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Chapter 8

“You’re not listening, Aurelia,” Tullius insisted. “The invitation is attractive, and kindly meant. That, I do not deny. But—”

“You could rest,” I argued. “Recover your strength. Allow your injuries to heal. That is more important than anything else.”

“I must return to Venta without delay,” he said “Proconsul Esico’s death is a calamity—an enormous loss to the province. The upheaval will be tremendous. New officers will be appointed, new assignments made, new positions. Truly, I would not be surprised if Constantine chose me to take Esico’s place.”

So, this was in his mind: a promotion from magistrate to proconsul, and it was shaping his judgement.

“Do you really think that likely?” I did not ask with mockery or sarcasm. I really wanted to know.

“Oh, I think it more than likely.” He did not take offense at my question. “Who else? After all, I know the people. I have long cultivated trust and loyalty throughout region among the tribes and leaders. Everyone knows they can rely on Tullius Paulinus. He’s a man of his word.”

I had never known my father to be an ambitious man, but he was nothing if not practical. All sentiment aside, it seems he saw a chance to make an important advance for himself and his people and he meant to take it. He would risk his health to gain this laurel and, to him, that was a risk worth taking. Further argument would be pointless, I decided. He had made up his mind.

Such were his powers of persuasion that he even succeeded in convincing stern old Lucius to agree that he was well enough to quit his bed and make the journey, providing he did not allow himself to become overexcited—whatever that meant. He declared that the injury was not healed—far from it—but father was recovering and well on his way to regaining some of his old vigor. With a final admonition to keep the wound clean, the physician gave his consent. So, Tullius paid the physician and, over my oft-repeated misgivings, arranged for our immediate departure.

I had hoped to see Helena to thank her for her remarkable kindness during our stay in Viroconium. This was important to me, perhaps excessively so because I had no mother, no sister. And, as a girl growing up, I did not have many friends. I like to think that, in another life, Helena and I might have been friends—maybe even more than friends: sisters, perhaps. I think I would have liked that. At any rate, I dearly wanted to bid her farewell one last time before we went our separate ways—knowing full well I would never see her again.

Alas, that was not to be. The day before our departure, Tullius had arranged for the two of them to come to us that evening to share a meal; but, the evening came and went and they did not. Nor did they appear the next morning. I waited while the proconsul’s carriages were brought to us and our travelling company assembled in the square near the south gate.

Mona, Proconsul Esico’s wife—widowed now and stoically grieving her loss—resolved to make the return journey with us rather than remain behind to make whatever funeral plans she might in a strange town she would certainly never visit again. Poor Esico’s body was hastily cremated to make the journey possible; his wife would travel in their carriage with his ashes in a small ceramic vase. One of the merchants who had travelled with us to Viroconium would also return to Glevum; with him was a servant who drove the wagon. For escort, we had the proconsul’s soldiers—only six now, for one had succumbed to wounds received in ambush, and another who was still recovering—but all the other folk who had come north with us elected to stay a little longer in town.

Thus, our travelling party, much reduced from the one that had originally set out, departed Viroconium as soon as provisions had been taken and secured. “Come, Aurelia,” my father called from his seat in the carriage. “We must make a start.”

Still, I hesitated, searching the busy square for a glimpse of Helena hurrying to bid us farewell and send us on our way.

“What are you waiting for?”

“I thought Helena would come,” I told him. “I wanted to say good-bye.”

Tullius, impatient to be on his way, grumped, “She’s not coming. But you must. Come now, get in the carriage.”

“Please, just a little longer.”

“Obviously, something has happened. They were not able to come last night, and we won’t see them this morning—otherwise they would have been here by now.”

“Please. We could send a message. We could tell her we’re leaving. We could—”

“No. We must make a start,” he said, his tone taking on an edge. “You are making everyone wait—and to no purpose. Helena is not coming.”

Reluctantly, and with aching regret, I discarded any hope of seeing her again and mounted the step into the carriage.

The day passed in a bleak gray mood. Though the sun was bright, the sky speckled with clouds, and the fields green and ripening, for me it was all a dreary blur. My supposed friend—whose care and friendship I had no doubt exaggerated in my mind—had cast me aside without a word. And I felt the sting.

