Marcus nodded sagely at me, and took a tiny mouthful of the mead. I knew that the sweet honeyed wine would not be to his taste, but he sipped at it with an appearance of good grace, and at his bidding the optio did the same. I needed no encouragement myself. There was no chance of our passing into legend now, and it was delicious mead. A pity, really, to waste it on those who preferred the sourer taste of Roman vintages.
Kiminiros noted my approval with a smile. ‘Now, you wish to speak to my nephew, I believe. I have sent to let him know, and no doubt he is already on his way. In the meantime, I have ordered these oatcakes to be brought for you, and there is stewed venison, if you would care for some.’ He signalled to the girl, and she disappeared again to return a moment later with a ladle and a beaten metal plate.
I saw at once that this was a deliberate display of wealth and rank. These were no humble kitchen implements — they were impressive things. The spoon was Celtic, from the intricate designs upon the handle, but the platter was a solid Roman one, with hunting deities incised around the rim. The woman scooped out a ladleful of stew, and offered it to Marcus with a smile.
I sent up an inward prayer to whatever gods there were that Marcus might depart from his usual custom, and accept the food. Clearly I could not partake if he did not, and it looked and smelled extremely tempting after all the rigours of the day. However, he dismissed the offer with a smile.
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. I broke it by saying, ‘That is a splendid copper dish you have. Your household has trade links with the Romans then, I see?’
The old man bestowed a searching look on me. ‘Indeed, my friend — or citizen, I think you said you were. That is the only future for us. It is regrettable, perhaps, but Rome has wealth and power and if we wish to prosper, we must trade with her. And as you say, there are fine artefacts to be found. And lessons to be learned. We have set up a little aqueduct, for instance, on the Roman style to bring water from the spring up to the house. I have a brazier in my private roundhouse, too: and some of our young men wear tunics nowadays, and shave their faces like Roman emperors.’
‘And you speak good Latin, I observe.’
He smiled to acknowledge the little compliment. ‘Most of the members of the household do — though not usually at home. I saw that they were taught. We grow a little spelt and barley for the town, and Latin is a necessary language in the marketplace.’
Marcus was still struggling with his mead, and seeing that his concentration was elsewhere, I risked an observation. ‘It is a pity that all Silurians do not think the same. There is still some opposition to the Empire here, I think?’
I saw that momentary stiffening again, before he turned towards me with a smile. ‘Unlike some others in the area, my forefathers were treated with respect. True, they were enemies to Rome — heroic ones — but in the end they lost. They were captured, certainly, but they impressed their captors with their dignity. My own ancestor was said to be so noble in defeat that he was not sold into slavery, or killed for sport, and although the family were deprived of all their land we have been able to work hard and buy it back again — or some of it at least. And we have prospered since, as you can see today. Besides, all that was long ago. We must accept the fate the gods ordain for us.’
Marcus had put his cup aside and taken a sudden interest in all this. ‘One of your forefathers was actually reprieved, although he actively resisted Rome? That is unusual.’
‘Indeed. Others were much less fortunate. But our family has that to thank the Romans for — and we have not forgotten it, although it was over a century ago.’
‘So you teach Subulcus that he must not spit and call the Romans names, but do what any soldier tells him to?’ I said.
He nodded gravely. ‘Precisely, citizen.’
‘Even though the conquerors took your land away?’ He looked so affronted at my insistence on the point that I felt prompted to explain. ‘I ask because your swineherd told us that “a naughty Roman man” had scarred his arm and neck, and killed his mother.’
Kiminiros looked first startled then amused. ‘He told you that? Well, it is partly true. No doubt he told you what he took to be the facts — he does not always understand complexity. There was a raid here, many years ago. The raiders torched the houses, stole the cows, and raped and killed the womenfolk who didn’t flee in time. They even slashed the children who were in the women’s hut — left several of them dead and scarred the rest.’ He was entirely unsmiling now: clearly this was a memory which still angered him.
He picked up an oatcake and crushed it in his fist, as if he could crush the perpetrators by the action too, then let the crumbs fall slowly in the fire. He watched them burn and turn to ash before he went on, in an even tone, ‘The man who led the raiders was Silurian by birth — a member of another family which has a feud with ours. He was nonetheless a “Roman” man because — like you, Libertus pavement-maker — he was a Roman citizen. It is a distinction that my poor swineherd finds hard to understand.’
There was silence for a moment, and then the optio spoke. It was the first time that he had ventured a word, and he sounded grim. ‘But if the fellow was a citizen, surely he should have been an ally of your tribe? You declare yourself, if not quite a friend to Rome, at least no enemy.’
The old man smiled. ‘You are not a Silurian, my friend. Perhaps you do not understand these things. Not everyone had ancestors who were reprieved like mine — many households saw their sons and fathers die. There were atrocities, I have to own the fact — the Romans did appalling things to other families, even to the womenfolk sometimes. We were the lucky ones — or it seemed so at the time. But of course there were accusations later on, of treachery and cowardice and perfidious support for the invading force, and some of the survivors vowed to wreak revenge.’
He had the Celtic gift of storytelling, making the narrative a sort of poem and declaiming it with feeling as he stared into the flames. The effect was extraordinarily powerful and none of us moved until he spoke again. Only the optio swallowed down his mead, as if he felt the need of sustenance.
‘A wound for every wound, a life for every life. Kinsman against kinsman. Adult against child.’ The old Silurian looked keenly at our faces one by one. ‘These things leave lasting hatreds. There are still men who kiss their swords each day and swear the ancient oaths — not to rest until every tribal wrong has been avenged.’ He paused, and went on in a different tone. ‘Of course, that means that new wrongs are perpetrated all the time. There will be deaths for generations yet.’
There was another awkward moment. The old man had spoken with such force and feeling that I think we all felt a little disconcerted.
Then Marcus cleared his throat. ‘I see. All most unfortunate. We had heard that there were tribal rivalries in the area — depending on who had supported Rome, or not. I had not realised that it went so deep. Do you suppose it was these self-same enemies who killed our messenger and stole your pig? If so, you have only to tell us who they are, and we will see that they are punished — and then, perhaps, we’ll put an end to this.’
The elder shook his head. ‘That is the problem, citizens. It is impossible to tell you anything. The raiders would rather die than reveal their true identities — obviously, since the price of treason is so high, whether they are acting against the government or simply pursuing ancient feuds. All we know is that new alliances are made and broken all the time, and loyalties are not always what they seem. No one can be absolutely trusted except one’s family — and not even them, sometimes. That is why every farmstead tries to arm itself.’
‘And why there’s such a market in illegal weaponry?’ I said, remembering the stalls of armour that I’d seen on Venta’s streets.