The Stone City. A Captive's Life in Rome

By Anna Lowenstein

Snatched from her peaceful homestead in Celtic Britain, Bivana is transported to the legendary city of Rome. Struggling to come to terms with the loss of everyone and everything she has ever known, but determined to survive, she slowly adapts to a life of slavery and to the alien culture which surrounds her. Her relationship with the slave Philon seems to promise a fresh start, but it also brings her into contact with the Nazarenes, activists in a fanatical new religious movement. When her own family is drawn into a clash with the authorities, she is forced to draw on all her resources to save them. --- Since its first publication in 1999, "The Stone City" has become well known and loved in its Esperanto translation, and has been translated by fans into French and Hungarian. This revised edition of the original English version includes several additional scenes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mondial
• Release date: Mar 14, 2016
• ISBN: 9781595693167

Anna Lowenstein

Anna Lowenstein became interested in the Romans when she visited Italy over thirty years ago, and was awestruck by her first view of the Pantheon. She wondered what impression it must have made on a barbarian who had never seen a stone building before, let alone architecture as magnificent as the houses and temples of Rome. That was the moment when she had the idea for her first novel "The Stone City". Not long afterwards she moved to Italy and came to live in the Roman countryside close to the ancient town of Palestrina, which appears in this novel under its Latin name Praeneste. Since then she has written a second novel, "Death of an Artist", also set in Ancient Rome, and is now working on a third.

Book preview

cover.jpg

Copyright

Mondial

New York

The Stone City

A Captive’s Life in Rome

© 2016: Mondial and Anna Lowenstein

(Published at Smashwords)

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means —electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher or the author, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Cover image:

The Gypsy Girl Mosaic of Zeugma,

from Gaziantep Museum of Archeology.

Source: commons.wikimedia.org (© PD-1923)

ISBN (paperback) 9781595693129

ISBN (eBooks) 9781595693167

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016934002

www.mondialbooks.com

www.librejo.com

About the Author

Anna Lowenstein became interested in the Romans when she visited Italy over thirty years ago, and was awestruck by her first view of the Pantheon. She wondered what impression it must have made on a barbarian who had never seen a stone building before, let alone architecture as magnificent as the houses and temples of Rome.

That was the moment when she had the idea for her first novel The Stone City. Not long afterwards she moved to Italy and came to live in the Roman countryside close to the ancient town of Palestrina, which appears in this novel under its Latin name Praeneste. Since then she has written a second novel, Death of an Artist, also set in Ancient Rome, and is now working on a third.

To Nettie and Heinz

img1.jpg

Part One: Britain

Chapter One

1

Morimanos was the best storyteller in the four villages. He didn’t often visit our homestead, but when he did, our hut was always packed. All my uncle’s family would crowd in to listen, and even some of my aunt’s people from the neighbouring homestead on the other side of the hill.

I remember Morimanos coming to see us on one occasion when I was a small girl. It was a cold, dreary evening. It had been raining steadily for the past few days, and the two huts in our compound were hunched miserably beneath their round roofs of sodden thatch. We children were afraid that Morimanos would not turn up, but the rain eased off towards nightfall, and to our joy he arrived, picking his way across the muddy compound, which days of rain had churned into waterlogged ruts and holes.

The air inside the hut was stuffy and smoky, apart from the biting draught from the door, which had been left open to let in what little moonlight there was. The cold air was cutting a swathe through the throng of people, who were huddled together in the warmer patches of the room, all except for my father who was sitting alone directly in the draught with his cloak tightly drawn around him. He never cared about the cold as long as he could breathe in good, fresh air. A moonbeam was shining onto the side of his face, and every movement of his head lit up a different feature: his bony nose at one moment, and next the long dangling end of his moustache.

A hairy dog-skin had been spread out for Morimanos in the best spot, near the fire but out of the smoke, where everyone would be able to see him by the flickering light of the flames. Near him was my mother, outlined in black against the red glow of the fire. Most people were seated cross-legged on the ground, but she had chosen to sit on a low tree-stump so that she could get on with her spinning by firelight while she listened to the story. She was twirling the spindle and drawing out the thread with regular movements, pausing only to pull one of her long plaits back from her face or to attach my baby brother Tasgios more securely to the breast.

