PART II - Chapter XIII - 'Gravis and Lenita'

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

Spatula returns to Cremona after an absence of more than a decade. He is naturally overjoyed to see his family--not least because they are still alive. His conversations with his father, however, suggest that life among the vineyards may not continue untroubled. Nero, he learns, has his eye on a number of families--his own among them--whose wealth may prove of use to the Empire. And there is the matter of Christianity to address. It has given Marcus food for thought anyway, but its rise in the Spatula household makes those thoughts doubly disturbing. All Romans know that Nero, once honoured and respected on all sides, has become a sinister, unpredictable figure. There are strong signs of his wish to punish those who follow the teachings of the Nazarene carpenter--a wish that makes no distinction between slave and noble

Marcus simply could not stop staring about, like a being from the future or an escapee from the underworld. Gawping, his mother would have called it, adding that boys with proper manners never indulged in such vulgarity. But he couldn't help it. It had started on the voyage from Britannia, down the Gallic and Hispanic coasts to Portus Calensis; it had got noticeably worse when he took ship for the second leg of the journey. As the ship squeezed through the Fretum Gaditanum and into the limpid Mare Internum itself, he finally found the words to do justice to his mood. Quite simply, everything was alive. Though high summer was still a distant promise in the heavens, all he saw spoke of a perpetual mensis Quinctillis. The roll of the waves, the run of cloud overhead, trees glimpsed along a coastline--all suggested a store of energy which the lengthening days would release. He smiled to himself. After the snows of Glevum and Canovium, the black waters of Mona and the harsh undulations of Cambria, anything would look vibrant. Even twists of dead wood, floating off the Libyan shore, shone and glided like water-snakes. At Livorno, his destination, he had briefly wondered whether he'd stumbled on a palace of gold, a sensation heightened by his pleasurable stay with Vectis's family. Of course, the place was no different to many another coastal town in Liguria. Still, compared to the earthen hues and reeking interiors of the forts he'd known for over a decade, Livorno seemed like a mansion of the gods.

And now, here he was, in the Cremonese vineyards where his father nurtured vines, his family and its good name. The red roofs of the villa were fitfully visible above the vines, tended and trim but as yet unburdened with fruit. He paused in his stroll along a pathway. All was still--for a moment, at least, until his companion cleared his throat and replied to what he had just said:

'Well, I agree wholeheartedly, Marcus. I should have been clamouring for home leave myself, after all of that.'

'I did try before, father. Not as forcefully as I could have done, I admit.'

'You can take no blame for that. Doesn't sound like it would have been granted any time in the last five years.'

Marcus looked at his father's reflective face, the ashen hair above his temples. Gravis by name, Gravis by manner, he thought--but not always.

'Spesis despaired of me. He was convinced I loathed the thought of coming home.'

'Ah, Spesis,' said his father, noting a vine further on that required some attention. He set off. Marcus followed him, unperturbed: he knew his father's ways of old--the patriarch was entirely capable of inspecting vines while remaining absorbed in talk. 'A courageous man,' he continued. 'If I were he, I shouldn't hang about in Canovium, with or without the good Benevolus you speak of.'

Marcus pursed his lips: 'He knows that--but a goodly part of him thinks that escape would be a cowardly trick. Anyway, he's under official orders to remain.'

Gravis snorted as his long, thin fingers followed a tendril's curve: 'Under orders to be slaughtered like a dog, more like. It sounds like a hopeless situation to me. Tell me, what could Benevolus do if Paullinus sent messengers of death for Spesis? Governors overrule everyone else, Marcus. Remember that game our old cook taught you as a boy? Dagger, flint and water? Dagger breaks flint--that's the boss.' He paused and chuckled at his observation: 'Listen to me,' he exclaimed, drawing his hand from the vine and striking an orator's pose. 'Gravis, the Governor of Cremona--repository of all military wisdom. Thirty years battling the heathen vines!' And he lunged at an unsuspecting twig.

Marcus laughed, more raucously than he had for some time. One by one, his father's eccentricities were again declaring themselves, in a kind of extended welcome. He'd all but forgotten this one: the sudden absurdity in the middle of grave discourse. 'I'm sure good Spesis knows that game, too, father. And he knows that water drowns dagger.'

Gravis turned to regard him: 'Oh, so he'd arrange for any hooded messengers to drink deep in the Straits of Mona, eh? Best course of action, I daresay. Though he'd have to make a smart exit straight afterwards. With a hood and a horse, naturally.' He strolled on, this time leaving Marcus to stare in astonishment after him. It wasn't that his father was warming to a fantastical theme: that was another familiar trait. But there they were, in the middle of the vineyards--in the middle of the day, come to that--with workers moving up and down pathways parallel to theirs, and here was Gravis merrily spouting treason. Vectis would have had a fit. Well, the old Vectis would. He wondered how far the engineer's change of heart had advanced by now. Naturally, he'd said nothing of such things to his family--but he'd wondered aplenty about them.

