The Boat of Fate (29 page)

The refectory was empty when I stepped back through the door; the last of the Brothers had gone about their business. Only Prudentius remained. He stood before the windows, back turned to me, hands gripped behind him. He stiffened slightly when I started to speak, but didn’t turn. I gritted my teeth, swallowed, and made my apology to his unresponsive neck. I asked his pardon for my harshness, which had proceeded from lack of understanding; I pleaded my youth and ignorance, and begged him in his charity to end the enmity between us. He heard me through impassively before he turned; then I saw to my amazement that he was smiling broadly. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘I forgive you with all my heart. Your apology was handsomely made. For my part I believe God speaks in you, though curiously; and I myself have known . . . ahem . . . older heads than yours turned by excess of zeal. Consider the thing forgotten; while with regard to your request, I promise I’ll confer with the Father here to see what can best be done. As you realise, I’m not entirely without means. But on one condition, mark you, one condition only.’ He wagged a thick forefinger sternly under my nose. ‘You’ll show me, before I leave this place, a repentant heretic. The Scythian must be brought to the Light; and through him the souls of those wretches he has so recklessly imperilled. ...’

So the thing was ended; and shortly afterwards I took my leave of that pompous, untalented, generous-hearted man.

‘So, Ulfilas,’ I said, ‘there the matter stands. You’ve been leaving this camp without my knowledge or permission; worse, you’ve been stirring up trouble and unpleasantness in Massilia, which is a poor return for all I’ve tried to do for you. Now you’ll make recompense. You’ll own the Son as you own the Father, unreservedly; and you’ll do it at once, before the Bishop of Massilia. You’ll be formally baptised into the true Faith; then you’ll come with me to Cassianus and his sponsor to vouch for it in person. Is that clear?’

He didn’t answer; just stood in front of me with those glowing eyes of his, hands clenched rigidly at his sides.

‘If you don’t,’ I went on equably, ‘you’ll find life growing somewhat tedious again. Don’t imagine for a moment I shan’t punish you; also don’t entertain any illusions about the form my spite will take. I’ve no intention of giving you the satisfaction of becoming a public martyr; you’ll simply find yourself back where you came from, tethered securely in a place from which you’ll have no opportunity for the conversion of the unsuspecting to any brand of Christianity at all. For the rest, temper your stubbornness with a new and beautiful thought. If Jesus was truly the Son of the Highest, then the State, far from merely denying your God, went to the length of crucifying him in person. For you, that should open brand-new vistas of loathing. Now get out, and find yourself a respectable tunic. You leave in half an hour; in one direction or another....’

I had gauged him accurately. The light of Heaven might have meant little enough to his sullenness; but to be penned, after his freedom, far from the golden opportunities of oratory and subversion, was more than he could stomach. The ceremony went without a hitch; and I afterwards repaired to Paeonia’s home congratulating myself on a piece of work effectively, if crudely, done.

Cassianus’ reaction to my visit was unexpectedly swift. A week after Ulfilas’ conversion a heavy cart jounced its way into the mine compound. The Father had come in person to inspect the workings, bringing with him three or four of his Order who were apparently skilled masons and carpenters. What they saw left them in no doubt of the urgency of the job. A few days later a small convoy rolled to a halt in front of the Praetorium. Each cart was loaded with building materials, stone, bricks and balks of timber; the parting gift of the Senator, who I was told was already on his way back to his Tarraconensian estate.

Work began at once under the direction of the Brothers, whom I discovered had nearly all been artisans of one sort or another before taking their vows of poverty and obedience. A chapel was consecrated alongside the building site, and a new air of optimism began slowly but surely to pervade the whole establishment. Winter as usual slowed the work considerably, but by early spring of the following year a whole range of neat new huts stood ready to receive their inmates. Small parties had already taken up residence, but I was destined never to see the full fruit of my labours. Easter passed, celebrated with more than usual fervour in the camp, before Paeonius at last sprang his carefully baited trap.

Winter had likewise put a temporary end to my jaunts along the coast. With the first fine weather, though, the carruca set out once more, with myself and an excited Paeonia on board. Gildo, Paeonius’ doorkeeper, drove us; apart from him we were for once unattended. The Libyan had changed his usual robes for the costume of a charioteer. He was a surly brute, whom I’d never heard exchange more than the odd grunted word with anybody; but he certainly looked spectacular enough, and his handling of the horses was excellent. We made fast time to the town gates, followed the Via Domitia up to and beyond the mine.