I was lying on a pile of straw next to my favourite cousin Calliacos. We always chose one of the darker spots, well away from the open door, where we could play and whisper together under the low roof. Tonight, though, we were intent on Morimanos’s story. He was talking about Rome.

The houses, he said, were as many and as numerous as the fish in the rivers, or the pebbles on the shore, or the waves of the sea, or the stars in the sky. They were taller than the treetops and so close together that if you were to see a pit full of grain, that grain would not be more tightly packed than those houses that were in Rome. The city stretched so far in every direction that if you took the whole of our people’s territory, it would not cover more than a single corner of the territory of Rome. And these houses had one great peculiarity: they had been built not only side by side but also one above the other, three or four deep in some places, so that the people in them were walking around over the heads of their neighbours.

‘And the fields, are they up in the air as well?’ asked my little sister Vinda. She was too young to know she shouldn’t interrupt the storyteller. Morimanos paused in his story. ‘There are no fields,’ he said. ‘The houses are pressed tighter together than the skin over your ribs, and not a single tree, not a twig, not a blade of grass can push its way up between them. There’s not a speck of green to be seen in all that city, even if it was only as big as your little fingernail. For in that city, everything is made of stone.’

‘But what do all the people eat?’ my sister persisted. My mother started to hush her, but Morimanos replied, ‘There are no fields in that city, and yet the Romans never go short of food. For they have buildings there so large that each one of them could cover the whole of this hillside from roots to hair. And every one of those buildings is filled with things to eat. The first contains nothing but grain, the second is full of meat, the third is stacked with pitchers of wine and ale. And there are other buildings as well, filled with all the things they might need. There is one full of buckets and pots and drinking vessels, another for all the precious jewels: rings and bracelets and golden treasures. But there are no torcs in that building, for no Roman, not even the king of all the Romans himself, wears a torc round his neck. Another building contains cloth, not just in short lengths, but in great rolls a hundred ells long. It comes in all colours: yellow, scarlet, bright green, purple, checked and striped and speckled. There are some types of cloth which are finer than a cobweb and shimmer when they catch the light, like the sun glinting on the tips of the waves. Then there is another type so thick and soft that the wearer of it will never feel the cold, even on days when the birds sit frozen to the branches, and the raindrops turn to ice before they touch the ground.’

Then Morimanos went on to describe the other buildings which could be found in Rome. They were so large that they seemed to be the work of giants, and yet they had been built by men. For the Romans had so many slaves that they thought nothing of sending a hundred slaves to lift a single stone, if need be. There were vast halls which had rivers flowing through them and were big enough to contain an entire lake. In some the waters bubbled and boiled; in others ice had formed on the surface.

But strangest of all were the people and animals to be seen in Rome. The people were not only white like us, but also dark brown, black, blue and green. And the animals were more remarkable still. Some had noses long enough to reach the ground; others were covered with strange designs such as stripes, circles or spirals; there were animals with two heads or six legs; and others with such long necks that they could eat the leaves from the tops of the tallest trees.

When he had finished talking about the city of Rome, Morimanos began to tell us about its army, and if that city contained great wonders, the army was more amazing still. Of course we had all heard this story before, but we listened in silence as the fire burned low, inwardly contemplating the picture of those thousands and thousands of men all dressed exactly the same.

‘Every man in that army,’ Morimanos said, ‘even down to the least soldier of all, bears a complete set of arms, and no hero in the old days would have been ashamed to be seen in arms the like of those. For there’s not a man in all those thousands who does not carry an iron breastplate and helmet, a hard-tempered sword, two sharp-tipped spears, and a well-made shield. And that army has one great peculiarity, for it will start to march only at the sound of a trumpet. And once it has started marching, it will not stop, even though it comes to a tall mountain or a deep valley, until another trumpet sounds. When the whole army is on the march it seems like a great forest covering a broad plain, and when that army goes into battle it is like an overwhelming storm wave, rolling forward with a warrior’s mighty rage.’

