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Chapter 16

That first day aboard the Epona was, for me at least, the most difficult. Passage down the ever widening estuary was swift and smooth enough, the ship floated gently with the tidal stream. I had never been aboard a ship before and soon grew used to the gentle rise-and-fall and swaying motion. I even began to enjoy the sensation as I stood at the rail, marveling at the grace and speed of the craft as the keel carved through the water.

But then, as soon as we reached a point some little way below Caer Dydd—I could just make out the hazy smudge on the nearer bank that marked the town—the sea flow became more disturbed. I gripped the rail with both hands and watched the land slide further away.

Then, around mid-day the ship passed into the open sea where the waves were sharper, deeper, more agitated and keep from toppling over the rail so I backed away and leaned against a stack of boxes grasping one of the securing ropes and I began to reassess my former placid opinion.

As the land fell further away, our heavy-laden vessel lunged and lolled as wave after wave slapped against the hull and all sense of balance deserted me. My head swam. I grew dizzy. It was all I could do to stand upright. My stomach heaved with every lurch and surge. The deck pitched like a living creature as the sail alternately flapped and strained, the ropes first slack, then taut in the fickle wind.

The pilot steered for calm water where he could find it, but constantly having to brace myself against the violent toss and roll of the deck drained away my strength as the endless day wore on. I closed my eyes, but that only made things worse, so I stood grimly holding onto the rope and praying that the day would be over.

The sailors went about their various chores with skill and confidence of long experience. Drustan and his trader friends made themselves comfortable elsewhere so that I was spared having to speak to them. If anyone noticed my stricken state, they gave no sign, and I was happy to be ignored for I did not want to be seen as a feeble female, an object of pity or, worse, derision.

The endless day dragged on. By the time the hazy sun began its downward descent, it was all I could do to hold up my head. On hands and knees, I crawled to the bow of the ship and found a place among the grain sacks to make a little nest. I squirreled myself in tight and prayed the awful surge and sway would cease. Around dusk, we made landfall at a place called Merthyr Mawr, I think—a fishing settlement with a tiny market—where the merchants did very little trade; it was mostly for the sheltered bay that we stopped for the night.

The Epona slid into the harbor and moored alongside a handful of other vessels of similar size. The crew made the ship fast, and only then did I begin to feel able to stand and hold my head upright again. I returned to the rail and breathed a long sigh of relief.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” said Drustan. He and Gubric joined me at the rail. “We will not tie up again until we’re past the Irish Shore.”

“Irish?” I wondered. “Did I hear you say something about the Irish?”

“Aye,” muttered Gubric. “The bastards.” He spat and walked away without another word.

“He lost a boat and three crewmen to Irish raiders a few years ago,” Drustan confided, and explained that the sparsely peopled area along the south-western coast of Britannia had been settled by fisher folk from Eire, and it was there that, from time to time, raiders from the Green Isle made landfall among their tribesmen who allowed them leave to cause their havoc. Drustan and his merchant friends considered them little better than Saecsens, if not worse, and had no desire to trade with them. All things considered, it was best always to give them a wide berth.

Irish raiders, he said, more often hunted the northern waters and preyed on the unwary. “We’ll be keeping close to shore as they rarely risk coming too near land.” He gave me an hopeful smile. “Also, the season is turning and it will soon be too late in the year for raiding. We won’t worry too much about them.”

Despite his optimistic reassurances, I now had something new to fear. Of course, I had long heard various rumors about trouble with Irish incomers—who hasn’t?—but I had not thought to add them to the burden of my cares. Until now.

Supper that night was simple—bread and fried fish—but food held no appeal. After a few mouthfuls, I gave up and looked instead to crawling into bed. But even that proved an unexpected ordeal. Eight people retired to the hut: along with our capitaneus, Gubric, who was also the pilot of the ship, there were two crewmen—swarthy, active lads with such strong northern accents that what little I heard I could barely understand. Along with them, there was Drustan and his the two merchant friends, one of whom had brought along a servant. Eight bodies for the small hut that served as the vessel’s only shelter and sleeping room making it cramped, stuffy, and smelling of stale sweat and rancid oil from a broken jar that had been stored there on a previous journey. Any semblance of sleep eluded me that first night.

The next day was all but identical to the one before, as was the next after that, for the weather remained good and, save for that first rough day, the sea stayed calm. Slow, heavy-laden Epona hugged the coast, rarely venturing too far from the sight of land; we saw few other boats about and made what travel we could so long as the weather held. Despite these peaceable days, nights aboard ship were more an ordeal than a rest.

