The Baby and the Battlefield

Chapter Fifty: Marcus comes Home

When he first saw the house, Marcus’ heart fluttered. That was his home, below them in the valley, with its creamy plastered walls and the rust-coloured tiles on the roof. It had been two days and two nights of near-constant travel after they left the Coubin pass, but finally, they had arrived. From here on the hill he could see the kitchen garden beyond the walls, and the cypresses that surrounded the perfect rectangular pool in the courtyard. He had played there as a child, with his siblings. He had fallen – or been pushed – into that pool more times than he could count. Yes, upon seeing the house and the river sparkling silver beyond it, his heart had leapt. But then it had sunk, just as rapidly, when the figure trundling a two-wheeled barrow in the garden resolved itself into a man Marcus recognised. A man not far past middle age, grey haired and growing thick in the waist, wearing a cloak against the crisp breeze. His father. His father whom he must tell about Gaius’ death.

Mulberry watched Marcus carefully. He had grinned broadly, gesturing towards the building in the valley down below, and he had been on the verge of telling her something when he suddenly fell quiet, his expression darkening. A blue butterfly lazily drifted through the air, apparently ignorant of the cold breeze, making drunken circles around Marcus' head. Marcus seemed not to notice. Mulberry supposed this was his home, then, and they were finally on the outskirts of the town of Aurausia.

The house was, of course, not what she expected. She had been picturing a house like her father’s, all dark wood and pale beige plaster, peaked roofs ending in sweeping eves that overhung deep porch ledges. Or perhaps she had pictured the tents of the migratory tribes, like the one she had lived in as a married woman, thick dark felt and soft beds. Instead, what met her eyes was one of those oddly solid buildings the people of the empire were so fond of, rectangles of fired brick faced with creamy plaster. When she had first gone to live in her husband’s tents, she had felt both claustrophobic and exposed, choked by the dark, scratchy felt, yet not protected from the elements. She wondered if Marcus’ home would make her feel secure again, like she had as a child in her father’s house. In a moment, Marcus tugged on the bridle of the bay, then climbed up on Petro's chestnut. Mulberry kicked her own mount into action, Aurelia giggling on her back as the horse flew into motion, knowing its way home, now.

At the gate, the doorman was chained to the door, to Mulberry’s shock. A handful of servants, all slaves, took the horses and the baggage and would have taken the baby too, if Mulberry didn’t keep hold of her, tightly. The servants helped Marcus from his armour, and then a woman pulled Mulberry into the house and down a dark corridor, and she saw him no more.

Marcus allowed them to take his things, his armour, his child. But he kept with him the small urn with the wax seal. He hugged its close, smelling the sweet spicy scent of incense trapped in the wax, and heavy-hearted, went to meet his father.