Enemies of the Empire (19 page)

The old man looked doubtfully at the serried troops, and all trace of a smile vanished from his eyes. ‘In what way, exactly, do you think that we can help?’ His voice was wary.

‘That tunic which Subulcus is wearing used to be my own. The murdered slave had charge of it before he died. I’d like to discover how your pigman came by it.’ I switched to Latin this time, so that Marcus (who was fidgeting again) could follow what was said.

Kiminiros said in the same language, ‘You think he stole it from your murdered slave? I doubt that, citizen. It is not in his nature to become a thief. And, as for killing anyone for such a trivial thing . . .’

I interrupted him. ‘It was given as a gift – but not by me, and not to Subulcus. It was given to a different pigman yesterday. And that is another little mystery. That pigman has now completely disappeared.’

He looked incredulous. ‘There is no swineherd here but Subulcus – though the land-slaves sometimes help him out.’

I nodded. That accorded with what I’d heard before. ‘It seems that “young master” might be able to explain.’

‘Then you must come and ask him for yourself. I have already sent him word that you are here,’ the old man said, stepping forward to unlatch the gate. ‘Please, citizen, bid your patron and the officer be welcome to my home. And you, yourself, of course.’ He gestured towards the large roundhouse in the centre of the compound, where a group of women were now standing at the door. ‘The other soldiers, I regret, must stay outdoors – there is not room in the roundhouse for so many men, but I will see that there is bread for all of them, and they may refresh themselves by drinking at the well. My swineherd will show them where it is.’ He turned to Subulcus, who nodded eagerly to indicate he’d understood.

The optio gave his men the order to stand down, and the pigman led them confidently away to what was obviously a spring that served the farm. Marcus did not dismiss his private bodyguard, however, and when the old man at last unlatched the gate and we went through the triple palisade into the enclosure on the other side, they stayed to keep watch outside.

The women came forward to greet us now. They were formal, silent and unsmiling, and clearly either terrified or shy, but they gestured us to follow them and led us to the largest of the buildings on the site. It was a handsome roundhouse, with a low-lintelled door, so small that it was necessary to bend as one went in, but once we straightened up again and our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we found ourselves inside a spacious room.

It was much larger than the roundhouses I am accustomed to, and clearly some kind of common meeting space. There was no sleeping area, but wooden benches draped with bearskins stood around the walls, which in turn were hung with furs and spears and woven cloths of elegant design. On a stone hearth in the centre was a glowing fire, with a large Roman-style pot of something savoury bubbling over it. From a clay oven broken open near the fire I caught the warm aroma of fresh oatcakes, too. If this tribe were ‘poor farmers’, they were successful ones, I thought.

I turned to Marcus with a smile, and saw to my dismay that his eyes were watering and he was choking in the swirling smoke. I am accustomed to central cooking-fires and to the fumes from sheep-fat tapers; he is not. I hurried to his side before he could say anything unfortunate – it is the worst kind of insult to a nobleman to criticise his house and so insult his hospitality.

‘This is a fine room, Excellence,’ I whispered. ‘No doubt the best they have. And they have prepared refreshments for us, too.’

Marcus was still coughing but he understood. As Pertinax’s representative he has often been obliged to handle ceremonial occasions with tact, and avoid offending tribal sensitivities. He nodded his assent with streaming eyes, and permitted himself to be seated on an embroidered stool which one of the women now produced for him, together with a fine-chased silver cup. Other females brought in lesser cups and stools for the optio and me. The chieftain was installed upon a wooden chair, with carving on the back, and given a splendid goblet which was obviously his own.

My patron looked rather dangerous at this. He was not used to taking second place. So when a girl came in with a jug of warm, spiced mead, and offered it to her master first, I felt it opportune to murmur an explanation into Marcus’s ear.

‘A courtesy to you, Excellence, and a gesture of good faith. To show there is no poison in the cup.’

‘Of course,’ he snapped at me impatiently. Like any wealthy Roman he kept a slave at home to serve as poison-taster every time he ate. I did not mention that he did not have one here, or tell him about the day, much famed in Celtic legend, when a chief had entertained an ancient enemy and, knowing there was hemlock in the jug, nonetheless drained his goblet first: quite prepared to die himself, provided that he killed his visitor as well. I watched the woman filling Marcus’s cup and hoped there was no such heroic deviousness today.

