“I hear reports, Julius Classicianus,” he began ponderously, “that you have shown respect for this island and its people, where others have not.” He paused carefully, before going on. “As you will know, when the late divine Emperor Claudius came to Britannia, I made him, of my own will, a gift of the best part of my estates – those fine lands you have inspected today. They are noble estates and they have belonged to my family since a time before even Rome was great.”
He paused again. “Since that time however,” he went on, with a trace of anger in his voice, “I have seen my ancestral lands neglected, almost ruined by your officials, who visit them only once or twice a year. I have seen ditches fill up, fences down, farmsteads in disrepair, sheep untended. It’s a loss to your emperor and a scandal to me.” His voice rose in protest: “I did not give Claudius my lands to see them laid waste!” He stopped, apparently to calm down. “In this last year you have sent an official who has begun to restore them. I say begun: there are years of work to do still. But I hope, Classicianus, that this means the policy of your office will be more consistent and that you are not here to remove your official as soon as minor improvements are made, and allow my ancestral estates to fall to pieces yet again.”
He bowed stiffly.
Of his plans for Maeve he had given no hint; he had not even mentioned Porteus by name. He had cleverly calculated that when the young Roman had been wished on the procurator he had probably been added to a staff that was already complete, and that Classicianus had no special position for him anyway.
The next day, Porteus brought up the subject closest to his heart. He gave Classicianus a full account of what had passed with Suetonius – which the procurator already knew. Then he burst out: “You see what I can do, Classicianus. I am transforming this backwater. Take me on to your staff. Let me help you in larger areas on the island. Take me to Londinium and give me back my honour!”
Classicianus listened kindly, but when Porteus had finished, he only shook his head.
“No, young Porteus. You are too hasty – just as, if I may say so, you were with Suetonius.”
“But you yourself issued an adverse report on him!” Porteus burst out.
Classicianus frowned.
“Yes,” he replied sharply. “And I am the procurator whereas you are here only on sufferance.”
Porteus blushed.
“I see what you have done,” Classicianus went on more gently. “Your work here is excellent. But we must not allow the natives to think that we do not take proper care of the lands entrusted to us. You must continue here for two or three years at least. Your reward will come in time.”
Two or three years! To Porteus it seemed a lifetime. In two or three years would Lydia still be there? He knew very well that she would not.
Seeing his dismay, Classicianus added: “We must make a commitment to our work, young man. I myself may spend many years on this island. Perhaps I shall even die here. And I need men I can trust, not fly-by-nights. You’ll get no favourable report, no honour from me if you don’t stick to it here.”
“I wanted to go to Rome,” Porteus sighed.
“Everyone in the empire wants to go to Rome,” the procurator smiled. “But with the present political situation,” he added seriously, “it’s a dangerous place. You’re safer here, if you take my advice.” And he indicated that their interview was at an end.
He left the next day, pausing as he turned on to the road to say: “While you’re here, young man, build yourself a decent house.” Then the little entourage cantered away into the distance.
As Porteus watched them, there were tears in his eyes.
It was two days later that Maeve arrived at Sorviodunum. She was riding a fine chestnut mare; but as she drew close, it was not only the mare that caught Porteus’s attention but a second horse that the girl was leading. It was a magnificent grey stallion, heavy-set, but as good an animal as he had seen on the island. He could not take his eyes off it.
As he stared, he heard the girl laughing.
“Seen a ghost?” she cried.
“The grey,” he replied. “It’s splendid.”
“My father bought it,” she replied. “He told me to ask if you’d like to ride it today.” She smiled mischievously. “If you can, that is!”
He accepted the challenge at once. But even as he swung up into the saddle, she dropped the leading rein and, turning her own horse’s head, she cried: “He’s not as fast as my mare!” and began to race up the path towards the high ground, her red hair streaming behind her.
Porteus laughed. Very well, if the girl wanted a race she could have one, he thought. He gave her one hundred paces start and then set after her.
To his surprise, he found that she was still pulling away from him. The big grey, strong as he was, was carrying a new rider and the track was steep; the fleet chestnut mare ahead, despite the fact that the girl was riding side saddle, was faster.
“She looks like the goddess Epona,” he murmured.
Indeed, with her long, flying hair, the girl did resemble the horse goddess, beloved by both Celts and Romans, and often depicted as a wild woman riding side saddle on a prancing steed.
“She’s wedded to her horse,” he thought admiringly.
From ahead, above the sound of the horses’ hoofs, he could hear her taunting laughter. She gained the top of the hill well ahead of him, circled the dune, and rode swiftly north west across the high ground.
On the plateau, he found that his stallion could gain on her; it was superbly strong. But they had still covered half the distance to the ruined henge before he drew level.
They slowed to a canter, then a walk. Both horses and riders were panting.
“You took your time, Roman,” she cried. “But I slowed up to let you catch me.”
He began to protest, then saw that the girl was laughing at him. Her eyes were sparkling. The thin linen shirt she was wearing had been half pulled off, either by accident or design; her shoulder was bare and he could see the top of one of her breasts. She was indeed a Celtic beauty.
As she stared at him, Maeve noticed the little beads of sweat running down into the soft hairs of his chest, and saw the hard excitement in his eyes. For a moment, she saw, he began instinctively to lean across to kiss her then, remembering that she was the daughter of the local chief, he corrected himself. She laughed.
“You Romans say there are four elements,” she said. “Earth, water, air and fire. What are Romans?. Earth?”
“Probably,” he laughed in turn. “And what are you?”