As if summoned by his thoughts, a worker now materialised where Gravis stood, gesturing to the vine-row from which he'd just emerged. It was serious vineyardist talk, obviously. Marcus was glad of the opportunity to breathe deeply and look about. At the end of the pathway, beyond Gravis and his worker, he could see part of Cremona's skyline; the roofs and pillars looked almost unnaturally shiny in the sun. The air was crisp and clear ('Blown in all the way from Benacus,' Gravis was fond of saying). Inhaling deeply, Marcus remembered Vectis's comment about the air round Livorno. It was sweet enough--but Cremonese air was better. Suddenly he clutched at his chest. It was as if, in the midst of all this clearness, a mouthful of Cambrian mist had forced itself down his throat. His thoughts were still there, no doubt of it. He wished he could somehow get speedy word of Vectis, Firmus, Currerus and the rest--Spesis especially.

'Imperial cult!' The words jolted Marcus back into the moment. He saw that the worker had disappeared and that Gravis was now regarding him, arms akimbo. 'All we hear of--the blasted Imperial cult.' His thoughts had clearly leapt ahead, as they were wont to do.

Marcus hurried up to him, just stopping himself from raising a finger to his lips. But Gravis still read his intent: 'It's all right, Marcus. My colleagues either agree with me or wouldn't know what an Emperor was if you dropped one on their heads.' Marcus smiled at his father's habitual choice of word: not for him 'labourer' or 'employee,' with their connotations of servitude.

'Here too?' pursued Marcus.

Gravis nodded: 'Many of our Cremonese brethren like to think we're a world away from Rome--a separate planet, a self-governing star. We're not, of course.' He sighed: 'Fat lot of good the Imperial cult did for the poor beggars in Camulodunum. Of course, we were given the official line on that. None of Spesis's informants round here. Proud sons of Rome slaughtered by wild beasts. Proud sons,' he repeated bitterly. 'Fodder for the end of a spear.'

'Like the Iceni,' said Marcus quietly, an image of Spesis's face filling his mind. His father patted his arm; this time, he did speak in a whisper: 'That Boudica. I'd love to see her on the loose round the Seven Hills.'

A female voice called their names. Food was ready. Slowly, they retraced their steps. Gravis sighed again, more heavily: 'Rome knew where it was in the old days. The people honoured the Emperor, and the Emperor kept faith with his divine spirit. Even Claudius, for all his faults, never neglected his homage to divinity. Now, of course, Rome worships Nero, Nero worships himself and the gods don't get a look-in. A tragedy--not least because he was a good man once. It's as though a demon has slipped into his body.' His attention was suddenly caught by an ailing vine: 'Don't like the look of that. It'll spread. I'll get Vinitor down here this afternoon.' In the short time he'd been home, Marcus had heard the whole life history of his father's new chief vineyardist: 'Miracle worker,' Gravis said now. 'Our grapes are the talk of the region. Fattest, juiciest pre-fyloxia you'll ever crush on your palate. Sometimes I wish they weren't.'

Marcus tilted his head; this wasn't the first time that his father had made such a remark. Gravis caught his expression:

'Our wealth is known to Rome. We attract--Imperial interest, shall we say. Nero has many friends, even here in Cremona. If 'friends' is the word I'm after--spaniels fawning for favours, more like. It isn't just us, of course. I understand that the good Emperor has a ledger of families who are, shall we say, good for a few denarii. Folk hereabouts, in Mantuo, Prescia, as far as Livorno--anywhere you care to name. I fear that, should things go badly wrong in some golden vale of the Empire, he'd happily seek our financial support Or make robust overtures.' He chuckled and looked hard at his son. 'That's Palatine Hill lingo for sending in the guard.'

'You mean he'd requisition the vineyards?'

'Ooh, Marcus, Marcus, you wouldn't be able to call it a vineyard any more. "Imperial facility," my son. You've been away too long, you really must swot up on the terminology. But yes, it could come to that. Your average fighter needs his jug of Clinto. Your capricious Emperor certainly does. Who knows, my status may be promptly elevated.' And he turned his face to the heavens.

Marcus turned pale at this: 'If anyone touched a hair of your head--,' he began, but his father chortled and clapped him on the shoulder. 'You mistake me, Marcus. I leave metaphors to Publius Ovidius Naso. No, I may find myself Supplier of the Imperial Flagons. At knife-point, mind,' he finished quietly.

His solicitous son thought again of the Iceni, the Trinovantes--of their grievances, humiliations, losses in land and life. Could such barbarity happen here, amid the sun and slopes of Cremona? It was difficult to know how serious his father was being. All of this might be more fantasy. Then again, it might be Gravis's courageously off-handed way of dealing with something which might change, at any moment, from airy possibility to fact.

