Roma Mater (8 page)

The captain gave him a narrow stare and said low, ‘From time to time the legions raise up an Emperor. That must be a heady feeling.’

Gratillonius veered from the subject. The communities where he had sometimes overnighted, on his march through Britannia, were abuzz with rumours about Maximus, like beehives which were being toppled. He didn’t want to give any hint of confirmation, most particularly not to this man who would often be crossing the Channel. If the governors of Gallia got sufficient advance warning to mobilize, the fighting could become disastrous.

‘I trust we’ll make port before dark,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t care to spend the night hove to.’

‘The wind’s not from too bad a quarter, though stiffer than I like. You talk as if you’ve been a mariner yourself.’

‘Oh, more of a supercargo, on my father’s ship when I was a boy. We called two or three times at Gesoriacum. But that was years ago.’

‘And a kid would scarcely see much. Can you stay over? The circus is small, but gets a canvas roof in bad weather, so it may be open tomorrow. Pretty good spectacles, not like those wretched bear-baitings which are the best we see in Dubris. In Gesoriacum they know how to stage an animal fight, and once I saw actual gladiators.’

Gratillonius grimaced. ‘No, thanks. Torture and killing, for the amusement of a lot of rabble who’d loose their bowels if they saw teeth or a sword coming at
them –
I
don’t even permit my men to draw blood when they must touch up the horses.’

‘I hope you’re not so soft-hearted in combat,’ said the captain, miffed.

‘No insult intended. Anyhow, I can’t stay. We’ve got to be off in the morning.’

‘Really pressing business, eh? Well,’ said the captain as his irritation passed, ‘I know a whorehouse in town that keeps late hours.’

Gratillonius smiled. ‘Again, no, thanks. It’s the hostel and an early bed for me.’ He grew serious. ‘Also, frankly – and, again, no offence – I’m trying to stay clean. Aside from prayers, it’s the only chance this trip gives me to honour the God.’

‘Why, you could’ve stopped off at any church or shrine along the way.’

Gratillonius sighed. The Mithraeum in Londinium was closed – closed for ever. Does Gesoriacum have one any more?’

The captain sat straight, or as straight as the heeling ship would allow. His eyes bulged. ‘What? You’re joking!’

‘Certainly not. I serve Mithras. Doubtless you serve Christ. What matter, as long as we both serve Rome?’

The captain made a V of two fingers and jabbed them in Gratillonius’s direction. ‘Out!’ he shrilled. ‘Go! It’s unlucky enough having a pagan aboard, without sitting here and drinking with him. If you weren’t an officer on a mission, I swear I’d have you thrown overboard. Don’t think I won’t report you when I get back. Now go! Out of my sight!’

The centurion did not argue, but rose and went forth on to the deck, into the wind.

2

Dusk was falling as the ship glided between jetties and docked at the naval wharf. The soldiers collected their gear and tramped down the gangplank under the stares of the crew. Gratillonius had them wait in formation while the horses were unloaded, a process which called forth words that sizzled. In the meantime he queried the harbourmaster, who had come from his office to watch this unseasonal landing, about accommodations for the squadron. To his relief, he learned that most of the garrison were away on joint manoeuvres with those of two other towns. Their barracks would thus have plenty of available beds.

Marching his men there, he found the prefect of the cohort that had stayed on guard and presented his written orders. They declared that he was on a mission of state, as directed by the Duke of the Britains, with rights to food, lodging, and whatever else his band required along the way. The prefect refrained from asking questions. These days there were many curious comings and goings. His only inquiry was: ‘Do you require a room for yourself?’

Gratillonius shook his head. ‘I think I’ll put up at a hostel, and return about sunrise to take your guests off your hands.’

The prefect chuckled wryly. ‘You may as well be comfortable.’

Gratillonius made somewhat of a nuisance of himself, seeing to it that his men would have decent quarters and, though it was well past the regular hour, an adequate meal. Not until they were seated in the mess – complaining
about food meant for auxiliaries from some forsaken far corner of the Empire – did he leave. It was quite dark then, but the prefect assigned him a guide with a lantern. The wind had chased most clouds away before lying down to rest, letting stars and a partial moon add their light. Air was cold, breath smoked and footfalls rattled, but a breath of spring softened it and leaf buds were pale upon trees.

The inn for official travellers was a two-storey building, its tile roof rime-whitened. A stable and a shed flanked the courtyard in front. It stood outside the city, on a highway leading south. Beyond that pavement reached cropland, out of which remnants of two houses poked ghostly. Like many other Gallic cities, Gesoriacum had shrunk during the past several generations, cramping itself within its defences. Walls, towers, battlements gloomed under Draco and the Milky Way.

