An Unholy Communion Page 3

  And here she was, after a four-hour journey from Yorkshire, standing in one of the busiest train stations in Wales, wondering what was next.

  “Where do we meet this Michael?” She asked as she snapped the clip on her rucksack over her chest. “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “I’m afraid Stephen was a bit vague—I think he was on rather strong pain medication. Tall with dark hair, he said. Mostly he assured me what a reliable driver Michael is—”

  “Driver? I thought we were walking,” Felicity interrupted.

  “We will, but we need a minibus to transport luggage and bedrolls—offer respite to anyone who gets tired, that sort of thing. Anyway, as I was saying, Stephen said Michael would have all the maps and contact information with him…” he paused and sighed. “Which will all be fine once we make contact, of course.”

  Felicity squeezed his arm as they moved out of the line of bustling passengers into the station. “So you feel a bit like you’ve been dropped in the soup, too, do you?”

  He grinned. “I’d feel a lot worse if you weren’t here. I want this to be a really good time for you, Felicity. Thank you so much for agreeing to come.”

  She looked at Antony and barely stopped herself caressing the crease of concern in his wide brow. Concern for the youth he had promised to lead; concern for her. And the love shining from his eyes. How could she not have accepted his plea? Two weeks walking with Antony, working with Antony, just being with Antony. There was no place on earth she would rather be. She shrugged and gave him a little smile. “Whither thou goest…”

  They stood in the middle of the station looking hopefully at each tall male with dark hair, hoping it would be their contact. Felicity felt the tension rise. What if this Michael person didn’t show up? She bit her lip.

  “Father Antony?” A harried young man rushed toward them, looking as relieved to see them as they were to see him. “I was afraid you might not be wearing your collar. Didn’t know how I’d spot you.” They shook hands all around, and Michael picked up Felicity’s bedroll and started toward the door. “I’ve got the others in the minibus. Nancy had an early train from Bristol, but Lydia and Adam’s bus was late, then I thought we were to connect with Colin—his mum is bringing him down from Monmouth—but she rang and said she’d just go straight to Caerleon…” His monologue continued as he led the way to the parking lot at a speed that even long-legged Felicity had trouble keeping up with. She didn’t get any of the names of either people or places, but she assumed it would right itself in time.

  Once their bags were stowed in the back of the large silver vehicle, Michael made the introductions to the three passengers already inside: Lydia, a ruddy-cheeked, auburn-haired young woman with narrow shoulders and more than ample hips; her pale, thin little brother, Adam, and a young woman in the back— Nancy, with nut-brown hair, wide blue eyes and a shy smile.

  Felicity went over their names in her mind: Michael, Lydia, Adam and Nancy. Antony had mentioned that he especially wanted her to look out for Adam who, at thirteen, would not have been allowed on the walk except for the fact that his sister was accompanying them as nurse to look after emergencies and the inevitable blisters.

  As soon as Felicity opened her mouth to return their greetings they wanted to know how an American wound up in the south of Wales preparing for such an adventure, so, omitting more recent events, Felicity spent the drive northward from Newport explaining about her exchange program studying Classics at Keble College, Oxford, that led to her spending a year living with a vicar and her husband in London, teaching Latin at a church school; a year in which the teacher definitely learned more than the students. What she primarily learned was that she didn’t want to be a teacher.

  “And so on Rebecca’s recommendation— she was the vicar I was living with— I went off to the College of the Transfiguration.” The subsequent events of that whirlwind year that had led to her becoming engaged to marry her church history lecturer—she interrupted her thoughts to steal a sideways glance at Antony’s handsome profile— she would leave for another day.

  Nancy leaned forward from her corner in the back. “Just like that? What did your DDO say? How did you get through Selection Conference so fast?”

  Felicity shook her head, feeling her long blonde braid tickle the back of her neck. “It was definitely a case of fools rushing in where angels fear to tread. I just went up and interviewed and signed up. I thought it was like going to grad school in America. I’m afraid I didn’t have enough background to know about such things as Diocesan Directors of Ordinands or selection conferences.” Her own words amazed her to think how rash and innocent she had been in that fairly recent past when she thought she knew everything. “I guess you could say this year has been my ‘discernment process.’” A year ago she had never heard the term.

  They crossed the River Usk on an old stone bridge, followed a curving road into a small village, and pulled up in front of a classical building with four enormous Doric columns supporting a pedimented portico. “You might as well get out here,” Michael said. “Car park’s up the street.” He turned to Antony. “Hope this is all right with you, Father. Father Stephen said you’d want to fill us in on the importance of the Romans here for your history bit, so I thought this would be a good meeting place. When I mentioned it, Colin’s mum said he’s wild about Roman artifacts.”

  “That’s perfect,” Antony replied. “Getting a feel for Roman Britain is important to understanding the first part of our pilgrimage.”

