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Chapter 2

Two days after receiving the summons, I grudgingly climbed into the cart beside my father and we rolled out onto the road. As we passed through the town gates, I turned for a receding look at Venta. Augustus was standing there, watching over our departure. I raised my hand in farewell then set my face to the low hills on the far horizon. I knew nothing of what the days ahead might bring—who does? Yet, even though I was going under duress, I determined to make an effort to please my father in the hope that his promise of new shoes might be fulfilled—and, if possible, improved to include a brooch or new comb.

We reached Glevum the evening of the next day, and stayed with a talkative old woman my father knew from previous visits; she offered lodging to travelers for a few denarii and a little company. Early the next morning, she gave us good broth and rusks to see us on our way, and we joined the travelling group already assembling in the square.

While my father hurried off to meet with the other officials, I walked around to stretch my legs and observe our fellow travelers. My futile attempt to remain unseen and out of the way failed when I happened to catch the eye of Coran, the proconsul’s chief assistant. A large, overgrown oaf with a shaggy mane of brown hair, he was strutting around, shouting at people, and giving every appearance of being in charge of organizing the travelling party, if not the whole city. I had met him once or twice before and found him puffed-up, pompous prig. He feigned surprise at seeing me and marched over to demand an explanation. “What are you doing here?”

I touched my ear to remind him that I did not hear very well. He drew breath and shouted, “I asked what you think you are doing here?” He crossed his arms in demand of an answer.

“Waiting for my father.”

“You are not part of the proconsul’s delegation.”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not,” he insisted. “Women are not allowed.”

That remark was meant to sting, but I ignored it and looked away across the yard at the other carriages. “What’s it about—this mighty gathering that’s got everyone so ruffled?”

Happy to possess superior knowledge, he intoned, “Procurator Constantine has called for a general conclave.”

“I know that already, Coran,” I huffed. “That’s why we’re here. What’s the gathering for?”

“Something must be done about the Saecsens in the north,” he sniffed, as if this should be obvious. “Funding the army, building defenses, the usual things delegates find to talk about.” He gave me a raw, disapproving look. “All the important people will be there—but not you.” He made a show of looking around, then said, “Where’s Augustus? Why isn’t he here?”

I shrugged. “Ask Augustus.”

“You think you’re such a smart little twit,” he sneered. “But you have no part in this and you’re not going with us.”

I gave him a fishy smile. “That will be news to my father. He wants me there. I’m helping him at the conclave.”

This last part wasn’t true, of course, as it was an open question whether I would be any help at all, or merely a hindrance and burden.

Anyway, I could see by the look on Coran’s cocky face that he did not believe me. “Ha! A big help you’ll be. Twit!”

I touched my ear again. “What? I didn’t hear that.”

He made to reply, then gave up and stomped away.

“Good to see you, too, Coran,” I called after him. “I do so enjoy our little conversations.”

The arrogance of the self-important toad left a bad smell in the air and I walked around to put it behind me. Across the yard a two-horse carriage rumbled into the square. A single passenger got out and exchanged a word with the drivers, who climbed down and headed off to join other drivers idling nearby, leaving the young man to mind the horses. The carriage was a large, stately vehicle—much nicer than anything seen around Venta—so I sidled over for a closer look.

“Are you going to the conclave?” called the youth when he saw me approaching. Dressed in a faded green tunic tied with a leather horse strap around his waist, he regarded me as if expecting a reply.

“Are you talking to me?” I asked.

“I am,” he said.

He mumbled some reply and I touched my hear and explained that I did not hear well. He moved closer and spoke more loudly. “I asked if you were going to Viroconium for the conclave.”

“I am,” I said. “Are you?”

They’re going,” he said, nodding toward Civitas House. “I’m not.” He looked me up and down. “Why you?”

I explained that I was accompanying my father who had been summoned by the proconsul.

“Who’s your father, then? Somebody special?”

“Pardon?”

“I asked if your father was somebody very important?”

“Tullius Paulinus, magistrate of Venta—that’s my father.”

He accepted my explanation with a gloomy nod. “Well, I suppose it’s to lend more weight to the cause.”

