Patrick (44 page)

“Whatever you say, wise counselor!” I cried. To those gathered around the table, I declared, “See here! This is Licinius Severus Rufus, Centurion of the Northern Army and dearest friend of my youth! I drink to you, Rufus, my friend. We all drink to you! Here, have some wine.”

“Thank you, but I think you've had enough. It is time to leave.” The others raised a protest at my departure, but Rufus remained adamant. He apologized to them for taking me away even as he pulled me from the table.

He led me out into the cool air of a clear, fresh night. “Why the hurry?” I demanded. “Is Rome on fire?”

I laughed at my own jest, but Rufus remained unmoved. “You are drunk,” he said.

“I suppose I am,” I reflected. “But I like it.”

“Well, you will not like it so much tomorrow when the sun beats down on your aching head and your dry mouth feels like the bottom of your boot.”

“Come, Rufus, let us have a drink together. Like old times.”

“No more drinking tonight,” he replied firmly. “You should eat something instead—it will settle your stomach. And then you are going to get some sleep. We depart at dawn.”

“I hear and obey, my commander!” I laughed again and thought how many times
I
had pulled
him
from the table after a night's drinking with Scipio and Julian. We passed through the gate and made our way to the barracks.

“Scipio is in Rome, you know,” I told him as he led me to my bare room.

“I know. Take off your belt and boots.”

“We can see him when we get to Rome.”

“Very likely.” He helped me unbuckle my belt, rolled it up, and put it on the floor beside my bed.

“And Julian is in Turonum,” I said. “We can see him, too.”

“It is possible—although we will not be there very long.”

“He—you know Julian?”

“Yes, of course I know him.” He stooped and began untying my boots. “Lift your foot.”

“Julian is a priest—a very priest of the very church.”

“So I have heard.” He removed my boot. “Now lift your other foot.”

“A priest is Julian,” I declared loudly, “and a finer priest you never will see. Amen.”

“Stay here and be quiet,” he instructed, sitting me down on the bed. “I'll go find you something to eat.”

I was asleep when he returned, but I awoke the next morning to find a wooden bowl containing fish and bread on the floor next to my bed. Still stiff from the battle, I forced my
aching body to rise, and took up the bowl of food. Rufus appeared as I was finishing the last morsel of fish. He carried a basin of water in which I could wash. “Good,” he said, seeing that I was awake. “Are you ready to ride?”

“I am as you find me,” I said. The sound of my voice made my head throb. I groaned and lay back on the bed once more.

“Up with you now. Put on your belt and boots and come to the parade ground. The vicarius is anxious for an early start, but I will wait to summon him until you have joined us.”

He left me to wash my face and lace up my boots. I then took up my pallium, folded it carefully, and draped it over my shoulder, then buckled my belt, drawing the wide leather band around the two ends of the cloak as well, securing it for the long ride ahead. Then I went out and joined Rufus and the other soldiers waiting for the vicarius.

The sun was barely risen. There was no one about. The traveling party was assembled and ready to depart—Rufus and ten soldiers: eight mounted and two driving a covered wagon loaded with provisions. The horse I had named Boreas was saddled and waiting for me. As I joined the company, Rufus sent one of the men to notify the vicarius that all was ready.

Columella and Tribune Tullius emerged from the commander's house a few moments later. The vicarius' horse was led to the mounting block and held there while the vicarius eased himself into the saddle. “Farewell, Tullius,” he said, taking up the reins. “Give Commander Faustio my best regards when he returns. Tell him I would like to have stayed longer, but time was pressing and my errand could not wait.”

“I will tell him,” the tribune replied. “Farewell, Vicarius—until next time.”

“Until next time.” The vicarius raised his hand and gestured to Rufus, who called the order.

“Be mounted!” he cried, his voice ringing over the empty parade ground. We swung into our saddles, took up our
reins, and rode in a double column from the yard, through the garrison gates, and out onto the road.

We were still in sight of Banna when we met two legionaries galloping for the fortress. The vicarius hailed them, and they reined up when they saw who it was that addressed them. “We come from Duces Faustio,” one of the riders said.

“What news?” asked Columella.

