PART II - Chapter XIV - 'Lenita and Fovera'

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

Marcus has his first proper talk with Fovera, his mother, since his return. Her words prepare him for a longer, more disturbing talk--with Lenita, his sister, as they walk among the market crowds in Cremona. His dismay and anger at Lenita's espousal of Christianity mean that, initially, he rejects her point of view. Her behaviour seems foolhardy to him. But her belief is fervent--as is that of Fovera. Lenita's passionate words do finally reach him, making him soften his attitude and become more reflective about his own responsibility towards the family. But, unknown to them, her words also reach other ears.

Marcus Vinicius Spatula could never fathom sidelong glances. Partly this was a matter of training and experience. In Britannia, he inhabited a world of messages, conferences and decisions. Colleagues and strangers alike spoke directly to him, and he responded in kind. Even those natives with whom he had dealt held him steadily in their gaze; and as for the welcoming party on Mona, their looks had been the fieriest, most resolute of all. So it unsettled him that, as time passed at in the villa, his mother's eyes seemed to follow him about. She was like one of those niggling shapes at the corner of the eyes, indefinably there until you tried to face it. In one way, of course, it was explicable, even properly touching: Fovera had not seen her elder son, her first-born, for more than the whole lifetime of those children summoned early by fate. It was natural that she should gaze at him. Besides, there could be an element of astonishment to it, as though, having him with her again, she could hardly believe her luck, or the gods' beneficence. Christ's beneficence, Marcus corrected himself: he'd forgotten that Fovera also believed in this carpenter whose life had been governed by Rome. He'd certainly found a unique way of responding to that governance. Still, reflections on the Empire's most notorious citizen hardly helped him to deal with Fovera's manner. It was strange--as though she had eyes all over the house, regarding him even in her absence. Mealtimes were the worst--or best, depending on whether he pondered all this as a loving son or a baffled Tribune. Fovera seemed to find all manner of excuses for flicking glances at him-- handing him bowls and platters that were well within his reach, watching for his reaction to each mouthful. Even when he thought himself alone--in the atrium, the courtyard, leaving the vineyards after further talk with his father--he sensed that she was there, scrutinising his every move, his changes of expression-- even his lapses into muttered talk with himself, an embarrassing quirk (and another bequest from Gravis).

The morning after his talk with Gravis about Nero and 'the fish business,' Marcus deliberately dawdled over breakfast in the cenatio. At last the others took their leave. Gravis made straight for the vineyards; Alacer shuffled dolefully off to prepare for school, protesting to his father that he'd learn much more by staying behind and listening to his older brother's exploits; Venia retreated to her room, to persevere with her embroidery and brood on the likely outcome of Marcus's talk with her sister. As for Lenita, she was not above pitching in among the family vines; but before she caught up with her father, she turned and told Marcus that she would return in an hour. Soon he and Fovera were alone, and he was determined, diplomatically, to make her give voice to all of those meaningful looks. She spared him the trouble.

'Lenita has important things to say to you, Marcus,' she said.

'So I understand.' Though attempting a neutral tone, he realised that his very words sounded judgemental. Foveral laid a hand on his arm:

'I know what you spoke of yesterday, Marcus. With your father. Believe me, if anyone wants to do us harm--Nero or some local thug--they won't need our faith in Christ as their excuse.'

'But it doesn't help, surely,' he replied. 'You can't very well keep your heads down if you profess a love of imperial enemies.'

Fovera shook her head: 'When will they see? Christianity isn't a rebel stronghold. There's no disgrace, no deviousness in following Christ.' She sighed: 'But, of course, emperors can't abide rivals, at any cost. Or people they paint as rivals. If they would only listen to his words, take them into their hearts, they would lament their own pettiness, their own futility.'

Marcus grew uncomfortable: 'You're not likely to get that reaction from the Neros of this world, mother. And you seem to have surrendered all concern for personal safety--not to mention the family business. Think of all that father has built up'--he gestured at the expansive, well-draped room--'all that keeps you in this.'

'Think of sacrifices, Marcus. Think of times when they have to be made.' Open-mouthed, he stared at her. 'Your father understands, much better than you think.' She chuckled. 'Oh, I know his routine--"What do I know? I just crush grapes." Of course he deemed it prudent to keep the tokens of our faith in the vineyards--at first. But he never complained when they spread to the villa. He saw that Christianity is not some hole-and-corner business to be kept out of the sun. If you truly believe, why be afraid of your belief?'

