The Forest House Read online

  Go to the Legate if you like, and see what kind of answer he gives you; I doubt he'll be anywhere near as patient as I have been. Bring over slaves from Gaul, or offer better wages." Or, he added silently, get out there with a pitchfork yourself and work off some of that fat. "Now, if you please, I'm very busy this morning." He let his gaze fall on the scroll again and coughed discreetly

  Varullus started to protest, but Severus had already turned to his secretary, a skinny sad-looking youngster. "Who's next, Valerius?"

  After Varullus had grumbled his way out, the secretary showed in a drover who had sold cattle to the Legions. Bonnet in hand, he begged the Excellency's pardon in stumbling market-Latin for troubling him, but the roads were so beset with bandits . . .

  Macellius addressed the man fluently in his own Silurian dialect. "Speak up, man. What's troubling you?"

  When the countryman poured out his story, it appeared that he had been hired to drive his cattle overland to the coast, and there were thieves and robbers, and the cattle already belonged to the Legion, and he was a poor man who could not support the loss of them to outlaws . . .

  Macellius held up a hand. "All right," he said, not unkindly, "you want a military escort. I'll give you a note to one of the centurions. Take care of it, Valerius." He nodded to the secretary, "Give him a note to Paulus Appius and tell him to take care of escorting this army beef. No, man, don't apologize, that's what I'm here for."

  When the drover had gone out, he added testily, "What's Paulus thinking of? Why in heaven's name did this come all the way up to me? Any decurion down the line could have handled it!" He drew breath, striving for his customary calm. "Well, send in the next one."

  Next was a Briton named Tascio who had come about selling some rye. Macellius scowled. "I won't see him; that last lot he sold us was rotten. But we need it; grain's in short supply. Listen. Offer this gouger half of what he asks; and before you sign for the treasurer to give him his pay, get half a dozen of the cooks from the messes to come and look it over. If it's rotten or moldy, dump and burn it; rotten rye will give the men the burning sickness. If it's good, pay him the half agreed on, and if he gives you any trouble, threaten to have him flogged for cheating the Legion. Sextillus told me five men were poisoned by the damned stuff last time. If he still kicks up a fuss, turn him over to Appius," he went on, "and I'll put in a complaint to the Druid Curia, and what they'll do to him won't be half so kind. And by the way, if this lot is rotten put him on the blacklist and tell him not to come around here again. Is that clear?"

  Valerius, looking sadder than ever, complied. For all his skinny poverty of appearance, he was extremely efficient at this sort of thing. As he started to leave, Macellius heard his incongruously husky bass rise in surprise.

  "Hullo, young Severus. You're back again?" Macellius heard a familiar voice reply, "Salve, Valerius. Hey, take it easy, that arm's still sore! Is my father in?"

  Macellius arose so precipitately that he upset his chair. "Gaius! My dear boy, I was beginning to worry about you!" He came round the desk and briefly clasped his son in his arms. "What kept you so long?"

  "I came as soon as I could," Gaius apologized.

  He felt the boy flinch as his grip tightened and abruptly let go. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

  "Not really, it's nearly healed. Are you busy, Father?"

  Macellius looked around the small office. "Nothing here that Valerius can't handle perfectly well." He regarded his son's dusty garments with disapproval, and said with some sternness, "Must you go about the camp dressed like a freedman or a native?"

  Gaius's lips tightened briefly, as if "native" had stung. But his voice was matter of fact and without apology when he replied. "It's safer to travel this way."

  "Humph!" But Macellius knew it was true. "Well then, couldn't you at least bathe and dress decently before coming into my presence?"

  "I thought you might be anxious about me, Father," Gaius said "seeing that I'd overstayed my leave by a couple of days. With your permission I will go and bathe and dress. The only bath I've had this week was in the river."

  "Don't be in a hurry.," Macellius said grumpily. "I'll come with you." He let his hand rest on the younger man's forearm, gripping it without words. For some absurd reason he always worried whenever Gaius was away that the boy would not return; he did not know why, for the youngster had always been very self-sufficient. Seeing the bandaged arm had frightened him. "Tell me what happened now; why the bandages?"

  "I fell in a trap dug for boars," Gaius said. "One of the stakes

  went through my shoulder." His father paled, and Gaius added reassuringly, "It's all but healed now; doesn't even hurt unless I knock it against something. I'll be carrying a sword again in six weeks."

  "How?"

  "How did I get out?" The boy grimaced. "Some Britons found me and doctored me till I was on my feet again."

  Macellius's face betrayed what he could not express. "I hope you rewarded them suitably." But Gaius appeared to understand the solicitude hidden behind the indirection.

  "On the contrary, Father, hospitality was offered in a noble manner and I accepted it in kind."

  "I see." Macellius did not press the matter. Gaius tended to be touchy about his British blood.

  At the military baths just outside the stockade, Macellius chose a low chair while Gaius was stripped and scrubbed by the army attendants. Once his personal slave had been despatched to their house for clean garments, Macellius lay back in his chair wondering what the boy had been up to now. There was a difference in him, something more than could be explained by the injury. For a moment he wished himself back in his office dealing with questions that could be quickly dismissed.