  Before Antony had even paid their admission to the museum, a woman in faded jeans with tired-looking hair hurried to him from the large display room beyond. “Oh, Father Stephen, I’m so glad you’re here. I really must be getting back home. I have younger children, you know. Now, Colin has all his kit and I know he won’t be any trouble, but you will see that he takes his allergy meds, won’t you? He’s so keen on all this, I don’t know if you’ll be able to drag him out. This is really the most wonderful opportunity for him. He’s doing his GCSE in archeology and you know AQA axed its course, so he has to do it all online—”

  At last she paused for breath and Antony managed to get a word in. “Ah, Mrs., er—” He pulled the list of pilgrims’ names from his pocket. “Mrs Warder. I’m Father Antony. Father Stephen has had an accident and I’ll be leading the walk. But I can assure you we’ll take excellent care of your son. You might want to discuss Colin’s medications with our nurse in training.” He turned to Lydia. “This is Lydia Bowen.”

  “Oh, you have trained medical help. How very wise.”

  “Well, almost.” Lydia stepped forward. “I’ve completed the theory work for my nursing diploma. I start my practical placement in a clinic this September. I did bring a well-stocked first aid kit, so I’ll be glad to keep his tablets there if you like.”

  “Oh, no. I don’t want to embarrass him. But you will keep an eye on him, won’t you?” She hurried off to bid her son goodbye. Observing from across the room, Felicity was afraid Mrs Warder might try to kiss him farewell, but the plump, sandy-haired youth was sufficiently enthralled with a glass case displaying iron weapons from the third century that he barely responded. “Look, a real pilum head.” He glanced up. “Oh, yeah. Bye, Mum.”

  As a classicist this was right up Felicity’s alley, too. “Wonderful display, isn’t it?” She peered at the assortment of spearheads in the same case.

  Colin needed little encouragement. “The Second Augustan legion came here in the year 74 and stayed for more than three hundred years. There were around six thousand men stationed here. The fortress was called Isca from the River Usk, but the Welsh called it Caerleon.” He said all that without taking his eyes off the displays as he moved on to survey bits of chain mail and scale armor.

  “Yes, I know,” Felicity said. “Caerleon, a corruption of Castra Legionis, the Fort of the Legion.”

  Colin looked up from the array of armor buckles and tie-loops to regard Felicity open-mouthed. “You know?”
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  “Uh-huh.” She gave a little shrug. “I studied this stuff.”

  “That’s champion.” He responded with a grin that even lit up his freckles, and moved on to the display of letters and writing materials.

  Felicity was as enchanted as Colin. She had long felt that nothing could make one feel so in touch with another age as holding—or in this case, seeing—letters written to family, friends or business associates from people living long ago. It was perhaps as close as one could come to actually hearing a voice from the past. How amazing that these had survived almost two thousand years.

  The case contained a pottery inkwell, an iron stylus, a seal-box and a lead property-marker inscribed “Century of Vibius Proculus” arranged beside a wax tablet like the one on which Vibius Proculus might have written his military reports or letters to his family in Rome. Or they to him, as letters were carried in every direction across all parts of the Empire.

  “Look,” Colin pointed to a crumbling leather pouch. “This once held letters probably sent to a legionnaire stationed here— this is totally cool.”

  Next was a wooden tablet with its ink inscription still readable. Felicity couldn’t make out the words, but the card beside it offered a translation of the account of guards sent to collect the legionaries’ pay and of parties collecting building timber. Nearby displays showed more leather pouches, wooden boxes and clay jars which could have contained similar missives on papyrus or parchment. Felicity tingled to get her hands on such treasures to translate them for herself. She well understood Colin’s enthusiasm.

  “Oh, stop moaning.” Felicity’s thoughts of antiquities were interrupted by Lydia’s sharp rebuke to her brother on the other side of the freestanding display case.

  “But I’m hungry,” Adam persisted.

  “And I’m sure you’re not alone in that,” Antony turned to their youngest pilgrim, who didn’t even look his thirteen years. “I’ve heard a rumor that the chip shop up the road should be open now.”

  The consent was unanimous. They were just leaving the display room when an object in a case in the corner caught Felicity’s eye. She grabbed Antony’s arm. “Look!”

  They bent closer to the protective glass. Antony read the label: “‘Copper alloy hook in the form of a horned serpent.’”

  A chill ran through Felicity. “What does it mean? Why would a hook used to secure the shoulder piece of Roman armor be on a symbol in Hwyl’s hand?”

  “You’re sure it’s the same design? You only saw it for a minute.”

  Felicity closed her eyes, remembering. “It’s the same, only double. See, the hole on the bottom of this one where it attached to the armor—if you had two hooks and placed one hole on top of the other, it would be just the same. It’s burned into my mind. No pun intended. It’s like my mind took a flash photo of it.”

  Antony steered her from the museum. “I’ll ring Nosterfield and let him know, in case it’s of any importance.” But first he gave Felicity a reassuring hug. “Try to put this behind you. You’re here to forget about these things.”

  She tossed her head and lifted her chin as if to defy the fates. “Absolutely. This is another world. Nothing is going to interrupt our idyll.”

  Chapter 4

  Saturday, continued

  Antony’s advice was easy enough to follow a few minutes later when Felicity, who was equally as hungry as the ravenous Adam, bit through the crispy batter into succulent white flakes of fillet of cod. “Mmmm, my favorite food. It was worth immigrating for.”