* * *

The journey to Viroconium from Venta took ten-and-a-half days; Tullius hoped to make the return in eight. Unrealistic as this might be, the aim did inspire optimism and lifted his spirits which, I considered, was no bad thing. The first three days on the road passed easily and the milestones receded behind us. Even so, the miles could not pass quickly enough for me. Sullen, forlorn, and grumpy, I would not have wanted myself as a companion. Try as I might—not that I tried very hard—I could not rise above my disappointment at Helena’s rebuff of our budding friendship. My father gave up trying to coax me into a sunnier mood and just let me stare at the passing countryside like the spoilt child I was.

The view was as bleak as my outlook—or so it seemed. Once beyond the settlements surrounding Viroconium, an array of empty heathered hills stretched away on every side with few settlements or holdings of any kind to be seen save in the broad green valleys alongside the fresh-running streams and rivers. The sky arched overhead in a vast blue dome through which clouds drifted endlessly, without cheer, devoid of delight.

The desolate view suited my gloomy mood so that, finally, out of frustration, Tullius suggested that I might write Helena a letter. A letter, I thought. That was a magistrate’s answer to everything! And even if I did write, what would I tell her? I’d tell her . . . I don’t know. Something. Anything—a word or two to express my disappointment, I guess.

Though I scoffed at the idea at the time, it worked away over the next few days and won me over. Though I refused to let on, I vowed that this is what I would do; once decided, I felt better for it.

Even an improved attitude could not improve the road. The further we progressed into the hill country, the worse the roads became and the constant bumping, lurching, juddering motion of the carriage over the broken stones and rutted surfaces had my father grimacing and groaning through clenched teeth—occasionally uttering an indecent oath beneath his breath. Poor man, he braved the pain until he could bear no more at which point we were forced to halt our march to allow him to recover. Tullius would then imbibe a bit of the opium tincture Lucius had provided for the journey and, after a little sleep, we would resume our journey. And so it went.

Indeed, this became our established practice: start early and travel until mid-morning, rest, move on again until mid-day, rest, move on until time to make camp or take refuge for the night. Travel was tolerable—until we entered a stretch of poor weather with gusty wind and lashing rain.

The carriages and wagons were covered, of course, and thus kept out most of the water, but the soldiers and horses were drenched, sodden and miserable for three days on end. One storm would cease, the sky would clear briefly, and the next squall rolled in. Those on foot walked with their cloaks and shields over their heads—not that that helped very much. Those of us fortunate enough to remain under cover in the carriages offered space inside and the footmen took it in turn to share our leaky ride with us.

Our soggy party struggled to advance beyond a few miles each day. And even that poor effort ground to a halt when we came to one of the deeper fords to find that the stream, now swollen with rain, had burst its banks to become a swirling torrent. Until the storm surge calmed, there would be no crossing. With no other choice, we took shelter in a nearby wood and hunkered down to wait. And it was here that the disaster we had so far avoided finally caught us.

They came riding out of the early morning mist. The rain had stopped and the stream had fallen in the night. We had only just awakened and were preparing for another day’s ordeal.

Because of the storm, Tullius and I had been spending our nights in the carriage which was not warm and offered little comfort, but at least proved somewhat dryer than the sodden tents. I had risen to wash and make water in private in the streamside brush, and was about my business when I thought I heard someone shout.

I paused, held my breath and listened hard, and heard it again—a cry. I could not make out the words, but understood the urgency. I hurriedly threw on my mantle, snatched up my belt and ran for the carriage where my father was attempting—slowly, carefully, painfully—scramble out. And that’s when I saw them: raiders, swooping down from the hilltop, screaming as they came.

The dull flash of their naked weapons as they careened in a rush toward our little camp, induced a tremble in my gut like that of faint thunder. One of the legionaries came running to me. “Saecsens!” he cried, and raced on. “Take cover! We are attacked!”

My heart stopped. I flew to the carriage and helped Tullius down. “Hurry!” I shouted. “We must hide!”

“Where is Mona?” He paused, glancing furiously around. “Find her—and merchant Giddis. Find them!”

“I’m not leaving you here!” I told him.

Another soldier rushed past, slapped me on the arm and shouted, “Take cover!” He raced away again as he and his fellows prepared to meet the attack.

I snatched at my father’s sleeve. “Hurry!”

“Go!” cried Tullius. “I’ll follow.”

