Father Horse: A Novel of Roman Britain

PROLOGUE

It was a hot summer’s afternoon in northern Britain. This was not the Britain of today with its grey skies and clipped fields. This was the Britain of long ago, when it was ruled by the Romans and ended at a vast stone wall that ran across the island from east to west. Beyond that was foreign territory.

It was the summer of the year AD263, and two very grubby children were emerging from a small woodland, and making their way downhill to the sprawling complex of buildings that was their home. They had not been summoned by the urgent calling of their tutor, who stood wringing his hands in the gateway; nor by the anxieties of their mother, who watched for them from her own room; but by the insistent rumblings of their stomachs.

Their house was square, stout and built of stone. Three wings, arranged like a U surrounded a central courtyard. A three-story tower rose at one corner, its topmost room commanding a view of the fields and the hillside down which the children were tumbling. Across the mouth of the U ran a high wall with a mighty double gate at its center. It was there that the tutor stood, anxiously hopping from foot to foot, calling out their names.

The house itself was the center of a small cluster of buildings, for it was a working sheep farm and cloth factory. There was a barn to store the winter fodder, stables for the horses, a hen house, sheep pens and a large, covered area where the sheep were shorn. There were also two new timber buildings: one where the wool was spun, carded and woven into bolts of cloth; the other, a long, low barracks building to house the farm’s slaves.

The children were a boy and a girl. Gini, the girl, was older and, probably, dirtier. Her face was streaked with grime, and her fingernails were black with dirt. She was eleven years old , too old to be a baby, but too young to be a grown-up. Her hair was fair, her eyes, a deep brown, and her skin, a natural Mediterranean olive. Her knees were scabbed with the remains of yesterday’s grazes and scrapes, for her favorite things to do were stalking animals and climbing trees. Like her brother, she wore a tunic that had once been green and light-colored sandals.

Her brother, Gordi, was nine and looked much like a smaller version of his sister, except that his eyes were green, like their mother’s. He had big front teeth, like a rabbit, that their mother assured him he would grow into, and his arms and legs were covered with he scratches of the brambles that he had fallen into that day. His hair was wild, for he seldom washed or combed it, but his face shone with the sheer joy of the day.

When the children reached the house, the tutor reached for them, rather feebly. They dodged his outstretched arms with ease, ran across the courtyard and all the way to the kitchens that served the needs of the big house.

The kitchen was the kingdom of the family’s cook, Phormio, a slave who had come with them from the warm lands of the Middle Sea. He was a small man, with clever hands, a big nose (all the better to smell the food!), and a big bald spot in the middle of his head. He truly loved to cook and oversaw a small band of bakers, pastrycooks, assistants and cleaners. Phormio had fed both of the children for all of their lives. He loved them as deeply as if they were his own and he could deny them nothing. So it was that when Lydia, their mother, found them they were sitting at the big pine work table eating bread with cheese and honey.

As she came into the kitchen, she carried silence with her. The slaves who kept the benches wiped and pots scoured stopped their chatter and Phormio, who had been chopping some leeks, rinsed his hands, dried them, and came forward with a slight bow.

Mistress, he said, waving at the children. I think that you might be looking for these.

Yes, thank you Phormio. I can see that they have helped themselves to their dinner. After the way in which they treated their poor tutor today, they can expect nothing more to eat until breakfast.

Then she turned to the children, who had put their bread down and stood also with their heads slightly bowed. They knew what was coming.

Come with me, she said.

Her tone was not warm. They were in trouble.

When they were outside, she took each of them by the shoulder and turned them both to face her.

First, a proper scrub for you both. I want the pair of you washed and in clean clothes in my room in half an hour. Now go. I am very disappointed with you both.

Lydia watched the children trudge off to the bathhouse to be seated, scrubbed and polished, with a mixture of affection and exasperation, then made her way up the stairs.

