“And it’s hot,” added the other boy, Marinus, who came from a merchant family in the town. “We can rest in the shade until sunset and finish it then.”
“But it’s not right…” Constantine gazed at them in incomprehension. “The slope has to be at an angle or it will be unbalanced—”
My heart went out to him. He could see the desired result so clearly in his mind, and reality kept falling short of his dreams. Well, life would teach him soon enough that one cannot always order the world to one’s liking, I thought, remembering my own girlhood. Let him enjoy his illusions while he could.
But it was hot. Even Hylas, who usually frisked at my feet like a puppy when we went outdoors, had flopped down in the shade of the disputed wickerwork and lay panting.
“I have brought some barley-water to cool you,” I interrupted, taking pity on the two younger boys. “When you have drunk it perhaps the task will seem easier.”
I poured cups from the sweating terra cotta jug for the boys and took my own to the garden wall, pausing to pour out a few drops before the image of the nymph of the garden in her shrine. It had taken me some time to become accustomed to the Roman preoccupation with images, as if they needed markers to tell if something was holy. But the shrine did serve as a reminder, and sometimes, in the evening, I would come into the garden to spend half an hour in her company.
Beyond the wall, the ground fell away in a tangle of greenery. Between the slope and the gleaming curve of the river the marshland shimmered in heat-haze, distorting the shapes of the men who laboured at the ditches and the tall column of the siege tower the Emperor had ordered brought in so that he could observe their progress. In this weather even the iron-clad tower could not offer much comfort.
I could imagine Probus standing there, thin and intense and as obsessed with his project in the marshes as my son was with his work in the garden. Another idealist—everyone had heard of the Emperor’s plan to hire foreign auxiliaries to guard the frontiers. If Probus had his way, there would be no need for the Empire to tax its citizens to maintain a standing army. If so, perhaps I could persuade Constantius to retire to Britannia, where my friend Vitellia and her husband had gone.
In the shade of the linden tree the tiles that topped the wall were cool enough to lean on, though the sunlight that filtered through the leaves was making me perspire beneath my thin gown. Even slaves should not be made to work in such heat, I thought, shading my eyes with my hand. I wondered how Probus had persuaded his men to do so.
But the men in the marshes were moving with surprising vigour—it was hard to see clearly, but there seemed to be some commotion around the tower. My heart began to race, though I could see nothing wrong. As I watched, the wavering of the tower became more pronounced, for a moment it leaned, then dust billowed in a dun cloud as it fell.
“What is it?” asked Constantine at my elbow, as that sense that had connected us since before his birth had communicated my unease.
“Listen—” The clangour of the iron plates that had covered the tower still reverberated in the heavy air. But now another sound was growing, a many-throated roar that I had heard the one time I had gone with Constantius to see the gladiatorial games at the amphitheatre in Naissus, the sound a crowd makes when a man goes down.
It seemed to me that the mob of moving men was swirling towards the road. Suddenly I turned.
“Pollio, Marinus, there is trouble down at the marshes. I want you to return to your homes now!” Unthinking, I had used the voice of command in which I had been trained at Avalon. My son stared at me as the boys, eyes widening, set down their cups and hurried away.
“We can’t stay here,” I told Constantine, thinking aloud. “They will know where the Emperor keeps the pay-chest. Go—pack a change of clothes and whatever books you can carry in one bundle.” I was already calling to Brasilia and the maids.