Hadrian's wall (10 page)

There were hoots and catcalls. "Beer takes you to the same place as wine," insisted an annoyed Torus, watching as a slave girl mopped the mess. "More cheaply and with heartier taste." Several guests applauded, and the merchant signaled for another cup. Odo was pushed forward.

"Really?" Clodius slurred. "Well, may I offer an observation on the matter penned by the emperor Julian when he was stationed in Britannia? I find his wisdom appealing."

"Yes!" shouted the assembly. "Recite the pagan emperor's critique!"

Odo bent down beside Clodius to refill Torus's flagon.

"The title is, 'Of Wine Made from Barley,'" Clodius announced. The other Romans laughed. Their disdain for crude northern drink was well-known.

"Who made you, and from what?" Clodius recited, hoisting his neighbor's refilled cup for display and looking at it as if baffled. "By the true Bacchus, I know you not."

There was snickering, a clap, and cries of disagreement. "The wine smells of nectar, as the poet wrote." Clodius cautiously took a sniff. "But this beer, alas, smells of goat!"

Laughter, and applause. Encouraged, Clodius bowed. Then, impulsively, he tilted the beer goblet and dumped its contents over Odo's head.

The slave went rigid. The laughter faltered. Odo stared straight ahead at nothing, blinking his eyes against the sting.

Clodius looked down at the slave's wet head and smiled with amusement. "Little Celt! You don't like your nation's drink? Or are you hoping I'll pour you more?"

The slave knew better than to risk an answer.

Clodius waited, daring the man to respond, and then jerked the goblet toward the slave's face, making Odo flinch as he was spattered with the last drops. "I don't think our Scotti prince agrees with Roman taste, comrades. Perhaps he's too good for us."

The room had gone quiet.

Suddenly the slave shook his head, spraying Clodius and Torus with beer.

Clodius exploded with rage. "Damn you!" The tribune flung the goblet, and it banged against Odo's head. The slave staggered.

Now the bullying had gone too far. Falco jumped up. "By the code of Mithras, lie down, Clodius! You're drunk!"

Clodius turned, still swaying. "On the contrary, dear host, I'm not drunk enough. Half of what I've imbibed has leaked out of this Celtic hole in my throat." He pointed to his scarf and laughed at his own joke, a quick bray.

Galba was watching the little drama with intent interest.

"Lie down, tribune." Now it was Marcus, his voice flat with warning.

Finally realizing that he'd crossed the line of propriety, Clodius gave the groom a truculent salute and did what he was told. "As you wish." He plopped back onto his couch.

There was a long moment of awkward quiet. Then the pipes and drums started up again, Torus was given a cloth to finish mopping himself, and the buzz of conversation resumed. The merchant moved angrily away from the Roman officer.

Falco came over. "Odo, you're excused for the evening," he said quietly to his slave, who was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. The Scotti gave a curt nod and left. The centurion watched him go and then leaned close to the young patrician. "That's just the kind of foolishness that keeps trouble brewing in this country," he scolded quietly. "You don't have to drink Briton beer, tribune, but don't mock it, either. Or my slaves. Or my household."

"My would-be tutor Galba says we must rule the island by fear," Clodius muttered. "I meant no ill will, but I've been in Britannia little more than a month and am already sick of it."

"And have you asked yourself where Galba is, dolt?"

Clodius looked across the room. The senior tribune's place was empty. "Indeed, where is his sullen face?"

"Galba's as anxious not to call attention to that near-disaster in the forest as you seem anxious to commemorate it. He knows it was mere luck that got Valeria away from those brigands. Now you've reminded everyone else! So Galba told me he was going outdoors to spend this night with his men, organizing a guard of honor to restore his own. Don't think our commander won't notice his contrition."

"Galba? Contrite?"

"He's paying penance for both of you."

The young tribune glanced around, suddenly deflated. Everyone was avoiding his look. "I've paraded my shame, haven't I?" he said gloomily.

"Just give the province a chance to work, Clodius. Give the garrison a chance to come together."

"The soldiers don't like me."

"They don't like you because they're not convinced you like them."

The tribune looked miserable. "I want to be them."

"Then act like them. It's the end that counts, young officer."

