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A Roman Story - Marcus Vinicius
Spatula - Chapter XV
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Marcus's remaining time with his family passes agreeably, although everyone wonders what is truly on his mind, now that Gravis has spoken of the Imperial storm that may descend on them. Marcus, however, has had time to reflect; as he reveals to Venia, the youngest in the family, his mind is not in the turmoil that either they or he feared. Like Gravis, he accepts that nothing he could say will drive Christianity from under the Spatula roof. And he realises that the energy he might have spent berating them would be far better employed in protecting them if (or when) the need arises. To this end, he speaks with Vinitor in an attempt to decide whether the vineyardist's life would appeal to him. He proves, however, to be a pupil with a wandering mind: Britannia, Canovium, Vectis, Spesis--all come crowding into his thoughts. He knows that his business overseas is far from finished. Marcus watched the long, thick finger tracing the rise of the vine. The finger paused and curled round it; then the thumb came into play, rubbing the surface as though the plant were clay to be crumbled: 'There,' said Vinitor. 'Perfectly sound, as I predicted. Now, Tribune, perhaps you could repeat to me, point by point, my reasons for the prediction.' Marcus stared stupidly at the man's hand, still cradling the vine. He could recall a word or two about girth and texture; he knew the man had been talking, slowly and clearly, for several minutes. He would make a good teacher. Sadly, he was presently a teacher wasting his time. Marcus had retained next to nothing but felt a brave stab was called for: 'Regarding girth,' he began, adopting the sonorous tones his father used when addressing the whole household, hoping that this would trigger a perfect recall of Vinitor's painstaking explanation. It did not, and Marcus found himself staring even more stupidly at the vine on which Vinitor's hand still lightly rested. 'Girth,' Marcus repeated in a sigh of defeat. Vinitor smiled: 'The sun, I think, Tribune--still playing games with your mind after all that Britannia cold.' 'Something like that,' muttered Marcus; then, concerned that his words might sound brusque, he added, 'But I'm ready for another lesson tomorrow.' 'Another, Tribune?' 'Well,' smiled Marcus. 'Today's tomorrow.' Suddenly all was thrashing and commotion behind them: 'So how's he getting on?' demanded Gravis, suddenly looming between them, dusting off his sleeves. 'There is promise,' said Vinitor quietly. Gravis narrowed his eyes and appraised the vineyardist's face: 'Really?' he said with mock slyness. 'In the same way that a leaden sky might promise rain?' Vinitor's brow furrowed. He was accustomed to Gravis's sudden lurch into strange abstractions, but as there was usually no-one else around when it happened, he'd developed a habit of closing his eyes and nodding, as if Gravis had hit some nail exactly on the head. But with Marcus present, he felt that more of an effort at understanding was called for. It didn't work, and the poor vineyardist was conscious of looking even more stupid than Marcus had moments before. To his relief, however, Marcus seemed to cotton on, and Vinitor saw that some affectionate dig at the son and heir was involved: I think you'll find, father, that leaden skies do actually produce rain from time to time. They don't simply lour and move away.' Gravis chuckled: 'Like you have moved away from that vine, Marcus, as though it were a serpent intent on squeezing the bones out of your skin?' Marcus tensed. He knew his father of old: any mention of serpents was apt to bring forth a particularly rich and impenetrable crop of images. But the patriarch was denied the chance. More thrashing erupted from the far end of the row, together with the sound of stamping. The three men jostled their way along to the spot. A space had been trampled in the foliage; Vinitor gave a low moan and stooped down; Gravis cleared his throat and tutted. Marcus didn't properly attend to their reactions; reflexively, he shaded his eyes and scanned the surrounding grassland. A figure was scampering off in the direction of Cremona, but its speed, and the heat haze, made it difficult to determine whether it was an adult or a child. The latter, Marcus suspected; he wasn't sure why. Now he turned to find Vinitor kneeling and saw what the stamping meant. The vineyardist was holding a flat stone, polished, fashioned into an oval. It bore the simple design of a fish, two lines curving out and back, crossing each other to form an open-ended tail. Above and below the fish were what looked like a handful of stars, perhaps crucifixes. The stone lay unsteadily in the vineyardist's palms. It was broken in two. 'Not the first time,' breathed Gravis. 'You never told me of this, father,' said Marcus. 'The shrines had spread from the vineyard--that's all you said.' Gravis opened and closed his hands: 'Well, my son, I reasoned that if you were going to spend time out here, you'd probably see for yourself.' At this Marcus sighed and gazed heavenwards, as if in exasperation at a troublesome child. Vinitor intervened: 'It is infrequent, Marcus Vinicius. Town urchins with the whole day to do demons' work. Pilfering, chalking profanities on the colonnades. You've probably seen such things yourself. Nothing to them to come so far afield with their mischief. Better than breaking their neighbour's pitcher and getting collared immediately.' Marcus said nothing. He was thinking of something else he'd seen among the colonnades, the rude, shoving urchin. That figure scampering from their land was a child, he was sure of it now. But he had also caught the vineyardist's manner: quick, almost panicky. Perhaps he had caught wind of Marcus's views on all this Christianity; perhaps Gravis had talked of it, and now Vinitor was trying to smooth things over, to make believe that it wasn't at the root of this present vandalism. Having spoken, Vinitor excused himself and walked slowly back to where he'd valiantly tried to school Marcus on the features of a sturdy vine. He cradled the two pieces of stone in either arm, as though they were infant twins who needed shade and the balm of a wet cloth. Marcus turned