When Morimanos had finished his story, I lay warm and comfortable on the straw listening to the regular breathing of my cousin, who had fallen asleep beside me. My enormously pregnant aunt came over and covered us with a sheepskin. ‘Are you still awake, little redtop?’ she said, stroking my hair.

My father had revived the dying fire. The light blazed up again and, lying on my side, I watched drowsily as my mother brought out a pitcher of ale for the men. My baby brother was wound in a shawl slung from her shoulder, and his head was bobbing up and down as she moved around.

My father came over to join my uncle and our neighbour, Alaunos, who were sitting close to my nest of straw. I liked Alaunos; he was always joking, and when he saw me, he used to pull my long red plaits and pretend he had burnt his hand. He was my aunt’s brother, who lived in the homestead on the far side of our hill.

The men were talking excitedly, and their voices were growing louder in spite of the women’s attempts to hush them. ‘It’s Cunobelinos’s people I’m talking about now,’ my father was saying. ‘Have we heard, or have we not, of what’s going on in their territory in these times? A man can walk along their beaches from one end to the next, and every ship lying there on the stones and shingle has come from overseas. Those ships are coming over so thick and fast, a man could step from one deck to the next right back across the sea to Gaul.’

My uncle agreed with him. ‘And when a man eats at King Cunobelinos’s table with the light flashing off the gold and silver plates, he’d think he was in Rome itself. Hand me that silver pot, boy, I have to pass water.’

My uncle had a dangerous tongue, which frequently got him into trouble. We would often hear his angry voice bellowing out from the other hut across the compound, probably accompanied by the sound of children crying. But that would be followed by my aunt replying in a soothing tone; she had been a good choice of wife for my irascible uncle. Unfortunately my aunt wasn’t present on the occasion when he quarrelled with round-shouldered Bodvoccos from the village. That was the time my uncle said one of Bodvoccos’s cows looked so skinny that he must be eating its hay himself. Not long afterwards, the cow began to waste away. In the end it died, and Bodvoccos went to complain to the druid. Of course Dumnovalos agreed with him and said my uncle should pay compensation for the cow. At first my uncle refused to admit he was in the wrong, although everyone could see perfectly well that he was. He tried to bluster his way out of it, shouting that the cow had been a scraggy, sickly beast all along, and he had only stated what was already plain to anybody’s eyes. In the end my father convinced him that he would have to pay up, which he did, although with a bad grace.

My father and uncle did not like the changes that were taking place in Cunobelinos’s kingdom far away to our east. But easy-going Alaunos had a different opinion. ‘It’s done Cunobelinos no harm, and that’s the truth I’m telling you. Chests of gold coins he’s got there, and the sound of all that gold rattling is like sweet harps to the ear.’

‘Gold coins, sweet harps…’ growled my uncle. ‘It’s the sound of slingshots flying past his ears he should be hearing. That’s a sound hasn’t been heard in Cunobelinos’s territory since his young days.’

‘Yes,’ said my father, ‘when I was a boy, there wasn’t a chieftain in the southern kingdoms that could sleep easy at night for fear of Cunobelinos. But that’s all changed since he let those grinning Romans take him by the hand, with their feasts and their soft beds.’

‘Cunobelinos is getting old now, that’s true,’ Alaunos said. ‘But he’ll be leaving two good handfuls of sons and foster sons to take his place when he leaves this life.’

‘Roman feasts, silver cups – it’s a fine set of sons he’ll leave behind him when he’s gone,’ said my father. ‘The only thing they know to do is how to haggle with foreign wine-traders.’

‘Yes, and I’ve heard they can do it in the Romans’ own tongue,’ added my uncle.

‘You wouldn’t say that if you could see Cunobelinos’s own son Caratacos in all his warrior’s glory here before you in this room,’ said Alaunos.

‘In a barrel of rotten apples you can always pick out one or two worth eating,’ said my uncle. ‘As for the rest of them, there are some who are chewing their lips for haste, waiting for their father to pass on, so that they can shave off their moustaches and start prancing around with no trousers on.’

