“I do not doubt the gods,” Ganeda answered very quietly, “but a long life has taught me not to put my trust in men. I wish you well, daughter of my sister.” Leaning heavily on her staff she got to her feet, and now she looked truly old.
“Wait,” I said despite myself. “You have had a long journey and I have offered you no refreshment—”
But Ganeda only shook her head. “You shall be troubled no longer, either by me or by Avalon…”
I understood her words, but as I watched her go it seemed to me that the memory of this conversation would haunt me for a long time to come.
Whether it was because my healing was complete or Ganeda’s challenge had stimulated me, I do not know, but from that time onward my energy began to return. I took a more active part in preparing to move the household, and when, a few days before we were scheduled to take ship for the continent, Conscantius mentioned that he had to ride out into the countryside to bid farewell to one of his father’s cousins, I asked if I could come along.
As our sailing date approached, I found myself viewing Eburacum with new eyes. I had not been there long enough to think of it as home, but it was nonetheless part of Britannia, which I was so soon to lose. Still, the town itself was Roman, not British, and only along the river could I feel the spirits of the land. In the countryside, I would surely sense them more easily, and be able to make my farewells.
Constantius had rented a two-wheeled cart for the journey, drawn by the faithful red mule. The land here was low and rolling, rising gradually to the west, where mountains lay on the horizon, more sensed through the misty air than seen. On the second day we came to Isurium, the old tribal capital of the Brigantes, which was now a thriving market town. Isurium lay in the bend of the Abus, just before the road crossed the river once more.
Flavius Pollio had retired here after a successful career in Eburacum and was now a magistrate. He was clearly delighted to show off his newly-built townhouse, particularly the mosaic of Romulus and Remus with the wolf which adorned his dining room floor.
“I see that your little dog appreciates fine artwork,” said Pollio, flipping a bit of roast mutton to Eldri, who had flopped down next to the mosaic of the bitch-wolf as if to join the twins in nursing from her dugs. I blushed.
“I am sorry—she always sits at my feet when we dine at home. She must have got out of our bedchamber—”
“No, no—let her stay. We are not formal here.” Pollio smiled at me. “This is a country of goddesses and queens, and ladies have their privileges… Cartimandua, you know—” he added when I looked inquiring. “She held the Brigante lands for Rome, even when her husband rebelled.” He shook an admonishing finger at Constantius. “Let that be a warning to you, my boy. A man is only strong when his wife is behind him!”
Now it was Constantius’s turn to colour, always a notable sight with his fair skin. “Then I must be Hercules,” he answered, but I shook my head.
“No, my dear, you are Apollo.”
He blushed even more brightly then, and I laughed.
When the meal was over, the two men retired to Pollio’s study to go over the papers Constantius had come to see, and I took Eldri out for a walk through the town. After a day and a half of jolting in the cart and a heavy meal, I needed exercise, and soon found myself striding through the gate towards the open country beyond the town.
Here in the north country the day lingered longer than I was used to. A ground fog was rising from the fields, catching the sunset light so that it looked as if skeins of golden flax had been laid across the land. Soon after I crossed the bridge I saw a cowpath leading away to the west and turned off the road. With Eldri to guide me I had no real fear of being lost, even if the mist should thicken as darkness fell.