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Chapter 6

The rest of the household was quiet, so I crept back to my room and lay down for awhile. Fretting over my father and what lay ahead for me drove any thought of sleep far away. When at last the first rays of daylight lightened the sky outside, I gave up any thought of rest and got up, took my time washing and dressing. I put on my good green mantle and blue, embroidered belt. In a nook beside the wash basin, I found a small, round mirror in a carved wooden frame, and polished the surface with my sleeve. The face looking back at me did not inspire confidence. My long, ruddy hair hung in confused tendrils and there my pale blue eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. I fetched my comb from my pack and dragged it through the mess of tangles and tried arranging it into something resembling an acceptable manner. I pinched my cheeks to raise a little color and rubbed my lips with some beeswax from my pot.

By the time I stepped into the courtyard, the day had brightened with a few scattered clouds, chill but warming as the sun rose higher. I stood for a moment in the light of that new day, looking at the clearing sky and wondering how the world could appear so calm when all inside me was in upheaval? I crossed to the little stone bench and had just sat down when Betrys appeared, looking drained and weary. Like me, she had slept poorly, agitated and worried by what had happened. She hurried over, sat down and, laying a hand to my arm, told me everyone was alarmed by the raid so near the town. “It is all anyone talks about,” she said. “The procurator will have to do something about this . . . this outrage—these raids,” she said. “He simply must.”

We talked a little more and she went off to see to the morning meal. No sooner had she gone than Lucius, the physician, arrived. A slim, white-haired man with a little paunch beneath his tunic, he greeted me gruffly, then softened somewhat when he remembered who I was. He spoke to me, but in a voice so soft I did not catch it.

I touched my right ear and said, “I’m part deaf.”

He nodded and repeated, “Your father—did he sleep?” Unslinging his heavy bag, he placed it between his feet.

“I don’t know. I think so. He’s sleeping now.”

“Good.”

“He will get better,” I said. “Yes?”

“Time will tell.” He picked up his bag. “I will go in to him now.”

I rose and followed him across the courtyard to the door leading to the dining room. He opened the door and stepped in, then turned to me. “It is best you wait outside.” So saying, he closed the door, leaving me outside.

I returned to my be bench beside the pool where I sat and watched the fish while I waited for the physician to return. That is where Helena found me.

“Oh, Aurelia, dear girl,” she cried and rushed to join me on the bench. She hugged me and then, taking both my hands in hers, looked hard at me, studying my face, my eyes. “How are you?”

Before I could reply—or even think how to answer—she said, “I came as soon as I heard what happened. What a terrible thing! How is your father? And the wound—is it very bad? Has the physician seen him? What does he say?”

I could hardly decide which question to answer first. “Lucius is with him now,” I told her.

“Oh, that is fortunate. Tullius is a very lucky man. God must have been with him to survive such an ordeal.”

I will never understand why people say that. Perhaps it comforts them somehow. “If God was with him out on the road,” I pointed out, “he would never have been wounded in the first place. And no one would have died.”

She regarded me sadly, then lightly brushed my sulky comment aside. “You’ve had a terrible shock.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“I didn’t. But I knew where to find Rhin. He told me.”

I nodded. Oh, of course, Rhin . . .

“What will you do now?” she asked, concern in her dark brown eyes.

“Pardon?”

“I asked what you plan to do,” she repeated.

“My father wants me to attend the conclave. He says that our people should be represented. With Proconsul Esico’s death there is no one else. . . .” My voice trailed off as I remembered what the day held for me. “I don’t even know how I’m going to get into the basilica.”

Helena sighed. Somehow she understood. “Well,” she said after a moment, “that, at least, is something I can fix.” She became all efficient and competent. “Just you leave it with me. I’ll make sure you attend, never fear.”

I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. “Thank you, Helena. Thank you.” Her kindness and willingness to help melted something inside me and I started tearing up. Despite my best intentions to remain strong and show some fortitude, the tears began to leak out and slide down my cheeks. “I’m sorry,” I blubbed. “It’s just so hard to know what to do.”

“Ah, no, no. Don’t cry.” She slid her arm around me and pulled me close. “All will be well. Now, listen, I will go and tell Aridius that Tullius wants you to represent him at the conclave. He will see to it that you are admitted.”