'Father,' he said. 'I've been trudging for years round a chunk of land which the Empire nearly abandoned. You'll have to forgive my sluggish efforts to catch up with you. How likely are these . . . these overtures?'

'You tell me, Marcus. You're the Tribune, you receive and dispatch news. How stable are things, would you say, at all points of the Roman compass?'

Marcus started to give a reasoned reply, but Gravis held his hand aloft: 'No, my son, that's unfair of me. You're home on leave. Britannia and all of Nero's other residences are leagues hence. It isn't your problem. Though I suppose it may become so, if you take a notion to carry all of this on.' And he waved at the vine-rows around them.

Not that again, thought Marcus--though he supposed he should be grateful that his father's other plan, to make him a senator, had hardly been aired since his return. Still, there was plenty of time for that. They were at the edge of the plantation now; the path narrowed and, letting his father walk ahead, he looked round at the family fortune awaiting the quickening pulse of summer. No, a vineyardist's life still held no appeal. But if his father was truly serious about Imperial ledgers and overtures, he might well have to think again. Whether he was meant to be relaxing on leave or not, he felt a great responsibility for his family--and an even greater love. Perhaps he would have a few words with Vinitor, rather as he'd had with Vectis and Tignum about engineering--sound him out about the business, then search his own heart for a sign that he could take to it.

Suddenly he realized that his father was still talking--and about something else entirely. He had to listen hard to make sense of it:

' . . . other reason why Nero might cast his beady eye on us,' Gravis was saying. 'I'd say half the family are going down that road now, Marcus. Either that or thinking hard about it. Of course, nothing's been said since you've arrived. They're worried about how you'll take it. But I said you'd find out--I told them not to stow everything away. I don't want deceit under my roof--I'd take the Praetorian Guard in preference to that.'

Marcus understood: 'I saw something yesterday. In that vine-row furthest from the house.'

'Oh, a shrine? Yes, lots of those about. Symbols galore, too--fish, mainly. I told them to keep them tucked among the vines, but they've spread--the odd tile in the courtyard, a nook or two in the house. Yes, our household gods are having to budge up for this Christ chap. I just hope all the tales of wonder are true--we'll be needing him if Nero gets properly Roman about him. And there's no reason to doubt he will. Remember Aquila and Priscilla, driven from Rome---oh, must be fifteen, sixteen years ago? Christian lunatics with leprous tongues, Claudius called them. And Nero's masterminded a good few purges of his own since then.'

Now Marcus was really perturbed. It was the first time that this subject had arisen since his arrival. Over the years, however, it had formed a goodly part of his correspondence with his father, who cryptically referred to it as 'the fish business.' Even after all this time, Marcus believed it to be a pointless religion, full of enough hot air to fuel a hypocaust. But all the time he'd been away, it had clearly been tightening its hold on his hearth and home. He had hoped all along that his family would abandon it. Now, the reverse seemed more likely. He felt a spasm of anger at them--partly because they were inviting the Emperor's wrath, but even more because their strange faith seemed like a direct challenge to all his father's toil. Gravis had never represented it like that in his letters, of course; he loved his family far too much to play the martyr. But it must have weighed heavily upon him. Now that they were together, they would have to talk it out at length, deep into the night if need be.

Marcus knew the his anger would dissipate when he stepped indoors and saw all of their loving faces, the gladness at his presence writ large on them. Well, no--perhaps not dissipate; but it couldn't be allowed to smoulder. As they entered the courtyard, he sensed Gravis's eyes upon him. In fairness to his father, he couldn't wilfully spoil the meal--or indeed a single minute of his time there. And Gravis, it seemed, was disposed to lighten his mood:

'Marcus,' he exclaimed, flinging his arms wide in mock despair, 'what do I really understand about any of this? I'm just an old man who potters round vines and keeps his wife and daughters in silks.'

'Father, I hardly think that such levity--'

Gravis crowed his delight: 'Now don't come the Tribune with me, my son. Yes, I know what you're thinking--yes, we shall talk. In the meantime, you have a golden opportunity to start honing those political skills you say you don't have. Lenita, Marcus--yes, your own baby sister--she's our prime Christian culprit. I suspect that she's been bursting to tell you all--whatever 'all' may be, exactly, for I confess I don't have the hang of it myself, not even after all this time. Go and thrash it out with her first, before we put our heads together. Gods above, if you can best her in a debate, you'll have no trouble convincing the Senate to feed Nero to the ravens.'

'I wondered when you'd remount that hobby-horse. You won't rest, will you, father? Not till you can watch me, Marcus of the Vine-leaves, tripping over my blasted toga with all the other peacock politicians.'

'Oh, Marcus Vinicius, I'll gladly coach you in the proper management of the toga--and train your palate in the gradations of flavour and body at the same time . . . .'

And so they entered the house.

End of Chapter XIII

Part I - Part II - XIII - XIV - XV - XVI - XVII - XVIII - XIX - XX - XXI - Part III

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