After Rome (20 page)

From somewhere behind Cadogan, a creature squealed. A shrill, malevolent sound, quickly answered by a second squeal. Then another, up ahead.

A living body slithered over one of Cadogan's legs. With an exclamation of disgust, he drew both legs under him and reached back to flail the air with his hand.

Something bit him. The pain was sharp and sudden; the astonishment lasted longer. “There are rats in here!” he cried out.

Esoros made that odd sound again. “Of course there are rats in here, this is a highway for rats. And slaves. Hurry up.”

The presence of the rats added considerable momentum to Cadogan's efforts. As he crawled forward the stinking murk at the bottom was getting deeper. Wherever he put a hand he touched something slimy. Mud, feces, small dead animals. He was thankful that it was too dark to see anything clearly.

“Is the tunnel getting higher, Esoros?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

“Ask the Romans,” said the steward. “They were the only ones who really understood the drainage system. Can you see some light up ahead? That's at the inflow from your house. Your father's house,” he corrected. “We just might be able to reach the laundry room in the servants' wing before they see us.”

The steward's choice of words was chilling. Esoros spoke as if he knew the Saxons were already in the house.

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Knowing that Cadogan disapproved of his idea—and perhaps of Dinas himself—Dinas still could not stop thinking about his cousin. He mentally made and remade his plans, always beginning with one more visit to Cadogan. He must persuade his cousin to help him whether he approved or not. The sort of practical mind Cadogan possessed was essential if the undertaking was to succeed.

Dinas wanted to make another visit to Viroconium as well. Much depended on what Vintrex had done. He was desperate to know—and dreaded knowing.

In unguarded moments Saba glimpsed the darkness lurking in his eyes. She wondered if he was frightened of the task he had set himself. The idea was so unlike him. Dinas was a man who cherished his freedom, who never wanted to be tied down. What could have prompted his sudden desire for kingship and all the responsibilities that went with it?

There was something else going on here, Saba decided; the unidentified problem he needed to think about. She would leave it up to him to tell her of his own volition. Their relationship was defined by the questions they did not ask each other.

Meanwhile she was enjoying her unexpected guests. They were totally unlike Dinas—and unlike each other—yet the three of them together reminded her of a three-legged stool, with each leg providing its share of the balance. Was that why Dinas had chosen the other two to be his companions?

Probably not. The Dinas she knew had always been a totally physical man, not given to analyzing himself or anyone else. Saba's intense inner life was the reason she lived alone with her dogs and her flock. Dinas had bounded into her life like a force of nature, a storm that swept over her from time to time and moved on, leaving her to her own contemplative nature. From the start he had recognized the rebel in Saba that had alienated her from her tribe. Yet he had never explored the reasons for her rebellion.

Seeing Dinas in the company of other men gave him a new dimension in Saba's eyes. With Meradoc he exhibited an almost paternal pride. The little man possessed an uncanny intelligence, not in his head but in his fingers. Anything he could touch, could hold, he could understand and repair or duplicate. By the time he had been with Saba for a few days everything in her house that needed mending was as good as new. He then turned his attention to her lambing shed and sheepfold.

When she tried to thank him he was so embarrassed he squirmed.

“The only fault I can find with your friend Meradoc,” she told Dinas, “is the way he has seduced my dogs away from me. They still herd my sheep but when we come inside they lie down at his feet instead of mine.”

Dinas laughed. “Let me tell you about my horse…”

Saba liked Meradoc but Pelemos intrigued her. He was undoubtedly male and exceptionally strong; using her axe, he cut a year's supply of firewood in a matter of days. Yet when she bathed her face and breasts in front of the fire he looked away. Should she try to lift a heavy object he insisted on doing it himself. If the snow was blowing hard enough to reduce visibility to a dangerous level and they used the night jar instead of going outside to relieve themselves, Pelemos tactfully retired to the loft while Saba used the jar.

Strangely enough, Dinas was less impatient and more polite when Pelemos was around. He told Saba, “I have a theory about Pelemos. I think he was a prince who was stolen by a devil and turned into a farmer.”

