Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [176]
“I will restore Sorviodunum, and then this city to the gods.”
They reached Sorviodunum at midday. Petrus had intended that the Germans should camp in the settlement in the valley where half a dozen families were still living in a group of small houses protected by a small wooden palisade. His idea was that they would fortify the place properly. But when the leader of the Germans saw it, he shook his head.
“We’ll camp there,” he said, pointing up to the dune on the hill above. “Only place we can defend.”
Petrus shrugged. “As you wish.”
The dune had been almost deserted for generations. Although there was a cluster of huts just east of the entrance, the big circular space inside, with its high grassy wall, had been used by Numincus only as the estate’s cattle pen for some years.
It had one occupant however, and as Petrus and his party entered, he shuffled forward from the small wooden house he occupied on the west side of the enclosure.
“This is Tarquinus the cowherd,” Petrus explained.
He was very old. His back was stooped, his face wizened like a nut and his thin grey hair lay in long strands down his back. But his cunning, narrow-set eyes, which gave him away at once as belonging to the clan still known in the area as the riverfolk, were as bright and keen as a young man’s. He had been widowed many years before, and as soon as his wife had died, he had abandoned his children and retired alone to the dune, where the Porteus family had decided to tolerate his presence. It was Tarquinus who, when Constantius in a fit of Christian piety had knocked down the little temple to the goddess Sulis that for centuries had stood beside the family villa, had quietly rescued the little stone figure, and built a modest shrine to house her beside his own shack in the dune. Although he was old now, the cowherd was greatly feared by many in the area, for he was skilled in the arts of magic.
He glanced at the Germans.
“You brought them.”
Petrus nodded.
“They’ll camp here. Keep an eye on them.”
Tarquinus grinned contemptuously.
“If they give any trouble, I’ll cut their throats when they’re asleep.”
Petrus turned his horse.
“My steward will see you’re fed,” he told the Germans.
Then he moved towards the entrance, the cowherd shuffling beside him. Before leaving however he glanced down and enquired quietly:
“We have an appointment tonight?”
The old man nodded. “Everything is ready.”
“Good, until tonight then.” And pleased with his work Petrus rode out of the dune towards the villa.
On entering the villa, he sought out his mother.
Placidia was sitting quietly with Numincus. She had grown fond of the stout little widower over the years, not only because of his loyalty to her, but because she recognised that in his quiet, modest way he was a man of talent.
It was she who had taught the steward to read. Now, he not only ran the estate from day to day, but he drew up the accounts with her himself, accounts which for years Constantius had done little more than glance at. She would still try, from time to time, to interest her husband in the details of his own estate, but he would usually wave her away with the remark: “I know you and Numincus attend to all that.” Though whether it was pure lack of interest on his part, or whether there was resentment about Numincus’s role, she could never be sure.
It made no difference in practice. And if she enjoyed the quiet company of the little steward, it was, she thought, one of her few pleasures in life.
He sat on a stool opposite her. He had just proposed to barter a -third of the year’s expected grain with another farmer for some cattle. It seemed to both of them a wise move.
“Are we right to hire these Germans?” she suddenly asked him.
He looked at her seriously.
“I think so.”
“My husband does not think so.”
Numincus looked awkward.
“The villa must be defended,” he said slowly. “So should you be,” he added, and then blushed.
She smiled.