Chapter 3
Money in hand and the day suddenly open in front of me, I decided to make the most of the shops and stalls I had glimpsed so briefly along the way before returning to our lodging house to meet my father on his return. With no better plan, I meandered here and there wherever fancy took me. Down one street and up another, I wandered around the town and soon caught myself imagining what it would be like to live in this house or that one, trying to choose the place that best appealed to me.
Upon turning one corner, I found myself at the entrance to a market filled with shaggy cattle and odd little black-nosed sheep with curly horns. I had a brief look, but the noise and stink did not invite me to loiter, so I moved on.
At the end of another street, I spied a church—so grand and big and faced with pale stone, it made Venta’s tidy red brick structure look like a crossroad shrine. Just the sight alone lifted the heart and, since there was no one to prevent me, I went inside. It was empty as an eggshell and just as clean. New swept, even in the corners, and the walls freshly white-washed, it smelled like churches everywhere: pungent incense and holy oil. The stone altar on a low dais at the far end of the room was bare and unmarked, save for a carving of a vine with bunches of grapes and leaves entwined around the legs. The real treasure lay in the center of the floor beneath the domed ceiling: a mosaic of tiny tessera in red and white, brown and black, forming pictures of the Holy Family, angels, and Jesu in his torments on the cross. Oh, I had seen mosaics before, on the floors of dining rooms in villas and houses of the wealthy, but this one was easily the most amazing thing of its kind anywhere—thousands of tiny tiles covering the entire floor beneath the high-vaulted roof.
How long I stood there gazing at the intricate designs, I cannot say, but finally stirred myself when two women came in to sweep—though there was nothing at all to whisk away—saying a small prayer before moving on.
More paths and lanes, more houses, and people in all kinds of dress: town folk in colored mantles and old-fashioned tunics and robes; country folk in rougher homespun; and some from, as I supposed, the wilder places wearing elaborate trousers and cloaks of many colors, and animal skins. Just seeing them all going about their affairs as if they saw nothing odd in this made me feel like I knew nothing about anything beyond my front door. A few days outside Venta’s protecting walls and I was seeing things I never imagined. Who were these people? Where had they all come from? How much more was there to see?
Some while later I encountered another market. This one, however, was kinder to my senses, for instead of animals it was filled with artisans making and selling craftwork adornments of various kinds: elaborate jeweler—necklaces, earrings, arm bands, rings—many decorated with glass, polished stones, amber, and one or two with tiny pearls that must have cost a fortune. There were ornate cloak pins in bronze, silver, gold—shaped like animal heads, or birds, or the strange twisting, swirling tribal designs; also buckles for belts or horse trappings; decorative discs and bosses for shields and such of every description. Like the town fool, I wandered through the lanes filled with tiny shops and covered stalls, gawping everything until my legs threatened to give out.
Besotted by all that passed my wondering gaze, it wasn’t until I found myself standing in front of a shoemaker’s stall that I remembered I had money—at least enough for a new pair of shoes. Under the gaze of the watchful cobbler, I began examining the wares in earnest—looking at one pair after another. Finally, when I had seen enough, I decided on a pair of the high-laced variety made of supple leather attached to sturdy soles. These I waved to attract the shoemaker’s attention. “Yes? Yes?” he said brusquely. “You decided. At last you want to buy, eh?”
“Yes,” I told him. “I like this pair, and—”
“You like them so . . .” The rest was lost in mumbles.
“Sorry? I didn’t hear that.”
“I said,” he raised his voice, “you like them, so buy them. I’m a busy man.”
“I’d like to try them on first.”
He rolled his eyes and shoved them at me. I quickly slipped my foot into one and decided it fit well enough. “How much are they?”
“Ten denarii,” he said.
“Ten!” I was shocked. That was twice what I would expect to pay in Venta. “Too much,” I blurted.
“Buy them, don’t buy them,” he huffed. “Ten denarii.”
I had encountered this type of merchant once or twice before, so I said, “Five—I’ll give you five.”
