He paused before the assembled throng.
‘Young Master Caius from my home, the Villa Poppinidii, grew up under the influence of this monster, but I swear to you that young Master Caius was the one who truly saved Brego. He was the man who sensed the evil that was being perpetrated by these monsters. And his suspicions led us to the crypt where we found Brego and the remains of the other children.’
The crowd muttered dully. Artorex could smell their doubts, like bad meat on the still air. Rumour-mongering is difficult to control, and the villagers had already heard how Mistress Livinia had died.
Targo registered that the steward’s words were carefully chosen, to protect Caius without telling a direct lie.
‘I ask that you bear no ill-will towards Caius or towards Lord Ector, his good father. The lad has been driven half crazed through fear of the Severinii, but Brego lives because Caius did his duty. And has Lord Ector not answered every call for assistance from your headman for many, many years? Have your sons and daughters not found honest work within, and without, the Villa Poppinidii?’
‘That is true,’ the village headman intoned importantly.
‘Lord Ector asked me to offer you his tears for the vanished children, and to beg you to share in his mourning for the Mistress Livinia, who was the last child of the Poppinidii family. She will be sent to the flames on the morrow. Ector and Caius will send funeral meat and drink to you in your time of sorrow, and ask that you pray for the shade of an honourable woman who did nothing but good throughout her whole life.’
The murmuring in the crowd rose, and many heads slowly nodded in agreement.
‘Ector’s granddaughter is born and has been named Livinia, in memory of the mistress. Let all good souls mourn the passing of the innocent children and this wise and goodly woman in the time of tears that has come to us. But it is also a time to rejoice, for the young Brego has been returned to the bosom of his family, and a new young babe has entered our world.’
The village headman inclined his head towards Artorex. ‘You may tell the master that we will always hold allegiance to the Villa Poppinidii, to its master, and to the son of the master. And we will also hold allegiance to its steward, Lord Artorex.’
The crowd cheered and Artorex felt himself blush.
Nor was he permitted to leave until he had sampled the best food that the village had to offer, giving, in turn, effusive thanks for his morning meal and the bounty that now followed.
Finally, in company with Targo, Artorex was permitted to depart from the village.
Neither man spoke overly much on the short journey to the next village, but Targo’s eyes reflected his concern for his young companion and the task that Artorex had chosen to perform.
The second village was smaller and showed clear signs of poverty, for it was situated further from the benign influence of Villa Poppinidii. Yet, for all its squalor, Artorex was greeted as before, and the remains of two more children were returned to their families.
Only one urn now remained. Only one hank of auburn hair rested over Artorex’s heart as he took to the road once more. His long and painful task was almost completed.
‘Gerna, the wild woman, lives by the sacred well only a few miles from here,’ Targo told him. ‘She is believed to be fey, and she is feared by many. Most sensible people try to avoid her, for she sees things in the waters that no one wishes to know. But her son was taken, and the village headman told me that she knew when he drew his last breath. She asks that we come to her.’
‘Targo, I am weary of portents, death and the common folk who stare at me as if I could somehow ease their lot in life. Who am I to earn such respect? I’d rather avoid Gerna and her mirrors.’
‘I’m tired also, boy. Perhaps we could leave the urn with the village headman if you’d prefer not to see her. I’m satisfied that you’ve done everything that could be expected of you.’
‘No, Targo,’ Artorex sighed. ‘I’ll see this quest through to its ending, for I owe all the families some words of comfort, at least.’
Gerna lived in a very wild and savage place at the foot of an exposed knoll of granite that resembled a half-buried skull. At its base, a stream gushed out of a cleft in the rock and filled a natural, fern-lined depression leading into a deep, black pool. A sacred hazel tree drooped over the waters, and shed its nuts into the lightless depths.
A crooning that appeared to emanate from a fissure in the knoll interrupted the eerie stillness of the woods.
Suddenly, a middle-aged woman clad in skins and wreathed in oak leaves heaved her thick body out of the concealed cave, then rose to her full height before Artorex.
