Part III - Chapter XXVI - 'The River and the Bridge'                                .......continued

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

III

Alacer was chief guest at his brother's wedding--which, fulfilling all predictions, was long, lavish and glorious. He quickly found favour in the house of Canabac. More practically, his legal skills benefited Marcus and his fellow vineyardists (though they still could not credit how he could have found either time or focus for such studies). He readily agreed to manage the presentation and distribution of what was, after all, his wine.

A few days after the wedding celebrations were done, Alacer conferred with Vectis about his new responsibilities: 'Naturally,' he said, 'I shall rely on you as our tireless publicist.'

'Ah, now,' said the engineer, 'on that very matter, how does this sound?' He unfurled a much-mangled scroll. 'Alacer's Dobunni Brew: the Perfect Noggin When You've Been Sloggin'.'

'Noggin?' Alacer was all perplexity. 'Sloggin'?'

'No . . . no, didn't think it would work,' muttered Vectis, wandering off down an alley, as though the perfect words awaited him, imprinted on one huge leaf.

When he heard this, Firmus could not help himself: 'Alacer's Dobunni Brew,' he snarled. 'Marvellous! We work all this time to build lives and friendships among these people, then bridge-boy tries to wreck the lot with one tatty-sounding phrase. No disrespect, sir,' he added quickly, turning to Alacer.

'None taken, Firmus. I have come to realise that Vectis is . . . unique.'

'Oh, he is that,' said Marcus, pausing thoughtfully then. 'But Alacer's Earthenware-- now that does have a ring to it.'

No-one was surprised at the turn Marcus's thoughts had taken. During the final week of the nuptial merriment, he and Canabac had taken advantage of a lull in the revelry, disappearing for a bracing constitutional.

'Well, Marcus,' the Chief had said, 'I could hardly drive you back to Rome now, even if I wanted to.'

'I'm relieved at your sentiments, sir.'

'And I'm glad your plans have become fact. Much satisfaction for you and your friends. Much employment for my people.'

'I pray that all will continue so.'

'Oh, no doubt it will,' Canabac had said. 'Unless, of course, hailstones and locusts descend for years together.' He'd patted Marcus's arm. 'A flippant observation, Marcus. I'm not planning any deliberate wizardry.'

But Marcus had pondered his words long into the night. There was truth to be found in what he'd said. The vineyards were thriving now. But, though a nation could control whole swathes of the earth for as long as its power lasted, the weather was hardly so biddable. He couldn't reasonably expect bumper vintages of 'Alacer' year on year--or even merely decent ones. Perhaps it was time to add another string to their lucrative bow.

Two days after their talk, Marcus had begged his bride's indulgence and travelled to the river-basin downstream from Vertis. He hadn't properly inspected his inland cargo fleet since before the celebrations, though he knew that Scapha would have informed him, even in the midst of riot, about any problems. By chance, he'd bumped into Priscus, one of the retired legionaries, who had business in the town.

'Thing is, sir,' the man had said as they picked their way along the narrow streets, 'there's more of us moving to these parts all the time. Soldiers who've served for years. Some of them have been living for the day when they could make the voyage home. It approaches. They start their preparations. Then it hits them . . . .'

'What does?'

'Well, like myself and Senesces, sir. They see that, for good or ill, this is home now. Rome is'--he'd cast about for some suitable image-- 'Rome is some faces you remember from years back. Street games when you were a kid. A fine lady you once watched going by. A cracked jug your mother kept on the sill. A place somewhere in the world--like this country was, sir, before we came. Maybe you love it still. But going back would be like . . . well, setting foot here for the first time. It'd be strange, sir. Things would be done different from how you recall.'

'My own feelings exactly, Priscus,' Marcus had replied.

'But that's not to say we want to let go of our memories. If something reminded me of the old country--well, it would make me feel warm, sir. Happy.'

Recalling his talk with Canabac, Marcus stroked his chin: 'Like a keepsake, you mean?'

'Along those lines, sir--but with some use to it.'

Marcus had pondered this: 'Useful . . . useful . . . like a pot or a jug, maybe? Pans and dishes in our old styles?'

'I think our retired lads'd go a bundle on that sort of thing, sir. And even the locals, these days.' He'd stared closely at Marcus. 'You could start it up, sir, surely? Another venture? The wine's doing so well.'

'Indeed it is,' Marcus had replied. 'We have capital enough.'