Marcus sat silent. He was pondering what she had said about sacrifice. That much he comprehended. Leagues away from this airy cenatio, the good Spesis was proving himself to be of the same mettle as Fovera. No: that was another thing altogether--that was part and parcel of the military life--priorities, allegiences, telling yourself loud and clear what you were fighting for. Spesis was embroiled in a battle between his heart's urges and duty to the state. But then Marcus started. What corner had he painted himself into now? If that was what spawned sacrifice, then the commander and his mother were the same after all. Only the site of conflict was different. Compelled by sheer perversity, he began to cast about for other reasons for distinguishing between them, other evidence to justify his astonishment at his family's foolhardiness. But then Fovera's words about Gravis sank in fully. He stared at her, wide-eyed:

'Are you saying that father believes, too, underneath it all?'

'He believes in us, Marcus.' Fovera stretched, then let her hands fall into her lap. Suddenly she looked very old and weary. 'I'll leave the rest to Lenita. She can plead the case for our 'fish business' more eloquently than I could dream of doing.'

'You underestimate your own eloquence, mother,' said Marcus quietly.


It was market day in Cremona. Lenita loved the market--the bustle, the haggling, the ringing cries of hawkers, the tumblers and jugglers, the bleating over extortionate prices. As for Marcus, he welcomed the impersonal throng as an aid to private conversation. He wasn't enamoured of his father's open speech among the vines.

'No-one expects you to believe, Marcus,' said Lenita as they wove between vendors and buyers. She spoke without rancour, her voice bright where Favora's had been troubled.

'I think mother would welcome it,' he said.

'You know mother--always hates dissension under the roof.' Lenita smiled. 'She did hold out for a while, you know. Supported father when he had the shrines confined to the vineyard, remained a little edgy when I began to--well, convert the courtyard, so to speak. Father was much less trouble that way.'

'A late convert, then?'

'Still at the dreamy stage, I think. She likes to talk in grand abstractions. Avoids practicalities.'

'Like what to do when Nero Claudius Ceasar razes the villa to the ground?'

'Don't go all Sophoclean on me, Marcus. I agree with mother there. If Nero wants to conquer the tribe of Spatula, our faith will have little to do with it.'

'But why give him any extra provocation? I'm sure that's what father is wondering--never mind what mother says about his depth of understanding, his belief in you all.'

'I wouldn't say "never mind," Marcus. You and father are inveterate correspondents, I know that. But you can't always judge someone's true heart through letters, and--well, you've been away a long time.'

'Too long,' muttered Marcus, 'and I think his letters told me quite enough.' Suddenly he took Lenita by the arms and spun her round. A couple of stall-holders regarded them with mirth and nudged each other. He released her, and they pressed on.

'Look Lenita,' he continued, 'I'm worried about you--about the family. True, Nero was a sound man once. But he's changed, he's unpredictable. The greatest dolt in our vineyards can see that, for all father's protestations that they know nothing of life outside Cremona.'

'Our employees are not dolts,' said Lenita, archly.

Marcus waved her words aside: 'Given half a chance, he could make a move on the Spatula estate. Father must be sick with worry--about that danger, about losing you all. And about himself,' he added quietly. Now it was her turn to block his way.

'Father understands,' she said slowly, as though he were himself a dolt. 'He does not think that we are insane. Nor does he suspect us of getting the welcome mat out for the Emperor. He knows the risks. He respects the reasons for them.'

'Well, pardon me,' exclaimed Marcus, 'for trying to rouse you from your complacency, your selfishness, your infatuation with this . . . this . . . .'

Lenita smiled and waited: 'This?'

They were in the thickest part of the market now, continually jostled, barely able to keep abreast. Marcus did not want to say 'Christ' aloud: he still feared busy ears nearby: 'This fish business,' he hissed finally, irritated by his own petulance. 'Anyway, what if it's all hogwash? What if Lucius Annaeus Seneca is right? After death, nothing is, and nothing death: the utmost limits of a gasp of breath.'

He had declaimed more loudly than he'd intended. Some wag loafing by a sweetmeats stall gave him a cheer and demanded a spot of Plautus. To compound his confusion, Lenita continued Seneca's verse where he had left off:

'Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hopes of heaven; whose faith is but his pride.' This time the wag applauded heartily, and Lenita rewarded him with a gracious curtsey. 'Wouldn't you say, brother,' she then whispered, 'that good Seneca's words were better put to Nero than to Our Lord?' Marcus merely stood and goggled at her. To save him further embarrassment, she led him away from the stalls and into the Forum, where the smart shops stood between the colonnades. There were fewer people there, mainly well-to-do citizens like themselves, connoisseurs of cloth and jewels rather than harried servants stocking up for the family larder. Lenita sought out a quiet corner; once they were settled, she began to speak of her love for Christ. Her tone was soft; her manner, unhurried. Clearly she was no longer interested in sparring with her brother. This was the heartfelt declaration, the assured plea, which Fovera had predicted.

