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Chapter 47

The church yard bore stark witness to the pestilence: countless patches of overturned earth, many with temporary wooden markers—the individual graves that had been dug in the early days of the desolation. The massive charnel pit dug at Aridius’ insistence was now a large muddy depression. Mostly full, covered in soft earth, but unmistakably a mass grave of recent use, awaiting closure. Here and there, a bit of burial shroud could be seen—often the cloak the victim died in—poked through the soft dirt and, God help us, a stench unlike any other emanated from the depths.

I allowed the two their moment of reckoning and then said, “I had hoped to prepare you better.”

Uther shook his head in disbelief. Aurelius, moist-eyed, murmured, “I didn’t . . . We didn’t know.” He turned to me and, in a small, shaken tone, said, “We didn’t think it was this bad. We had no idea.”

How could they? Purposefully kept away from the worst ravages of the disease and its hideous progress, they could not begin to know what we were suffering at the garrison.

“Which one is his?” Uther asked, regarding the grim array of grave markers spreading across the churchyard. “Where is our Da?”

“It’s here,” I said, indicating the mass grave before us. “This is his place.”

Instantly angry, Uther turned on me. “Not good enough!” he shouted.

Aurelius echoed his brother’s outrage. “How could you—,” he flung a hand at the great, gaping hole with its heap of dirt beside it. “How could you allow this . . . this travesty?”

“Travesty?” Stunned by the accusation, I stared at him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“He was legate of the legion, for God’s sake!” Aurelius charged.

“He was somebody!” cried Uther. “And you’ve thrown him into a stinking pit like just . . . anybody.”

Their indignation provoked me something fierce. The words surged up hot and sharp. “How dare you!” I shouted. “How dare you accuse me! Were you here? No! You were not here when we dragged the dead out of their houses and piled them on the burial carts! You were not here when the sick lay moaning in the streets, soiling themselves, too weak to move! You were not here when the shrieks and wails of breaking hearts filled the day and night!”

Both shut their mouths and looked away.

“You look down from your lofty thrones and imagine that I have somehow dishonored your father by allowing him to share a common grave?” I continued as it all came pouring out. “Look at it! Look at it! Do you think any of this this is what I wanted? Do you think that this—this is what I would have chosen of my own volition? Do you imagine there was some better choice I refused to take?”

That gave them pause and I glimpsed the first signs of contrition. But, incensed now, I did not relent.

“I tell you that I did not! There was no better choice. Death was all around us and we did what we had to do. Yes, Aurelius, your father was legate of the legion. And yes, Uther, he was somebody, and worthy of all the care and attention we gave him. But if he rests here it is not with just anybody, as you have it. He rests here with people he knew, people he loved, people he served. Aridius is laid to rest among friends in holy ground. I tell you, every living soul among us should aspire to as much and hope for no less.”

I left them there and returned to the villa alone.

By the time they returned home, both boys were chastened. Aurelius found me where I was at work in the dining room. He came quietly into the hall and, without a word, sank to his knees before me. Hands at his side, he hung his head. “You have a fool for a son, mother,” he said. “You have every right to be angry. I was wrong and I am mightily sorry.”

So abject in his remorse, I was moved to comfort him. I rested my hand on his head. “This is not how I imagined this day,” I told him.

He glanced up, eyes full of hope. “Forgive me?”

“Have I not already forgiven you in my heart?” I glanced around and saw Uther standing in the doorway, watching, uncertain what kind of reception he would receive. “And you, too, Uther. I forgive you. Come here.”

Like a pup that has been punished, he shuffled over to stand beside his brother. Aurelius stood up and I embraced them both. “I have missed you so much,” I said, my voice catching. “So very, very much.”

They both mumbled something in reply. Wiping a tear from my eye, I stepped back, holding them both at arm’s length. “Stand there and let me look at you.” I took in the sight, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re both so tall—and thin! Didn’t they feed you at all?”

Both boys grinned with relief. “We ate, yes,” Aurelius said. “Only one meal a day most days.”

“And we had to work for it,” offered Uther, assuming something of his usual boyishness.

“I’m sorry about Da,” said Aurelius, suddenly thoughtful again. “We didn’t know. . . .”

“I wish we could have been here,” added Uther sadly.

“What would you have done?” I asked, then answered: “Nothing that was not done—except get sick yourselves. Even I got sick in the end.”

“You, too?” said Aurelius, aghast at the idea and at his own lack of thought.

