Fireball (9 page)

“So we're stuck?” Brad nodded. “But what do we
do
? We can't just stay on as permanent guests of Quintus Cornelius surely.”

“It's not so bad here.” Brad stretched. “Plenty of activities. And Quintus Cornelius wants us to talk with his bishop—the Bishop of London. He's at some conference in Rome, or rather on his way back from it. He's due in London—Londinium, that is—quite soon.”

“And we're to tell
him
we come from a parallel world? Are you sure he won't decide to have us burned as witches, or warlocks, or whatever?”

“That's another way these Christians are different from ours. They've never got around to burning people. Quintus Cornelius doesn't think there'll be any theological hassle anyway. Multiple worlds isn't like multiple gods.”

There was a sound of footsteps approaching, light on the tiled floor. Brad got to his feet, and Simon followed suit.

As he had guessed from the footsteps, it was a girl who came towards them. She was in her early teens and wore a tunic of what looked like white silk, the top gathered in folds on her shoulders and secured with a gold brooch. She had a thin gold chain round her waist and gold-painted sandals.

Brad spoke to her in Latin too fast for Simon to follow, and she answered him, smiling. She was black-haired, grey-eyed, and when she smiled, Simon realized how pretty she was. He also understood why Brad had been so quick to respond to the sound of her footsteps and why he seemed so content about being here. Brad turned to him.

“Simon, this is Lavinia—Quintus Cornelius's granddaughter.”

T
HE MORE SIMON SAW OF
Quintus Cornelius, the more he liked him. He was a Christian but also, Simon learned, a proud Roman. His family, the Cornelians, was very ancient, with a pedigree going back two thousand years to the days of the Republic; he showed Simon ornaments, in a glass case, that had been worn by one of his early ancestors in a Roman triumph. He was proud, too, of the family's long history in the province of Britannia; they had lived here for nearly a thousand years, since another ancestor had come as governor. It was he who had been converted to
Christianity and had to resign from office and give up senatorial rank. His descendants had stayed on in Britain after him, quietly and comfortably farming their lands. Nine hundred years seemed more like ninety, the way he spoke of it.

His pride was simple and impersonal, centred on the past rather than the present. But there was one exception to that—his granddaughter, Lavinia. He had had one son, who had died of plague three years after Lavinia's mother died in childbirth. Lavinia had been more his child than his grandchild. Every look he gave her showed how besotted with her he was.

Simon could understand why.
Pretty
was an altogether inadequate term to describe her. The attractiveness of her features—the small, straight nose and big grey eyes, the thick black hair which always seemed to carry lights in it, the pale skin blooming to rose—was much less important than their animation. She smiled easily and devastatingly. And yet in repose her face had a distant look, as though she had sight of something far-off and wonderful, a dream landscape known only to her.

The boys intrigued her, but Simon was not sure she believed the account of their world and the
crossing through into this one. She was continuously thinking up questions about the place they had come from and greeted the answers with incredulous laughter. A carriage, which moved along without a horse, on wheels filled with air, at six times the speed of a four-horse chariot? Pictures which travelled invisibly through the air, for thousands of miles, and then came to life again on the wall? But it was nice hearing her laugh.

Less nice, though, to have to sit in silence while Brad rattled on in what seemed like perfect Latin. Most of the time Simon could get only the drift of what was being said. But he had a bright idea about that. He explained how frustrating it was, and she agreed to give him lessons in the language. It was Brad's turn to look fed up. He attempted to join in but Lavinia would have none of it; one teacher was better than two. Simon fervently agreed.

The other direction in which he scored was riding. Lavinia, as a Roman lady, did not ride herself, but she came out to the paddock at the far end of the garden to watch the boys. Brad had been learning with the help of a groom and was coming on well for a beginner. Simon, though, had the advantage of
several years at a riding school, and even the unpleasant discovery that the stirrup was something this world had not got round to developing did not hold him back for long. He was soon exercising a fairly spirited horse while Brad plodded round on a placid hack. Lavinia was impressed and said so.