The men all laughed at this, and settled back to enjoy their ale. After a while, they began to sing. Lying cosily in my dark corner, I stared into the flames as I went over the story again in my mind. I liked those fine-sounding expressions that Morimanos had used, especially when he said ‘the fish in the river, the pebbles on the shore, the waves of the sea, the stars in the sky’. I repeated the phrase to myself and tried to make it even longer and better than before. I thought I might add ‘the flowers on the hills, the leaves on the trees’. I would make up a story next day with that phrase in, and tell it to my cousin. I wished my father could have been a storyteller like Morimanos, so that I could learn his way of putting words together. But my father didn’t do anything special. He just worked the land and looked after the livestock like everyone else.

Other parts of the story drifted back to me: the strange animals, the houses piled on top of one another. I fell asleep thinking of Rome.

2

It was on a fine morning two summers later that Romans came to our village. I first knew that something out of the ordinary was happening when I saw my cousin Calliacos hurrying along the narrow chalk path which led up the hill to our homestead. We could not usually see people approaching, because the homestead was surrounded by a raised bank with a hedge on top. But this morning I was sitting in the doorway of our hut picking over some beans for my mother. The doorway faced the main gap in the hedge, and when the wooden barrier was pushed aside I had a clear view down the hill.

‘Bivana!’ Calliacos called, as soon as he was close enough for his voice to reach me. ‘There’s two strange men on the path. They’ve got no trousers on. They’re walking alongside the river towards the village, and they’re driving an ox-cart before them.’

When my mother heard the news she sent my sister Vinda out to the pasture to call our father. To me she said, ‘Go and tell your aunt, and after that you’d better finish those beans and set them down to bake among the cinders. You can go to the village once you’re done.’

‘But mamm, the strangers will be gone before ever I set eyes on them!’ I said.

‘Strangers or not,’ said my mother, ‘you’ll be crying out this evening when there’s not a bite ready for you to eat, and your stomach’s rumbling like a rock rolling down a hill. As it is, we’ll be eating beans without bread, for I don’t have time to heat up the oven, if I’m to take a look at these strangers too. Vinda, go and shut up the chickens, and make sure the shed’s closed good and tight. We can’t leave them outside all day with no one here to watch over them.’

As fast as we could, we completed the most essential tasks. My mother was grumbling the whole time as she hastily packed some food in a basket. ‘What a load of trouble and confusion, everybody rushing off like this as if the spirits were driving them on behind! And the water buckets are emptier than two dried-up nutshells. Aren’t I always nagging you girls to go down to the river early in the day? Now you’ll have to go down in the dark, so don’t go yelping and complaining when I tell you so.’

Calliacos appeared in the doorway with his two younger sisters. ‘Come on, Bivana! The strangers will be away over the hills before you and Vinda stir yourselves. Hurry, or we’ll start off to the village without you.’

‘What a time you’re taking over those beans,’ my mother said to me. ‘There’s enough here to feed a family of wrens, maybe. Well, off you go with your cousins. I’ll do the rest myself.’ I rushed outside, but she called me back. ‘Tasgios is begging and pleading for you to take him with you.’

I looked back, and saw my little brother standing in the doorway crying. ‘He’ll be half the day on the road,’ I said, ‘with us all calling and hurrying him to keep up with us. And how can he jump across the river by the stones? We wanted to go the short way.’

‘You can’t go with Bivana this time,’ my mother said to Tasgios. ‘You’re coming along with me, with auntie and the baby.’ As I ran off I heard Tasgios setting up a wail.

From our homestead the view across the river was dominated by a great hill, which towered above the whole area. Its sides rose steeply upwards under a sparse covering of grass which barely hid the chalk beneath. We could already see the ox-cart wending its way along the lower slopes. It was following the gentler path which zigzagged at length round the hillside before making its way by gradual stages up to the village perched on the top. We would easily overtake it if we took the straight way up.

Vinda and I, with our three cousins, ran down to the water’s edge to join a group of children from the neighbouring homesteads. We paused briefly on the bank to ask the river’s permission before crossing over. The river was normally good-humoured, but it might become angry if it was not treated with proper respect. We jumped across by the stepping stones, treading carefully on the sly third one, which was always on the lookout for the chance to tip us into the water. We could have crossed more easily further down, where a tree-trunk had been laid over from one bank to the other, but that would have meant a longer walk.