“The rescue was not successful,” replied the rider. “The fighting was over by the time we reached the battlefield. The enemy left no survivors, and the vexillum of the legion has been lost.”

Columella thanked the messengers and sent them on their way to inform the garrison. We journeyed on, secure in the knowledge that the catastrophe was utter and complete. The vicarius would have a genuine, unmitigated disaster to lay before the senators' feet.

C
AESARODUNUM
T
URONUM SEEMED A
world away from the vile butchery of the dark northern forests. A lazy, quiet contentment hung over the city and the sun-soaked fields of the farmers along the riverbank. As we rode through the streets of the town, I regarded the complacency of the locals with disgust.

I saw two women standing before a merchant arguing over a bit of cloth one insisted had been sold to her. “He took my money!” she shrilled. “I want my cloth.” The other countered, “Not so! It is mine. Let go!”

A few steps away a man remonstrated with a neighbor for trading in rancid meal. The accused loudly denied the charge and called upon passersby to verify the undeniable quality of his goods.

I almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. Ten days' march from where these squabbling citizens stood, a maelstrom of death and devastation gathered force. There was no safety, no protection, nothing to prevent the horror from crashing down on their unthinking heads. Even so, they conducted their daily business with the usual dull malfeasance: lying, gossiping, cheating one another, squabbling over bits and scraps like rats on a dung heap.

“Look at them,” I muttered, “the imbeciles.”

Rufus eyed me dubiously but said nothing.

“Do they not know what awaits them?”

“How should they know?” he asked. “Do you?”

When I refused to acknowledge his gibe, he said, “What ails you, Succat? You grow more sullen and pigheaded by the day.”

“I would not expect
you
to understand,” I replied darkly.

“No?” he challenged. “I have fought barbarians before. I have seen men slain in battle. I have marched out with good friends who never came back.” He blew air through his nose derisively. “I think I can understand whatever it is that has
you
twisting in its grip.”

It was no use talking to him when he became contentious—he, I remembered, had always been this way—so I made no further comment.

As we soon learned, the vicarius' entourage was waiting for him in a large villa the vicarius had rented just outside the city. While Columella rode on to the villa, the soldiers of his bodyguard were lodged in the garrison; thus news of the massacre quickly spread through the ranks and into the marketplace and beyond.

As soon as we had seen our horses properly stabled, Rufus and I went in search of Julian. I had no great wish to see him, but Rufus insisted it would be a fine thing to have three of the old band of four together again. As I had nothing else to do and no wish to be thought awkward, I agreed.

We found the plump priest at his evening prayers and waited until he finished. “Here!” called Rufus as the clerics filed out of the chapel. “Is that Julian I see hiding in that robe?”

“Rufus!” exclaimed Julian happily. “It is good to see you again.” To me he said, “It seems as if your search was successful then. Look at the both of you—soldiers of the empire! Who would have thought such a thing possible, eh?”

“Come,” said Rufus, taking Julian by the arm, “we're on our way to wash the dust of the road from our throats, and you're coming with us.”

We marched directly to the inn nearest the garrison.

“Well, I can see you're no better a judge of taverns than you ever were,” complained Julian, regarding the filthy yard
with distaste. The Sly Ox was a low place, even by our much-compromised standards, but it was prized by the soldiers, so, taking a deep breath, we held our noses and went inside.

The only light came from an ill-vented fire on the stone hearth beside the door. At the other end of the low-beamed room was a board, behind which stood a tall, thin man with a sour face, who frowned when he saw us. Julian took one look and refused to stay. “I will not be seen in here,” he said. “I am a priest of the church, for God's sake.”

“Too good for you?” inquired Rufus mildly.

Julian rolled his eyes and grunted, and I said, “It is a fine evening. We can sit outside.”

As Rufus hurried off to bespeak the necessaries, Julian and I went out to drag together some of the stumps in the yard. We settled in a corner beside a low stone wall separating the inn from the lane by which the farmers drove their livestock to market.

“I heard about the battle,” Julian said. “They are saying you are a hero for saving the vicarius. Is that true?”

“If that is what they are saying,” I replied, “it must be true.”