Not certain I had heard right, I asked, “Claws, did you say?”

“Cause,” he corrected. “The cause of southern sovereignty.” At my empty look, he added, “Sovereignty—for the south, you know.”

I did not know what he meant, but the way he said it made it sound like something I could do little about and could care less. A muddled sound drew my attention just then and I glanced across the square as troop of legionaries rode through the gate: eight soldiers—four burly veterans and three lean young legionaries and one who looked like a commander of some kind—splendid in their armor: helmets gleaming, swords and breastplates burnished bright, leather shined.

“It looks like they’re going, too,” I observed, indicating the soldiers as they dismounted and led their horses to the water trough.

“Looks like it.” He sighed heavily. “Everybody’s going but me.”

The surly youth turned to his duties, leaving me to meander around the square until my father returned.

Among those assembled in the square were four merchants along with their servants, one or two each, and two big wagons to haul their goods and supplies. The wagons were covered with heavy cloth to protect their wares, and prevented me from seeing what kind of merchants they might be. All in all, it was a sizeable delegation and I warmed to the idea of being part of it.

At last, the proconsul and the other officials—my father among them—emerged from the Civitas House and as soon as a few last provisions were taken on, we set off. Proconsul Esico and his wife—Mona, I think was her name—travelled in the elegant carriage; two other magistrates and their servants shared one; the insufferable Coran and two others of his ilk had the use of a third; and my father and I rode in a fourth carriage along with another magistrate from the southeast somewhere—but I did not catch his name, nor much of what he said in his low, soft voice. The soldiers on horseback led the way and most of the servants went on foot alongside the wagons or piled on top, taking it in turn to sit on a mounting board, or behind one of the drivers.

I know everyone complains about the roads and how far they have fallen from earlier times. Sorry to say, it is true. There are holes and gaps where weather has eroded or, worse, folk have looted stones for building; great stretches overgrown by brambles and shrubs; ruined bridges, washed-out fords, and so on. The old roads are a shameful disgrace. But the new roads are no better, and in many ways and most places very much worse. Anyone who has ever had reason to roam beyond the fields he can see from his own rooftop knows this only too well. So, we travelled by the old roads wherever we could. Though it can make the journey longer it is often faster in the end.

I will not relate how we fared along the way—only to say that the weather held good and we suffered no mishap. Not even river crossings and fords slowed us overmuch, and we arrived safe, tired—I could have slept standing up—but, all in all, no worse for the ordeal. That said, no one was more glad than me when the carriage rolled through the great wooden gates and into the largest town I had ever seen—so big I could not take it in all at once. I grew dizzy trying understand what I saw, and vowed that the next day I would explore as much of it as I could.

Once through the southernmost gate of Viroconium, we proceeded up a wide street lined on each side with houses, and finally rolled to a stop in a small square. Another delegation had arrived before us—we had met them on the road a day or two earlier—so we drew up beside them and gladly quit the carriages. The merchants of our travelling party made their farewells and moved on. As I stretched my legs and looked around, we were met by a town official who, along with some of his men, had been charged with arranging lodging for all those attending the council.

A busy little man, he welcomed us in the name of Prefect Fotunato and delivered his prepared address of instructions in a stilted sing-song fashion of which I made out little; he then passed among the delegates, handing out little purses containing coins. “Your delegate per diem,” he said, then made his farewell—he clearly could not wait to see the back of us—and left us in the care of several barefoot boys hired to lead us to our various lodgings. Our little group broke up; some went one way, some another. My father and I were led by a lad with a malformed hand who spoke with such an odd inflection I could make out only one word in three.

Still, our young guide was smart and eager to please, and started off at a pace. Up the street and down a narrow lane, he soon brought us to a low house with a pitched roof. Modest in appearance, it was an old house built in the Roman style, with many rooms opening off a small central square enclosed by stone walls and an iron gate. The gate was open and we were ushered inside to a tiled courtyard not unlike the one we had at home—only this one had a stone bench beside a tiny pool with fish in it.