From the opposite bank a narrow path ran straight up the hill towards the village, gently enough at first, but growing steeper very quickly. We often slithered on loose lumps of chalk, and sometimes we had to help ourselves up by clutching hold of the short scratchy grass, taking care not to grab a handful of thistles at the same time. We were panting when we reached the outer rampart, and Calliacos had beads of sweat on his upper lip. All the children from the village were already lining the top of the rampart and calling down to us to come up and join them. With a final effort we clambered up the steep slope – not an easy climb, but we would have scorned to go round by the gate – and flung ourselves down on the grass.

From the top we could see the whole area spread out below us, a vast expanse of gently rolling hills, whose lower slopes were covered with a patchwork of yellow and green fields divided by dark coppices. The hillsides were dotted with homesteads, and here and there was the glint of one of the numerous white chalk paths threading its way across the slopes. In the distance we could see where the cultivated areas began to thin out, while the clumps of trees became larger and closer together until they converged into a solid mass.

The twin ramparts were long mounds separated by a deep ditch which completely encircled the village. It was said that a living child had been buried in a pit beneath the inner rampart, and that this was the secret of its strength. Certainly it was true that in the time of my grandmother, a raiding party from down the river had once reached the top of the outer rampart, but no enemy had ever yet crossed the inner one. There was a spot at the base of the inner rampart where the pit was hidden. My mother said the little girl had known it was a great honour to be chosen as the one who would ensure the safety of our village for ever. All the same, I couldn’t help thinking that she must have been frightened, when she was left all alone in that dark pit.

From our look-out point high up on the rampart, we watched groups of people streaming in from the outlying homesteads. The children climbed up to join us while the adults went to exchange greetings with the villagers who were already waiting just inside the main entrance. Everyone in the area had seen the strangers from a distance and stopped whatever they were doing to come hurrying up to the village. Traders only came round once or twice a year, and they always belonged to our own people or to one of the richer kingdoms out to the east. These strangers must be from over the sea; they were wearing pale short clothes and their legs were bare.

Breathlessly we watched the tortuous progress of the ox-cart as it lurched and bumped up the hillside towards us. At some points the path swung away out of sight, and we waited impatiently for the strangers to reappear on the next curve, plodding along beside their oxen. At last they came into view on the final stretch leading up to the outer gateway. We children scrambled down into the ditch, and up the other side to the top of the inner rampart, where we would have a good view as the strangers came through the gates.

The space between the two gateways could have been a death-trap for the two strangers. They seemed unaware of the danger of their situation; they sauntered in, apparently quite at ease beneath the high ramparts, under the curious eyes of every child in the village. When they reached the inner gateway, they became very interested in the skulls mounted in the gate-posts and spent some time examining them, oblivious to the massed villagers waiting for them just inside. We children took advantage of the pause to clamber over the low stone wall on top of the inner rampart and down into the village, where we squeezed through to the front of the crowd.

At last the strangers drove their two oxen through the inner gateway. They strolled along on opposite sides of the cart, talking across it in loud voices as if they had been the only people in the place. They spoke an unknown language in even, monotonous tones, which we children imitated for months afterwards.

I had always imagined that Romans would be enormously tall with manes of windswept hair. But these men were fairly short, although sturdy, and their hair was cut close. They looked like overgrown children with their moustaches shaved off, their tunics well above the knee and bare legs sticking out underneath. Their tunics were not even dyed.

The one person in the village who was untouched by the occasion was mad Dumna. Amid an uneasy murmur from the people standing nearby, she broke free of the crowd and stepped out onto the path ahead of the strangers. She strutted along in front of them, uttering a stream of gibberish in imitation of their speech. This was the way she always behaved. Whenever there was a ceremony, she used to stand in front of everyone, imitating the druid’s movements and mouthing his words along with him. Dumnovalos generally ignored her, apart from one famous occasion – this was before I was born, but I had heard about it many times – when Dumna became more provocative than usual. He just touched her with his oak wand and looked into her eyes, at which she remained frozen with her mouth open and her arms outstretched until he released her after completing the sacrifice.

