I was trying to imagine a relative of Crassus who would risk his life to save another. I failed. ‘A brave man,’ I murmured.
‘He is famous in the district,’ the boy said. ‘Everyone comes to him. But he isn’t one of your “I-am-better-than-you-poor-sinners” types. He lived a sinful youth, he told my mother, and is trying to atone for it.’
‘Forgive me,’ the envoy said acidly, cutting across our words in crystal accents. ‘When you have quite finished your private conversation, perhaps you would favour me with a translation?’
I explained.
‘If you know where this hermit is,’ the envoy said, ignoring me, ‘kindly send for him at once. We have a long journey ahead of us. We shall be lucky to get home before the town gates shut, as it is.’
The boy looked uncomfortable.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The boy looked at me, and then stumbled, in poor Latin, ‘He is in mourning, excellence. The death of his brother has affected him sorely. He has not left his cell since, except to pray. He has been fasting, shaved his head and put on sackcloth and ashes. He may not wish to come.’
The envoy looked flabbergasted, rather as Jove might look if someone asked him to put down his thunderbolts. ‘Not wish to come?’
‘I am not sure that the boy has understood,’ I said quickly. ‘Perhaps if I were to speak to Lucius. .?’
He looked at me in surprise (it was the first time I had ventured a word to him, unbidden) and then said sulkily, ‘Perhaps that would be best. Is there anywhere to sit in comfort in this cow byre?’
I translated this, politely, although from the flush on the boy’s face I imagined that he understood more Latin than he spoke. The trappings of power, however, carried their privileges even in this remote spot. One of the small boys was dispatched to alert ‘Mother’, and we were ushered into the biggest roundhouse.
It was such a dear, familiar scene that it quite brought a lump to my throat. There was the central hearth, filling the room with smoke, warmth and the smell of cooking. There were the chickens, pecking at the earth floor, and a great dog lying beside the fire, as my own dog had once used to do. There were the females of the household; the weaving frame, and an old woman working at it, while a child spun thread at her feet. It was a scene from my childhood. Only the faces were different.
When we came in, a young girl in a plaid dress was raking hot stones from the fire and dropping them into a heavy pot where there was already water and a joint of meat. In an hour or two, I knew, the lamb would be gently cooked and deliciously tender. Another woman was lifting hot oatcakes from an iron griddle laid on the hearth, and the sweet smell of baking almost made my mouth water. She wrapped three of the small loaves in a cloth and turned to greet us.
‘If you are to visit the hermit,’ she said, in her own dialect, ‘take him some of these. I am worried about that man. We have hardly seen him since his brother’s death.’
‘Lucius healed your son?’ I said.
It was like unleashing a mudslide. I was instantly regaled with a dozen tales of Lucius’ holiness. How he had prayed over a sick cow. How he had fasted for a whole week when a member of the family had a fever. How for a long time he had not even permitted himself a proper bed or a servant. How he had given his own breakfast to a beggar.
The osier-cutter looked at me apologetically. ‘The citizen may see for himself, Mother.’
She thrust the oatcakes into his hands. ‘My son will show you the way. We speak little Latin here, and Lucius does not know our tongue.’
I explained this to my companion, and one of the children fetched him a low carved wooden stool. He looked uncomfortable and out of place, sitting there beside the hearth in smoky and disapproving state, while the youngsters peered at him around the doorpost, and the old woman nodded and smiled toothlessly. As I left, he was being plied with hot oatcakes and warm ale, both of which he was regarding with undisguised mistrust. I was glad to get outside to hide a smile.
What would he do, I wondered, if Lucius did refuse to come down and see him? From what I heard of Lucius, threats would not sway him, and if he had sworn an oath he would be immovable. Marcus would not be pleased if his messenger went back empty-handed. Perhaps Lucius did not care — Christians are said actively to welcome martyrdom. It was not a fate, however, that I was keen to experience myself. I would have to do something.
The youth led the way up the path at a speed which had me panting. ‘When we get there,’ he said, ‘I will go in and tell him you have come. He has buried himself in his cave since his brother died, and scarcely comes out.’ He looked at the packet of oatcakes. ‘I hope he will accept these, or my mother will blame me. You have seen what she is like about him. She worries that he is not eating, and is shutting himself off too much. I think this loss has grieved him more than you would believe. He hoped to save his brother’s soul, Mother says, and thought he had nearly done it.’
‘Nearly converted Crassus?’ I must have sounded as scornful as I felt.
‘She may have been mistaken. Her Latin is not good.’ He grinned. ‘Even worse than mine. She said his brother had promised to endow a church.’
‘And has done so,’ I said, ‘through his will.’
‘Well, perhaps she was right after all!’ he said. ‘Now, we are almost there. There is the cave, and there the barn. I will go in ahead. He has withdrawn from strangers more or less completely, though people still come to him to ask his prayers.’
I had never met Lucius, but of one thing I could be sure, I thought. If the reactions of these people were anything to go by, he was nothing at all like his brother.
Chapter Twenty
He was, in fact, remarkably like Crassus in many ways. I could see that even in the dim light of the cave. The same slightly protuberant grey eyes, the same stocky build, even the same bristling look — the head and face had been recently shorn but the thick grizzled hair and beard were already growing irrepressibly back. This was a humbler, quieter Crassus, not expensively togaed and bejewelled, but eclipsed in a coarse grey hood and robe, with the marks of penitential ashes still on his forehead. Where Crassus strutted and strode, this man’s movements were slow and considered; and his voice when he spoke was almost a whisper, unexpected after Germanicus’ booming roar.
It was a large cave, rather than the poky cell I had imagined. It was dark and shadowy in the light of two flickering candles, although it was surprisingly warm and dry. There was a crude stone altar at one end, on which one of the candles was burning. The nearer part of the cave was the living area, and someone — probably the woman — had done their best to make it comfortable. There was a rush mat on the floor, a straw mattress, a cupboard and a stool, and someone had provided a tiny brazier to lift the chill. There were evidences too, of Crassus’ gifts — a fine bowl with a few humble fruits in it, a Samian drinking vessel, a rich woollen blanket folded on the stone bench and a fine worked knife on the clumsy table. There, beside a feeble taper in a candleholder, a crust of bread, an end of cheese and a bunch of dandelion leaves and dried parsley suggested a frugal meal. I remembered what Paulus had said about Lucius loving food. The oatcakes, I thought, would be a welcome gift.
The boy put them down on the bench, picked up a leather pitcher and hurried off. ‘I will fetch water from the spring,’ he said, ‘and leave you to your business.’
‘Greetings upon you.’ The hermit had left the altar and was coming towards me, extending a hand in vague blessing. I could see why the woman was concerned for his health. The chi-rho ring which he wore hung loose upon the finger, although I noted a mark in the flesh which showed clearly where the tightness of the band had been. He was not a slim man now, far from it, but the rough garment hung awkwardly away from him in folds, making him look diminished, as sick men sometimes do, as if he had lost the will to fill out his own clothes. ‘You come from Marcus?’