After Rome (33 page)

“Now down to business, Cadogan. You know my intentions and I assure you I am able to carry them out. Is there any reason why the provincial magistrate or his deputy would disapprove? Under the circumstances, I should think that anyone who is able to turn back the tide of invaders would be considered a hero.”

“There are suitable rewards for heroes, but they do not include giving them entire provinces.”

“Come now, Cadogan. You speak like an educated man, surely you have studied history. The ultimate reward for a hero has always been land. When we are successful here I plan to give large tracts to my two generals as their reward.”

“You will turn back the Picts and Scots yet give more land to…”

“To the Saxons. Yes. In my opinion they cannot be stopped anyway; there are too many. Is it not better to make friends of them rather than enemies?”

“A lot of people won't see it that way, Vortigern. Especially those whose land you give to the foreigners.”

“There may be trouble,” Vortigern agreed. “In fact I am sure there will be trouble. But change happens anyway. I intend to ride the tide rather than be swept under by it.”

“You don't happen to know my cousin Dinas, do you?”

“I don't think so. Do I need to know him?”

For the first time since they met, Cadogan smiled. “There is always that possibility.”

*   *   *

As Cadogan and his companions were returning to the fort Godubnus remarked, “I'm glad to be going home with my head on my shoulders. When you said ‘You know what to do' back there, I had no maggot's notion of what to do.”

Trebellos added, “I thought you meant for us to attack those two bodyguards of his. We would have been slaughtered.”

“I didn't want you to do anything,” Cadogan told them. “I just wanted the others to think there was something you
could
do; something they might not like.”

“How did you leave things with Vortigern?”

“I have no doubt he will ask Ogmeos about me, but Ogmeos will back me up. He's always had great respect for my father. No one really knows who has any authority in Britannia now. Or how much. Vortigern seems to be new at this business of making himself a king; he's causing a lot of noise but treading carefully. I can't prevent his usurping a kingship; what I can do—I hope—is ensure our safety within his territory. That's what we talked about. We came to an agreement that the refugees from Viroconium would be allowed to settle and farm without interference, and if necessary, his warriors would protect us. In return I promised him that neither Vintrex nor myself would oppose his kingship.”

“And Vintrex will agree to that, will he?”

“I'm not going to tell him about it.”

“He'll find out sooner or later,” Godubnus warned.

“You know the condition my father's in; he may never be able to understand what's taking place. Anything could happen before then. As I understand it, Vortigern's arrangement with Hengist and Horsa won't be complete until they drive the northerners back across the Wall. In the meantime Ogmeos and the other chieftains may decided to rebel against Vortigern. He's impressive but it takes more than that to make a king. If those two Jutes fail…”

“Did you see the way they looked at me? They knew I was a Caledonian.”

“But they didn't attack you, Godubnus,” Cadogan pointed out. “That means hostilities haven't begun yet. We have a little time to get ourselves settled.”

“You mean, get ourselves dug in.”

“That's another way of putting it.”

“What about the livestock we came for? We didn't buy a single animal.”

“I thought it best not to let Hengist and Horsa know we had any money on us. We'll find pigs and cows somewhere else.”

“Or live on roots and berries,” Trebellos muttered to himself.

*   *   *

The work on the settlement continued. Cadogan pushed the others harder than ever, anxious to have as many as possible under a snug roof before the winter came. Building was only a part of it. Without anyone to teach them, they had to learn long-forgotten skills such as making charcoal and brewing beer and tanning leather. For some of them it came easier than for others. It was as if the blood of their ancestors spoke to them.

There was a social dimension to be considered as well; one Cadogan had not thought about before. Among the group there were four men for every grown woman.

While everyone was desperately busy it did not seem to be a problem. Cadogan was only vaguely aware of fleeting glances, occasional touches. Simmering rivalries. The time would come when those things began to matter.

Meanwhile Vintrex grew increasingly irascible. Esoros withdrew into a hard shell of negativity, like some old turtle caught on a sand bank. And Quartilla's mannerisms were maddening. Yet whenever Cadogan needed something urgently, she was there. Unfortunately she was also there when he wanted to be alone. She had an unerring sense of those times when he retired into contemplation to work on a plan or solve a problem, and would interrupt at the crucial moment, shattering his thoughts like windblown seed.

None of the men showed any interest in her, though she boasted of imagined conquests. Cadogan would have been delighted for anyone to take her off his hands. He began to think of offering a dowry with her.

“Godubnus, have you ever thought of marrying again?”

“After four tries? No thank you. I struck lucky with the last one; that means it's time to quit.”

“Nassos, you're a sturdy young man. Surely you feel the need for a wife.”

“Who do you have in mind?”

“Quartilla would do for you, she's a—”

“I don't think so.”

“Karantec, what about you? I assure you Quartilla is the best cook in—”

“No,” Karantec said firmly.

“Even if she came with a dowry?”

Karantec narrowed his eyes. “How much?”

“Let's say … a gold denarius?”

“And where would I spend it? Better I remain celibate. You should marry her yourself, Cadogan.”

“I don't have time for a wife,” Cadogan said hastily.

*   *   *

There had been a time—how long ago it seemed now!—when the leaders of Viroconium society had ordered their servants to load a wagon high with delicious edibles and potables, soft blankets and folding stools, and had driven several miles out into the country to enjoy “a rustic feast.” Which lasted only until the first drop of rain or the first wasp sting.

Those pleasant pastimes now seemed like fantastic tales invented to entertain credulous children. Members of the former upper class were becoming intimately acquainted with the realities of rustic nature. Bathing only rarely, in icy streams populated with things that squirmed or bit. Squatting uncomfortably behind bushes in the rain, with only leaves to wipe their buttocks. Eating whatever they were given without asking what it was or where it came from.