“Maybe it wasn’t the plague. I’ll never know. But I survived and your father did not.” I let that settle for a moment, then said, “He died in the night with Brother Klerwi by his side. I was not there with him because, by that time, I was stricken. When I came to myself again, he was gone.” I sighed. “They showed me his grave as I showed you today.”

We talked more after that, mostly about how they had occupied themselves in camp while waiting out the plague. Supper that evening was a melancholy affair; both boys kept stealing glances at the empty chair where their father would have sat at the end of the table. Bless them, they felt so bad—for me, for behaving the way they had, for themselves and the grief they now felt, for the hardship everyone had endured, for the cruel injustice of it all.

I did not doubt the depth of their feeling; I know they grieved in their own way and would forever feel their father’s absence, even as I felt it. But, youthful spirits do not remain low for long. It was impossible for them not to return to their chief pursuit: becoming soldiers.

Joining the legion was not a decision either one of them made as a considered, deliberate choice; it was merely accepted as a self-evident fact. That they be would anything other than soldiers never occurred to them; or, I must say, to anyone else who knew them. Certainly, I was never consulted and any misgivings I might have had went unspoken. So, a day or two after their homecoming, both boys dashed off to speak to the commander of their adopted cohort—rather, the cohort that had adopted them—as if legionaries seeking new orders. And I began the task I had been dreading—and putting off doing—for weeks but could not put off any longer: finding a new home for myself and my boys.

The death of Aridius left the legion without a legate, obviously. In the ordinary run of things, a new legatus legionis would be swiftly appointed. The governor, procurator, or maybe even the emperor for all I know—some official somewhere—would select from among men of rank and experience a man suitable for the position. And that would be that.

But this was not the ordinary run of things and, truly, had not been for some time. The vicious plague altered any sense of normality in the region, along with nearly everything else. Throughout Armorica, Gaul, and the wider world of the empire and beyond, the pestilence had carved vast swathes of death and desolation. I expect that many a contender suitable for the job of legate had been removed from consideration by his recent demise, and any others with higher aspirations to power were unwilling to make the move to a plague-ravaged outpost of little importance and less hope of advancement.

So, it was determined by the powers that be that the new legate would be chosen from among those already in command in Flavia Gallicana. This threw the garrison into convulsions of indecision. The governing authority lay with the most senior commander in the region: Dux Riothamus. However, he—as ever and always—had other garrisons and more pressing matters to worry about and made it clear that, so long as the next legate was loyal and capable, he would accept the decision of the garrison commanders. This did little to aid the actual decision-making process; choosing the next legate remained as much a dilemma as ever. The problem, as I came to understand it, was that the generals considered taking on the administrative duties and title of legate to be something of a demotion, a loss of rank, status, and authority. Aside from that, each considered his services much more useful, if not required, in the field—especially when defending against yet another attack or barbarian incursion.

I’m not suggesting that they were mistaken in this belief. No doubt they were right. Who was I to say? But it did mean that the office remained vacant. The outcome concerned me, of course, but there was nothing I could do about it one way or another. Even so, my own path was clear. Whoever the new legate might be, he would take possession of the legate’s house and official quarters. I had little choice but to begin making plans to vacate the villa, a task that I approached with a heart full of dread.

Our modest garrison villa may not have been as grand as that at Deva, but it had nevertheless been our home. Here, we four had been a family, the place where Aridius and I had raised our boys, and the only home the two of them had ever known. To leave it like this was, to me, a sorrow sharp as a knife in the gut.

Aching with regret, I considered which of the paths before me I might choose. Should I return to Deva, where I would find folk who knew me and, more to the point, where the name Aridius Verica still commanded respect? Or, should I go back to Venta, my father’s home and the home of my birth? Then again, why return to an old haunt at all? Maybe better to go somewhere new—but where? Maybe we should stay in Constantia: prosperous, in its own way, and secure enough because of the garrison that dominated the town. Also, my boys’ pursuit their military careers could proceed unhindered, their place in the legion was assured, and they would not have to face starting over in a new garrison. Stability, security, and continuity had much in their favor in a world increasingly unstable, insecure, and lurching from one cruel upheaval to another.

It was with this in mind that I began making little trips to the town round about, exploring the areas near the garrison to see which might offer a modest house for purchase or rent. What I discovered, however, fair took my breath away. Though I knew the plague had devastated the town—how well I knew it!—and I imagined myself prepared, the damage I witnessed far worse than anything I imagined. In street after street, house after house stood vacant, the owners dead or fled. No area remained untouched. I quickly concluded, as I went about my rambling search, that I would have my choice of dwelling from a wide range of possibilities.

That is, if I chose to stay in poor, sad Constantia.



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Framed