•  •  •

Simon had been at the villa for ten days when the Bishop visited them. He arrived on a blustery morning, with grey clouds trailing occasional stinging showers along the valley, without prior notice. The boys were told by the chief steward, Mandarus, to attend Quintus Cornelius and Bishop Stephanus in the
tablinum.

“Tidy yourselves up,” Mandarus said. He was a large calm, observant man, as much a friend to Quintus Cornelius as a servant. “It's a great honour, having a visit from His Holiness.”

The
tablinum
opened out of the
impluvium
and was a sort of combined study and library. It was Quintus Cornelius's sanctum, and Simon had not been there before. The two men were talking together, side by side at the table, when the boys were shown in and stood respectfully by the door. The Bishop held his
hand out, and Brad and Simon did as Mandarus had instructed them and went forward to kneel and kiss the ring with the big carbuncle stone. The other hand moved above their heads in blessing.

The Bishop was nothing like Simon's expectation. He had imagined someone very old—older than Quintus Cornelius probably—venerable and . . . holy-looking. Bishop Stephanus had a face that was deeply lined, but Simon thought he was probably no more than about forty; he had a curly chestnut beard without a fleck of white, and the hand was not an old hand. His movements and gestures were vigorous, and the gaze he directed on them when they stood up was keen. It was the look of someone used to command.

His voice was deep and seemed harsh, but after a few minutes Simon did not notice the harshness. He was too preoccupied with understanding and answering the fusillade of questions the Bishop proceeded to put to them both. He thought of asking him to slow down a bit, but didn't have the nerve.

He gradually worked out that the Bishop was testing the possibility that Quintus Cornelius might have been taken in by a couple of plausible young
rogues. His rapid alternation of questions from one to the other and back was his way of finding out if they had combined to make up their story. He was banking on the possibility that if they had, one of them would get confused and give the game away. And he would have been right, Simon thought, as the interrogation finally and abruptly came to an end and he was able to relax into an exhausted silence.

The silence in turn seemed to last a long time. The Bishop ended it by turning to Quintus Cornelius.

“This is indeed interesting, Quintus. You were right to bring it to my attention.”

He looked at the boys again. His face had no particular expression, but it made Simon feel weird. He felt as though if the Bishop had said, “Lie down—I want a footstool,” he would have done so and even been glad to do it. It was the eyes, he thought. He wanted to look away, but could not.

“You tell a strange story,” the Bishop said. “Of a world filled with wonders almost beyond imagining. Huge ships that cross the seas with neither sails nor oars. Others that ride the air like eagles, but big enough to carry hundreds of men and women. Or to carry death for hundreds of thousands.”

His hand moved, making the sign of the cross.

“A world, too, in which there is a bishop in Rome but no emperor. And yet in which the Church is divided, flock against flock, brother against brother. Such stories are not easy to believe. They sound like tales a madman might utter in his ravings. But there is this.”

He took something from the pocket of his robe and held it up. Brad's watch.

“The tales could be fantasies, but this is real. In this world there are no craftsmen who could forge such a thing, could make such a glass and seal it to metal, and could cause these strange shapes to flicker behind the glass. So it seems you are neither mad nor impostors. You tell me it is a kind of clock, and that, too, is a confirmation. Impostors would not have said anything so ridiculous.”

He paused. “You come, you say, from a world that has the same lands and seas as this, lives in the same instant of time, the same space, and yet is wholly different. That is a mystery, but the centre of our faith is a mystery, too—the mystery of God in man. And it is not for us to set bounds to Gods infinite creation. He who made one world could make two—a
million if He chose. But there is another question, to do with your presence here. Do you come on God's mission, or the devil's?”

Brad said quickly: “We are Christians, too, Your Holiness.”

“Christians you say, but from a world in which the Body of Christ, His Holy Church, is torn asunder. It could as well be the devil's kingdom.”

