Fireball (15 page)

Rumour had it that the pendulum had been devised by the Bishop himself—that the idea had come to him in a dream or vision. They had hoped that wasn't true; there were plenty of other ruthless fanatics about these days. But they had decided, anyway, to keep reference to the pendulum brief and
unprovocative. As the Bishop's eyes burned into his, Simon had time to reflect that first thoughts had been best.

The Bishop spoke at last. “You are impertinent, Simonus. The devil, it is known, can quote Scripture. You would do well to remember that you no longer dwell in your old world of lawlessness and licence—that world in which any fool or knave feels free to mouth his corruption of the holy word—but in a world that has seen the triumph of divine truth, a world in which the Church, which is the Body of Christ, is one and indivisible, and victorious. Listen to your priests, both of you, and pray to God for deliverance from doubts and temptations.” He gestured dismissal. “You may go now. The Lord go with you.”

Outside, Simon said: “That wasn't too good.”

“No.”

“How long has Curtius got?”

“Before the pendulum? Days rather than weeks. The waiting list gets shorter all the time. There's getting to be quite a rush for baptism.”

“Do you think
he
will—be baptized, that is?”

“Do you?”

One really only needed to put the question to know the answer. The Church might conceivably have talked Curtius into membership, but he would never be coerced into doing so, particularly when the coercion involved making him bend a naturally stiff neck.

“We could try again.” Brad looked at him. “Maybe go to Marcus Cornelius instead.”

“We
could
waste time doing that.”

Brad was right—it was impossible to imagine Marcus Cornelius doing anything the Bishop might disapprove of—but the casual dismissal of the proposal was irritating. Simon said: “Do you have a better idea?”

“I might.”

“Tell it then.”

“Not right now. Let's go and find Curtius first. And Bos.”

•  •  •

They sat in Bos's tavern, literally his now because with some of the gold they had brought back from Rome he had bought the freehold. He had brought some Frascati wine back, too, of a good vintage, and it filled a gold jug with a dolphin handle that once
had served the emperor. Brad reported on the fiasco of their visit, and Bos growled angry comments. Curtius stayed silent, but looked stubborn. Simon had thought of trying to persuade him to be sensible and go through the ritual of baptism—it didn't mean anything unless you wanted it to, and you had only one neck—but he decided there would be little point.

Brad outlined another possibility: Curtius could flee from Londinium. They could fix it so that he had a couple of days' start before he was missed. But long term the chances were he would be picked up, and if not, he would be forced to spend the rest of his life as a fugitive. The Christians were in control everywhere, and it looked as though the persecution of pagans would only get worse.

They listened gloomily, Bos cracking the fingers of his large hands.

Brad said: “Obviously that's preferable to being put through the pendulum. But there's something else we can do. First I should say something about Simonus and me—about where we came from.”

Simon looked up quickly; surely he wasn't going to talk about parallel worlds to Bos? Brad met his eye blandly. He said: “You know we come from
across the sea. You thought it was one of the barbarian lands—the country of the Celts or the Norsemen. But it's neither of those. Ours is a great land—greater than Britain and Gaul and Spain and Italy and Africa put together—which lies far out in the western ocean.”

Curtius stared at him with narrowed eyes.

Bos said: “There is no land in the western ocean, beyond the land of the Celts. Only the world's edge.”

“We are from the land that lies at the world's edge. Isn't that so, Simonus?”

Simon could see now what was coming. The least he could do was nod.

Curtius said: “How did you get here? And why haven't others come before you?”

They were two good questions, but Brad dealt with them neatly. “The ocean is very wide. Wider than from here to Egypt, with no harbour for shelter in between. We were travelling from one part of our own coast to another, but our ship was blown off course in a storm. We lost both sails and rudder and drifted for weeks before she foundered. Simon and I took refuge on a raft, which cast us up, nearly dead
from hunger and thirst, on the shore of Britain.”

