London - Edward Rutherfurd [36]
Often the mariner sailed to Gaul with British household pottery, returning with rich, red Samian bowls decorated with lions’ heads, cedar barrels of wine, and great amphorae filled with olive oil or dates. These last were mostly for the houses of the rich, but the mariner kept some for himself and they lived well. Sometimes he would also export barrels of oysters from the huge oyster beds in the estuary. “They used to be taken all the way to the Emperor’s table in Rome,” he remarked.
When he was away, she loved to go for solitary walks. She would go to the island by the ford. There, where a druid had once dwelt, there was now a pretty villa. Or she would leave by the upper western gate and walk two miles to a great crossroads at which there stood a fine marble arch. Or sometimes she would stroll up to the ridges to the south and admire the view.
She had only gradually wondered if she was unhappy. Perhaps she was just lonely.
She often prayed for a child. There was a complex of temples near the summit of the western hill, including one to Diana, but she did not think the chaste goddess would help her. Most women went to the numerous shrines to the Celtic mother goddesses; she had tried them to no avail. One shrine she found comforting. Leaving the lower western gate, the road crossed the stream and then passed by a sacred well where a Celtic water goddess lived. It seemed to Martina that the water goddess heard her, and was kindly. But no child came.
She had not positively known she was unhappy until one day that spring.
The house in which they lived lay in the city’s southern annexe. It was a pleasant spot. As the wooden bridge reached the gravel spit that protruded from the southern bank, it continued on raised supports for some way, so that when the tide came in and turned the spit into an island, the bridge remained comfortably clear of the water. On reaching the marshy southern bankside beyond, the road was built up on a base of huge logs laid crosswise, with an earth and metalled surface above. It was just as she was walking along this that she had stopped to watch some workmen by the marshy edge of the river.
They were building a revetment along the riverbank. It was a large structure: great hollows made of oak timbers jointed to form a square, and then filled in. It rose well above the high-water mark, almost like a dike or a wharf. As she watched, she realized something else. The revetment had eaten several feet into the river, narrowing it slightly. When she had remarked upon this to one of the workmen, he had smiled.
“That’s right. We’ve taken a little back from it. Maybe another year we’ll take more.” He laughed. “It’s like a woman, you see. We use the river and we tame her. That’s the way of it.”
She had wandered across the bridge, thinking about it. Was that the story of her own life? The mariner was never cruel. But why should he be? He had an obedient young wife to look after him whenever he came to port. Was he kind to her? Fairly. She knew she should not complain. On reaching the other side of the bridge she had turned right and walked eastwards along the waterfront, past wharves and warehouses, until at last, just past the wharves’ end, she had come to the eastern corner where the river was met by the city wall.
It was a quiet spot. By the angle of the wall there was a large bastion, but it was deserted now. Above, the spur of the eastern hill curved round until it reached the wall, making this riverside corner into an empty quarter-bowl, a sort of natural open-air theatre. On the slopes, the ravens walked about as though waiting in the silence for some play to begin.
Alone in that space, she had gazed at the high city wall in front of her. It was certainly admirable. Pale ragstone, brought up the river from Kent, had been neatly squared to make the outer face. The centre, nearly nine feet thick at the base, was packed with stone and mortar infill, and every three feet or so, two or three courses of red tile were laid through the entire thickness of the wall to strengthen