Englishwoman in France (25 page)

We give our thanks to the ship's captain. Lupinus, who has taken a turn rowing on this journey, holds him in a comrade's clasp before he leaves. So the four of us make our way off the ship and into the harbour. Tib dances around with the joy of being back in his Gaul, his home land. Then he goes off with Lupinus to find a ship to take us down the coast to Good Fortune. Modeste and I comb the harbour streets for a lodging house that has rooms with couches rather than a floor to sleep on. We find a lodge keeper, who – eyes gleaming at the glitter of the Empress's gold coin – offers us his own bedroom with new straw mattresses. The room turns out to be surprisingly tranquil compared with the chaos below. Great sheets of Egyptian linen cover two large beds and someone has lit two sandalwood oil burners which fill the air with blue smoke and mask the other lodging house smells.

I throw myself on one of the beds and take off the Empress's sandals, pushing my feet down the pure clean linen. Modeste pulls a chest across the door and reaches up to push open a shutter to let out the sandalwood smoke. Then he peels off his own leather leggings and comes to lie beside me. We roll inwards to each other on the great mattress and hug and hold each other, stroke bare cheeks and – quickly divesting ourselves of the rest of our clothes – we lie together skin to glorious skin, as close as any two people can be. Then we kiss, first on the mouth, then – in a laughter-filled race – on every part of each other's bodies. I make sure to kiss the fading scars that tell the story of Modeste's recent suffering. This seems to convulse him and suddenly we are making mad, ferocious love, first he above me and then I above him. This is a wild dance of love, made more intense by separation and by true fear of what may be ahead of us.

This is the best of the dream.

After a while we are forced to lie back with exhaustion. Then much more slowly, much more gently, we start again. Afterwards we fall into a doze only to be woken by a hammering on the door. In seconds we scramble into our clothes – excepting our footwear – and Modeste is pulling away the chest.

Tib falls into the room, followed by Lupinus, who has food in woven straw bundles. Tib glances at me, sitting demurely on the low window ledge, and says, ‘Food! You would not believe, Modeste, the food on offer here. Strange stuff, from way beyond the furthest sea . . .'

Lupinus heaves the bundles on to the second bed. ‘And bread. Take your supper here, Sirs, Madam. The boy and I have arranged the passage tomorrow to Good Fortune with a captain but now I go to check his credentials. I'm told there are pirates and scoundrels on and off this shore line.'

Modeste protests. ‘Share our food, Lupinus! Don't leave us.'

Lupinus shakes his head. ‘I'll dine with the men from the boats. That way I'll get a better sense of this captain who might just take us to Good Fortune without stealing our gold.'

W
e hold hands, Tib, Modeste and I, savouring this magical moment. Before us a bracelet of islands floating like grey ghosts on their silver lagoons stand watery guard on the mouth of our great river. The flat sun of the evening melts into the trembling mother-of-pearl ripples of the estuary, and casts our landfall, Good Fortune, into shadow.

Soon the long harbour wall comes into view, with its jingling double line of boats sitting there with furled sails. Two other boats have, like ours, docked at dusk and that section of the harbour is busy. Two others are anchored at the other side of the river, waiting their turn to move to the quayside. We, of course, do not have to wait. Our oarsmen cut the water, heaving fast towards the Governor's landing. There is no greeting party. Tib looks upwards across the roofs of the houses to the ridge where his father's mansion stands – a grand building but even so not quite as grand as the colonnaded temple alongside it. ‘There! There's my mother,' he cries.

She is a shadow against the night sky, but she is there. The flat sun picks out the gold on her headdress and the decorated torc on her neck. She's clearly been watching but has not been allowed to greet us. Our shame has gone before us.

‘Messires!' It's the Governor's boatman, Peter, bowing low before Tib. ‘We have a boat here for your return to Cessero! I am to row you all the way.'

Tib drags his gaze away from the figure silhouetted against the night sky. I suddenly remember how young he is. Eleven? Twelve years old? He is too young for this.

Modeste speaks. ‘Such a pity that a child may not be greeted by his parents after this long and dangerous journey.'

The boatman bows less deeply in his direction. ‘I have orders from the Governor, messire. The boy is to be transported directly onwards to Cessero.'