The forest that had looked so picturesque in the distance, so invitingly cool on a summer's afternoon, consisted of living trees that held on to life with a tenacity to match that of human beings. Every axe blow meant to kill an oak left human muscles aching. And it was not enough just to fell a tree. Smaller trees were used whole, as logs for the walls, but larger trees had to be debarked, their branches removed, and their trunk sawn into planks. In the beginning this basic task took a team of neophyte woodcutters several days. Clearing an entire site for building could take weeks.

The necessity to have water close by eliminated a number of otherwise excellent sites. More than one woman set her heart on a house on a hilltop, only to learn she was going to have to live in a valley.

It was not enough to have a cleared site. The ground where the house would stand had to be leveled before construction could begin, and provision made for drainage. Cadogan showed the others how to pour buckets of water into the center of the space and watch how it ran off. If it simply formed in a puddle, channels had to be dug, filled with pebbles and then covered over before the walls went up.

Men began reminiscing about drainage tiles in the way the women spoke of peristyles and reflecting pools.

Thatching roofs was another challenge. In retrospect Cadogan knew he had made a botch of his the first time, but he had tried again and again until he discovered the secret and made it watertight. Sod had to be cut, dried, netted—which necessitated weaving grass ropes—and secured to the roof timbers to support the weight of the thatch. He was forced to use cedar for the cross beams because cedar was lighter than oak and easier for one man to lift. He discovered that the downward slope from the rooftree had to be at a precise angle, steep enough to allow water to run off but not so steep as to encourage the thatch to slide off. Reeds from the river were good at turning water, and the air within their hollow stems added insulation, but they had to be cut, gathered and transported.

Cadogan demonstrated the art of thatching to the men. And commiserated with fledgling thatchers when they tumbled off a roof.

Women learned to plait grass ropes and to cut and gather reeds; children learned to chink log walls with mud. Everything had to be learned. Everything was hard. Men and women looked at Cadogan—or rather at his fort—with new respect. Knowing what he had accomplished by himself was a challenge to the other men.

More than one woman flirted with Cadogan when her husband was not around.

He was scrupulously careful not to respond to them in any way that could be misunderstood. With every day that passed he was more aware of his responsibilities, his unwanted, unasked-for responsibilities. They were such a small community and their existence hung by such a fragile thread.

Houses began to rise in the forest; a thatched timber rectangle on each cleared space. To the citizens of Viroconium they might be huts, but they were snug and solid. Expectations were being scaled down. The nature of “civilization” was changing. Civilization meant living with like-minded people who respected and helped one another.

When he had a rare few moments to call his own and was not fully occupied with planning or building or sorting out arguments between his fellow settlers, Cadogan liked to wander in the forest. Among the trees. Occasionally, in the precious quiet of solitude, memories of the past would pop into his head like isolated jewels. Himself as a small boy, crying over a skinned knee, and Domitia gathering him into her arms and comforting him. The tenderness of her kind face smiling down at him.

A slightly older version of himself racing his cousin Dinas through the columned splendor of the forum. The light slap-slap of his sandaled feet on the smooth paving stones, and Dinas laughing. Dinas who always won their races, swift as quicksilver; Dinas darting out of sight a moment before one of the civic councillors appeared to chastise the rowdy children. Cadogan standing there with his head down, taking his punishment—until Dinas hurled a pebble from his place of concealment and drew the man's attention long enough for Cadogan to make an escape.

Dinas. Laughing. Perhaps dead now. Like Domitia and who could say how many more?

It did no good to summon up the past, Cadogan decided. Nothing could be gained by it, nothing could be changed; that task was done. Concentrate on the future.

In the arboreal peace of the living, breathing forest, Cadogan wondered what sort of civilization would come to Britannia with Hengist and Horsa.

When the settlers gathered at the end of the day to share a meal and discuss the next day's work, they sometimes spoke of Viroconium. Without actually saying so, they were aware that the city's wounds had been mortal. No one could have continued to live in those noisome ruins for long.

“The other survivors are probably scattered throughout the territory by now,” was Regina's opinion.

Esoros said glumly, “Or they may all be dead.”

“I doubt it,” Godubnus told him. “Likely they're doing what we're doing, trying to stay out of the barbarians' way.”

“Would they not try to rebuild the city?” asked Nassos.

Cadogan said, “The Romans built Viroconium, not us. Our people wouldn't know how.”

“But we're learning how to build now,” he heard one man whisper to another.

Sitting among them, staring into the fire, Cadogan was beginning to dream a new dream. He saw himself rebuilding Viroconium. Not as it had been; he admitted to himself that times had changed. Strength had become more valuable than luxury. He would employ a design of his own, combining half-remembered technology with Celtic resourcefulness. Houses would be adaptations of his own fortress. On the foundations of the courthouse he would erect a great timber meeting hall, rectangular in shape, with the walls curving upward to a vaulted and thatched roof. Not Roman. British.

Quartilla nudged him with a sharp elbow. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That's a lie, you can't think about ‘nothing,' any more than you can see ‘nothing.' Were you thinking about me?”

“Why would I think about you?”

“Because you're a man. All the men think about me, I can see it in their eyes.”

“You must have remarkable powers of vision, Quartilla.”

“I do. I can even see the future.”

“Then tell me what you see.”

“In my future?” she asked brightly.

“No, in ours; all of us here.”

She pursed her lips and tried to look thoughtful. Suddenly she laughed. “You believe I can see the future? Cadogan, you fool!”

Stung, he replied, “No, I never believe a thing you say, Quartilla.”

“Good. That makes you a bit less of a fool.”

As so often before, her reply left him speechless.

“No one can see the future anyway,” she said after a few moments. She began to fumble with her hair. The red dye had almost grown off, leaving greasy brown locks with crimson tips, as if the hair had been dipped in blood.