![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
nightdog-barks.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
house_wilson_ghcPosting in three sections; this is the first part.
TITLE: The Annals: Part 4.1 of An Irregular Series
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nightdog_writes
PAIRING: House-Wilson friendship, other original characters
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: Yes, for mature emotional themes.
SPOILERS: No; it's just a story.
SUMMARY: Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Not just AU, but historical AU. Once again I have taken some (minor) liberties with the world of real life and ideas; I hope the history gods find it in their hearts to forgive me.
Profound thanks, as always, to my intrepid First Readers. Without their steadfast support and encouragement I would be lost. Especial thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-syndicated.gif)
purridot for her invaluable help with Latin and Old Saxon, and bironic for her final editing run-through.
Source notes are at the end of the third part. This section is 7,994 words.
BETA: Silverjackal, who asked, "What's next?"
The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series
The Annals: Part Two of An Irregular Series
The Annals: Part Three of An Irregular Series
The Annals: Part Four of An Irregular Series
Corda serata fero.
I carry a heart locked up.
Afterwards, for a long time, James associates the sight and scent of cypress with death. He knows where it started -- at the main gate to a clean, well-kempt Roman villa in Gallia Narbonensis.
We should have left, James thinks sometimes, on those long dark nights when Gregorius falls into one of his rare depressions and it seems an eternity before the sunrise. Never should have entered, should have simply turned our horses' heads away and not looked back. Gregorius was right. He usually is.
It's too late, of course. Far too late to turn back.
"Well, it's certainly not Germania, I'll give you that," Gregorius said. The chestnut mare shook her head and made a soft whuffling noise. The Roman shifted in his saddle and glanced at James.
"No, my lord, it is not," the slave murmured, his eyes not moving from the expanse of blue spread out before them. The valley below was awash in it -- purple and azure blooms nodding in the light breeze like waves on a terrestrial ocean. The flowers' scent carried on the wind, perfuming the air with a sweet, hay-like aroma.
"Spikenard?"
The surgeon nodded. "Lavender, yes." He smiled, just a little. "One of the many treasures of Provincia Nostra." James tilted his head back, soaking in the warm sun, then looked over quickly to see the Roman's smile grow wider.
"Your Hebrew god will be jealous," the surgeon gently teased. "Your sun worship has displaced him."
James grinned back. "I am no follower of Mithras," he said. "It is the heat -- in this warm season it reminds me of Judea."
"Ah, I might have guessed," Gregorius replied. "I was there only once, when I was but a boy. My father was posted to Caesarea, so at least we had a cooling sea breeze, but I do remember the heat."
The slave waited for more, but the Roman had fallen silent. Gregorius had kept the promise he had made in Germania, when James had still been dazed and half-frozen after their terrible, circular sojourn in the snow. He had been telling stories of his childhood and youth all the way south from that barbaric land. While many of the stories had been interesting, and some of them quite humorous, they had one thing in common -- they were all surface. They were like a still pond into which someone had tossed a small stone -- the ripples spread outwards, catching reflections and making a mirror of the sky, but the stone disappeared. It seemed to somehow ease the Roman's mind, though. He was always more relaxed after a story, even one like this that consisted of only a few words and was more observation than anything else. James hid a smile as the surgeon wiggled his left foot free from the leather-wrapped ring at the end of his mounting strap and lifted his leg to rest it across the chestnut mare's withers. The horse shook her head again but made no other objection.
They sat quietly at the edge of the valley. The sun's warmth was soothing, and the songs of the small insects in the fields added a lulling, soporific note.
It is so peaceful here, James thought lazily. Peaceful, and beautiful. Truly this is a land of contentment. As if reading his mind, the Roman's sardonic voice broke his reverie.
"Do not fall asleep just yet," he said. "It appears we are needed back at camp."
The slave twisted around in his saddle and squinted in the direction Gregorius was pointing.
A plume of dust was rising in the distance along the country road they had taken, kicked up by the galloping hooves of a courier's mount.
"Longinus," the surgeon drawled as he eased himself from his saddle, "how good to see you again. It seems like only this morning -- " he cocked his head as if struck by a sudden realization -- "Wait, it was this morning! What is so important that I needed fetching? James and I were on the very verge of discovering a new variety of -- "
The centurion's fair, freckled face was pink with irritation, his lips pressed into a thin line of exasperation as he thrust a scroll case into the surgeon's hands.
"This arrived not long after you left," he growled. "I thought you would want to see it right away, since it bears your father's seal."
Gregorius held the leather-bound case as if it was a deadly serpent that might turn and bite him at any time.
"My father does not write to me," he said.
"I know that," Longinus said. "It is why I summoned you." He turned away, motioning for an aide to take charge of the mare and pony. "You may thank me later."
The surgeon grimaced at the unopened scroll. "Very well," he sighed. "Come, James. Let us see what my father thought so important after all these years."
James busied himself in the infirmary tent as Gregorius seated himself at a rough-hewn table a few feet away. He looked at the rows of thick glassware flasks on a shelf, gauging the level in each. More henbane seeds, he thought, more poppy syrup, more ammonia and acetum ...
He went over a list in his mind, and after a moment sharpened a reed pen and began to make notes. He heard the whisper of papyrus behind him as the message scroll was unrolled but paid it no mind. It wasn't until he realized the surgeon had been silent for a while that James spoke.
"What news, Gregorius?"
When Gregorius didn't answer immediately, James glanced in his direction. The surgeon was staring at the document laid out on the table.
"Gregorius?" The Roman didn't answer. "My lord, is something wrong?"
The physician lifted his head; his blue eyes were distant and unfocused. After a moment he cleared his throat.
"My mother," he said. He looked back down at the scroll as if hoping that in that time the message had changed. "My mother is dead."
James blinked, believing for a moment that he'd simply misheard. "My lord?"
Gregorius scrubbed at his face with one hand. He rubbed slowly along his jaw as if feeling for the first time the stubble that was always there.
"My mother," he repeated, and finally looked up at James. "A week ago. More. It's hard to tell." His brows drew together and his expression hardened. "My father has ... smeared some of the ink here. Run a few of the words together. He never did have a good fist when it came to writing."
James willed his legs to move and crossed the room in a few steps. He knelt beside the surgeon's chair. "My lord, I am sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"
The physician was silent. The silence lasted so long that the slave had just opened his mouth to ask again when Gregorius picked up the scroll and began to briskly roll it shut.
"Do?" he mused. "Yes, you can finish the inventory you started. Be sure and make three copies as usual -- two for Longinus and the quartermaster, and keep one for us. After that you can prepare some more tinctures and check the rest of my real mail -- there should have been at least one new medical treatise there. If Longinus has kept it from me in favor of -- " He paused for a moment. "Tell him he will not be welcome at my game of cards tomorrow night."
James had closed his mouth halfway through the surgeon's task list; he opened it again, feeling almost dizzy.
"I ... you ..." he began.
Gregorius fixed him with an intense blue stare. "James," he warned.
"But, my lord ..."
"James," the surgeon said again. His expression was entirely unreadable. "We will not speak of this thing again. Do you understand?"
"I ..." Gregorius's gaze was unwavering. "I understand, my lord," he finished helplessly.
"Good," the surgeon said, and turned away. "Now get up and get to work."
"I told James I did not want to speak of this again," the physician growled, and shot a furious glare at the slave who sat half-hidden in the corner's shadows.
"It was not him," Longinus replied, unruffled by the surgeon's anger. "Do you think I have only one source in this cohort to keep me apprised of your activities?" He took another long draught of wine and dragged a hand through his hair. The red thatch spiked up for a moment like a rooster's comb before it settled back down.
The shadows flickered; it was now full night and the only light in Gregorius's tent was from the torches the slave had lit.
"We are only a few days' ride from your father's villa," Longinus continued. "Naturally, you will want to participate in the funeral rites -- "
"Naturally, I will not," Gregorius snapped.
"Gregorius -- "
"I will not! I had no intention of visiting my father before this, and I have no intention now."
Longinus leaned forward, resting his beefy forearms on the table. The oiled leather of his jerkin gleamed in the torchlight. "He is your father, Gregorius."
"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I've somehow forgotten?"
"No!" Longinus slammed his stoneware cup down. The table rattled with the force of the blow, and James wedged himself a little deeper into the shadows.
"I do not think you have forgotten your father," the centurion shouted. "But whatever you may think, this is not about him. The person you have forgotten, Gregorius, is your mother!"
The air in the tent seemed thick and heavy, as if a thunderstorm were brewing. James waited breathlessly for the spark that would set the two men to fighting, but the surgeon held still, though his right hand was clenching and unclenching as if in a terrible spasm.
"You will go," Longinus said very softly, "and you will attend whatever funeral rites are left to attend, and you will say the words and importune the gods and you will mean all of it because it is your duty to your mother."
The surgeon's hand continued to work. "You speak to me of duty," he said quietly.
"I speak to you of duty because it is the only thing that means anything to you. You, who have always put duty above all, always doing the right thing even when it means possible injury to others. You and your own personal code of conduct. You could not live any other way." Longinus drained the last of his wine and stood up. "Take James with you," he said. "Perhaps he can keep you out of trouble."
He set the cup on the table, very gently this time, and was gone.
James waited as the centurion carefully signed his name to the bottom of a report. The morning sun shone brightly through the commander's tent. Outside was the normal noise of the camp -- men shouted, dogs barked, pots and pans clanged from the mess tent. It all sounded like home to James now.
Gregorius had been uncharacteristically silent after Longinus's departure the night before. This morning, though, he had gruffly ordered the slave to prepare for their journey to his family's villa. Now the chestnut mare and roan pony stood saddled and ready while the dark bay pack horse nodded at the end of its tether rope -- and Gregorius was nowhere to be found.