Her room was at the top of the tower. She had the whole floor to herself, and it was here that she spent much time reading, writing to friends and in her private religious devotions. The room was fitted out for her comfort with a writing table, wicker chairs, a long couch for her afternoon nap, a variety of small tables, and her greatest treasure, her library. Along one wall square wooden cubicles reached from floor to ceiling and each of these contained a varying number of scrolls. Two of the cubicles did not contain scrolls, but books: a new invention consisting of papyrus sheets cut into rectangles, sewn together down the spine and then glued between two wooden covers. This was Lydia’s great treasure, of more value to her than the cloth business that had made her wealthy. This room was more than an office or a place to escape for an hour or two. It was a reflection of who she was, and she loved it.

The children came, received the expected lecture, and left. It was bed without supper again. From the way that the two received their punishment, Lydia thought that this might not be so terrible, and thinking that this might happen, the two had prepared some supplies.

Once they had gone, Lydia turned her attention to the real problem. She sat in thought for a time and then rang a little bell. Almost immediately, one of her maids came in, bowing her head as she entered the room.

Please bring me that poor tutor. And a cool drink. Do we have oranges for juice?

Yes my lady. Tutor and juice. In that order?

I think so. He won’t be here long.

A few minutes later, there was a timid knock at the door.

Come in. Lydia spoke a firm voice, determined to be the strong mistress of the house.

The tutor shuffled in, his head bowed and his body slumped in defeat. He had tried. He really had. He had tried to tempt them with food, to excite them with bold stories from Homer; to discipline them with hard words. None of it had worked. They had ignored him, running off whenever his back was turned out the open windows, and up the hill into the little woodland that they truly loved for the adventures it brought them.

Lydia spoke, I think that your time with us is at an end. I had hoped for better. You came well recommended and we spent good money bringing you here, but the result is a poor one. The children are more ungovernable that ever, and I fear that, under your tutelage, they have forgotten more than they had ever learned. You will pack and go. I will see that you are properly provided for.

My Lady, he began...

No, she interrupted. There is nothing here for you to say. I am quite determined. There must be another way, and I will find it. But you are not the person who can teach my children. Under your care, they have learned only disobedience and a degree of dishonesty that I find most disappointing. Now leave. The steward will make the arrangements.

But where will I get another post? he asked.

As I said, you will be provided for, but if you take my advice, you will find another way to make a living. Be a translator. Be a copyist. Teaching children is not for you.

With that, Lydia rose from her chair and gestured to the door. Crestfallen, the tutor took the hint, bowed and left.

Lydia sighed. She loved her children dearly, but they did frustrate her. This had not been the first tutor to fail to rein the children in, but she was determined that he would be the last. She sat in silence for a time, thinking over this problem. She did not want to teach the children herself, but she had not found anyone else who could do the job. As her questioning mind sought an answer, her eyes closed, her breathing slowed, and her lips began to move, speaking words below the level of hearing.

An idea seemed to strike her. Her lips stopped moving and she took a deep breath. Opening her eyes, she rose to her feet, went to her writing table, and wrote a letter.

CHAPTER ONE

FATHER HIPPOLYTUS GETS A NEW JOB

Three months later, and a long way away, a man with a long staff hobbled as quickly as he could with his bad feet through the crowded streets of a busy town. It was late in the morning when people were hurrying home for their midday meal. The day was already hot. The autumn was late; it still felt like summer with its clear skies and baking heat.

He was a small man with dark hair and a straw hat that covered a big bald spot in the middle of his head. He had sharp eyes and a beaky nose and he still had (most of) his teeth. He wore a tunic that came down to his knees. It might once have been white, but it was stained with travel (and a little food). His legs below his knees were wrapped in linen bandages and on his feet he did not wear sandals, like everyone else who had footwear, but covered slippers with hard soles. From the top of his staff, hung a little leather bag which held his few possessions.

The man was called Hippolytus and he was a Christian priest. He was on his way to meet with the bishop, the head of his community, and he was rather late. He had been summoned to this meeting and was anxious to obey.