Passing by the stable, Gratillonius heard a noise that brought him to a halt. ‘What on earth?’ He listened closer. Someone behind the door was weeping – no, more than a single one. The sounds were thin. His skin crawled. He did not think he had ever before heard such hopelessness.

The door was merely latched. He opened it. Murk yawned at him. The sobbing broke off in wails of terror. ‘Come along,’ he ordered his escort. ‘Be careful about any hay or straw, of course.’

‘Don’t hurt us!’ cried a child’s voice. ‘Please don’t hurt us! We’ll be good, honest we will!’

He followed the words without difficulty. This was Belgica, whence the forebears of his own tribe had come to Britannia, and language hadn’t changed much on either side. Fair-skinned and flaxen-haired, the children might have been playmates of his boyhood.

They numbered five, three boys and two girls, their
ages seeming about nine or ten. They were dirty and unkempt, but not too poorly clad; two of them sported brightly coloured wool scarves that their mothers must have given them at the farewell. Some horses in the building kept it warm. But it had been altogether dark here, and the children were penned in a stall. Slats nailed around and over it confined them, and made it impossible for them to stand upright.

Lanternlight glistened off tears on cheeks and, elsewhere, caused shadows to dance monstrous. Gratillonius hunkered down. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, as gently as the tightness in his throat allowed. ‘I won’t hurt you. I’m your friend. What can I do for you?’

A girl’s skinny arms reached out between the bars. He took her hands in his. ‘Oh, please,’ she stammered, ‘will you take us home?’

He couldn’t help it, his voice harshened. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. I can’t – now – but I will see if there is anything I can do, sweetheart. Be brave, all of you.’

‘You’re not Jesus?’ came from a boy. ‘I heard Jesus is the God in the city. I heard He is kind.’

‘I am not He,’ Gratillonius said, ‘but I promise Jesus will always watch over you.’ He kissed the hands he held, rose, and turned his back. ‘Goodnight. Try to sleep. Goodnight.’ The wails broke out anew as he left the stable and shut the door.

‘New-taken slaves, sir,’ the escort observed.

‘That’s plain to see,’ Gratillonius snapped. He strode quickly to the hostel and thundered its knocker.

Candleglow spilled around the ruddy man who responded. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. Gratillonius was in civil garb. ‘It’s past suppertime.’

‘I’ll have supper regardless,’ Gratillonius snapped. ‘For your information, I’m a legionary officer travelling on
Imperial business. Furthermore, I’ll have an explanation of those kids caged outside.’

‘Oh.’ The manager thought for a moment, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘He’s in there, he can tell you better than me. Come in, sir.’ He didn’t require credentials, doubtless reckoning that the soldier who had accompanied the stranger was sufficient.

Gratillonius bade that man farewell – be courteous to subordinates who deserve it, more even than to superiors – and followed the hostelkeeper into a long room feebly lit by candles. Their burning tallow filled it with stench, like an announcement of the poverty into which the Empire had fallen. Four guests sat benched around one of several tables. ‘Hail,’ called a portly fellow. ‘Welcome.’ Judging by his robe and the rings that sparkled on his fingers, he was the leader of his companions, who wore ordinary Gallic tunics and breeches. They were having a nightcap.

Gratillonius ignored the greeting. The manager asked him to register – name, rank, avowal that he was on an errand of the state – before taking a pair of candles and guiding him on upstairs. ‘We don’t get many so soon in the year,’ he remarked. ‘You say you’re of the Second Augusta? Isn’t that off in Britannia? Well, well, these be uneasy times, and me, I know to keep my mouth shut. Here you are, sir. I’ll go after my wife. Can’t make anything fancy, I’m afraid, but we do keep a kettle of her good lentil soup on the hob. We’ll get you something pretty quick, sir.’

He left Gratillonius a light and departed. The centurion glanced around the room. Little was in it but a water jug, basin, chamber pot, and a pair of narrow beds. At this slack season, he’d be alone. He unpacked the small bag he had carried, stripped, scrubbed as well as he was able,
dressed anew, and said his prayers – well after sunset, but better than not at all.

When he returned downstairs, the portly man called to him again: ‘Hoy, there, don’t be so aloof. Come have a drink with us.’