He said it convincingly. Bos was nodding, and Curtius looked more cheerful than he had done since their return to Londinium.

Brad went on: “With the gold we got in Rome we can buy a ship and sail it westwards. In our country there is peace, and men are free. No emperors and no bishops. No slavery and no pendulums. What do you say?”

“I am no sailor,” Bos said. He grinned widely. “But I think I can learn!”

Curtius said slowly: “My father was a sea captain. If we could find a ship . . .”

“I've found one,” Brad said. “She's lying here, at Londinium. She's twenty years old, but I've had her checked for seaworthiness. She worked the Africa run, so she's used to deep water.”

Curtius said: “Then this is something you had in mind before you went to the Bishop?”

Brad nodded. “It would have been useful to have had more time. As it is, I guess we ought to move right away. We'll need to lay in provisions and stores, but I don't think we should do that here. Dubris would be safer.”

Bos stood up. “I am ready now. Macara will be all right; she has the tavern and will find herself another man within a week.” He clapped a hand on Simon's arm. “And by then, maybe, you will be showing me the wonders of this land of yours. It has women in it, I suppose?”

A week might just about see them clear of Land's End, but that was something for Brad to sort out.

Simon said: “Bradus will show you the wonders, Bos. I am staying here.”

He hated saying it, but it had to be said right away. Curtius looked at him, suspicious again.

“If it is as good a land as Bradus says, why do you not wish to return to it?”

Brad intervened before he could answer. He said, with a grin: “What is there could make him choose not to go back to his own country? Only one thing, surely. He has found a girl he would rather stay with. Not so, Simonus?”

Simon nodded.

Bos said, puzzled: “I have a girl, too. What of that? There are girls everywhere.”

“But you're older, Bos, and wiser! He'll learn in
time. And when he has learned, perhaps he'll find another ship and come after us.”

It hung in the balance for a moment; then Curtius relaxed and smiled.

Bos squeezed Simon's arm. “Soon, young Simonus. Grow up, and make it soon.”

•  •  •

The usual feeling of excitement and anticipation was missing as Simon rode down to the villa. Thoughts of Lavinia were elbowed out of his mind by recollections of the others, particularly of the last time of seeing them, at the quayside.

She was called
Stella Africanus,
an impressive name for a less than impressive craft. She was not much above forty feet long, a minnow to the vessel tied up next to her, which was three times her length. But she could be handled by three men, Brad pointed out. Prow and stern were high, compared with the low section amidships where the mainmast was fixed, rigged for a mainsail and smaller topsails. In the bow a spar, canted steeply upwards, carried a small square sail. A sternpost featured a carving of a swan with a star on its breast.

He had cut the good-byes as short as possible,
desperate to get away, and then had felt worse at the sight of Bos's puzzled, unhappy face. He had wished them luck, hearing the words come out cold and stiff. Brad had done his best to make light of it, saying they wished him luck, too, and capping it with a joke that brought a grin from Bos. Simon had walked quickly to where his horse was tethered and ridden away without looking back.

He visualized the ship in an Atlantic storm, with huge seas breaking over that matchstick mast. Curtius was the only one with any skill in seamanship, and that unpractised since boyhood. Brad had done some pleasure sailing off the coast of Maine, and Bos had the sort of hands that turned easily to most tasks, but it added up to desperate odds. They would be at sea now, beating south around the coast to Dover. He felt the wind in his face, fresh and from the west. They would have some tacking to do.

The sight of Lavinia helped. She came to greet him on the porch, with outstretched hands, wearing a dress he had not seen before, a tunic of shimmering grey silk which showed up the darker grey of her eyes. As he grasped her hands, he became aware of her grandfather approaching, too.

Quintus Cornelius was warmly welcoming. It was their first meeting since the return from Rome, and it was clear Simon had a new reputation as a conquering Christian warrior. Refreshments were brought, and they plied him with questions about his exploits. He answered with suitable modesty and was going well until Quintus Cornelius mentioned Brad, wanting to know why he had not come with him.

