Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [138]
Moreover, the tax concessions given him had turned out to be worth more than he realised. At a time when land yielded the best return of any investment in the empire, the untaxed revenues from his estates over the years had made Tosutigus a rich man. In his farm, simple as it was, handsome firedogs of wrought iron decorated with gold stood before his hearth. His daughter Maeve wore armlets and anklets of gold, shale and amber. He ate off the finest red pottery from Arezzo and drank the best wines of Gaul. The family shrine contained ornaments of silver and gold.
Above all, he had Maeve. She was already turning into a beautiful young woman, with her mother’s cascade of sumptuous red hair, flashing blue eyes and a blazing temper that, while he could still control her, caused him to laugh with delight. He had taught her what Roman ways he could but he had also spoiled her shamefully, allowing her to run wild, and swelling with pride at the easy way she had mastered every horse he had given her.
“She’s both a son and a daughter to me,” he often thought. And whatever the deficiencies of her education in the new Roman world, she would more than make up for them by her dazzling looks and Celtic fire. He was sure of it.
“You’ll marry a great chief – a prince,” he told her. “Nothing less will do.”
But despite all these gifts, his spirit was still discontented. When any Roman official came through, he would hurry down to the staging post wearing his toga, suddenly as eager as he had been as a young man to impress them with his Roman ways. Not a year passed without his evolving some scheme to obtain citizenship, none of which ever succeeded. A month might go by when he would stay on his farm in the valley watching his sheep and cattle, and delight in the company of his wayward daughter; but before long he would wander up to the dune, stand on its overgrown walls, and stare over the high ground as his ancestors had done before him. And for some reason, whenever he did this, his dreams of glory would return as fresh and strong as they had been when he was a foolish young man of twenty.
Despite his determination to succeed in the Roman world, the chief often spent long hours alone in the family shrine, endlessly inspecting the great sword of Coolin and turning over his grandfather’s horned helmet in his hands. Then he would kneel before the little figure of Nodens, his family’s protecting god and pray:
“Make me worthy of my ancestors.”
Once, when she was ten, he took Maeve to the deserted henge, and pointing to the huge sarsens, he told her:
“Your ancestors built this place in a single day: they were giants, gods. Never forget that.”
“Is that why I shall marry a prince?” she asked solemnly.
“The descendants of Coolin the Warrior and the ancient house of Krona deserve nothing less,” he replied.
To Porteus, as his small chestnut pony clattered towards the west, the broad, hard road to Sorviodunum seemed endless. It was the middle of a cool, grey day when he left the town by Calleva and the clouds had not lifted. Now, in the early evening, he was crossing the last ridge before reaching the place that was to be his new home.
When he did so and saw the empty dune with the undistinguished little settlement below, his heart sank. On arrival, he discovered that the three legionaries in charge of the place had been warned of his arrival only the day before and it was obvious that they were not pleased to see him. They led him in silence to a two-roomed hut in one corner of the settlement which contained a couch, a camp stool, a table, a horsehair mattress and a single slave to attend to his needs.
“This is all you have?” he asked irritably.
The eldest soldier shrugged. He had never liked procurators or their staff.
“See for yourself.” He indicated