The Burning Stone Read online

  It was common knowledge that he was considered eccentric because he kept a leather bag on the table by his bed and would throw all his small coinage into it as it accumulated in his scrip. When he had accumulated sufficient asses for them to become a nuisance, he would convert them into silver sesterces, and when he had enough of those, into gold coins which would then vanish, never to be seen again.

  I discovered where they vanished to.

  It was high summer and I was eight years old, and we were visiting the villa in Salona. On that particular day I thought I had the house to myself, for I had watched my mother leave in the travel wagon, with my brother Marcus in tow, to visit the market in town, and I was glad to have escaped being dragged along. So there I was, looking for something to do in the magnificent formal dining room, when I suddenly heard my father’s voice approaching. I barely had time to scamper into hiding in the sideboard before he threw open the door, shouting back over his shoulder to his steward that he did not want to be disturbed, under any circumstances. He closed the door firmly, and then began behaving very strangely.

  He walked all around the room, opening each of the other two doors as he came to them, leaning out and peering right and left each time, clearly checking to be sure that he was, and would remain, unobserved, and I have thanked the gods ever since that it never occurred to him to look inside the sideboard! Once he was satisfied that he was alone, he hauled aside the main table, grunting with the effort. He groped under it and pulled out a long T-shaped wooden rod. You will recall that room had a magnificently intricate, tessellated floor of black, white, and green marble tiles. He went to a specific spot on the floor and positioned the end of the rod very carefully upon it, then leaned on the rod’s crossbar with all his weight, and I was astonished to see what I later found to be a pair of handles pop up from the marble pattern by his feet. He crouched down to grasp the handles, then lifted off the covering of a cunningly designed hole in the middle of the floor. You can imagine how surprised I was by all of that!

  From the hole he pulled out a tin or pewter jug, then pulled a small leather bag from inside his tunic and poured the contents into the jug—a long stream of falling golden coins. I cannot say how many there might have been—a score, at least, and perhaps more. I could tell by the way he braced himself as he hoisted up the jug that it was heavy, and I watched him lower it back into the hole, replace the covering slab, and step on the two handles to press them back into place. He then replaced the rod under the table and slid the table itself back into place before striding to the door and disappearing.

  I dared to leave our hiding place eventually, but I did not dare to go and look more closely to see if I could find the edges of the hole or the spot on which my father had placed the tip of the rod. I found it eventually, though not until much later, when I was a grown man. And when the house burned down, years later, I knew the hoard would still be there, securely hidden under the ruins.

  It occurred to me, after the fire and the murders, that there might be similar deposits in other places. My father did not lack for property, as well you know. He had eleven villas altogether when he died. Besides the main family residence on the Palatine Hill, he had major estates in Capri, Padua, Malta, and Sicilia. But those were all in urban centres, and I decided that it was highly unlikely he would conceal hard bullion in any of them, there being no security in public places or overtly desirable estates. Far more likely, I thought, that he would use his smaller, less ostentatious residences to conceal anything he wanted to keep safe. And of course, of the eleven properties, the last three remaining unsold were the smallest and least attractive. One of them had been taken over by a neighbouring landholder, and the other two simply sat empty and decaying.

  I enlisted the help of a number of trusted friends in a diligent search of those properties, and we found identical repositories in all three villas, all similarly situated in the main dining room. None were anywhere near as rich as the trove we recovered in Salona, but the sum of them all should serve to keep you safely out of want for as long as you live.

  As I have already said, I have no need of the coins. I have my imperial stipend, plus prestige and what passes now for power, and I need no more than I have. You, on the other hand, are somewhere Out There, alone and unknown as far as I can tell, but I have no doubt you will use this resource wisely. There are five thousand gold aurei in the box, the oldest of them dating from the time of Octavian, Caesar Augustus, and the newest of them, in the fourth level down, minted during the reign of Marcus Aurelius. After that time the value of the aureus declined from year to year as the intrinsic value was degraded by unscrupulous speculators, so your grandfather refused to deal in anything more recent than the mintings of Marcus Aurelius.

