I couldn’t answer. I shook my head, dumbly; and suddenly the tears stood in my eyes, spangling my vision so that all I could see of her seemed to shimmer and dance. She reached out then, gripping my wrist, and for the first time let her fingers wander down across the curving scar. She watched me steadily, lips still quirked into a smile. ‘A deer, Caius,’ she said. ‘The tenderest you can find.’
A lump had risen in my throat, so that I had difficulty in speaking. I said eventually, ‘Will you be all right, Mother? Will you promise?’
She let her eyes drift shut for a moment, opened them again. They searched my face, moving in puzzling little shifts and changes of direction; then she held out her arms. I embraced her, gently, till she pushed me away. She watched me again; her face seemed altered now, younger and less strained. She said, ‘I promise. When you get back it will be over, and I shall be sleeping. Tomorrow I shall want my venison. Go now, dear, you have a long way to ride. Go carefully.’
I stood looking down at her for a moment. It was as if her image was burned in some strange way on my brain; for I can see her still. Then I turned away, pushing aside the drapes that closed the room. I couldn’t trust myself to speak again.
I found Marcus was ahead of me. His room was empty; as I ran back to the atrium I heard the sound of hooves in the street. I changed hastily into a short riding tunic and high, stout boots, collected a bow and my sword and left the house, calling to Ursula as she hobbled by to look after my mother well. Outside, Marcus sat grinning broadly. He was leading my favourite mare, a big-boned grey from my uncle’s stud at Augusta, and a packhorse. At its heels skirmished a brace of Egyptian hounds, lean yellow creatures elegantly feathered on tails and ears. I mounted, clattering past the front of the house. Septimius, already cudgelling his reluctant staff into action, waved to me cheerfully; I returned the salute, setting off at a fast trot for the west gate and the Lusitania road.
The sun was still barely up. The air struck chill; but the haze in the sky promised a scorching day. We rode steadily, taking advantage of the coolness; by mid-morning we were well clear of Italica. We turned north from the road, crossing sweeping uplands to the wooded country that was our objective. My spirits had revived; so that when we stopped, in the shade of a massive outcrop of rock, and Marcus produced his inevitable skin of wine, I could laugh and joke with him as of old.
After the brief halt we hoisted the dogs across the fronts of our saddles, to conserve their energy. Marcus had trained them to lie like that; it was a trick he had picked up in the east. We rode on again, and by midday had entered the outskirts of the forest. The trees arched above us, spreading a leafy shade that was welcome after the torrid heat of the plains. We dropped to a walk, watching for game paths, engrossed in the delicate business of sighting and stalking our quarry.
The woods teemed with life. We saw several herds of the little dappled deer, but each time they took alarm before we could come within bowshot and Marcus refused to loose the dogs. It was early evening before we killed, in a little clearing deep in the forest. Marcus saw the herd first, their spotted coats blending perfectly with the moving patterns of leaves and sunlight. He raised a hand, warningly; but the next moment the lead buck had lifted his head and snorted, and was leaping off through the trees. I rode hard across his line, yelling to the dogs; for the Egyptian hound hunts by sight. Fortunately our pair knew their business. They were away in a flash, running silently, heads low. We were about to follow them when a doe, separated from the rest, broke back blindly across our path. There was no real time to aim; I loosed at her hardly expecting my shaft to strike home. The arrow took her high on the shoulder, piercing her to the heart so that she fell with scarcely a kick. I was delighted with the shot; Marcus dismounted and ran to her, knife ready to slit her throat. Despite all my training, I had never quite brought myself to do such a thing. In the meantime the dogs had brought a fine young buck to bay. We hurried to them, guided by their high-pitched yaps and squeals. A second shaft despatched the frightened creature cleanly; Marcus bled and butchered it on the spot, wrapping the best cuts of meat first in fresh leaves, then in the hide. We returned to the clearing with the excited dogs, and built a fire; we had carried live coals all day, in a plugged earthenware tube.
The little glade was golden now with sunlight, the beams reaching mistily between the trunks of trees. I lay back on a sloping bank of grass, my shoulders resting against the mossy roots of an oak. As the smell of roasting meat mingled with the scent of the fire my mouth began to water uncontrollably. I realised I was ravenous.
