13

‘You do realise the general was married before ?'

Julia had taken it upon herself to call on Elen most mornings. They were sitting in the courtyard garden sipping mint tea. Gemma was asleep, curled on a cushion at Elen's feet. On this occasion Valeria Valentina had joined them as well.

Elen gave Valeria a startled glance. There had been a tinge of malice in her tone. ‘Of course; his wife died.' She held her breath, almost afraid that the woman would shake her head and deny it, but her guest nodded.

‘Ceindrech. She too was of noble British blood.' She gave Elen a quizzical look. ‘He himself is related to Theodosius, the emperor of the Eastern Empire– you know that, of course– and that should be enough for him, but he told my husband that for some weird reason he wanted to ally himself to the land where he's been posted, to feel he belongs here. Once, not so long ago, it was illegal for officers in the Roman army to marry local girls, but he has turned that ruling on its head.' The infinitesimal pause made it clear the words local girl were intended as a veiled insult, and Elen found herself wondering from where Valeria herself originated. ‘Have you met his children yet?' the woman went on.

Elen ignored the dig at her origins. She was a princess and that trumped any supposed superiority Valeria might feel. She sat up straight. The absence of his children had been worrying her. She saw so little of her husband that when he did come to her bed it had seemed inappropriate to ask him about her -predecessor. She had been too busy enjoying the feel of his body against hers, his strength as he took her, his practised -mastery leading to her final helpless surrender, his kisses, at first fierce and demanding growing more tender as they fell apart in -mutual exhaustion. She replayed Valeria's words in her head. He likes to ally himself to the land , and she felt a chill run down herspine. All she knew was that he had offered his daughter toher brother, an offer that had been rejected. His marriage to her had been the second-best option.

‘Where are his children?'

‘His sons are both in the army. I don't know where they're stationed. I believe his daughter, Flavia, has been married to a local war lord. They must be your age, if not older.' Valeria gave Elen a sideways glance.

Elen clenched her fists in the folds of her stole and took a deep breath. ‘What happened to my husband's first wife?'

‘She became ill,' Julia put in sharply. ‘It was very sad. The best army doctors couldn't save her. She died when they were up north when he was in charge of the frontier forces on the great wall built by the Emperor Hadrian.'

‘So, she went with him on manoeuvres?'

Valeria narrowed her eyes. ‘Officers' wives usually do. Unless they're expecting a child. Then sometimes they remain with relatives if they're near their time.' She reached for her tisane and took a sip.

Elen saw the speculative look the woman had given in the direction of her slim figure and she laughed, unaccountably embarrassed at the implied criticism. ‘We have been married only a few short weeks—'

A few short weeks and yet during that time he had visited her bed relatively seldom, pleading official duties and local manoeuvres training his men, promising when he did come that, as soon as the weather changed and training became more difficult, he would return home to spend more time with her.

Julia smiled. ‘It won't be long, I'm sure, until you find yourself expecting another son for the general.' Another implied criticism. More time. Elen hoped she hadn't blushed. He might not have time to visit her bed often, but when he did it was easy to forgive and forget the long lonely nights. Even the thought of his eyes, intent on hers, signalling as the nights grew dark, that it was time to go to bed, whispering their -private joke about Roman stallions and Silurian mares, laughing -together as he kissed her breasts and teased her for her riding style, made her feel warm and desirable. But, when he was running his hand over her belly, was he too wondering, as probably half the fort was, why she had not conceived? She stood up -abruptly. ‘Thesun is out. Why don't we walk in the herb gardens around the cook house while we have the chance. I would like to seethe new planting and my little dog would much prefer togoforarun.'

Elen was only too pleased when Valeria, obviously bored by Julia's enthralled love of domestic trivialities, changed the subject as they stood in front of one of the new herb beds. She reverted to her favourite topic, which was talking about her travels with her own husband to the distant corners of the empire, even to the courts of the emperors. To Elen's shame, she had not realised there were two. Macsen had found time to explain that much to her. The ruler of the Western Empire, Gratian, had, it appeared, continued the tradition of appointing a co-ruler to manage the sprawling extremities of the vast empire and he had chosen his brother-in-law, Theodosius, to be the emperor of the East. And Theodosius was Macsen's cousin.

