Chapter 44
Aridius, like me, was more than relieved and grateful that his sons were safe. Most of the soldiers had returned to barracks and the rest followed a few days later, having engaged in running battles while helping Riothamus in his efforts to secure to the provincial borders of the north and east. Despite the dux best efforts, the threat was, as always, still very much with us. So, the legate’s attention was drawn once more to the administration of a busy garrison.
For my part, I stewed and fretted and thought and prayed about the abduction, what it meant, and what must come next for my sons. Out of my ferment an idea gradually formed which seemed both undeniable and necessary.
I proposed my plan to Aridius as we dressed for bed one night. He heard me out, but was not wholly convinced. “Dear heart, you are making more of this than is necessary. I made a grave mistake and I own it, but thanks to the Good Lord, no harm was done. For that I am more than grateful, believe me.”
“I do believe you,” I told him. “Of course, I do. All the more reason that we should do more than walk around with smiles on our faces, patting ourselves on the back.”
“Is that what we’re doing?” he said. “Not at all. But, see here, it is clear that the boys are more than ready to begin training in earnest. Moreover, they are—”
“No.” I stiffened my back against his forthcoming argument. “You and your soldiers have had them on your practice fields long enough. Now it is my turn. And I mean to show them other fields and other weapons.”
A day or so later, when we were all gathered for the evening meal, I chose my moment to address my sons. “No one is happier than I am that you returned from your adventure among the Saecsens whole and unharmed. Your cunning and daring are a credit to you both.” The two of them beamed with pleasure to hear me laud their bravery and resourcefulness.
“You know as well as any legionary in the yard what is required to march against an enemy. You have been training in soldiery since you could walk. You’ve been taught all the weapons and how best to employ them. You know how to dress for battle. In this, you’ve become masters. Yes, you have.”
This was true, both knew it and took pride in it, and they had nothing to say against my assessment. “But not every enemy you will meet in life is to be found on the battlefield or in a barbarian camp. Not every enemy can be routed with a sword. It is time—and well past time—you also learned how to put on the armor of God and wield the weapons of heaven.”
At this, my two young legionaries, looked at each other, at their father, and then at me. Uther was first to open his mouth in protest, but Aridius cut him off.
“Your mother’s right,” he said, surprising me somewhat. “It is time you were schooled in higher things.”
“We can already read and write Latin,” Aurelius pointed out.
“And we can add sums, da!” huffed Uther.
“This is different,” I told them. “This is instruction in the ways of faith. You will learn the meaning of the Mass, and the prayer of our Lord Jesu—”
“I know it already!” whined Aurelius.
“—and the Psalms, and creeds, and the Good Lord’s parables and their meaning . . .” I said no more. Seeing their stunned and stricken faces, one would have thought I’d taken away their horses and banned them from the practice yard. Their shock was absolute.
“I will arrange for you to take spiritual instruction from Brother Theo. Everyday,” Aridius informed them. And that was the end of it. The boys finished their supper in silence and went to bed with no further discussion.
* * *
Thus, at the beginning of each day, when the church bells rang to summon the monks to prayers, Aurelus and Uther would rise and break fast with their father, then grab up the little leather satchels Theo had given them for their tablet and stylus and, snatching a handful of rusks from the plate, run out the gate and to the school Theo had made for them in a cleared-out storehouse near the church—the “higher school” as he called it. There they sat with Brother Klerwi, Theo, or one of the others, to spend spend the morning learning the ways of God and His Word, of the Blesséd Jesu and His church, and the stories of our faith. In these lessons, I earnestly hoped my two young warriors would learn something of humility and grace and, above all, the need of constant repentance and forgiveness—lessons that would, I fervently prayed, stand them in good stead for the rest of their lives.
In much of this, I think my insistence was vindicated and my prayers, for the most part, answered. Both boys eventually accepted, if not enjoyed, to our good priest’s gentle teaching as he coaxed and prodded, challenged and disputed with them through their daily sessions, and both took up the trials of the course set before them. I like to think that they imbibed as much as they were able: Aurelius to a greater extent, and Uther, admittedly, to a lesser. I expect it could not be otherwise for just as the capacity of one jar might exceed that of another, so too my sons’ ability to contain all the grace and goodness poured out upon them.
Touching that, it was brought to my attention one day that Uther was forsaking his attendance at the daily school. I went in search of the truant and found him making himself scarce in the little yard behind the stables, practicing swords with a young friend. Well, I hauled both of them back to the schoolroom—whereupon Brother Theo not only welcomed the newcomer, but hit on the notion of offering instruction to five other youngsters of the garrison. In this way, the clever priest renewed interest in his teaching and introduced both companionship and a nominal competition into their day, thereby brightening what they considered a dull chore. Enlarging the higher school in this way did increase the boys’ interest in it, and they all went from strength to strength—such that it was not unusual to hear them challenging one another as they tussled in the stable yard: “Psalm 23!” one of them might shout, and the others would chant the answer at the top of their voices even as they lunged with their wooden swords. I saw them at this several times and it warmed my soul to see it.
A season of relative peace settled on us. The ever-upsetting events of the wider world stood off for a time. Indeed, there were only two raids the rest of that year. The entire garrison accounted that a victory and maintained it was the result of the advances the British commanders had made with the Saecsen king Wulfstan and his lords. All laud and honor to the generals, there were many who supported this judgement—mostly those lords with lands and settlements of the borderlands who had suffered the constant incursions and raids that cost men and grain and cattle.
As always, others took a very different view. Folk who had lost lands, holdings, settlements, farms, or beloved kinsmen—lost to the predations of barbarian raids—wanted revenge.
