The huts of the village huddled against the valley’s further slope. There were thirty or so of them. It was hard to tell for sure, because the dwellings overhung one another as they climbed the hill. Most seemed to be small one- or two-room units. Since their backs were cut into the hill, it was impossible to be sure from the outside. There was no town wall. That was not surprising even in the present unsettled times. An enemy who bothered to attack from further up the hillside would be higher than the top of any practicable wall facing him.
What was surprising was the church.
“Thank God, we’re among Christians,” Sabellia whispered.
That much was clear. The building itself was a spire shaped much like the natural outcropping which acted as a watchtower at the valley’s head. At its peak, high enough at eighty feet to stand out against the sky, was a cross. The warning bell continued to ring from the small pergola by which the cross was supported. Beneath the belfry, the building stepped down to the ground in three levels of increasing diameter. The cylindrical walls were of native stone. The ashlars had been quarried recently enough to
retain a pinkish yellow color which contrasted with the weathered gray of the slope beyond. The building had not been vaulted or even corbelled. Instead, the builders had used trusses and thatch for the three stepped roofs. That implied that each successive level of the spire was supported on vertical columns extending from the ground to the level’s base. That was an incredibly awkward way to design a structure of the church’s magnitude. It was also proof of the dedication of simple villagers who had executed so impressive a monument to their god without help from the outside.
At the moment, villagers were running toward the church from the common wheat field and from the garden plots terraced up the hillside. Black-faced sheep were blurs on the crest above, but the herdsmen must already have joined the general flow toward the tower.
The one exception was a man in a black robe which fluttered as he kicked his donkey toward the newcomers. As the villager approached, he tried to keep his left hand raised. The gold or gilded cross which he held wavered and jerked as the donkey beneath him trotted.
“A brave man,” Gaius commented as he watched the envoy. The courier glanced up at the outcrop from which they had been spotted initially. The rock was behind them now and he, like Perennius, was wondering if the lookout was still hidden in their rear.
“Three years ago, friends of mine were burned alive for refusing to sacrifice,” Sabellia said grimly. “Then the Lord chose to spare me for his future works, so I wasn’t requested to sacrifice to idols when others were. Why do you think Christians would fear death by bandits when we go to our pyres singing hymns of praise?”
“At least they’ve got donkeys to sell,” remarked Sestius, possibly to put a cap on the present discussion. “I’ll be damned glad to get off my own feet. Especially with the load of metal we’re carrying – not that I’m complaining.”
“Yeah, well,” said the agent. “No reason for any of us to talk about what we picked up from the pirates. I don’t doubt these folk are religious – ” he nodded to the Gallic woman, keeping his face still and his eyes serious – “but there’s no advantage to our putting temptation in their way. We’ll offer them fair prices and as much more as it takes to get the animals … but we don’t need to tell them just how much bullion we’re hauling around.”
The agent was a little worried about Sabellia. Her faith had not been a secret before. Not from him, at least. He was used to the point of reflex to correlating data – expressions, gestures; the scraps of personal details that come out inevitably when a group of people live in each other’s wallets for weeks at a time. If Perennius’ mission had involved ferreting out Christians, he would . . . but the agent’s mind shied away from that thought in which business conflicted with something more personal and less common to him. In any case, Perennius had little enough use for gods that he could not get concerned by the foibles of those people who felt differently. If Sabellia refused to sacrifice to the Emperor who served and represented the Empire – then Perennius also served and represented the Empire. The Gallic woman had saved his life, and that was already more of a benefit to the Emperor than a pinch of frankincense on a charcoal fire.