Nox Dormienda

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I woke up before the roosters. Two long night hours of sleep after a hard journey weren’t enough, but the pain in my legs helped keep me awake. I didn’t want the landlord to wonder why I was in such a hurry. At this hour, he wasn’t wondering about much other than how to wrap his fat hands around a barmaid. I could hear snores and the sound of jowls making sleepy, smacking noises, when I crawled downstairs. He’d served a large party of farmers last night, boisterous, bawdy and bragging about a local whore they’d bought the day before. Today they’d creep home to be greeted by wives waving a skillet in one hand and a poker in the other. Women ran farms: men just talked a lot.

There was a breeze blowing through the stalls, warm, western, carrying some moisture with it, a little heavy in a good way, like a thin blanket on a hot night. I sniffed. Straw and hay and horse manure. They were good smells, smells I missed in Londinium: I missed horses, I missed the clean feel of dirt in my skin. I missed the country.

I heard a shuffle; Nimbus was awake, and after I stepped on his foot so was the groom.

An over-generous tip made him move a little faster. I packed the cheese and bread I’d bought from the inn-keeper yesterday, and we rode out into the night, Nimbus ready for a new journey, her master not quite.

The road was silent. No creak of wheels, no gentle, resigned snorts from tired horses. No sound, no lights, of anything but us. I liked it that way. I couldn’t see much in what little moonlight made its way through the clouds. By dawn, it would be grey, and even in the dark, that’s how it felt. But it was a good grey, a peaceful grey, the grey of the green trees and foot-high grass, the grey of life.

We climbed over one hill, descended into a valley. The wind slapped my face from the south east, and I could smell a storm on it, somewhere out at sea. Then we climbed again, more trees, shielding the wind, arching over the road, protecting us.

Once in a while, a small road branched from the main one, leading to a shrine, or a small settlement. The countryside was filling up, but there was still plenty of room. Sometimes Nimbus slowed, her ears pricked toward the side of the road, catching the sight or scent of an animal. Small yellow or red eyes would blink at us slowly, and then close, climb a tree or dig into a burrow, and live a lifetime before seeing another human.

I had so little time. I was used to pressure: doctors, at least the ones who give a damn, are never far away from it. But this was more than a spearhead in the back, more than one man’s life or a robbery that went wrong. The weight of civil war was crushing me to the ground, and I’d have to run far and fast enough to get out from under it. My leg twitched, and I bent down to rub it. I didn’t have time for pain.

I straightened up and looked down the dark road, and saw Agricola’s grizzled face. I’d been hard on the governor, maybe too hard. As popular as he was, the legions often preferred the man who paid them-and Domitian increased the base pay to 300 denarii just a few months ago. If it came to a show of loyalty, Agricola wouldn’t carry the support of every soldier in Britannia. It wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t come to that.

I shook my head. The fog inside it and the black around me weren’t going away. I couldn’t let Meditor sacrifice the natives, either. At least not without a fight. The governor was hungry for the history books, yes, but there were plenty of great generals in Rome’s history, and not many great peace-makers. I said a small prayer to Silvanus that Agricola would be one of them. I didn’t believe much in prayers, but it couldn’t hurt.

* * * * *

We’d traveled twenty miles by midday, and I was already sick of my own thoughts. Nimbus wouldn’t talk to me, and I couldn’t afford company, so my mind treaded the same ground until it got stuck in a ditch and couldn’t find its way out.

I wrenched it up and put it back on firmer ground and somehow it threw Mollius in my face. Mollius? Why Mollius? Sure, he drank. Why not? People drank too much for two reasons: they were either very happy or very miserable, and I didn’t know many happy people. I’d worry about Mollius later.

Gwyna? The know-it-all voice that had harangued me a couple of days ago was sullen and hiding in a corner. At the moment, I wouldn’t even mind having a conversation with it. But if I started thinking about Gwyna, I could just pin a sign on my back that said “idiot.” I wouldn’t be good for anything else.

A weedy dirt track on the left looked familiar. We were approaching the main Roman cemetery just a few miles from Camulodunum proper. Nobody, not even Romans, referred to the town as the “Colonia Claudia Victricensis.” Boudicca’s victory on the same site-in the Temple of Claudius itself!-guaranteed that.

I grinned, remembering the reparations to the giant bronze statue of the deified Claudius, after the rebels tore off the original head and threw it in the river. I was back from my first trip to Rome with Classicianus, a new son for a new father. Nero had just made him a senator. I was eleven.

We were at the ceremony, and I was ready to be full of Roman pride and native awe. But Claudius’ head was two sizes too small. It made him look like the moron some said he pretended to be. Nero, had he known, would’ve enjoyed the joke-and when Vespasian came to power, it was fashionable to ridicule some of Augustus’ bizarre family. So there he sat still, all golden, his Julian lock parted over his forehead, trying desperately to fit in as a god with a shrunken head. So much for awe.