'Good clay hereabouts, sir. And these people are real craftsmen. Ironwork, wood-carving--their stuff's as good as you'd get in Rome.'

That evening, Marcus had arranged a meeting with the others and told them all that had passed between Priscus and himself:

'Ah,' Vectis had said, 'so we're diversifying are we? We're going into the memento business? Visual mnemonics and all that.'

'Don't rise to it,' Firmus had commanded himself under his breath.

So it was that, in the early weeks of the new year--and new decade--another business began to grow alongside the vineyards. Literally so: the land adjacent to the vineyards was gradually dotted with workshops boasting kilns and forges. Since Alacer had his hands full managing the wine business, Marcus entrusted Currerus with control of the pottery enterprise. Vectis promptly offered his services as the scout's publicist, too:

'Got some ideas already,' he told Currerus, who slowly closed his eyes. 'No, listen, listen--specifically for the "old soldier" market, this one:

Though here is now your home
Surround yourself with Rome
And as you scrape and pour 'em
You'll be minded of the Forum.'

'Vectis,' said Currerus, 'I take Marcus's point about memories--but they have been surrounded by Rome all their lives. I mean, they've fought and--'

'All right, all right,' pressed Vectis. 'How's this, then?--

I'm not the flagon-flogger
I'm the flagon-flogger's mate;
But even I can see
This flippin' cookware's truly great.'

Silence.

'Oh, come on, Currerus, it's the perfect pitch for our target demographic. "Flippin' cookware," see? Down-to-earth, touch of the demotics.'

Currerus stretched out a hand as if begging for mercy.

'You won't hear better from Publius Vergilius Maro himself,' insisted Vectis, 'or any of that lot. Show me one Vergilian apostrophe in praise of a beaker.' The scout readily admitted that he could not and began to turn away, but the engineer sprang at him anew:

'Here's another. More upmarket, this one, definitely PTC--that's Prosperous Tradesman Category.' Vectis stood with his legs planted apart, as if ready to regale the skies with the exploits of Aeneas:

'Spatula Diningware--the Libation Sensation!'

A cloud of screaming, petrified rooks swirled in the trees above them, then flew far away. Kindly but firmly, Currerus told the animated lyricist that he would consult him if the need arose.

More and more local workers found their way onto the Spatula ledgers. As 80AD progressed, high-quality earthenware, directly imitating Roman originals, began to appear alongside flasks of 'Alacer' on transport carts and barges. A storehouse, specially constructed near the vineyards, began to fill up with all manner of shapes and finishes. Collar-rimmed amphorae, with their finely turned handles and generous girth, proved so popular with the increasing number of retired legionaries around Profluenae--and, indeed, with Canabac's people--that a special workshop and storehouse were built for their production alone. Before long, orders were coming in from Glevum and Salinae. Once again, Salvius, Olus and Certus travelled to Profluenae, marvelling at the new enterprise, convincing Marcus that the demand was not entirely owing to a wave of homesickness among the active soldiery. The garrisons wanted a steady supply of robust, workaday ware for kitchen, table and patrol--and robust the Spatula pottery undoubtedly was.

In the spring of 80AD, Marcus and Llydis moved into a large, finely-appointed villa, specially built to overlook the Vertis river-basin. They wanted children, and children, they knew, would eat up living-space. The site of the villa pleased Marcus, who liked keeping a proprietorial eye on his river fleet, which, like Vertis itself, seemed to grow with every passing month. Scapha, the fleet's overseer, lived in a small house on the basin-front. The others, too, had moved into houses around the town--apart from Firmus, who had built a house near Priscus and Senesces and begun to prepare his own small-holding.

At around the same time, Alacer Earthenware began to see the light of day. Specialist craftsmen were engaged from Canabac's tribe. Before Currerus's fascinated eyes, they wrought the finest salvers, jugs and dishes, gilding this style, ornamenting that. Originally aimed at tribunes and prefects--or, as Vectis suggested without prompt, 'the discerning leader'--the line became more popular than any other, with Canabac's family among its most eager purchasers.

'This stuff sells itself,' said Firmus one day in early summer, as he, Marcus and Currerus made a tour from workshop to workshop. 'It all does.' At one point, they came upon Vectis, gazing at a kiln, lost in his latest composition: 'Rubies and gold,' he intoned, 'marvels untold--on jugs and jars, the sheen of the stars.'