The owners of the house—a balding man named Seno with a white beard and a fat, smiling wife named Betrys, I think he said—welcomed us with a sort of stiff formality I expect he thought suited the occasion. Aware that they were hosting a dignitary, albeit a very minor one, the two seemed overanxious to please. Seno gave us sweetened wine, and Betrys produced a plate of good salty olives stuffed with almonds that she said had come all the way from Lusitania—wherever that might be—and a serving girl passed around a little plate of fluffy sweets made of honey and the whites of eggs. Apparently, Seno was a trader of some sort—cattle, maybe, or grain.

We sipped our wine politely and my father employed his well-honed talent for winning the friendship of strangers. I just tried to keep up with the conversation. The wine and hospitality did their work and soon everyone was smiling and laughing like old friends. Seno and Betrys did appear glad for the company as they lived alone with only a servant or two and were more than happy to have fresh victims to hear the local gossip about various scandals and events in the region. Later, we shared a good meal of grilled beef on skewers and beans stewed in beer with various seasonings, and then we were treated to a warm room and clean, straw-filled pallets nestled in wooden frames. I pulled the coverlet over me that night and slept better than I expected, in a strange bed, in a strange house, in a strange new town.

Indeed, I slept so well that I awoke the next morning to find that my father already up, washed, and dressed; he had broken fast and was ready to be about the day’s business. It fairly chafed him to wait for me, but I dragged myself out of my warm nest, groomed myself as best I could without a brush or mirror, snatched at barley cake from the little plate, and followed him out into the street.

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere you’d like,” he replied. “This is our day to see the town. First, of course, I’d like to find the basilica where the conclave will meet. After that,” he waved a hand to the street stretching before us, “we’ll go wherever the fancy takes us.”

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Londinium is said to be an enormous great civitas—and maybe it is. But in those days Viroconium still boasted a basilica, a forum, and even a bathhouse. There were two fine churches and three market squares—one for food, one for craftsmen of every kind, one for livestock. The town had expanded far beyond the large garrison outpost of former times so that there were many streets outside the protecting walls and all of them filled with houses and shops and taverns and squares, and the whole was surrounded by farms and fields in every direction to the horizon over the river flatlands. Just the thought of living in such a place made me giddy, yet I could feel myself beginning to appreciate to the bracing charm of the place.

As I say, with so much to see, so much to discover, I began to understand why my father had insisted that I come with him. Together we strode out with quick, eager steps. Tullius was his best self. Light-hearted, engaging with the locals as he inquired the way, he showed a side rarely seen among the citizens he served. Amidst crowds of strangers, the worthy magistrate became an enthusiastic and carefree explorer. We passed churches and food stalls, craftsmen and vendors of every kind until we turned a corner and found ourselves in a wide street leading directly to the basilica. I spied its enormous red-tiled roof even before we came in sight of the great entrance doors. Though the building was old and in obvious need of repair, it had not yet been dismantled and its stones carted away for building material. The basilica still held pride of place in the crowded center of the town, not far from the baths and almost directly opposite the spacious, stone-paved square of the forum. “This is where the convocation will meet,” Tullius told me, indicating the enormous edifice. “We have to see it.”

“Do we?” I whined. “I’d rather go to the market.”

“A quick look, that’s all,” he promised. “It won’t take but a moment.”

We moved on and entered the forum to find that many other official delegations had already arrived and, in tents and curious lean-to booths, had made camp. Many were dressed in ways we would have laughed at back home. For example, many of the women wore their hair in intricate braided coils, or swept back to hang in gathered tendrils. The men, for the most part, shaved either the back of their heads, or the sides; the better, I suppose, to show off their long braids. For the most part, the women wore mantles that left their lower legs bare, and others—men and women both—wore long, loose, floppy shirts and breecs in garish colors cinched with wide leather belts. I saw some displaying big bronze or silver brooches on oversized cloaks and, here and there, the gleam of a gold armband, bracelet, or necklace. I’d never seen such a vivid array in one place. By this, I guessed that they had come from more remote regions and, like me, had the look of folk half-dazed by all they saw around them.