Gerna was huge, both in girth and height, and her hair was such a wild, red tangle that only her green eyes could clearly be seen. Wordlessly, she accepted the urn from the young man and stroked the hank of proffered hair. Then, silently, she motioned for Artorex to sit on a mossy stone before the pool itself.
‘Is she mute?’ Artorex whispered to his companion.
Targo shook his head.
‘They say she only speaks when she has something important to say.’
‘Then she is a wise woman,’ Artorex grunted.
Gerna filled a wooden dipper with water from the pool and handed it to Artorex, who accepted it gingerly.
‘You need have no fear, Artorex, for the water is live and pure.’ Gerna spoke in a voice that was cracked from disuse.
Carefully, Artorex drank the proffered refreshment.
The water was slightly brackish but not unpleasant on the tongue. Gerna nodded and bared her teeth in a smile as he finished the water.
She stood before the waters of the pool and stared into its black, mirrored surface. Then she turned back to the men, closed her eyes and began to speak.
‘The tide turns and it will sweep you away, Artorex. Your father awaits you. He has waited overlong and has missed his moment, so your path will be the harder for his lack of decision. He has clung to power, like a drug, and so I warn you to beware.’
She paused.
‘I see blood - rivers of blood - and horses - and fire. I see a great fortress and an army of men who will die to defend the west. Do not fear, for you will fulfil your destiny, until even your great strength is not enough. But your struggles will ensure that your world is not lost into darkness and decay, and those who are coming will become enmeshed in your legends. They will use your name for uncounted generations after your death, to seal these isles in safety against attack from those who would cause us harm. This gift I give to you for the sake of my son, although I pay for the giving with years of my life.’
‘Will I be happy?’
Gerna laughed, but it was little more than an ugly croak from her long-unused vocal cords.
‘What is happiness? But I tease you, Artorex. Yes! You will be happy for a little time. And, yes, I will answer the unasked question. A child of yours will live and breed unheeded by the vast issues of your future world. Though love is fleeting, you shall have it, but look not for contentment, for it is not for men such as you. Enough now. My voice is weary - and my son’s shade is speaking to me on the wind.’
Then Gerna was gone, back into her cavern, and the pool was just a shallow bowl of water, caught for a time before it became a streamlet that disappeared back into the ground whence it had come.
‘No one promises me wealth or happiness, only pain and struggle.’ Artorex complained, for he was still very young.
‘Never mind, young master. If the soothsayer is correct, you’ll not be rotting at Villa Poppinidii forever,’ Targo said with honest good humour. ‘And who of us with common sense would wish for a safe life, anyway?’
‘I would,’ Artorex replied ruefully and only his heart knew that he spoke the simple truth.
CHAPTER VIII
A CONVENIENT MARRIAGE
Lady Livinia was buried with all the ritual and ceremony deserving of a great Roman matron. The clay facemasks of her ancestors were removed from their special cabinets and both paid and unpaid mourners rent their clothing and filled the villa with the eerie sounds of their weeping.
Livinia’s pyre was built high and she lay, wrapped and waxen in her finery, until Ector and Caius lifted their torches and lit the fire that would send her shade on its long journey. Ector had purchased scented wood, regardless of cost, so his lady could depart her villa, and her life, in a manner that befitted a Roman noblewoman. As a sop to the sensibilities of the scented gentry of Aquae Sulis, Ector should probably have buried his beloved in the cold earth, but his heart cried out that his lady was a warrior of sorts, and deserved the old Republican way of cremation
After the prescribed days of mourning, life at the villa returned to a semblance of normality.
Two days after Livinia’s cremation, the three travellers left, but the servants at the villa were accustomed to their strange arrivals and departures and did little more than comment that the visitors had stayed overlong on this occasion. They knew the delay was due to the death of their mistress and the respect that even these great ones accorded to Lady Livinia.
Before they left, the three travellers did much honour to Ector’s household by attending the
Dies Lustricus
, the Day of Purification, when the daughter of Caius and Julanna was formally named. After days of mourning and sorrow, such a joyous feast promised that a better future lay ahead.