“I am fire, Roman.” She pushed her horse into a rapid canter. “All fire!”
They rode together over the high ground back towards the dune. He was beginning to get the feel of the grey now, to sense the animal’s rhythm. When they reached Sorviodunum again, he dismounted.
“I should like to ride the grey again,” he said.
“You can’t,” she told him gaily.
“Why not?”
“My father bought it to give to my bridegroom. I just let you ride it once.”
For a second he paused.
“And who’s your bridegroom to be?” he asked evenly.
“Who knows?” she replied with a laugh. “Whoever my father chooses.” She turned her horse’s head. “So long as he can ride,” she cried. She caught the grey’s leading rein and cantered away, while Porteus stared after her thoughtfully.
That night was restless. Half awake, half asleep, he lay on his hard mattress and turned over the day’s events in his mind. He thought of Lydia. Which of the four elements was she? She was cool like water, it seemed to him: refreshing, sensuous. And once again he remembered her perfect olive skin. But just before he fell asleep, a vision of flaming red hair rose before him, and the sound of a voice being carried by the breeze: “I am fire, Roman. All fire.”
Two days later a letter arrived from Lydia. It was very short.
My dearest Caius,
I am betrothed to Marcus and by the time this letter reaches you, we shall be married. I think this is for the best, and hope you will agree. I often think of you, and Marcus speaks of you warmly. Perhaps we shall all meet again one day.
Your loving Lydia.
It was the final blow. Yet, as he read the letter with tears in his eyes, he could not blame Lydia, and after a few minutes raging at the treachery of his friend, he had to admit that he had nothing really with which to reproach even Marcus. He had known in his heart that Graccus would never allow him to marry his daughter now, and if he could not have her, it might as well be Marcus, who was a noble fellow, as anyone else. Sadly he sat down and wrote to congratulate them both, adding a separate note to Marcus.
My dear friend,
I know Graccus would never have let me marry Lydia now – so I’m glad that the girl I love has been lucky enough to find one whom I know to be the best of fellows. Speak well of me in Rome.
Caius Porteus.
In the hope that it would drive Lydia out of his thoughts, he worked harder than ever on the estate. And to his own surprise, he began to take pleasure in the work. The land was good; often at the end of a day’s work on the long summer evenings, he would ride slowly over the place, looking at all he had done and at these times it almost seemed to him that the ancient lands of Sarum were his own.
Once or twice on these rides, he had encountered Maeve, and in the evening the two of them had walked their horses quietly over the ridges. He noticed that she had become a little awkward in his presence of late, and there was no repetition of the wild ride they had taken with the grey.
At the edge of Tosutigus’s valley one evening the two of them gazed over the waving fields that seemed almost crimson in the light of the evening sun, and she said softly:
“I think you like this land, Caius Porteus.”
He nodded because at that moment it seemed to be true.
“It’s good land,” she said simply. “Worth having.” And she rode quietly away.
Her message was clear; but if there had been any doubt in his mind, it was resolved shortly before the harvest when Tosutigus asked him to visit his farm one afternoon.
This time the chief was not wearing a toga, but the simple
paenulla
of the people. He had laid on no special entertainment. When Porteus arrived, the little enclosure at the farmstead was bustling with people: he passed the squat form of Balba, smelling as acrid as ever, sorting bales of newly woven cloth in the door of one of the huts. The men, helped by their women, were preparing the linings of the big circular grain pits for the approaching harvest. It was in every respect a busy Celtic farm.
Tosutigus greeted him, then motioned him to follow as he led the way to a small thatched house at the side of the enclosure and ushered him in quickly, closing the door behind him.
It was the family shrine. Inside it was dark: the only light coming from a small, high, square open window in the far wall, under the thatch eaves; but as his eyes grew accustomed, Porteus could make out the contents well enough. Opposite him, some twenty feet away, stood a small stone altar, and on it was a wooden figure whom he recognised by its attributes as Nodens the cloudmaker, a Celtic god whom the Romans had easily recognised as being one and the same as their own god Mars. Beside the image of Nodens stood a battered but carefully polished helmet with huge horns. He bowed his head respectfully, to show proper reverence for the family’s gods.
“Nodens protects our family,” Tosutigus stated briefly.
“Each Roman family has its
lares
and
penates
,” Porteus answered. “But few families have more revered objects than these,” he indicated the helmet.
“My grandfather’s. He was a great soldier,” the chief replied. “But there is more than this that I wish to show you, Roman.”
To the side of the shrine, Porteus saw that there were two large heavy wooden chests, bound together by thick bands of iron. Tosutigus now moved to the first of these; bending down slowly, he reverently opened the lid and took from it a long, iron sword of the ancient Celtic type, pitted with rust generations ago, but obviously now carefully preserved.
“This is the great sword of my ancestor, Coolin the Warrior,” the Celt said. Porteus nodded gravely. “His bride was Alana, last of the ancient house of Krona, who built the stone temple.” Tosutigus closed the lid of the box heavily. He turned to face Porteus.
“We are not senators in Rome,” he said slowly – and Porteus realised that he must know about Graccus – “but we are as ancient as any family on this island, and not without honour.”
He moved to the other chest. Slowly he opened the lid, and to his amazement Porteus saw that it was full of coins – not bronze sesterces, but the gold
aureus
and silver
denarius
. It was full to the brim. With calm deliberation Tosutigus pushed his hand down into the chest until the coins reached his armpit. Then he drew it out again. The chest, Porteus calculated, must contain a considerable fortune – the untaxed income from the estate over twenty years. The chief closed the chest without a word.