“He is alone in the world, but for us, Father,” she answered angrily. “Thanks to Cailin Drusus, my little Quintus and the son I carry in my womb are fatherless. I must be both father and mother to my babies now. All because of Cailin Drusus!”
“Antonia, my dearest,” her father reasoned, “you must face the truth. You cannot live with a heart that is filled to overflowing with bitter vetch. Cailin Drusus is not responsible for your husband’s death. Did you comprehend nothing that was said the day he died? Quintus Drusus had Cailin’s family murdered, and then burned their villa to cover his crime in order that he might have their lands for himself. He admitted it. Why will you not understand?”
“I will not believe it!” Antonia said stubbornly.
“Why would Cailin make up such a story, Antonia?” her father persisted. “What purpose would she have in doing so? If it were not true, then why did she and Brenna flee to Berikos? If the fire had been an accident, why not simply say she escaped it?”
“Perhaps because she killed her family, Father. Did you ever consider that possibility? No, of course not!” Antonia cried.
“Antonia!” He was horrified by her words, for they were totally irrational. “What reason would Cailin have for doing such a thing?”
The grieving widow looked bleakly at him in silence.
“Antonia,” her father continued, “how can you mourn a man who saw to the murder of your own two sons?”
“It isn’t true!” Antonia shrieked. “It cannot be true!”
“It horrifies me as well as it does you, but there is a certain logic to it. Antonia, was Quintus Drusus such a gentle and perfect man that there was never a time when you were afraid of him?”
“There was one time,” Antonia said low, “Just after Lucius and Paulus were found dead, when our son was but a day old. I was filled with grief, but Quintus grew hard with me for he feared my bereavement might impede the flow of my milk. He became very angry with me, Father. He said his son must be nursed by his mother, not some distressed slave woman. I was afraid of him in that moment, but it passed.”
So that was why Antonia suckled her youngest son, Anthony Porcius thought. She had never nursed the elder boys.
“He could not have killed my sons,” Antonia protested further. “He loved them! Besides, the two nursemaids were found in the most lewd and compromising of positions, reeking of wine.”
“Had these women ever been found drunk, or judged guilty of lascivious behavior before, my daughter? I remember them both. They were faithful women, and loved my grandsons. You chose each of them carefully yourself after Lucius and Paulus were born, Antonia. They nursed those boys devotedly. Yet before they might even defend themselves, they were adjudged guilty and strangled. Who did this?”
“It was Quintus,” Antonia said.
“Quintus,” her father replied softly. “Ah, yes, Quintus. I find that interesting, my dear. The household slaves are your province, Antonia. Should he not have waited for your decision in the matter? Perhaps he did not because he knew if he had, those poor women would have implicated his murderous Gauls, and they in turn, to save their own skins, would have implicated Quintus Drusus. My reasoning is sound, I believe.”
Antonia stubbornly shook her head. “It is Cailin’s fault!”
“How is it Cailin’s fault, Antonia? How?” he demanded.
“Oh, Father, do you not see? If Cailin Drusus had not come back, none of this could have happened! Quintus would be alive this very minute, and my sons would have their father. But she returned with her accusations, and then her husband killed mine!”
“What of your two elder sons? And what of the Drusus family?” the magistrate said. “All brutally slain; the villa burned; the Drusus family’s bones left to bleach in the wind and rain? Have you no pity for anyone but yourself, Antonia? The gods! I am ashamed of you! I did not raise you to be so selfish!” Anthony Porcius turned away from his dauther, angry and disappointed.
“Am I selfish to have loved my husband, Father? If that is so, then I do not care what you think of me! Quintus Drusus was the man I loved, and Cailin took him from me. I care for nothing else. If I am wrong, then what matter? I am condemned to live the rest of my days without my love. My children are sentenced to grow up without their father, and for these and other crimes, I hold Cailin Drusus responsible. I hate her! I only hope she someday knows the pain and suffering she has inflicted upon me. I hate her! I will never forgive her! It is not fair, Father, that she now have the handsomest man in the province for a husband instead of me. She has taken Quintus Drusus from me, and she has that magnificent Saxon to comfort her. I have no one to comfort me!”
His daughter’s unbalanced thinking disturbed Anthony Porcius greatly. He could understand her anger somewhat, but this sudden irrational envy of Cailin’s husband made him very uncomfortable. Perhaps, he considered, with time Antonia would learn to accept the reality of what had happened. She would come to terms with herself, and everything would be all right. Quintus Drusus was newly dead. Anthony Porcius knew his daughter. She would grieve dramatically for a time, and then another handsome man would catch her eye, and Quintus Drusus would be forgotten. It had always been that way with Antonia when she lost a man. Another soon took his place.
After spending several days with his daughter, the magistrate took his horse and rode across the fields to the Drusus Corinium estate. The rubble of the burned villa had been cleared away, and a timber and stone hall was being raised over the marble floor that ran from the entry through the atrium and into the dining room of the old building. The wings of the villa where the sleeping chambers, baths, and kitchen had been located were not to be restored. It would be a far simpler and more practical lifestyle that Cailin would have to accustom herself to, Anthony Porcius realized, and he sighed.
All over Britain others were being forced to do the same thing in order to survive. The age of gracious living as embodied by the elegance and the lavish lifestyles of their Roman ancestors had drawn to a close. In order to continue on, people would have to learn to make do. Although, he realized, some would make do better than others. He smiled to himself. It was not really so bad. Cailin and Wulf had good lands, each other, and the hope of many children. In the end, when all else was stripped away, that was what was important.
The young couple greeted him politely. They showed him the new graves of Cailin’s family. A marble cutter had been sent for from Corinium, and would make a memorial to the family using marble from the villa’s wings. The new hall would not be a great one to begin with, but eventually, Wulf told their guest, they would build a larger and far grander hall. Even so, there would be a room called a solar located above part of the main hall that would offer them some privacy. The fire pits would be lined in brick; the roof expertly thatched with neatly woven, tight smoke holes.
“I have been able to salvage some items from the old kitchen,” Cailin told the magistrate proudly. “The pots and the Samianware did not burn. With cleaning I believe they will be usable again.”
“But what will you do for other household items and furnishings?” he asked her. “Perhaps Antonia has some things she does not need, and would send them over to you,” he said doubtfully.