I reined Nimbus, and turned toward the left. From here to the main gate of the town, the road from Londinium was lined with grave markers. I’d had enough of cemeteries yesterday, but there was one grave here I needed to see. I couldn’t visit one father without the other.

Marcus Favonius Facilis. There he was. The paint was still holding up-he looked almost life-like. At some point, the carving became my memory. I’d spent more years with it than with my father.

He lived with my mother when he was in the XX Legion, stationed at the fort which would become the Roman colony of Camulodunum. When the governor pulled the Legion out, the colonia was born. In a burst of typical Roman overconfidence, they filled in the defensive ditches and built a thriving, wealthy city out of the fortress architecture.

I remember, when I was very young, my father pointing out which buildings had been barracks, which had been storage rooms, when we walked through Camulodunum. In those days, Claudius had the right-size head.

He left with the Legion, and wasn’t discharged until 811. I didn’t see him again until I was eight years old. Marcus Favonius Facilis. I picked off some moss that had grown over two of the letters.

He was a smart man, and lived up to his name-everything came easily to him. He purchased an old farmstead from a veteran who was moving back to Italy, and found a bargain. It was bottom land, with a nice slope rising up to a hill, just in front of a forest, and the house looked over the land with pleasure. He moved my mother and myself out of the little round hut we’d been sharing with another family. It was home.

Everything came easily to my father. Even death. There was nothing my mother could do, but at least there wasn’t pain. I’d known him for a little over a year. I didn’t understand that my parents weren’t considered married until later, when I went to Rome with Classicianus, and some people called me a “little British bastard.” Some said it fondly, some said it condescendingly. I wasn’t sure which part was supposed to be the insult. No one said anything at all after Classicianus adopted me.

Marriage was not a privilege for the legionary, unless he was an equites and an officer. My father was made both when he achieved the rank of centurion, right before he retired. He could’ve continued in the army, could’ve left us behind, but he wanted to farm. Love is not something even Rome could control, and most men had “unofficial” families somewhere. Not all of them returned to make them official. I turned from the stone, from his painted picture, and looked at the view. His view. The bare tree limbs would be green again, the flat meadows slow and heavy with grain. Spring would come. The farmer’s favorite season.

He’d had such grand plans-he wanted to grow vines, make wine, have a real, thriving farm. I was glad he died before they burned the fields: the fields where my mother lied buried. I shrugged off memory, and took some wine and poured it for him. I couldn’t afford to linger. I had no time.

* * * * *

Nimbus and I-at least, Nimbus-drew appreciative looks when we walked through the giant triumphal arch that served as the western gate into Camulodunum. In a year or two it would join the walls that were almost finished, strong, high defensive walls around a prosperous farming town. Too little, twenty years too late.

At least Boudicca had evened the score for the natives. Camulodunum didn’t symbolize “Roman tyranny” as it used to-in fact, it seemed more Roman than Londinium, thanks to the veterans, two decades of enforced cooperation, and-most of all-money.

The largest theater in Britannia coaxed the rich out of all the cities within a two or three day ride. There was even a modest circus south of the town, a solid financial and social investment, since horse-breeding was a passion for all the tribes. Druids rubbed elbows with investors from Gaul and Cyrenica, and everyone was so damn cosmopolitan it was hard to find an honest face.

I nodded a few times at passers-by, most more interested in where I’d found the grey mare than what I was wearing, and headed straight for Narcissus and Verecundus. They lived in a small, comfortable town house near the Temple and the forum, on the east end of town.

My father freed them a few years before he retired, and they’d gone into the import/export business. Nothing ostentatious, but they’d made enough to live well and without worry.

When he died, my mother was left with practically nothing; my father’s fortune had gone into the land and rotting root stocks of vines from Gaul. So they purchased the gravestone, and paid for an excellent carving, fully painted and inscribed. They’d been in Gaul when the fighting broke out, but came back, and helped rebuild the town, keeping their investments in the area.

They loved one another. Somewhat unusual. Love always is.

We arrived at the house, and I dismounted and knocked on the door, holding Nimbus’ reins in my hand. She’d be entered in the fifth race if I didn’t keep an eye on her.

An old woman answered the door, her hair the mottled color of week-old straw. She hesitated, then leaned forward, squinting slightly, and suddenly a smile made her look ten years younger as she threw her arms around me.

“It’s you, is it? Arcturus! It’s been too long since you’ve visited. Come in, come in-they’re here, no mistake, and they’ll be so glad!”

“I can’t just yet, Dilys. Unless you want me to bring my horse with me.”

“I’ll get someone. Don’t leave!”

I grinned, and stroked Nimbus’ nose when she shoved it in my side. Another head popped through the door, a red, freckled face of a young boy of thirteen.

“I’ll take him to the stables, sir, if you like.”

“No thanks, Nye, I can’t stay long. Can you hold him for me?”

His eyes glowed at the thought of getting close to Nimbus. She looked at him a little doubtfully, but I whispered in her ear and handed him the reins. “Hold tight, now. She’s ridden far and will have to again.”