Clodius stood and swallowed, looking ashamed. "I apologize for my boorishness. I'm drunk, and you're right, I've not earned my opinion of Britannia. I too am going to spend this night in the dark and somehow set things to rights."

"To rights?"

"To somehow, like Galba, reclaim my honor."

Bride and groom at last came together at feast's end. Marcus rose, tipsy himself by now, and crossed the room to where Valeria lay on her banquet couch, her eyes bright with anticipation. Lucinda, playing the traditional role of protective mother, bent to grasp the young woman's shoulders as if reluctant to let her go. The praefectus, painfully self-conscious at this ritual play, grasped Valeria's hand and pulled as if to abduct her. She sat upright, but Lucinda's arms encircled the young woman as if in protest. The groom seemed momentarily perplexed.

"Grab her, you donkey!" someone yelled. "Surely your sword is stiff enough by now to win victory!"

Valeria couldn't help but think of the firm grasp of the horrid barbarian who'd hauled her off her cart.

"Don't yank her! Scoop her!" another suggested.

Grinning uncomfortably, Marcus bent and put his arms around Valeria's waist and under her knees, hoisting her off the couch as Lucinda's grip obligingly fell away. The crowd roared approval, and Valeria put her arms around her new husband's neck, lifting her face. The praefectus pecked her.

"By the gods, Marcus, she's not your sister!"

"Let's take you home," he whispered. She hugged him tighter.

The chariot in the villa courtyard was garlanded with spring fern at its rim, wild roses twisted around each spoke. Two white horses, their harness punctuated by silver coins and their backs warmed by bright red blankets, waited to pull. A bonfire crackled in one corner, and a dozen cavalrymen sat on their horses in full armor, their lances pointed at the sky. Their ceremonial gilded helmets included a full face mask of Apollo, each golden visage identical to the next. The effect was formal and eerie, black holes marking where their eyes gazed out.

Marcus set his bride's feet on the chariot floor and stepped up beside her, tenderly fastening a long fur cloak of Briton fox across her neck. His composure having returned-now that he was at a distance from his audience and half shielded by the dark-he raised his arm in salute to the wedding guests pouring outside. "My thanks for your blessing!"

"Talassio!" the guests cried in response, a wedding salutation inspired by the name of the Sabine bride that Rome's founder had kidnapped.

"To long union!" some added.

"To a long night!"

"To a long spatha-and a receptive target!"

Valeria flushed. Now she would become a woman.

An officer shouted command. "Turma… to the right… ho!" It was Galba's voice, his face as invisible behind the mask as his emotions. What must he think about this marriage that sealed his demotion to second? And where was Clodius? Had he fled?

The cavalry escort rode out of the courtyard smartly, lance heads bobbing, and Marcus let the chariot follow at walking pace. Guests tagged behind, each plunging a torch into the bonfire and then holding it aloft to form a chain of dancing flame. They sang drunkenly and called forward to the newlyweds with more ribald advice and jokes. It was three miles to the gate of the fortress, and as the procession traveled, it began to lengthen, stragglers dropping back from wine, age, or the need to relieve themselves. Still, it was a river of fire that crossed the arched stone bridge and entered the village of square-cornered Roman houses that stacked high toward the looming walls. Whitewashed stone gleamed in the night, and watch fires atop the guard towers beckoned. Far up the lane the fortress gate glowed with more torches, a portal of red, flickering light.

There were five hundred men in Marcus's cavalry, and they'd been turned out on foot for this moment, all wearing the helmets of Apollo and lining both sides of the village lane that led to the gate. Native Britons pressed at their back, anxious to see the beautiful bride of a commander whose fortune affected their own and jostling with each other for the best view. As the chariot passed, the soldiers' lances tilted inward slightly, forming an arbor of ash and iron. Then, as the butt of a decurion's lance came down on the paving stones to mark rhythm, the soldiers cried "Talassio!" in concert, the chant booming from mouths invisible behind their metal masks. The helmets gave the cry an echo, as if issuing from a cave.

