I arrived one day with Ganymede, a young slave of Theodora’s. He and Avitoria had taken a liking to each other and spent their time whispering and giggling together. It irritated me, but I put up with it because I could not walk through the streets without an escort. I wanted Avitoria to notice me, not Ganymede, who made her blush and brought a little sparkle to her veiled blue eyes. I knew it was foolish of me and that made me even crosser – with myself and with Avitoria. She did not even seem to notice, and that was even more irritating. Still, my heart fluttered whenever I heard her voice as she came to open the door for us.
This time, however, it was not Avitoria who opened the door, but a strange boy a few years older than me. He was dark-haired and blue-eyed, and to my surprise he was dressed like a farmer, not in an elegantly draped toga but in those odd, bulky trousers that Celts like, with a birrus Britannicus, a hooded cloak that was popular with the barbarians, worn over it. I have never been good at disguising my feelings – everything shows on my face. I must have smirked. He scowled and called: “Theodora!” He had the voice of a farmer too, made for yelling across fields at cows, and a strong British accent.
“My brother-in-law’s son, Arcturus,” Theodora explained as she came to join us. “He has come into town to sell some heifers.”
Cows – so I had been right.
“I think the young lady can see I’m not usually to be found in the theatre or admiring the sound of my own voice in the basilica,” said Arcturus dryly.
“I am certainly not used to seeing men without a toga,” I retorted, feeling a bit stung, as the theatre and the basilica described my father well.
“A toga is a lovely garment, but a little impractical for ploughing a muddy field or tramping through undergrowth after a lost sheep,” he replied.
“True, it’s meant for civilisation,” I said. His air of superiority was annoying. What did he have to swagger about? He still had mud on his boots, after all. And I could definitely smell the farmyard.
“Ah yes, I always forget how you Romans love cities,” he answered. “Strange, for your wealth all comes from the countryside.”
“You are Roman too,” Theodora put in, clearly concerned by the fact that we had just met and were instantly, it seemed, arguing.
“British-Roman!” said Arcturus firmly. I did know what he meant. I felt like a provincial too, as foreign in Rome as I was in Britain. But I couldn’t understand why he was so obsessed with the countryside. There was nothing there – just bleak, wild, boring danger. Everything that mattered was in the cities.
He left soon after that. Theodora looked weary and worried, and I asked her if it was something to do with Arcturus. She smiled and shook her head.
“He really is a good boy,” she told me. “He comes every time he visits town to check that I am all right. He just dislikes cities so much – he is happiest on his farm.”
“It must be a special place,” I said, trying to make up for my behaviour. I did feel I had been rude.
“It is, but hard to make a living – it’s not like Italy, where crops grow so easily. There’s little sun and the wind cuts through you to the bone. It’s in Brigante country, north of here – his mother is from the Brigante tribe and his father is the brother of my dead husband. They have been there twenty years since Gaius received his pension and land, and settled down there. His father is still working for the Empire in a sense – guarding his wife’s relatives in case they revolt.”
That was all we said about Arcturus. But now and then I bumped into him, on market day, and though we rarely exchanged more than a few casual words we smiled more often, as if wanting to make up for the unpleasant way in which we had met.
211 AD
16.
Bad News
The Emperor had been in the North for more than a year. We heard regular news, which was reassuring in one way – the Caledonians and Maetae had been roundly driven back, and the Antonine Wall had been retaken. The defences were being rebuilt on Hadrian’s Wall. We were safe. But what I heard in the gossip at the market was another matter.
I was with Avitoria, going to her mistress’s house to let the blood of a Gaulish slave who was anxious to have it done. I had only done blood-letting once before, and I was very nervous, knowing how easily it could go wrong. So, when Avitoria suddenly stopped still, eyes wide, I was cross with her.
“What is it? Have you seen your love, Ganymede?” I said crossly.
She threw me a glance of such bitterness that I was silent. “Listen,” she hissed at me.
I listened, but all I heard was the babble of British words, as there often was on market day. The Ordovices, the Brigantes, the Catuvellauni – all had different accents and dialects, and it was exhausting to listen to so many conversations that I did not understand. I did pick out some words though: ‘Caledonians’, ‘massacre’, and – I shivered – ‘Caracalla’.
I took Avitoria’s hand and together we moved slowly and unnoticed through the crowd, just a young woman out shopping with her slave. I could feel the blood pulsing in her wrist, too fast. I stopped by one of the public water spouts and she drank deeply. Her face was pale.
“What has happened?” I asked, though I already had my suspicions.
She swallowed.
“The Emperor is not well. He has returned to Hadrian’s Wall and sent his son Caracalla to conquer my people. But. . . it seems he has murdered them. Women. Children. Everyone.”
It had been a long time since I had seen Caracalla.
