Chapter 7
The procurator spoke forcefully, and he spoke long. An able orator with a voice both strong and supple, he easily filled the enormous cavern of a room. Much to my surprise, I had little difficulty hearing him, missing a word here or there, but understanding most all he said. This, more than anything else, caused me to revise my first opinion of him. What did he say that was so important that he summoned everyone here?
Procurator Constantine told us of his recent journey to Rome to seek an audience with the Emperor and his petition, his plea, for financial aid and the necessary troop support to reverse the on-going deterioration of Britain’s legions and garrisons, and to stem the incoming tide of invaders. “I asked for soldiers,” he said. “I asked for weapons. I asked for money to repair the fortifications across our lands. I asked for the help and support of Rome. And do you know what the emperor told me?”
Constantine looked out over the assembly as if daring us to guess. “Can you imagine what the emperor said to his most loyal procurator?”
The basilica fell hushed; the gathering waited with breath abated.
“Emperor Valentinian looked me in the eye, and the supreme ruler of the greatest, wealthiest, most powerful empire the world has ever known told me that he could not spare a single legionary. He could not spare a single sword, a single spear, a single shield. He could not spare a single denarius to pay for a single brick or timber for a single gate or wall. He told me he could not . . . would not help us.”
These words were met with an angry murmur and several shouts of denunciation. The faces of those around me convulsed into expressions of anger, anguish, and disbelief. Raising his voice to knee-trembling strength, Constantine shouted, “Our Great Mother has forsaken us! Are we nothing to her?” His gaze became sharp and hot with anger. “Are we nothing to Rome? A trivial plaything to be discarded when pleasure palls? Refuse to be swept away and burned on the rubbish heap?”
Suddenly, the great hall convulsed with the shivering thunder of voices raised in rage and despair. The shouting mounted, growing ominous, belligerent. Constantine raised his head and looked to the high-domed ceiling as if expecting some answer from on high. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands, palms outward for silence. “My friends,” he said, when the hall had quieted enough to be heard, “we have been scorned, yes, and discarded. Some of you will know that this is not the first time this loyal province has been rejected. But I stand before you today and tell you that it will be the last.”
He began to pace back and forth along the edge of the dais as if to order his thoughts. When he was ready, he said, “My grandfather was a commander of the Second Augusta when the Emperor Honorius replied to our governor’s urgent request for aid with the phrase you will have heard repeated time and again. ‘Look to your own defenses.’ We have done that. In truth, we have ever done that.
“And now, my friends, we must rise to the challenge once again. But this time it will be different. As Procurator of Britannia, I declare that from this day we cease payment of all tribute and tax to Rome, and that any and all such monies will be directed to the building up of our own forces, for our own defenses and protection.”
This decree was received to great acclamation with shouts of approval and stamping feet. The sound came in riotous waves and roared on for some time. Constantine, his face hard, stalked back and forth across the dais until the acclaim dwindled enough for him to be heard once more. “Many of you will have heard that last night a heinous attack was made on members of this body within sight of the very walls of this civitas,” he continued, to shouts and jeers of defiance. “Proconsul Silverius Esico and his audiutor were killed and others were injured—the Magistrate of Venta Silurium among them.”
At the mention of my father, my heart quickened and I gasped. Constantine was still speaking. “This contemptible and cowardly act of cruelty was executed by Saecsen raiders who strike with impunity and often without reprisal.” More jeers and cries for justice. “In former times, our roads were well maintained and travel safe. The citizens of our towns and villages slept secure in their beds at night, protected by an army of well-trained soldiers who kept the peace and enforced the laws and edicts of an invincible empire.”
The procurator came to the center of the dais and paused, spreading his hands in supplication. “My friends, I need not tell you that time has past . . . long past. No longer do traders and travelers journey without fear. No longer are our garrisons were fully manned with well-trained soldiers. No longer are we safe in our beds at night. No longer are marauders, invaders, barbarians taught the utter folly of defying the strength of Roman justice and might. Their outrages of violent brutality go unpunished.”
These words brought another gale of protest: cries for the swift extermination all invading vermin . . . death to Saecsens, Jutes, Angles, barbarians all . . . demands for justice and revenge. This in bellows of such rude hostility it made me blush with embarrassment.
“Today, fellow citizens, Britainna will look to its own defense and we will protect our own. No longer will we live in fear within our own homes. No longer will our taxes go to fill the treasure houses of emperors who care nothing for the lives of their people.” Constantine raised his hands. “Our homeland will be free once more.”
The procurator resumed his throne then and the vicarius invited the delegates to voice their support of the decree. Aridius, standing mute and motionless beside me, stared resolutely ahead as the tempest broke around us: a maelstrom of attitude and argument. Every delegate, great and small, seemed determined to have a say, with one after another dignitary holding forth at length until my head throbbed with the strain of trying to remember the most considered opinions so I could repeat them back to my father. But one thing was clear: the ship Britannia would sever the last remaining ties to Rome and sail out into the world alone.
