A Bitter Chill (2 page)

“I’m quite sure, yes, Taurus. You know as well as I do how the Druids hate all of us Romans. We can’t have their plants in the mansio.”

“But the gods the Druids worship are scary.” He gazed at me unhappily. “They won’t like me burning mistletoe, and maybe they’ll put a curse on me. Or all of us. Like they did before.”

“Nonsense!” I smiled, trying not to show my irritation. “The old gods have no power these days. Our Roman gods are much stronger. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Aren’t you afraid of them, Mistress?”

“No, of course not. Not one bit.”

“Well, you’re not afraid of much.” Not strictly true, but I didn’t see any need to correct him. “Then if you’re not afraid of the Druids’ gods, why do you need to burn the mistletoe, instead of just throwing it away?”

It was a fair question, and to be truthful I couldn’t explain my reasons properly. I only knew for certain that the stuff had to be completely destroyed. Deep down, I was a little frightened of what the Druids stood for, having seen their power to whip up hatred and violence against us. But I wasn’t going to admit that to Taurus, especially as several of the other slaves were listening to our conversation.

“I want it burnt because it reminds me of bad times. The Druids tried to have us killed, and they didn’t succeed, so I’m not afraid of them or their gods. To prove it, I’ll burn the stuff myself, out here where everyone can see. Fetch me a brazier and some dry wood, will you?”

As Taurus disappeared, much relieved, I realised that the whole forecourt had gone quiet. All the slaves had stopped what they were doing and were watching me warily. I noticed Albia having a quiet word with Carina, and the two of them went into the bar-room. Gods, I thought, surely neither of
them
is worried by what I’m doing? I could have done with Albia’s support over this, but…well, too bad. I was going to have to manage without her support altogether before long. The prospect didn’t improve my temper.

I stood there by the bar-room door, smiling and outwardly relaxed, till Taurus came back with a brazier. He added some dry sticks to it, and a good fire sprang up. I marched across to where the mistletoe lay and picked it up. Holding it high in full view, I walked back and hurled it into the flames. It made a fine blaze, the waxy berries spitting and spurting. There was a small murmur, almost a sigh, from the watching slaves, and I sensed that they shared Taurus’ unease. Most were natives, born and bred in Brigantia, closer to Druid beliefs and legends than we Romans could ever be.

So I said, “Mistletoe is evil stuff, but now it’s gone, and we’re safe. I call on Jupiter and Juno and Diana and all the gods of Rome to protect us, and give us peace for Saturnalia.”

Soon there was nothing left but a few charred twigs, and ashes vanishing in the wind. But the holiday atmosphere had vanished too, and the slaves stood about in subdued groups, saying little. It was a pity to have lost the light-hearted mood, and I was wondering how we could recover it, when Albia and Carina appeared, carrying two large steaming jugs of hot wine and a tray of beakers.

“Now, we’ve got to get this finished before the snow starts,” Albia called out. “A drop of wine will keep us warm. Come on, everyone, help yourselves!”

There was a cheer, and the atmosphere lightened at once. Two of the horse-boys began a mock fight using holly branches for swords, and the rest of us stood cheering them on like spectators at a gladiator show. Before long everyone went back to the decorating, happy again.

“Well done, Albia,” I murmured as I sipped the spiced wine. “Thank you.”

“You look as if you need it,” she answered softly. “Don’t pay any attention to Taurus and the others. We couldn’t have those berries indoors. You were right to burn them.”

“I had no choice.” I still believe that. But sometimes I can’t help wondering.

Before long the front of the mansio was as green as a summer bower. I smiled and joked with everyone, and almost managed to shake off the uneasy feeling those bad memories had caused. As the light faded the outdoor slaves dispersed, and Albia led the house servants inside, to begin the decorating there. I stayed on the forecourt, alone under the big oak tree that gives our mansio its name. I was so lost in my thoughts that I hardly felt the cold, or noticed when the first snowflakes fell.

Then out of the dusk appeared a slight dark figure, carrying a hunting-bow and followed by a large dog that looked more wolf than hound. My spirits lifted as I recognised Hawk, my favourite native huntsman, and the best tracker I ever saw. Also a friend, and a good one.

“Hawk, you’re a welcome sight! Come in and have a drink. We’ve been collecting greenery, and I could do to warm up a little.”

