The borrowed tunic itched terribly, the more so because Herosilla’s skin was still damp, but it was an improvement on wet silk. She put down the bowl, looked for a water dish to wash her fingers—and licked them instead, feeling terribly uncomfortable.
The male voices outside continued to drone. “What are they discussing, anyway?” Herosilla asked.
“Why, you, lady,” Acca said in surprise. “Nothing so important has ever happened to our village before!”
“I should have known,” Herosilla said. “Well, I’d better join them or they may never get around to choosing someone to lead me to the manor house. Do you have a wrap for me?”
Dealing with this village reminded her of the time she’d had to walk in mud when her carriage threw a wheel on a rural track. A process as simple as raising one foot, then the other, took three times as long as it would on civilized pavement. Perhaps mud conditioned every aspect of peasant life.
Her back and shoulders covered by a fleece that was even filthier than the ones the brothers wore, Herosilla ducked out of the hut. About twenty men sat on stones around a fire built near Faustulus’ hut. The village women squatted behind them, and children down to the age of toddlers stood at the back.
The shorter of Herosilla’s guides was standing as he spoke. When she appeared he gestured and said, “Behold, the god-sent messenger who proves the grandeur of my destiny!”
“Nonsense!” Herosilla said. “I just need someone to take me to the landowner. To your king, that is, or his steward if the king’s not in residence at the moment.”
Villagers moved out of the way as she strode to a place to the right of Faustulus. The man beside the leader jumped over the fire itself to make room.
The taller brother stood. “It’s my right to guide her.”
“I—” said the other.
“You took the lambs to town for the last feast,” the taller man said. “It’s my right.”
“For pity’s sake!” Herosilla snapped. “I’m perfectly willing to pay both of you. So long as I’ve one guide, I don’t care if you all come. I’ll reward the whole village, those who come with me and those who stay.”
“It’s not that, lady,” another man said. Toothlessness distorted the dialect to the point Herosilla could barely understand his words. “With both the boys gone at the same time, what if we’re attacked? It’s not safe.”
“Sit down, both of you,” Faustulus ordered with the weary tone of repetition. “Roscio still hasn’t spoken.”
A man with short legs and long, hairy arms hopped at once to his feet but then waited, glancing diffidently at the brothers. They glared at each other for a further moment, then sat down in unison.
Roscio began to speak. He waved his arms in a fashion that seemed to have nothing to do with the emphasis in his voice. As best Herosilla could tell, the man was talking about a great battle in his youth. He appeared to be in his midtwenties now.
It struck Herosilla as she looked around the circle that there were only three real men in the gathering: Faustulus and his sons. The other males could have been molded from the surrounding mud. The brothers had fire inside, and their father had at least the warmth of coals beneath the crippling pain of his arthritis.
Most of the villagers watched Herosilla sidelong. The young woman standing behind the stocky brother glared straight at her. Herosilla hadn’t seen such hatred in another’s face since the morning she corrected a grammarian’s derivation of the word ‘rich’ (it really meant ’well-manured’) in front of several wealthy patrons.
There was a rustle as Acca squatted behind Herosilla. Roscio continued to maunder; now he was talking about the time somebody had threatened him with a rock.
Herosilla leaned back and whispered, “The woman across the fire with the sour expression. Who is she?”
Acca put her lips to Herosilla’s ear. “That’s Ganea,” she said. “Jealous, I shouldn’t wonder. She and my boy have an understanding. But I think what he understands isn’t quite what she does.”
Herosilla looked at the stocky youth. Ganea glowered threateningly and put a hand on his shoulder. He swatted it off. His eyes measured Herosilla like a side of mutton.
Herosilla’s nose wrinkled. “Ganea needn’t worry,” she whispered.
“Aye, I know that,” Acca said. “But the girl’s young and hasn’t learned that some women are interested in more that what a man’s got hanging between his legs. Though that too.”
Herosilla blinked, then nodded. “Yes, that too,” she said. She’d always claimed to appreciate plain speaking, but it was nonetheless disconcerting to hear it from a near stranger.
Roscio finally finished. Ran out of words, at any rate. He looked around in puzzlement. The man seated next to him tugged his tunic; Roscio sat down hard.
Faustulus planted his staff in front of him and levered himself upright with the strength of both arms. Acca braced her husband midway in the process, then stepped back.
“We all know there was trouble with Numitor’s herdsmen before my boys got their growth,” Faustulus said without preamble. “And we know that since then there’s been trouble the other way, with Numitor’s folk showing splints and bandages any time their flocks get too near our grazing.”
He paused. There was a chorus of, “Aye, that’s so,” and, “Just what I said.” Given the length of time the council had been sitting, Herosilla would have been amazed if there was anything that hadn’t been said at least once.
“That’s well and good,” Faustulus continued, “but there’s us and there’s all the men in the three other villages besides. Are you going to tell me that Numitor’s going to run us all off if both the boys are gone for a day or two? Is that all you are, sheep yourselves?”
“It’s not like we’re afraid,” said the man to the other side of Herosilla. “It’s just, you know, we need somebody to lead. And you don’t get around so good any more.”
The stocky brother jumped up. “If there’s no more manhood here than that,” he said, “then Mars strike me if I’m going to stay any longer! I’m going to town with the lady messenger tomorrow. The only question you all can decide is whether I bother to come back. The only question!”
He crossed his arms and stood with lowering fury. The man beside him, the rural equivalent of a rich man’s toady, cheered.
The taller brother had risen also. “It’s my right, so I’ll go,” he said and crossed his arms in turn.
“Well, one day,” muttered the man beside Herosilla. “Maybe one day,” Roscio said. “Could be two, easy could be two.”
“Are we all agreed, then?” Faustulus said in a voice that was nearly a growl. “Will anyone stand to say he’s afraid to spend a day in the pastures without one of my boys to hold his hand?”
“Oh, let them go,” a man said. “But it don’t make sense, I say.”
“It’s decided,” Faustulus said. He turned to his taller son and continued, “Remus, you’ll guide our lady guest to Alba in the morning to see the king. Romulus, since you’re so set on going you may; but the next trip to town is your brother’s again.”
Herosilla tried to stand. She stepped on the hem of her borrowed tunic. She toppled backward and would have fallen if Acca hadn’t caught her.
“Romulus and Remus?” she said. “Is this the Palatine Hill?”
“Well, our village is Palatium, lady,” the taller brother—Remus!—said. He looked puzzled by her sudden question. “I guess you could call the hill the Palatine, sure.”