Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [147]
Then came the letter from his father. It was not long.
Unfortunately, my dear son, I am unable at this difficult time in your life to give you good news to cheer you. Our steward has made some most unfortunate transactions which have resulted not only in lost revenues but a lawsuit which I fear will prove very costly. I have had to sell the vineyard, the olive grove and the two best farms and I’m sorry to say that your inheritance is much depleted.
We are not absolutely ruined, but the estate can no longer support us. Let us hope that in the coming year either you or I can find some way to improve our family’s fortunes. Remember, truth, and good conduct will always triumph. Do not despair. Your loving father.
In a sense, Porteus was relieved. At least he knew now what he must do. Sarum might not be Rome, but it was all he had.
Soon after the harvest was in, he put on his finest toga, had his servant carefully groom his horse, and rode up the valley to the chief’s farm.
The sense of horror, the absolute, sickening terror that seemed to arise from the pit of his stomach, the feeling of desolation, did not come to him until quite late in the wedding ceremony.
The wedding took place at Tosutigus’s farm. The chief and Porteus wore togas; so did the three legionaries who were his only escort. But this was the only concession to Roman customs.
Two huge trestle tables were set up in the open enclosure and piled high with food. The men sat on benches while the women served them. It seemed to Porteus that every farmer in the region was there, dressed in their brilliantly coloured tunics and brats, so unlike the sober Roman dress. There were over fifty of them, including some of the more important craftsmen like Numex and Balba. The feast lasted from the early evening until late into the night, the men eating hugely the piles of venison, mutton and boar placed before them and drinking ale. The heat from the two enormous fires over which the spits were placed was so tremendous that Porteus felt his cheeks burning. The men with their heavy moustaches toasted him again and again in beer and in mead.
During the meal, Maeve did not appear; but at last, when it seemed impossible that the guests could eat or drink any more, Porteus heard the sound of bells and cymbals outside the enclosure. This sound was greeted by shouts of joy from the men; two of them ran to the gate and made a pretence of holding it closed while the party outside hammered on it, demanding entry. After they had begged to be let in three times, Tosutigus gave the order and the gates were opened.
The mummers came in to the sound of applause. There were nine of them – eight wearing blank masks painted in bright colours, with bells attached to their ankles which crashed loudly as they stamped and danced between the tables; two had reed pipes and one a pair of cymbals. The ninth mummer, a giant of a man, wore a huge wooden head carved like that of a bull with a magnificent pair of horns. They danced up and down between the seated guests, who roared their approval as the bull made clear by his lewd gesture that he represented the bridegroom. Finally, as the dancers reached a crescendo, the bull advanced towards Porteus. In his hand he was holding what seemed to be a drinking bowl, which he held out towards the young Roman while all the men shouted:
“Drink, bridegroom, drink!”
Porteus took the bowl. It contained a thick broth.
“Drink!” they shouted again, and he saw that Tosutigus was shouting with them.
He drank. It tasted salty, he thought. The men cheered.
“What is it?” he asked Tosutigus.
“An ancient recipe,” the chief grinned. “I had to wash in it when I became chief, in the middle of the dune. You’re really one of us now.”
“But what is it made of?” Porteus asked again.
“Milk, bull’s blood, herbs mainly.”
Slowly Porteus looked down at the mixture,