  The bottom layer of coins, though, contains nothing but golden solidi, minted during the lifetime of Diocletian. There can be no deception there. The solidus is minted of pure gold, and though few of them were issued, there can be no doubt of their validity in real terms, and my father valued them highly. That layer contains one thousand Diocletian solidi. There is no more valuable coin in existence, and I know of no one other than yourself, among all the people I know, who can claim to have a thousand genuine Diocletian solidi in their possession. And any one of the other coins in the box could fetch ten times their nominal value from a sharp-eyed trader.

  So there it lies, Nephew. You are rich. Wealthy beyond your former dreams. I reckon your personal worth now ranks anywhere between one hundred times and ten thousand times higher than that of the wealthiest person you know today. So be careful. Split up this hoard and hide it with greater care than you have ever given to anything in your life. Hide it and be jealous of it, for it could cause your death instantly were word of its existence to be whispered to the wrong person. This is your future life—your task is to ensure it will not be your death. Be sure, though, to keep the citrus wood box, for it was made, at my request, by the master carpenter of the Ravenna fleet and has a value all its own.

  My love is yours, Nephew Quintus, and may your life be as fruitful and rewarding as I could hope for you.

  Your appreciative uncle,

  Marius

  TWENTY-FIVE

  In many ways, Quintus Varrus would think afterwards, it was fortunate that he had Liam’s funeral to distract him from the implications of his sudden wealth, for he had no time in the ensuing days to think much about what had happened, let alone to grapple with the possibilities entailed.

  He did give some thought to where might be a safer, more secure hiding place, but sitting where it was, in plain sight, covered by a simple piece of discarded cloth, the box was less than remarkable, and so he decided to leave it in the forge for the time being, knowing no one was likely to go near it until after the funeral, at least.

  The cemetery in Colcaster lay along the roadside about half a mile beyond the city gates, and on the morning of the funeral the family was gratified to see how many of the townspeople had turned out to walk in the procession and pay their final respects to the self-effacing Eirish smith who had served their needs so diligently for close to twenty years. Varrus judged there to be more than a hundred people in the throng, among them several local merchants, prominent citizens, and even a few off-duty personnel whom he recognized from the garrison. He was not too surprised to discover that both the Romans and the Celts, despite their religious differences, followed similar procedures in honouring their dead before burial. It occurred to him that, irrespective of their origins or even of their individual status, people were not so very different in their feelings and their needs when it came down to the essentials of life’s beginnings and its ending.

  They were about halfway to the cemetery when Varrus noticed mounted soldiers ahead of them. Mounted men were an uncommon sight in Colcaster at any time, because the garrison contained no cavalry. In fact there were relatively few cavalry in all of Britain, he knew, for most of the urgent need for mounted warriors was concentrated in the border regio
ns of the empire, where horse-borne hordes from beyond the northern and eastern frontiers were fighting grimly to break in.

  He knew most of the garrison officers by sight now, and as they drew closer he could see nothing familiar about any of the mounted men. He was surprised to see that the troopers were neatly drawn up, patiently waiting for the procession to pass instead of coming ahead, as was their military right, uncaring of the effect upon the funeral and its mourners. It was clear that the formations were there in attendance upon a trio of very senior officers, their splendid armour distinguishing them as legates, the highest purely military rank an officer could achieve.

  The senior man among them, on a stunningly beautiful black horse, was dressed in black armour. Beside him sat a pair of slightly less flamboyant aristocrats, and behind those was a massed phalanx of lesser luminaries and centurions, two of whom, from their trappings, were clearly cavalry decurions, each the commander of a thirty-two-man squadron. Two of them in attendance upon the senior general meant that his escort was two squadrons—sixty-four mounted men, all of them wearing heavy shirts of bronze ring mail of the kind Varrus had worked on in his early days in Colcaster.