The centurion did not seem concerned. "Do you know why I summoned you, James?" he asked.
"No, my lord," the slave replied. In truth, he had some idea, but his years of captivity had taught him it was better to let whoever was master speak first.
"Watch over him," Longinus said, and James relaxed a tiny fraction. It was what he had thought.
"Watch over him," the centurion repeated. "Gregorius's relationship with his father has never been one that others might call amicable, but it worsened considerably after that damned Scythian lance tore his leg apart." Longinus had left off the paperwork before him and was staring into space. He sighed and looked at James, seeming to see him for the first time.
"We were raised together," he said. "Has he told you that?"
"No, my lord."
Longinus regarded him thoughtfully. "He will," he said. "He likes you, and more than that, he trusts you. He will tell you everything, eventually. Perhaps even more than he tells me." He swiveled in his seat and gazed out at the camp clearing. "His father and mine -- Gaius and Lucius -- they served together, and Gregorius and I became friends. More than friends. We swore our fealty to each other as brothers. But where I wanted to follow my father into the Legions, Gregorius did not. So he and his father compromised. Gregorius studied to become a Medicus -- he was thus of the Army but not a commissioned officer. Gaius was disappointed. He did not hide it well. And after Gregorius was wounded ... " The centurion blew out a small frustrated breath from between his lips.
"He blames his father," James murmured. The centurion looked sharply at him.
"He blames his father for many things," he rumbled. "But he is not entirely innocent either." Longinus's expression grew grim. "He pushed. By all the gods, he pushed, challenging Gaius on the most trivial of matters. If his father said the sky was clear, Gregorius would predict rain before nightfall. If Gaius wanted him to learn sword-play, Gregorius reached for a bow." The centurion looked at the reed pen he still held in his right hand. "For weeks on end, when he was fourteen, he would speak nothing but his mother's barbaric tongue, rejecting the Latin that was his by birthright. That was the last straw for Gaius."
James licked at his suddenly dry lips. "What did he do, my lord?"
Longinus set the pen down.
"He took away his scrolls. His notebooks. Everything except Gregorius's school texts, and built a bonfire of them. And that -- " the centurion smiled, but it was a smile with no humor in it, " -- did the trick. Or so Gaius thought." At James's look of surprise, Longinus continued.
"It was only a month later that his father caught him composing a lexicon on scraps of papyrus he'd scrounged -- writing down words in his mother's language, spelling out their meanings."
"Gaius burned those too. And if Gregorius ever spoke his mother's tongue again, I never heard it." He scrubbed one large hand along his jaw. "So the willful, headstrong boy has grown into a willful, headstrong man. I am charging you to watch over him, keep him from doing or saying anything he might have cause to regret later."
You might as well order me to keep back the tide, James thought. He twisted the iron cuff on his left wrist. "My lord," he began hesitantly, "I am just a slave -- the Medicus is a ... is a ... "
"A Roman?" The centurion's right eyebrow quirked upward in wry humor. "I am quite aware of that fact. Still, if there is anyone he will listen to on this funereal journey, it is you." His expression became serious. "Do what you can, James," he said. "That is all that I ask."
James bowed his head. "I will, my lord."
"James!" a familiar voice shouted impatiently. In the next moment a pair of well-known blue eyes were peering into the centurion's tent. "There you are." Gregorius shot a calculating glance at Longinus. "All done? Finished commanding James to be my nanny, nurse, and caretaker on this little excursion?"
The centurion grinned. "You know me too well," he said.
"Like a brother," Gregorius grumbled, and jerked his head in the direction of the three horses. "Let's go," he said. "I want to get this over with."
The cypress garlands adorning the front gate of the estate had obviously been hanging there for some days. They were turning brown and were brittle to the touch. Their fresh scent had faded, leaving behind an odor that reminded James of clothes left too long in an unopened chest. The horses tossed their heads and whickered uneasily. He glanced at Gregorius; the surgeon's face was grim.
"I do not want to do this," the Roman muttered. "But if I turn around now you will tattle on me to Longinus."
"My lord, Longinus is not here," the slave answered gently. "And I will tell him whatever you command me to tell him." The surgeon looked away, and James noticed he was rubbing at his right thigh. "Gregorius, all will be well," he murmured. "After all -- a father could not be more delighted at the return of an only son."
The Roman snorted. "Your Greek bard was a great poet, but he did not know my father," he said dryly. "I prefer the more realistic Ovid, from his Metamorphoses." He kicked his chestnut mare lightly in the flanks; obviously he considered the subject closed.
James kept the roan pony at a sedate walk as he searched his memory. When the short epigram finally surfaced, he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Would that the gods had devised things so that I had no father ...
Ahead of him he saw the surgeon stop for a moment where a field slave had apparently been repairing a section of the low stone wall that ran beside the road. When Gregorius gestured to him the man left his work and came forward eagerly. The Roman said something and pointed imperiously down the dusty road. The slave nodded and took off at a steady trot. James urged the roan pony onward and caught up to the surgeon, who was watching the field slave grow smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the distance.
"What did you say to him, my lord?"
"I told him -- " The Roman's lips twisted, as if he had suddenly found something bitter and foul on his tongue. "I told him to go and tell the rest of the household that Gregorius Aquilinus has come home."
The villa was like many others James had seen -- a low-slung building constructed of whitewashed brick, roofed with terracotta tiles that had been bleached to a dull, dusty rose by the sun. A larger building loomed a short distance away, and James caught the distinctive odor of a barn.
A half-dozen slaves -- household staff, James knew -- were lined up outside, and a stableboy dashed up to take over the reins of the visitors' horses. A tall man dressed in a simple homespun tunic much like the one James wore, stepped forward, and for a moment the slave was confused.
He looks nothing like Gregorius, he thought.
When the man spoke, the mystery was solved.
"Greetings," he said. "I am Marcus Tullius, freedman and overseer of this villa." His eyes flicked to the cuff on James's wrist, then back up to Gregorius. "And you must be Gregorius Aquilinus," he continued smoothly. "Welcome to your father's house. I am sorry it is under such sad circumstances. There are only a few days of prescribed mourning left -- "
"Where is my father?"
The overseer's mouth pursed into an unhappy expression at the rude tone.
"Gregorius ... " James murmured, and saw the freedman glance sharply at him.
"He is in the barn," Marcus replied frostily. "Attending to one of the milk cows." Noting the baffled looks, he explained further. "She is heavily pregnant, and he is afraid the birth will be a difficult one. You are invited to wait in the peristylium until he returns."
Gregorius's brows knit together, and for a moment James was sure the surgeon would turn on his heel, remount, and ride away without a second thought. Then the broad shoulders slumped.
"Very well," he sighed. "I have waited this long, I will wait some more."
Marcus nodded. "Your father will be pleased, my lord. I will have food and drink brought to you."
As long as they had to wait somewhere, the peristylium was actually quite a pleasant way station, James decided.
Open on three sides to catch even the lightest breeze, and shielded from the direct sun by a roof of tiles, trellis, and fresh green vines, it was shady and cool. Sparrows flitted back and forth, perching hopefully on the few round rough-hewn tables. The business of the villa went on about them -- field hands came and went, housemaids bustled in and out. Someone was whistling nearby. It didn't appear to be a household that had suffered a recent death.
James took another sip of the watered wine a servant had brought and looked at Gregorius. The surgeon's face was fatigued and worn, and he was rubbing absently at his thigh again. His mind was clearly many leagues away.
"Gregorius," James said softly. The Roman looked up; his eyes were red-rimmed and tired. James laid his hand on the surgeon's forearm. "Tell me about your mother."
" -- and she ran away, trying to get back to her people," Gregorius said. "Only the gods know how she thought she could have made it out of Gaul, much less to Anglia. They caught her before she'd gone ten leagues." He stopped and looked away. James waited him out.
"By law she should have been crucified," the surgeon continued at last. "But she was pregnant, and my father still needed an heir. He was an engineer by that time, still attached to the legion but free to wed. So he manumitted her instead, and married her, so that his child would be that of a freewoman and not a slave. A citizen of Rome and not a bastard." He shook his head. "Lucky for him I turned out to be a son. He was ordered to Hispania not long after my birth -- so she packed us up and away we went."
James smiled, trying to picture the Roman surgeon as a squalling babe in his mother's arms.
"We trailed after him through all his postings," Gregorius continued. "And even as a boy I soon began to realize my father had certain ... expectations of me. We fought many wars. I won a few of the battles; he won more. I was a rebellious youth -- he used to tell me I had too much of my mother's blood in me. I required much ... discipline. And then one day -- " The surgeon paused, rubbed at his eyes. "One day I told him I wished my mother had gotten away, that I would rather have been raised a barbarian than carry his name forward."
"My mother began to break his heart," Gregorius said softly. "And then she bore me, and I finished the job."
James shook his head. "Gregorius -- " he began.
A new shadow fell over the two men.
"So you have come home at last," a new voice said.
Gregorius and James looked up -- James in surprise, Gregorius with reluctance.
The man standing over them was about James's height. His hair was brown, shot through with skeins of silver, and his eyes were a curious shade of greenish-brown, like mossy stones glimpsed through a flowing stream. He had the same chiseled face as his son, the same intensity of gaze. A gaze, James now realized, which was pointedly directed at James's left hand, still resting on Gregorius's forearm. He carefully moved it away and lowered his eyes to the floor.
"Father," Gregorius said.
