After Rome (3 page)

At the opposite end of the room was a wooden bedstead, held high off the floor by oak stumps. The bed was equipped with a horsehair mattress, a rather grimy sleeping pad stuffed with goose down, an equally grimy linen sheet and three woolen blankets. Near the bed a naturally formed stone basin was set atop another broad stump. Cadogan had found the object in the river the preceding autumn, when the water was low enough to allow for easy fording. Over many centuries the river had shaped and polished the stones in its bed as it slowly changed its course. Following the way of least resistance.

The remainder of Cadogan's furniture consisted of a brass-bound chest inlaid with silver and copper, two brightly painted wooden stools, a battered campaign table with folding legs, and a larger oak table. The lamp on that table had been one of his mother's treasures. When he was a child she had guided his chubby fingers around the swirling acanthus leaves engraved on the bronze surface. “See how beautiful, Cadogan?” He had loved beauty ever since.

The woman followed the direction of his eyes. Where he saw achievement she saw failure. Crude construction and a dirt floor covered with chicken scratches. Most of the furniture looked as if it had been hacked out with an axe. Sacks of grain and dried meat were hanging from ropes slung over the rafters to protect the food from rats. Although she could not see them in the dim light, she knew there were spiderwebs in the corners. Worst of all, the place had a damp, musty smell, as if moisture were seeping up from the earth below. She had wasted the last of her tiny vial of perfume trying to sweeten the air.

“It's cold in here,” she complained.

“There's no fire on the hearth,” he pointed out.

“You're out of firewood.”

“There's plenty stacked behind the house, didn't you look back there?”

She said indignantly, “I'm not accustomed to bringing in firewood. Why are you hiding in this miserable hovel anyway?”

“This isn't a miserable hovel, it's my home. And I'm not hiding.” Cadogan wanted to close his eyes but he couldn't, not with her staring at him. “I live alone out here because a solitary life appeals to me.”

“You want to make this pitiful hut a
hermitage
?”

“That's not what I said. I said the life appeals to me, I didn't say I wanted to
be
a hermit. There's a difference.” He was too weary to explain the difference to her, even if he could. His need for isolation had come on him gradually and would, he suspected, fade in time. Of one thing he was certain: he had not wanted it interrupted by a crazy woman. “Put out the lamp,” he said. “It will be dawn soon anyway.”

“I'm not going to sit here in the dark. You might abuse me.”

He almost laughed. “Abuse you? No fear of that … What's your name? I don't even know your name.”

“Don't know my
name
!” She sounded as if it were the ultimate insult.

He tried to be patient. “You may recall that I left here shortly after you and Dinas appeared at my door. The brief conversation I had with my cousin was not about you, but something much more urgent. He never even mentioned your…”

“His horse is dangerous, you know,” she interrupted. “It's killed people. I myself am a splendid rider, but Dinas wouldn't let me ride behind him because he was afraid I might get hurt. He insisted I walk; it proves how much he loves me.”

Cadogan responded with a noncommittal grunt. Felt the pressure of her eyes on him. He must make more effort; hospitality was a virtue. “Dinas didn't tell me your name,” he explained. “He said only that you needed shelter for a couple of days. Perhaps I should have questioned him further but…”

“My name,” she interrupted again, “is Quartilla.”

“Quartilla?”

“It's a perfectly good Roman name! My father was a centurion.”

Cadogan was by nature a kindly man, but the woman's attitude was becoming intolerable. Before he could stop himself he said, “Any number of people make that claim these days. And even if your father was a centurion, I doubt if he stayed around long enough to name you. Tell me what your mother called you.”

She lowered her eyes and gnawed at her thumbnail. “I don't know,” she said sulkily. “She died when I was born.”

He was instantly remorseful. “I'm sorry.”

“Why? You didn't know her any more than I did.”

Cadogan's head felt hollow and his eyes were full of sand. The conversation was going nowhere. With an effort, he propped himself on one elbow and tried to smile at her. “Let me rest for a while, Quartilla, and I promise we'll sort this out in the…”

“Did you bring anything to eat? I'm hungry.”