  Presently Gaius emerged from the bath looking young and very clean in his short wool tunic, his damp hair curling down his back. He sent for a barber-slave and as the man clipped the unruly hair to proper military shortness and scraped away the nascent beard, he recounted his adventure. Clearly he was leaving some things out, thought Macellius. Why had Clotinus Albinus not reported the accident? He felt a moment of gratitude at being spared the kind of unpleasantness any irregularity would involve.

  "You should have a regular army doctor look at that arm," he said simply when the tale was done.

  Gaius protested irritably, "It's doing well enough." But Macellius insisted, and after a certain amount of delay old Manlius came and unbound Cynric's careful bandages, and probed and poked and pressed until Gaius was white-faced and sweating. Then he solemnly pronounced that the arm was healed as well as if he had had the care of it from the beginning.

  "I could have told you that —" muttered the boy, refusing to meet his father's eyes. Good, thought the older man, he knows better than to argue with me . . .

  Gaius lay back limply, his good hand falling away from a fumbling attempt to repin his tunic, yet he grinned as Macellius reached out and refastened it, reaching up to take his father's hand in his own.

  "I told you I was all right, Dad, you old Stoic," he said roughly. Macellius thought again, He's a handsome boy; I wonder what sort of devilry he's been up to? Well, he has a right to a certain amount of folly. Better not let him know that, though . . ." He cleared his throat, glad that no one else was using the bathhouse at this time of day.

  "So, what excuse can you offer for overstaying your leave, Son?"

  Gaius nodded at his arm.

  "I understand; of course you couldn't travel with that injury, and I'll speak to Sextillus. Another time, allow for accidents. But you're not some patrician puppy who can slack. Your grandfather was a farmer outside Tarentum, and I've had to work hard to get this far. Gaius, what would you say to not going back to Glevum?"

  "Do you mean they would courtmartial me for overstaying leave because of an accident -?" He looked so upset that Macellius hastened to reassure him.

  "No, no, I didn't mean it that way. I mean, would you care to be transferred to my staff? I need someone to help me here, and when I spoke to
the Governor on his way north he agreed to make an exception and let you serve with me. It's time I started introducing you to my connections here. The Province is growing, Gaius. Intelligence and energy will carry a man far. If I could rise to the rank of Equestrian, only one rung below the nobility, who knows how far you might go?"

  He saw the trouble in Gaius's eyes, and wondered if his son was in pain. It seemed a long time before the boy replied. "I've never understood why you stayed here in Britain, Father. Couldn't you have risen more quickly if you had been willing to go elsewhere? It's a big empire."

  "Britain isn't the whole world," said Macellius, "but I like it." His face grew grave. "They offered me a Juridicus post once in Hispania. I should have taken it, if only for your sake."

  "Why Hispania, Father? Why not of Britain?" As soon as the question left his lips, Gaius seemed aware that it had been a mistake. Macellius felt his own face stiffening.

  "The Emperor Claudius was so busy trying to reform things at home, from the Senate and the coinage to the state religion, that he never got around to reforming the military laws," Macellius explained, "and the emperors who came after him seemed to think that he, as the official conqueror of Britain, knew what he was doing."

  "I don't understand what you mean, Father."

  "I visited Rome just once," Macellius said. "And Londinium is more like the Rome I was brought up to honor than Rome is now. The Empire is in the devil of a mess, Gaius; that shouldn't come as any surprise to you." He frowned, then with sudden irritability turned on the slave who stood by their chairs and demanded, "Get us something to eat, don't stand there gawking."

  When they were alone he turned back to Gaius, "What I'm going to say now comes under the official heading of treason; when I finish speaking, forget you heard it won't you? But as an officer of the Legion I have a certain responsibility. If there's ever going to be any reform, it may have to come from the Provinces, like Britain. Titus . . .this is dangerous talk . . .Titus is well meaning, but he seems to care more about increasing his popularity than governing the Empire. Domitian, his brother, is at least efficient, but I've heard rumors that his ambition may outrun his patience. If he falls heir to the purple and becomes Emperor, then what little power is left to the Senate and People of Rome may disappear.

  "I would advance my family in the old way, by service and solid achievement, one generation following another," Macellius continued very deliberately. "You asked me why I stayed in Britain. Julius Classicus tried to create a Gallic empire not ten years ago. After Vespasian crushed him, he decreed that auxiliaries could not be used in the country of their birth, and the Legions must be drawn from a mix of men from all over the Empire. That's why I had such a hard time gaining permission for you to serve in Britain, and why, it might have been wiser for us to seek our fortunes in Hispania, or somewhere like that. Rome's deepest fear is that the subject nations may rise again . . ."

  "But you raised me to revere the old virtues of Rome. What do you want, Father - since we are speaking frankly - and what do you fear?"

  Macellius looked at the smooth face of the boy before him, searching for some trace of his own father's rugged strength. There was a resemblance, perhaps, in the strong line of the jaw, but the boy's nose was Celtic, short, almost snubbed, like his mother's. No wonder he had looked like a Briton when he walked through the door, Is he weak, he wondered, or only young? And then, "Where do his loyalties really lie?

