“Of course. I think we’re pretty much done here anyway.” He eyed the woman over before leaving.
Artorius then made his own assessment. She was rather fetching and looked to be in her early twenties. She was very shapely, with auburn hair that reached just past her shoulders. There was something about her that seemed familiar to Artorius, but he could not place from where. For some reason, she kept looking at the floor and was fumbling with her hands. His eyes then fell upon a leather cord around her neck that seemed out of place with the rest of her garb. Whatever hung from it was tucked into her stola.
“Well, my dear,” he said, folding his hands in front of him. “What is it I can do for you? To start, do you have a name?”
“My name is Marcia Marcella,” she replied, looking at him and swallowing hard. It seemed as if she was awestruck to be in his presence, which Artorius found made him uncomfortable. Her next words nearly caused him to fall over. “My mother was Camilla Corda. I…I think I may be your daughter.”
Chapter V: Oceans of Time
Artorius paced back and forth behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back. He had met the young woman once before, albeit twenty years prior, just after the death of her mother, who she resembled subtly. It was that resemblance that caused Artorius to sense a familiarity about her.
“You certainly are Camilla’s daughter,” he noted. “You even wear your hair, and kind of carry yourself, like she did.”
A flood of memories came over him, though they were more long-lost feelings rather than remembrances of specific events. Even though Camilla had been his first love, twenty-four years and countless experiences had passed since he last saw her. He then noticed the small medallion hanging around her neck that had fallen out of her stola. It was well-worn on its leather cord, but if one looked closely they could still see the image it bore of the goddess Diana.
“This may sound strange,” Marcia said, following his gaze and grasping the medallion, “but I remember when you gave this to me. It’s silly, I know, given that I was barely three. I have no recollection of my mother and can only envision the heat of fire and clouds of black smoke from her funeral pyre. And yet, I have never forgotten the gallant soldier who gave me this.” She then palmed the old medallion reverently.
“Your mother gave that to me, just before I left for the legions,” Artorius explained. “After she departed this life for the Plain of Asphodel, I felt it was only right that it pass on to you.”
“Then you do think you are my father?” Marcia asked, her eyes wide with hope.
Artorius’ expression and slight shake of the head dashed those thoughts. “No,” he replied. “Though I wish I was. When, precisely, were you born?”
“The man whose house I lived in, for I never called him ‘father’, said I was born at the end of May, a year following the triumph of Germanicus Caesar.”
“And would he have any reason to lie to you about this?” Artorius persisted, as Marcia slowly realized where the conversation was leading.
“No,” she said, swallowing hard. “I don’t think he knew of your existence nor did he care what transgressions my mother may have done. He divorced her soon after I was born, blaming her because I was not a boy.”
“If we can assume that your date of birth is as you’ve been told, then it is impossible for me to be your father. The Triumph of Germanicus was in May, a full year before you were born. I returned to the Rhine as soon as it ended, and I never saw your mother again. I am truly sorry, and believe me when I say that I felt a bond with you when I gave you that medallion. I had hoped at that time that you were mine, but I knew, even then, that it was impossible. Though I never saw your mother again, I also think that if there was any chance I had a daughter, she would have told me.”
“I understand,” Marcia said, her eyes downcast and wet with tears.
“Does Marcellus know you came to see me?” Artorius asked.
“Only if he has eyes that can see from Tartarus,” Marcia scoffed. “For if my mother is where good spirits go in the afterlife, then he is surely where they are punished. He went mad years ago and, mercifully, left us last year.”
“I heard he was a wealthy man,” Artorius conjectured. “I take it that he left you well off?”
“He had a lot of debts,” the young woman replied. “I was forced to sell the house, along with many other things, in order to cover them. But yes, I was left with enough that I will not starve in the gutter. Forgive me, sir, for my intrusion.”
Clearly upset that her lifelong dream had been so abruptly shattered, she quickly made ready to leave and as she turned, she almost stepped into Metellus, who was walking through the open doorway.
“Beg your pardon, miss,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her as she stumbled. “Not interrupting anything, I hope.”
“Not at all,” Artorius said quickly. “Marcia is the daughter of an old friend. Marcia, may I present my son, Metellus.”
“Honored,” she said with a short curtsey before looking up into the face of the well-built and handsome centurion.
“Please, the pleasure is all mine,” Metellus replied taking her hands in his.
“Metellus, be a good man and escort her home,” Artorius directed. “She has had a bit of a rough morning and doubtless could use some company.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Marcia replied awkwardly, her voice shaking.
“Nonsense,” Metellus said, noting the look in his father’s eye. He then linked his arm in hers. “It would be a privilege. Come, we’ll follow the path along the shore. The sea air will do you good!”
Artorius smiled as the two left, then collapsed into his chair and let out a deep sigh. After a few minutes, he was feeling cramped in the office he was soon to vacate, and so he stepped out onto the balcony as the cool breeze off the Mediterranean gusted into his face. In the distance, off to his left, he could just see Metellus walking with Marcia along the beach. He couldn’t tell for certain, but it almost looked as if he was holding her hand. Artorius nodded in approval and looked up to the heavens.
“Dear Camilla,” he said. “Your spirit lives through her. If only I could have called her ‘daughter’.”
It had been a long journey for Alaric as he stepped onto the shores of the southern coast of Britannia. As there were no direct passages available from Caesarea in Judea to the isle, he had had to gradually make his way west, stopping off in whatever port the ship he was on was bound for and then trying to bribe his way onto the next vessel. His years of experience as a mariner allowed him to sometimes offer his skills in lieu of payment. Still, it had taken several months for him to get as far as northern Hispania. And when no other ships could be found that were heading north, he made his way on foot to Burdigala1, a port city in Gaul. Here he had found a trireme bearing wine casks bound for the southern coast Britannia. Though he would have preferred finding a ship that would take him to the eastern shores near the Kingdom of the Brigantes, he was happy simply finding any ship that got him closer to his journey’s end. His offer to man an oar was readily accepted by the sailing master, and a week later he found himself standing on the shores of the isle he’d left seventeen years prior.
Though a German by birth, he had been raised in the house of King Breogan of the Brigantes, many miles to the north. As one of the largest kingdoms in the land, their size and power alone ensured a relative sense of peace for their people. They were too large for other tribes to risk quarreling with them; they also did not bother their neighbors, as their lands were ample to the point that any further annexations would prove too cumbersome to administer.
By contrast, the lands to the south had seen much turmoil in Alaric’s absence, with the numerous tribes in a near-constant state of warfare. He had hear rumor while in Gaul that the kingdom of the Atrebates2 had been conquered the year prior by the Catuvellauni, led by their king, Togodumnus and his brother, Caratacus. Indeed, the impacted dirt road Alaric traveled took him past the burned out remains of the Atrebates’ king, Verica’s former stronghold. The charred ruins had been left as a reminder of what happened to those who opposed Caratacus. Roman merchants had once held substantial trade relations with the kingdom, which was rich in silver and tin. As Caratacus detested the foreign purveyors, they had either fled or been driven off.