“There were adequate supplies here, what about them?”

She shrugged. “I guess I ate them.”

“You what?”

“I ate everything that was fit to eat, but not those dreadful dried things. I would have eaten those wretched chickens but I couldn't catch any. And then that wretched rooster bit me. On my leg! He took a whole piece out of it!”

“Kikero was only protecting his family.”

“His
family
?” Quartilla sounded scandalized.

“I don't eat the hens, I eat their eggs,” Cadogan tried to explain. “If I ate the hens they'd be gone and I wouldn't have any eggs. Did you at least throw some corn to them?”

“I don't tend livestock,” she said icily.

“They're not just … I mean … in the morning, Quartilla.” Cadogan gave a deep sigh. “In the morning.” He fell back on the bed and put one arm across his eyes.

She moved her stool close to the lamp so she could examine her fingernails. They were bitten and broken but still stained with henna. She began picking at the ragged cuticles.

Something skittered in the rafters. Quartilla shrieked.

“You're not afraid,” Cadogan informed her without opening his eyes. “You must have heard that a dozen times since you've been here.”

“Of course I'm not afraid! I'm not afraid of anything. It startled me, that's all. I'm not used to vermin in the house, even if you are.”

Ignoring the implied insult, he willed himself to lie still. Relax. Yet he could not stop the silent uproar in his whirring mind. Fear and frustration, remorse and regret jostled with one another in a bid for his attention. After a while he gave up trying to sleep and watched Quartilla covertly from under his forearm.

She was certainly no beauty, he decided. As bony as a fish and slightly cross-eyed, as if she were about to sneeze. Her prominent, high-arched nose could pass for Roman, but Cadogan suspected it simply had been broken at some time in the past. Her coppery hair was obviously dyed. The linen gown she wore might have been pleated once; it might even have been white once. Now it was as dirty as her sandals.

Her voice was the worst thing about her; a crime she compounded by sporadically attempting a Roman accent. When she drawled her vowels her speech was almost unintelligible.

Whatever possessed Dinas? Is the creature a discarded camp follower? No, a common harlot would never use that accent. Perhaps she really is a legionnaire's daughter fallen on hard times.

We've all fallen on hard times, one way or another.

A woman in the house. Would that be so bad? Admit it to yourself, Cadogan—you've been lonely. This is the first time in your life you haven't had other people around you, even if they were only servants. While you were building the fort you were too busy to notice, but since then you've sometimes longed for the sound of another human voice.

Not that voice, though.

The flame in the lamp guttered again and drowned in the last smear of oil. The room went dark. Quartilla put one arm on the table to cushion her head. Within minutes she was snoring.

Cadogan lay rigid with resentment.

So much to think about; I need a clear mind. Why does she have to be here now? It's too late to go to sleep and too early to get up. Too late for yesterday and too early for tomorrow. The ride to Viroconium was a waste of effort, it was all over before I got there. If only Dinas had brought the warning earlier … but that's Dinas, selfish to the core. After he dumped the woman on me I'm sure he never gave her another thought. He does what he wants when he wants and …

Cadogan's thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected sound from outside. The sudden, anxious neighing of a horse. He jumped to his feet and hurried toward the nearest window. In the dark he stubbed his toe and swore under his breath.

“What's wrong?” Quartilla asked groggily.

“There's somebody out there.”

“Who?”

“How do I know?”

“What do they want?”

“They want to know why you ask such stupid questions!” Cadogan snapped. “Keep your voice down and be still.”

“It's Dinas come back for me, I knew he would! Open the door for him at once.”

“It's not Dinas. My horse knows his horse, they would have whinnied to each other. What I heard wasn't a greeting.”

“Horses can't talk,” said Quartilla. “Do you think I'm a fool?”

Cadogan wanted to throttle the woman.