“You know me better than that, I hope,” he said with a sniff. “So tell me, what really happened?”

“That
is
what happened,” I allowed, “but I am no hero. I had a horse when a horse was needed, that's all.”

Julian accepted this. “I suppose heroism is little more than that anyway.”

“You would know, Julian.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“Pay no attention to Succat,” said Rufus, arriving just then. He carried a basket of black bread and salt and three leather cups. Behind him came two rangy hounds and the innkeeper's woman bearing two dripping jars in her hands. “He has had a bee in his boot for the last few days.”

“I see.” Julian shrugged. “You might have warned me.”

The woman poured the cups and left us to ourselves. We
drank a little, and the hounds, hoping for morsels, settled close by to wait for us to notice them. Save for the stench of the urine-soaked yard, it was a pleasant enough evening—until more soldiers arrived and wanted to hear from the “sole survivor” himself about what had happened and how I had escaped alive.

“I was not the only one to survive,” I told them bluntly. “Vicarius Columella survived, too.”

“But only because you rode into the battle to rescue him,” they insisted.

“The battle was over. We were fleeing for our lives. I had a horse and gave the vicarius a ride. If that makes me a hero, then every soldier is a hero who has a horse.”

They stood and gazed at me, uncertain what to make of what I had told them. Rufus saw the disappointment forming in a cloud above their heads. “Forgive my friend,” he said. “He came fresh from the fight, and we have been on the move ever since.”

This they understood, and they were happy to ascribe my sour reticence to the rigors of the road. Generously they hailed me, poured beer into my cup, and drank my health. They slowly moved off to another part of the yard then, but others came, and the discussion began all over again. It went much like the first, and when the soldiers had gone, Julian said, “Is it going to be like this all night?”

“I cannot see why tonight should be different from any other,” I replied.

“It is like this wherever he goes,” agreed Rufus. “You cannot prevent soldiers from talking.”

“Well, I have better things to do,” Julian said. He drained his cup and laid it on the ground. One of the hounds began licking out the little that remained. “I must go. The bishop will be looking for me.”

“We might as well go, too,” said Rufus. “We'll get no peace here tonight.”

Leaving the inn, we moved off into the darkened lane toward the garrison, which lay near the center of the city.
“How long will you stay in Turonum?” asked Julian as we arrived at the bishop's lodgings.

“Another day or two at least,” answered Rufus. “Maybe more. It depends on how long it takes the vicarius to conclude his affairs.”

“Ah, yes,” said Julian, “his family is here, I believe. And then—where will you go?”

“To Rome,” said Rufus. “The vicarius is making a report of the massacre to the senate. He hopes to be in the city before September.”

“I see.” Julian paused thoughtfully. “Well, let me see you again before you go.”

We left him there and returned to the garrison. Next day it was Julian who came looking for us. “I told the bishop about your departure for Rome. It is most providential, truly. He respectfully requests that we be allowed to travel with you.”

Rufus ran a hand over his close-cropped scalp. “I don't see any difficulty myself,” he replied. “But it is not for me to say. It's Vicarius Columella's decision. You will have to ask him.”

“It shall be done,” said Julian.

“Why do you want to go to Rome?” I asked.

“I do not wish to go at all,” Julian informed me, “but Bishop Cornelius has requested the honor of taking the documents which have been prepared both here and in Britain to the patriarch of Rome.” He delivered himself of small sigh. “Unfortunately, it seems this honor has been granted.” Bidding us farewell, he turned and strode away, his robes dragging in the dust behind him.

We did not see him again until we were preparing to depart two days later. The horses and wagons were assembled, and we were waiting in the garrison yard for Vicarius Columella to appear with his family when Julian, the bishop, and two other priests arrived, leading their mounts and mules. Rufus welcomed them and told them where they should ride in the train.

Next, a servant of the vicarius appeared to say that Columella and his family would meet us on the way. “The road passes by the estate where the family lives,” the servant explained. “They will be ready by the time you arrive.”

The day was fine, the sky high and bright and fair. We rode out in a long double rank, followed by our wagons and pack animals. Two soldiers rode behind to guard the rear and keep the mules together. The road from Turonum was in good repair, and we soon left the town behind, moving through fields green with beans and corn.

