‘In the square, I think. There’s some men.’
‘Get them in here. I want a personal escort.’ I wrote again. ‘Then take this on to the Curiale. Don’t let yourself be seen. Jump to it, man!’
Corinium, and most of the Province, went wild. Bonfires burned on watchtowers and in the streets; a service of thanksgiving was attended by half the town; for nights afterwards nobody thought of sleep. In the middle of the uproar another rider arrived, from Augusta. His appearance went unnoticed; that triumph was my own.
I cracked the great seals on the letter, held it to the light.
My impetuous young friend,
he had written.
I hear nothing but good of your administration. Can it be that you have matured at last? If so, then all the Gods be praised . . . .
Two days ago I had the fortune finally to bring King Radagais to a stand. Twelve thousand of his followers are now enrolled in the armies of Rome. His power is broken, and Radagais himself is dead. The place of the encounter is called in your tongue, Faesulae . . . .
The Magister Militum Alaric and his followers I have ordered to Epirus, where they will wait my pleasure. I cannot as yet release the forces of Britannia. The tide is stemmed, not turned; the final battle has yet to be won. Look to your walls, pray to your Gods; but take heart. . . .
There followed the signature of Stilicho, Magister Militum and Guardian of the Two Empires.
There is in Britannia a recurring strength. Rape her, burn her, fight over her as you will; and in the spring her meadows will blossom, her trees spread their new canopy of green.
Crearwy was planting herbs round the little nymphaeum. She called it her Grey Garden; all the shrubs she set had feathery, silvery leaves. She was putting in a lot of work on the grounds; for weeks I never seemed to see her without a trowel or some other such implement in her hand. She liked nothing better than to slop about barefooted, robe tucked up indecorously round her calves, a battered straw hat on her head. She looked fitter now and brown, the dark marks gone from beneath her eyes. The life of the villa flourished. Nessa and Melinda had taken up hunting with the trident. Sometimes I went with them for a day’s sport. They were nimble riders; they managed their shaggy ponies adroitly, jinking with the swerving of the hares. I found I was badly out of practice. In time some of my skill returned, but their bag was invariably better than mine. It was a source of recurring satisfaction to them. Nessa’s prowess served to heighten her military ambition. She wanted to learn the use of the sword, but in that alone I demurred.
‘Please, Sergius ...’
‘No.’
I had just arrived. I was unbuckling my swordbelt; she caught the scabbard, tried to draw the blade. I eased it from her, gently.
‘Why not?’
‘Girls don’t use swords.’
‘I don’t care!’
I shook my head. ‘It’s not for you, little maid.’
Crearwy was watching. She said, ‘You feel strongly about that too.’
I hefted the baldric, feeling the weight of the weapon, seeing the worn sheen of the leather. I said, ‘I’d like to hang it up for good. Know I was never going to draw it again.’
She said, ‘The time will come.’
‘Perhaps.’
Riconus was now an officer and a gentleman. I’d never seen fit to revoke his rank. It made no difference anyway; Mediolanum had never confirmed it, and he received no extra pay.
None the less it pleased him mightily. He had adopted a thoroughly military swagger, taken to wearing cloaks of a variety of gaudy hues. I took him to Censorina, first charging him, if he valued his new status, to watch his language. The evening was a considerable success. The triclinium was full of talk, the singing, lisping chatter of the West. Valerius translated for me, somewhat smugly. I sat dourly, determined, when the opportunity presented, to make an effort to learn my mother tongue. Afterwards Crearwy said, ‘You’ve been holding out on me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Riconus. He’s superb.’
‘I’m glad he behaved himself. Once he’s had a couple of drinks his vocabulary can get a bit strong.’
‘How do you know it didn’t?’
‘Don’t rub it in.’
She was working in the garden. She tipped her hat forward elegantly, sat back and regarded me down her nose. ‘As a matter of fact I’m considering falling in love with him. You wouldn’t mind sharing, would you?’
‘You’d better not.’
‘Why? What would you do about it?’
‘Demote him for a start.’
‘You wouldn’t dare!’
‘Try me and see!’
Stilicho’s victory, and the unexpected peace in which the Province basked, heartened Tammonius into releasing, in all, three hundred men; infantry and light cavalry for the most part, with a smart detachment of German lancers. These last I stationed in Glevum; the rest I disposed as equitably as possible through the towns under my immediate command.