James wasn't sure what he had expected, but he didn't think it had been anything like the icily polite neutrality the two men were exhibiting. Nor had he expected Gregorius to introduce him to his father -- as a slave, James had grown used to being invisible, and had come to prefer the relative safety of that cloak. It was never a good idea to come to the attention of a Roman, and yet James could dimly hear his own name through the panicked roaring in his ears. He was sweating; keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, he thought for one horrified second that Gregorius might actually order him to clasp his father's arm in the familiar Roman manner. He glanced quickly up. From the look on Gaius's face it was obviously not a pleasant moment for him either. James returned his gaze to the floor, but still he knew he was being scrutinized; the force of the older man's inspection was palpable, and James felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. Scrutinized -- and dismissed, and James's breath came more easily when Gaius turned away.
"Come," Gaius grunted. "You will want to see your mother's tomb."
"No, I won't," the surgeon mumbled, too low for anyone but James to hear. The slave raised his eyes cautiously. The physician looked pale and miserable, and there was a curiously lost quality to those normally expressive eyes. James laid a gentle hand on the small of his back.
"Gregorius," he murmured, and out of the corner of his eye saw the sudden twitch in Gaius's shoulders at the name. "You will see it, and it will be done, and it will be one more step finished," he said softly. Gaius had stopped and was watching, and James saw his eyes narrow as he took in the way his son was leaning heavily on his oaken staff.
"The tomb is a short distance away," Gaius said, assessing the situation. "I will have Marcus hitch up a cart."
James could feel the surgeon's muscles tense as Gregorius straightened.
"No," he said. "No cart. We will ride."
The tomb, like that of many Roman families, was beside a road. In this case the road led to an apple orchard, and several of the fruit trees had grown up around the brick structure.
Gaius planned ahead, James thought. Had the tomb built at the same time as the villa, so it would be here when it was needed.
It was a small tomb, for a small family, and modeled in the common fashion as a reduced replica of a Greek temple. The whitewashed bricks glowed softly in the slanting late-afternoon light. There were three large niches carved into the tomb's face, with enough space left for several more. A simple, glazed urn rested in the leftmost hollow.
Waiting. The thought raised tiny goosebumps along James's bare arms. Waiting for the day it is joined by Gaius's ashes, and after them, Gregorius and Gregorius's wife and children. If he ever has a wife and children. He looked around. The surgeon's face was drawn and weary. His head was turned, and he was looking at the pommels of his saddle rather than at the tomb. Gaius was staring stolidly into space.
James could picture it all -- he had seen enough death in the camps of the Legions to know the last rites of these superstitious Romans by heart.
Gregorius's mother would have been brought outside, so that her last moments were spent under the open sky, lying on the fresh earth. Her husband would have knelt over her, drawing close to capture her final breath in a glass flask or between his own lips.
Afterwards, the funeral procession -- the knots of paid mourners, the black-robed women like tall crows, wailing in a frenzy of compensated grief. The dead woman, riding on the shoulders of the undertaker's men to her pyre. Placed upon the wood and kindling, perhaps a few personal items laid next to her, folded into her still hands. A printed prayer, a tiny statue of a god or goddess. A small portrait of her son. Her husband, leaning over her, tucking a silver denarius under her tongue to pay the ferryman, then stepping back and taking the torch from his house chamberlain, Marcus Tullius. The flames leaping upwards ...
He felt suddenly sick, and ran a hand over his face. Barbarians.
"She wanted to be among the trees," Gaius said. "She said they reminded her of home."
Gregorius snorted. It was an ugly, cynical sound in the peaceful apple grove. "Then you should have planted trees of the mountains," he said. "Aspens and rowans."
Gaius's head turned slowly to look at Gregorius. "They would not have survived here," he said.
His son shook his head and jerked at the reins of his chestnut mare. "Neither did she."
"He sleeps in the barn," Gaius said.
It had been full evening by the time the three men had returned from the small tomb among the trees. Gregorius had swayed a little upon dismounting; James had automatically steadied him and immediately felt Gaius's eyes upon him again.
They had been separated at dinner, James sent to eat with the house slaves while Gregorius and his father were served by Marcus in the villa dining room. The physician had appeared to be too tired to object, and James wondered if they had spoken at all during dinner. Here in what was to be his bedroom the surgeon was objecting at news of this second separation.
"He's my assistant," Gregorius protested. "In camp he sleeps in my tent --"
"This isn't your camp." Gaius's voice was flat and final. "This is my house, and under this roof my rule is law." He turned away from his son; it was clear he considered the discussion over. "There is no room for a spare bed in the slave quarters. He sleeps in the barn."
The surgeon was rubbing his thigh again and he had lines of pain around his eyes. James opened his mouth, intending to ask Gregorius if he needed an infusion of white willow bark, but before he got the chance the door was slammed shut in his face.
He sighed and picked up his bedroll, trying not to listen to the raised voices coming from the other side of the door.
The barn was large, and warm, and smelled of the large warm animals who sheltered in it.
James spread his blankets over the pile of straw he'd gathered and arranged into a rough nest against the wall. One of the cows seemed to give him an accusing look over the half-door of her stall.
"I'm just borrowing it," James muttered. He eased himself into the hay and pulled his cloak and an extra blanket around him. "You can have it for breakfast tomorrow."
The sounds of the barn were not so different from those of the Army camp -- the soft whuffle of horses, the calls of the night birds outside. The hay was not as comfortable as the slave's usual bedding of woolen blankets and furs -- the straw prickled at his neck and wrists and the grain dust made his nose itch -- but it was warm and he was soon asleep.
He dreamed.
*****
He is in a bed, and then he is not. It's hard to breathe, and strong hands have lifted him out of a cot and carried him outdoors. They lay him gently in the soft grass, and he feels dirt clods under his back and shoulders. He squints up at the sky; apple boughs stir in the fresh breeze. He coughs; there's a terrible pain in his chest, and he realizes he's dying.
A face appears above him. Sharp blue eyes bore into his own. No, James wants to shout. This is a Roman rite! And it's not time yet! But there's not enough air in his lungs to speak out loud.
The face comes closer -- the long nose, the ever-present stubble, the so-familiar features of the best (companion?) (master) he's ever had --
Rough lips cover his own. His last breath eases out in a slow sigh and is caught by the man who kneels over him.
Gregorius.
*****
"James. James, wake up!"
The slave shivered once and opened his eyes. The overseer Marcus Tullius was leaning over him, poking him in the biceps.
No long nose. No blue eyes. A dream, and he wasn't dying. But -- what was happening? Was something wrong with Gregorius? Real fear replaced the slow dream-reality.
"James. Gaius summons you."
"He calls for you," Gaius said flatly. "I tried to help him, but he thrust me aside and called for you."
James shook his head, trying to clear the last of the sleep-cobwebs. "I don't understand," he mumbled.
"His leg pains him. I prepared a remedy but he would not take it. Says no one but you can help him."
Torchlight flickered along the walls; the dancing shadows revealed both the hostility in Gaius's eyes and the concern on his face. It was obvious the loss of his wife and the sudden illness of his only son was affecting him more than he wanted to let on, perhaps even more than he suspected. He opened the door to Gregorius's room and allowed James to step inside.
The surgeon had thrown off his blankets and was lying atop the sheets with the rigidity of a wooden plank. One hand was wrapped tightly around the edge of the headboard, the straining knuckles white with effort. The other worked slowly at his thigh, trying to ease what was apparently the monstrous pain of a terrible cramp.
James cursed under his breath as he took a seat on the bedside. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and he resolutely ignored the clammy feeling of it seeping up into his tunic. He focused on Gregorius.
The lack of willow bark, the argument with his father before bed -- how long did he lie here, the agony growing, before he called out? Stubborn Roman!
The surgeon groaned, an awful sound wrenched from deep within his chest. James smoothed his hair gently -- it was damp and clung to the physician's forehead in dark, curling whorls.
"Gregorius," James whispered. "I'm here, it's all right." He was pleased to see a tiny bit of the surgeon's tension ease at the sound of his voice.
"James?" Gregorius opened his eyes. They were wild and bright with pain.
"It's me, my lord." The slave continued to stroke the surgeon's forehead, his fingers gently carding through the physician's soaked hair.
"Dream," Gregorius croaked. "Bad dream. Called for you but you weren't here."
Had to have been a very bad dream, James thought. "I'm here now," he said. He left off stroking the surgeon's forehead and hiked up his tunic instead. The worst of the cramp had abated; still, James began a slow, flowing massage with his thumbs and the palms of both hands. "You must have felt this coming," he murmured. "You should have brewed a little willowbark tea this evening." He could feel the physician's muscles loosening, unknotting under his fingers, and his gaze fell upon the earthenware cup on the small night table. It was untouched, still brimming with a warm, dark liquid. "And why did you not accept your father's medicine?"
"Heh." Gregorius's forced laugh was rough and raspy. "I prefer your ... expertise. Besides, I have taken too much of my father's medicine over the years." He gasped at a fresh stab of pain and shifted a little under James's hands.
James sighed. "Gregorius," he muttered in exasperation. "You are ... "
Despite the pain, the surgeon opened one eye and waited.
" -- as God made you," James finished.
A corner of Gregorius's mouth quirked up in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Yes," he murmured. "But which one?"
James choked back the laugh of relief that threatened to burst forth. "Do you think you can move?" he asked gruffly. "I will prepare a little juice of the poppy for you and change the bed linens while it brews."
The surgeon nodded. Drawing a deep breath, he sat up slowly and carefully, hissing a little at the residual pain. He swung his legs off the bed and winced.
"Here, this way," James said softly, and lowered his shoulders. After a moment he felt a warm, solid weight draped across them. He wondered briefly at the corresponding warmth in his own chest, then dismissed it in favor of the more pressing matter at hand. He grasped the surgeon's left wrist and used his legs and back to push up. James grunted with the effort; Gregorius was taller and heavier, but he quickly wrapped his right arm around the surgeon's ribs and brought them both to their feet safely. In a lurching, hobbled gait that reminded James of a pair of drunks clinging to each other, he managed to guide the physician to the one chair in the bedroom and help him sit down.