Two miles from the city, we came to another road leading off to a nearby estate. Here the vicarius waited with his family and various retainers—a group of nine people altogether, including his wife, son and daughter, their tutor, a secretary, and three menial servants. The family and tutor were conveyed in a covered carriage driven by one of the servants; another drove the provision wagon, and the third rode one of the pack mules, leading three others. The secretary was mounted and followed the carriage.

Columella hailed us and cantered out to join us on the road. “Splendid!” he said. “The weather augurs fair for the next month. We will make good time. I will introduce you to my family later.” He wheeled his horse to return to his retinue. “Lead on, my friends. We will fall in behind the soldiers.”

As the day was good and the vicarius anxious to make as much of it as he could, it was not until we had stopped for the night that we met the rest of our fellow travelers.

The vicarius' wife was a tall, handsome woman named Helena Constantia. She was part of Rome's ancient and venerable aristocracy—a fact that could be seen in her countenance and bearing. She looked like a larger rendering of the votive statues dedicated to justice or victory. She was grave without seeming dour, and she was delighted to see that we had been joined by a churchman of some distinction.

Columella's son was a boy of eight or nine, who suffered from an acute fascination with the soldiers' weapons and
equipment. He adopted Rufus as his personal bodyguard and pestered the long-suffering centurion to allow him to wear his sword, his dagger, or one of the helmets or some other piece of armor. His name was Gaius and, whenever set free by his tutor, he made for Rufus like a whippet on scent. In camp Rufus could not move without tripping over his diminutive shadow.

Once Rufus tried to foist him off on me. “You know,” he told the boy as we sat by the campfire one night, “Succat here was the one who saved your father, not me. I did not even fight in the battle. Succat is a real hero.”

“I know,” replied little Gaius indifferently.

“You should give Succat some of your attention.”

“My father said I was not to bother Centurion Magonus Succat.”

“So you bother me instead?”

“I like you,” Gaius confided happily.

“Cheer up, Rufus,” I said. “He likes you.”

The boy's tutor was a prissy old Greek called Pylades. He dressed in a long gray tunic which he wore unbelted and sported a long wispy beard that constantly wafted around his chin. He was given to complaints, which he couched as reminiscences of travels with his former employer, the Consul of Epirus, such as “We always had hot water to wash. Know you, the consul would never allow one day to follow another without a bath.” Or “Consul Grabbus absolutely refused to eat anything boiled. Anyone who boiled meat, he often said, committed a crime comparable to treason.”

Sometimes these observations, aired for his audience's edification, roused the listening soldiers to ire, and they undertook to educate him in rude Latin; mostly he was roundly ignored. This treatment did not dissuade him in the least; he still muttered and spluttered away, but over time we ceased hearing him at all.

Besides the servants and secretary—functionaries with few distinguishing characteristics—the only other member of the vicarius' company worthy of mention was his daugh
ter. I did not see her that first night; complaining of a headache, she remained in the carriage.

The next morning, however, a voice disturbed my rest; I awoke to see a young woman with long brown hair standing over me. “Are you the one they call Magonus?” she asked, her voice shrill in my sleep-filled ears. “You don't look very famous.”

“Do I look asleep?”

“Papa says you saved his life, so I suppose I should be nice to you.” She seemed to consider the various implications of this course, rejecting them one by one. “But you look like a tiresome pleb to me.”

“My name is Succat,” I said.

“I am Oriana,” she replied, turning away abruptly. “You may call me Lady Columella.”

“Your
mother
is Lady Columella,” I pointed out.

“Well,” she sniffed, “so am I.”

This was my first glimpse of Oriana. Like her mother, she was tall and thin—too thin, it could be said—with a prominent jaw and a high, smooth forehead. Her eyes were dark and fringed with thick, dark lashes. At first glance she appeared severe, proud, and willful—and older than her twenty years; her mouth, however, was wide and generous like her father's. If allowed to form anything but the petulant pout with which she habitually greeted the world and everything in it, then her features shone with a light to rival the radiance of the sun. It was, unfortunately, a secret she guarded close and kept well hidden.