Galba's turma of thirty-two cavalry clattered into the fort's central courtyard and again formed a ceremonial line, the chariot rolling up before them. The wedding guests streamed in behind like an exultant mob, torches bobbing. Valeria looked around curiously. The headquarters building was straight ahead, she saw, its grim facade pierced by an entry that led to an inner court and colonnade. To its left was the hospital; to its right her new home, two stories high and aglow with light, slaves dutifully waving colored streamers from its windows. Fir boughs garlanded its eaves, and flower petals were scattered on the paving. Still, there was no mistaking the utilitarian architecture of the military residence: stony, solid, practical, austere. She swallowed. Here was to be her new life.

Marcus jumped from the chariot and lifted his wife down, releasing her waist as if it were hot.

"Kiss the lips of our Venus, Marcus! Kiss so we can enjoy it!"

The fortress commander ignored them.

"He's waiting to kiss more than that inside!"

The couple walked past Galba's solemn patrol to their front door, where Savia waited with a bowl of oil. Valeria dipped her fingers as tradition demanded and anointed the entry, carefully drawing oil along its frame to ensure good fortune. The bride dribbled some drops on the threshold and then, after hesitating, brushed oil on the tip of the carved stone phallus that jutted to one side of the entrance. The crowd roared approval.

Marcus opened the door, revealing a shimmering aurora of candles and lamps, and moved to ceremonially block Valeria's entrance as tradition required. "Tell me your forename, stranger," he commanded, his voice carrying to the spectators beyond. It was the ritual request.

Women had no forename, and so in accord with the Roman wedding custom she used his. "Wherever you are Lucius, there shall I be Lucia," she replied clearly. And now at last he swept her up again and, arms strong, eyes proud, carried her over the threshold and into her new life.

Marcus set his bride down. Their new home had a Briton plank floor, but its interior walls were reassuringly plastered and painted in the intricate and colorful Roman geometric manner. Her new husband made no move to take her cloak, and so Valeria finally unhooked it and gave it to him, letting him drape it over a stool. Savia and the servants had disappeared, she saw. Marcus looked relieved at the privacy, the public ordeal over, but still he was uncertain what to do. "Would you like a tour of my quarters?" He was not accustomed to the pronoun our.

"Tomorrow, perhaps." She was trembling slightly. How handsome her husband looked! But also old and remote and formal, like a statue. He was a quiet man, she realized, and would never have the dramatic instincts of a Caesar or the eloquence of a Cicero. Yet didn't that make him deeper, more honest, and less vain?

"Of course," he said, as if to apologize. "Would you like some wine?"

"I'm already heady, and in danger of floating away."

"I need a cup." He led her up a short flight of steps to the dining room and poured himself one. Flowers had been scattered on the central table, and behind there was a mural of some epic Britannic battle, legionaries surmounting splintered chariots and Britons cowering at their feet. Shields, spears, and animal horns decorated the walls, jutting like the doorway's phallus. "It's a masculine kind of place," he said apologetically. "My most recent predecessors weren't married. It will change with your things." He pointed at some rusting weaponry. "Those are trophies the Petriana won in combat. My goal is to add my own."

"How long has this house been here?" It was something to say.

"Two hundred years, maybe longer. The ghosts of commander after commander must walk here, in a long scarlet line."

"Ghosts?"

He smiled. "A figure of speech. What I really mean is the tradition of the army. I've inherited that, and now you have, too. The cavalry is the best paid and most highly trained, and needs the quickest and bravest men. None from the softer trades, like weaving or fishing. We look for carpenters, stonecutters, wheelwrights, blacksmiths-"

"I'm tired, Marcus."

He looked concerned. "Would you like to sit?"

"We should go to bed." It was a gentle suggestion.

"Of course."

The wedding chamber was small, as in all Roman houses, to conserve the heat of its occupants. There was a single high window of colored glass, a chest, a small table, and a single chair. Spring apple blossoms had been scattered on their bed, and incense gave the room a sultry smell, but its military plainness couldn't be hidden.

"The slaves have done with it what they could," he said.

The two stood awkwardly. Could they teach each other, as Lucinda had promised? Valeria's expectations of marriage had never really extended beyond the ceremony. Now they had a whole lifetime together! She felt intoxicated and dizzy. Marcus was looking at her in a new, strange way, and she was thrilled and frightened to realize that he finally seemed to desire her. And still he seemed frozen.

The oil lamp sent their shadows dancing.

"You're a very pretty girl, Valeria."

She lifted her chin. "Will you kiss me, Marcus? I've come so far."