James crouched at Gregorius's feet and laid a soothing hand on his thigh. The surgeon's face was drawn with pain again and he could feel what was left of the quadriceps bunching and quivering under his palm.
"All right?" he asked. Gregorius muttered something under his breath, and James chose to interpret it as a "yes." "Rest," he commanded. "This will take but a moment." He turned to fetch the leather satchel of medical supplies, and was startled by a movement in the shadows.
Gaius was there in the doorway, his eyes narrowed and his face twisted in a grim scowl. It was obvious he had seen -- and heard -- everything.
James felt his gut clench, but he had gone too far to stop now. His first duty was to his patient.
While the tea brewed he stripped the bed and handed over the sweat-dampened sheets to the sleepy housemaid Gaius had had Marcus awaken. He poured a cup of the infusion, sweetened it with a little honey, and watched to make sure the surgeon had taken a healthy sip before he spread fresh, clean sheets on the bed. James tucked in the corners, smoothed out the wrinkles, and took a fresh pillow to replace the one that had become clammy and heavy with perspiration. He glanced back at Gregorius. The surgeon was watching him. His eyes were half-closed, the pupils dilated, only a thin ring of blue showing around the black.
"Come now, my lord," James said gently. "Let's get you sitting on the bed again and out of those sickclothes."
The return journey to the bed was more difficult. The poppy tea had taken a quick hold and the surgeon was almost a dead weight in James's arms. After a stumbling, clumsy dance, the physician was at last seated on the edge of his bed.
"Jaaames," Gregorius slurred.
"Mmmmm?" The surgeon's arms were limp at his sides; James was having trouble pulling his tunic over his head.
"We're walking in circles," Gregorius whispered, as if sharing a great secret.
James looked up, puzzled. "We're walking in -- oh. No, my lord, this is not Germania."
"But I'm cold."
"That's because I've taken your shirt off." James concentrated on gently wiping the other man down with a cool cloth, cleaning off the foul film of dried sweat. He ran the cloth down Gregorius's biceps, the back of his neck, the tops of his shoulders. He noted absently how much more developed the load-bearing muscles were on the surgeon's right side even as the damp cloth followed the strong line of his clavicle and sternum through the coarse, curling chest hair. Across the ribs, down the flat, lean stomach, a sweep back up to the armpits and --
"If we lay next to each other, close together, we could stay warm."
James froze. He didn't need to turn around to know that Gaius's furious eyes were burning holes into his back. He half-expected his tunic to burst into flames at any moment.
"We could spread my cloak over us, and then we would not freeze to death in this terrible place," Gregorius continued. His voice was bright and only a little slurred now.
It is the poppy tea, James thought desperately. Its effect is more pronounced under stress. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment.
"My lord, this is not Germania," he repeated. He dared not look to see if Gaius was still there.
"I know that," Gregorius snapped. His voice lowered to a whisper only the two of them could hear. "But still I wish for you to stay." He raised his head, and his voice grew loud again for Gaius's benefit. "You are my physician tonight, and a good physician watches over his patient."
"Gregorius ... " James groaned.
The surgeon's hands clasped his own. "Stay." He hesitated. "I do not want to be lost and buried here."
James groaned again. Gregorius might know he was not in the wild Germanic forests, but he was still under the influence of the poppy. What choice do I have? he thought. He chanced a look behind him at the doorway. Gaius had vanished, perhaps to fume somewhere else. The surgeon seized the opportunity to ease himself back down onto the bed, pulling the covers over his bare chest.
"My lord, your tunic -- " James began, but Gregorius ignored him.
"Very well, my lord," he sighed. He probably won't remember half of this in the morning.
James turned and laid himself awkwardly down beside him. Gregorius slid over to make room, and James's eyes closed immediately. All at once he realized how exhausted he was.
The last thing he knew was Gregorius's left arm stretching across his chest and a strong grip on his shoulder pulling him close.
What Longinus said, he thought as he spiraled down into welcome slumber -- bro ...
And he was asleep.
James awoke to the smell of baking bread and the sound of men shouting. He started to stretch and realized he was alone in a nest of warm blankets. Someone had placed a soft pillow under his head, and he rubbed at his eyes, listening all the while as the Medicus and his father yelled at each other.
"He is not going with you; he is staying here!"
"I need him in the field!"
"You have just said all you will be doing is collecting plants!" James grimaced; the tone of Gaius's voice told him exactly how important he considered that activity. "You do not need him to help you pick flowers!"
I should get up, James thought dully. I should go and try to calm Gregorius down. He got wearily to his feet. There are many things I should do.
"Besides," Gaius continued, "I need him here. My best milk cow is in distress with her calf."
"He is a trained physician! He is not a veterinarius!"
"He is what I say he is." Gaius's voice was flat and as cold as the dark forests of Germania. "And what I say is law."
A door slammed, so loudly that the crash resounded throughout the villa. And ... Gregorius has left, James thought. Resigned, he pulled at his tunic, straightening it into a semblance of order. Yes, that went well.
By the time James got there, the kitchen was empty save for a lone scullery maid. She was blonde, with pale blue eyes, and her Latin was correct but strangely accented. Nodding to him, she served him a bowl of breakfast porridge, scooped from what was left in the pot still bubbling over the hearth. She flavored it with a drizzle of honey from the flask on the kitchen table and poured in a generous splash of fresh milk. The maid smiled at him, and James smiled back, grateful to see at least one friendly face this morning. She seemed shy of him, and he wondered what she had thought of her master and his son's angry shouting in her clean, serene kitchen. He opened his mouth to ask her, but then thought better of it and took a spoonful of porridge instead.
The porridge was good. Thick and flavorful, mixed with chopped nuts and the milk and honey, it was filling and warmed him from the inside out. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful while the maid bustled about the kitchen. When he was done he thanked her, and hid a grin as she turned red. He guessed she was rather unused to anyone saying "thank you."
He stood and stretched, and looked more closely at his surroundings.
The culina was larger than most he'd seen, airy and well-lit with good ventilation from the open window nearby. A selection of iron frying pans hung from hooks next to the hearth, and on the other side ... a shadowed niche. James stepped closer to get a better look.
It was the household shrine, sheltering the small statues of the household gods. James looked at them, bemused. He wondered if Gregorius had paid them their homage due last night, or if he had ignored them as he so often ignored all trappings of religion. The little statues stared back at him, the lar holding a drinking horn, another of the gods offering a libation bowl and cornucopia. Their expressions gave nothing away. A leather thong had been wound about the shoulders of the penates, and at its end was a golden locket -- a bulla, the protecting amulet that would have been placed around the surgeon's neck when he was but nine days old.
An amulet the Medicus would have worn until he was sixteen, when he took off his youthful robes and put on the white toga of a man.
James pictured the scene in his mind -- the young Gregorius, as tall and gawky as an Egyptian stork, lifting the amulet from his neck and dedicating it to the gods as family guests clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Afterwards he would have been registered at the local records office as an adult.
A citizen of Rome.
He wondered briefly what was inside the bulla. It could be anything -- a bit of carved bone, a miniature sword, a tiny protecting hand. Since it had belonged to a boy, it could even be that timeless symbol of male power -- a phallus.
"Excuse me, sir," a soft voice said, and James looked up, startled.
It was the scullery maid, making ready to sweep the flagstone floor with a broom of fresh straw.
James nodded and stepped outside. The villa itself was quiet, with most of the workers in the fields. He started towards the barn and flinched when one of the farm dogs suddenly appeared. The huge, shaggy animal barked at him once and then drew close, wanting to smell his new scent. Then it huffed and danced about in a canine paroxysm of delight. James grinned.
"Good boy," he said softly, rubbing the dog's head. The animal's tongue lolled out and a veritable flood of drool spilled from its jaws. "You are like my Ari, you know that?" The dog made a snorting, slurping sound at the name of James's boyhood companion. "Come on," James said. "Let's get my sketchbook from the barn."
The barn, like the villa, was quiet. The farm dog had bounded off and James had crouched to fetch his loose-bound notebook from his pack when he heard an unusual sound.
"There, there," a voice said gently. "All will be well, do not fret."
He looked up. The sound was coming from a few stalls away, and he crept closer.
It was Gaius.
"Shush, shush," the Roman said, stroking the long face of the brindled milk cow. "It is all right -- your calf will come and everything will be fine."
James stared. Gaius had one arm around the neck of the cow; his other embraced its head and his fingers scratched lightly at its ears. "Shhhh," he whispered. "She's gone now, you know."
The cow lowed softly and James backed quickly away. He grasped his notebook, then, acting on a hurried impulse, gathered up the rest of his pack and retreated back towards the kitchen.
"You're needed," a gruff voice announced, and James looked up in surprise. He had been drawing, refining some earlier sketches of medicinal herbs. The tiny notches of a mint leaf had commanded his particular attention, and his concentration had been such that he hadn't heard the stablehand come into the kitchen.
"You're needed," the man said again. "The cow's worsened, and the master says he will take whatever help he can get."
Silently, James laid down the reed pen he'd been using and followed the stablehand outside.
That morning the barn had smelled of hay and fresh alfalfa, and the early sunlight had slanted through the open door in golden beams across the floor. Now the brindle cow's stall floor was slick with liquids that weren't water, and the air reeked of blood and animal panic. Both of the barn doors had been flung open in an attempt to provide a freshening cross-breeze. The cow herself was no longer lowing softly -- she was moaning, her head swinging from side to side in desperate unhappiness. Four stablemen were pushing at her withers, trying to chivvy her into a different position as Gaius watched, his expression grim. He looked up and spotted James.
"Get over here," he snapped.
Part Two
TITLE: The Annals: Part 4.1 of An Irregular Series
AUTHOR:
nightdog_writesPAIRING: House-Wilson friendship, other original characters
RATING: PG-13
WARNINGS: Yes, for mature emotional themes.