I had my own opinion. I, too, suffered such loss. I could count the cost. I knew in my heart that ultimately there would be no appeasing the Saecsen and their like no matter how many peace councils, pacts, or agreements were made. Even so, I wanted to believe in my husband and do my utmost to support him and his efforts to administer a realm that grew ever more unruly. Increasingly, it seemed to me the small kings and lords were losing faith, or at least patience, with the old order and its ability to preserve a vestige of stability in the region and in the empire at large.
More and more, the lords and chieftains of the province trusted to the edge of their own swords and the spear points of their men to protect and defend their interests—even at the cost of their neighbors and those around them. More and more, they turned from the of virtue of working together to solve a common problem, or defeat a common foe. More and more, they placed grievance above reason, or even simple logic—even when it went against their own best interests. More and more, every lord did what was right in his own eyes, for his own benefit and those of his immediate kinship.
“Look to your own defenses,” Emperor Honorius had decreed. Well, this is what it looked like. It tore at my heart to see all that Rome had built, all that it had cultivated and inspired fade before my very eyes. And it grieved me to the marrow that this was the worlds-realm where Aurelius and Uther came of age and that they would one day inherit. I would have given my life to allow them to know a different world where Roman law and ways were practiced and respected by dutiful citizens. But that world was becoming a fast-receding memory. Soon, it would not even be that.
In the early years of our sojourn in Armorica, the garrison received regular dispatches from other garrisons in the province and Britannia—from Virulamium, Silurm, and even as far away as Eboracum. But as time went one and the barbarian predations increased, those dispatches became more irregular, sporadic, and finally stopped altogether. Official communication was replace by rumor and word-of-mouth; nothing new there, of course, the more remote regions of Britannia had always depended on traders and other travelers for the latest reports of the wider world. Only now there was little else.
As time went on, we heard of battles in the far north and east, of great victories and crushing defeats, of lands gained and lost, of kings and lords waxing and waning. It was the same in Britannia. Chaos, destruction, and war everywhere. Then, one day we learned of the rise of one known as Vortigern. By all accounts he was a shrewd, up-thrusting, young war leader from Britannia’s western hill country, a ruthless chieftain—aren’t they all?—with vaunting ambitions, intent on driving the heathen hordes into the sea, or at least confining them to the Saecsen Shore hemmed about with a strong wall of sharp steel.
From time to time, we would hear how this young warlord was winning battles in the north against the Picti, the Scotti, as well as the Frisians, Angles, and Jutes. Next, word reached us of his ruthless struggle to gain the throne, and how he was taking other, older, seasoned lords into his service. Then came the day when we learned that Vortigern had proclaimed himself High King of Britannia. In other words, Roman rule had been replaced with a native tyrant.
This news was received with mixed reactions. On one hand, his achievements—if true—were laudable: anyone who could rally the tribes and bind them into a single fighting force, regain lands, and curb barbarian incursions deserved to be praised and supported. On the other hand, anyone who had the audacity and arrogance to crown himself High King was not one wholly to be trusted. Armorica’s Britons adopted a cautious, not to say skeptical, view. In Aridius’ words, “So long as this fellow keeps the barbarians from burning our settlements and slaughtering our people, let him call himself whatever he likes. As for everything else? I’ll wait and see.”
So, we waited.
News from the homeland did improve. Against all odds, it appeared that Vortigern had found a way to thwart the worst incursions of the hostile Saecsens and their scrappy client tribes. We heard no end of rumors, of course, of dire tidings from one end of the greater empire to the other. And though these storms of war and waste raged in the wider world, our little corner of the empire remained relatively secure—in spite of the occasional confrontation along Armorica’s always volatile eastern border.
As Brother Theo is fond of reminding everyone, “God is good, and his love and mercy endure forever.” Owing to this milder season of peace, my boys were allowed to grow up far removed from the intrigues and treacheries that stole the lives, and substance, and souls of so many in the arenas of power elsewhere. They grew strong beneath the watch-care of good men like Aridius, and Vitus and, of course, priests like Brother Theo and Brother Klerwi. They learned the craft of soldiery and the mastery of themselves. At their father’s insistence, they learned the art of command; At mine they learned the ways of God, the love of his fair Son, and respect for the ways of His Church. I watched them grow into the men they would become and guided them however I could—especially Uther. For him, I had a special care.
Uther had not his older brother’s engaging demeanor or winning way with people; he also lacked Aurelius’ innate discernment and patience. When younger, he was often frustrated when confronted with a dilemma that did not yield to physical strength—and later, to a spear point or the edge of his sword. The things that his brother seemed to accomplish so effortlessly when dealing with a thorny dilemma, often became for Uther almost insurmountable difficulties requiring exertion and extraordinary effort to resolve. He simply did not possess Aurelius’ aptitude, and this lack chafed him raw sometimes. Aridius had neither time nor tolerance to soothe his younger son’s ruffled feelings. Thus, it fell to me to calm and comfort him—a task that only grew more demanding as he grew older.
Despite this—despite all—I was blessed. The solace I received from the support of good men like Theo, and Vitus—lately elevated to the rank of Praefecti, or Prefect—and many of the legionaries, too, cannot be reckoned. God knows I was grateful for every single day these young ones were at their studies in the “priest school” as they called it. How long this might have continued, I’ll never know.
For the world is ever on the turn. The fragile peace we had enjoyed those last good years could not last. Like the sound of wolves on the winter wind, people heard the distant howl of chaos and withdrew behind strong gates and high walls, fearing the imminent collapse. Only a few dared dream of rescue. Most would settle for bare survival.
Our little garrison schools came to an end, like so much else, one especially cold winter when, without a hint of warning, a vile pestilence, a death-dealing plague swept through Armorica. Constantia sank, like everywhere else, in the grim torrent of sickness and death.