He snatched the shoes from my hand. “The price is ten. Stop wasting my time.”
“Shoes like that cost five in Venta,” I pointed out.
“So, go buy them in Venta.” He made a motion to wave me away. I watched him replace the shoes on the peg over the bar of his stall.
“Seven,” I said.
He turned back, shoes in hand. “Eight denarii and we discuss it no more.” He looked at me and then at the shoes. “I suppose you want a bag.”
I nodded, and with a snort of derision, he disappeared behind a curtain at the back of his stall and returned with a bag of woven grass of the kind I had seen in the hands of other shoppers I’d passed. I counted out the coins from my purse, and he shoved the bag at me, took the money, and turned away without so much as a thank you. The rudeness of the shoemaker stole the fun out of my purchase, but at least I had succeeded in bargaining down the asking price. Somewhat bruised by the exchange, I threaded my way out from among the tangled labyrinth of stalls and booths.
I must have lingered among the shops and stalls far longer than I knew, for when I finally emerged onto the street once more, the clouds in the sky were thickening and the sun had passed midday. Foot sore and flagging, I decided to start back to our lodging house. Only then did I realize I had wandered without regard to where I was going and now had no idea where I might be. It occurred to me that it might be quickest to return to the basilica and make my way from there. All roads in Viroconium lead to the basilica, the largest and tallest structure in the town. I asked directions of a salt seller and, following his advice, was soon back at the forum. The area around the great edifice was busy with late arrivals to the conclave and local merchants hawking their wares to the newcomers. I paused a moment to reorient myself. And as I stood trying to locate the right street, I felt someone bump into me from behind, almost knocking me over. In the same instant, the grass bag was snatched from my hand. Startled, I spun around and to see a skinny-legged boy in a dirty tunic running away with my shoes, and something else: my purse.
I gave chase, but the boy was nimble and quick—and he knew right where he was going. He flew across the plaza and into the forum and was quickly out of sight. I stalked around for a time, searching among the many alcoves and tents for the thief, anger and frustration mounting with every step. I was on the point of giving up, when I spied my bag lying beside a pillar. With a quick look around, I grabbed it up. Likely, in his flight, he had discarded the bag. The money and the thief had vanished, but at least I had my shoes.
Well, that is what I thought until I opened the bag and found that although it did indeed contain shoes, they were not the shoes I had purchased and tried on, but an entirely different pair! The disagreeable shoemaker had switched the ones I’d bought with a cheaper—and, to my mind, uglier—kind. The ones in the bag were thicker, heavier, more like something a stone mason or farmer would wear to work, not me.
Lied to, stolen from, my heart pounding from the chase and from rage, my ears ringing and head aching, and frustrated beyond endurance my loss, the last threads of my frayed composure snapped and I sat down against the column in the forum portico and let go the tears. The forum, the activity in the square, the basilica, the world entire dissolved in a floodtide of misery as I sat there sniveling—wondering why I had ever come to this horrible place and vowing never to go anywhere else ever again.
“What is the matter, child?” A woman’s voice floated down from somewhere above me—loud enough, but with the odd, singing lilt of the north that I have since come to know so well. Then, such speech was new to me and it took me a moment to understand . . . Child?
What! Nearly fifteen-summers old—and it was that long since anyone had called me child. I was jerked back to awareness. I smudged away the tears with the palms of my hands. “A beggar boy just stole my purse,” I blurted before I’d even so much as glanced up.
“Well, perhaps he needed it more than you,” came the reply.
The answer surprised me. Looking up, I took in her features for the first time to see a handsome woman—young still, with fair, even features. Dark eyes beneath arching, gull-wing brows gave her an intelligent and thoughtful look. Some might even have called her beautiful. Her long dark hair—impeccably braided and arranged in artful coils—was adorned with tiny gold pins. Her mien and manner, and her rich blue gown of costly material, spoke of wealth and rank. “Do you know what I think?” she asked.