Modeste nods. ‘Very well. The loss is theirs.'

The boatman glances curiously at Lupinus, then leads us all along the quayside to the upriver end of the harbour. We all look down at the small boat moored by flat rocks at the river's edge where the women do their washing. The seaman senses our disappointment. ‘This is a fine boat, Master Tibery,' he says heartily. ‘Much better than the last one. There are provisions aboard. Warm cloaks. We'll make good speed up the river.'

‘We'll not need your strength, boatman,' says Modeste. ‘We are strong ourselves now. And we have a comrade.'

The seaman looks up at Lupinus. ‘This is a giant, messire.'

‘And a giant in spirit,' says Modeste. He puts a hand on Tib's shoulder. ‘Jump on board, Tib. We need to catch the light for Cessero. We are going home.'

Tib and I take the lighter oars and Lupinus has to temper his strength to match Modeste's lesser skill with the oar. He still has a limp from his ordeal but Tib's care and the weeks at sea have given him greater strength than before. So on our journey to Cessaro we make speed, rowing against the flow of the smooth green river, the rising water slapping against the painted sides of the boat. The banks are the same tangle of greenery, blackening in that familiar way as the light fades. The last rays of the sun turn the river silvery grey and above it the trees make a lacy black silhouette against the dark sky.

‘Greeting, O great river!' shouts Tib. Then he corrects his pagan thought. ‘The Lord's blessing on you!'

Behind me, I hear Modeste chuckle. ‘Sometimes it's hard to cast off the old ways, Tib. They served us well, I think.'

Lupinus makes us stop rowing, puts up a sail and starts to catch an unseasonal late evening breeze that helps us zig zag on these broader reaches of water as the river turns. Tib leaps to the prow and takes the tiller, watching keenly as we swing round the sweeping bend. Modeste moves to the stern to sit beside me and put an arm round my shoulder. The light is really fading now. We need our flares to reach our destination.

Tib calls down from the prow of the boat. ‘Do you remember, Modeste? Do you remember furling the sail of our little boat on that first night? When we knew not what was in store? When we hadn't yet met the wonderful people of Cessero?'

Modeste stirs and sits up straight beside me. ‘Aye. We sought sanctuary and found a beautiful place and beautiful people.' He squeezes my shoulder. ‘Nearly home, Florence,' he says. ‘Nearly home.'

Lupinus steers us through one of the arches of the great bridge, a great reminder that the Romans rule here in Gaul.

In a very short while we arrive at the flat reach of ground near Cessero. Word has got around: there are torches at the landing place. Léance greets us with a gathering of men carrying torches and they lead us along to the village. Women and children are standing there, holding high their own smoky straw torches. They come forward to touch Modeste, to bow to Tib. A little girl takes my hand and kisses it. I am filled with lightness and the true feeling of homecoming.

When we get back to our camp everything is in good order, even though we heard the Governor's soldier order the destruction of the camp as we left. The garden is tidy, well turned over. The vines are bright green, the small dark grapes hiding underneath the leaves. Somewhere deep in my mind I hear the snort and jingle of horses.

I meet Léance's watching gaze. He shrugs. ‘They came and wrecked it. It was a small thing to put it together again. The bees were not happy though. Three soldiers were stung. One died.' A slow smile crosses his broad face. ‘We hid the doctor's boxes in ox-skins under the wine press. The soldiers were more interested in the wineskins on the next landing, ready for shipping down to Good Fortune.'

But for all Léance's smiles and assurances he fails to warn us of the visitor we find as we enter the hut. My heart flips. I should have thought more about the sound of horses. Inside the hut we find Helée, the Governor himself, standing there, one of his men at his shoulder. He must have ordered Léance not to tell.

Helée touches his own shoulder in a soldier's greeting to his son. Tib goes to stand before him and waits calmly to hear what his father has to say. The Governor looks him in the eye. ‘You were fortunate indeed, my son, at the Emperor's forbearance in letting you go.'

I jump in. ‘It was the Empress who commanded our release, Governor,' I say quickly. ‘And then only after Tibery and Modeste had been sorely and unfairly injured.'

He turns his hooded, tired eyes towards me. ‘I speak to my son, madam.'

