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Chapter 46

How long I stood at that grave I cannot say. All I know is that a day begun bright and fair had gone gray and cold by the time I turned away from that awful pit of half-buried corpses with its pathetic wooden marker, tears streaming down my face as I was swept away by the surging floodtide of grief. I wept for the cruelty, the futility, the frailty of all flesh and the brevity of life.

I wept not only for Aridius, but for all those lost to this hideous disease and whose lives would be buried with their bones in this noisome tomb. I wept for Aurelius and Uther who would return—if they did return—to a life without a father’s care and strong hand to guide them. I wept for myself and my bewildering predicament. Where was I to go? What was I to do? What would become of me without my rock, the one who had long been the solid anchor of my life? What was I to do without Aridius? How could I raise my two boys to manhood without him?

Sobbing, I turned away from that saddest of sights and moved to re-join Tatiana who was standing a respectful few paces away, solemn, her hands tightly clasped, her lips moving in silent prayer. As I moved to join her, my knees grew weak. I took but two more steps and my legs gave way; I collapsed into a heap of misery, too feeble, too fragile to move. Someone from somewhere—one of the monks from the church, I suspect—picked me up and carried me back to the villa where I came to my senses some time later. A day . . . two days . . . a week? I neither know nor remember.

But there came a morning when, I rose, washed in the basin, put on fresh clothes, and returned to my duties. Despite the ache in my soul, I forced myself to remain busy as I went about my chores—to keep the surge of grief from overwhelming me again, and hold the darker thoughts at bay. Though often exhausted as I slumped into bed at night, this strategy worked. Little by little, as the days slowly dragged away, I began to find my way to the light again. Brother Theo helped in this and, of course, Tatiana, faithful as a shadow. Both of these good friends had somehow come through the plague without yielding to it. So many others—such as Bishop Gosselyn, good man and upright churchman—was not so fortunate. The plague ravaged the town, killing street by street, with the same ruthless efficiency that had spread it through the garrison.

But, the season turned and the hateful scourge abated at last—thank God—or there would have been none of us left alive. For those of us who survived, the ordeal was not over yet.

The scarcity that had long been looming, finally began to bite. One of the commanders ordered a company of soldiers to go into the town and search among the dwellings of the deceased for any supplies and foodstuffs that might be of use. Of course, the undertaking raised an outcry—not only from those of more delicate sensibilities, but from other scavengers who were doing the same thing. Nevertheless, cartloads of gleanings began rolling into the garrison to be distributed among the living. All the items—grain, cheese, butter, dried meat, hard bread, wine, olive oil, clothing, and anything else of immediate use—were stored in one of the vacated barracks and a tribuen put in charge of keeping and allocating the supplies. From the moment the garrison gates were opened each day, the hungry lined up to receive a ration and soldiers kept order in the ranks.

The change, when it came, seemed to happen all at once. One day, the fortress lay swathed in that odd, unnatural silence of disease and death . . . the next day the streets were once more ringing with the shouts and clatter of noisy soldiers. Even I could hear it.

I ran out the gate and into the street to see that the first cohorts to leave Constantia and escape the plague were now returning to rousing welcome. The gates were flung wide and as the first company streamed through, I caught sight of Aurelius and Uther, riding side-by-side up the street leading to the garrison. Oh! They looked as if they had aged years since I had last seen them. They were men now—young men, yes, but they carried themselves with military bearing and wore the confidence of Roman legionaries. I shouted and waved. Aurelius somehow heard me through the clamor and an enormous grin spread across his lean, handsome face. Handing Uther the reins, he threw himself from his mount and instantly I was folded into a crushing embrace. I marveled at the strength of his hands and arms. The months away had indeed changed more than their aspect and bearing; time spent with the soldiers had also made them sinewy and strong.

No sooner had Aurelius released me than Uther gathered me up. I felt his wet kiss on my cheek and the tiny, cold cinder of my heart rekindled and began to glow a little. But then Aurelius, still grinning, glanced around. “Our Da?” he said, keen dark eyes sweeping across the gathered throng, “Where is he?” He looked to me. “Where’s our Da?”

The stark reality of what I had to tell them struck me with like a blow to the stomach. “Oh, Aurelius,” I moaned, taking his hand.

Uther, still holding me, sensed what was to come. He pulled back. “What’s happened to our Da?”

I took Uther’s hand, too, and holding both my boys, I struggled for the words. “He . . . he is—”

“He’s dead!” cried Aurelius.

Uther recoiled and gulped a breath. Then, straightening himself, said, “When did he die?” He glanced at his brother. “We didn’t know.”

“Where is he?” said Aurelius. “I want to see the grave.”

“Yes, of course. I’ll take you when you’re ready and we’ll bring . . .”

“No,” Uther said flatly. “Now. We want to see him now.”

I glanced at Aurelius and saw that the two were of one mind. “Very well,” I agreed. “I’ll take you now.”



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Framed