  As the funeral procession drew abreast of the commanding general, the officer drew himself up into a formal seated salute, followed by his entire command, a signal gesture of respect beyond anything that Varrus would ever have expected.

  He retained few clear memories of the remainder of that day, and had no memory of even going to bed. Late that night, though, long after the household had settled down to sleep, Lydia came to his bed, laying her fingers over his mouth to warn him against making any sounds, and they made love, wonderfully and wildly and in total silence, all night long.

  When he awoke in the morning she was gone. He knew that she had been there, though, knew that his memories of her were not the product of nocturnal dreams, for her scent was everywhere, clinging to his skin and hair and permeating the blankets that had caressed her and now urged him to stay where he was, enveloped in their warmth with his eyes closed, remembering the wonders of what they had experienced. As that smiling thought sank home into his drowsy self-awareness, though, he jerked upright instead, his eyes opening wide as he realized the full extent of what had happened. Lydia had come to his bed, not merely willingly but when he had least expected it. And his life had changed completely.

  * * *

  —

  Lydia was going about her daily affairs with a contented smile upon her lips, bubbling with energy and anticipation as she waited for Quintus to emerge from the sleeping area and show his face. She had been bold, she knew that—bolder than she might have believed she could be. And she had no doubt at all that Quintus would have been deeply shocked at her directness and determination, had he not been sound asleep when she eased herself into his bed.

  Her decision to claim Quintus—and that was how she thought of it, that she had claimed her man—had been spontaneous, arrived at in less than the blink of an eye after leaving Shanna sobbing quietly into her pillow. They had been talking, or Shanna had—Lydia had done nothing more than listen and murmur comforting sounds from time to time—about how quickly time sneaks by without our noticing, and how brief a time the gods allot us in this world to share with loved ones and to enjoy loving and being loved by them. And recalling those words on her way to her own bed, Lydia had turned around immediately and gone directly to cherish Quintus Varrus.

  She heard a sound behind her and found him standing looking at her from the doorway.

  “Hello, Quintus,” she greeted him. “Did you sleep well?”

  And suddenly he smiled, flashing radiant white teeth. “I’m not really sure if I slept at all, or simply dreamt the night away, but whichever of them is true, I would go back to bed right now if I could sleep and dream such dreams again.”

  “Well that sounds wonderful,” she said, grinning back at him. “But it can’t be. Too much to do here today.”

  He nodded, looking around. “It’s quiet. Where is everyone?”

  “Father and Callum are up at the fort, visiting Ajax. They haven’t been gone long. Some neighbours came to take Shanna to the market. She didn’t want to go, but they took her anyway. And I haven’t seen Shamus at all this morning, so he must still be asleep. Are you hungry?”

  “Starved,” he said. “But Shamus isn’t in bed. I looked. His cot’s made up, so either he was out all night or he was up and out early this morning. Why did you ask if I’m hungry?”

  “Because I made you a breakfast.”

  “A breakfast? Really? Do you mean a real breakfast, to be eaten at a table? I can barely remember when I last sat down to one of those. Not since I was a boy, I think. What have you made?”

  “It’s a little late for a daybreak breakfast, so let’s call this a prandium, a mid-morning breakfast. I made puls—” She saw his puzzled look. “Boiled porridge of crushed grain with warm milk, sweetened with honey and dried apricots. There’s also fresh wheat bread made overnight, drizzled with olive oil and toasted in the oven. I could add eggs, if you wish—and pork sausage.”

  “And I could die a happy man. Will you feed me like this every day, once we are wed?”

  “Certainly not. Would you make a household slave out of me? But I will hire a cook to feed you better than I ever could. My cooking skills are few.”

  “You’ll hire a cook?”

  “I will, the moment you begin to earn sufficient money to support one.”

  “Agreed,” he said, reminded suddenly of the yellow box in the forge. His gaze lingered on the bare table. “Where is this wondrous breakfast?”

