shifted to the new. Here in Britannia the Christians remain a fanatic minority, but conversion can help a career. The only thing all sides share is intolerance.
'Clodius wouldn't stop because of his jealousy. He called the Christ a slave's god, a weakling who counseled peace and was slain for it. He said Christians were tyrants, ending religious freedom. The litter bearers stumbled at these insults, almost spilling Valeria onto the pavement, and I don't think their clumsiness was a mistake. They were Christians and offended, some of them.'
'This Clodius seems a fool.'
'He was young and proud, which may be the same thing.'
'Valeria was a pagan? '
'She was uncertain. Her parents worship the old gods, myself the new. She prayed to Minerva and Flora and Jesus without preference, even though I warned her that Christ tolerates no other gods.'
'What did Galba say?'
'He ordered us all to shut up. He said religious opinion always makes trouble. As to the truth of a belief, he'd yet to see a god give a direct opinion on the matter. What good is a sign, he demanded, if a dozen believers interpret it a dozen different ways? It was Cicero who asked if all the dead of the battle of Cannae had the same horoscope. So Clodius asked the senior tribune what god he worshiped.'
'And his reply?'
'The god Spatha. The Roman cavalry sword.'
I laugh, despite myself. This man Galba is beginning to sound like the only one with common sense! Savia is offended I find the senior tribune's remark amusing, and I'm not surprised. One reason Christians are disliked so much is that they have no humor about their own righteousness. They invite mockery.
'What happened next?'
'We came to the city gates. There were horses for the men and a mule cart for Valeria's trousseau. Galba had suggested a carruca, with a couch to recline on, but she'd insisted on a swifter raeda, even though it meant she'd have to spend the journey sitting up. We watched the men vault into their saddles with full armor, one arm on the saddle and one on their lance to help boost themselves up. It's quite athletic. And so Valeria announced she'd prefer a horse herself, rather than be condemned to the bounce of a cart. Galba asked if she was as fearless of horses as of elephants, and she boasted that she'd ridden in a womanly way, legs to one side. Galba said it required trousers to grip a cavalry mount properly, and Valeria replied that men are born with many things but trousers aren't one of them and that anyone, man or woman, could learn to put them on. Galba laughed, but I was appalled, and Clodius took her by the arm and escorted her firmly to the cart. He, at least, had a sense of decency! The gladiator Cassius took the reins with me beside him, and Valeria was seated under a canopy behind, amid her trousseau. We had a fortnight more of travel, in mansiones and as guests of villas, the first belonging to Quintus Maxus-'
'Yes, I am interviewing him next. And this soldier Titus. They are waiting while I finish with you.'
She looks at me. 'Please, master, I've answered everything you've asked. Will you not take pity on me?'
'And do what?'
'Get me out of my cell.'
'I'll speak to the commander about moving you because you've been useful. But I'm not ready to make a decision on your permanent fate. I'm speaking to many people.'
She looks at me levelly. 'In the end you'll want me with you.'
I mistake this for further seduction. 'In my bed?'
'No, in the wood, where Valeria has gone. Where you'll have to go too.'
IX
The villa of Quintus Maxus, the first private residence that Valeria's party was to rest at in Britannia, was three days' journey north of Londinium. The road they followed was, in the Roman manner, a spear shaft thrust across hill and dale that sliced through ancient property lines and bridged streams, bogs, and wooded gullies. The highway was well maintained near Londinium, its tight-fitting stones cushioned with gravel and its stout puncheons rumbling like a drum. Grassy margins were cleared to the distance of a bowshot to discourage brigands, and the cavalry escort rode there instead of on the highway, to save the hooves of their unshod horses. But the farther Valeria's escort ventured from the capital, the more indifferent maintenance became. Holes went unrepaired, gravel was scant, brush invaded the shoulders, and frost heaved the stones.
Money, Galba told her as the cart jounced. There was never enough.
Contrasting to this Latin precision were the walls that marked the boundaries of Briton farms. These surrendered to topography and curved along the undulating terrain with the organic symmetry of cells. The result was a honeycomb, cut by Roman roads like a knife.
As an official party the wedding entourage had right-of-way over all but military units or imperial messengers. Private travelers, peddlers, wool merchants, cattle drovers, pilgrims, and hay wagons moved to the grassy swale as Valeria's procession passed, eyes peeking curiously at the woman on the high seat in the column's middle.
A bright blue canopy shielded her from sun or rain, and a scarlet cloak was clasped round her neck. She sat straight, her dark hair lustrous at the margin of her hood, her eyes bright, her smile brave, her figure trim and rounded, her garments a display of Egyptian linens, Asian silks, and Roman embroideries. A senator's daughter! In rural Britannia, she was as exotic as a unicorn or giraffe. At Petrianis she'd be a kind of queen, she supposed. She smiled graciously and studied these people as they studied her, speculating on their quiet, secret lives. Did they envy her?
She looked forward to the hospitality of Quintus Maxus. She could learn from the province's aristocracy, and the manor owner would earn status by entertaining not just the future wife of a praefectus, but the daughter of a senator. His feast would be a display of his best because the. empire was unified by ten thousand complicated alliances, where advancement revolved around family, friends, clients, loyalty, and long-owed favor. Every invitation was calculated, and every acceptance was strategic.
Galba was taciturn on the road north, brooking no dissent and joined to his horse like a centaur, his belt of rings jingling on his hip. While command came easily to him, companionability did not. He'd answer when asked but otherwise offered little conversation. This reticence made Valeria more curious, not less, of course. There was a peculiar restlessness to him, she thought, which left him brooding and mysterious.
'I'm told you're a Thracian, tribune,' she prompted once as his constant prowling back and forth past their procession brought him alongside.
He looked wary. It was bold for a woman to initiate conversation. 'I was.'
'A long way from home.'
'No.' He took a moment to elaborate. 'The Wall is my home now. You're the one who's a long way away.'
So to him she was the outsider. Interesting. 'What's it like in Thrace?'
'I left twenty years ago.'
'But surely you have memories.' Even as she said it, she realized how difficult it was to picture Galba as a child.
'Thrace is grass. Horses thrive there.'
'A beautiful place?'
'A poor one. A frontier, like where you're going.'
'And you a frontiersman.'
'So it would seem.' He was looking straight ahead now, as if to glance at her might reveal weakness. Galba, she suspected, was a man terrified of weakness. Perhaps, like many strong men, he was terrified of women.
'But you're a Roman as well,' she went on, trying to draw him out. If she could understand Galba, perhaps she could understand Britannia. If she was to prevail in this province, she had to learn its mood. As a girl her studies had included little of the geography taught to boys, but she'd always been curious. Sometimes as a child she had hidden behind the tapestries of her father's dining room and listened to the men shouting opinions about lands, wars, and treaties in places she could scarcely imagine. Now she was beginning to see them for herself.