SPOILERS: No; it's just a story.
SUMMARY: Just how long have House and Wilson known each other?
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
AUTHOR NOTES: Not just AU, but historical AU. Once again I have taken some (minor) liberties with the world of real life and ideas; I hope the history gods find it in their hearts to forgive me.
Profound thanks, as always, to my intrepid First Readers. Without their steadfast support and encouragement I would be lost. Especial thanks to
purridot for her invaluable help with Latin and Old Saxon, and bironic for her final editing run-through.Source notes are at the end of the third part. This section is 7,994 words.
BETA: Silverjackal, who asked, "What's next?"
The Annals: Part One of An Irregular Series
The Annals: Part Two of An Irregular Series
The Annals: Part Three of An Irregular Series
The Annals: Part Four of An Irregular Series
Corda serata fero.
I carry a heart locked up.
Afterwards, for a long time, James associates the sight and scent of cypress with death. He knows where it started -- at the main gate to a clean, well-kempt Roman villa in Gallia Narbonensis.
We should have left, James thinks sometimes, on those long dark nights when Gregorius falls into one of his rare depressions and it seems an eternity before the sunrise. Never should have entered, should have simply turned our horses' heads away and not looked back. Gregorius was right. He usually is.
It's too late, of course. Far too late to turn back.
"Well, it's certainly not Germania, I'll give you that," Gregorius said. The chestnut mare shook her head and made a soft whuffling noise. The Roman shifted in his saddle and glanced at James.
"No, my lord, it is not," the slave murmured, his eyes not moving from the expanse of blue spread out before them. The valley below was awash in it -- purple and azure blooms nodding in the light breeze like waves on a terrestrial ocean. The flowers' scent carried on the wind, perfuming the air with a sweet, hay-like aroma.
"Spikenard?"
The surgeon nodded. "Lavender, yes." He smiled, just a little. "One of the many treasures of Provincia Nostra." James tilted his head back, soaking in the warm sun, then looked over quickly to see the Roman's smile grow wider.
"Your Hebrew god will be jealous," the surgeon gently teased. "Your sun worship has displaced him."
James grinned back. "I am no follower of Mithras," he said. "It is the heat -- in this warm season it reminds me of Judea."
"Ah, I might have guessed," Gregorius replied. "I was there only once, when I was but a boy. My father was posted to Caesarea, so at least we had a cooling sea breeze, but I do remember the heat."
The slave waited for more, but the Roman had fallen silent. Gregorius had kept the promise he had made in Germania, when James had still been dazed and half-frozen after their terrible, circular sojourn in the snow. He had been telling stories of his childhood and youth all the way south from that barbaric land. While many of the stories had been interesting, and some of them quite humorous, they had one thing in common -- they were all surface. They were like a still pond into which someone had tossed a small stone -- the ripples spread outwards, catching reflections and making a mirror of the sky, but the stone disappeared. It seemed to somehow ease the Roman's mind, though. He was always more relaxed after a story, even one like this that consisted of only a few words and was more observation than anything else. James hid a smile as the surgeon wiggled his left foot free from the leather-wrapped ring at the end of his mounting strap and lifted his leg to rest it across the chestnut mare's withers. The horse shook her head again but made no other objection.
They sat quietly at the edge of the valley. The sun's warmth was soothing, and the songs of the small insects in the fields added a lulling, soporific note.
It is so peaceful here, James thought lazily. Peaceful, and beautiful. Truly this is a land of contentment. As if reading his mind, the Roman's sardonic voice broke his reverie.
"Do not fall asleep just yet," he said. "It appears we are needed back at camp."
The slave twisted around in his saddle and squinted in the direction Gregorius was pointing.
A plume of dust was rising in the distance along the country road they had taken, kicked up by the galloping hooves of a courier's mount.
"Longinus," the surgeon drawled as he eased himself from his saddle, "how good to see you again. It seems like only this morning -- " he cocked his head as if struck by a sudden realization -- "Wait, it was this morning! What is so important that I needed fetching? James and I were on the very verge of discovering a new variety of -- "
The centurion's fair, freckled face was pink with irritation, his lips pressed into a thin line of exasperation as he thrust a scroll case into the surgeon's hands.
"This arrived not long after you left," he growled. "I thought you would want to see it right away, since it bears your father's seal."
Gregorius held the leather-bound case as if it was a deadly serpent that might turn and bite him at any time.
"My father does not write to me," he said.
"I know that," Longinus said. "It is why I summoned you." He turned away, motioning for an aide to take charge of the mare and pony. "You may thank me later."
The surgeon grimaced at the unopened scroll. "Very well," he sighed. "Come, James. Let us see what my father thought so important after all these years."
James busied himself in the infirmary tent as Gregorius seated himself at a rough-hewn table a few feet away. He looked at the rows of thick glassware flasks on a shelf, gauging the level in each. More henbane seeds, he thought, more poppy syrup, more ammonia and acetum ...
He went over a list in his mind, and after a moment sharpened a reed pen and began to make notes. He heard the whisper of papyrus behind him as the message scroll was unrolled but paid it no mind. It wasn't until he realized the surgeon had been silent for a while that James spoke.
"What news, Gregorius?"
When Gregorius didn't answer immediately, James glanced in his direction. The surgeon was staring at the document laid out on the table.
"Gregorius?" The Roman didn't answer. "My lord, is something wrong?"
The physician lifted his head; his blue eyes were distant and unfocused. After a moment he cleared his throat.
"My mother," he said. He looked back down at the scroll as if hoping that in that time the message had changed. "My mother is dead."
James blinked, believing for a moment that he'd simply misheard. "My lord?"
Gregorius scrubbed at his face with one hand. He rubbed slowly along his jaw as if feeling for the first time the stubble that was always there.
"My mother," he repeated, and finally looked up at James. "A week ago. More. It's hard to tell." His brows drew together and his expression hardened. "My father has ... smeared some of the ink here. Run a few of the words together. He never did have a good fist when it came to writing."
James willed his legs to move and crossed the room in a few steps. He knelt beside the surgeon's chair. "My lord, I am sorry," he said. "Is there anything I can do?"
The physician was silent. The silence lasted so long that the slave had just opened his mouth to ask again when Gregorius picked up the scroll and began to briskly roll it shut.
"Do?" he mused. "Yes, you can finish the inventory you started. Be sure and make three copies as usual -- two for Longinus and the quartermaster, and keep one for us. After that you can prepare some more tinctures and check the rest of my real mail -- there should have been at least one new medical treatise there. If Longinus has kept it from me in favor of -- " He paused for a moment. "Tell him he will not be welcome at my game of cards tomorrow night."
James had closed his mouth halfway through the surgeon's task list; he opened it again, feeling almost dizzy.
"I ... you ..." he began.
Gregorius fixed him with an intense blue stare. "James," he warned.
"But, my lord ..."
"James," the surgeon said again. His expression was entirely unreadable. "We will not speak of this thing again. Do you understand?"
"I ..." Gregorius's gaze was unwavering. "I understand, my lord," he finished helplessly.
"Good," the surgeon said, and turned away. "Now get up and get to work."
"I told James I did not want to speak of this again," the physician growled, and shot a furious glare at the slave who sat half-hidden in the corner's shadows.
"It was not him," Longinus replied, unruffled by the surgeon's anger. "Do you think I have only one source in this cohort to keep me apprised of your activities?" He took another long draught of wine and dragged a hand through his hair. The red thatch spiked up for a moment like a rooster's comb before it settled back down.
The shadows flickered; it was now full night and the only light in Gregorius's tent was from the torches the slave had lit.
"We are only a few days' ride from your father's villa," Longinus continued. "Naturally, you will want to participate in the funeral rites -- "
"Naturally, I will not," Gregorius snapped.
"Gregorius -- "
"I will not! I had no intention of visiting my father before this, and I have no intention now."
Longinus leaned forward, resting his beefy forearms on the table. The oiled leather of his jerkin gleamed in the torchlight. "He is your father, Gregorius."
"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I've somehow forgotten?"
"No!" Longinus slammed his stoneware cup down. The table rattled with the force of the blow, and James wedged himself a little deeper into the shadows.
"I do not think you have forgotten your father," the centurion shouted. "But whatever you may think, this is not about him. The person you have forgotten, Gregorius, is your mother!"
The air in the tent seemed thick and heavy, as if a thunderstorm were brewing. James waited breathlessly for the spark that would set the two men to fighting, but the surgeon held still, though his right hand was clenching and unclenching as if in a terrible spasm.
"You will go," Longinus said very softly, "and you will attend whatever funeral rites are left to attend, and you will say the words and importune the gods and you will mean all of it because it is your duty to your mother."
The surgeon's hand continued to work. "You speak to me of duty," he said quietly.
"I speak to you of duty because it is the only thing that means anything to you. You, who have always put duty above all, always doing the right thing even when it means possible injury to others. You and your own personal code of conduct. You could not live any other way." Longinus drained the last of his wine and stood up. "Take James with you," he said. "Perhaps he can keep you out of trouble."
He set the cup on the table, very gently this time, and was gone.
James waited as the centurion carefully signed his name to the bottom of a report. The morning sun shone brightly through the commander's tent. Outside was the normal noise of the camp -- men shouted, dogs barked, pots and pans clanged from the mess tent. It all sounded like home to James now.
Gregorius had been uncharacteristically silent after Longinus's departure the night before. This morning, though, he had gruffly ordered the slave to prepare for their journey to his family's villa. Now the chestnut mare and roan pony stood saddled and ready while the dark bay pack horse nodded at the end of its tether rope -- and Gregorius was nowhere to be found.
The centurion did not seem concerned. "Do you know why I summoned you, James?" he asked.