The strangers’ reaction was quite different. They stared at Dumna in undisguised amazement. Before she could shame us further, one of Catumandos’s warriors came out of the chieftain’s hut and led her away. And then Catumandos himself appeared, accompanied by his wife Rigandricca and their warriors. Catumandos and Rigandricca were wearing clothes of yellow and purple check, the colours favoured by our people on festive occasions. Both had fringed cloaks fastened with decorated brooches. Catumandos looked magnificent with his hair frizzed out and swept back, his long dangling moustache, the torc round his neck and the sword at his side. He was a good deal taller than the strangers.

The two men greeted our chieftain and his wife. One of them spoke our language a little, but so poorly and with such a monotonous accent that it was hard to make out what he was saying. Then they passed over what seemed to be a rather small present. My mother’s cousin was Catumandos’s charioteer, so later on he had the chance to take a closer look. He told us afterwards that although the gift was small it was very valuable. It was a little jar made of a beautiful transparent material, so clear that you could see right through it. But you had to handle it carefully, as the material was very delicate and could break more easily than pottery.

Catumandos and Rigandricca, accompanied by the warriors, disappeared into their hut together with the strangers. To our disappointment, the ox-cart was driven into the yard alongside, and their nephew Cunignos was set to guard it. All the bigger children leaned against the fence which surrounded the yard, straining to see what was on the back of the cart. I was trying to squeeze in between them when my father and uncle arrived, my father bearing a bulging sack of wool on his shoulders. It must have been an awkward burden to carry up the steep hillside in the sun, but he looked, as always, coolly dignified. My mother, however, was not impressed. She happened to be standing with some of the other women nearby, and she stepped out of the group to confront him. ‘But that’s the wool I was going to use to make winter clothes for the girls!’

‘Will we ever see Romans again in our village?’ was my father’s reply. My mother pressed her lips together and went back to join her friends. At home she would not have been silenced so easily, but no doubt she did not want to start a row in front of the villagers.

Dumnovalos’s arrival was signalled by a flurry of movement among the people standing near the gates. He galloped in on horseback, slowing down as he came through the inner gateway, and dismounted. Cunignos took charge of his horse while he strode into Catumandos’s hut. Dumnovalos had arrived sooner than expected; he lived at some distance from the village with his family and pupils in a large, isolated homestead near the edge of the wood. There had not been time for a messenger to reach him, but apparently he had foreseen the strangers’ visit and set off for the village at once. This was the kind of thing we expected from Dumnovalos. He was a very powerful druid, and people used to come from all the four villages along our side of the river to consult him. His appearance was impressive. He was wearing a green tunic with the image of the Oak Tree on the breast, while his trousers were brown like the trunk of a tree. The pommels of his torc had the form of acorns. His cloak was of many colours pieced together and, as always, his hair was twisted into a knot at the side of his head.

Now that Dumnovalos had arrived, trading could begin. The cart was brought out from the yard and the grown-ups crowded round. Like the other children, I wriggled through until I ended up pressed against the side of the cart. It was full of tall, strangely shaped pots in varying shades of dark red. I stared, fascinated, ignoring the elbows in my back, until I was squeezed aside by the crowd and reluctantly gave up my place.

Late in the afternoon I walked home with my mother and aunt. We were tired, hungry, and laden with the two smaller children; the others had run ahead with the men. My aunt had her youngest child slung from her shoulder, while I had offered to carry Tasgios to make up for leaving him behind in the morning. He was too heavy for me to carry such a long distance, and to make matters worse he had fallen asleep, so his head kept slipping off my shoulder. I hoped my mother would notice and take him back, but she was talking indignantly to my aunt.

‘What does he think the girls are going to wear this winter? That wool was washed and combed fit for King Cunobelinos to lie on – and then there’s those hides that your husband brought – and he’s thrown it all away for a dribble of wine that’ll be gone before the next new moon! Our own ale was good enough for him before those Romans came here, and he was happy to take a second cup and a third from my hand. That wine will be gone in two evenings, while the girls will be shivering and trembling all winter with the snow and the biting cold.’

They walked on a little way in silence, then my mother began again. ‘Those people must think they’re King Cunobelinos himself, wandering through our land like that, smiling on young and old without a thought for their own safety. They were lucky they weren’t killed, or had their cart taken away from them, at any rate.’