Briefly, Gratillonius hesitated. But … he had sought here not for the sake of comfort, as the prefect supposed, but in hopes of picking up more gossip, a better feeling for how things were, than he could likely get in barracks. Parts of the Continent were devastated or in upheaval, while he had scant exact information. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and took a place beside the inviter. A youth, son or underling of the keeper, scuttled forth with a cup, and he helped himself from the pitchers on the table.

‘My name’s Sextus Titius Lugotorix,’ the portly man said. ‘My attendants –’ He introduced them. They were a ruffianly-looking lot.

‘Gaius Valerius Gratillonius, centurion, on special assignment.’

Lugotorix raised his brows. Seen close up, his face carried a gash of a mouth and eyes that were like two hailstones. He smelled of cheap perfume. His affability was undiminished. ‘My, my, you’re the silent one, aren’t you, friend?’

‘Orders. What are you doing here?’

‘I’m a publican.’

‘I thought so.’

‘We were delayed – some bumpkins got obstreperous and we had to teach them a lesson – and didn’t reach Gesoriacum till the gates had closed for the night. I suppose you walked around the city wall, from the military post? It wasn’t worthwhile persuading the guard to let us in, when this hostel is so close by.’ Lugotorix winked and nudged Gratillonius. ‘And free.’

‘I didn’t know your business entitled you to government accommodations.’

The governor has authorized me. Specifically authorized me.’ Lugotorix rolled a pious glance ceilingwards. ‘After all, the state must have its internal revenue.’

Those youngsters in the stable – you’re dragging them to the slave market?’

A man laughed. ‘Not exactly dragging,’ he said. ‘Give the little buggers a taste of the whip, and they run along so fast their leashes nearly choke ‘em.’

Lugotorix peered at Gratillonius. ‘Did you take a look? Well, don’t get mawkish, my friend.’ He drained his goblet and refilled it. A certain slurriness suggested he was a bit drunk. ‘They weren’t abused, were they? Properly fed, I swear, and you saw for yourself they have a warm sleeping place and clean straw. Why damage the merchandise? Not that it’ll fetch much. Hardly worth the trouble of collecting and selling. But I’m a patriot like you, Centurion. I feel it’s my duty to the state to crack down on tax delinquents. I’m very patient, too, especially considering that this is my livelihood and I have mouths of my own to feed. I give those families plenty of time to find the money. Or if they can’t, I’ll take payment in kind, cattle or grain or whatever, marked down no more than necessary to compensate me for the added inconvenience. But they snivel that they’d starve. What can I do then but confiscate a brat? It helps keep the rest honest. If you let somebody evade his taxes, soon you must let everybody, and the government will have no more internal revenue.’

‘What will become of the children?’ Gratillonius asked slowly.

Lugotorix shrugged. ‘Who knows? I pray they’ll land in nice Christian homes and learn the Faith that will save
their souls. See what a good work is mine in the sight of God! But I do have to take the best offer I get, you realize, or else how could I meet my own obligations to the state? And whelps like that don’t command any large price. They have to be housed and fed for years, you know, before they’re grown to field hands or maidservants or whatever.’

A man leered. ‘Got a whorehouse in town where some of the customers like ‘em young,’ he said.

‘I don’t approve, I don’t approve!’ Lugotorix maintained. ‘But I must take the best price I can get. Besides, those rustic brats are seldom pretty enough. We may have one this time, but believe me, she’s a rarity.’

Her hands had lain in Gratillonius’s.

He gulped his wine more fiercely than it deserved. The Empire still did fairly well by its officers, most places. In return, his immediate duty was to sound out these people. They must travel rather widely and hear news from farther yet.

‘Well, never mind,’ he achieved saying. ‘Look, I’m bound west to Armorica. I can’t tell you more. Now I have, um, been out of touch. If you can give me some idea of what to watch for along the way, I’ll be grateful. So will … Rome.’

Flattered, Lugotorix rubbed his chin and pondered before he replied: ‘We don’t hear much from those parts. Courier service across them has got precarious, at least for private messages. Official dispatches have nearly absolute priority, and I understand they aren’t too sure of getting through any more. I actually know better what’s been happening in Massilia than in Baiocassium, say … You shouldn’t have trouble here in Belgica. It suffered little from the Magnentian War, and the Germanian province eastward has stayed quiet too – good Germans, those, not Hun-like Franks. You should find Belgica easy;
and, if I do say so myself, it’s concerned citizens like me who keep it that way. But beyond, as you enter Lugdunensis – my information is that the more west you go, the worse conditions get. I trust you’re not alone?’