“Very soon,” he nodded. “Your man is hoping to persuade us to carry his wares to Germania on the ship that will bring back our own. May Nehalennia keep us safe from storms!”
“Nehalennia?” I echoed politely. This was a goddess of whom I had not heard.
“She is a goddess much favoured by traders. They have made a shrine for her on an island where the Rhenus flows into the ocean. My father Placidus set up an altar for her there when I was a child.”
“Is she then a German goddess?”
I cast a swift glance around. Constantius had drawn the second man, a ship-owner, into his conversation. There were more dishes on the table now: broiled mullets braised in olive oil with pepper and wine, and lentils with parsnips cooked with herb sauce. I took a little of each, though I did not try to eat them, and turned back to Viducius with a smile.
“Perhaps,” he was answering, “my father came originally from Treveri. But I think she likes best the lowlands that face the north sea. It is there that the sea lanes and the land roads meet; from there, she can guard all the ways…”
My face must have shown something then, for he stopped, asking what was wrong.
“Not wrong: I was only reminded of a British goddess, whom we call Elen of the Ways. I wonder if they could be the same?”
“Our Nehalennia is shown sitting, with a dog at her feet and a basket of apples in the crook of her arm,” the trader replied.
I smiled and leaned down to pat Eldri, who lay, as usual, at my feet hoping that some morsel would fall. She sat up, nostrils quivering, and I realized that Philip was bringing in the roasted boar. I saw it come with mixed feelings—the rich scent further upset my stomach, but its appearance meant that the meal was almost over. I took a careful sip of watered wine.
“Elen is said to love dogs as well, for they show the way,” I said politely. “Did your father make a dedication to the goddess here in Eburacum as well?”
Viducius shook his head, “Only to Jupiter Dolichenus, sovereign of the sun, and to the genius of this place—wherever one may go, it is always wise to propitiate the spirits of the land.”
I nodded, aware by now of the Romans’ compulsion to honour, not only the genius loci, but any concept or philosophical abstraction that brought itself to their attention. Every crossroads and public well had its little shrine, with the name of the donor prominently displayed, as if without such a label the gods would not know his identity. Even Constantius, who had studied the philosophies of the Greeks that were so close to the theology of Avalon, insisted that his ancestral lares and the penates that guarded the storeroom of this house must receive their offerings.
“Your man has a good head for business, but he was never meant to spend his life as a trader,” Viducius went on. “One day the Emperor will call him back to his service. Perhaps then you will cross the sea yourself, and pay your respects to Nehalennia.”
I tried to say something polite, but the odour of the roasted meat was too much for my rebellious stomach. Excusing myself, I made a dash for the atrium and vomited into the terra cotta pot that held the rose tree.
By the time I had finished, I could hear the louder murmur of conversation that meant our dinner guests were leaving. I sat down on one of the stone benches, taking deep breaths of the cool, herb-scented air. It was close to the ending of the month of Maia, and the evening was still pleasant. There was yet enough light for me to appreciate the graceful lines of the two-storeyed wings that formed the long atrium, bordered, on the inside, by a colonnade. The house had been built by the same architect who had designed the nearby palace of the Emperor Severas, and though, like most homes in this part of town, it stretched back from a narrow frontage, it had a classic elegance.