Nye nodded, and I glanced back as I entered the house, Dilys holding the door for me. He was gazing at Nimbus with the unmistakable, open-mouthed look of horse-love on his face. I laughed, and heard a dog barking from inside.

“Is that-”

“Yes, it’s the one you gave us, and a more feisty little thing I’ve yet to find. Play, play, play, all the time. Lucky for the gentlemen, we have Nye to take it out of her.”

Dilys and Nye weren’t slaves-they were native servants, hired by Verecundus and Narcissus to run the household. But Dilys never referred to them as anything but “the gentlemen.”

She ushered me into the dining room with an air of pride. Chances were that they’d be eating, whatever time of day I happened to come by. Narcissus in particular loved a good meal, and-though at least fifty-had managed to somehow maintain a trim figure, and his dark, boyish good looks.

Verecundus was red-nosed, jolly, a little thick around the middle, and a one-time gladiator. He enjoyed more simple pleasures-beer, bread and pork, in that order. He humored Narcissus, but ate plebeian style whenever the latter wasn’t looking.

They both rose to greet me, Narcissus with his typical elegance, Verecundus in a hug that nearly fused my lungs together.

“Arcturus! How good of you to come! Sit down and eat with us!”

Pyxis’ puppy was as fat as a calf. She must’ve been devouring table scraps on a regular basis. She sniffed my leg suspiciously, then decided I wasn’t worth her time and effort and turned back toward Narcissus, cadging for a snack.

“What’s her name?”

“Fames.”

“Appropriate, as always. Are you enjoying her company?”

“As much as she’s enjoying our dining habits. Come, Arcturus, sit, tell us why you’ve come-I can see you’re not just here on a social call.”

Narcissus was always astute. He’d been my father’s secretary and bookkeeper, and he had an excellent financial brain. I smiled, and sank into one of the plushly stuffed chairs.

“It’s nice and soft, isn’t it?” Verecundus asked eagerly. “Stuffed with chicken and duck feathers. Very comfortable.”

“Yes, it is. Though my ass isn’t in much of a position to enjoy it, as I just left Londinium yesterday morning.”

“What? Why the hurry? What’s wrong?”

“Plenty, but nothing for you to worry about. I’m working for Agricola, on an important case, and I’ve got to find a native, a townsman by the name of Rhodri-and now wouldn’t be too soon.”

Verecundus knotted his thick red-gray brows together in thought. “Rhodri. Rhodri. Can you recall anyone by that name, Narcissus?”

Narcissus sat up on the couch where he’d been reclining. “Yes, I can. He’s a horse-trader and cattle farmer. I’ve looked at a couple of his horses. Not for a bet, Verecundus.” he added hastily. His one weakness. There was a bookmaker inside every bookkeeper.

“Arcturus-are you sure this doesn’t affect us somehow?”

His eyes were deep and brown, and spoke about things I understood without mentioning. Domitian’s new bedroom laws had frightened him. Romans frowned on men who had sex with other men, particularly men of equal rank. And, though relatively wealthy and locally popular, Narcissus tended to worry about it.

Gentlemen could pound the back ends of as many slaves as they’d like-as long as they were content with being on top. But men who liked the other side-especially high-ranking men-that bothered Rome. Seems you couldn’t be ready to use your sword if you liked someone else’s stuck up your ass. Even all the emperors everybody claimed to hate-Nero, Tiberius, Caligula-all were supposed to enjoy playing the little Roman wife. Of course, it was “common knowledge” only after they were dead.

Flings were all right, especially with boys who looked like girls, but relationships were unusual, and could be dangerous. Adult men … men who stayed together like a married couple … even in Camulodunum, Narcissus was afraid.

I smiled at him. He and Verecundus were freedmen. Still citizens, but only the lowest rung. And that bothered Rome much, much less, and local people not at all.

“Doesn’t affect you at all. It might mean civil war, but nothing more personal than that.”

He looked relieved, but raised an eyebrow. “I’ll hope for the best. I take it you want to find Rhodri now. His house and land are to the north of town, near a sacred grove. He’s a Druid, you know.”

“I know. How do I get there?”

“Let’s see … go straight on, and exit through the eastern gate. Then turn left, and follow the road north north-west, until you find two roads, one on the right, one on the left. The one on the left leads to the grove-still active, from what I hear. The one on the right-Rhodri’s farm.”

“Thanks. I promise I’ll stay longer next time. And invite you to my wedding?”

Verecundus nearly spit out his wine and stood up to hug me again. “Wedding? Who? When?”

“A native woman. A widow.”

Narcissus raised his eyebrow again. “A widow? After you for your money, Arcturus?”

I grinned at him. “My other attributes.”

Narcissus threw his head back and laughed so hard he nearly choked on his peacock wing. Verecundus filled my hands with fish roe, a duck egg, and a couple of radishes pickled in garum. I thanked him profusely, handed the food back to Nye along with a sestertius, kissed Dilys on the cheek, and headed up the street, into the quickly fleeing sunlight. Rhodri was next.