She smiled, humoring him. “Are there such things? Devils, I mean?”

“If people can believe in gods they can believe in devils,” said Dinas.

Most people never knew whether Dinas was being serious or not. Saba liked to think that she always knew.

She began to dread the passing of days that would take the three men away from her. She who welcomed every change of light, every fallen leaf or springing bud, closed her eyes to the heralds of the season. She tried to imagine the cabin as a bubble outside of time, holding the four of them warm and safe inside.

Some of the old people knew rituals that could control time. Half-forgotten stories were handed down from generation to generation; stories ignored by Saba's small self, the youngest child of a loud and boisterous family that had quarried slate in the mountains since before the before. The thoughtful little girl who hated noise and loathed everything to do with cutting stone, but preferred to play quietly in a corner and be left alone.

“Dinas said you are something of a storyteller, Pelemos. Is that true?”

“I just repeat what I remember from my childhood.”

“That's exactly what I mean, Pelemos. Could you tell me some of those … memories … of yours? Perhaps in the evening, when we've finished the day's work?”

Pelemos was flattered by the request but afraid he could not live up to her expectations. The title of storyteller was, in the Celtic culture, the equal of a prince. “I'm only a farmer,” he confided to Meradoc.

“Farmers can tell stories, all sorts of people can tell stories,” Meradoc replied, thinking of Ludno and his pompous recitals.

“Can you? What tales did you learn from your parents?”

“None, I'm afraid. I never knew my parents; my earliest memories are of carrying water and emptying slops for people in Deva.”

“Who raised you then?”

Meradoc cocked his head, considering. “I suppose I raised myself.” The little man brightened. “But I once had a friend who was a cat.”

“Cats are for catching rats.”

Meradoc looked disgusted. “You say that because you think like a farmer with a store of grain to protect. But I tell you cats are for cats, just as Dinas said the stars are stars. Their purpose is simply to
be,
Pelemos. Cats and stars don't belong to us.”

“What about horses, then?”

A dreamy look suffused Meradoc's face. “Horses belong to the gods.”

“I thought you were a Christian.”

“I am. But I believe in a lot of things.”

“Either you're a Christian or a pagan,” Pelemos said. “There are no other choices.”

Meradoc, who was realizing that living involved innumerable choices, did not reply.

When the day's work was done and the bowls were scoured clean, they gathered in front of the fire to hear Pelemos tell a story. At first he was painfully self-conscious. Dinas and Meradoc had heard him before, but Saba was different. He felt as if he stood naked before her.

“Go on,” Saba urged. “We're waiting.”

Pelemos drew a deep breath and began to tell a tale.

About a place called Albion.

With the telling his confidence grew, until every word came sure and strong. There was a familiarity about them, as if they were permanently carved in his mind. The story developed its own momentum. Soon he was able to glance at his audience and gauge their reactions without losing the thread of the tale.

Sitting on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees, Meradoc was listening with the openmouthed wonder of a child. For him, Pelemos included a magical cat in the story and made it seem absolutely real.

Dinas had been too distracted at first to settle down and listen, but finally was drawn in by a tumultuous battle fought between heroes. He dropped onto a stool, stretched his long legs in front of him and lost himself in deeds of high valor.

As for Saba, she watched Pelemos with intense concentration, as if she expected to hear a special word or phrase that would transform her life.

I am an ordinary man telling a story he once heard, Pelemos thought sadly. I cannot give you anything special, Saba. And you deserve something special.

He glanced at Dinas; measured the lean dark man as he had never measured him before.

If my daughters were still alive and old enough to marry would I give one of them to Dinas? What do I know of him? He rescued me, but was that a blessing? He has an education, but is that a good thing? He is wild and unpredictable. Is that a bad thing? Ithill said we should not judge other people.

When Pelemos thought of Ithill a light came into his face. He seemed to blaze from within.

Dinas straightened up on his stool. Stories! he exclaimed to himself with a sense of discovery. A man who can get people to listen to his stories will have them in the palm of his hand. I really must get that white horse for Pelemos. In the spring, when we leave here and everything begins.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the cold sewer behind his father's house Cadogan was trying to pray. But the words would not come. What is an appropriate prayer for a man stuck in a sewer, anyway?