I slept poorly, if I slept at all. The thin curtain separating me from them was Drustan’s thoughtful gesture to modesty, but did nothing to aid repose. What with the stink of unwashed bodies, the snoring and snorting, grunting and farting of my shipmates, I might as well have laid myself down in a cattle pen or hog wallow. I do believe I could have got more sleep among farm animals. My companions seemed not to mind the close confines, but it taxed me sore. Nevertheless, I endured it with firm resolve—what other choice did I have?

After seven or eight days at sea—I had lost count—Gubric announced that at the next stop we would reach Aberdyfi, our halfway point. There, we would take on fresh food and water for the push to our final destination which, he allowed, was also likely to be the most fraught part of the voyage for it meant sailing around a long finger of a peninsula and up through a very narrow straight between a broad island and the mainland.

“But do not worry, young lady,” he told me kindly. “I have sailed this many times and know the passage well.”

Drustan overheard us talking and added, “And once we have come through the straight we will have three stops and several good days of trading.”

“And then?” I asked.

“And then on to Deva,” he said. “That will be . . .,” He tapped his chin in thought. “Four days? A week at most, perhaps.”

“Allowing for weather,” Gubric cautioned. “Always allowing for weather. But we have the strait to navigate first.”

Some little time later, we sailed into the harbor of Aberdyfi, tucked into a sheltered cove where the river Dyfi spread out to meet the bay. The town itself was a somewhat haphazard settlement with little stone houses and wattle-and-daub buildings dropped here and there along the seafront and nestled in among the steep hills. On one of the near promontory sat a timber fortress, squatting like a guard dog, keeping watch over the harbor crowded with trading ships and many fishing boats at anchor. There was ample room at the long wooden pier, however; and, while Gubric and his crewmen made the ship secure, the merchants all clambered quickly ashore to search out and bargain for fresh supplies and do what trade they might. Eager to get off the boat and stretch my legs on solid ground for a change, I hurried ashore, too.

The market was located near the harbor and I saw that it was doing an easy, unhurried business; not overcrowded, but with enough folk around to make it interesting. My own attentions were not taken with the glistening fish and tubs of mussels on offer, but with the town and its people. As usual, I soon found myself wondering what it would be like to live in this place: What about this house? What about that one? What were the people like? What would I be if I lived here? A weaver, maybe? Or a baker? Could I do that? Some kind of merchant, maybe? If so, what would I sell? And on and on.

My mind wandered with my steps as I strolled among the rising paths and lanes of the town. I stumbled upon the church a short way up the hill from the market. A simple, square building of gray stone, it had a wide iron-clad wooden door which was flanked either side by two long and very elaborate benches with high backs and carved armrests. The little church was surrounded by a low wall and a green burial ground studded with stones of various sizes and shapes, many with the haloed cross: something I’d seen only once or twice before in churchyards. Several paths led to the gate and all were worn hard and smooth by the feet of worshippers—signs of a fair-sized congregation.

I continued my ramble, past the church and surrounding houses, and reached the top of a low hill. Fields lay in patches hewn out of woodland, and there was grazing land for pigs and cattle tended by boys and younger men. The path turned into a muddy cow trail, and here I stopped and turned to look down on the town and harbor and gleaming silver sea beyond.

In all, it seemed that Aberdyfi was a good and peaceful place—perhaps as good and peaceful as Venta—and it gave me hope for my new home. Could Deva be like this? I wondered.

By the time I got back to the boat, the sun was already fading, sinking into a low bank of yellow-gray clouds to the west. The merchants in the marketplace were closing up their booths and the Epona’s chief and crew were loading fresh water and bundles of foodstuff aboard. Out on the great expanse of sandy beach to the north of the pier, I spied Drustan and several traders and merchants from the town squatting around a fire. I made my way toward them. Drustan saw me and waved me over. They had bought fish in the market—mackerel and eels and small silver somethings—and they were preparing them on spits for the fire. They also had loaves of fresh bread, new butter, and sealed jars of beer and wine.

“Join us, Aurelia,” he invited. “We are making a feast.”

Happy not to have to eat aboard the boat, I thanked him and asked, “What are we celebrating?”

“A successful voyage half completed and fresh food in our bellies,” he replied, expansively. One of the merchants had unstopped a jar and was pouring wine into little wooden cups. He handed one to Drustan and one to me. As soon as we all had a cup, Drustan raised his and said, “Drink, my friends! To fine weather and good trade—may it long continue!”

“To fine weather and good trade!” the merchants chorused.

