She took a breath. 'And I haven't stretched my legs for two days. We'll meet it.'
Clodius touched her arm. 'Valeria, it's more appropriate to be carried-'
'And tedious to stay here.' She started down the quay.
The party hastily formed around her, Galba and his cavalrymen to her front, Cassius and Savia to her rear. Clodius strode alongside, brooding and subdued.
'Well, that was exciting,' she finally said to the young tribune as they threaded past piles of cargo, the wet pavement sparkling from the scales of landed fish. 'Quite an introduction.'
'Quite timely,' he replied. 'Your hero appears from… where? Was he waiting?'
'For what?'
'I don't know, but look there. Another prosperous party coming ashore, and I don't see them molested by a Briton mob.'
'Galba's warning has spread, I think.'
'Or his need for drama is over.'
VII
Titus reappeared, leading a litter carried by four trotting slaves. Having made her point, Valeria allowed herself to be hoisted. Now that she had military escort, she felt the protection of the guest and the license of the tourist, and so she left the curtains open to see the place she'd come to.
The wall of Londinium loomed twenty feet high. A century ago the cities of the empire didn't need walls, so placid was Roman peace, but civil war and barbarian raid had eroded security, and so the provincial capital had been girdled. Their party passed through the Governor's Gate and marched into the city proper, the smells of urbanity immediately assaulting them. There was bread and sewage, perfume and wet laundry, the ammonia of the tanning shed and the sawdust of the carpenter. They passed a small forum, crowded with stalls, and then turned left on a narrow avenue toward the governor's palace.
The city was noisier and more crowded for its enclosure, human traffic jamming the streets. Here passed the litter of another fine lady, regal and powdered. The women gravely nodded. There went a proud magistrate, brisk and self-important, his clerk in tow. A juggler was earning coins with a flurry of tossed balls, a group of raucous sailors passed by in their hunt for a good tavern, and two matrons waved and gossiped at each other from adjoining apartments. A bed frame was being hoisted by a rope to a second-story window, strangers catcalling about its intended use. In turn, heads swung in curiosity to examine Valeria as she rode by. The attention flattered her. How many senators' daughters did Londinium see? She'd become someone special.
Britannia was not entirely foreign, of course. If the world was Rome's, Rome was the world. Here in Londinium were Roman streets, temples, porticoes, domes, and tenements, made exotic only by the polyglot accents of the usual ethnic rainbow: swarthy Syrians, blond Germans, dusky Numidians, arrogant Egyptians, quick Greeks, and earnest Jews. And class: slave and freedman, soldier and aristocrat, harlot and matron. The common Latin was heavily accented and corrupted, and other languages intruded. The lyrical Celtic tongue caught her ear, and she wondered if she'd have the time to learn it. Adding to the babble was the squawk of caged fowl waiting to be sold for dinner, the bleat of tethered goats, and the cries of bound lambs. There were shouting children, singing farm wives chanting the merits of their produce, wailing peddlers, shills touting the warmth of a tavern or pleasures of a brothel, and even an unkempt prophet of unknown religion, promising doom. The cries of gamblers, splash of water, and grunt of athletes sounded from a neighborhood bath. The urban noise was punctuated by the clang of blacksmiths, the rhythmic tap of cobblers, the thud of hammers, and the songs of weavers. Here was the glassblower, there the potter, and adjacent the butcher, just as she might expect, Latin signs promising bargains. There was the smell of charcoal fire and lamp oil, hot toast and frying eel, tanned leather and wet wool. Statues of dead emperors and generals were stained dark from rain, little gods of protection squatted protectively in entry alcoves, and phalluses jutted beside doorways for good luck. Only the tired paint and periodic empty, grassy lots gave evidence of what had been gossiped in Rome: that Londinium was tired, and shrinking in on itself. Commerce was retreating to Gaul.
'The city is grander than I expected,' she said charitably, reaching from her litter to put her hand on Clodius's shoulder for balance. She enjoyed his jolt at her touch. 'More important.'
'Britannia once prospered from the wars on the continent,' he conceded. 'Trouble drove money to this place. Now…'
'If they could buy some sunshine, I think we'd be very comfortable here.'
He squinted. 'It will take more than sun. But Marcus will make his reputation, get a new posting, and move on.' 'As will you.'
'I'll certainly not let the mud of Britannia stick to my career. And then we'll be back in Rome, shopping for homes on the Palatine!'
'With memories of our adventures among the Celts!'
They came to the square that fronted the governor's palace. Pillars of imported marble supported the roof of a wide portico that sheltered soldiers, solicitors, and messengers from Britannia's rains. The palace's iron-studded oak gates, half open and guarded by legionaries, gave a peek of formal gardens and inner doorways. Lamps glowed in defiance of the day's gloom. Her litter stopped.
Galba was met by a servant, conferred, and came back. 'Your arrival was unannounced to the household,' he repeated. 'Give me a moment to put some fire into them.'
The rough officer seemed solicitous enough, Valeria decided, now that the shock of their meeting was over. He obviously belonged on patrol, not here, and was doing his best to chaperon a Roman lady. She should be polite. 'You'll dine with us, tribune?'
'I'm a soldier, lady.'
'Who must get at least as hungry as a young woman in this drizzle.'
'My meal is with my men. I'll come later to secure your safety.'
'That won't be necessary,' Clodius said.
Galba ignored him. 'You'll want a good sleep.'
'What I long for are the baths!'
'So let's make sure the fires are lit to heat them.' He bowed and trotted up the palace steps with his vinestaff tucked under his arm, shoulders broad as a doorway, medals jingling, harsh voice snapping orders. People scattered from his course like leaves.
'Quite in charge, for a provincial,' Clodius said.
'I'm glad Marcus sent him, I think. Does he make you feel safer?'
Clodius looked at the other Roman soldiers, standing as patiently in the rain as hounds. 'He reminds me that life in the provinces is never safe.'
'We've just started poorly, that's all. Let's get you out of the wet.' She climbed from the litter and let him escort her up the steps.
The portico was chilly and crowded, occupied not just by cloak-wrapped officials but by street vendors who had turned the outside of the palace into a small marketplace. Some merchants had food, others jewelry or woolens, and still more boasted enameled pottery. 'Londinium,' the pieces read. Valeria began to inspect them, Clodius trailing her reluctantly.
'What a quaint token of our visit! I'm tempted to buy one.'
'And they're tempted to sell, no doubt.'
'Yes, fine lady!' a vendor encouraged. 'In honor of your journey!'
'We've baggage enough,' Clodius said. 'Pots enough. Buy one in the other direction, when you go home.'
She picked up a bowl. 'No. I want something to remember Londinium by.'
'That's called a memory, and it weighs nothing.'
'Nonsense. This is the kind of container where memories are kept.' She gave the potter a coin. 'For my trousseau.'
The merchant beamed. 'Festus is honored by your patronage.'
Valeria gave the bowl to Clodius and picked up some cups. Here was some of the fun she'd been