Then, quite suddenly, an inexplicable thing happened. Nothing changed, in the clearing; but it seemed a chilling wind reached me across the grass. Leaves rustled on the massive branches above my head; it was as if a voice wailed, wordless and in pain. So strong was the illusion that I sat up, appalled. Marcus, squatting, turning a hunk of meat above the fire, looked round startled. ‘Sergius,’ he said, ‘what the Devil's the matter?’
I couldn't answer. The sun still shone; but silvered now, and lacking warmth. Above me the trees seemed suddenly disfigured and monstrous, thrusting vast claws at the sky. The wind came again, moaned away over the forest-tops like a thing lost and afraid, passed into distance, and was gone.
I groaned aloud, and ran for my horse. ‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘what fools we’ve been. Oh, fools ...’ I heard him shout behind me. I ignored him. I was already riding, driving my heels at the creature's sides, beating its neck with my fist. Branches swooped at me, lashing my face; I ducked beneath them, flinging them aside with my free hand. The sun, low now, dazzled me, flashing between the trunks and leaves; I gave the animal its head, urging it blindly south towards Italica.
How I escaped breaking my neck in that wild ride I shall never know. The blood pounded in my ears, deafening me to reason; it seemed my fear communicated itself to my mount, lending it wings. I was clear of the forest before Marcus overtook me; I would undoubtedly have killed the horse had he not ridden alongside, lunged dangerously to grasp the rein. The animal bucked and plunged, nearly throwing me, slowed at last to stand trembling and tossing its head.
Marcus was furious, quite justifiably, having lost the meal he had cooked so patiently and risked his life into the bargain, in the crazy charge through the woods. ‘What the Hell’s got into you?’ he shouted. ‘Have you gone completely off your head?’ I answered, panting, that something was terribly wrong, that I must return to Italica at once. He tried to talk sense into me, of course, calling me every sort of bloody fool; but I must have looked so queer that finally he gave up arguing. He whistled to the dogs and let me go, trotting grimly a yard or so behind.
We made what speed we could, while the sun dropped to the horizon, the long shadows raced forward across the plain. The ride, that in the morning had passed so pleasantly, now seemed endless. The horses were tired, of course, after the long day's work; it was full night before we struck the Lusitania road, turned east towards Italica. When the town walls finally came into sight I could no longer restrain myself. I forced my mount to a canter, clattered through the gateway and along the street. Passers-by cursed me, tumbling out of the way; I ignored them, reining to a violent halt outside my home. The horse was lathered; I flung myself from the saddle, let the animal run free. I heard Marcus swear as he rode after it. Shops and porch were in darkness, but beyond a wavering reflection told me the house glowed with light. I ran for the servants’ door.
As many lamps as we possessed burned in the atrium and the rooms leading from it; beyond, in the peristyle, torches cast a flickering orange glare. There was a scurrying of feet, voices calling; and closer at hand, rising and falling monotonously, the high-pitched noise of weeping.
I nearly collided with Ursula. I grabbed for her arm; but she backed off at sight of me, hands clapped to her throat. I ran then for my mother’s room; behind me, the sobbing redoubled.
There were more lamps, burning in niches to either side of the door. As I reached it a woman backed through, arms full of a great bundle of linen. She turned, stricken, at the sound of my footsteps; and the lamplight shone full on her burden. The whole mass gleamed, wet and terrible; and stank, and was red.
They had drawn a cover over her, across that fearsome bed. Her eyes were closed; and it seemed the lines and tiredness had been smoothed from her face, so that as she had promised she was merely sleeping. I lifted her in my arms. She was warm; her head rested heavily against me. I stroked her hair, calling to her. It seemed absurd; it seemed her spirit, hovering so close, must hear, force its way back into the flesh. I called again and again, till the little room rang with the noise; and her head fell back, showed me beneath the lowered lashes the glinting lines of white. I knew then, whatever summoned me in the wood, her soul had never found her western land. It drowned in the blood the poor clay dropped, died unwanted and alone.