The town was Myra, a place of middling size on the south coast of the ancient land of Lycia. It was an old town. As he walked along the road into the town he could see, carved into the cliffs above the theatre in which the people of Myra took particular pride, the houses of the long dead. Tier upon tier they rose, columns framing empty doors, doors opening onto empty, looted rooms. Those tombs, cut deep into the cliffs, both outside and inside the town, stared grimly down at the community, reminding it of its long past and daring it to do anything new. In the year 263, when Gallienus the Roman Emperor was in the tenth year of his reign, the Bishop of Myra was called John.

Although John was a bishop, he did not have a big church building. At that time the Christian church was still quite small and did not have a lot of money. There was a house that belonged to the church where Bishop John lived, and it was here that the community met for worship on Sundays and young men learned to be priests. Hippolytus had studied there, before going into the countryside to lead the little churches in the villages of the hills and the bays of the nearby coast.

It was in one of these, Simena, a pretty town that word had reached Hippolytus that the bishop wanted to see him as soon as possible. The word was in the form of a letter waiting for him when he arrived one afternoon after a hot and dusty walk from the next village. The letter had already been waiting for him for some days and that is why he was in such a hurry.

The swiftest way from Simena to Myra was by boat, but he had to wait for one. It was too late in the day to go, but early the next morning he found one loaded with dried fish for the markets in Myra. The breeze was good and, by mid-morning, the little boat had docked at the port of Andriake, that served the town of Myra.

He was hot and tired by the time he reached the bishop’s house. His feet hurt and he did smell a bit because it had been a while since he’d had time to have a wash, or even to bathe in the sea, and he had just had a boat ride with a load of fish. As he knocked at the door he was cheered by the thought that there would be a familiar and friendly face to greet him.

Old Jacob opened the door to him. Jacob had lived in the house since before it had been the bishop’s. In fact he and his wife Susanna were slaves, and it was they who kept the place clean, patched its leaks and kept its garden in order. They were both brown with the sun and creased with age. Their hands had grown hard with work, and they had both lost many of their teeth. But they stood straight when others were bent, and they were always kind.

One of Jacob’s jobs was to greet callers when they arrived. He had been expecting Hippolytus for days and was looking forward to seeing him. They were old and dear friends, and, besides, Jacob had a little bit of news of his own. When he opened the door to Hippolytus, not only did the priest see his old friend, but he saw his old friend wearing a conical felt cap—the cap of freedom.

Look, Father, he said, even before he said ‘Hello.’ I’m a free man now. And Susanna is free too. Bishop John freed us when he arrived. He said to us ‘The Church shouldn’t own people.’ So he gave us our papers and our freedom.

Then, why are you still here? asked Hippolytus. You could go anywhere.

But where would we go? Susanna and I, we’ve been slaves in this house all our lives. It’s our home now, and so we choose to stay. Come in now. Father Timothy is eager to see you.

Father Timothy lived in the house with the bishop and helped him in his work. Years before, he and Hippolytus had studied together with Bishop Andrew (who had been bishop before John) and learned about being priests together. They had even become priests on the same day and they had been good friends ever since.

Hippolytus found Timothy reading at the heart of the garden courtyard. This had once been a place of ornamental flowers, but now vegetables grew in the garden beds; the scent of rosemary, thyme and oregano came from enormous orange terracotta pots; and cucumbers and grapes hung from vines that grew up on freestanding trellises. Timothy sat in the shade of one of these and his lips were moving as he read the words softly to himself. As Hippolytus approached, he stopped, looked up from his book, and smiled broadly in greeting. Soon they were sitting down together with some fruit and a cool drink and chatting away together as old friends do.

Bishop John did not know when you would he here, explained Timothy. He sent so many letters to lots of different villages where you usually call. One was bound to catch up with you sooner or later. But now he has gone off to see a sick family. He should be back soon.

A whole family?

Yes. It might be the soldiers’ plague that the army brought a few years ago. Or they might just have eaten something bad. Whatever it is, he is with them now, praying for their recovery.

Is that why the bishop asked me here? Does he need help with the sick? I did learn some things in Caesarea that might help.

No, Timothy replied smiling. I think that he has other plans for you, although they might involve your studies in another way.