A week later Crearwy visited me in Corinium. Valerius drove her in on a shopping expedition. With them was Pelgea, in a new white linen dress. It set off her dark, vivid good looks. Crearwy wore the formal long-sleeved robe and overcloak of a Roman matron; her hair was piled elaborately, and bound by a fillet. She brought a hamper of game, mostly procured by the children, and a flagon of the honey drink. Petronius, considerably impressed, waddled about stertorously, shuffling the room into tidiness. I smiled at Valerius. ‘You’re looking horribly domesticated. When can I have my staff officer back?’
He grinned, and took the Pictish girl’s hand. ‘Pelgea wouldn’t like it.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Are you . . .?’
‘Let’s say there’s an understanding.’
‘Congratulations. Petronius, do you think you could bring us in some wine?’ I turned to Crearwy. ‘How’s your husband?’ ‘Well,’ she said. ‘He’s coming home next week.’
It was like a sudden douche. I’d almost managed to forget the man’s existence. Later the others left; Valerius wanted to show his girl the town. I said, ‘Crearwy, what’s he doing?’
‘Who?’
‘Censorinus.’
She frowned. ‘I don’t know.’
‘He’s away more than he’s home,’
‘He always has been.’
‘I didn’t know he had interests in the north.’
She said non-committally, ‘He must have, mustn’t he?’ She looked round the room. She said, ‘So this is where all the work gets done.’
I rode with them to the gates, watched the carriage out of sight. Then I walked back. I made a good supper on what she had brought, but I was unexpectedly gloomy. The place just seemed too quiet. Later I picked up a book she’d sent me weeks before, part of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius. In all the troubles and alarms of the year I hadn’t yet had a chance to open it. I read well into the night.
The days lengthened. The weather was flawless, the mornings fresh and clear, the afternoons hot and still. Often I rode to the villa; for its master, after the briefest of appearances, had once more vanished into the unknown. As far as I was concerned, the longer he stayed away the better. Sometimes I took one of the big travelling carriages the family owned, drove Crearwy and the children out for the day. We visited Aquae Sulis and Glevum, where Nessa was most impressed by the German guards. Melinda had contracted a new ambition. She wanted to ride in a real racing chariot. I said, ‘I won’t promise, but I’ll see what I can do.’
Crearwy smiled. She said, ‘You’d spoil them completely if you had your way. Their father never paid that much attention to them.’
‘He was always too busy with his mine shares.’
She frowned, and laid her hand on my arm; but said no more.
In deep summer in Britannia the sun never really sets. You can see the glow from it all night long, travelling just under the rim of the world. Sometimes we’d take our supper to the nymphaeum; and Pelgea would bring the harp and sing. They were times invested with a special magic; the whole great building quiet, the night air warm, full of the churring of insects, rich with the scents of meadow grass and flowers. It was a remote world, self-contained and perfect; the rest of Britannia, and her troubles, seemed very far away.
We rode south finally to the temple. Everywhere the land looked fat and prosperous. The harvest was coming in; lines of peasants worked methodically across the fields, swinging their sickles into the grain. The little building when we reached it was unchanged. She gathered flowers and sea-thistles from the cliff, left them for the God. Later she said, ‘Sergius, are you happy?’
‘Yes.’
We were lying together, in the dark, listening to the sea. She moved against me. She said, ‘It’s been a wonderful year.’
‘I know.’
She punched me. ‘Come on, you funny old thing. What’s worrying you now? Cheer up!’
‘I’m cheerful enough.’
‘Then prove it!’
She rose before me in the morning. I heard her calling, and stirred. I stepped outside, yawning. The sun was barely up; sea and sky were both a steely grey. The sea was flat and still, empty to the horizon. She stood below me on the beach. I waved; and she shouted again.
‘Come and have a swim I’
‘In a minute.’
I walked down the little gully, jumped on to the shingle. She stood, back turned to me, and wriggled out of her tunic. She wore nothing underneath. She said, ‘Come on.’
‘Not now.’
She turned, and stared. ‘What on earth have you got that for?’
‘It’s all right. You bathe. I’ll watch.’
The unease wouldn’t let me be. I climbed to a rock, sat with the sword across my knees, watching round at the horizon and the sky. The waves lisped and creamed; nothing else moved.