Upon reaching the enormous building we saw that the huge wooden doors were unbolted and open wide. Four paces inside I stopped to gape open-mouthed at the largest room I had ever seen: a vast empty space—large enough for a horse race, I imagine—with a vaulted roof so high above the floor it made me dizzy looking up at it. The floor was paved with cut-and-fitted limestone the color of butter, stretching from one distant wall to the other. In the center of this limestone field a low wooden platform had been erected, and this was where of delegates were gathering in clusters.

Two men stood inside the entrance—officials in red-edged cloaks charged with aiding those arriving for the conclave. We approached and my father identified himself and asked where the conclave would meet. One of the officials pointed to the distant end of the great room. We made our way toward the place where we found perhaps a dozen or so men had gathered—our proconsul Esico and Coran among them. They greeted my father and, taking him by the elbow, led him away to meet some of the others.

I trailed after, gamely determined to take in as much as I could. But with hundreds of people all speaking and shouting to one another inside the stone walls of this enormous barn, it sounded like the roar of an ocean to me and made it impossible to make sense of a single thing that was said. Even so, it was clear enough to me that my father was being welcomed here, and afforded genuine esteem by men who were reckoned of some account by those who reckoned such things. I didn’t need to hear to know a matter of some important, even urgency, was being discussed; the lowered brows, taut jaws, and creases of concern on the circle of faces told me all that and more.

All at once, the group broke up. A decision, it seemed, had been made. Tullius put out a hand to me and led me off to one side. “It was proposed to send a small delegation to see the procurator himself.” He indicated group of men he had been talking to. “They just received word that he’s agreed to meet—in private.” Before I could think what this meant, he added, “I’ve been invited to join them.” Just as I was beginning to think that I might also meet this exalted person, my father put his head close and confided, “Constantine is not in the town. He’s lodging at a villa outside the walls. It’s a fair distance away, so we must leave at once.”

My heart sank. The thought of spending the day thumping around in a carriage on a rutted road with a gaggle of pompous officials and another incomprehensible meeting at the end of it was not in any way my idea of a pleasant day out. I was on the point of launching a protest when he quickly added, “I’m sorry, Aurelia, but you’ll have to stay here.”

“I’m not to go with you?”

Mistaking my expression of relief for disappointment, he said, “Just think—you can spend the day looking around all the shops and craftsmen’s stalls, like I promised. Maybe even buy those new shoes. Whatever you wanted.”

“Well, maybe,” I said, as if willing to be persuaded.

“I wouldn’t do this, if it weren’t so very important. The chance to make our case directly to the procurator may never come again. I’m sorry to abandon you, dear heart—I really am.” He gave me an apologetic smile and put his hand to his belt and pulled out his per diem purse. “Here, take this,” he said, fishing out a handful of silver coins and some bronze. “There should be enough for you to buy something to eat and anything else that takes your eye.”

He poured the coins back into the purse and put the little leather bag into my hand. Then, unfastening the silver brooch he always wore when on official business—an imposing wreath featuring laurel leaves with, oddly, blades or spear-heads, with a square yellow stone in the center—he pinned it to my cloak and put his hands on my shoulders. “There,” he said. “You are now a deputy of the magistrate of Venta, and are hereby granted the freedom of the civitas of Viroconium, as decreed by the procurator himself. Now,” he said, smiling, “go and enjoy the day.”

I looked at the brooch and though I’d seen it a thousand times and more, I’d never been allowed to wear it. Suddenly, I felt as if I might be a magistrate indeed.

“I’ll meet you at our lodging when we return,” he said, eyeing me with concern. “Do you think you can find your way back alone?”

“Of course,” I replied, feeling my newly-gifted authority, “I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re not,” he agreed, kissing me on the forehead. “Tell Seno and Betrys that I will return this evening to take supper with you.” He smiled. “God willing, I’ll have much to tell you then.”

I gave him a kiss and tucked the purse under my belt. Tullius was already deep in conversation once more by the time I reached the wooden dais in the middle of the floor. I glanced back and gave him a little wave, which he returned, then made good my escape.



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