I shook my head and she replied, “I think you are far too pretty to be sitting here crying in the public square where every cold eye can see you.”
Pretty is not a word I often hear when folk speak about me. So, for the second time in as many breaths, I was brought out of myself. Who is this woman? Why is she even speaking to me? Did I hear her aright? What does she want? Suspicion raised its chary head.
She said something more, but I lost the words and, touching my ear, explained, “I’m a little deaf. But, if I can see your lips—”
“I understand.” She turned her face to me and repeated, a little louder: “I said I admire your hair.” She waved a manicured hand to one of my many wayward strands. “Such a wonderful color. I don’t think I’ve ever seen red like that.” Then, indicating the bundle in my lap, she asked, “What have you there?”
Full wary of this stranger now, I held the bag a little tighter. “Shoes.”
“Oh, let’s see them.”
I carefully peeled back the coarse-woven bag to reveal my unhappy purchase. “Oh, now, well—” Her look betrayed surprise—I suppose because I’d bought something so unbecoming. “I have something similar—for working. Very sturdy.” Then, “I love the smell of new leather, don’t you?” She then turned her attention to me once more. “Your accent—I’m not familiar with it. Where are you from?”
Although she seemed friendly enough, I did not know her and could not imagine why such an obviously wealthy woman should take any interest in me. I got up to leave. “I have to go,” I told her.
“Yes, so do I.” She did not move, but stood before me, barring my way. “The brooch you are wearing—”
“It’s not mine,” I said quickly. “It’s my father’s. He gave it to me for the day.” I turned away and started off.
Ignoring my rudeness, she fell into step beside me. “A brooch like that—he must be very important.”
“He’s magistrate of Venta Silurum,” I told her, hoping that his title would lend me a little authority.
“Venta . . . Venta Silurum, did you say?”
“It’s a small town in the south. You won’t have heard of it.” Why was I telling her this? “Please, I should go.”
“Your father—what is his name?”
“Tullius,” I replied, edging past her. “Tullius Paulinus. You won’t have heard of him, either.”
“No, you are right about that.” She turned with me. “But I expect my husband knows him. He knows everyone.” She looked me up and down. “You’re here for the conclave aren’t you.”
Like everyone else in town, she knew about the conclave. My wariness increased. What did she want from me?
“We’re here for the conclave, too—my husband and I, that is.” Before I could reply, she hurried on. “My husband is Aridius Verica, Legate of Deva. Do you know Deva?”
Not certain I had heard correctly, I shook my head anyway. “Please, I must go.”
“So must I,” she said. “I shall accompany you—part way, at least. A young girl cannot be too careful in a place like this.”
How well I knew it! Still, I hesitated. But, since there did not seem to be any way to dissuade her, we started from the forum together. “I’m Helena. What is your name?”
“Aurelia.”
“What an enchanting name. I like it.”
We made our way through the crowded forum. Upon reaching the entrance, a sudden dizziness made me sway on my feet. I put a hand to my head and paused. My self-appointed companion regarded me narrowly. “Have you eaten anything at all today, Aurelia?”
In my wandering investigation of the town, I had not thought to stop for a meal—not even a sip of water.
“Well, have you?”
Too embarrassed to answer, I shook my head.
“Ah, then your luck is with you,” she said breezily. “As it happens, I was just on my way to sample the offerings in the market. I want you to join me.” Seeing my hesitation, she added, “It will be my pleasure, and I will take it as a personal insult if you refuse. Have you ever had a pie?”
“P-pie? Is that what you said? I don’t think so.”
“Then that is where we will begin,” she decided. “I know a man in Baker’s Lane who makes the most wonderful pies. Don’t look so forlorn—you’ll like it.” She gave me a smile which, combined with the softness of her mouth and the warmth of her eyes, told me kindness was as natural to her as breathing. Any resistance I had maintained until then simply melted away. “This way—it isn’t far. Come along.”
Without waiting for an answer, she started off and I fell into step beside her. From that moment, our fate was sealed.