Simon felt cold. He remembered Brad's assurance that the Christians here were gentle, peaceful people, but that had been before they met the Bishop.

The Bishop put a hand to his beard.

“It was a decree of the emperor Julian that free men should shave their faces, but that slaves might not. He did not name Christians slaves, but I have chosen that title. We may worship our Lord in private, but not proclaim Him in public. That is slavery. We may walk the streets, but not go in procession to celebrate our faith. That is slavery. And we have grown used to our fetters, which is the worst slavery of all.”

He stared at the boys and then, disconcertingly, smiled, but the smile was not reassuring.

“That which can be used for good is counted good. At last God has sent a sign! A miracle brought you here, and God's wonders are not worked for nothing. Nor must they be wasted. This generation is blessed, but only if it seizes its blessing and uses it.”

The Bishop brought his hands together with a smack. It was an unexpected gesture following the mystical harangue, and made Simon realize the Bishop might be a practical man as well as a visionary. He wondered why that made him even more uneasy.

“Hold yourselves ready. There must be both prayer and preparation. But I would be worse than the man who buried his talent in the ground if I failed to use God's miracle in the service of His Church.”

•  •  •

After the Bishop had gone, Simon did his best to forget him. The lessons with Lavinia continued; it was very agreeable to sit with her in the cool of the
impluvium
or stroll along the garden paths while she told him Latin words and phrases and corrected his mistakes. Being chided for mistakes was pleasant,
too, the way she did it. Brad made an attempt to join the class, but Lavinia told him he spoke Latin well enough already. He looked less than delighted with the tribute and suggested the lesson had gone on long enough anyway—couldn't they go and do something outdoors?

Lavinia said: “You go, Bradus. Simonus still has a lot to learn.”

Simon said: “Yes, Bradus, you go.” He said to Lavinia: “I'm sorry to be so stupid.”

“You must think harder.”

She smiled, though. Simon said earnestly: “I will.”

Brad looked disgusted and walked away, but not far. He moved pieces on something like a chessboard. It wasn't chess but
Latrunculi
: a war game in which you had three sorts of pieces—pawns, rangers, and guards—to attack your opponent's base and protect your own. It completely baffled Simon, but Brad had mastered the rules and played games against Quintus Cornelius in the evenings. At the moment, Simon thought, his heart was not in it.

Lavinia's scolding of Simon's inability to remember simple expressions in Latin balanced neatly with
her admiration of his skill on horseback. Brad cast around for something which might even the score and came up with log wrestling.

It was called that and had perhaps originally involved wrestling on an actual log, but in its present form a plank about two feet across was used. It required a combination of wrestling and balancing skills and was not as easy as it seemed.

The villa had its own bathhouse, heated by a subterranean furnace which in the cold months also supplied under-floor central heating to warm the villa. The bathhouse stood adjacent to the villa, and next to it was the
palaestra,
the exercise yard. Simon and Brad wrestled there, on planks fixed a few feet off the ground.

At the beginning Simon won fairly consistently, through superior weight. But Brad persisted and gradually developed a skill which, coupled with his greater agility, made the contests more equal. They began to take turns in toppling or being toppled into the dust, to applause from Lavinia.

Simon began to get bored with this and was pleased when Brad suggested one morning that instead of going to the
palaestra,
they should stroll
down to the river. It was a grey day, but warm, and despite the lack of sunshine, bees hovered over the roses as they made their way through the paths and levels of the formal garden. The buzz of bees was always to be heard: with honey the only sweetener, they formed a vital part of life at the villa. They went on through the kitchen garden, where servants worked under the bidding of the head gardener, and down to the river.

It was about a dozen feet across, fast-flowing and fairly deep. On the far side, an artificial grove provided a background to a lawn with a summerhouse. There were two bridges. One was broad and sturdy and had handrails; an older construction was much narrower, and if it had ever had handrails, they had gone, perhaps to be used in building the other. Part of the bridge itself was missing, too; it was several feet wide at either end but shrank to not much more than a foot in the centre.