  Antony paused with a long, crispy chip halfway to his mouth. “Just this?”

  Without even bothering to see if anyone was watching, she leaned over and gave his cheek a quick peck. “All this and heaven, too.”

  “Glad I talked you into coming on the pilgrimage?”

  Her smile was her answer.

  “Right, then, on to the barracks block?” Colin tossed his fish and chips wrapper in the bin. “That is next, isn’t it?”

  Felicity continued to nibble on her chips as they walked up the street past walls covered with flowering clematis and honeysuckle and gardens filled with hydrangea, lupin and geranium. And just behind Felicity, Colin continued his narrative. “The Romans were brilliant organizers. Across the empire, every fort was built on the same plan so when troops were posted to a new location they wouldn’t have to waste time getting oriented. Of course, Britannia was the most troublesome province in all the empire. And the Welsh were the hardest of all to subdue.” Felicity smiled at the ring of pride in his voice. “Caractacus held the Romans off for almost thirty years before they captured him. Then the Romans built a string of fortresses like this one along the border.” Felicity smiled and nodded. That was all that was required of her to qualify as a good audience for the lecture.

  They crossed a street and entered a wide green field ringed with trees. On the far side was a rectangular pattern of stone footings, no more than two feet high. Colin went straight to the information board and read out for any who cared to listen, “These are the only visible remains of a Roman legionary barracks in Europe. At first built around 74 AD, they would have been of timber, but were replaced in stone in the second century.” He studied the rest of the board, then walked through the footings, explaining it all.

  No one else was paying any attention to Colin, so Felicity, fearing his feelings would be hurt, stayed with him as he paced through the ruins. “This would have been the verandah along the front of each building.” They stepped over a low footing. “These smaller outer rooms were for each soldier to store his kit and equipment.” He gestured to what would once have been a wall. “Their shields were enormous, covered the whole body; they must have lined them up along here.” He moved to a larger room at the back. “Eight men would have slept in here. Each building housed a single century—80 to 100 men. Six centuries made a cohort. There were ten cohorts in the legion.” His explanation had taken them to a much more spacious officer’s room at the end of the building, where Antony stood with the others.

  “You’ve really got this down, Colin. You’re going to make an excellent archeologist,” Felicity assured her guide. He beamed.

  “Right now,” Antony addressed the group. “Why don’t you make yourselves as comfortable as you can here?” He indicated they should find seats on the barracks’ foundations. “It’s probably time for me to start earning my keep. I think you all know that I was just supposed to supply the church history background for Father Stephen to use as he led you through the trails of this green and pleasant land.”

  “At least we know it’s green. We hope it’ll be pleasant,” Michael commented to Lydia, sitting beside him.

  Antony smiled and looked around him. “I’m sure you all know of St Alban, England’s first martyr, but you might not be as well acquainted with the next two, Julius and Aaron, although their martyrdoms are recounted together from the chronicler Gildas the Wise by the Venerable Bede.”

  Antony picked up where Colin’s discourse had left off: “It’s quite easy to picture daily life in the Roman army when Aaron and Julius served here in the year 303.” He pointed to the rooms marked by the stone footings. “We don’t know how the legionaries slept in these rooms—bunks seem the most sensible, but beds or mattresses are possible. Latrines were along that wall where the ditches kept the water flowing; soldiers did their own cooking. Their cookpots would probably have hung over fires along that wall, bubbling with porridge or stew. The parade ground and practice field,” he indicated a wide expanse of green, “are these modern playing fields. And the fortress baths were back the way we came, just up the street from the museum. That would have been across the main street from the headquarters— where the church is now.” Again he pointed and heads turned. Felicity took in the green sweep of lawn and the church tower through the trees.

  “Little beyond the fact of their martyrdom is recorded about these comrades who probably came from different parts of the empire—Julius perhaps from Gaul, Aaron probabl
y from Palestine—but their daily life would undoubtedly have been the same as any legionary in the Second Augustan.” Felicity smiled as Antony’s voice took on the familiar ring that told his listeners they were going to hear the story in the you-are-there style that had made him the most popular lecturer in the college.

  At a barked order from the primus Pilus, the cohort was dismissed from drilling on the parade ground to go to the amphitheater for spatha practice. After what seemed like hours spent thrusting and hacking his broad-bladed sword at a wooden practice post while wielding a forty-pound shield, Aaron’s arms ached and his vision blurred. Then finally the “Cohort dismissed” command freed them.

  “Time to make for the baths, I think.” Aaron fell into step with Julius on the way back to their barracks.

  “I’ll meet you in the tepidarium. I want to go by headquarters. I heard that a mail packet arrived. I haven’t heard from my family in months.”

  Aaron cuffed his companion on the arm. “Family, my donkey’s ear. You’re thinking of that dark-eyed Achiella you’re forever boring us all about.”

  Julius just grinned as they stored their kit in the outer room of their barracks.

  Aaron made his way along the Via Pretoria and through the high masonry wall surrounding the tile-roofed bathing complex. He crossed the open courtyard with the long, narrow swimming pool where, even in the chill of the evening, many legionnaires were swimming laps.