“Because I don’t think you’d be comfortable in Britannia. At least while I’m still governor. You might meet with an accident.”
He whispered: “You wouldn’t dare.”
Agricola replied with a shrug: “Others would.”
Avitus took a step closer. The governor looked up at me. “You can go now, Arcturus.”
“Remember what I asked.”
He nodded. “I’ll see that it’s done.”
Lucullus’ eyes darted back and forth. He seemed smaller than he did a minute ago, small and grey and brown and full of venom. He muttered to Agricola: “You’d have done the same thing.”
I walked out. I couldn’t hear what the governor answered. I didn’t want to.
I left them discussing politics. Lucullus would obey, because he had no choice. He was out of people to use, and he didn’t want to fall in the street and break his neck. Domitian would appoint an interim procurator, and look at all of them with fresh suspicion in his eyes. And Rome would go on, the same scenes reenacted in different cities, greed and power and lust and money and desperate people, all tools in the hands of the right men.
They’d get their page in the annals, the mention in the history books, holding death by the throat through eternity by the grace of a papyrus leaf. It’s funny how many men will kill for the sake of immortality.
The light was warm, and they were waiting for me when I walked in the door.
EPILOGUE
The rain was falling lightly on the third day after the Kalends of Ianuarius, the new year 838. In Britannia, the water dampened the ground, but in Rome it formed puddles that lashed and eventually broke against the Emperor’s palace, leaving a small, wet stain.
We were celebrating the cena novendialis, the last day of mourning for Galla. Venutius prepared a feast: roasted pigeon, stuffed hare, oysters and boiled venison, honey-cakes, chestnuts and dates. The wine was the best my cellars had.
Urien had gone to his god the day before. The pyre was tall, stocked with seasoned oak and yew. Gwyna, Hefin and I, together with Meuric and Sioned, watched until our eyes burned and we could see the gold of his phalerae start to melt. A lot of natives came.
Rhodri was there, too, and we grasped arms, and he didn’t look at her until she put her hand on his shoulder, and then he had to, but he’d have to go away somewhere. It was too hard to look at her and not have her. Madoc spoke a few words for Urien, and laid mistletoe on the ashes.
The rite was Trinovantian, but the gravesite would be Roman. I commissioned a replica of his house to be built in the cemetery. We’d load it with jars of mead and salt pork, and the pokers and prongs that always kept his fire burning. His tombstone would talk about the battles he’d fought for Claudius. Agricola was coming for the cena.
The governor wasn’t there today. The business of Empire building had been put aside: it was time to take it up again. Roads, temples, plans for the summer. But Galla had a full crowd. Bilicho and Stricta, of course, and Draco and Coir and Brutius and Venutius. And Lupo, and Caelius’ last three whores, and Pigeon-Chest and the barkeep. I never did know their names.
They were free. I’d asked Agricola to free them and give the whorehouse to Lupo. It would be his in more than name, now, and a much cleaner business. The women would keep a percentage of their earnings, and who knows-maybe find a better life.
Gwyna and I planned to hold a ceremony after Urien’s mourning. We didn’t need one: she was a citizen, thanks to her father. But it was something we wanted to do, and it would be easier on Hefin that way. Stricta was officially a freedwoman, and she and Bilicho could follow us into the terrifying world of matrimony.
We’d talked about what to do with Urien’s house. Then Gwyna thought of giving it to them as a wedding present. Bilicho liked living with me-in fact, I wasn’t sure if anyone else could stand living with him-but a man needs his own place. It was still close enough for me to see him more often than I’d like.
I heard a shout, and it was Mollius. He was late, holding half a bottle of Falernian. He’d started celebrating too early, but we were glad to see him, and he turned red when one of the whores welcomed him with a kiss.
The procurator had left for Rome. Agricola sent a carefully worded official dispatch describing how Vibius Maecenas had been robbed and killed, the murderer caught, and part of the original message found. He said he was hoping the Emperor was pleased with his progress, and would allow him to finish the task of conquering all of Britannia.
He knew Lucullus would back up the story. Avitus was sailing with him. He also knew he’d be lucky to stay on another year. Domitian was notorious for disliking the unexpected. The death of Maecenas was a bad omen, if not outright treason.
Maybe he’d claim the freedman disappeared-he sailed and turned around, he ran into the wrong port-anything, no matter how implausible, so long as it didn’t look like the Emperor wasn’t god.
He wouldn’t trust Agricola like that again. And he probably wouldn’t offer him Syria, the most prestigious post for a legatus. I hoped it wouldn’t matter to the governor too much.
What mattered to me was what I had around me. The light was starting to fade: Venutius and Coir were arranging the rest of the food on Galla’s grave. I thought I saw a ragged figure move into the elongating shadows from a nearby tree.
A Catullus poem kept running through my mind. “The sun may fall, and rise again: once the brief light dims for us, there’s but one long night for sleeping.” I squeezed Gwyna’s hand, and kissed her. She looked surprised, her cheeks flushing, and smiled.
The sun was up.