Part III - Chapter XXV - 'The Plain of Profluenae'                                    .......continued

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

III

'It'll do,' said Currerus two days later. Like the Chorus of a drama, he, Prunec and Solatius rose up from their crouching positions, regarding the others under a pale noon sky. The whole party stood in a ring around the icy, excavated soil. Prunec wiped his hands: 'Prime land, sir, just like my hawker said. Better than Belgic. And I sense a kinder climate for the vines here'--he shivered-- 'when it finally comes along.'

They walked as quickly as they could back to the horses. Prunec and Solatius helped the scout along: he had done his share of bending and digging; now his aches were at him again. Mercifully, there had been no snow that day, but the wind was punishing. As luck would have it, they had met one of the retired legionaries on the track to Profluenae, and he had insisted that, once their inspection was done, they should join him for food and wine. Anticipation was keen among them, even easing Currerus's bones.

Pausing, Marcus gave a backward glance at the circle of earth they'd uncovered in the white landscape. Then he dispelled his own aches with a stretch and raised his eyes to the far distance, where the river was blackly, sluggishly moving.

'Wonder if others will do that when we're long gone?' asked Vectis, pausing with him.

'What's that, engineer?'

'Oh, you know, dig about. Poke and prod for evidence that--well, that someone was here an age before them.'

'And why would they do that?'

Vectis had reasons aplenty on his tongue. Before he could offer a single one, however, there was a shout from Scapha. Already on his horse, he was pointing back the way they had come.

On the far side of the circle of earth, a figure was crossing the snow. Even at a distance, he looked magisterial. Forgetting the cold, Marcus and the others watched as he reached the circle and made a stately progress round it, peering at one patch, pressing another with his foot, as though he were another newly-arrived vineyardist with a professional interest in the party's labours. But Marcus and Vectis knew who he was, and the others soon realized.

''Strewth,' said Firmus. 'So instead of sending an observer, he turned up himself.'

As the centurion spoke, Canabac halted at the far side of the circle and raised his hand to them. Then, pointing to the ground, he nodded gravely in the party's direction.

'Is that like a gentleman's agreement?' asked Prunec. 'Is he telling us it's ours?'

'I'd say he is,' said Marcus, returning Canabac's greeting. 'Though the arrangements will need to be formalized.'

'Don't start sounding like Vectis, sir,' muttered Firmus under his breath.

'Should we call to him?' asked Currerus. 'We could ask him--well, I'm sure our friend the old legionary wouldn't mind an extra guest at his table.'

'Make him feel proper safe,' Firmus chimed in,

'knowing the local Chief was knocking about.' 'Knocking about,' repeated Vectis incredulously.

But Canabac now spoke himself, stopping their conjecture and any risk of a fresh barney between engineer and centurion.

'Marcus Vinicius,' he said. 'You are welcome here. We shall arrange all in due course.' With that, he turned and strode away through his landscape.

'An impressive man,' said Solatius. 'Quite eclipses Diplomus.'

Scapha straightened up on his horse: 'Smart boots, too,' he add

'It'll do': in understatement, Currerus's appraisal of the Profluenae soil matched Vectis's observation, just before they left the south, that the weather was chilly for the time of year. It gave little hint of the soil's fine quality--and no prophecy of the successes in Marcus's remaining days. Appropriate arrangements were duly concluded with Canabac and, as the year of 75 finally began to warm up, the party set to and prepared the ground. 76 saw a promising vintage of 'Alacer'; 77 saw a magnificent one, whose first decanting was used exclusively to celebrate Marcus's fifty-fourth birthday. Word of the choice wine quickly spread around and beyond the region, thanks largely to Vectis's promotional efforts. Itinerant tradesmen and craftsmen, passing cohorts, pilgrims of the road bent on whatever business--he and a small army of helpers importuned them all, in speech and with illuminated scrolls. Marcus was truly impressed by the zeal he showed, though he did draw the line at the campaign Vectis mounted, in the spring of 78, to celebrate the drafting-in of yet more workers at the vineyards:

'So what is wrong,' Vectis petulantly demanded, 'with new labour, new flavour?'

Everyone who had promised to inspect their vineyards did so. Priscus and Senesces, the retired legionaries, were regular visitors. From Glevum came Salvius, Certus the legionary and Olus the apothecary. Their plaudits were many for the venture and its fruits. Decurio, the prefect from Varis, arrived with Tignum, Vectis's successor in the construction of the Glevum-Viroconium road. Both had come down from Brigantia and were making for new posts at Durovernum, in the extreme south-east. That they had made such a detour was a testimony to their regard for Marcus--and to the power of Vectis's publicity, which seemed to have left no corner of the island in ignorance of their toils.

A steady rhythm bound the days and months together: hard work, in which all the visitors joined, alternating with food, 'Alacer' and the sharing of personal histories. One unlamented absentee was Obtundus. True to form, he had begun sniffing around Profluenae--on the flimisiest of pretexts. But suddenly, mercifully, Rome had summoned him to rejoin the Praetorian Guard, putting all thoughts of the cold northern land out of his mind, and sparing him from any of the mysterious fates on which Marcus and Vectis had rhapsodised.