quizzically to Gravis, who nodded: 'Yes--him too. Lenita's persuasiveness worked in seconds, by all accounts. Another miracle to add to the heavenly store.' After the evening meal, Marcus walked alone in the courtyard. He consciously tried to walk as haphazardly as possible. All manner of thoughts seemed to be hemming him in, and he didn't want to find himself tracing a prisoner's circle. From somewhere close by came shouting and barks: Alacer, larking about with the dogs. Vinitor came out of the house and crossed in front of him; they exchanged goodnights, and Marcus saw that he had something under his arm--a replacement stone, no doubt, for the one destroyed in the vineyards. All fell quiet as the man departed, save for faint chatter from within: Fovera with a servant, perhaps, or with Lenita. After a while, he could sense eyes upon him, and swung round to regard the main entrance. A shadow seemed to be gliding slowly about the pillars--a human form, not some trick of the lightly swaying trees nearby. Surely it couldn't be the oik who put paid to the stone that afternoon? If it was, Cremonese urchins had more cheek than care for their lives: 'Declare yourself!' he said, stepping forward; he could have been addressing a Dobunni farmer who had strayed near the Vertis bridge. The shadow quailed, sank back and was still; a moment later, after an obvious effort, it detached itself from the surrounding twilight. It was Venia. Marcus tried to look stern, gave up, tried to look amused, failed, and finally let his face settle into precisely the expression it had worn when Vinitor had been tutoring him. He hadn't yet found a way of talking to Venia. She hadn't been born when he'd left Cremona. Alacer was barely a toddler, but a direct and uncomplicated one, and Marcus had slipped unthinking into the role of his elder brother. As for Lenita, she'd already found full voice and brains to go with it; her quarrels with Marcus had filled the courtyard many a time. But Venia, though sweet-tempered and obviously concerned that all should be harmonious in the family, was still a stranger to him. Marcus thought of his dwindling leave; soon he would be bracing himself for rough seas and uncertain weather. It was time to be a brother to Venia, too. Venia took a step back as he approached, casting about for affectionate pleasantries. She spared him the bother: 'Are you going to stop us, Marcus?' she asked, in a strange mixture of shyness and determination. 'Stop you?' 'From believing. Mother says you might.' All the old arguments came spilling into Marcus's mind: the irresponsibility of embracing a rebel faith, the threat from Nero, the end of the vineyards--above all, the danger to those he held dearest. He was about to hold forth as he had to Gravis and Fovera, but then he saw Venia looking full in his face. An image drove out his thoughts, an old image he thought he'd forgotten: the girl on the bridge, that day at Vertis, when he met with Spesis and Benevolus; the way she'd broken away from her mother, approached Benevolus's horse and examined its mane; the sorry-looking doll she'd proffered as a keepsake. In that moment, that gesture, all hard imperial facts had dissolved; all barriers between conqueror and conquered had fallen. There was some apprehension in the girl's face--and, the gods knew, plenty in her mother's--but there was trust, too: an intimation that, for the girl, the great Benevolus was another human being who deserved a simple gift as much as anyone (well, nearly anyone--Nero's response to the Dubonni waif would doubtless have had more of wrath than kindness to it). He saw a similar trust now, in Venia's face: an understanding, impressive in one so young, that Marcus was worth the gift of her concern, her gentle, probing words. He had worried so much about his family that, somehow, he had become isolated from them. But in a few short moments, the girl before him had broken through all that. There was really no point coming the Tribune with her--or with any of them. He shook his head: 'Could I stop any of you now? No, Venia, I see how it is at last--so my task is to ensure that no-one else stops you.' 'Lenita said you understood, even though you said you didn't. You worry about us, Marcus. We love you for it. But there's no need, you know.' 'But what if Nero...if someone...were to harm you?' 'They'd only be harming themselves. That much I know. We wouldn't be hurt, Marcus. We wouldn't die, not really.' The words were said to comfort him, but still Marcus started: this was Lenita's younger sister all right, a milder, more reflective version of the girl who had lectured him among the market stalls. But Marcus sensed that, unlike her sister, Venia knew the value of brevity; the very look in her eyes said that they had spoken enough on the subject. 'How's the embroidery?' asked Marcus. 'Finished soon.' 'What, you're giving it up?' 'No, what I'm making for you--to take back to Canodium or whatever the place is called--and no, you can't see it yet.' She skipped down from the pillars, tapped his shoulder and took off through the courtyard. A game of tag was suddenly afoot; realising that he hadn't run since his time in Canovium, Marcus cautiously but happily joined in. Marcus's
brief conversation with Venia transformed his remaining days at
Cremona. He took further lessons from Vinitor on the family trade.
For the first time, he sensed that he might have some feel for vines,
their character and cultivation. Even so, concentration was difficult:
the end of his leave was approaching--musings and fears about what
he might find in Cambria were difficult to dispel. 'You'll be there
soon enough, Marcus,' his father reminded him. 'Why muddy the present
with the future?' His words proved fitfully comforting. End of Chapter XV |
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| Part I | ||||||||||||
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| Part II | ||||||||||||
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| Part III | ||||||||||||
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For
more information on Roman Worcester..
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Archaeology in Worcester
1997/99 |
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Archaeology in Worcester
2000/01 |
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