‘The general has ambitions, you know,' Valeria murmured as she and Elen walked slowly down the newly laid gravel path between the beds, watching Gemma scamper ahead of them. ‘He will not be satisfied with this posting in Britannia for long.'

Elen watched her thoughtfully. ‘Is that what your husband says?'

Valeria was silent for a few moments. ‘Flavius Magnus is the most senior officer in Britannia, but word is he could do even better elsewhere in the empire,' she replied cautiously. ‘Would that please you? To go abroad?'

‘This is my country,' Elen retorted. ‘Flavius Magnus...' She paused at the unaccustomed use of his proper name, ‘Flavius married me for my status as daughter and heir of the high king. I bring the loyalty of the British tribes to his standard.'

Valeria nodded. ‘He is well aware of that. And values you for it. After all, that was the only reason he married you.' The remark had a cutting edge. ‘So, perhaps he would not expect you to travel with him,' she went on swiftly. ‘If he did go abroad, you could remain here, holding this province safe for him.' Realising Elen was scrutinising her face, she gave a tight smile. ‘My husband is Flavius Magnus's most loyal supporter, you know that, don't you.'

Elen gave a small nod.

‘I love it in the great centres of the empire. Augusta -Treverorum, or Mediolanum or Urbs Aeterna, the centre of the empire itself.' Valeria's eyes sparkled. ‘But for you I suspect it would be unpleasant to go so far from home. You have always lived in Britannia, so maybe it would be better for you to remain here.' Would the woman never stop putting her down? ‘Let him know you would support him, but that you realise that if you did not accompany him but stayed here, your royal status would be undiminished and his would be increased tenfold, just by your presence at home.'

‘Travel does sound exciting.' In spite of herself, Elen could not quite disguise the wistful note in her reply. She had listened transfixed on several occasions now to Valeria's accounts of life in an urban metropolis, where men of learning gathered and politicians argued in the forum.

‘But you would do better to stay here,' Valeria repeated firmly. ‘Especially if you were with child. That is why he's built this house for you in the centre of the most secure fort in the province. He wants to keep you safe.'

But I am not with child.

The words seemed to hover on Elen's lips and Julia, as if -sensing her discomfort, adroitly sought to change the subject with a disapproving glance at her companion. ‘As regards his children, tell him if you want to meet them. It is understand-ablethat you should. If you don't, he has enough tact to -understand that you might find it difficult. Either way, you must speak to him about it. And as for babies, ignore Valeria. There is time enough for that.' Impulsively she tucked her arm through Elen's. ‘I'm sure you know how gossip flies around a fort. You're a new face. You're famous and exciting as the wife of our commander and a princess. Ignore them all.' She glared at Valeria, who sniffed loudly and tossed her head.

In the event the need to talk to Macsen about his children did not arise. Only a few days later a troop of soldiers marched into the fort. At their head was a young officer. With black hair, an aquiline nose and dark eyes, he was the image of his father. Vaulting from his horse he walked into the general's house alone and without ceremony, finding Elen in her favourite retreat in the courtyard by the fountain. ‘So, this is my stepmama. Greetings.' He seized her hand and kissed it. ‘I am Constantine, come all the way from Verulamium to meet you.' He stood back and gave her a formal salute. ‘Forgive me for not being here to greet you when you arrived. We were out chasing a party of insurgents when I heard the news of father's marriage, and the roads are dreadful right across the province. Where is my pater? I assumed he would be at the side of his beautiful bride. Surely he's not gone back to work already?'

Standing up, Elen was pleased to realise she was as tall as he was. ‘Greetings, stepson.' She smiled at last. ‘Forgive me, I was somewhat surprised by your impetuous arrival. Are your brother and sister with you?'

He shook his head. ‘My brother Flavius Victor is stationed at Eboracum and my sister Flavia is with her husband in the south where I have, it seems, a new nephew, another member of the family.'

