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Chapter 12

Someone of greater wit, someone more canny or worldly-wise might have guessed what lay ahead. I confess that I did not. I suppose my own cares loomed so large with me that I could not see beyond them; here I was, standing in the middle of a forest with trees crowding my view in every direction. Should I have at least tried to glance beyond my worries to see the shape of things to come?

Perhaps.

After all, I attended the conclave in Viroconium and I was there when Procurator Constantine delivered his urgent call to action to meet the rising threat of invasion in the face of Rome’s fecklessness and failure. I was there when Constantine made that fateful proclamation that Britain would no longer look to our Great Mother for nurture and protection; henceforth we would provide these things for ourselves. I should have recognized this for what it was: a cataclysm in the making. But the sorry truth is, I was oblivious to all but my own small concerns.

Certainly, I might be forgiven my blindness. The tempest of waves stirred up by Tullius’ death swamped my own miserable little boat and continued to occupy my life following the funeral and for many days thereafter. Where was I to go? What was I to do? What would become of me? These concerns were all my waking world.

One plan after another was conceived, weighed and, for one reason or another, discarded. The first I realized that the procurator’s decree would alter the existence of every citizen on this island—and far beyond, come to that—the very first glimmer of the disaster to come was when the messenger arrived some days after my father’s funeral. Like many another before him, the skinny youth simply appeared in the courtyard bearing a small leather pouch from which he withdrew a scrap of parchment, this one bearing a red seal.

Aware of his arrival, I glanced out into the courtyard and saw Augustus accept the message and dismiss the courier with a coin. He returned to the workroom with the packet in his hand, regarding it as if it was a sleeping snake that might bite if awakened.

“What is it?” I asked upon joining him. He did not reply. I think he already guessed the contents and was trying to think how best to respond. “Augustus?” I asked again. “What’s wrong?”

“This is from Glevum,” he replied, still looking at the sealed parchment. “From the proconsul.”

“Glevum has a new proconsul?” I wondered. “So soon?” Well I might ask. Esico had been slain in the same attack that had wounded and eventually killed my father; and Mona had also been slaughtered by brigands on the way home—a brutal assault I was trying very hard to forget. These were recent events and, as my father insisted, I knew that a replacement would be found, it still surprised me that the change had come so quickly. I pointed to the parcel. “Open it and see what it says.”

Augustus nodded and slid his thumb under the flap and unfolded the stiff parchment. He read a moment, then regarded me with an expression I had never seen before—a look of mild astonishment, or was it dismay? “He’s coming.”

“Who is coming? The proconsul?”

He shook his head. “The magistrate.”

“Which magistrate?” I demanded. “You’re not making sense, Augustus. Tell me.”

Our new magistrate,” he replied in a hollow voice. “The proconsul has appointed a new magistrate for Venta and he is on his way here. He should arrive any day.”

“A new magistrate . . . here . . . but . . .”

Well, of course. That is the very nature of things. Life goes on. Old things pass away and new ones replace them. Still, it can be a shock when I happens to you—all the more when it happens so fast.

It seemed to me that the funeral had only just taken place. Sunk so low in grief and mourning, I had paid no attention to the passing of time, or what must come after. Now, the reckoning had arrived. Augustus and I stood in silence for a long moment, each thinking how this change might affect us. Finally, I said, “Can he do that?” At Augustus’ blank look, I added, “Can the new proconsul of Glevum simply appoint a new magistrate for Venta just like that? Don’t we have any say in it at all?”

Augustus looked at the message in his hand once more. “It seems not. Venta is within the provincial boundary and Glevum is the principal civitas, so . . .”

“So that is that,” I concluded, anger at some perceived injustice spring up within me. “A new magistrate just like that. It isn’t fair. We should have been consulted—or at least told.”

“I think we just were,” replied Augustus with large, sad eyes. He waved the message in the air. “We have just been told.”

With the benefit of time, the nature of the situation has become clearer to me. The raider’s attack at the conclave meant that a valuable southern province had suffered not one but two painful losses—that of an able proconsul and an esteemed magistrate—leaving two empty places, essential posts needing to be filled. There was nothing to be gained by leaving those offices vacant; the smooth functioning of government required a swift response. Procurator Constantine had wasted no time in appointing a new proconsul to Glevum, who had appointed a new magistrate to Venta. All right and proper.

Older now, and with many years of life and the judgment of hard-earned hindsight, I realize that these changes were inevitable—of course they were. At the time, however, the arrival of the new magistrate came as a blow I felt down to the soles of my feet. And, though I could not have guessed, it was but the first of many jolts that were to come following my father’s death. I was not to know it then, but my feet were already on the path leading to places I had never been and could not have dreamed I would go.

“There it is,” Augustus concluded, snapping the parchment with a fingernail. “The new magistrate is coming. We can but hope he is an able, upright, and honest man.”

“Thoughtful and kindly would be nice, too,” I added, resignation settling over me like dust from a coming storm.

Ah, well. Able and honest Lucanus Marocanti may have been, but thoughtful and kindly he was not. This we were to learn within the first moments of his arrival.