Stubbornly, I refused. I stayed with him, taking his arm to support him as we fled. Gasping with pain and cringing with every hobbling step, he made what speed he could as we made to conceal ourselves amongst the fringe of rushes and bracken lining the banks of the stream. Sounds of the fight soon reached us. I heard the muted ring and muddled clash of blades, the unholy shrieks of the raiders and wild neighing of terrified horses. A woman’s scream.

“Mona!” gasped my father, pressing a hand to his injured side. “Did you see her? Did she get out?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I think so. Maybe.”

There were more shouts, more sounds of the fight—a confusion of jumbled noise in my dull ears—and then . . . after what seemed an eternity, the low rumble of hooves as the raiders rode away. We waited, hardly daring to breath, then Tullius heard one of the soldiers call out that the attack was over. “They’re gone,” he told me, and we crept from our hiding place and took in a sight that shocked and outraged us both: carnage.

The trader’s wagon had been looted and the goods plundered; all that could not be carried easily away was strewn everywhere. Two horses were dead on the ground. Fortunately, no one else had been killed. Or, so I thought.

The merchant Giddis was missing. A quick search of the area located him, face down in a little ditch with the back of his head carved off. And Mona, the proconsul’s widowed wife was still in her carriage, clutching her vase of ashes—a spear thrust through her breast. As she would not leave her husband behind, she would join him in the afterlife.

Though I hardly knew Giddis, I still grieved him. He was a good-natured soul, friendly to all, and his death was as senseless as it was lamentable. Mona, however, I did know. Her death struck me like a blow.

The soldiers had survived the raid unscathed. Moreover, they had acquitted themselves bravely. Though they complained that they would like to have made a better account, their prowess proved enough on the day.

“Who were they?” asked my father. Wheezing with the effort and pressing a hand to his side, we joined the soldiers as they picked through the supplies and provisions they had managed to save from pillage or destruction. “Was it Saecsens?”

“Maybe,” replied the commanding legionary, a grizzled veteran named Claudius. “All barbarians look alike to me.” He passed his flinty gaze around the devastation. “I’m sorry, magistrate. We could not save everyone.”

“It could have been worse, equitum,” my father told him. He raised a hand to grip the man’s shoulder in salute; the movement pained him and he winced. “We are alive thanks to you.” He turned to the other soldiers. “I will make a report of the action here and suggest a commendation for your service.”

“Put ’em to the sword, I say,” a legionary spat. “Stinking rotten thieves, the lot of ’em.”

Assessing the damage, the commander made a quick calculation, “We best move on before they come back. We’ve lost two horses—”

“And the raiders stole one,” added one of his men.

“So, we’ll leave one of the carriages,” suggested Tullius. “Throw everything into the wagon, and let’s be gone.”

“Giddis and Mona!” My voice broke on the words. “Giddis and Mona . . . dead.”

Commander Claudius’ reply was terse. “They are, and unless we want to join them, we dare not stay here any longer.” To his men, he said, “Put the bodies in the wagon along with everything else. Once we’re safely across the stream and away, we’ll attend the bodies.”

The soldiers gave him a nod and hurried away to make good our retreat. The merchant’s servant and I set about helping retrieve any useful gear or supplies we could scrape together and bundling it all into the better of the two carriages before deserting our camp. Thankfully, the soldiers dealt with the corpses, wrapping them in their cloaks and laying them in the wagon bed. Soldiers, men of war, are used to such things, I suppose, but I was not and I was grateful to be spared that chore.

That was quickly done and the horses were soon hitched and ready. I climbed into the carriage with my father; Giddis’ servant drove and we rolled to the ford. The stream still ran fairly high, the current nearly as strong as before, but we chose to risk it. Water seeped up through the carriage floor boards and our feet got wet to the ankles, but after all that had happened, I took no notice. When we reached the opposite shore, I realized I had been holding my breath.

Once across, we did not pause a moment, but pushed straight on to put as much distance between us and the raiders as possible. It was a headlong race, I can tell you, and rough. The carriage bounded over the pits and holes, hurtling from one hollow to the next, swaying dangerously, but somehow lurching on.

We reached the downward side of a steep hill and saw a line of trees some way ahead. Claudius made for the shelter of the trees and here, at last, we stopped to catch our breath. “We wait here to see if we’ve been followed,” he informed us, putting his head into the carriage as we rolled to a stop. “You can get out if you like.”

I was only too glad to take his advice. I flung open the door and leaped down, then turned to help Tullius. It was then I saw the crimson stain spreading down the side of his tunic.

“Father, you’re bleeding!”



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