I thanked her again and she kissed her fingertips and pressed them to my wet cheek. I watched as she hurried across the courtyard to the gated entrance, then called after her, “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Helping me? Yesterday and now . . . this.”

She smiled and lifted a palm towards me. “You were there and so was I. It is as simple as that.”

True enough, but I know it is never so simple. People have to be willing to meet another where they are and share the burden whatever it may be.

Helena jumped up. “Now, I must go. There is much to do. Farewell for now, Aurelia. We will talk again after the conclave.”

With that, she was gone. I sat in the courtyard for a time, thinking, waiting for the Lucius to reappear. When he emerged a few moments later, I hurried to meet him. “My father,” I blurted, “how is he? Can I go in and see him?”

Lucius adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and turned to address me full face so I would not miss what he was about to say. “Tullius tells me that he slept well, and he does appear better rested. His color is returning and that is a good sign. He still has some pain, but that is to be expected.”

“But he will recover?”

“Yes, I think so.” He raised a finger in admonition. “For that to happen, the wound must be kept clean with soft rags soaked in vinegar. Also, he must avoid strenuous activity, to be sure, and eat to regain his strength. But keeping the wound clean is of utmost importance.”

“I understand,” I assured him.

“Good.” He gave me a fatherly smile. “He must rest and allow healing to take hold.” Adjusting his bag, he took his leave, saying that he would return later in the day to examine and bathe the wound again, and that I should take care to keep my father comfortable and make sure he did not move or try to get up as he might tear the stitches.

Before Lucius reached the gate, I was kneeling beside my father’s low hearthside bed. His eyes were closed; he had taken more of the opium potion for the pain, I guessed. Still, he woke and smiled hazily when he saw me, and said, “There you are, dear girl. Are you ready to take your place at the conclave?”

“Helena was here. She told me she would speak to Aridius and he would arrange a place for me.” I reached out and took his hand, squeezing it hard. “But I want to know about the attack—what happened, how you came to be wounded, and poor Coran and the others . . . all of it.”

He shook his head on his pillow. “There is little enough to tell. I hardly know what—”

“No,” I told him, crossing my arms. “Aridius said you and some others had stayed behind to speak to the procurator alone. Start there.”

“Yes, yes,” he sighed. “That is so. Esico wanted to speak to the procurator about easing the civitas tax imposed on Glevum and other towns in the region—that, or increasing the number of available soldiers. Esico and the others had gone to see the procurator to appeal—because he felt the north received more than their share at the expense of the south. I was invited along to lend my presence to the party.” He smiled wanly. “Strength in numbers, yes?”

“What did the procurator say?”

“He had agreed to hear us and said that he would consider our request and let us know his decision in due course. That was all,” Tullius explained. “We thanked him for hearing us and took our leave. It was late and we were in a hurry to catch up with the main party and get back to Viriconium before dark.”

He seemed to drift off a little then, but I was determined to hear it all. “And then what happened?”

Passing a hand over his eyes, he drew breath and continued. “We came around a bend in the road where a stand of trees had grown close by. The first I knew anything was amiss—the first anyone knew, I expect—was when we heard a shout. One of the soldiers riding a little behind the carriage had seen something moving in the wood. He cried a warning of some sort—but it was already too late. They were on us before we could even turn around. Seven or eight of them, maybe more, I don’t know. Big men. Barbarians. Long hair and beards. Four on horseback, and others on foot. All of them screaming and slashing with swords and spears. Esico and two others joined the soldiers to fight off the attack.”

Tullius motioned to a cup of water that had been left for him. I held the cup and he took a sip, swallowed, and continued. “The rest of us—we had no weapons—tried to flee. I was caught by a spear as I climbed from the carriage. I fell, but the man behind me—one of Esico’s, I think—took the next thrust in the stomach.” Here my father fell silent.

“And then?”

“It was over. The raiders only wanted the horses. They got what they wanted, left us bleeding beside the road. It was all we could do to struggle back to the safety of the walls. I don’t remember much after that.”