Paeonia had taken a fancy to see the mysterious pipeline she’d heard so much about, through which water still flowed defiantly uphill in contradiction of the laws of God and man. I’d warned her there wasn’t much to look at, but she wouldn’t be deterred. As it happened, the idea suited my own plans nicely. There had been no time to spare for routine maintenance on the channel; I had been intending to ride up and inspect it anyway at the first opportunity. Once beyond the camp we left the highway, turning on to the track that wound up through the hills. As the aqueduct came into sight I called to Gildo to follow its line as closely as possible, and to drive slowly. I leaned over the side of the carriage, noting the places where growths of moss round the slabs indicated leaks that would have to be plugged. I marked some of the worst spots with stakes driven into the earth. It was past midday before we reached the little valley at the head of the lake.

The appearance of the pipeline was as unimpressive as I had promised. Rank grass and weeds had seeded themselves round the cisterns; I prized the cover from the nearer tank to show Paeonia the clear water' welling up inside. Afterwards we followed the course of the gully westward, leaving Gildo to attend to the horses. Some half mile farther on, the game path we were treading curved away from the valley, circled a hollow screened by bushes and tall saplings, hazed with fresh green. It was a delightful spot, one that promised shelter from the still-keen wind. Paeonia ran ahead of me into the little dell, calling excitedly; I followed more carefully, clutching the basket we had brought with us and that contained our meal. We spread a cloth on a rock and ate, sharing a flask of light wine; afterwards we sat chatting idly, at peace with ourselves and the world. An hour maybe passed, and I was wondering vaguely what had happened to the Libyan when I felt Paeonia’s fingers tighten convulsively on my arm. I stiffened in turn, following the direction of her gaze.

What I saw sent me icy cold. Halfway up the opposite slope, black against the golden shimmer of sunlight, stood a massive wild boar. He must have turned aside from the path--I remembered, belatedly, the danger of following such tracks in unknown country--to grub among the roots and bushes of the hollow. He had come silently, upwind of us, and hadn’t scented us; but he had certainly seen us now. He was studying us with one glistening eye; I saw him toss his head, scrape the ground with a neat, wicked little hoof.

There was nothing I could do. I was unarmed, except for the short dagger I usually carried; not that any hand weapon would be of the slightest use if he chose to attack. None of the saplings were stout enough to climb, though even if they had been we would never have reached them in time. He was barely twenty paces from us; if he decided to charge he would cover that distance before I could draw a breath. From what experience I had had of the creatures I knew they were generally shy, avoiding mankind wherever possible; but the knowledge was little comfort. This brute was old; I could see the worn patches on his hide, the criss-crossing of scars on his massive shoulders and neck. A solitary male, if I was any judge, driven from his herd by infirmity or age, and wholly unpredictable.

Our best chance lay in immobility; I whispered to Paeonia not to move, and to keep her eyes on the ground. The minute or so that followed seemed like an age. The creature stayed stock-still; once he stamped again uncertainly, and snorted. My heart came into my mouth; then, with dramatic suddenness, he wheeled, crashed back through the bushes to the lip of the dell. His hoof-beats drummed on the hard ground beyond, faded into silence. Paeonia made a sound halfway between a cough and a sob, and flung herself into my arms.

What happened next was as unexpected as the intrusion of the boar. I soothed her, stroking her hair, holding her close to stop the trembling; and suddenly it seemed her nearness, the warmth and firmness of her body, compounded with gross relief to work a change in me. My lips closed on hers, nearly involuntarily. She stiffened; then she was moaning, deep in her throat, jamming her tongue and teeth against mine. We rolled from the bank on which we’d been sitting, into a crackling tangle of branches. Her hair fell across my face, I reached for her again; and she was pushing at me desperately, thrusting me away. I saw her eyes, wide and appalled, the shocked circle of her mouth; then she was up and away, scrambling across the sloping ground. I would have caught her but a boulder turned under my foot, flinging me heavily backwards. I struggled up and saw for the first time, framed in moving leaves, the grinning face of the Libyan.