Marcus nodded sagely at me, and took a tiny mouthful of the mead. I knew that the sweet honeyed wine would not be to his taste, but he sipped at it with an appearance of good grace, and at his bidding the optio did the same. I needed no encouragement myself. There was no chance of our passing into legend now, and it was delicious mead. A pity, really, to waste it on those who preferred the sourer taste of Roman vintages.

Kiminiros noted my approval with a smile. ‘Now, you wish to speak to my nephew, I believe. I have sent to let him know, and no doubt he is already on his way. In the meantime, I have ordered these oatcakes to be brought for you, and there is stewed venison, if you would care for some.’ He signalled to the girl, and she disappeared again to return a moment later with a ladle and a beaten metal plate.

I saw at once that this was a deliberate display of wealth and rank. These were no humble kitchen implements – they were impressive things. The spoon was Celtic, from the intricate designs upon the handle, but the platter was a solid Roman one, with hunting deities incised around the rim. The woman scooped out a ladleful of stew, and offered it to Marcus with a smile.

I sent up an inward prayer to whatever gods there were that Marcus might depart from his usual custom, and accept the food. Clearly I could not partake if he did not, and it looked and smelled extremely tempting after all the rigours of the day. However, he dismissed the offer with a smile.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. I broke it by saying, ‘That is a splendid copper dish you have. Your household has trade links with the Romans then, I see?’

The old man bestowed a searching look on me. ‘Indeed, my friend – or citizen, I think you said you were. That is the only future for us. It is regrettable, perhaps, but Rome has wealth and power and if we wish to prosper, we must trade with her. And as you say, there are fine artefacts to be found. And lessons to be learned. We have set up a little aqueduct, for instance, on the Roman style to bring water from the spring up to the house. I have a brazier in my private roundhouse, too: and some of our young men wear tunics nowadays, and shave their faces like Roman emperors.’

‘And you speak good Latin, I observe.’

He smiled to acknowledge the little compliment. ‘Most of the members of the household do – though not usually at home. I saw that they were taught. We grow a little spelt and barley for the town, and Latin is a necessary language in the marketplace.’

Marcus was still struggling with his mead, and seeing that his concentration was elsewhere, I risked an observation. ‘It is a pity that all Silurians do not think the same. There is still some opposition to the Empire here, I think?’

I saw that momentary stiffening again, before he turned towards me with a smile. ‘Unlike some others in the area, my forefathers were treated with respect. True, they were enemies to Rome – heroic ones – but in the end they lost. They were captured, certainly, but they impressed their captors with their dignity. My own ancestor was said to be so noble in defeat that he was not sold into slavery, or killed for sport, and although the family were deprived of all their land we have been able to work hard and buy it back again – or some of it at least. And we have prospered since, as you can see today. Besides, all that was long ago. We must accept the fate the gods ordain for us.’

Marcus had put his cup aside and taken a sudden interest in all this. ‘One of your forefathers was actually reprieved, although he actively resisted Rome? That is unusual.’

‘Indeed. Others were much less fortunate. But our family has that to thank the Romans for – and we have not forgotten it, although it was over a century ago.’

‘So you teach Subulcus that he must not spit and call the Romans names, but do what any soldier tells him to?’ I said.

He nodded gravely. ‘Precisely, citizen.’

‘Even though the conquerors took your land away?’ He looked so affronted at my insistence on the point that I felt prompted to explain. ‘I ask because your swineherd told us that “a naughty Roman man” had scarred his arm and neck, and killed his mother.’

Kiminiros looked first startled then amused. ‘He told you that? Well, it is partly true. No doubt he told you what he took to be the facts – he does not always understand complexity. There was a raid here, many years ago. The raiders torched the houses, stole the cows, and raped and killed the womenfolk who didn’t flee in time. They even slashed the children who were in the women’s hut – left several of them dead and scarred the rest.’ He was entirely unsmiling now: clearly this was a memory which still angered him.

