“I wish I had come sooner, sir.”
From up in the oak tree there was a cry of “There you are!” and Branan scrambled down to where the dog was waiting for him.
Ruso glanced across the yard and saw Enica watching her son from the porch. “Your eye looks even worse today!” Branan exclaimed. “Come and show everybody.”
Chapter 75
Just a small affair, Tilla had said. Just the family and a few friends. The roar that went up as he arrived made him wonder if he had come to the wrong place. Perhaps there was a cockfight going on in there somewhere. Branan gave him a push and whispered, “Go on!”
The air inside the house was vibrant with cheering and heavy with the smell of smoke and wet wool and beer and pork crackling. There were people sitting on skins around the hearth with their knees jammed into other people’s backs, and human shapes filled all the space back into the darkness behind the wicker screens.
Ruso was led forward to sit next to Tilla on the bench with the tickly fur, which had been moved nearer to Senecio’s chair. Tilla was pink-faced with the heat and unusually demure in a pale green dress he was fairly sure he hadn’t seen before. Her hair was swept up into some sort of complicated knot and adorned with what he at first thought were large spiders but turned out to be flowers. Maybe the poppy was still affecting him.
“Mostly family,” she whispered, in answer to his question. “Just a few neighbors.”
Ruso gazed round at the unfamiliar faces and foresaw a lot of You must remember them: You met them at our wedding conversations.
“The friends are yours,” she added.
Someone handed him a brimming cup of beer and said, “Pass it on.” As his eyes adjusted to the poor light he could make out Aemilia and her husband. Conn and the other people from the farm. Virana sitting awkwardly next to Ria. Enica by the door, where she could see if Branan tried to leave. He thought he recognized the baker from outside the fort, and then, over by the wall, behind all these natives, he found himself looking at Accius and Daminius with Gallus from the hospital, standing upright in full parade kit and looking deeply uncomfortable. Daminius in particular looked as though he would rather be almost anywhere else. Ruso assumed Tilla had invited him by way of apology for whatever had happened last night, but it might have been kinder to leave him alone. Fabius, he supposed, was too ill to leave the fort.
Senecio heaved himself to his feet almost unnoticed and said, “Friends!” This brought on a chorus of “Shh!” and “Stop shushing, we can’t hear!”
“Friends,” he said, indicating the bride, “this is my precious daughter, Darlughdacha, whom the gods have sent home to me at last. She is even more beautiful and brave than her mother, so already we have enjoyed several arguments.” He paused to let the laughter die away. “This is Gaius Petreius Ruso, a man of great courage who brought our son back to us. His people and his farm are far across the sea in the south of Gaul. We welcome him into our family.”
There was movement over by the door, with more people crowding in and a loud whisper in Latin: “Sorry we’re late. You know how long women take to get ready.”
Ruso, spying a true friend, stood and beckoned Valens over. Serena, stouter than Ruso remembered, picked her way between the seated guests with obvious distaste. She accepted a beer cup from a grinning native with buckteeth and wild hair and passed it straight on. Ruso wondered if he should thank her for the money.
The next part was as long and tedious as only a Briton—or a politician—could have made it. As Senecio sang the history of Tilla’s people from the time they had descended from the gods, Ruso found himself watching the progress of the beer and willing it to come round again. Even Serena relented and took a sip before passing it on. While the locals cheered at the mention of each familiar character, he felt himself starting to nod off.
He was woken by a painful elbow in the ribs. “It is your turn!” Tilla hissed.
“What?”
“Thank him for the beautiful verse about us and tell the story of your people and how we met.”
Everyone was looking at him. “Me?” he whispered. “Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I did! You said yes!”
It was Tilla who spoke up. “His people do not sing their story,” she explained. “They write things down instead.”
“Perhaps he will read it to us,” suggested Senecio.
Bride and groom exchanged glances. She said, “He has not brought the writing with him.”
There was a faint murmur of disapproval.
“That is the problem with writing.” The old man shook his head, apparently in pity for the simpletons who had to rely upon the work of pens and styluses. “It has to be carried, and is very easily left behind.”