Years before, even before becoming a priest, Hippolytus had been sent to the great city of Caesarea in Palestine to study with the famous teachers there. He had always been a clever boy, and his parents thought that this would be the best way for him to make his way in the world. What they had not counted on was that one of his teachers would be the notorious Christian professor, Origen. It was through Origen’s teaching that Hippolytus had become a Christian. This disappointed his parents greatly. They had expected great things from their clever son only to find that he had joined a religious group of which they did not approve, and whose membership was, at that time, against the law. Hippolytus had been thrown out by his family and forbidden to return home. The bishop had taken him in, and decided to put his learning to good use by making him a priest.

By now it was the middle of the day, and despite the fruit, Hippolytus’ stomach was growling.

Hearing this Timothy mentioned it was time for the midday meal. Would you like to help me with the lunch? Jacob and Susanna do like to have a little time to themselves in the middle of the day.

Hippolytus and Timothy went off to the kitchen at the back of the house. They put together a collection of fresh fruit and vegetables with bread, cheese and olives on three wooden platters. To these they added a great jug of water with a little wine and carried them all to the dining room. As they sat and waited for the bishop, they caught the hum of bees, the songs of birds and the fragrance of herbs and flowers.

Before too long the bishop came in and, when he saw Hippolytus, he smiled and held out his arms. It was a big smile for he was a large bald man with a fringe of white hair over around a happy round face framed by a white beard, and kind, deep brown, eyes.

Greetings my son. It is good to see you!

Thank you, replied Hippolytus. It is good to be back here in a place that holds so many good memories for me.

Shall we bless the food and eat, and then talk? asked the bishop, but it was not really a question.

And so they did, saying a grace together that they all knew well, and setting to work on the food with the hunger of people who have earned their meal.

None of the men spoke while they ate. This was not just manners. It was also the custom of the house.

After a while, Bishop John, having finished his food, emptied his cup in a long swallow, wiped his lips on his sleeve and said: Well, Father Hippolytus, it’s about time that I told you what all of this is about.

The bishop cleared his throat.

"I have a sister. Her name is Lydia and some years ago, she married a trader named Glaucus from the next town. Our parents were pleased enough with the match except that Glaucus was—is—not of the faith. But he is a clever man, and wealthy. Some years ago during the troubles around the coastlands, Glaucus took himself, my sister and their children, as far away as they could get, in fact as far as Britain. This was not just because these lands were suddenly dangerous, but also because Glaucus could see that there was a good opportunity to make money, importing dyes from here and then exporting dyed cloth to the markets of Gaul.

"Glaucus and Lydia have two children, a boy who would be about nine now and a girl who is a little bit older. Lydia has written to me to ask me to find them a tutor, one who can teach them Greek and Latin, how to speak properly, and so forth. Britain does have such people, but Lydia can find none that meet her requirements. Above all, she wants to find a very rare thing: a clever tutor for her children, who is also of the faith. This is especially important to her because Glaucus remains wedded to the old gods, and she thinks that a Christian teacher in the house will be good for him.

You are one of the few priests under my authority who has a complete classical education, and even studied with one of the great masters, and so I am asking you to go be their tutor. This is not a matter of obedience. I understand if you do not wish to go. I cannot order you to do this, but I am asking you. There it is.

There was a moment’s silence. Then Hippolytus stammered out the only question that he could think to ask: But why me? Surely there are other, better priests whom you can send. There are certainly ones more clever than I am, better presented than I am, and who can make their way around without having to lean on a stick all the time.

But my dear Father Hippolytus, that is exactly why I would like you to go. For years now, you have struggled on foot around the villages and farms of these coastlands. You have walked miles on those poor feet of yours. The Lord only knows what pains you have suffered for the sake of the gospel, just in going from place to place. But there is more. I am not just offering you a place in a house, a fireside to sit by, an opportunity to teach, and an end to your wandering. I am also asking you to take the Gospel of our Lord with you. There are not many of the Kingdom there. Perhaps your coming might bring some more.

Hippolytus was stunned. He had heard of Britain, of course, but never in his life had