She swam out a long way. Finally I stood and called. She waved, and turned. It seemed an age before she waded from the sea. Her hair, dark with water, trailed across her shoulders and breasts. Her neck and face were brown, her body white as marble. She stood for a moment, watching me; then she stooped, picked up a cloth and began to towel herself dry.
It’s a final memory.
The day and its brightness slide imperceptibly into night, night to the darkness of a dream. In the dream, faint at first then closer, the rumble of hooves. The noise jars in the ground.
She was gripping my shoulder. ‘Sergius . . . Sergius . . . wake up . . .’
I sat up. Fear was a cold hand round my heart. She thrust a tunic at me. I struggled into it, grabbed for my sword, felt the cold roughness of the hilt.
The rumbling stopped. The place was velvet black; outside I could hear the movement of horses, the creak and jingle of harness. A voice called, close and imperious.
I felt a sort of sick grief. We had missed our chance. We could have slipped away into the gully; now the riders had the place surrounded. The voice came again, harsh with authority; and something, some missile, rapped against the woodwork of the door. I said bitterly, ‘Barbarians . . .’
Her hand was on my arm. Her voice sounded shaky with relief. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No,
Scoti
…’ She called, excitedly.
‘Crearwy, don’t!’
‘It’s all right!’
I heard her fumble with the catch. The door swung back. I swore, and ran out behind her.
The moon, high and full, touched the headlands with silver. Beyond was the cold crawl of the sea. Between it and the temple, bunched against the brightness, were the riders. Some carried torches. Their glare competed redly with the moonlight. At sight of me the ring tightened menacingly, and a man rode to us across the grass, sat staring down. He was young, not above eighteen or nineteen years. His mane of hair gleamed darkly red. His chest was bare; on his breast hung a massive golden medallion. His face was hard, high-cheekboned and with long, slitted eyes. He wore trews of patterned plaid; a cloak of the same complex weave hung from his shoulders. He sat a massive, rawboned horse. Its reins and harness glinted, encrusted with more gold. The reins he held loosely, bunched in one sinewy hand. In his other hand was a heavy unsheathed sword.
He stared some time before he spoke. Crearwy answered him, quick and low. His ringing voice interrupted her. She listened; then she turned to me.
‘He is Ossa,’ she said. ‘His father was Niall of Hivernia. He is under a vow. The old King swore to conquer Britannia for his people. Now he is King in his place.’
I took a deep breath.
‘Tell the barbarian,’ I said, ‘this land is already claimed. And has been claimed, for the lives of many men. Its master is Honorius, Emperor of the West; and I am his servant. Tell him to take his warriors quickly and go, before the fate that came to his father falls on him.’
He barked a question. She answered. The syllables stumbled and rushed.
‘He says your sorcery is strong. It killed his father and two brothers, also many men. But he knows a stronger magic.’
‘There is no magic,’ I said patiently, ‘but the power of swords. This is our magic, and our strength.’ I pointed. ‘Tell him if he goes to the beach, and counts the grains of sand, by dawn he won’t have numbered the armies of the West. Tell him also we are tired; of destruction, and burning, and senseless death. Tell him if Roma reaches her arm to punish there will be empty huts in his land, black fields and wailing. Tell him this.’
He answered briefly, and spat.
She said, ‘He does not see these men.’
‘I don’t see the sun. But it surely will rise.’
She spoke, quietly. When she had finished he began to laugh. The noise spread. I stood with my hands clenched till it had finished. He leaned forward then, talking earnestly.
She turned to me unwillingly. ‘He says he sees the empty huts, but they are yours. The great huts with the golden roofs. He says there is a prophecy. The fox will watch from your windows, badgers roll in your courts.’ She swallowed. ‘He says you are under the protection of a Scotic princess, and will therefore not be harmed.’
‘Tell him,’ I flared, ‘I’m under the protection of Honorius Augustus and the strength of Rome. Tell him he’s a barbarian; and ten times a bloody fool!’
‘If I say that,’ she said calmly, ‘he’ll kill you.’ She spoke again, liquidly. Another shout of laughter; and he bowed to me, exaggeratedly, before wheeling his horse. Something showered at my feet; a handful of golden coins. I stepped forward, shaking with rage; and an arrow sang past my face, embedded itself quivering in the door-frame. I froze; next moment the riders had bunched together and turned, were pouring away across the grass. For a while their yells echoed back to the headland; then the night had swallowed them, and there was quiet.