Someone finally dragged me away from her. I don’t know who. Marcus, probably; nobody else would have dared touch me. Of what happened in the dreadful hours that followed I have no clear recollection. For me, the house was haunted. Doors swung with no hand to guide them, drapes stirred to non-existent winds; while I called Calgaca, over and again, hoarsely, beating my fists bloody on the ground. I heard the mumbling priests at her door, the high-toned useless prayers, the shrill wailing of the housefolk. In time the place was quiet. I rose from where I had flung myself across my bed and went to find my father.
Lights were burning in his study. I opened the door unannounced, closed it behind me. He sat at his desk, reading. Reading, from a book, while my mother lay still warm. He looked up as I entered, closed the thing gently and laid it to one side. He began to speak, but I cut him short.
Again I have no real memory of what I said. It seems the word ‘murderer’ passed my lips; if it did, it was without my volition or control. His reaction was swift. I was leaning over him, shouting; he half rose, caught me a blow across the face that knocked me off balance. I sprawled against the wall, straightened slowly feeling the burning in my cheek and jaw.
He too was on his feet, but his eyes weren’t on my face. I looked down, following the direction of his glance. My dagger, the little dagger I always carried, was in my hand. I stared at it, bemused; to this day, I swear, I have no recollection of drawing it. I suppose I could have killed him, in that same mad flush, and brought away scarcely a memory.
There was a long silence; then he said quietly, ‘I see ….’ He seated himself again, slowly, spread his palms flat on the desk-top; and it was as if we acted out some grim and fabulous play, all the lines learned wearily by heart. His words fell measured and steady, like little stones; before his lips had shaped them I knew what they would be.
‘Caius,’ he said, ‘many years ago I instructed my servant to speak to you. It was also my wish that he train you, in swordplay and the general use of weapons. My hope was that it might make a man of you, but it seems the experiment has failed.
‘For too long now you have deliberately flouted my wishes. I let you go your own way, hoping that one day you would come to your senses. In that, too, I have been disappointed. Now you have shown me steel, under my own roof. You have gone too far.’
He drew a heavy breath before continuing; and already the fear was on me. Fear, and a burning self-contempt. The desolation I felt was not for Calgaca but myself; so soon had selfishness overcome my grief.
‘You will leave this house,’ said my father. ‘And your instructor, who has taught you some things too well, can go with you. You will pack whatever you wish to take at once; I want you to be gone by dawn. If you remain, I shall take steps to secure your removal. This is no longer your home.’
The shock, coming so soon on the greater shock of Calgaca’s death, almost unmanned me; a part of me wanted to fling myself at his feet, grovel and beg forgiveness. Yet so swift is thought that I understood in the same instant the uselessness of such a course. With the realisation came a cold, swimming rage. It dictated that I should use the weapon I had drawn, add my father’s blood as a sacrifice to the blood already spilled. I think he saw that; none the less, he droned on.
‘I shall not disinherit you,’ he said. ‘If and when you acquire maturity, and some sense of duty, you may return and ask my pardon; until then, I don’t want to set eyes on you. I shall give you no money; you must be prepared to make your own way in the world. However, you may if you wish take a horse from the stables; I shall expect you eventually to return its price to me. Where you go is entirely your concern; but I will if you choose give you a letter to my brother in Rome. I shall not recommend you to him; he must form his own impression as to your usefulness. And may God help you. Now you can go. And send Marcus in to me, please.’
He looked away at that, picked up the book and started to read. He never glanced up again; and I turned and left, without a word.
Marcus was up, sitting brooding over a jug of wine. He glanced at me as I entered; then rose, silently, at the expression on my face. I told him, flatly, what had happened. I think he was as shaken as I was; when I had finished he stood for a moment, pursing his lips and frowning, before reaching silently to grip my arm.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Wait for me here. I shan’t be long.’ He strode out, quickly. I heard his feet on the flags of the atrium, far-off the click of my father’s door. Then there was quiet.
I sat listlessly, watching the lamp flames bob and dip. In time, he returned. He didn’t speak to me; just crossed to the workbench and began quietly stowing the tools, setting chisels, hammers and saws neatly in their racks. When he had done, and the wood shavings were swept into a pile, he lifted down two heavy saddle panniers from the wall. He moved round the room, quickly and efficiently, selecting weapons and clothes, stowing them with the ease born of long practice. I watched him uncomprehendingly for a time before I spoke. When I did open my mouth my own voice was a shock to me. ‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘we must go to Rome.’