'Well, sir,' said Certus to Marcus on yet another visit, 'I hoped it would turn out famously for you here--but the gods knew I wasn't sure.'

'I well recall our conversation at Glevum,' said Marcus. 'I think--we all do--that having your old soldiers on hand helped smooth the way for us here.'

On occasion, all was less than smooth. Despite ever tighter security, marauders inflicted minor, nocturnal damage to the vines. It quickly became clear that the raids were the work of the Silures. As good as his word, Canabac had ensured that his people would make no trouble for the vineyardists; besides, they knew from their own experience what their fiery neighbours were like. As for the raids themselves, they appeared to be gestures for their own sake rather than overtures to outright attack. Marcus therefore determined that he and the others should deal with any vandalism by themselves. He didn't want to be pestering the Chief every five minutes like a whingeing schoolboy. There was always the danger, remote though it might be, that Canabac might come to regard him as another insufferable Obtundus. In any event, by the end of the third season, the Silures seemed to have made whatever point was on their warlike minds, and the marauding ceased.

Marcus need not have worried about troubling the Chief unduly. Canabac had quickly warmed to the Roman. Visiting Profluenae whenever he could, he was often accompanied by his eldest daughter, Llydis. An understanding grew between her and Marcus (though Firmus, for one, privately gave it an earthier name). In his turn, Marcus became a regular visitor at Canabac's fort. At other times, the two men would roam the vineyards, in a manner which awoke bittersweet memories in Marcus's mind--memories of Cremona, of his father.

'You have established yourself well,' said Canabac one evening at the start of the fourth season, as they considered the promise of the vines. 'You and your men--diversitas bonus, each one.'

Marcus was somewhat startled to hear his own language coming so readily from the Chief's lips. Canabacus smiled:

'Don't be so astonished. We don't throw aside every last Roman word with an oath and a spit--though you'll have to excuse my woeful grammar. Diversitas bonus--or whatever the plural is--good mixtures, all of you. You're strangers, yes, but you appreciate our ways--and have adopted a fair number, I think. And I include Prunec in my estimation, native-born though he is. A fine worker, if a little . . . anxious. But I suppose, Marcus, that you'd insist your home was still far over there.' He gestured eastwards.

Marcus hadn't thought about it recently: there had been so much to attend to. But now he did consider it, he was surprised at how vague Rome had become in his mind. True, the Empire still meant something to him--and, despite all his adventures, he still possessed the copper eagle with which Vectis had marked his return from Cremona. But where the reality of Rome was concerned, he shared Firmus's belief. There was too much grubbiness abroad. Too much gratuitous hurt had been done--to his family, to Vectis's, to hapless individuals who, up to the moment of their deaths, had doubtless thought that they enjoyed the state's protection. It seemed now that the Tiber was flowing with muck--much of it climbing up the banks and walking about the city, shaped like Obtundus and his kind. A new Emperor might be as just and compassionate as could be. It didn't matter: soon enough he would find himself surrounded by whispers, factions, backstabbing both figurative and real, just as a mountain traveller might suddenly find himself in the thickest of fogs. How long could the Empire endure in such darkness? Could it endure at all? Suddenly he realised how little he cared. Part of him would always remain patriotic--in some sense or other. But this ground, on which he and Canabac presently stood, was now his home.

Canabac cleared his throat, having decided that Marcus had spent long enough scrutinizing an undistinguished vine-leaf.

'Pursue your efforts, Marcus,' he exhorted with a smile. For a moment, Marcus was unsure whether he meant the wine, Llydis or both. But then he added, 'Time is not a gift twice given,' and Marcus understood.

Soon after, a wedding date was decided upon--though, in truth, 'date' was an elastic concept in the Chief's mind: 'A harvest wedding, Marcus, this very year. Then, with skill and determination, we can feast our way to Saturnalia.'

'Well,' said Scapha, when Marcus told the others, 'an excellent way to prepare ourselves for a new decade.'

'You wouldn't consider waiting till Aprilis, sir?' asked Currerus. 'Good omens, then-- the earth opening up again, the return of fertility.'

'Mensis Martius,' said Vectis decisively. 'It should really be then--the proper start to the Roman year.' Immediately, he looked apologetic. 'Sorry, Marcus,' he added. 'Just another twinge of nostalgia. It'll pass.'

'Gentlemen,' said Marcus, 'I incline to Canabac's counsel. I choose harvest-time--or our seventh month, whichever you choose to call it. Then, as he wisely says, we can combine the end of the season with the revels of Mensis December--if we put our hearts, minds and throats to it.'

The proposition was irresistible. The Romans gave their rousing assent. Only Prunec looked bemused. What had Currerus been on about? he wondered. What was this stuff about earth opening up?

Click here to go to Part 1 of Chapter XXV

Latin Terms used in Chapter XXV

The Praetorian Guard: the Emperor's personal escort, primarily intended for show as a symbol of Imperial power.

Durovernum: the Roman name for modern-day Canterbury.

Senesces and Priscus, the retired legionaries: 'Senesces' derives from 'senescere,' to grow old; 'Priscus' is one of the adjectives meaning 'olden.'

Mensis Martius, Mensis Aprilis: March and April. Our seventh month: in the Roman calendar, September.

Mensis December: the season of Saturnalia.

© Worcester City Museums