"No, my lord," the slave replied. In truth, he had some idea, but his years of captivity had taught him it was better to let whoever was master speak first.
"Watch over him," Longinus said, and James relaxed a tiny fraction. It was what he had thought.
"Watch over him," the centurion repeated. "Gregorius's relationship with his father has never been one that others might call amicable, but it worsened considerably after that damned Scythian lance tore his leg apart." Longinus had left off the paperwork before him and was staring into space. He sighed and looked at James, seeming to see him for the first time.
"We were raised together," he said. "Has he told you that?"
"No, my lord."
Longinus regarded him thoughtfully. "He will," he said. "He likes you, and more than that, he trusts you. He will tell you everything, eventually. Perhaps even more than he tells me." He swiveled in his seat and gazed out at the camp clearing. "His father and mine -- Gaius and Lucius -- they served together, and Gregorius and I became friends. More than friends. We swore our fealty to each other as brothers. But where I wanted to follow my father into the Legions, Gregorius did not. So he and his father compromised. Gregorius studied to become a Medicus -- he was thus of the Army but not a commissioned officer. Gaius was disappointed. He did not hide it well. And after Gregorius was wounded ... " The centurion blew out a small frustrated breath from between his lips.
"He blames his father," James murmured. The centurion looked sharply at him.
"He blames his father for many things," he rumbled. "But he is not entirely innocent either." Longinus's expression grew grim. "He pushed. By all the gods, he pushed, challenging Gaius on the most trivial of matters. If his father said the sky was clear, Gregorius would predict rain before nightfall. If Gaius wanted him to learn sword-play, Gregorius reached for a bow." The centurion looked at the reed pen he still held in his right hand. "For weeks on end, when he was fourteen, he would speak nothing but his mother's barbaric tongue, rejecting the Latin that was his by birthright. That was the last straw for Gaius."
James licked at his suddenly dry lips. "What did he do, my lord?"
Longinus set the pen down.
"He took away his scrolls. His notebooks. Everything except Gregorius's school texts, and built a bonfire of them. And that -- " the centurion smiled, but it was a smile with no humor in it, " -- did the trick. Or so Gaius thought." At James's look of surprise, Longinus continued.
"It was only a month later that his father caught him composing a lexicon on scraps of papyrus he'd scrounged -- writing down words in his mother's language, spelling out their meanings."
"Gaius burned those too. And if Gregorius ever spoke his mother's tongue again, I never heard it." He scrubbed one large hand along his jaw. "So the willful, headstrong boy has grown into a willful, headstrong man. I am charging you to watch over him, keep him from doing or saying anything he might have cause to regret later."
You might as well order me to keep back the tide, James thought. He twisted the iron cuff on his left wrist. "My lord," he began hesitantly, "I am just a slave -- the Medicus is a ... is a ... "
"A Roman?" The centurion's right eyebrow quirked upward in wry humor. "I am quite aware of that fact. Still, if there is anyone he will listen to on this funereal journey, it is you." His expression became serious. "Do what you can, James," he said. "That is all that I ask."
James bowed his head. "I will, my lord."
"James!" a familiar voice shouted impatiently. In the next moment a pair of well-known blue eyes were peering into the centurion's tent. "There you are." Gregorius shot a calculating glance at Longinus. "All done? Finished commanding James to be my nanny, nurse, and caretaker on this little excursion?"
The centurion grinned. "You know me too well," he said.
"Like a brother," Gregorius grumbled, and jerked his head in the direction of the three horses. "Let's go," he said. "I want to get this over with."
The cypress garlands adorning the front gate of the estate had obviously been hanging there for some days. They were turning brown and were brittle to the touch. Their fresh scent had faded, leaving behind an odor that reminded James of clothes left too long in an unopened chest. The horses tossed their heads and whickered uneasily. He glanced at Gregorius; the surgeon's face was grim.
"I do not want to do this," the Roman muttered. "But if I turn around now you will tattle on me to Longinus."
"My lord, Longinus is not here," the slave answered gently. "And I will tell him whatever you command me to tell him." The surgeon looked away, and James noticed he was rubbing at his right thigh. "Gregorius, all will be well," he murmured. "After all -- a father could not be more delighted at the return of an only son."
The Roman snorted. "Your Greek bard was a great poet, but he did not know my father," he said dryly. "I prefer the more realistic Ovid, from his Metamorphoses." He kicked his chestnut mare lightly in the flanks; obviously he considered the subject closed.
James kept the roan pony at a sedate walk as he searched his memory. When the short epigram finally surfaced, he groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose.
Would that the gods had devised things so that I had no father ...
Ahead of him he saw the surgeon stop for a moment where a field slave had apparently been repairing a section of the low stone wall that ran beside the road. When Gregorius gestured to him the man left his work and came forward eagerly. The Roman said something and pointed imperiously down the dusty road. The slave nodded and took off at a steady trot. James urged the roan pony onward and caught up to the surgeon, who was watching the field slave grow smaller and smaller as he disappeared into the distance.
"What did you say to him, my lord?"
"I told him -- " The Roman's lips twisted, as if he had suddenly found something bitter and foul on his tongue. "I told him to go and tell the rest of the household that Gregorius Aquilinus has come home."
The villa was like many others James had seen -- a low-slung building constructed of whitewashed brick, roofed with terracotta tiles that had been bleached to a dull, dusty rose by the sun. A larger building loomed a short distance away, and James caught the distinctive odor of a barn.
A half-dozen slaves -- household staff, James knew -- were lined up outside, and a stableboy dashed up to take over the reins of the visitors' horses. A tall man dressed in a simple homespun tunic much like the one James wore, stepped forward, and for a moment the slave was confused.
He looks nothing like Gregorius, he thought.
When the man spoke, the mystery was solved.
"Greetings," he said. "I am Marcus Tullius, freedman and overseer of this villa." His eyes flicked to the cuff on James's wrist, then back up to Gregorius. "And you must be Gregorius Aquilinus," he continued smoothly. "Welcome to your father's house. I am sorry it is under such sad circumstances. There are only a few days of prescribed mourning left -- "
"Where is my father?"
The overseer's mouth pursed into an unhappy expression at the rude tone.
"Gregorius ... " James murmured, and saw the freedman glance sharply at him.
"He is in the barn," Marcus replied frostily. "Attending to one of the milk cows." Noting the baffled looks, he explained further. "She is heavily pregnant, and he is afraid the birth will be a difficult one. You are invited to wait in the peristylium until he returns."
Gregorius's brows knit together, and for a moment James was sure the surgeon would turn on his heel, remount, and ride away without a second thought. Then the broad shoulders slumped.
"Very well," he sighed. "I have waited this long, I will wait some more."
Marcus nodded. "Your father will be pleased, my lord. I will have food and drink brought to you."
As long as they had to wait somewhere, the peristylium was actually quite a pleasant way station, James decided.
Open on three sides to catch even the lightest breeze, and shielded from the direct sun by a roof of tiles, trellis, and fresh green vines, it was shady and cool. Sparrows flitted back and forth, perching hopefully on the few round rough-hewn tables. The business of the villa went on about them -- field hands came and went, housemaids bustled in and out. Someone was whistling nearby. It didn't appear to be a household that had suffered a recent death.
James took another sip of the watered wine a servant had brought and looked at Gregorius. The surgeon's face was fatigued and worn, and he was rubbing absently at his thigh again. His mind was clearly many leagues away.
"Gregorius," James said softly. The Roman looked up; his eyes were red-rimmed and tired. James laid his hand on the surgeon's forearm. "Tell me about your mother."
" -- and she ran away, trying to get back to her people," Gregorius said. "Only the gods know how she thought she could have made it out of Gaul, much less to Anglia. They caught her before she'd gone ten leagues." He stopped and looked away. James waited him out.
"By law she should have been crucified," the surgeon continued at last. "But she was pregnant, and my father still needed an heir. He was an engineer by that time, still attached to the legion but free to wed. So he manumitted her instead, and married her, so that his child would be that of a freewoman and not a slave. A citizen of Rome and not a bastard." He shook his head. "Lucky for him I turned out to be a son. He was ordered to Hispania not long after my birth -- so she packed us up and away we went."
James smiled, trying to picture the Roman surgeon as a squalling babe in his mother's arms.
"We trailed after him through all his postings," Gregorius continued. "And even as a boy I soon began to realize my father had certain ... expectations of me. We fought many wars. I won a few of the battles; he won more. I was a rebellious youth -- he used to tell me I had too much of my mother's blood in me. I required much ... discipline. And then one day -- " The surgeon paused, rubbed at his eyes. "One day I told him I wished my mother had gotten away, that I would rather have been raised a barbarian than carry his name forward."
"My mother began to break his heart," Gregorius said softly. "And then she bore me, and I finished the job."
James shook his head. "Gregorius -- " he began.
A new shadow fell over the two men.
"So you have come home at last," a new voice said.
Gregorius and James looked up -- James in surprise, Gregorius with reluctance.
The man standing over them was about James's height. His hair was brown, shot through with skeins of silver, and his eyes were a curious shade of greenish-brown, like mossy stones glimpsed through a flowing stream. He had the same chiseled face as his son, the same intensity of gaze. A gaze, James now realized, which was pointedly directed at James's left hand, still resting on Gregorius's forearm. He carefully moved it away and lowered his eyes to the floor.
"Father," Gregorius said.