I panted to the top of the slope. By the time I reached it there was no sign either of Gildo or Paeonia. I began to run, calling her name confusedly. In my haste and distress I missed the path. I found it eventually, hurried along it. I was rewarded by a glimpse of the carruca dwindling in the distance.

I sat on a rock and cursed every God I could bring to mind and most of my acquaintances, not forgetting myself and the Libyan. When the fit passed I started to walk, hoping at each bend of the road that I would see the carriage waiting for me. There was no sign of it. Evening found me still walking, but by that time my grief had changed to fury. Had I known then what I later guessed, that after the first blind panic she pleaded with Gildo, begging him to turn, things might have worked out differently. But the grim doorkeeper had his orders; he held the carruca at breakneck pace, not checking his lathered team till he dragged the horses to a halt outside his master’s door. Night had fallen when I met an oxcart, driven by a bad-tempered peasant. A couple of pieces of silver finally persuaded him to turn back. Undignified though the conveyance was, I climbed aboard it gratefully. I had no cloak, and the wind had chilled me to the bone; also the memory of the encounter with the boar was still too fresh for comfort. I finally plodded into the mine compound at midnight. I took myself to my quarters, and for the first time in many months spent a couple of hours studiously getting drunk.

I passed an appalling night. I did my best to keep the rage at fever pitch, but it was useless. All that remained was the memory of Paeonia. I saw the sunlight sparkling in her hair, the close golden texture of her skin; saw her, in fact, with greater clarity than if she had been beside me in the flesh. I groaned hopelessly, cursing in the dark. I had declared myself for what I was, a hopeless and importunate lover; now nothing would ever be the same between us again.

I rose before dawn, hazy from lack of sleep, and made my way to the camp baths. An hour’s sweating cleared my head a little, but I hadn’t broken my fast before the rumble of wheels in the compound warned me I had a visitor. I walked to the door of the Praetorium. As I had suspected, the carruca was back; and with it a thoroughly enraged Paeonius.

He stamped ahead of me with his face like a thundercloud, refusing all offers of wine and food. ‘Here’s a fine thing,’ he burst out when he had me on my own. ‘Here’s a fine thing indeed, a fine repayment for the trust I placed in you. What do you have to say for yourself? I hope you’re satisfied with yesterday’s work?’

I pointed out wearily that whatever the cause of the commotion there was certainly no need for it; and he drew himself to his full height, stared at me red-faced and quivering with rage. ‘No need, sir?’ he bellowed. ‘No need? My daughter dishonoured, and no need to make a fuss! Yes, dishonoured; and take that look off your face, I know by who!’

I think my jaw must have momentarily sagged. Distressed though I was, I’d never heard such arrant rubbish in my life. What story he’d been fed I had no idea, but he was obviously labouring under a vast misconception. I tried to explain that all I’d done was comfort the child after a bad fright, that I wouldn’t willingly have harmed a hair of her head; but he wasn’t to be placated. He had a witness, he said, an unimpeachable witness; the slave Gildo, for twenty years his true and faithful servant, had seen the whole affair. The Libyan was prepared to swear, if necessary before the Bishop of Massilia himself, that the girl had been deflowered.

I sat back appalled. It seemed Paeonius took my silence for fresh proof of guilt; he proceeded, puffing, to embroider such a tale of devilry that I felt my own colour starting to rise. ‘Very well, then,’ I said, losing my temper in turn. ‘I’ll go on oath before the Bishop as well; and we’ll see whose word stands, that of a Roman officer or that of a blackamoor. . .’

He looked up quickly at that, with an odd expression in his close-set eyes. ‘I wouldn’t stretch your honour too far if I were you,’ he said. ‘I don’t think in your circumstances it would be wise.’ Something in his tone quietened me. I had the disagreeable sensation of meshes once more closing swiftly and silently round me; I stared at him, waiting for him to reach whatever proposition he had in mind.

‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s very much better. Now you’re using your intelligence.’ He was sweating profusely; he wiped his forehead, and it suddenly occurred to me that the rage and grief were mere play-acting. And pretty bad playacting at that; Paeonius being a villain was if anything more absurd than Paeonius standing on his dignity.