Understanding this, Marcus laid aside all self-righteousness. Gradually, he began to see exactly what her faith meant to her. Contrary to his earlier accusation, he saw that he had been the selfish one: the great Tribune, full of his own importance, attempting to treat his sister as though she were a legionary drunk on duty. He also experienced an excess of admiration for his father. Gravis had indeed found it in his heart to respect this novel and troublesome faith, out of love for the whole family. Hadn't he been the one to tell Marcus of Lenita's wish to speak with him? There was no trace of the tyrannical father there; nor were there any snorts of derision at a daughter's crazy fad. He remembered also Gravis's hope that Christ was all that his followers claimed, that there would be need of such power if earthly forces were mobilised against the family. He could as easily have said, 'It's all errant nonsense and I'm putting a stop to it.' Clearly, their father had balanced an awareness of danger with the realisation that he could not divert his loved ones from their spiritual journey. As for all his letters to Marcus--well, hadn't their accounts of this whole affair amounted to a gesture of love for his eldest son, proof that Gravis loathed deceit, that he was not about to pretend that everything in the garden, or vineyard, was rosy?

'And in case you were wondering,' said Lenita now, 'Alacer and Venia are coming to believe as well. No pressure on them. So you see, Marcus'--and here she gave him a playful cuff--'we're a regular lost cause.'

Marcus sighed deeply: 'Indeed you are. I regret to say that you won't find me joining you at your devotions. I still don't see the point of it all--not for myself, at any rate. But . . . well, I'll do everything I can to protect you all.'

Lenita smiled her thanks, adding that he would be well aided in his resolve: 'Christ guards all that is good--including heathens like you, brother. He watches all, he comprehends all.' This, she continued, placed him far above the Roman gods, whose duties--like a Legion's--were divided, like fragments needing the whole picture to justify themselves. 'I suspect that our Emperors loathe his name for that very reason. Especially the present one. Think of the Imperial cult, Marcus. It makes it so easy for the Emperor to treat the gods as though they are centurions--they have their different spheres, but they need an all-knowing leader to show them the grand design. But how does an Emperor deal with a force that understands that'--she pointed to a cloud--'and that'--she nodded at a bolt of cloth propped against a colonnade--'and everything else, all at the same time?' At that moment, a grimy urchin scuttled round them; pushing against Marcus, it grunted what could have been an apology. 'Even he is guarded,' advised Lenita, watching the boy's bobbing shoulders with amusement. 'But now--this is market day, and here we are among trinkets and finery. Let's enjoy them.'

Deep in thought, Marcus followed his sister as she toured the shops. His promise of protection had not been idle. Still, it would be tricky to manage from half a world away. And what if he were to resign his commission and return? Would that not make him yet another sitting target, along with the others? He might be silenced before he could lift a finger to help. No, everything would have to be done in darkness, so to speak, with subtlety, playing the powers-that-be at their own game. He wondered about Spesis's informants and how far their influence extended. Perhaps he could make use of them. Assuming, he gloomily concluded, that Spesis was still in a position to advise him. Still alive.

Suddenly Lenita was tapping his arm. He found himself standing in a draper's. Rolls of richly- dyed material caught his eye; so, too, did a chest against one wall, bearing trinkets and fancy ornaments. It was at the latter that Lenita pointed. 'Ivory combs,' she said. 'Choose one for me, Marcus.'

'Like when we were children?'

'Exactly.'

Marcus shut his eyes and dug into the bowl of combs. Retrieving one, he was startled by the sound of clapping. When he opened his eyes, Lenita was examining his choice with delight: 'See?' she said. Instead of the usual design between the rows of teeth--worthy slogans such as 'Modesty' or 'Temperance'--there was a line of flying fish. 'An inspired choice,' she said. 'You do understand, Marcus- -I mean, really understand--even though you say you don't.' Marcus paid for the comb and they turned to leave.

'We should have looked for another, to give to father,' said Lenita once they were outside. 'In honour of his catch-phrase for the family madness.' Marcus surprised himself with laughter, and his sister joined in. Neither of them noticed the urchin who had shoved past them earlier, and who was now eyeing them steadily from beside a colonnade. He watched their retreating backs, laughed himself--a dark and knowing laugh for one so young--and then ran off, as if completing an errand.

End of Chapter XIV

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

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