daughter-why would he, when he would have expected to be alive eight days later to do it at the proper time?
Postumus frowned. “Even if he did, the girlfriend’s not entitled to anything. We’re not a bloody benevolent fund.”
“But if he’s named the child, and there isn’t any other family.. ”
Postumus glanced across at the bed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Standing on the threshold between the images of the healing gods, the centurion paused and turned. “I’ve just lost one of my best men,” he said. “When we catch that bastard who cut the brake, I’ll nail him up myself. And if you ever recommend another barber like that one, I’ll do the same to you.”
21
The sounds of the fort had faded in the distance now. Tilla paused by the beech tree that had been split by lightning. She hid the pin of her shawl down inside the cleft trunk, in gratitude to Taranis, god of thunder, for keeping Lydia safe. Perhaps for sending a messenger in the shape of Cernunnos too, although she could not think why he had come or what he had wanted to tell her. But the next day he had appeared on a horse in front of everyone, and no one could explain why the cavalry had been unable to catch him. The spears had fallen short. The slingshots had missed. And although he had not touched it, that wagon had crashed just after he appeared. It was a mystery.
She sat on a stone and ate one of the pastries she had bought for supper and one of last season’s apples grown soft and wrinkled with age. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have left a message for the medicus with Lydia. It was too late now. She smoothed out the holes where the pin had pierced the shawl, knotted it in place, and carried on.
Just above the dell where the sacred spring rose, she laid the remaining pastry she had bought for the medicus at the foot of the oak as a gift to the goddess. Then she stood and raised her hands to the tree, which, Mam always said, was not the goddess but showed her strength. She gave thanks for a safe journey home. She prayed for courage to face what she would find here. She prayed for her lost family in the next world, and for protection for herself and for the medicus. She prayed that Lydia’s man would live, but that he would be of no further use as a soldier to the emperor, who should never have sent him to desecrate this land in the first place. Then she waited in silence, in case the goddess wished to speak.
A soft breeze rustled the new leaves of the oak. A movement to one side caught her attention and she saw a robin perched on the rock that marked the spring. It eyed her for a moment, then flew off.
It was not a clear message. But it was a sign that she had been heard. Tilla picked up her bag and set off along the stony path that led to her uncle’s house and to the place she had once called home.
She was walking behind a long shadow of herself. A chill in the breeze lifting the shawl reminded her that the night would be cold and that nothing in her bag would keep her warm. She quickened her pace.
She could see the house now. On her left was the flat land where the stream rested before taking its journey down the hill. Cows were grazing with their young around tufts of marsh grass. The far end of the field had been fenced off, and a couple of sheep were settling down for the night in the shelter of the hurdles. Beyond them, the field was empty. As she approached, she could see that someone seemed to have been digging up the ground. A pile of stone had been collected and dumped on the far side of the enclosure. Propped against the stone were a hand cart, two spades, and a pick. Drawing closer, she could make out orange rust on the blade of the pick. Careless, she thought. Da would never have allowed that. Tools were precious. They should be oiled and put away.
She dropped her bag into the long grass and leaned over the wall. Slashed through the rough turf in front of her were two long straight ditches that met at a right angle. Heavy foundation stones had been laid in them. The ditches followed lines marked out by twine stretched between wooden pegs. More twine and pegs formed the other sides of a large rectangle, with its long side facing south toward the path and out over the green valley. Tilla frowned. She knew what this was, but she had never seen anything like it here before. She could not imagine what Da would have said about it. Mam would have warned whoever it was about the anger of the gods. Her brothers would have scoffed. What a stupid place to put a grand Roman house.
She shouldered her bag again, calling out a greeting as she approached her uncle’s home. A skinny hound appeared from an outbuilding, rushed across the yard, and flung itself at the gate, barking furiously. She drew back. She and this dog did not know each other.
“Hush!” she urged it. “I have not come to hurt you!” But the animal could hear nothing over its own din.
From inside the round house, someone yelled at the dog to shut up. It took no notice. Moments later a lank- haired woman in a dingy tunic emerged, folded her arms, and shouted, “What do you want?”
Evidently the gods had not favored her uncle. This was not the standard of welcome-or of woman-anyone would have found here in the old days.
The woman snatched up a stick, shrieked, “Will you shut up, dog?” and strode down toward the gate. The animal saw her approach, gave a last defiant bark, and slunk away.
“He is a good guard dog,” remarked Tilla, not adding that he would be better if he were properly fed and trained by someone who knew what they were doing.
“He is a nuisance,” retorted the woman, placing a protective hand over the top of the gatepost. “What do you want?”
Tilla, dispensing with the usual greetings since the woman clearly knew nothing about politeness, said, “I have come to visit my uncle.”
“We haven’t got any uncles here.”
“Who is your master?” demanded Tilla, realizing with relief that this was a servant and not a wife.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “We work for Catavignus the brewer.”
“Catavignus is my father’s brother. My family used to live up on the hill.”
The woman backed away. “That family are all dead. Killed.”
Tilla frowned. “How do you know this?”
“Everyone knows it.”
“Everyone is wrong,” she said. “My name is Darlughdacha, niece of Catavignus.” She could not help the smile from showing. “And I am come home at last!”
Instead of smiling back the woman looked around as if she was hoping someone would appear to tell her what to do. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “We’ve only been here two years.”
“Where is my uncle?”
“He lives in town.”
“You mean outside the fort?”
“Near the bathhouse.”
Tilla stared at her in disbelief. “I have just come from there!” It seemed her uncle was in a house yards away from the one where she had left Lydia. She had walked all the way up here for nothing.
The woman eyed her for a moment. “I expect you’re wanting to come in, then?”
“I am tired.”
The woman shifted her hand on the gate. “I suppose, if you really are the master’s kin…”
“My uncle will thank you,” promised Tilla, hoping it was true.
The woman untwisted the frayed loop of twine that held the gate to the post. “The master doesn’t allow strangers on the land,” she explained, dragging the gate just wide enough to let Tilla squeeze through. “We don’t want trouble ’round here.”
Tilla had seen plenty of trouble here in the past, none of which would have been stopped by an inhospitable woman with a half-starved dog.
“We don’t want to get tangled up with the rebels,” said the woman, tying the gate and setting off up the yard toward the house. “The gods have sent us enough problems already. We sacrificed a lamb but it didn’t make any difference. My husband says we’re cursed.”
“What rebels?”
“There isn’t much to offer you. Only a drop of beer, or milk.”