'He gets worse,' said Firmus cheerily. 'Bless him.'

In time, Vectis and the others followed their sometime Tribune's example. Seven townswomen made honest men of them. In the daughter of a wheelwright, Firmus found someone who, far from complaining at his honest gruffness, seemed to encourage him in it: 'So what did Vectis say then?' she constantly asked, demanding to hear yet again of some fabled set-to between engineer and centurion. In time also, Marcus's villa grew smaller, noisier, merrier, thanks to four daughters and three sons. The eldest, Drummodus, was born in 80; the youngest, Aemilia, in 87. By the time she was born, the older children were already frequent visitors to their father's vineyards and forges, and Llydis feared that their obvious fascination with their father's work would impede their schooling. Marcus assured her that such would not be the case; secretly, however, he was overjoyed at their interest and prayed that it would mature. He was sixty-four when Aemilia was born. Vectis and the others were not much younger. The vines and salvers could not be left to an uncertain future.

In Marcus's family, it had become the custom to hold a special feast on the eighth birthday of each child. He and Llydis reasoned that, by the age of eight, their children had weathered the agues and infections awaiting their arrival in the world and were thus set fair to reach adulthood. In this, the Spatula children were aided by the varied (but sometimes noxious) herbal preparations made up by Solatius, whose reputation in such matters had spread in all directions. Sadly, his concoctions had proved ineffective for Vipsanius, their youngest-but-one; sickly from birth, he had died in 91, just after his fifth birthday. This tragedy, however, had made Marcus and Llydis yet more determined to create an extra-special feast for Aemilia, their last-born. To that end, Marcus fulfilled a notion that had flitted back and forth through his mind for a long time--ever since the journey from the land of the Belgae, in fact, when he and Vectis spoke of seas and rivers during the last miles to Glevum. After much conferring with Scapha, after much drawing-up and revising of plans, after many hands had laboured at felling and planing, he was now the owner of a beautiful barge that floated regally in the Vertis basin.

Mensis Iunius, 95: a good month for vines--and for Aemilia, Marcus hopes, as he looks at his youngest, straying about the deck of the barge. Perhaps, he thinks, she will marry in June as well. Marriage in your birthday month: surely there's an augury bound up with that. Aemilia certainly deserves good fortune--and, it has to be said, she is shaping up as their brightest child. Perhaps the gods have given her Vipsanius's wisdom to add to her own. On thinking of his dead son, Marcus swallows hard. He is never out of the family's thoughts. But this is Aemilia's day: no shadow, however tenderly inspired, must fall across it.

The barge clears Vertis basin and the jostling hulls of the Spatula fleet. Profluenae is their destination. The others are to meet them at the riverside; there will be a day-long picnic. Then Aemilia will see a flagon made, in the best style Marcus's workshops can boast, and her name will be inscribed in gold upon it. She knows nothing yet about the flagon. Marcus smiles at his assumption--no, she probably knows everything about the day to come. A great one for divination, Aemilia.

Scapha comes to the prow, shakes hands with Marcus and bows gallantly to Aemilia, warning her not to jump about too much. The planks are still wet after last night's brief but fierce rain: 'And wouldn't we look daft if you lost your footing,' he adds. 'All of us yelling "Birthday girl overboard" for the whole Empire to hear. They'd say we weren't fit to be your escorts.'

Marcus glances at the trees across the basin: 'Still a bit blustery,' he says.

'Mmm, should drop in a bit, sir.' His prediction made, Scapha retires amidships.

Just below Vertis, they encounter a sight familiar in those parts. Along a hundred yards or so, the river has burst its banks, spreading like a silver stain onto the flat land: 'Well, there's been rain off and on for some days,' thinks Marcus, giving thanks yet again that the vineyards and kilns are sited where they are. He and Aemilia see an object in the watery distance, revolving like some toy on a pond. They hear shouting.

'Trouble ahead, Scapha,' calls Marcus. 'Let's see if we can't help them out.'

But Aemilia starts to tremble, and soon she is yelling at her father. Get someone else to help, she insists. Call to one of the dwellers along the riverside. Her cry is shrill: 'Father, we must return to Vertis.'

'Aemilia, Aemilia, we can't simply leave--'

'Back, father, we have to go back--we can go by horse to Profluenae.'