Elen was taken aback. So these stepchildren of whom she had heard so little and of whom she had become increasingly nervous were indeed established young adults, and at least one of them was as curious about her as she was about them. She relaxed slightly beneath his charm. ‘Then you must represent them all. I am so pleased finally to meet my husband's family.' She turned to the slaves who had been hovering in the background. ‘Will one of you send a message to the general that his son is here and then see we are brought refreshments.' She had managed to collect herself. ‘Sit down, Constantine. Tell me about yourself. You are based in Verulamium, you said?'

‘Only temporarily while the legion is posted there. When my father was made Comes Britanniarum he thought it best I broadened my experience of active service before coming to work for him.' He smiled. He had his father's charm and probably his ambition. He had stooped to pick up Gemma, and was tickling her under the chin.

‘And are you married like your sister?'

He shook his head. ‘It's too soon to settle down.' There was a wicked gleam in his eye. ‘My sister was ready for marriage. My brother and I want to travel.' He put the dog down gently. ‘My father has been to all the corners of the empire. I expect he's told you. He used to tell us stories of his time in Africa and in Gaul and Germania. Even his time fighting the tribes beyond Hadrian's Wall sounds exciting.'

Where your mother died . Elen did not say it. She didn't want tosee the spark fade in the young man's eyes. Nor did she wantto admit that Macsen had told her nothing of his travels, or of his ambitions. But that would change. She felt a wave of indignation sweep through her. In every way but in bed, her husband had been treating her like a child. Now he needed to treat her wholly and completely as his wife.

‘He's a restless spirit,' Macsen said later, a fond grin betraying his affection for his younger son. The young man had chosen to be billeted in the barracks with his men rather than join them in the house, leaving his father and his stepmother to talk over the remains of the wine as they sat out in the courtyard.

‘I'm glad he came.' Elen realised this was almost the first time her husband had sat down with her alone to relax. He rested his arm along the back of the stone bench with a sigh, beckoning a slave forward to refill his goblet. ‘Will you let him travel? It's obviously something he wants to do.'

He nodded. ‘I've great plans for him.'

‘He told me something about your career,' she said thoughtfully. ‘That you've been all over the empire.'

He nodded again.

‘And yet you're content to settle here in its furthest corner.'

‘For now.' He gave her a mischievous grin, the mirror image of his son's. ‘How about you? Do you like the idea of travelling, Elen? Would you like to see the world?'

She nodded. She was beginning to suspect she would like to go anywhere as long as it was at his side.

Cadi dropped her pen and massaged her hands together slowly. Would you like to see the world? Those were the last words she had written. Europe. North Africa. Egypt. The Middle East. Greece. Maybe even the Far East. The Silk Road. And how would Elen have reacted to that suggestion? Cadi was sitting up in bed, the writing pad on her knees. She glanced at the open copy of the Mabinogion lying face down on the bed beside her, and the Oxford History of Roman Britain beyond it, weighing down the bedclothes. She knew the answer of course. It was Rachel who had stated the obvious. Write the poem, her version of the mystical, poetic original, chosen by the bards of old to tell a story that was three quarters legend and perhaps one quarter fact, if that; the poem she was contracted to write, the poem which relied on Rachel's inter-pretation as much as her own. Then as a separate project, look up the known history– which was mainly about Macsen, of course, being a man and a soldier and an emperor. And then look up the many different theories about Helen/Elen, queen, empress, palaeolithic goddess crowned with antlers– difficult to visualise that version– and Christian saint, but only look them up out of interest to see what other people thought. Then close the books, pick up her pen and write the story as it flowed from Elen herself, the story of a dream. But not Macsen's dream; this would -primarily be Elen's dream, the dream she, Cadi, alone, shared with a woman dead for probably some sixteen hundred years. She lay back on the pillows and smiled. She had finally made up her mind. The horrible sense of conflict was resolved. If her story was magically sourced through a wormhole in the middle of a Welsh field, so much the better. That was her secret. How did writers source their novels anyway? Where did their stories come from? Surely this was as likely an inspiration as sitting in a coffee shop with the literary pages in front of her, moulding each sentence into a work of art. She smiled. That last thought was aimed at Arwel, though he would never hear it.