The infant girl was belatedly laid at the feet of Caius in the ancient birth custom of the Republic. Julanna’s gentle face was tense as she watched her husband decide if this child should be acknowledged as being of his blood. Of course, the issue was never in doubt, but Julanna scarcely trusted her husband to touch her child.
When Caius lifted the
bulla
, a small, gold, double-sided shell that held the charms that would protect her through childhood, and placed its golden chain round the baby’s neck, Julanna felt as if her heart would burst. Caius had touched her throat often enough, but he’d been cruel and had bruised her tender flesh. She shuddered to see his large white hands hold her daughter’s small body with an emotion that was akin to paternal love.
So, with due ceremony, Ector presided over the feast of
Dies Lustricus
, and the three travellers each presented
crepundia
, small gold and silver charms that tinkled and rang as they were draped over the baby’s head. Finally, Ector pronounced the infant’s
praenomen
, Livinia, as a name favoured by her ancestors and given in honour of her grandmother.
As the feast progressed, Julanna smiled and was gracious to her guests, but her eyes followed the graceful shape of her husband with the blank stare of a stranger.
In the weeks that followed, Julanna remained frail, and inclined to panic if her child so much as sneezed. Still, the young mistress had much to do, for now she must shoulder Livinia’s role long before her time. She must fill tiny shoes that were far too big for her overcautious feet.
The servants at the villa were fond of Julanna, so they nodded amiably as she issued instructions and ignored any proposed changes to their established routines. Only the hawk-eyed Gallia really noticed that the servants obeyed the rhythms that had been set in place by Lady Livinia over a period of three decades. When Gallia discussed their intransigence with Frith, the old woman was happy to explain.
‘No one really disobeys Mistress Julanna, they just don’t quite obey her. They know that the new mistress will never notice if they follow the old ways, because she spends her time doting on her babe. Soon, the wishes of Mistress Julanna will become the old ways practised by Mistress Livinia, and she will accept that it has always been so.’
Frith brushed away an errant tear, for Lady Livinia had been her charge from birth. Gallia patted the old servant’s shoulder and wondered anew just how free the great ones of the world really were, for most were at the mercy of their servants and their own indolence.
Gallia was much changed since the Night of the Innocents, as those bloody hours had come to be called. The wound in her scalp had required some shaving of her head to allow for treatment of the wound, and the bald patch could be seen right on the crown of her head. Eventually, Gallia decided to break with Celtic and Roman custom. Early one morning, when her maidservant arrived in the bedchamber to dress her hair and hide her unsightly stitches, Gallia informed the young girl of her decision.
‘Cut it off ! ’
‘What, my lady?’ the maidservant gasped.
‘My hair! Shear it off so it is no longer than my little finger.’
‘But I can’t do that, my lady.’ The young girl looked horrified. ‘Your father would thrash me black and blue.’
‘I doubt that, for my father is the kindest man alive,’ Gallia replied with inescapable logic. ‘Anyway, he isn’t here, so he can’t punish us.’
The maidservant was still unwilling to perform her task, so Gallia simply picked up the shears and began to cut off great swathes of black hair herself. But her efforts were so uneven and so unsightly, that the maidservant was forced to avert complete disaster by cutting Gallia’s mane and coaxing it backwards to disguise the unsightly locks that remained.
At first, every person in the villa stared incredulously at Gallia’s shorn head. Her long, black hair, with its blue lustre like fine grapes, had been her greatest beauty but, oddly, her pert little cap of curls, for that was how her hair gradually regrew, accentuated her fine throat and white breasts. Masters and servants followed her little form with their eyes as she danced through the villa, always in search of new diversions.
Of course, she should have returned to the bosom of her own family after the birth of Julanna’s child, but Gallia wasn’t ready to depart, and nor was Julanna ready to relinquish her steadfast yet unpredictable friend. Letters were penned between the two families and Gallia was permitted to remain for another few months at the Villa Poppinidii. However, with the arrival of the first chills of winter, Gallicus warned that his daughter must return to her home and resume the duties owed to her family and to her name.