But he could not bring himself to try to bridge it, not now, when his heart was telling him that whatever love had remained between him and Eilan had been swept away by the Power that possessed her. At times the strain of concealing his anguish made him want to howl. Gaius was relieved when the Commander at Deva requested him to return for consultation, a postscript indicating that his father was hoping that instead of staying in the fortress, Gaius could pay him a visit in the new house he had built in the town. Perhaps it would be easier there to reconcile the conflict that was tearing at him.
“Have they captured any more fugitives from the Raven conspiracy?” Macellius poured wine for Gaius and handed him the cup, good but not gaudy, like the dining chamber itself and the mansion that surrounded it. His father’s place was one of the better houses that had been built around the fortress, evidence of a growing civilian presence as the country settled down. Gaius shook his head.
“That fellow Cynric—he was their leader, wasn’t he?” Macellius said then. “Didn’t you capture him at Mons Graupius?”
Gaius nodded and took a long drink of sour wine, wincing as the movement stretched the healing slash on his side. He had not noticed it until the fight at the Hill was over, but it was more annoying than serious; he had had far worse on the German frontier. The shock of realizing that the Fury who had cursed them all was Eilan was his worst wound. After a moment he realized that his father was waiting for an answer. “I did—but later he got away.”
“Seems to be good at that,” observed his father, “like that bastard Caractacus. But we got him in the end, and eventually somebody will betray your Cynric too, someone from his own side…”
Gaius stirred uncomfortably at the pronoun, hoping his father would not remember that Cynric was Bendeigid’s foster son. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble, he thought grimly, if he had killed Cynric when he had the chance.
“Ah well,” the older man continued, “nobody blames you for not catching him, and wherever the survivors run to, it’s not likely we’ll see them here…” He looked around him with what Gaius could only characterize as a smug sigh.
“Not likely,” his son agreed. “Are you really comfortable here?” After retiring from the army, Macellius had built his mansion, almost immediately been elected a decurion and was rapidly becoming a pillar of the community.
“Oh yes, it’s a nice place. Settled down a lot in the past few years, and the town is growing. The amphitheater is a draw, of course. More shops every day, it seems to me, and I’ve just coughed up a goodly sum to pay for the new temple.”
“A miniature Rome, in fact,” Gaius said, smiling. “All you lack is a coliseum for the Games.”
“Gods preserve me.” Macellius held up one hand, laughing. “No doubt I’d have to pay for those as well. This business of being a city father is highly overrated. I hardly dare open my door for fear I’ll be given the honor of contributing to something new!”
But he was laughing, Gaius observed, and thought that he had never seen his father so contented.
“There’s one thing I’d not grudge the money for, though,” said Macellius, “and that’s to send you to Rome. It’s time, you know. You’ll get a good recommendation from the Governor after this last bit of service, and you can’t rise much further on the kind of patronage your father-in-law and I can give you. Has Licinius said anything?”
“He’s mentioned it,” Gaius said cautiously. “But I can’t go until everyone’s satisfied that things will stay quiet here.”
“I can’t help wishing Vespasian had lived longer.” Macellius frowned. “There was a stingy old fox for you, but he knew how to pick good men. This cub of his, Domitian, seems determined to rule like an Eastern despot. He’s banished the philosophers, I hear. Now I ask you, what harm could a lot of prosy old bores do?”