  "Chaos . . ." he said soberly. "The world upside down. The time of the four Emperors, or the Killer Queen again. You wouldn't remember, but it seemed to us that the world was ending the year that you were born . . ."

  "You think Roman and British rebellion are equally dangerous?" Gaius asked curiously.

  "Have you read Valerius Maximus?" his father said suddenly. "If not, read him sometime; there used to be a couple of copies in the legionary library here. It's a scandalous book; he never should have written it. He damn near lost his head in Nero's day, and I'm not surprised. He started writing in the days of the deified Tiberius, but he makes some good points about some of the Emperors that followed him - to say some of them were as fallible as G—, well, as gods always are, isn't treason - not now, anyway. The point is, even a bad Emperor is better than civil war."

  "But you said that reform might have to come from the Provinces—"

  Macellius grimaced. At least there was nothing wrong with the boy's memory.

  "Reform, not rebellion . . .You may remember that I also said that these days Londinium is like Rome used to be. The old Roman virtues can survive in the Provinces, away from the corruption that surrounds the Emperor. In a lot of ways, the tribes here are like the country people where I was born. Give them the best of Roman culture, and maybe Britain can become what Rome was supposed to be."

  "Is that why you married my mother?" Gaius said into the silence.

  Macellius looked at him and blinked, seeing once more a girl's fine-boned face and dusky hair, remembering how she used to sing as she pulled the horn comb through her heavy curls, sparkling with red glints as they caught the light of the fire. Moruadh . . .Moruadh . . .why did you leave me alone?

  "Perhaps it was one reason," he replied at last. "But perhaps it justifies it. We had hopes then of joining our two peoples. But that was before Classicus . . .and Boudicca. Perhaps it can still happen, but it will take longer, and you will have to be more Roman than the Romans to survive."

  "What have you heard?" asked Gaius, frowning.

  "The Emperor, Titus, has been ill. I don't like it. He's still a young man. He might die in bed, but after him, who knows? I don't trust Domitian. A piece of advice, Son: try to live without ever coming to the attention of a prince. Are you ambitious?"

  "All gods forbid," said Gaius.

  But Macellius had seen the flash of pride in his eyes. Well, ambition was no bad thing in a young man, if well directed. He gave a short laugh. "In any case, it's time we took the next step to advance the family. Nothing that will upset the Emperor . . .but you are, what, nineteen now? It's time you were married."

  "I'll be twenty in a few weeks, Father," said Gaius suspiciously. "Do you have someone in mind for me?"

  "I suppose you know that Clotinus - yes, old Bedbugs - has a daughter . . ." Macellius began, and stopped when his son started laughing.

  "All gods forbid. I practically had to kick her out of my bed when I guested there."

  "Clotinus is going to be one of the big men in the Province, even if he is British. If you'd set your heart on his daughter, I would be willing enough to go along, but not if she is so immodest. My father may have been only a plebeian, but he could name all his ancestors. The honor of the family requires that your sons be of your own fathering."

  He looked up as the slave appeared in the doorway with a tray of hard biscuits and some wine. He poured, handed a goblet to Gaius, and drank deeply before speaking again.

  "Here's an idea you may like better. You may not remember this, but when you were a child a tentative betrothal was arranged between you and the daughter of an old friend. He's now the Procurator, Licinius."

  "Father," Gaius said quickly, "have you spoken to him lately? — I hope you haven't settled things too far -"

  Macellius stared at him narrowly. "Why? Is there some other young girl you're lusting after? It won't do, you know. A marriage is a social and economic alliance. Be guided by me, Son; these romantic attractions don't last." He could see the dull flush that darkened his son's fair skin.

  Very carefully, Gaius took another sip of wine. "There is a girl, but it is not lust I feel for her. I have offered her marriage," he said evenly.

  "What? Who is she?" Macellius barked, turning to stare at his son.

  "The daughter of Bendeigid."

  The wine cup clicked loudly as Macellius set it down.

  "Impossible. He's a proscribed man, and, if I mistake not, a Druid. Of good family, so I'll say nothing against the girl if she's his kin, but that only makes it worse. Th
ose sorts of marriages —"

  "You made one," Gaius interrupted.

  "And it nearly destroyed my career! Your girl may be as fine a woman as your mother, but one misalliance of that kind is enough for any family," Macellius exclaimed. Moruadh, forgive me, his heart cried. I loved you, but I have to save our boy.

  "Things were different then," he continued more temperately. "Since Boudicca's rebellion, a connection with any but the most loyal of British families would be a disaster. And you especially must be careful, because you are your mother's son. Do you think I have endured thirty years in the Legions just to see you throw it all away?" He splashed more wine into his cup and drank it down.

  "There's no limit to what you could do if you have the right connections, and the Procurator's daughter is a prize. The family is related to the Julians after all. Meanwhile, if you have a taste for romantic adventure, there are plenty of slaves and freedwomen; keep your thoughts off these British girls." He glared at his son.