slave staggered.
Now the bullying had gone too far. Falco jumped up. 'By the code of Mithras, lie down, Clodius! You're drunk!'
Clodius turned, still swaying. 'On the contrary, dear host, I'm not drunk enough. Half of what I've imbibed has leaked out of this Celtic hole in my throat.' He pointed to his scarf and laughed at his own joke, a quick bray.
Galba was watching the little drama with intent interest.
'Lie down, tribune.' Now it was Marcus, his voice flat with warning.
Finally realizing that he'd crossed the line of propriety, Clodius gave the groom a truculent salute and did what he was told. 'As you wish.' He plopped back onto his couch.
There was a long moment of awkward quiet. Then the pipes and drums started up again, Torus was given a cloth to finish mopping himself, and the buzz of conversation resumed. The merchant moved angrily away from the Roman officer.
Falco came over. 'Odo, you're excused for the evening,' he said quietly to his slave, who was bleeding from a cut on his forehead. The Scotti gave a curt nod and left. The centurion watched him go and then leaned close to the young patrician. 'That's just the kind of foolishness that keeps trouble brewing in this country,' he scolded quietly. 'You don't have to drink Briton beer, tribune, but don't mock it, either. Or my slaves. Or my household.'
'My would-be tutor Galba says we must rule the island by fear,' Clodius muttered. 'I meant no ill will, but I've been in Britannia little more than a month and am already sick of it.'
'And have you asked yourself where Galba is, dolt?'
Clodius looked across the room. The senior tribune's place was empty. 'Indeed, where is his sullen face?'
'Galba's as anxious not to call attention to that near-disaster in the forest as you seem anxious to commemorate it. He knows it was mere luck that got Valeria away from those brigands. Now you've reminded everyone else! So Galba told me he was going outdoors to spend this night with his men, organizing a guard of honor to restore his own. Don't think our commander won't notice his contrition.'
'Galba? Contrite?'
'He's paying penance for both of you.'
The young tribune glanced around, suddenly deflated. Everyone was avoiding his look. 'I've paraded my shame, haven't I?' he said gloomily.
'Just give the province a chance to work, Clodius. Give the garrison a chance to come together.'
'The soldiers don't like me.'
'They don't like you because they're not convinced you like them.'
The tribune looked miserable. 'I want to be them.'
'Then act like them. It's the end that counts, young officer.'
Clodius stood and swallowed, looking ashamed. 'I apologize for my boorishness. I'm drunk, and you're right, I've not earned my opinion of Britannia. I too am going to spend this night in the dark and somehow set things to rights.'
'To rights?'
'To somehow, like Galba, reclaim my honor.'
XV
Bride and groom at last came together at feast's end. Marcus rose, tipsy himself by now, and crossed the room to where Valeria lay on her banquet couch, her eyes bright with anticipation. Lucinda, playing the traditional role of protective mother, bent to grasp the young woman's shoulders as if reluctant to let her go. The praefectus, painfully self-conscious at this ritual play, grasped Valeria's hand and pulled as if to abduct her. She sat upright, but Lucinda's arms encircled the young woman as if in protest. The groom seemed momentarily perplexed.
'Grab her, you donkey!' someone yelled. 'Surely your sword is stiff enough by now to win victory!'
Valeria couldn't help but think of the firm grasp of the horrid barbarian who'd hauled her off her cart.
'Don't yank her! Scoop her!' another suggested.
Grinning uncomfortably, Marcus bent and put his arms around Valeria's waist and under her knees, hoisting her off the couch as Lucinda's grip obligingly fell away. The crowd roared approval, and Valeria put her arms around her new husband's neck, lifting her face. The praefectus pecked her.
'By the gods, Marcus, she's not your sister!'
'Let's take you home,' he whispered. She hugged him tighter.
The chariot in the villa courtyard was garlanded with spring fern at its rim, wild roses twisted around each spoke. Two white horses, their harness punctuated by silver coins and their backs warmed by bright red blankets, waited to pull. A bonfire crackled in one corner, and a dozen cavalrymen sat on their horses in full armor, their lances pointed at the sky. Their ceremonial gilded helmets included a full face mask of Apollo, each golden visage identical to the next. The effect was formal and eerie, black holes marking where their eyes gazed out.
Marcus set his bride's feet on the chariot floor and stepped up beside her, tenderly fastening a long fur cloak of Briton fox across her neck. His composure having returned-now that he was at a distance from his audience and half shielded by the dark-he raised his arm in salute to the wedding guests pouring outside. 'My thanks for your blessing!'
'Talassio!' the guests cried in response, a wedding salutation inspired by the name of the Sabine bride that Rome's founder had kidnapped.
'To long union!' some added.
'To a long night!'
'To a long spatha-and a receptive target!'
Valeria flushed. Now she would become a woman.
An officer shouted command. 'Turma… to the right… ho!' It was Galba's voice, his face as invisible behind the mask as his emotions. What must he think about this marriage that sealed his demotion to second? And where was Clodius? Had he fled?
The cavalry escort rode out of the courtyard smartly, lance heads bobbing, and Marcus let the chariot follow at walking pace. Guests tagged behind, each plunging a torch into the bonfire and then holding it aloft to form a chain of dancing flame. They sang drunkenly and called forward to the newlyweds with more ribald advice and jokes. It was three miles to the gate of the fortress, and as the procession traveled, it began to lengthen, stragglers dropping back from wine, age, or the need to relieve themselves. Still, it was a river of fire that crossed the arched stone bridge and entered the village of square-cornered Roman houses that stacked high toward the looming walls. Whitewashed stone gleamed in the night, and watch fires atop the guard towers beckoned. Far up the lane the fortress gate glowed with more torches, a portal of red, flickering light.
There were five hundred men in Marcus's cavalry, and they'd been turned out on foot for this moment, all wearing the helmets of Apollo and lining both sides of the village lane that led to the gate. Native Britons pressed at their back, anxious to see the beautiful bride of a commander whose fortune affected their own and jostling with each other for the best view. As the chariot passed, the soldiers' lances tilted inward slightly, forming an arbor of ash and iron. Then, as the butt of a decurion's lance came down on the paving stones to mark rhythm, the soldiers cried 'Talassio!' in concert, the chant booming from mouths invisible behind their metal masks. The helmets gave the cry an echo, as if issuing from a cave.
Galba's turma of thirty-two cavalry clattered into the fort's central courtyard and again formed a ceremonial line, the chariot rolling up before them. The wedding guests streamed in behind like an exultant mob, torches bobbing. Valeria looked around curiously. The headquarters building was straight ahead, she saw, its grim facade pierced by an entry that led to an inner court and colonnade. To its left was the hospital; to its right her new home, two stories high and aglow with light, slaves dutifully waving colored streamers from its windows. Fir boughs garlanded its eaves, and flower petals were scattered on the paving. Still, there was no mistaking the utilitarian architecture of the military residence: stony, solid, practical, austere. She swallowed. Here was to be her new life.
Marcus jumped from the chariot and lifted his wife down, releasing her waist as if it were hot.
