Saturnalia

LXII

For a moment they all stood, in a stricken triangle. Justinus was horrified; the women took it better, naturally.

Justinus straightened up. Veleda had last seen him dressed in a keenly-buffed tribune's uniform, five years younger, and fresher in every way. Now she looked stunned by his casual domesticity. He addressed the priestess formally, as he had done once before, in the depths of her forest. Whatever he said was again lost on the rest of us, because he used her Celtic tongue.

'I speak your language!' Veleda inevitably rebuked him, with the same pride and the same contempt that she had used to our party then: the cosmopolitan barbarian, showing up the inglorious imperialists who could not even bother to communicate with those whose terrain they invaded. It was a good trick, but I was tired of this.

He was staring at her, taking in that she looked so much more worn by time and life, and the despair of capture. Veleda's eyes were hard. Pity was the last thing any woman needed from a handsome lover. Quintus must already have struggled to cope mentally with the fact that the love of his young life was doomed to ritual killing on the Capitol. Would he turn his back on the Roman world – and if so, would he do something really stupid? We could see it was a hard shock to find the priestess here in his home, swaying very slightly from Roman wine in the cup that she still gripped unknowingly – a small silver beaker that Justinus must have known since his childhood, from which he may have drunk numerous times himself. He had found her being entertained among his parents, his sister, his wife and young child. He was not to know – or not yet – just how strained relationships had been.

In the silence, his baby son gurgled. 'Yes, it's Papa!' crooned Claudia, nuzzling his soft little head. I wondered if anyone had told Quintus yet that a brother or sister was expected. The little boy stretched his arms out towards his father. The traditional gold bulla his uncle Aelianus had given him at birth swung against the soft wool of his tiny tunic. He was a delightful, highly attractive child.

At once Quintus, the great sentimentalist, turned and smiled. Claudia thumped home the battering ram. 'Let's not bother Papa.

Papa doesn't want us, darling!' Despite being tipsy, she produced one of her well-practised stalking exits, heading off for her kingdom, the nursery. Once there, some women would have burst into tears. Claudia Rufina had a sturdier spirit. I had talked her through past moments of decision and anxiety; I thought she would simply sit there by herself, quietly waiting to see whether Quintus came to her. If he did, she would be difficult – and who could blame her? – but as on previous occasions, Claudia would be open to negotiation.

Veleda looked as though she knew now that Justinus was too inhibited to abandon his Roman heritage. It was clear what she thought of that. She tossed the silver cup on to the mosaic floor, then with a broody glare she too swept out to take refuge in another room.

Quintus was left facing up to his tragedy. This was no longer an issue of whom would he choose? Neither of them wanted him. Suddenly he was looking like a boy himself, who had lost his precious spinning-top to rougher, ruder characters who would not give it back. When the doomed man went first to follow Veleda, nobody stopped him. I moved closer to the double door he had closed behind them, but did not interrupt. Quintus stayed in the room for a short time only. When he came out, he looked agonised. His face was drawn with misery, perhaps even tear-stained. He was grasping a small object tightly in one hand; I could not see it, but I recognised the dangling strings: she had given him back the soapstone amulet.

When he reached me, he made an impatient movement, wanting me to step aside. I grasped him and embraced him anyway. Apart from Veleda, I was the only person present who had been with him in Germany, the only one who fully knew what she had meant to him. He had lost the love of his life not once, but twice. He had never got over it the first time; he probably imagined it would be even harder now. I knew better. He had had plenty of practice in bearing his loss. Grieving a second time is always easier.

Camillus Justinus was a young man. Now he knew that his fabulous lover was an older woman, growing ever older than his treasured golden memories. Whatever he had said to her, from the short time she spoke with him it was clear to all of us that she had cut short any grand protestations. What was there to say? He could plead that his wife was young and needy, a mother; perhaps Claudia had told him she was again pregnant. Veleda would see the situation. Justinus had lost his innocence – not that starry night in the signal tower in the forest, but in the instant when he chose the Roman life he had been born into: when he turned and smiled instinctively at Claudia Rufina and his little boy.

Perhaps Veleda had also noticed that when it came to women, Justinus was an idiot.

He continued resisting contact. I released him. Without a word to anyone, Justinus began his lonely walk to find his wife and tell her the hard decision that maturity and good manners had now thrust upon him. None of us envied the couple their coming struggle to regain some kind of friendship. But he was by nature easygoing and she was bitterly determined; it was feasible. For now at least, the Baetican emerald set would stay in Rome. Justinus and Claudia would get back together, although like all their reunions it would be bittersweet.