash any naked barbarians like roaches.’ Ector plucked up a sliver of venison with a dainty knife.
Another stranger, notable for the long brown plaits that hung from his forehead, suppressed a grim laugh.
‘I don’t think anything amusing was said, Luka,’ Ector retorted, his face flushing under what was left of his chestnut hair.
‘My pardon, friend Ector,’ Luka replied. ‘I meant no offence - but these little toys,’ he paused, and made the eating dagger spin in his neat hands, ‘are no match for the war axes of the barbarians. Their swords are almost of your height - and they have iron, too, my brother.’
Caius began to speak, but Livinia quelled him with an imperial lifting of her narrow brows.
‘There is no offence taken, Luka. I served with your father on the Wall, and we shared the same wet nurse for some seasons in Lavatrae. We both grew tall hearing the horror tales of Boedicca of the Iceni and the nearness of her victory when she rebelled against Rome. But that bloodstained bitch was one of us. She was civilized in her fashion, and not some ignorant Saxon pig-stealer, or a dog from Jutland who comes hunting enough grain to feed his filthy brood.’
‘Luka is merely asking that we heed the warnings, Ector,’ Myrddion soothed, although his expression, to the boy’s mind, lacked compromise. ‘Warned, we are strong; complacent, we are soft in the belly.’
‘Rome owns the entire world, including Britannia,’ Caius cut in excitedly.
Ector shot a swift glance of disapproval at his only birth son.
‘But would the might of Rome come to our aid if we were under attack? I believe they’d leave us to our fate,’ Luka replied, with a casual intensity that gave weight to his words.
‘Uther Pendragon still holds the south and the west of our land under his foot,’ Myrddion answered. ‘But he grows old and frightened. God help the west should Uther fail.’
Caius and Ector both snorted. Neither possessed a flattering opinion of the High King who held the tribes to treaties won by bloodshed during his vigorous youth.
‘I don’t think we should ever discount Uther Pendragon,’ Luka added.
‘And your villa lies safe because of the protection of his rule,’ Myrddion reminded Ector.
‘Villa Poppinidii lies strong because it is in my hands,’ Ector retorted, his face reddening.
‘And very well-provisioned it is too,’ Luka soothed. ‘I admit I have longed for a civilized bed for many weeks during my travels.’
Somewhat mollified, Ector allowed the conversation to veer on to safer ground, with talk of fashion and trade in the south. Lady Livinia, especially, was starved for tales of civilized Gaul, and she managed to dominate the conversation for some little time, mainly by right of the purity of her breeding.
The three travellers acknowledged Livinia’s superior qualities by the deference they showed her. She was small, even for a Roman matron, but her posture was so straight and uncompromising that few visitors noticed her diminutive form. Like all gentle domestic tyrants, she was possessed of great charm and wit, making her a hostess of distinction. Gracefully, she ensured that Myrddion Merlinus and his friends would find nothing amiss in the hospitality of the house.
The boy filled the gilded wine cups from his jugs and listened to the words of the guests with his senses all aquiver.
The third visitor, a dark-complexioned man, remained silent throughout the conversation that swirled around him.
Llanwith poured water into his cup, brushing aside Artorex’s proffered wine jug with a flick of his huge beringed hands. His black eyes were watchful and intent, even when the other guests spoke of women’s matters, as if the Villa Poppinidii held the answers to secrets he had yet to discover through stealth.
The boy felt his stomach muscles contract with nervousness when the dark-faced man stared covertly at him across the succulent meats and rich sauces. Black eyes forced grey eyes to meet and be examined.
When the honeyed sweetmeats were served, and the men lounged in comfort with the edges of their differences blunted by good food and wine, the silent stranger chose to speak.
‘Who is the boy?’ he asked in a voice that rumbled from his wide chest. It was a voice of command that demanded an answer.
‘He is my foster-son,’ Ector replied sleepily. The villa normally held to farm hours, and the water dial showed that the hour was now late.
The boy almost dropped the Spanish wine in surprise as all eyes flickered towards him.
‘What is his name, good Ector?’
‘Artorex. His name is Artorex.’
‘But we call him
Lump
,’ Caius giggled drunkenly.
‘He bears a noble name. Stand under the wall sconce, young Artorex, where I can see you properly.’
‘He’s a good enough lad,’ Ector mumbled. ‘But he’s not a sharp dagger, Llanwith pen Bryn, if you take my meaning.’
Llanwith son of Bryn, the boy thought to himself, as he moved to carry out the stranger’s bidding. I’ll not forget you quickly.
‘He is a tall young man. What is his age?’
‘Twelve - I believe,’ replied Ector carelessly. ‘Yes, he makes fair to be strong and large. But why are you so interested in the boy?’
Myrddion Merlinus smiled enigmatically and waved a negligent hand in Artorex’s direction. ‘Bishop Lucius is curious to know how the child grows. He expected that you’d see to his learning so we may assume he knows some letters. We’re simply finishing what was started when we brought the babe to you - how many years ago?’
‘It’s been too many years, old friend, too many years!’ Ector was disposed to be sentimental, but Llanwith was still staring at Artorex as if they were alone in the triclinium.
‘Speak for yourself, young Artorex,’ Llanwith demanded. ‘Are you strong?’
‘Aye, master, I’m strong enough,’ the boy replied bluntly.
The stranger ignored the boy’s effrontery, although Ector frowned in his direction.
‘Are you fast, Artorex?’ the stranger continued. ‘Strong lads are rarely fast.’
Caius giggled.
The boy felt his face flush. He straightened his shoulders and raised his chin.
‘Fast enough, master.’
The narrow eating dagger flashed from Llanwith’s large hand across the light in a neat parabola that was aimed directly at Artorex’s heart.
Unblinkingly, the boy watched the blade arc towards him. Acting on instinct, he moved to one side, and dashed the blade aside with his forearm. The knife clattered to the floor, where it lay like a silver reptile with the dragon aglitter on its hilt.
‘Aye, you are fast enough, young man,’ Llanwith replied with a laugh as the boy retrieved the dagger and handed it to him, hilt first. ‘You bleed, boy.’
‘It is only a scratch, master. A nothing.’ The boy’s face was as inscrutable as the bland features of Llanwith pen Bryn.