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Chapter 42

Aridius and the troops were to be gone eight or ten days, roughly half that time spent travelling to the north-eastern frontier and the troubled borderlands. I tried telling myself that at least the boys would learn something of how an army moves and how tedious and exhausting travel could be. I also tried telling myself that perhaps Aridius was right after all—that Aurelius and Uther did need to learn something of the land and the people they lived amongst and would, perhaps, one day lead. I tried telling myself that they would return crowing with triumph, expecting the hero’s welcome as if they had conquered the entire eastern empire. In truth, I tried telling myself no end of things to ease the tight knot of fear in my gut.

Some of the things I conjured to help calm my troubled mind and spirit did help—but never for long. At night, when alone in my chamber, my imaginings turned lurid and terrible, and shadows of gloom lingered long after sunrise. I grew more fearful with every day that passed. On the eighth day—the first that could have seen the legion’s return—I yearned to run to the front gate to get a glimpse of the long column approaching on the road. Dreading the inevitable disappointment, I forced myself to stay away. The dull sun heaved its weary way across the heavens, eventually giving way to a cheerless evening. Even so, against all odds, I rose from my rest filled with the certainty that my boys would return the soon.

The ninth day passed without sign or word.

Likewise, the tenth day. On the eleventh day I made so many trips to the gate that I lost count. The twelfth day I spent in and out of the little chapel with a worried Theodorus looking over me trying, with little success, to soothe me with words of comfort and hope and admonitions to take courage.

Finally, sixteen days after the troops set out, the sound of the marching drums came floating over the wall. As it happened, I was already on my way to the gate for yet another futile look down the road—otherwise, I’m sure I would not have heard it: a distant, rhythmic rumble and the blaring notes of the buccina sounding in even, measured blasts. By the time I reached the gatehouse, the doors were being opened to receive the weary travelers. Already, the column was closer than I guessed. The first ranks had almost reached the wall: dusty, tired, care-worn, and few weary smiles among them.

They were led by one of the younger centurions. Neither Riothamus nor Aridius were anywhere to be seen. And if I had imagined Aurelius and Uther would be first to burst through the gate—galloping and whooping as they came—then I was cruelly disappointed. I cannot adequately describe what I felt as I watched and waited to see my men amongst those who made their way, row on row, through the gates of the garrison. I gazed at each face as it passed before me, my soul writhing with worry. Great God, where are they? Where are my boys?

Other women and children joined me to watch the parade. Some of these voiced shouts of welcome to their menfolk and received smiles and nods of greeting in return. But there were no such greetings for me. I searched among the mounted soldiers and those on foot, and finally caught sight of Vitus—stumping along heavily like all the rest.

“Vitus!” I shouted shoving nearer. “Over here!”

He left the ranks to join me and reached out a gloved hand; I took it and squeezed it tight. “Aurelius and Uther—where are they? What’s happened?”

“The legate is close behind,” he told me. “He will tell you.”

“Not so!” I hissed. “You tell me! Now!”

He shook his head, unwilling to be drawn, and I saw pity in his eyes. “Aridius is soon here. Talk to him. I’m sorry.” He pulled his hand away and strode on. It was then I saw that he wore a stained bandage on his upper left arm.

In could in no wise stand by and wait for Aridius to come to me. I started to run down the length of the parade—past the foot soldiers and then the supply wagons, until finally I saw my husband. “Aridius!” I shouted. “Here I am!”

He rode from the line, pulled up, and threw himself from the saddle. An instant later, I was in his arms and he buried his face in my neck. I held him and he clasped his arms around me so tightly I could hardly breath. His shoulders began to shake and I felt the neck of my mantle grow damp as the tears flowed from him. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” he moaned over and over.

I pulled away from his embrace and stared at my husband, this father, this legate and leader of men. He stank of smoke and horses, and looked as if he had not eaten in days. The damp eyes peering back at me were black coals in his ashen face. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

“Aridius!” God help me, I slapped him. “Where are my boys? Tell me!”

“I . . . I don’t know,” he stammered. Unable to face my fury, he looked down at the dust in defeat. “They were taken.”

“Taken!” I gasped, unable to comprehend what he was saying. “What do you mean—taken?”

“At the camp when we were at negotiations,” he said. “Barbarians took them—they took our boys. Aurelius and Uther were captured.”

Oh! It was as if my heart had been carved whole and beating from my chest. How I survived the crushing weight of those words I cannot now recall. I must have screamed. I must have shouted and ranted and cursed my poor broken husband—all that seems likely. But the only thing I remember is the numb, hollow feeling that dominated every waking moment for the next few days. Somehow, the sun kept rising—albeit on darker days than before—and I kept breathing. Brother Theo, with his gentle presence, stood by, willingly doing any practical task and constantly praying for the safe return of my boys. That dear, humble man was a rock of strength in a raging sea of bitterness, reproach, and regret. But when I heard him assuring Aridius that “All things remain in the Good Lord’s hands who never ceases bending all ends to his wise and loving purpose.” I could not listen. Those words meant nothing to me. I turned away.

The story finally emerged little by little, piecemeal. From the collected fragments, the story as I understood it came to this:

One day when both Aridius was at the parlay with the commanders and the Saecsen kings and overlords, Vitus was called away to bring some needed item or something and the boys were left in the care of one of the camp guards who did not fully appreciate what was being asked of him. The boys had wandered off and by the time Vitus and Aridius returned, they could not be found.

The camp was quickly scoured from top to bottom, to no avail. The area around the camp was searched—including the stream where they might have gone to play. There, signs of horses hooves and boot prints were found—and a wooden sword on the ground: Aurelius and Uther had been taken.

This information sets in motion a chain of events: Aridius informs Riothamus who challenges the Saecsens who deny any knowledge of the abduction. The Theng is over. Riothamus orders up troops and, rather than face a superior force, the Saecsens decamp and flee to safety deep behind their borders. Meanwhile, Aridius and Vitus have organized a party to enlarge the search for the boys—a dozen mounted soldiers—and off they go.

The search continued for ten days and by then it became clear that the legion must return to the garrison. “We came back to get fresh horses and provisions,” Aridius explained. “We will ride out again as soon as we are ready. This time we will take more men. We will not stop searching until my sons are found.”

“But who is searching now?” I demanded. “You said you would not stop, but here you are!”

“One of the local chieftains—King Budic. He and his men have taken over the search. They know the region better than anyone else. They will keep searching—we will not give up searching until we find them.” He promised.

I had no reply to this.

Ari reached out in a gesture meant to reassure. “On my life, Aurelia, they will be found.”



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Framed