“Thank you.” He gave his rare smile. “You owe me at least one large jug of beer. I’ve had a cold and empty afternoon trying to hunt in the woods, with all your people charging about like a herd of aurochs. They’ve scared away every animal and bird between here and Eburacum.”

“I can well believe it,” I smiled back, and we headed for the bar-room. “But everything stops for Saturnalia, you know.”

“So I see.” We hung up our cloaks and stood watching the girls decking the room out with the green boughs. Taurus’ holly-tree had been given pride of place in the middle, and looked magnificent.

I went to the bar and collected a tray with mugs, beer, and wine. “At least we only take three days off, not like in Rome where the whole city is on holiday for seven.” I led the way to my study.

“Very restrained, I’m sure. Is that due to the famous Roman self-discipline, or the even more famous Roman meanness?”

I laughed. “Probably both. You ought to know by now, we’re rather good at making a virtue out of a necessity.” I always enjoyed the banter I had with Hawk, and as usual, I talked to him in Latin, and he replied in British. We each speak one another’s languages well, but from long habit, we each used our own. It must sound strange to other people, but it suited us.

The study was comfortably warm, thanks to a big charcoal brazier, but as we entered, Hawk exclaimed, “By the Three Mothers, it’s too hot for me in here!” He pulled off his woollen over-tunic, and nodded his thanks as I poured his beer. “I thought you Romans were supposed to be tough. But the first little snowflake that falls, you heat your houses up like furnaces.”

“It’s horrible to be cold. And if we don’t have to use up all our energy shivering and stopping our teeth from chattering, we’ll have all the more strength to be tough when it counts.” I raised my beaker. “To your good health, Hawk. And to peace and happiness for all of us this winter.”

“To your good health.” He took a long drink of beer. “I’m a bit less sure about the rest of your wishes. That’s why I wanted a word.” His expression became serious. “I think you may be in for a spot of trouble.”

“As long as it doesn’t come till after Saturnalia,” I joked, but his piercing black eyes continued to survey me gravely.

I felt a stirring of the uneasiness I’d had earlier. “Not the Druids again? I found some mistletoe in among our green branches this afternoon. I don’t know how it got there, presumably by accident, but I burnt it just to be safe. I don’t want reminders of the Druids or their gods anywhere near this mansio.”

“I’ve no quarrel with the old gods,” Hawk said seriously. “I hate Druids though, as much as you do.”

He had every reason, but I didn’t want to dwell on the horrors of the past. I took a good swallow of wine. “Then if not the Druids, what’s wrong? I hope we haven’t upset one of the neighbours?” We always try to get on well with the native Brigantian farmers. “We’re on good terms with all of them. Or I thought we were.”

“You are, as far as I know. This is something different. I suppose you weren’t out and about in the woods last night?”

“Not me. I was safe and snug in front of a log fire.”

“Then you didn’t hear a wolf howling?”

“No,” I said, surprised. “I wouldn’t expect to. There aren’t any wolves left in these woods now, they’ve all been killed by hunters from Eburacum. That’s what you’re always telling me, isn’t it?”

“Quite right. So when I heard a wolf-howl, clear and distinct and not far away, I went to investigate. I found it came from a two-legged wolf prowling around your farm buildings down-river, and presumably signalling to another of his kind.”

“Did you see him?”

“No, only his tracks, but that was enough, because I’ve seen them before. There’s a gang of Brigantian lads, young toughs who’d rather steal than work. They’re supporting themselves by thieving and intimidating farmers, and they call themselves the Wolf-pack, of all silly names. The man signalling last night was one of them.”

“The Wolf-pack? Now you mention it, I’ve heard of them. They caused a bit of trouble east of here in the wold country earlier this year. I remember last June the army at Eburacum sent out a couple of foot-patrols to try and catch them, but of course they hadn’t a hope. They might as well have sent an elephant to chase a shoal of fish.”

He nodded. “A gang like that always has the advantage over the army. They know every yard of the countryside, and every hiding-place for miles. Catching them is a job for a proper investigator like your brother. How is he, by the way?”

“He’s fine. You can see for yourself in a day or two. He’s coming home for the holiday.”

“Excellent! Tell him I know where there’s an interesting wild boar, if he fancies a spot of hunting.”

“I will.” Lucius would jump at the chance of going after a wild boar that an experienced huntsman described as interesting. “But go on about this gang, the Wolf-pack.”