Marcus is nonplussed. He doesn't know whether to be indulgent or angry. It is her birthday, but . . . well, sometimes she larks about with her sixth sense. She overdoes her joking.

'Aemilia,' he reasons, 'suppose it was you in trouble out on the water . . . or me--'

At this, his daughter redoubles her screams. Her nurse--whom Marcus had ordered to rest during the birthday voyage--now bustles forward and takes charge of the girl, hugging her, trying to shush away her sobbing.

The revolving object now reveals itself as a sort of coracle, broad and thick-hulled, manned by two of the vineyard workers--or rather, one. The other is thrashing about in the river, stretching a desperate hand to the rowlock, then thrashing again. He goes under, surfaces, goes under a second time.

'Swing us into them, Scapha,' calls Marcus. Scapha does so, muttering--as he has done on many occasions--that for a country so rich in rivers, the number of folk who can't swim beggars belief. As they near the coracle, Marcus grabs a pole from the deck and starts to angle it down at the drowning man. Urged on by his companion, Marcus, Scapha and the crew of the barge, the man finally catches hold of it and lets himself be guided towards his boat. His companion heaves and bundles him back aboard, cursing him for a fool. Then he tilts his head to cry thanks to his employer. At that moment, Marcus loses his footing on the wet planks and pitches forward. The pole strikes the water; seconds later, Aemilia lets out a scream fit to tear down the sky. Marcus plunges into the water and--in the same moment, at the same spot--a freak current slams coracle against barge, thick rail against heavy hull. They part. A hand appears, a bloodied face. Then, like a ravening sea-serpent, a second freak current tugs hard down.

For the rest of the day, and the next, an army of workers and townspeople search the river. Some beat along the shallows; others work up and down in boats big and small. Vectis, Currerus, Firmus, Solatius, Scapha and Prunec head a detachment each. In the Romans' minds, immeasurable grief is shot through with memories of similar duties, of hapless legionaries lost in the service of Empire. At the end of the second day, Prunec and three vineyard workers find the body, snagged in a tangle of driftwood, just south of Profluenae. It is borne back to Vertis. All the way, Prunec later says, he and the others could have sworn they heard screams, strong and high, like tormented spirits in a young girl's mouth.

The snows were starting again. The funeral was long over. The burial mound at Profluenae was settling into the shape of permanence. Neither Vectis, nor Currerus, nor any of the others knew why they had left it so long to gather for their present purpose. But then Prunec suggested that, since the snow was flying when they journeyed from the Belgae to their good fortune, perhaps they were instinctively marking an anniversary. Scapha said he was probably right.

They stood together, seven men muffled against the incursions of another early winter. Before them, the river was brackish and slow. Around them, the roofs and timbers of Vertis were beginning to whiten. Downstream was the villa above the basin, in which a widow and her children were still trying to drag themselves back to proper life. Below the villa, the Spatula fleet had already been made secure against the punishing weather.

Vectis shuffled forward. The others remained where they were, flanking Alacer's bowed head and quaking shoulders. The engineer stepped onto the bridge: Marcus's bridge, his own bridge, the start of their story in 49. Then, walking gingerly to the middle, he spun a glazed disk onto the water. It floated slowly, bobbing its way down to Profluenae; its design, the Spatula crest, caught such light as the pale day could spare. Then Firmus left the group and joined him, retrieving something from a capacious bag. They worked painstakingly, pausing now and then to warm their hands. Finally, Vectis's copper eagle, his gift to his Tribune, stood fixed to the rail of the bridge.

'Some of those timbers are looking iffy,' said Vectis as they rejoined the others. 'We'll have to get a boatman or two onto it, now the fleet's laid up.'

'Neglected timbers,' added Currerus. 'I reckon our Tribune would have something to say about that.' And they stood in silence, each thinking of different things that Marcus had said--and of how, through following him, they had lived such remarkable lives.

THE END

Click here to go to Part 1 of Chapter XXVI

Latin Terms used in Chapter XXVI

Antiochia: Antioch, ancient commercial centre and capital of Syria (300-64 BC).

Noviomagus: the Roman name for Chichester.

Aegyptus: Egypt. Byzantium: Constantinople; renamed Istanbul in 1930.

Corcyra: Corfu

Publius Vergilius Maro: the Roman poet Vergil (70-19BC), best known for his epic work, The Aeneid.

Mensis Iunius: the month of June.

© Worcester City Museums