All drank and I took a sip with them. The spits were driven into the sand and the fish put to roast slowly around the fire. I found a rock to sit on and took my cup of wine to watch the fire and enjoy the moment, and to consider the unfathomable strangeness of life. When did I set off with my father for Viroconium? When did I stand by Aridius’ side and hear the pronouncements of Procurator Constantine? When was my dear father wounded and when did he die? When was his funeral? Could it be only days ago that I had looked my last on the only home I had ever known in this world? Already, even that seemed half-a-lifetime ago. What is more, I had not thought of Venta at all the last two days—not wondered what Augustus or Dorcas was doing, or what new outrage Velvinnia was perpetrating, or whether anyone missed me . . .

Yet . . . and yet, here I was: sitting on a beach in a pleasant bay, wine cup in hand, watching as the dying sun bled glorious showers of color into the clouds, smelling the enticing smoke of roasting fish, and listening to the happy chatter of the men as they prepared our modest feast. Though I could not make out much of what they were saying, I could sense the joy of their fellowship, and it made me glad, too. My previous cares seemed a world away and of very little consequence next to this.

There is a lesson here for the learning. I could hear Tullius telling me. Indeed, this would be the very time and place he would say such a thing.

Ah, well, if there was a lesson to be learned, like most lessons it flew right over my head. I had neither the ability nor the inclination to think what that improving instruction might be. Instead, I sipped my wine and luxuriated in the gentle closing of the day and a voyage half completed.

Gubric and his two crewmen joined us. Everyone sat on the sand around the fire, drinking, talking, laughing, occasionally turning a spit or adding another. When the fish was finished, it was piled onto a bit of flat planking and passed around along with chunks of buttered bread. I took a bit of mackerel and sucked the oily, succulent dark flesh off the bones, savoring the rich, smoky flavor. More wine was poured and more fish served up and we all ate and drank our fill as evening closed around us; a bright spray of stars appeared overhead, and a chill seeped into the air on a light breeze off the sea.

The talk and laughter grew louder, more raucous, the banquet turning into a revel and I thought I saw one of the merchants eyeing me with something like appraisal—a glance I did not like. Also, I was beginning to feel the wine and the chill, decided to remove myself from the festivity before any of the men got the idea that I might like more intimate male company. I rose from my perch and thanked Drustan and Gubric for a splendid supper and a most enjoyable feast, then started away.

“Not leaving already?” called Drustan loudly. “Stay and tell us tales of old Venta Silurum.” To the others he said, “Aurelia here is daughter of the magistrate. Did you know?” He raised his cup. “The finest magistrate I ever met! And I’ll fight the man who says otherwise.”

I smiled at his well-intentioned compliment. “Some other night, perhaps. I will creep away to bed and leave you to enjoy your celebration.” I thanked them again and made my way back to the pier and boarded the ship.

I was asleep when the men returned to the ship, but their clumping and banging around as they settled in our overcrowded hut woke me. They fell asleep quickly, however, and all was quiet once more . . . and then the snoring and snuffling and grunting began. I was wakened again at once and then remained awake for a long time—until at last I understood there would be no return to sleep while I remained in the hut.

Rising silently, I took up my cloak and lifted the curtain and, quietly, carefully stepped over the sleeping men and tiptoed from the hut. I shut the door and looked for a comfortable place to spend the rest of the night. I thought there might be a bench at the end of the pier, but I was mistaken. And then I remembered the church with walled yard and the long benches—quiet and secure, no one would disturb me there. That is where I went.

The moon was high overhead, lending light enough to find my way. I reached the market easily enough and the path leading to the church—all calm and bright in the moonlight. I entered by the gate, crossed the grassy yard and lay down on one of the benches. I remember nothing after that save breathing in the cool night air, and looking at the bright spray of stars overhead and thinking what a passing stranger might make of finding me there.

What the locals made of me I was all too soon to find out. For, I came awake at the metallic clang—a white-robed priest standing at the church gate, ringing a bell for morning prayer. I arose with a start and looked around. I had slept deeply and long—at least, longer than I intended. Even so, it was early yet, and I thought that if I hurried I could still make it back to the ship before the men were up and around.

I picked up my cloak and ran to the gate, brushed past the startled priest—mumbling a hasty apology as I fled—and raced down the path leading to the market and harbor. I had taken but a dozen paces when the seafront came into view below. I saw merchants erecting their booths in the market square and the bay beyond. I also saw a low, gray overcast sky and the broad stretch of pooled sand where the harbor used to be: boats lay on their keels, stranded. Of course, the tide was out. . . .

With a sudden horror of comprehension I turned my gaze to the long wooden pier and confirmed my worst fear: the berth was empty. The Epona had sailed with the tide.



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Framed