Four days after the message announcing his appointment, Lucanus Marocanti climbed out of a horse-drawn cart and stood in the street outside our door. I cannot now recall what I may have expected, but it was decidedly not the sudden appearance of a young man of striking mien: quick, dark eyes, immaculate black beard razored short, hair like curly black fleece. He was arrayed in the old-fashioned Roman style with a long cream-colored tunic, half-sized cloak and short red trousers, and wore the fine woolen stockings and high-laced sandals favored by those of an archaic aristocratic bent.

Tall and decisive in movement, always giving the impression that he was about to dart away on some errand of import, or ready to take immediate action, he seemed never to rest, and never to have any but the briefest of moments to greet you or deal with you about anything at all. Smiles were rare and fleeting. I never saw him laugh.

Lucanus—or Luc, as he preferred—was young, as I say, but ever strove to appear a much more mature man. I suppose he had risen so swiftly to his position of prominence that he had adopted this guise in order to be more readily accepted by his fellow officials, as well as by those he must govern. Then again, it might have been that as a upward-thrusting official from some distant province, he knew himself foreign and ignorant of local affairs and sought to make up this lack of experience with a show of busy efficiency. Whatever the reason, I am not at all convinced that the pretense served him as well as he imagined.

Our new magistrate also came with a wife. Oh! And such a wife!

If Lucanus imagined himself an elder statesman of lofty mien, then Velvinnia was a princess of vast domain and golden renown. Imperious to an intense and insufferable degree, she was also lazy and endlessly self-besotted. In fact, she was not long in Venta before merchants and townsfolk began calling her Queen Velva. If she had commanded slaves, I do believe they would have strangled her in her bed before the month was out.

The carriage drew up, as I say, Lucanus stepped out, took in the place of his new appointment, and swept into the courtyard, closely followed by his wife. The new magistrate stopped in the middle of our cozy little enclave and cast his imperious gaze around, a slight frown forming on his face as Augustus, Dorcas, and I assembled to greet him. His wife took her place beside him and gave the house and courtyard a quick once-over glance. “Shabby,” she pronounced.

“No matter,” he said. “We can change it.”

Augustus moved quickly to introduce us to the new administrator. The magistrate raised his hand in an indifferent greeting. “I am Magistrate Lucanus,” he said, “you may call me Luc. And are you the steward for this estate?”

“No, magistrate,” replied Augustus, “I am Magistrate Tullius’ adiutor and assistant.”

“Was.”

“Pardon, sir?”

Was, you meant. I am magistrate now.”

“Yes, I was his assistant.” Augustus turned to me and Dorcas and put out his hand to continue the introductions.

“I won’t be needing an assistant,” Lucanus informed him. “Though I shall keep you on a few days to brief me on any outstanding business Tullius left undone.”

He made it sound as if my father had been careless and neglectful by dying so inconveniently. His tone rankled instantly; my fists clenched and my spine stiffened.

“And after?” wondered Augustus.

“After what? Do strive to make yourself understood, man.”

“You said you would keep me on a few days. I was merely inquiring about your intentions after that.”

“We shall see what we shall see.” He gave the courtyard and house another glance and said. “The magistrate’s chambers—where are they?”

“This way,” said Augustus, indicating the separate wing of the house.

“Show me.” He turned and started away. Dorcas and I were left standing in the middle of the courtyard with the magistrate’s wife.

She regarded us for a long moment. “You two—who are you?” she asked. “Servants?”

“No, we are—” began Dorcas.

“To be sure, I’ll be hiring my own household staff in due course. A magistrate must have the best servants obtainable.” She turned to me. “What do you do?”

Her voice was low and I did not hear her properly. I stared back, hoping she would repeat the question so I could understand.

She moved closer. “I asked you a question,” she snapped. “Are you mute?”

Dorcas made to intervene. “If I might—”

“I am talking to her,” she said. “I will speak to you directly.” She turned back to me. “Well? I am waiting.”

“Not mute,” I muttered. “Deaf.”

“What? Speak up, girl!”

“I am part deaf,” I said loudly. “I do not hear very well.”

“Oh. I see,” she sniffed. “Was that so difficult?” She turned to Dorcas. “And are you the housekeeper, I suppose?”

The elder woman shook her head. “I am . . . ah,” here she faltered as her role had never been properly defined. “ . . . a friend. I have been helping here while Tullius was ill.”

“What is your name?”

“I’m called Dorcas.”

“You will call me Domina Velvinnia,” she declared, then turned her disapproving gaze on me. “And you?” She remembered what I had said then repeated the question in an exaggerated, overloud voice—as if I were an imbecile who might not understand simple words. “What . . . is . . . your . . . name, girl?”

“I . . . am . . . Aurelia,” I replied, meeting her tone, “daughter . . . of . . . magistrate . . . Tullius.”

“Hmph!” she sniffed. “Aurelia, is it? Odd name for a girl such as you. Your father’s idea, no doubt. Provincials are always advance themselves by putting on airs.”

Well, I heard this plain enough. “No such thing,” I replied, speaking up with some force. “It was my grandmother’s name. She was a queen of the Silures.”

“Was she now?” she snipped dismissively. “Local tribe, I expect.” She frowned and regarded us as annoyances to be dispelled; then, with exaggerated care, she said, “So long as you remain here, you will make yourselves useful.” Pointing to me, she commanded, “You may begin by bringing in our baggage.” Turning to Dorcas, she said, “I want to see my rooms. Take me.”

This was the commencement of the new regime, and the beginning of my long travail.



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Framed