“They’re moving down off the hills for the winter, which means they’ll be around Oak Bridges for a while. They won’t go much nearer to Eburacum, because a couple of ex-army types have joined them lately, and they won’t want to risk being recognised near the fortress. I’ve seen their tracks. They’re still using their hobnailed army boots, though I assume they’re wearing Brigantian clothes otherwise.”

“Ex-army? That’s bad. From the Ninth Legion, I suppose.”

“No. One of the auxiliary units.”

“Gods, how in Hades do you know that? You’ll be telling me next which unit, and who commands it.”

“It’s not so hard to tell auxiliaries from legionaries by their tracks. Their boots are slightly different in design, that’s all. But as to the name of the commander, I didn’t think to check. Perhaps I should go out and take another look?”

I laughed. “Well, I appreciate you coming to warn us. But I honestly don’t think we have much to fear from that sort of band. They’ll pick on easy targets, small hamlets and isolated farms, and single travellers on foot. We’ve got a big complex of buildings here, and plenty of men. They surely wouldn’t try to steal from us?”

“They might during holiday time.” He sipped his beer. “You said yourself, everything stops for Saturnalia, and they know that as well as you do. They may try to catch you napping, or at least over-indulging.”

“You’re saying, be on our guard. Thanks, we will.”

He nodded. “You’re a harder nut to crack than a family of Brigantians in a roundhouse, but that just makes you more tempting. You’ve got valuable horses and mules that would fetch a good price, and farm animals if they fancy a free meal or two. You can’t keep all the stock in barns for the whole winter.”

“No, but we can keep them well protected, and we will.”

“Make sure you do, especially just now. Enjoy Saturnalia, but don’t relax too much.”

He went away soon after, leaving me to work out how we could keep a reasonable guard on the mansio and farm, while still letting ourselves and our household enjoy the holiday. I shared the problem with Albia, and we decided to warn the senior servants in the morning, and draw up a rota of men who would take it in turns to patrol round outside during the dark night hours.

“Oddly enough,” I said, “I’m not too bothered about this. If anything, I’m relieved.”

“Relieved? You mean you were expecting something worse?” She looked at me keenly. “Because of the mistletoe?”

“I don’t know. But if I have annoyed the old gods, a gang of outlaws trying to disrupt a Roman festival is exactly the sort of spiteful revenge they’d throw at us, isn’t it? Unpleasant, but not catastrophic.”

“For Juno’s sake don’t put that idea into the slaves’ heads! Anyhow, I still think you’re taking the mistletoe too seriously.”

“You’re right, I’m making far too much out of a trivial incident. This Saturnalia will be wonderful, and nothing is going to spoil it.”

I was never cut out for a prophetess.

C
HAPTER
II

The night brought a heavy snowfall, and my brother arrived in the middle of it.

I was dreaming about my old home in Pompeii. It was sixteen years since I’d seen the place, but in my dreams it’s as real as if it still basks in the Campanian sunshine.

I was lazing on a cushioned couch in our sunny secluded roof-garden. Below me I could see the sparkling blue bay, and the town streets spread out like a coloured map under a perfect summer sky. The garden was beautiful, with tubs of flowers scenting the air, and best of all, it was
hot.
The blissful southern sun burned into my bones, and I loved it.

“Aurelia! Let me in! Aurelia! Let me in!” My peaceful solitude was broken by a man’s shout, and a fist hammering like a drum. The noises didn’t belong in my dream, so I ignored them. If I keep quiet, I thought, they’ll go away.

“Aurelia! Let me in! Aurelia! Let me in!” The voice was familiar, and it seemed to be coming from the street door below. I should go down and see who was there, but I wanted to stay in the sun, and I knew that outside the door it would be icy cold. Reluctantly I walked to the low parapet and looked down over the roof’s edge, trying to glimpse the importunate pest who was disturbing my peace. I clambered onto the wall for a better view, and then I felt myself falling…

Disappointment washed over me as I woke up and realised where I was. Not in summery Pompeii, but in my freezing December bedroom in Britannia, in the middle of a pitch-black night. I pulled the blankets over my head and shut my eyes tight, trying to return to the warmth of Campania, but the dream was gone. Pompeii was gone too, buried deep by an erupting mountain. The only way that I or anyone could ever visit it again was in dreams.