The clamor was nowhere nearing its end when I felt a nudge at my side. With a nod, Aridius indicated the basilica doors. We made our way back through the gathering and into the street. Once outside, we both took a deep breath, and Aridius looked back. “Remember this day, Aurelia. For good or ill, we are on our own. God help us all.”
We entered the street and he asked me what I wanted to do now and I told him I would go back and tell my father all that I had heard and seen at today’s session. Aridius approved of the idea and said, “There will be more of this in the days to come. There is much to discuss. Go now and rest while you can.” He then summoned a boy—messenger lads were always swarming around the basilica—and paid him to guide me. He sent me off saying, “Tell Tullius that I will look in on him this evening.”
My father was asleep when I returned to our lodgings and Betrys reported that he had dozed on and off all day. The physician had been with him earlier to cleanse the wound again and change the dressing, and left with more of the opium mixture and a warning that we were to remain vigilant and make sure Tullius did not exert himself in any way. They had also moved my father to a small room across from the bedroom we had shared. I thanked her for her care and told her to expect legate Aridius later that evening when, no doubt, he would have more to tell.
Tullius must have wakened and heard us talking because, on my way to my room, I heard him faintly calling to me. With some apprehension, I put my head in the door to see him lying on his pallet looking pale and drained of life. Nevertheless, he wanted to know what had happened at the conclave. I told him briefly about the procurator’s decree and the storm it had unleashed and would have told him more, but Tullius was groggy with the pain potion and marked little of what I said, so I told him to rest and that we would talk more later. “Aridius said that he will come this evening, and he can tell you more then,” I said then, leaving him, I went to my room and lay down for awhile to close my eyes and clear my aching head.
Some little time later, I awakened—having slept longer than I intended. The sun was a mere smudge of fading orange in the western sky and tiny black swifts filled the air, dodging and diving over the courtyard, when Aridius came calling.
On the arrival of his visitors, my father roused himself and made to throw off his coverlet. “Help me, Aurelia,” he said. “I want to get up.”
“Oh, no,” I told him as firmly as I could. “That is the one thing you will not do! Your physician has given strict instructions that you are not to be getting up and prancing around. You must remain quiet.”
“I have been quiet all day, my stubborn daughter,” he said. “And I have never pranced in my life. I promise not to start now. Help me up, and let us go receive our visitors like civilized human beings.”
He was determined and would not be opposed. I suspect the opium addled his mind and made him feel as if he could ignore good sense. As he refused to listen to reason, with great reluctance I helped him to his feet and made him lean on me as we shuffled slowly out into the courtyard and then sat him down on the stone bench beside the little pool. Legate Aridius honored my stricken father with an old-fashioned bow of deference and then settled beside him on the bench. While the two men reviewed what had taken place at the conclave, Helena joined me to discuss other things.
She said something I did not catch, and then remembered my difficulty and repeated the question loud enough for me to hear, but not so loud as to disturb the others. “Have you considered how you and your father will get back to Venta?”
Nothing like the thought had entered my head. “So much has happened, I . . . I. No,” I confessed, “I haven’t thought . . .”
“Well, never mind,” she continued quickly. “I have a plan. In a few days, when Tullius is well enough to travel, you can both come home with us.” Her easy intimacy was such that I felt I had known her forever. If I had a best friend, she could not have been more effortlessly familiar with me, or more understanding. “Come to Deva.”
My puzzled look drew a little laugh from her. “Well, I suppose that may sound a bit strange. Let me explain.” She paused to order her thoughts, then began, saying, “It is in my mind that Deva is far closer than Venta. Two day’s travel—three at a restful pace. Then, Tullius can remain in comfort and allow himself to fully recover before undertaking the journey to Venta. See now, we have a villa in the town with many rooms and servants. My husband is legate, after all, and we are all well used to hosting guests from all over the province. To have you with us would be a thing of no consequence whatsoever, and you would be more comfortable there than you are here.”
“My father’s recovery,” I said. “I don’t know how long it will take.”
“What of that? You can stay as long as needed,” she replied. “Stay as long as you like. You both need get some rest after all that’s happened here.” She smiled and put her hand on my arm. “Please, do come.”
The offer came with such warmth and compassion, I was touched. “If it was my decision to make, I think we would be there already,” I replied. “But this is for my father to decide. We will do what he deems best.”
“Of course,” she agreed happily. “But what do you think?”
“Me? I would like nothing better.”
She smiled. “Then you will speak to Tullius about it?”
“Yes, but . . . perhaps the offer would sit better coming from you—or maybe your husband.”
“As to that,” she said, glancing at the two men beside the pool. “Ari is no doubt suggesting it even as we speak. But I wanted you to know you would be welcome with us—if your father should ask your opinion.”
“It’s been known to happen,” I allowed.
She patted my arm. “Good.” She turned her head and looked across the courtyard towards the house, sniffed the air, and said, “I smell bread baking and I’m starved. Let’s go see what Betrys is preparing for our meal.”