‘And Florence was beaten,' says Tib calmly. ‘She was beaten very hard. Modeste was nearly killed.'

Helée surveys his son from head to foot. ‘You have no mark on you.'

Tib grins. ‘I'm blessed by God through Jesus of Nazareth, Father.'

‘His swift recovery,' intervenes Modeste quickly, ‘is because Master Tibery is perfect, uncorrupt, and his body heals without intervention. And this is why he is enabled to heal others. How, for instance, he was able to restore your own sight, your honour, through his faith and his innocence.'

Helée smites one great soldier's hand against another. ‘Do you see? Do you see? Out of your own mouth, Corinthian, you are betrayed. It's you, isn't it, who led my son into these zealous ways, made him believe in himself as a healer. It's you who have led my son into the disfavour of our Emperor. It's you who has led him into danger.'

‘You do not see clearly, dear father.' said Tib quietly. ‘It's my fate to do this work of mine, messire. Modeste merely gave my fate a name.' He turns his face away from his father.

At last Helée puts a hand on his son, grasping him by the shoulder, forcing him to meet his gaze. ‘I wish you to stop this proselytising, Tibery. I wish you to stop going among the people, doing your curing, preaching this Way of yours. Hasn't it led to you and your friends here suffering sorely? And it'll get worse, you can be sure of that. There are whispers from the Imperial Court that the oracle has advised once more the death of all followers of the Nazarene.' He puts one hand on Tib's face and strokes it. ‘They will not be happy until all of these heretics are dead,' he murmurs softly, In the flaring light of the torch I see the deep look that passes between them. Helée flinches. Then he coughs, pulls his hand away and rests it on Tib's shoulder. ‘I cannot protect you, son,' he says quietly. ‘It's out of my hands.'

‘My master in Heaven will protect me,' says Tib. ‘If not, let His will be done.'

Helée's hand drops from his son's shoulder like a dead thing. Then he fastens his long cloak with a snake pin and pulls on leather gauntlets. ‘I must get back to Good Fortune. I have adjudications tomorrow.'

Tib looks away from him. ‘And my mother? How is she?'

Helée's mouth becomes thin, pinched. ‘She makes sacrifices at the temple of Venus each day, for your safe return. I have told your mother she may only see you at the Governor's house in Good Fortune. And you may only approach the house if you forswear these blasphemous beliefs.'

‘Will you give her my greeting?'

Helée sighs. ‘I will give her your greeting.' Then, unexpectedly, he turns to slap Modeste on the shoulder. ‘Whether or not, Corinthian, you're the author of this misbegotten business, you have suffered alongside my son. Now I order you to take the best care of this boy.'

Astonishingly, Modeste puts a gentle hand on Helée's armoured shoulder. For a split second they are equals. ‘Unto death, messire, I will take care of this boy. He is your son, but he is as a son to me.'

Helée glances at me but obviously doesn't think me worth a word. Then he strides out, followed by his soldier at arms. We wait a few minutes and follow them. Lupinus is still there, leaning against the big olive tree, but the villagers have melted away. The presence of the Governor and his soldiers has given them the jitters.

The three of us go and sit near Lupinus and stare into the darkness. I glance up into the sky. The stars are just emerging, faint pinpricks on dark blue velvet. So perfect. So meaningful. So permanent. ‘What now?' I say.

‘Now we thank the one God for our safe delivery,' says Tib quietly. He stands up and we all do just that. Lupinus stands alongside us. I know the words and the gestures and I join in.

Afterwards I feel totally at peace. I think now that I believe; I believe in Tib and his extraordinary gifts. I love Modeste for his own gifts of the intellect, his physical body and courage. In these moments in this dream world I'm finally Florence, not Starr. I know the dangers and am committed to the here and now with these two marvellous beings, whatever the outcome.

T
he next day was like the first day of term – great promise intermixed with pure fear. We're all excited. After the departure of the Governor and a good night's sleep we check our stocks of medicine and make a list of the shortfalls. Tibery seems to have swallowed his disappointment at not seeing his mother. I know he's hiding this under his chatter to Modeste about the women with sore faces and the boy from Cessero who walked for the first time after Tibery had blessed him. ‘Do you think he walks still, Modeste?' he asks, with welcome traces of his childlike earnestness.