  “It’s ready,” she said. “Keeping warm. Would you like me to prepare the eggs and sausage, too?”

  “I would.” He hesitated. “So be it you are willing, and not merely testing me for early signs of dictatorship.”

  “No, not at all. Sit, then. I’ll bring it out to you.” She disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, and as soon as she was out of sight he spun on his heel and trotted out to the smithy.

  It was deserted, and he went directly to the chimney corner and pinched four or five coins out of the first densely packed row of fifty, closed the box, and covered it again.

  When Lydia returned a few moments later, carrying a steaming bowl of porridge, he was in his seat. “That looks wonderful. Are you not joining me?”

  “No, I had mine earlier, when I first made the puls, because I didn’t know how long you might lie abed this morning. Besides, I have to cook your eggs and sausage.”

  “But you will sit and talk with me when you are done?”

  She smiled again at him, widely this time. “Rely upon it, Quintus Varrus. It has been far too long since we did that. The last time we did, Liam was alive, but everything in our world has changed within the past five days, and we need to discuss how we are to deal with that. So eat your porridge. I’ll be back.”

  The porridge was delicious, with exactly the right amount of honey and dried apricots to sweeten it perfectly, and as he set down his spoon and pushed the empty bowl away, Lydia returned with a wooden platter on which rested a round of heavy, crisped wheaten bread topped with a pair of eggs and several sausage links fried in pork fat.

  “Eat,” she said, setting it down in front of him and placing a knife beside it. “And listen. I’ll do the talking while you chew, and when you’re finished, we’ll talk together.”

  He carefully cut a piece of the crisp bread, pushed a morsel of egg onto it, and raised it to his mouth.

  She held up a hand and began to mark points off by touching her fingers. “One: Shanna is not a smith but she now owns a smithy. She has but two options. She must either find a qualified helper to run the smithy, or she will have to sell it, if she can find a buyer. Now, that first option was wiped out when Shamus told me he no longer wants to be a smith.”

  “I doubt that’s true. Shamus likes to complain, and when he does, he always harps on that. But surely he would rise to meet this
responsibility of helping his aunt?”

  “No, I heard too much conviction in his voice to ignore what he said. He left me in no doubt, too, that nothing anyone in the family might say would sway him to do otherwise. My brother has had enough of smithing, Quintus. And that leaves Shanna with no option but to sell her smithy and move out, to live alone thereafter on whatever proceeds she can wring from the sale.”

  “She could always remain here and hire a smith to run the smithy for her, as she did with Liam.” He speared one of the sausages on his knife point and bit off the end.

  “That’s true, I suppose. But she’s twenty years older now than she was then and she might not be so fortunate in who she finds this time around. Think of the difference in size between a healthy smith and an old woman. Were she to pick the wrong man, she could condemn herself to a life of misery.”

  He made no attempt to reply to that, and she continued. “And then, of course, there is the matter of you and me and our marriage. When last we spoke of that, you talked about building us a house. Is that still in your mind?”

  He shrugged, schooling his face to betray nothing. “Of course,” he said. “Why would you even ask? Had it not been for what happened, I would already have spoken to Ajax about it and he would be hiring a builder and workers.”

  “But he is not, is he?”

  “No, not yet. Why? Do you have something else in mind?”

  She started to respond, then hesitated, looking at him strangely. And then she started to smile. “You already know what I’m thinking, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure,” he said quietly, swallowing his final mouthful and pushing his empty platter away. “That was a truly fine breakfast, my love,” he said, wiping the edges of his mouth with finger and thumb. “But tell me what you are thinking, and then I’ll tell you if it’s what I thought it might be.”

  She sat straighter in her chair. “We could live here. Move in, I mean, once we are married, and then you could run the smithy.” She squirmed in her seat as she waited for him to respond, and when he said nothing, she prompted, “Is that what you expected me to say?”