James wasn't sure what he had expected, but he didn't think it had been anything like the icily polite neutrality the two men were exhibiting. Nor had he expected Gregorius to introduce him to his father -- as a slave, James had grown used to being invisible, and had come to prefer the relative safety of that cloak. It was never a good idea to come to the attention of a Roman, and yet James could dimly hear his own name through the panicked roaring in his ears. He was sweating; keeping his eyes fixed on the ground, he thought for one horrified second that Gregorius might actually order him to clasp his father's arm in the familiar Roman manner. He glanced quickly up. From the look on Gaius's face it was obviously not a pleasant moment for him either. James returned his gaze to the floor, but still he knew he was being scrutinized; the force of the older man's inspection was palpable, and James felt the small hairs rise on the back of his neck. Scrutinized -- and dismissed, and James's breath came more easily when Gaius turned away.
"Come," Gaius grunted. "You will want to see your mother's tomb."
"No, I won't," the surgeon mumbled, too low for anyone but James to hear. The slave raised his eyes cautiously. The physician looked pale and miserable, and there was a curiously lost quality to those normally expressive eyes. James laid a gentle hand on the small of his back.
"Gregorius," he murmured, and out of the corner of his eye saw the sudden twitch in Gaius's shoulders at the name. "You will see it, and it will be done, and it will be one more step finished," he said softly. Gaius had stopped and was watching, and James saw his eyes narrow as he took in the way his son was leaning heavily on his oaken staff.
"The tomb is a short distance away," Gaius said, assessing the situation. "I will have Marcus hitch up a cart."
James could feel the surgeon's muscles tense as Gregorius straightened.
"No," he said. "No cart. We will ride."
The tomb, like that of many Roman families, was beside a road. In this case the road led to an apple orchard, and several of the fruit trees had grown up around the brick structure.
Gaius planned ahead, James thought. Had the tomb built at the same time as the villa, so it would be here when it was needed.
It was a small tomb, for a small family, and modeled in the common fashion as a reduced replica of a Greek temple. The whitewashed bricks glowed softly in the slanting late-afternoon light. There were three large niches carved into the tomb's face, with enough space left for several more. A simple, glazed urn rested in the leftmost hollow.
Waiting. The thought raised tiny goosebumps along James's bare arms. Waiting for the day it is joined by Gaius's ashes, and after them, Gregorius and Gregorius's wife and children. If he ever has a wife and children. He looked around. The surgeon's face was drawn and weary. His head was turned, and he was looking at the pommels of his saddle rather than at the tomb. Gaius was staring stolidly into space.
James could picture it all -- he had seen enough death in the camps of the Legions to know the last rites of these superstitious Romans by heart.
Gregorius's mother would have been brought outside, so that her last moments were spent under the open sky, lying on the fresh earth. Her husband would have knelt over her, drawing close to capture her final breath in a glass flask or between his own lips.
Afterwards, the funeral procession -- the knots of paid mourners, the black-robed women like tall crows, wailing in a frenzy of compensated grief. The dead woman, riding on the shoulders of the undertaker's men to her pyre. Placed upon the wood and kindling, perhaps a few personal items laid next to her, folded into her still hands. A printed prayer, a tiny statue of a god or goddess. A small portrait of her son. Her husband, leaning over her, tucking a silver denarius under her tongue to pay the ferryman, then stepping back and taking the torch from his house chamberlain, Marcus Tullius. The flames leaping upwards ...
He felt suddenly sick, and ran a hand over his face. Barbarians.
"She wanted to be among the trees," Gaius said. "She said they reminded her of home."
Gregorius snorted. It was an ugly, cynical sound in the peaceful apple grove. "Then you should have planted trees of the mountains," he said. "Aspens and rowans."
Gaius's head turned slowly to look at Gregorius. "They would not have survived here," he said.
His son shook his head and jerked at the reins of his chestnut mare. "Neither did she."
"He sleeps in the barn," Gaius said.
It had been full evening by the time the three men had returned from the small tomb among the trees. Gregorius had swayed a little upon dismounting; James had automatically steadied him and immediately felt Gaius's eyes upon him again.
They had been separated at dinner, James sent to eat with the house slaves while Gregorius and his father were served by Marcus in the villa dining room. The physician had appeared to be too tired to object, and James wondered if they had spoken at all during dinner. Here in what was to be his bedroom the surgeon was objecting at news of this second separation.
"He's my assistant," Gregorius protested. "In camp he sleeps in my tent --"
"This isn't your camp." Gaius's voice was flat and final. "This is my house, and under this roof my rule is law." He turned away from his son; it was clear he considered the discussion over. "There is no room for a spare bed in the slave quarters. He sleeps in the barn."
The surgeon was rubbing his thigh again and he had lines of pain around his eyes. James opened his mouth, intending to ask Gregorius if he needed an infusion of white willow bark, but before he got the chance the door was slammed shut in his face.
He sighed and picked up his bedroll, trying not to listen to the raised voices coming from the other side of the door.
The barn was large, and warm, and smelled of the large warm animals who sheltered in it.
James spread his blankets over the pile of straw he'd gathered and arranged into a rough nest against the wall. One of the cows seemed to give him an accusing look over the half-door of her stall.
"I'm just borrowing it," James muttered. He eased himself into the hay and pulled his cloak and an extra blanket around him. "You can have it for breakfast tomorrow."
The sounds of the barn were not so different from those of the Army camp -- the soft whuffle of horses, the calls of the night birds outside. The hay was not as comfortable as the slave's usual bedding of woolen blankets and furs -- the straw prickled at his neck and wrists and the grain dust made his nose itch -- but it was warm and he was soon asleep.
He dreamed.
He is in a bed, and then he is not. It's hard to breathe, and strong hands have lifted him out of a cot and carried him outdoors. They lay him gently in the soft grass, and he feels dirt clods under his back and shoulders. He squints up at the sky; apple boughs stir in the fresh breeze. He coughs; there's a terrible pain in his chest, and he realizes he's dying.
A face appears above him. Sharp blue eyes bore into his own. No, James wants to shout. This is a Roman rite! And it's not time yet! But there's not enough air in his lungs to speak out loud.
The face comes closer -- the long nose, the ever-present stubble, the so-familiar features of the best (companion?) (master) he's ever had --
Rough lips cover his own. His last breath eases out in a slow sigh and is caught by the man who kneels over him.
Gregorius.
"James. James, wake up!"
The slave shivered once and opened his eyes. The overseer Marcus Tullius was leaning over him, poking him in the biceps.
No long nose. No blue eyes. A dream, and he wasn't dying. But -- what was happening? Was something wrong with Gregorius? Real fear replaced the slow dream-reality.
"James. Gaius summons you."
"He calls for you," Gaius said flatly. "I tried to help him, but he thrust me aside and called for you."
James shook his head, trying to clear the last of the sleep-cobwebs. "I don't understand," he mumbled.
"His leg pains him. I prepared a remedy but he would not take it. Says no one but you can help him."
Torchlight flickered along the walls; the dancing shadows revealed both the hostility in Gaius's eyes and the concern on his face. It was obvious the loss of his wife and the sudden illness of his only son was affecting him more than he wanted to let on, perhaps even more than he suspected. He opened the door to Gregorius's room and allowed James to step inside.
The surgeon had thrown off his blankets and was lying atop the sheets with the rigidity of a wooden plank. One hand was wrapped tightly around the edge of the headboard, the straining knuckles white with effort. The other worked slowly at his thigh, trying to ease what was apparently the monstrous pain of a terrible cramp.
James cursed under his breath as he took a seat on the bedside. The sheets were soaked with sweat, and he resolutely ignored the clammy feeling of it seeping up into his tunic. He focused on Gregorius.
The lack of willow bark, the argument with his father before bed -- how long did he lie here, the agony growing, before he called out? Stubborn Roman!
The surgeon groaned, an awful sound wrenched from deep within his chest. James smoothed his hair gently -- it was damp and clung to the physician's forehead in dark, curling whorls.
"Gregorius," James whispered. "I'm here, it's all right." He was pleased to see a tiny bit of the surgeon's tension ease at the sound of his voice.
"James?" Gregorius opened his eyes. They were wild and bright with pain.
"It's me, my lord." The slave continued to stroke the surgeon's forehead, his fingers gently carding through the physician's soaked hair.
"Dream," Gregorius croaked. "Bad dream. Called for you but you weren't here."
Had to have been a very bad dream, James thought. "I'm here now," he said. He left off stroking the surgeon's forehead and hiked up his tunic instead. The worst of the cramp had abated; still, James began a slow, flowing massage with his thumbs and the palms of both hands. "You must have felt this coming," he murmured. "You should have brewed a little willowbark tea this evening." He could feel the physician's muscles loosening, unknotting under his fingers, and his gaze fell upon the earthenware cup on the small night table. It was untouched, still brimming with a warm, dark liquid. "And why did you not accept your father's medicine?"
"Heh." Gregorius's forced laugh was rough and raspy. "I prefer your ... expertise. Besides, I have taken too much of my father's medicine over the years." He gasped at a fresh stab of pain and shifted a little under James's hands.
James sighed. "Gregorius," he muttered in exasperation. "You are ... "
Despite the pain, the surgeon opened one eye and waited.
" -- as God made you," James finished.
A corner of Gregorius's mouth quirked up in what might have been an attempt at a smile. "Yes," he murmured. "But which one?"
James choked back the laugh of relief that threatened to burst forth. "Do you think you can move?" he asked gruffly. "I will prepare a little juice of the poppy for you and change the bed linens while it brews."
The surgeon nodded. Drawing a deep breath, he sat up slowly and carefully, hissing a little at the residual pain. He swung his legs off the bed and winced.
"Here, this way," James said softly, and lowered his shoulders. After a moment he felt a warm, solid weight draped across them. He wondered briefly at the corresponding warmth in his own chest, then dismissed it in favor of the more pressing matter at hand. He grasped the surgeon's left wrist and used his legs and back to push up. James grunted with the effort; Gregorius was taller and heavier, but he quickly wrapped his right arm around the surgeon's ribs and brought them both to their feet safely. In a lurching, hobbled gait that reminded James of a pair of drunks clinging to each other, he managed to guide the physician to the one chair in the bedroom and help him sit down.
