* * *
When Pyp returned, Brennus was kindling a fire in the small hearth. “Lad, wat do you mean to do?”
Wiping his running nose on his grubby tunic, he answered, “I must return to Portus Tarrus.”
Brennus blanched. “You have just run away from there. Even if my aunt Nuala had not loved you, I would still not send a boy back to that place.”
“But my mother is still there,” Pyp maintained staunchly.
“I’ll say no more, but pass the night in my house at least. You can set out tomorrow. There will be plenty of folk heading into Portus Tarrus for the market. What difference will one more boy make?”
After Brennus laid out blankets for him in front of the fire, Pyp lay down but could not fall asleep for some time. Finally, as the moon rose, Pyp’s eyelids lowered and he was soon fast asleep, dreaming of stealing a brightly checked shawl from Nuala to cover the brittle fingers of a large looming tree…
Roused before dawn by Brennus, Pyp attempted to rub the sleep from his eyes. Clumsily, he clambered out of the pallet, wrapping the blankets about his shoulders. He shivered slightly; despite the warmth of the hearth, the cottage was cold in the winter air.
Brennus forced a worn leather satchel in Pyp’s hands. “I have spoken to a carter who has agreed to take you to the outskirts of town. You will have to find your way in yourself. Can you do that?
Pyp nodded and after completing morning rituals like breakfast and other less savory necessities, Pyp was led out by Brennus. Taking Pyp’s hand, Brennus navigated the dark woods expertly. They tramped through the lightless forest, through mud which squelched uncomfortably through Pyp’s sandals, until they found the paved road. The faint morning stars suddenly blossomed overhead through a jagged cut of sky between the branches overhead. Pyp fancied he heard the sound of unseasonable thunder far ahead. Thoughts of that were wiped away when the pound of hoofbeats on earth broke through the cool night air. To be safe, Brennus tugged Pyp to the side of the road.
A familiar voice cut through the dark. “I am here as agreed.”
Pyp, with Brennus at his side, climbed out of their hidey-hole. To Pyp’s surprise it was the man who had given Pyp a ride before but then had disappeared at Nuala’s door. Pyp’s heart stopped at the thought of Nuala, but after that small falter, it began again. The old man sat in his cart with his horses, quite serendipitously and proud as an emperor to boot.
Pyp bounded to him, the sudden excitement causing alertness to beat through his veins. “Where did you disappear off to?” he asked. “Like magic.” He snapped his fingers.
The driver placed rough blankets beside him on the bench. Pyp easily swung himself up beside the driver and nested himself comfortably.
“Not like magic at all,” said the driver. “I had somewhere I needed to be that I had forgotten. Where do you need to be, young master?”
“Portus Tarrus,” replied Pyp excitedly. To him, all of a sudden, this story of his had taken a proper and exhilarating twist and this nighttime dash only added to the thrill of it all. They were going to be heroic rescuers like Theseus and Ariadne as they had saved those Minoan youths from the Minotaur. He bounced in his seat anxiously and looked down at the red-haired man from his perch.
“Thank you, Brennus. I’m afraid I can’t repay your kindness yet, but I will not forget your name or what you have done for me.”
Swinging the checkered cloak from his shoulders, Brennus chuckled, “I ask that if you are caught you do forget my name. Here, take this cloak. Stay warm and safe.” Brennus tied the cape around Pyp’s neck. “Good bye Pyp of Portus Tarrus. May the gods help you in your endeavors.”
“And you, Brennus of Gaul,” Pyp replied solemnly as Brennus receded into the woods and disappeared from sight.
The white-haired driver shook his reins and the rhythmic steps of the horses began. “We should come to Portus Tarrus soon after the sun rises. These horses of mine make excellent speed.” In response to the praise, they tossed their golden manes proudly.
That pair lived up to their approval, and once they found the Roman Road, they galloped over it so fast that at a point, Pyp found the sky and forest fuzzing most unusually. Pyp thought they would have been better suited to chariots than carting around an old man and his load. He faded in and out of sleep. Throughout the ride, the man hummed an unusual tune, and Pyp discovered he felt as though he had rested for a week and the realization Nuala’s death, his father’s death, was a healing bruise on his heart. Indeed, even the air, which had been chilly before, now seemed warm and comforting.
Time whipped by him, more furiously than the wind cutting through the horses’ manes. As the sun’s ascensions approached, they arrived at the outskirts of Portus Tarrus. To Pyp’s starved eyes, sight of the city was like being fed a deliciously sweet honey cake, that was just warm enough and the honey dribbled down, leaving a sticky trail in its wake. In the city, activity stirred with the promise of light.
“I leave you here,” announced the old man, his blue eyes as clear as the sky. “Good luck in the trials. Remember, stick to your course.”
Pyp wondered where he had heard that before as he clambered out of the wagon, grabbing the satchel and cloak. When Pyp turned to thank the man for his help, he was nowhere to be seen. Pyp shrugged. He did not blame the man for wishing to be rid of Pyp as quickly as he could. Now, Pyp considered how to return to the villa.
Dawn light had begun to break but instead of the expected pure white light, it was weak, fruitlessly combating the dark and serving only to reveal a multitude of heavy, murky clouds. The sight surprised Pyp immensely. Pyp recalled observing the stars when they set out but upon consideration, he could not remember seeing the stars when they reached within a mile of Portus Tarrus. A winter storm to be sure—the worst sort. Even the ocean, which should have been calm so early in the morning, seemed shadowy and ready to heave its contents.
Pyp hurried as furtively as he could to a wooded spot, which had the luck of having a straight view of the door to the cellar. Here, the brambly crisscross of branches hid him in their bare embrace. Not too far from the city itself, this location presented the very real danger of discovery by some individual who could turn Pyp in to Avaritus for a tidy profit.
“Flora should be coming at any moment,” Pyp whispered aloud, unaware of any of these possibilities. “What shall I do?”
Pyp spied Flora’s vibrant red head bobbing up the horizon. “There. There she is.”
He waited until Flora slipped into the cellar with the platter of food to follow her. Trying to press through the crack in the door, he saw his mother standing proudly and erect receiving the food from Flora like an offering to a goddess.
With Flora thus occupied, Pyp lightly stepped on the steps, praying they would not creak. One. Two. Threefourfive. Just as Pyp released his held breath, the step beneath him emitted a betraying creak.
Flora’s head whipped around. “What was that?” Pyp pressed himself against the wall, willing himself to become invisible.
Olympia spoke for the first time, and Pyp’s heart leaped at the sound of his mother’s voice. “Nothing, Flora. The wind.” He knew she had seen him.
Shrugging, Flora turned away and Olympia chattered loudly as Pyp flew down the stairs, hiding in the expansive shadows and trying to suppress his breath. Holding tightly to the railing, Pyp attempted to walk down the final steps quietly, but his efforts were to no avail. The stair creaked again traitorously and this time Flora could not miss the sight of him at the foot of the steps, illuminated by a thin shaft of light.
“What?” Flora gasped on shock but before she could do much else, Olympia wrenched the platter from Flora’s hands and brought it down over her head with a resounding crack.
“Oh my Pyp!” Olympia exclaimed, reaching out to embrace her son with a regretful look at the fallen woman. “Where have you been? What were you thinking?”
When Pyp opened his mouth, Olympia stopped him. “First, let us leave thi
s unsightly place and then we will see what we will do, and you will answer for your behavior,” Olympia added through gritted teeth, roughly shaking the boy.
As Olympia turned to help Pyp out of the cellar, she heard a grim, rough voice that nearly sprang her out of her skin.
“Well, what is then? The escaping wife of a proconsul?”
CHAPTER XXI