He felt an absurd desire to giggle.

“Esoros, are you sure you know what you're doing?”

“Yes, Lord Cadogan. There is a hatch here somewhere … ah, here it is. But … unh … it seems to be jammed. Squeeze in here beside me and help me push.”

There was a time in his life—it seemed very long ago—when Cadogan would have been furious at a servant daring to give him an order. Now he simply wriggled and pushed until he was wedged into the pipe beside Esoros, and the two men put their shoulders to the hatch together. One heave. Nothing. A second. Possibly a fractional movement? On the third try a superhuman effort yielded a grudging response, and the iron hatch gave way, releasing a pent-up flood of dirty water.

Esoros said angrily, “How long has it been since anyone flushed out the washing tubs! I'll have to have a word with … Here, Cadogan, give me your hand.” An iron grip closed around Cadogan's wrist and the steward gave a powerful grunt.

Moments later Cadogan was flopping around on a wet concrete floor like a fish out of water. “
Lord
Cadogan, if you please,” he growled under his breath.

As the two men scrambled to their feet they could hear cries of distress coming from somewhere in the main body of the house. Cadogan gazed around in search of something he could use as a weapon.

The laundry was a dingy concrete cubicle with one small window and one closed door. Water was piped down from a cistern on the roof and heated in a copper cauldron over a brazier. Three deep stone tubs were set into the floor. In order to do the washing the servants had to kneel on bare concrete. Hanging on the wall above the tubs were wooden mallets of various sizes for pummeling the wet fabric, and a washboard for scrubbing it.

A mallet was the obvious choice, but Cadogan reached for the washboard first. Almost as long as his arm and studded with bronze bosses like a warrior's shield. Taking a mallet in his other hand, Cadogan pressed his ear to the door.

“What do you hear?” Esoros asked.

“Nothing now. It's all gone quiet.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“How do I know, I can't see through the door. We'll have to go farther into the house, Esoros.”

“I'm right behind you.”

“You're going to be right beside me,” Cadogan contradicted, “so you'd better grab a mallet.”

“I'm not a warrior.”

“Then try to learn fast. Let's go.” Cadogan opened the door.

He stepped into a narrow service corridor almost as alien to him as the sewer. Walls and ceiling were unpainted. The concrete on the floor had been mixed with gravel to keep feet from slipping. Shallow shelves of roughly finished wood lined one side, while rusting tools and a tangle of worn leather sandals cluttered the floor. There was no window, only a distinct smell of mildew. At the end of the corridor a partially open door revealed a glimpse of the kitchen.

There would be knives in the kitchen.

Esoros had the same thought. They raced toward the open door but Cadogan reached it first, to find his progress abruptly halted by the appearance of a man brandishing an axe.

They stared in surprise at each other.

It was Cadogan's first close look at a Saxon warrior. He saw strong, florid features and a dirty blond beard that did not conceal a bull-like neck. Meaty shoulders sloped into powerful arms. A filthy outer coat made of bearskin was tightly strapped over a massive chest. Beneath this the raider wore a longer woolen undercoat and leggings that reached only to midcalf, skimming the tops of enormous boots. The overall impression was of a figure only slightly less formidable than a walking oak tree.

Cadogan took a hasty step backward, trampling on the toes of Esoros.

The steward yelped with pain.

The Saxon had not realized anyone else was with Cadogan. He stepped sideways, trying to get a look at the man who cried out. In that moment Cadogan darted past him and into the kitchen.

The kitchen was another unfamiliar territory. Most of the cooking was done on a gridiron over a charcoal fire kindled on a raised concrete platform. Shelves adjacent to the platform held an assortment of metal pots and pans, pottery jars and pitchers, a mortar and pestle, pastry cutters and a scale. In the center of the room was an oblong worktable whose deeply scored surface showed that it was used for carving. But there were no knives on the table or anywhere else, as far as Cadogan could see.