James crouched at Gregorius's feet and laid a soothing hand on his thigh. The surgeon's face was drawn with pain again and he could feel what was left of the quadriceps bunching and quivering under his palm.
"All right?" he asked. Gregorius muttered something under his breath, and James chose to interpret it as a "yes." "Rest," he commanded. "This will take but a moment." He turned to fetch the leather satchel of medical supplies, and was startled by a movement in the shadows.
Gaius was there in the doorway, his eyes narrowed and his face twisted in a grim scowl. It was obvious he had seen -- and heard -- everything.
James felt his gut clench, but he had gone too far to stop now. His first duty was to his patient.
While the tea brewed he stripped the bed and handed over the sweat-dampened sheets to the sleepy housemaid Gaius had had Marcus awaken. He poured a cup of the infusion, sweetened it with a little honey, and watched to make sure the surgeon had taken a healthy sip before he spread fresh, clean sheets on the bed. James tucked in the corners, smoothed out the wrinkles, and took a fresh pillow to replace the one that had become clammy and heavy with perspiration. He glanced back at Gregorius. The surgeon was watching him. His eyes were half-closed, the pupils dilated, only a thin ring of blue showing around the black.
"Come now, my lord," James said gently. "Let's get you sitting on the bed again and out of those sickclothes."
The return journey to the bed was more difficult. The poppy tea had taken a quick hold and the surgeon was almost a dead weight in James's arms. After a stumbling, clumsy dance, the physician was at last seated on the edge of his bed.
"Jaaames," Gregorius slurred.
"Mmmmm?" The surgeon's arms were limp at his sides; James was having trouble pulling his tunic over his head.
"We're walking in circles," Gregorius whispered, as if sharing a great secret.
James looked up, puzzled. "We're walking in -- oh. No, my lord, this is not Germania."
"But I'm cold."
"That's because I've taken your shirt off." James concentrated on gently wiping the other man down with a cool cloth, cleaning off the foul film of dried sweat. He ran the cloth down Gregorius's biceps, the back of his neck, the tops of his shoulders. He noted absently how much more developed the load-bearing muscles were on the surgeon's right side even as the damp cloth followed the strong line of his clavicle and sternum through the coarse, curling chest hair. Across the ribs, down the flat, lean stomach, a sweep back up to the armpits and --
"If we lay next to each other, close together, we could stay warm."
James froze. He didn't need to turn around to know that Gaius's furious eyes were burning holes into his back. He half-expected his tunic to burst into flames at any moment.
"We could spread my cloak over us, and then we would not freeze to death in this terrible place," Gregorius continued. His voice was bright and only a little slurred now.
It is the poppy tea, James thought desperately. Its effect is more pronounced under stress. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment.
"My lord, this is not Germania," he repeated. He dared not look to see if Gaius was still there.
"I know that," Gregorius snapped. His voice lowered to a whisper only the two of them could hear. "But still I wish for you to stay." He raised his head, and his voice grew loud again for Gaius's benefit. "You are my physician tonight, and a good physician watches over his patient."
"Gregorius ... " James groaned.
The surgeon's hands clasped his own. "Stay." He hesitated. "I do not want to be lost and buried here."
James groaned again. Gregorius might know he was not in the wild Germanic forests, but he was still under the influence of the poppy. What choice do I have? he thought. He chanced a look behind him at the doorway. Gaius had vanished, perhaps to fume somewhere else. The surgeon seized the opportunity to ease himself back down onto the bed, pulling the covers over his bare chest.
"My lord, your tunic -- " James began, but Gregorius ignored him.
"Very well, my lord," he sighed. He probably won't remember half of this in the morning.
James turned and laid himself awkwardly down beside him. Gregorius slid over to make room, and James's eyes closed immediately. All at once he realized how exhausted he was.
The last thing he knew was Gregorius's left arm stretching across his chest and a strong grip on his shoulder pulling him close.
What Longinus said, he thought as he spiraled down into welcome slumber -- bro ...
And he was asleep.
James awoke to the smell of baking bread and the sound of men shouting. He started to stretch and realized he was alone in a nest of warm blankets. Someone had placed a soft pillow under his head, and he rubbed at his eyes, listening all the while as the Medicus and his father yelled at each other.
"He is not going with you; he is staying here!"
"I need him in the field!"
"You have just said all you will be doing is collecting plants!" James grimaced; the tone of Gaius's voice told him exactly how important he considered that activity. "You do not need him to help you pick flowers!"
I should get up, James thought dully. I should go and try to calm Gregorius down. He got wearily to his feet. There are many things I should do.
"Besides," Gaius continued, "I need him here. My best milk cow is in distress with her calf."
"He is a trained physician! He is not a veterinarius!"
"He is what I say he is." Gaius's voice was flat and as cold as the dark forests of Germania. "And what I say is law."
A door slammed, so loudly that the crash resounded throughout the villa. And ... Gregorius has left, James thought. Resigned, he pulled at his tunic, straightening it into a semblance of order. Yes, that went well.
By the time James got there, the kitchen was empty save for a lone scullery maid. She was blonde, with pale blue eyes, and her Latin was correct but strangely accented. Nodding to him, she served him a bowl of breakfast porridge, scooped from what was left in the pot still bubbling over the hearth. She flavored it with a drizzle of honey from the flask on the kitchen table and poured in a generous splash of fresh milk. The maid smiled at him, and James smiled back, grateful to see at least one friendly face this morning. She seemed shy of him, and he wondered what she had thought of her master and his son's angry shouting in her clean, serene kitchen. He opened his mouth to ask her, but then thought better of it and took a spoonful of porridge instead.
The porridge was good. Thick and flavorful, mixed with chopped nuts and the milk and honey, it was filling and warmed him from the inside out. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful while the maid bustled about the kitchen. When he was done he thanked her, and hid a grin as she turned red. He guessed she was rather unused to anyone saying "thank you."
He stood and stretched, and looked more closely at his surroundings.
The culina was larger than most he'd seen, airy and well-lit with good ventilation from the open window nearby. A selection of iron frying pans hung from hooks next to the hearth, and on the other side ... a shadowed niche. James stepped closer to get a better look.
It was the household shrine, sheltering the small statues of the household gods. James looked at them, bemused. He wondered if Gregorius had paid them their homage due last night, or if he had ignored them as he so often ignored all trappings of religion. The little statues stared back at him, the lar holding a drinking horn, another of the gods offering a libation bowl and cornucopia. Their expressions gave nothing away. A leather thong had been wound about the shoulders of the penates, and at its end was a golden locket -- a bulla, the protecting amulet that would have been placed around the surgeon's neck when he was but nine days old.
An amulet the Medicus would have worn until he was sixteen, when he took off his youthful robes and put on the white toga of a man.
James pictured the scene in his mind -- the young Gregorius, as tall and gawky as an Egyptian stork, lifting the amulet from his neck and dedicating it to the gods as family guests clapped him on the back and congratulated him. Afterwards he would have been registered at the local records office as an adult.
A citizen of Rome.
He wondered briefly what was inside the bulla. It could be anything -- a bit of carved bone, a miniature sword, a tiny protecting hand. Since it had belonged to a boy, it could even be that timeless symbol of male power -- a phallus.
"Excuse me, sir," a soft voice said, and James looked up, startled.
It was the scullery maid, making ready to sweep the flagstone floor with a broom of fresh straw.
James nodded and stepped outside. The villa itself was quiet, with most of the workers in the fields. He started towards the barn and flinched when one of the farm dogs suddenly appeared. The huge, shaggy animal barked at him once and then drew close, wanting to smell his new scent. Then it huffed and danced about in a canine paroxysm of delight. James grinned.
"Good boy," he said softly, rubbing the dog's head. The animal's tongue lolled out and a veritable flood of drool spilled from its jaws. "You are like my Ari, you know that?" The dog made a snorting, slurping sound at the name of James's boyhood companion. "Come on," James said. "Let's get my sketchbook from the barn."
The barn, like the villa, was quiet. The farm dog had bounded off and James had crouched to fetch his loose-bound notebook from his pack when he heard an unusual sound.
"There, there," a voice said gently. "All will be well, do not fret."
He looked up. The sound was coming from a few stalls away, and he crept closer.
It was Gaius.
"Shush, shush," the Roman said, stroking the long face of the brindled milk cow. "It is all right -- your calf will come and everything will be fine."
James stared. Gaius had one arm around the neck of the cow; his other embraced its head and his fingers scratched lightly at its ears. "Shhhh," he whispered. "She's gone now, you know."
The cow lowed softly and James backed quickly away. He grasped his notebook, then, acting on a hurried impulse, gathered up the rest of his pack and retreated back towards the kitchen.
"You're needed," a gruff voice announced, and James looked up in surprise. He had been drawing, refining some earlier sketches of medicinal herbs. The tiny notches of a mint leaf had commanded his particular attention, and his concentration had been such that he hadn't heard the stablehand come into the kitchen.
"You're needed," the man said again. "The cow's worsened, and the master says he will take whatever help he can get."
Silently, James laid down the reed pen he'd been using and followed the stablehand outside.
That morning the barn had smelled of hay and fresh alfalfa, and the early sunlight had slanted through the open door in golden beams across the floor. Now the brindle cow's stall floor was slick with liquids that weren't water, and the air reeked of blood and animal panic. Both of the barn doors had been flung open in an attempt to provide a freshening cross-breeze. The cow herself was no longer lowing softly -- she was moaning, her head swinging from side to side in desperate unhappiness. Four stablemen were pushing at her withers, trying to chivvy her into a different position as Gaius watched, his expression grim. He looked up and spotted James.
"Get over here," he snapped.
Part Two
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}