Ignoring the throbbing pain in his toe, he peered through the narrow window. She crowded close behind him. He could feel her scrawny breasts against his back. Her breath fanned his cheek; an unpleasant smell, as if she had a bad tooth. “If it's not Dinas, who is it?” she asked. “What's happening? Tell me!”

In the gray light of dawn he saw a band of men approaching the house on foot.

“We're about to have company,” Cadogan said grimly.

 

CHAPTER TWO

I love the smell of rain, and the scent of the sea. Moisture on a woman's inner thighs. Cedar branches laced with wood smoke. Ice on the wind from the mountains. Freshly turned soil in the midlands.

I can recognize the slightest scent, that is my gift.

And my curse.

*   *   *

Dinas rode with the effortless grace of a born horseman. Head high, shoulders back, spine supple as a willow. His strongly boned face was surrounded by a tangle of unkempt curls that stirred in the wind. From his attire it would be difficult to guess either his origins or rank. Beneath a beautifully cut but well-worn leather cape he wore a faded homespun tunic that came to midthigh, leaving his lower legs bare to allow maximum contact with the horse. His boots reached only to the ankle and were made of soft deerskin. Dinas wore no jewelry, not even a copper finger ring. His homemade saddle was little more than a large leather pocket stuffed with wool and strapped around the horse's belly.

The stallion he rode was the same color as his curls, a glossy brown so dark it looked black. The animal had an elegantly sculpted head, large, liquid brown eyes, and could canter for hours—all legacies from its desert ancestors. Dinas followed every move the horse made with his own body without even thinking about it. A casual observer might have trouble telling where the man left off and the horse began. They might even be mistaken for a centaur from mythology.

From time to time Dinas drew rein to take a closer look at a suspicious mound of disturbed earth or heap of stones. It was a habit of long standing. If he dismounted, the horse stood motionless until he vaulted onto its back again. He always took a careful look around before he rode on. A Noric knife was tucked in his belt and the scabbard at his hip held a shortsword modeled on the Roman gladius. The knife was designed for cutting meat, the sword for skewering men.

Woven woolen saddlebags containing everything else he owned—almost everything—were tied to the rear of the saddle by leather thongs.

Dinas had been born restless, unwilling to let the dust settle on him. Not for him the static existence of town and village. He was most comfortable in wild and secret valleys separated by trackless wastes. Heather and slough, deep lakes and impenetrable forest called to him. As soon as he was old enough to toddle he had wandered away from home at every opportunity. At first his mother ran after him. Then she sent one of the servants. Eventually she gave up and let him roam; any wild thing should be allowed its freedom. His mother was of the Cymric race. She knew about wild things.

That wild streak in Dinas had become an asset.

The loss of the legions had left the inhabitants of Britannia unprotected and increasingly vulnerable. The last Roman administrators had urged the Britons to arm themselves and promised to give them advice about manufacturing weapons and building fortifications. Their promises were worth no more than the air they floated on. In their panic at the end the Romans had departed too hastily, and in too much disarray themselves, to ensure a future for those they left behind.

The educated elite had struggled to maintain order for a while, but their efforts were doomed from the start. Their education had not been total, only what was sufficient for them to do their individual jobs. Each man knew a little; no man had a sufficient grasp of the whole. Civilization as they knew it began disintegrating. The political and mechanical machinery left by their conquerors was breaking down and they did not know how to fix it.

An ostensibly law-abiding society soon became lawless. No one trusted his neighbor anymore. Prosperous families sought to protect their wealth by burying it in Mother Earth. Hordes of coins and other valuables were being stashed throughout Britannia. A wild young man with few scruples and a wide-ranging horse might find treasure almost anywhere.

For several years Dinas had amused himself with this enterprise, but it no longer satisfied him. He needed something more challenging to occupy his mind. To replace the memory that tormented; the anger that burned and scalded and demanded.

The autumn morning found him at the westernmost edge of Britannia, only a few miles from Deva Victrix, once called the City of the Legion. Beyond Deva lay the broad estuary of the River Dee. Beyond that was the Oceanus Hibernicus; beyond that, unconquered Eire.