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Chapter 50

“This is the house you mean?” he asked as we stood before the arched gate of a whitewashed stone dwelling with an old-fashioned red-tiled roof. Its small courtyard was full of leaves and bits of rubbish; a stray animal or two had taken residence and left filth all over the paving stones. Clearly, the place had not been occupied for some time. A tile beside the gate bore the name: Alba.

“The very one,” I said. “Do you think it is vacant?”

“Ah, well. You’ve an eye for property, I can tell.”

“Do you know it?”

“Oh, yes, I know it very well. It belonged to Livius Drusus.”

“The lead and tin merchant?” I had met the man once or twice at some official function or other. “I thought he lived in Britannia.”

“He does,” affirmed Solinus. “That is, he did. He and his wife Claudia had a large villa in Eboracum, but they used to winter here.” The young magistrate nodded toward the empty house. “And here they both died in the first days of the plague last winter.”

He lifted a hand to the gate. “Shall we go in and have a closer look?”

It was one thing viewing a vacant house from the street, but quite another to stand in a room where the inhabitants had died suddenly and, as I imagine, mostly alone. Oh, there might have been friends or neighbors trying to help; there was much of that in the early days of the disease. Those close by would do what they could to alleviate the suffering. But, as the poisonous flood engulfed the entire town, that activity ceased.

And now, I stood in a room where everything was much as Livius and Claudia had left it: a chair furnished with fine cushions still bearing the indent of the body that had last used it; a plate with bits of dried bread on the table; a rumpled rug on the smooth, stone floor. In sleeping chambers the same thing: a bed with coverings strewn aside, and a cloak on the on the floor—as if someone had risen quickly and rushed out of the room only moments before; an overturned jar in the corner, an expensive woolen shawl dropped in a doorway.

The sense of their lingering presence was so strong, it was difficult to believe we were not trespassing. I half expected Claudia to walk into the room at any moment and find us there, or to see Livius stooping to rekindle the fire in the hearth that had long since become cold ash. It was all so, so sad.

We stood for awhile, silent amidst the oppressive stillness of the place. Then, shaking off the gloom lest it overwhelm us, we quickly examined other rooms—three sleeping chambers, a dining room, the tidy little cook house out back, and the common rooms—then made our respectful retreat. Once more in the courtyard, Solinus turned to me. “What do you think? Will Alba House serve?”

I smiled at this somewhat whimsical name and replied, “Yes, the Alba House will serve most admirably well.” I looked back at the house with its white walls and quaint red roof. “It is a fine house and I am happy do whatever I must do to lay claim to it.”

“Easily done,” he said, turning to go. “We will go now and record the change in ownership.”

On our return to the Civitas House my name was duly entered as the new owner of record, and now all my energy was directed toward the move. Taking each room of the villa in turn, Tatiana and I surveyed its contents, reckoning what we owned and could take with us, and what must be left behind; and then we began packing. We were still hard at work when Vitus appeared, striding into the courtyard, and calling my name. I dropped the bedding I was folding and hurried to greet him and asked if he would take a sip of wine with me. I brought him into the villa’s dining room and he saw the chests and crates—some we were still filling and some ready to go.

“Uther told me you have already found a house and have begun to pack your belongings,” he said.

“As you see,” I put out a hand to a half-filled crate, “we’ve already made a good start.”

“That is why I have come,” he said. “I want to offer my services and—” he smiled, adding, “—I brought help.” Turning back toward the courtyard, he beckoned me to follow. “Come and see.”

We went to the gate and looked outside to see a crew of young legionaries—Uther and Aurelius among them—trooping down the street, a mule-drawn wagon rattling along behind. “You brought a whole cohort!” I exclaimed. “But—”

Vitus raised his hands. “No need to thank me. It pleases me to be of service.”

Before I could explain that I was not ready to have my personal things mauled by rough-handed soldiers, Vitus, adopting a serious tone, said, “Aurelia, I have put you out of your home. This is the least I can do.”

Seeing that this was how it was to be, I accepted his thoughtful offer with good grace. After all, strong, willing hands are not to be refused when heavy lifting is required. “Very well, we can start by making Alba House fit to live in.” He raised his eyebrows at this, and I explained. “It is a good house, Vitus, but it is full of ghosts and the clutter of other lives. I want it all gone. I am minded to clear out all of the previous owner’s personal belongings and anything else that will be of no use to me—and that includes the hangings on the walls and rugs on the floors. I want everything washed—top to bottom—scoured with sand and hot water. You can fill the wagon with everything to be discarded and take it to the market square for anyone who wants it.”

He was smiling when I finished. “My men and I are at your command,” he proclaimed and hailed me with a mock salute, then went off to instruct his crew.

With the help of Vitus and his soldiers the work progressed at a pace that made my head spin. With so many hands employed, it was difficult to keep up. I made myself dizzy, darting from room to room, directing, cajoling, pleading, answering a dozen queries at once. “To the cart!” became a chant.

Fortunately, legionaries are used to being yelled at, so all took my protestations in good humor. I could but marvel at the speed and efficiency of well-trained soldiers. I expressed as much to Vitus, who nodded knowingly as we watched the fully-loaded wagon trundle off to deposit its load of useable objects and furniture in the marketplace. “You are not wrong,” he replied, with not a little pride. “I trained them myself.”

We turned back toward the house now nearly ready for my own furnishings. Halfway across the courtyard, Vitus stopped. “Did you hear that?”

I confessed that I did not hear anything, as is so often the case.

“There!” he said, cocked his head toward the garrison on the low rise above the town. “That was the call to arms,” he said. “The troops are mustering. I have to go!”

He dashed into the house and called to those of his men who were still at work. A moment later, they all came out on the run, dashed across the courtyard and out the gate and were gone, disappearing into the street. I started toward the house and then even I heard it—a short, sharp trumpet blast in a rapid succession of rising notes—repeated once and then . . . an ominous silence.



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