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been proud of him.
    Sadness tugged at Gratillonius. He left the atrium, went down a corridor to the west wing, and opened a door he knew well. Behind it was a room Julia had used for sewing and such-like lady’s work. And for prayer. Her husband let her have a fish and Chi Rho painted on a wall. Before them each day, until a fever took her off, she humbly called on her Christ.
    Gratillonius’s free hand stroked the air where her head would have been were she sitting there. ‘I loved you, mother,’ he whispered. ‘If only I’d known how to show it.’
    Maybe she had understood anyway. Or maybe she now did in whatever afterworld had received her.
    Gratillonius shook himself, scowled, and went out. He wanted to inspect the kitchen and larder. That wasn’t supposed to be any concern of his. But every soldier developed a highly practical interest in grub. Though supper had been fine, what were ordinary meals like, in this house where they couldn’t pay to fuel the furnace? Gratillonius meant to make sure that his father was eating adequately, if perhaps frugally.
    He should have looked into that on earlier visits. Even before he enlisted he was aware of a pinch that strengthened year by year. But his awareness was only peripheral, as stoic as his father was and as lost as he himself was in his dreams of Una, the lightfoot and golden-haired – until she perforce married elsewhere, and he flung himself into the army – She no longer haunted him, much. He should have become more thoughtful of his own kindred.
    Yet regardless of Isca’s nearness, his appearances here had been infrequent, the last one three years back. And they had been short. He’d spent most of his furlough time ranging the Silurian hills, forests, remote settlements where men were friendly and girls friendlier; or else he’d be off to the baths and frivolities of Aquae Sulis, or as far afield as smoky Londinium. The recollection hurt him, on what might well be his last sight of home and these people, hurt him both with guilt and with a sense of having squandered a treasure.
    When he had finished his tour, the sky showed wan through glass. The cook and the housekeeper yawned their way forth, too sleepy to greet him. He could forgive that in the former, who had been here longer than he could recall, but the latter was a young slattern. Gratillonius considered giving her a tongue-lashing for insolence. He decided against it. She would merely be the surlier after he was gone. Besides, maybe she was the best Marcus could find. The older man had bespoken a dearth of good help. Not only was the countryside population dwindling as small farms were swallowed up by plantations or abandoned altogether by owners whom taxes and weak markets had ruined. Those folk who stayed were generally bound by law to the soil, and serfs seldom raised their children to much pride of workmanship.
    As he re-entered the atrium, Gratillonius met his father coming from upstairs, and was especially filial in hissalutation. ‘Good morning,’ replied Marcus. ‘I hope you slept well. Your old bed is one thing I’ve managed to keep.’
    Touched, Gaius gave him a close regard. The dawnlight showed a face and form resembling his own; but Marcus’s hair was grey, his countenance furrowed, the once powerful body gaunt and stoop-shouldered. Thank you, sir,’ Gaius said. ‘Could we talk today … privately?’
    ‘Of course. You’ll want a walk around the place anyway. First, though, our duties, and next our breakfast.’
    They went forth together on to the verandah, sought its eastern end, lifted arms and voices to Mithras as the sun rose. It stirred Gaius more than rites in a temple commonly did. He paid his respects to the God and tried to live by the Law, because that was upright, soldierly, everything this man at his side – and this man’s stern father, once – had tried to make him become. But he was not fervent about it. Here, somehow, a feeling of sanctity took him, as if