Our short conversation had already tired him and the opium was making him drowsy. His words were becoming slurred and I could see the his strength waning. I thanked him for telling me. “You should rest now, father,” I said. “Helena is sending someone to fetch me for the conclave. I should go and make ready.”

“You do that.” He reached out to me and the movement made him wince. “Give me a kiss, dear heart, and promise you’ll come back as soon as it’s over and tell me all about it.”

I assured him I would, and advised, “And you must promise to eat something while I am gone. Yes?”

He nodded and closed his eyes. I think he was asleep again before I reached the door. Betrys, or her servant, had been busy while I was out of my room. A plate of sweet polenta cakes and dried figs had been left for me. As the day was still a bit cool, so I decided to wear my cloak; I folded it carefully and arranged the folds so they fell just right, and pinned them in place with the brooch my father had given me—the one he wore on his official rounds—a big, somewhat ungainly thing, but he thought it lent him a little more authority.

By the time I entered the courtyard again, a boy was waiting to take me to the conclave. I had half-expected to see Rhin again, and was surprised to find myself disappointed that it was only a ragged, barefoot messenger boy. He knew the city and together we hurried through street crowds and markets, and every face I saw seemed to wear the same fraught expression of concern. My young guide delivered me to the basilica and to a man in a long white mantle who was standing at the wide-open doors of the great brick building. The man gave the boy a coin and the lad darted off again.

“Aurelia? I am Festus,” said the man in a deep rumbling voice. “The legate has instructed me to wait for you and find a place where you can see and hear the proceedings. You’re deaf, yes?” He passed a critical eye over me and I did not get the feeling he was much impressed by what he saw. “And very young.”

I bristled at this. “Is that a problem?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” replied Festus with a shrug. “This way if you’re ready. Aridius is already inside.”

He turned on his heel and led me through the towering doors. We had taken but three steps when I was stopped again—by one of those men in a red-edged mantle; he carried a sort of black rod in one hand, and a short blunt sword in the other. “This conclave is closed to the public,” he told us, looking directly at me. “Leave now.”

“We are here at the command of Constantius Aridius Verica, legate of Deva Vitrix,” replied Festus with stiff formality. “We are members of his delegation at his command. He requires our presence.”

The gatekeeper considered this for a moment, passed his gaze over me, then gestured with the rod for us to proceed. The vast room was crowded with men—old and young and in-between—ranged around a dais that had been erected for the procurator’s chair, an elaborate thing made comfortable with several stuffed cushions. Festus spotted Aridius near the foot of the dais. Threading through the crush, I shoved up beside the legate, who greeted me with a smile and a light squeeze of my arm. “Your father—how does he fare?”

“He is in pain, but will be better for food and rest. Thank you for helping me.”

“It is nothing.”

Anxious to make good on my promise, I looked around at all those serious, important men gathered there and noted their manner and dress so I could make a good report. I heard voices raised behind me. “Oh, I know. Terrible,” said the first. “Just terrible. Something will have to be done.” There was mumbled agreement from others, and more of the same—it did seem that everyone buzzing away like worried bees over news of last night’s attack.

Aridius gave me a little nudge with his elbow and directed my attention to the dais where a tall, lean man now stood. “The vicarius,” he told me. The official held an iron-tipped staff with a golden eagle perched on top—the procurator’s symbol of office. Raising the scepter, the official struck it three times on the stone floor of the basilica. The resounding thwack! Echoed like thunder through the great room. “Silence!” he cried. “Silence for procurator Constantine Flavia Gallus.”

From the rear of the basilica came a small procession: three soldiers holding upright spears, two priests bearing croziers, and an official of some kind in a short tunic and trousers. They approached the dais and a hush descended upon the floor of the basilica as the entourage took their places behind the big, throne-like chair. The procurator seated himself on his cushions and passed his gaze across the assembly, a frown on his fleshy face.

I do not doubt that Procurator Constantine was a powerful man. But inspiring, no—much shorter than I imagined, and with a shaven head that gleamed as if his skull had been oiled. He affected the old Roman style: robe and wide red leather belt with a gold-edged cloak folded over one arm and the opposite shoulder. The scepter-wielding vicarius called out something that sounded to me like the words my father sometimes read out to me from old documents and the odd roadside shrine. Then the procurator rose to address the conclave.



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