He ought to have expected the question, but it floored him. He stumbled his way through an answer: Bradus was busy . . . something for His Holiness . . . perhaps in a week or so . . .

Quintus Cornelius rescued him. “At least
you
have come, Simonus. And looking well after your adventures. You seem taller. Do you not think he looks well, Lavinia?”

She smiled. “Very well, indeed.”

He had hoped Quintus Cornelius would retire and leave them alone, but the opposite happened; it was Lavinia who excused herself. There was an important dinner party that evening, and she had things to attend to. Quintus Cornelius remained talking. He asked how things were in the city—he
had not been there for some time—and Simon was emboldened to mention the persecutions.

Quintus Cornelius frowned. “Such things are not Roman. But bad things often happen in the wake of great events. This will not last, Simonus. His Holiness will see to it that all is put right.”

It wouldn't do to point out that His Holiness was the prime persecutor. Simon remained silent as the old man went on: “Yes, we can leave all that to His Holiness. Let us consider
you,
Simonus. I said we should make a Roman of you, and I am proved right. There is your future to think of. Farming, perhaps, to begin with, but later you might go into politics. And there it is connections that count. It is a disadvantage that you have no family. But I think that disadvantage might be overcome.”

He rose from his seat, smiling. “The Cornelian family is as good as any in the Roman Empire. Should one say that now? But whether or not there is an empire, the world is still Roman! And if at some point you were to find yourself a member of the Cornelian family . . .”

He pressed a hand on Simon's shoulder. “I must go now, Simonus. I will see you tonight at dinner.
We have another victorious warrior coming. Our guest of honour is my nephew, Marcus, your commanding officer. I imagine you two will find things to talk about.”

•  •  •

Dinner was at the ninth hour, and he didn't get hold of Lavinia again until shortly before that. She had changed into a white silk tunic trimmed with scarlet, and she had her hair up. She looked older and even more beautiful. They were in the corner of the
impluvium
next to the
triclinium,
where servants were making final preparations for the meal, and he tried to draw her away to a spot where they could be more private.

She shook her head with a quick look in the direction of the servants, but let him keep hold of her hand. He was happy enough with that. There was a lot of time ahead, after all. Her grandfather's words came back, as they had done over and over again since they were spoken. “If at some point you were to find yourself a member of the Cornelian family . . .” How else except by, some day, marrying Quintus Cornelius's granddaughter? It was unbelievable, but it had been said.

So he contented himself with paying her compliments on her appearance. She said: “You look very fine yourself, Simonus. That's a handsome cloak.”

It was a dinner cloak of blue satin, and he had already spent some time admiring it in the polished silver mirror in his bedroom. He said proudly: “Quintus Cornelius gave it to me.”

She nodded, smiling. “He's very fond of you.”

He wondered if he dared mention what had been said, but decided not.

In any case, she went on: “I must leave you, Simonus.”

He protested: “I haven't had two minutes with you yet!”

“I know. But there are so many things to see to. Everything has to be perfect tonight, for our special guest.”

“Marcus Cornelius?”

“Yes.” In a deep voice, mimicking her grandfather, she said: “The commander of the Christian army.”

“What a joke. The Bishop did the commanding—we all knew that. You know the Bishop rode a donkey to Rome? That was the name the troops gave
to the so-called commander. They called him Asinus Cornelius.”

She laughed, but said in reproof: “Now, Simonus! I can't listen to you saying things like that about Marcus.”

“I know he's your cousin, but he's still a pompous fool.”

“And my future husband.”

She was smiling, and after a moment he smiled back. “You almost had me believing you. I don't really think it's funny, though.”

“It's not supposed to be funny.” She stared at him. “You really didn't know?”

“But he's so old. He must be thirty!”

“Thirty-one.”

“And you . . .”

“Would it be wrong, in your world? But this is your world now. I was betrothed to Marcus when I was twelve. We are to be married in the summer, when I am fourteen.”