He picked up an oatcake and crushed it in his fist, as if he could crush the perpetrators by the action too, then let the crumbs fall slowly in the fire. He watched them burn and turn to ash before he went on, in an even tone, ‘The man who led the raiders was Silurian by birth – a member of another family which has a feud with ours. He was nonetheless a “Roman” man because – like you, Libertus pavement-maker – he was a Roman citizen. It is a distinction that my poor swineherd finds hard to understand.’

There was silence for a moment, and then the optio spoke. It was the first time that he had ventured a word, and he sounded grim. ‘But if the fellow was a citizen, surely he should have been an ally of your tribe? You declare yourself, if not quite a friend to Rome, at least no enemy.’

The old man smiled. ‘You are not a Silurian, my friend. Perhaps you do not understand these things. Not everyone had ancestors who were reprieved like mine – many households saw their sons and fathers die. There were atrocities, I have to own the fact – the Romans did appalling things to other families, even to the womenfolk sometimes. We were the lucky ones – or it seemed so at the time. But of course there were accusations later on, of treachery and cowardice and perfidious support for the invading force, and some of the survivors vowed to wreak revenge.’

He had the Celtic gift of storytelling, making the narrative a sort of poem and declaiming it with feeling as he stared into the flames. The effect was extraordinarily powerful and none of us moved until he spoke again. Only the optio swallowed down his mead, as if he felt the need of sustenance.

‘A wound for every wound, a life for every life. Kinsman against kinsman. Adult against child.’ The old Silurian looked keenly at our faces one by one. ‘These things leave lasting hatreds. There are still men who kiss their swords each day and swear the ancient oaths – not to rest until every tribal wrong has been avenged.’ He paused, and went on in a different tone. ‘Of course, that means that new wrongs are perpetrated all the time. There will be deaths for generations yet.’

There was another awkward moment. The old man had spoken with such force and feeling that I think we all felt a little disconcerted.

Then Marcus cleared his throat. ‘I see. All most unfortunate. We had heard that there were tribal rivalries in the area – depending on who had supported Rome, or not. I had not realised that it went so deep. Do you suppose it was these self-same enemies who killed our messenger and stole your pig? If so, you have only to tell us who they are, and we will see that they are punished – and then, perhaps, we’ll put an end to this.’

The elder shook his head. ‘That is the problem, citizens. It is impossible to tell you anything. The raiders would rather die than reveal their true identities – obviously, since the price of treason is so high, whether they are acting against the government or simply pursuing ancient feuds. All we know is that new alliances are made and broken all the time, and loyalties are not always what they seem. No one can be absolutely trusted except one’s family – and not even them, sometimes. That is why every farmstead tries to arm itself.’

‘And why there’s such a market in illegal weaponry?’ I said, remembering the stalls of armour that I’d seen on Venta’s streets.

The old man gave me a startled glance, then made a wry gesture of assent. ‘Exactly so.’

Marcus looked startled at this casual evidence of illicit trade and glared at the optio, who said reluctantly, ‘We are aware that something of the kind goes on in Venta, secretly.’ Not very secretly, I knew, but I said nothing. The poor officer had enough troubles on his mind.

‘Not so surprising,’ Kiminiros said. ‘It’s part of the tactics of the rebel tribes. Their raiders make a point of capturing equipment when they can, and harrying the legion’s supply lines on the roads. So those who look like allies may be enemies. Not everyone who wears a Roman uniform or throws a Roman lance is necessarily a friend of Rome – as Subulcus discovered yesterday, I hear. Someone told him that I wanted him – a military messenger, he said, but there was no such messenger as far as I can tell. My nephew did not see one, and he was quickly on the scene.’ He broke off, frowning. ‘Where is he, anyway?’ He turned to the young woman who had served the mead. ‘Fetch me Thullero. He went to tend the horses in the farthest field, but he should be here by now.’

She dropped a hasty bob. ‘At once, Ny— Kiminiros.’ She gave him an anxious look and scuttled off.

The exchange had been in Celtic and something in the way she spoke his name reminded me of what I’d suspected at the gate. ‘So they call you Nyros, do they, in the family, just as Tholiramanda uses a shortened Latin name? Perhaps you could tell us about the property you own, and which you rent to Lyra in the town? In the street of the oil-lamp sellers, I believe?’