He nodded and gently reached out. They kissed more deeply this time, his beard exhilaratingly rough-so different from the furtive kisses of the boys she'd known in Rome-and his scent of wine and some deeper man-musk earthy and powerful. She shuddered slightly as his powerful arms went around her, drawing her closer, and kissed him ever more hotly, enveloped in the folds of his toga and dimly feeling his body beyond. Married! Everything was different now.

They broke, gasping.

"Ah, Valeria." He studied her face. "I remember when I saw you in your father's atrium in Rome, so young, so exquisite. You conquered me in an instant! Then so wild and ragged in the forest. And now here you are, so soft again, on this hard frontier."

"Now we're here together."

"Yes." He stroked her cheek. "You've given me a chance at glory."

"We'll share that glory, and together we'll make our name."

"You must warn me if I hurt you. You must tell me what you enjoy."

She nodded dumbly. She didn't know what she enjoyed.

He untied the ceremonial knot that held the waist of her gown, revealing the bridal linen shift that the barbarian had rudely fingered, its weave fine enough to reveal the swell of her breasts, the slight curve of her belly, the delta of her secret hair. Then he moved to the oil lamp, dousing it, and it was completely dark. Valeria felt brief panic. She wanted to cry for him to wait, that she wasn't ready, but it was too late for that, wasn't it? Could he hear the hammering of her heart?

"Take off your bridal tunic."

She nodded to indicate that she'd heard and then realized he couldn't see her. "Yes." She took out the last pins, and it fell to the floor. Her body prickled at the cool air.

She could hear the rustle of his own garments being discarded and the creak of the rope webbing of the bed. "Come, lie beside me."

She shuffled forward until her shins felt the edge of the woolen blankets and stooped, feeling the feather mattress until she touched his leg. Her hand jerked away.

"It's just me."

Venus, give me strength, she prayed. He already thinks me an idiot. She crawled forward to lie on the rich mattress and felt his heat as he came near, his strong hand reaching to touch her arm and stroke her side. It helped calm her. "Please, kiss me again."

He did so, tenderly at first and then harder, more anxiously, and slowly moved atop her. He was heavy, and she could feel this real phallus against her thigh, hard and hot. She half wanted to touch it and half wanted to push him away. So she did neither, waiting to see what would happen. His hands moved over her breasts, and he kissed one of them too, and then his powerful leg levered apart her thighs.

"I'm frightened," she whispered.

"It will be over quickly."

He was breathing hard, pushing insistently. How could she ever accommodate such invasion? She wished they could kiss more first. She clung to his broad back, her fingernails unconsciously biting. Suddenly, there was sharp pain.

"Oh!" She realized she'd cried out.

Now he was impossibly deep, but instead of feeling worse it began to feel better, wet and full. She relaxed a bit. Marcus was moving again, breathing hard, and they rocked as he slid back and forth. She lay obediently, listening to the creak of the bed, trying to inventory what she was feeling. It was not so much good or bad as confusing…

Suddenly he stiffened. Had she done something wrong? He grunted, a half-cry. Then he collapsed on top of her, exhaling.

He lay like a dead man, sweaty.

"Marcus, are you all right?"

He hoisted his head. "Give me a son, Valeria."

Then he rolled off her.

She was shaking. "Will you hold me?"

He took her into his arms. So this was what all the fuss was about! Valeria felt amazed, and a little betrayed. The bed was wet, her husband keeping his own hips away from hers. She still wondered what he looked like.

"I love you, Marcus," she finally said. Her confidence was returning. She was a woman! She gripped him. "Now I want to learn all about you so I can be a good wife. All your thoughts, all your secrets. And everything about Britannia as well."

He breathed against her. "Why are women so inquisitive?"

"We care about our men."

He was quiet for a while. Then: "And I care for mine. No secrets tonight. Dawn comes early in a fortress, and I have to see to my troops."

"Your soldiers? Can't you give tomorrow to me?"

"There's much to do. That surprise in the forest, for one."

She cuddled closer. "What can you do? They're gone."

"Galba is investigating, and he won't rest. He's a raw provincial, rough as bark, but I'll give this to the man: he's a soldier." Marcus was quiet a moment. "What a near thing that was! What if I'd lost you less than a day from my fort!"