‘It seemed a queer thing, that’s certain,’ my aunt agreed. ‘They must have wandered far from their own path. They meant to go over the hills to the Dobonni, maybe.’

‘They’ll arrive when the harvest’s over, then, and the villagers are sitting round the fire in the black long nights of winter.’

‘They had little enough to show on that cart, apart from the pots,’ my aunt said. ‘I was hoping they’d have some of that coloured cloth that Morimanos is always telling us about.’

‘Why should they bother bringing coloured cloth to the likes of us? There’s no one here who’s got money for that sort of thing, or corn enough to pay for a length of shining cloth that’s come all the way from Rome. Here, I’ll take Tasgios,’ she added, noticing me at last struggling under my burden. ‘Why didn’t you call out to me, instead of toiling and groaning under the weight? But you know what it is, I was so busy fretting and worrying, I didn’t have a thought to spare. For the good spirits help me if I know what you’re going to wear this winter.’

‘I’ve still got a bit of wool left,’ my aunt said. ‘Maybe you could just sew a length onto their old dresses instead of making new ones.’

‘I suppose I’ll just have to do that. But it’s a pity for them to be wearing old, patched clothes all winter, when I had a sack of the softest, whitest wool you’d find on this side of the river.’

We arrived at the homestead to find everything in disorder, the way we had left it in the morning. The cows needed to be driven down to the river before milking-time, the chickens had to be let out again, the water buckets were empty, the oven was cold, and the dough had gone sour. My mother went to the fire and lifted the lid off the pot to see how the beans were getting on. They smelt delicious. ‘That’s the one good thing that’s happened since we rose up this morning,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity the only bread we’ve got is harder and drier than an old sheep’s bone. Bivana, off you go now and get the water. Well,’ she added as I picked up the buckets, ‘now we’ve seen what Romans are like, and a sorry sight they were too. I hope they’ll never come back here again, for they’ve got nothing that we’ve need of, and that’s the truth.’

3

Whenever I had the chance, I liked passing by the meadow where the men were practising their battle-feats. It was a grassy flat area further down the river, and as I walked past, I would watch the men and boys exercising with various weapons: casting spears at a sack stuffed with straw, whirling slings above their heads, or wielding their long swords with ferocious cries. Not every family in our village possessed a sword, but that did not matter, as in skilled hands a sling could be just as deadly.

The meadow was a favourite meeting place for the men, and my father and uncle would go there as much to hear the news as to practise their sling-shots. Most of the boys spent every afternoon there. It was important for them to grow skilled in handling arms, as there was always the fear that one day a raiding party might come up the river from the little group of three villages further to our south.

It was true that there had been no serious raids since the time of my grandparents, and the slopes outside our village were now dotted with peaceful homesteads. But we had grown up with the memory of those vicious raids, with stories of killings and burnings and rapes, of cattle driven away, of children snatched from their parents to be sold as slaves, and of adults carried off for sacrifice. Naturally, our village had taken its due revenge. Other stories told of glorious return raids, prisoners taken, and honour prices carried off in kind. But all this had happened long ago, and in the meantime our relations with our southern neighbours had settled down into a state of simmering mistrust. Even though many years had passed since the last raids, there was a feeling in my village that it would not take much – a couple of bad harvests, perhaps, or an outbreak of cattle disease – for the whole thing to flare up again. And so the men continued to spend their afternoons down in the meadow, even though in practice only the older warriors had ever had the chance of wielding a sword against a real enemy, while the slings were more likely to be used on birds than on raiders.

Once a raiding party had attacked my father’s homestead when he was a small boy. He and his family had been woken one night by the sound of the dogs barking frantically. By the light of a full moon they had seen a group of armed riders approaching with blazing torches in their hands. Even though they were hopelessly outnumbered, the men lined up in the entrance of their homestead, determined to defend it with slings and swords. Meanwhile, on the far side, the women forced a way out through the hedge and slipped away with the children. The hillsides were bathed in clear moonlight, so they made for the shadows, dashing fearfully across the open spaces until they reached the safety of a dark coppice. There they lay panting with heaving chests, clutching