To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Twenty-one: Sunshine and Shadows

       Carl walked into the courtyard to talk with Rebecca when a wagonload of coal arrived. It was a pathetic load. Two horses drew the wagon, which was less than half full.

       "Look at this, Rebecca. They came over twenty miles, and that's all the poor creatures can haul. I've lived on a ranch, but I can't find the reason. You've lived on a farm. Can you?"

       She peered around the wagon, trying to determine if it was too heavy. Then her infectious giggle turned into laughter.

       "No wonder! Look where they put the harness. It's fixed around the neck with the trace too high. When a horse pulls a load, the harness tightens against its throat, like a noose. The larger the load the more he chokes until he can't pull."

       Rebecca was running her hand inside the horse collar. "All we need is a larger collar dropped over the chest so the cart's weight will rest against the skeleton and drop the trace. A large piece above the shoulders of the horse will act like the shoulders of the ox and distribute weight there as well."

       He looked up at the distant sound of hoof beats. A horse was pounding down the road to the kiln. Soon a courier slid to a halt in front of him, scattering chickens that were pecking in the ground. He saluted.

       "Sir, the sentry at the south post has sent a semaphore. A small group of horsemen from Lord Raphael is making its way to Nottingham. They should arrive by nightfall or perhaps the morning."

       "Call Generals Morius and Brogitarus. I'll meet them in the mansion war room in Nottingham."

       Rebecca no longer galloped to Nottingham because of her pregnancy. As Carl leaped upon Murt, prepared to race through Sherwood, he reached down to kiss her and offer a note of contrition. "Get on that harness as quickly as you can. I'm a fool to have forgotten how important that was in the development of the West."

       As he raced away, she yelled above the sound of hoof beats. "Perhaps Long Reach will be remembered for its farming."

       "More likely" he rejoined, throwing words to the wind, "not at all!"

       After he read Raphael's letter, Carl had the generals bring in a council of officers. He wanted more input from a variety of voices.

       "Four men tried to kill Raphael and his wife last night," he began. "All were killed, some while stealing silver. Can we believe they were just thieves, or is this something King Cunobelin may have tried?"

       Several arguments were raised until Morius spoke. "I have served under the king, if only for a short time. And I have no love of him. But he is a warrior, and I don't believe he would do anything so cowardly. He fights in the open."

       "Good," Carl responded. "Do you all agree that Raphael can stay in Camulodunum safely, if we send a larger guard?"

       Morius spoke for the rest. "I don't believe he is in any danger from Cunobelin, though he should use those guards!"

       "That's what I hoped to hear. He'll stay, but we'll send another squad and have them provide better protection."

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       Carl!" Rebecca's voice pierced the solid oak bedroom door of their new home in Long Reach.

       He raced into the room.

       Rebecca lay writhing in pain, her face bathed in sweat, dark red curls damp against her forehead. It had been a long delivery—contractions every five minutes beginning eight hours ago, now on the minute. There was blood on her body and sheets. And Botula stood with a knife and chicken in hand.

       Botula was a large woman, her hair beginning to grey. Her color was almost pasty, in contrast to the ruddy, tanned appearance of the Coritani women who worked in the fields. But her face was unlined, little affected by the sun, also in contrast to kinfolk.

       She was in a trance, rapidly spinning a chicken as she held it by its claws. Blood, spurting from its severed neck, covered the room, Rebecca, and the sheets. Botula suddenly became aware of Carl's presence and her anger surfaced. She shrieked and told him to leave the room in a dialect he couldn't understand, though he knew what she wanted.

       He was adamant. He should never have left Rebecca.

       With Botula complaining in the background, he cooled Rebecca's brow with cool, purified water. Rebecca had prepared everything carefully beforehand. Sheets specially washed and carefully set aside for use during delivery, water boiled then cooled, and more hot water for wash up. Then there were towels, of a very rough texture, but towels nevertheless, which were prepared for holding the baby. And scissors sterilized for cutting the umbilical cord.

       She had worked with Botula through several deliveries, seeing how she worked and teaching her cleanliness. But Botula had her own mind, and when it came to an emergency like this delayed delivery, she reverted to a time-honored tradition: sacrifice of a chicken and sprinkling of blood on the woman in labor.

       Carl's anger boiled to the surface. He ordered Botula to remove the chicken and to clean up the blood she had spilled. He found other sheets and gently moved Rebecca around, changing the sheets as Botula petulantly cleaned the floor. She scowled at Carl and jabbered in her own dialect, either cursing him or telling him he would be sorry, that Rebecca would have a worse labor because he had broken her spell.

       The contractions increased in intensity. With his lips on her forehead, and his hands tightly wound in hers, he tried to encourage and console her.

       It reminded him of a week ago. Rebecca was approaching her delivery date with equanimity, but as the day drew near she had become increasingly irritated, a reflection of her own concerns.

       Carl had tried to console her then as well, and she had gone off like a rocket. "Don't pamper me, Carl. What do you know about childbirth? I'm the one that's going through this."

       He was taken aback, but had gathered her into his arms, closing her cheek against his chest. Now, as then, the muscles on her neck and back were pulled tight, like a bowstring before release.

       "Relax, relax." He softened his voice. There was a slight relaxation in her muscles. He tried a touch of humor. "Breathe deeply, relax. Give the little bugger lots of oxygen for his final thrust."

       She contracted. "Unhhh! I'll trade places with you."

       "No way. Someone said the human race would have died out before it got started if men had given birth instead of women."

       He watched the lines in her face smooth out.

       "I believe him," he continued. "Men will suffer great pain for great causes, but this is ridiculous."

       "Yes, it is... unhh... ridiculous." Her voice took on a wondering note. "I think it's finally coming."

       "Push!" In Coritani. "Botula, wash your hands again and help."

       Then to Rebecca. "Push, give him a hand."

       "It hurts, oh, it hurts."

       "But once he's out the pain will be gone. Push, breathe deep, push."

       She strained, pain etched her face and beads of sweat gathered on her forehead, and then she trembled and relaxed. Botula held a large baby, covered with blood and grease, reddish hair plastered to its head. It was a boy. She cleaned around his eyes, mouth, and nostrils, then gave him a slight spanking.

       "Waah!" The wail revealed well developed lungs.

       "You've done it, Rebecca. It's a boy."

       "Good, I wondered what you'd say if we'd a girl. You've been calling it 'him' for several minutes."

       "Don't relax now. Keep an eye on Botula to be sure she does everything right. We don't want complications from her unorthodox techniques."

       But Botula knew what to do at this stage, having been carefully coached by Rebecca, and having taken part in hundreds of births. She tied and severed the cord and disposed of the placenta, then washed around the babe's eyes with Rebecca's preparation. Only then did she present to a sore and weary Rebecca a prince, a little man who screwed his face tight, closing his eyes tight against the light of the room. It was 10 March, AD22.

       The next few days were filled with the disorder caused by a new baby in the house, any house, even the mansion. Both Rebecca and Carl noticed the different attitude of the staff, now that Rebecca had given birth to a prince, a successor to the kingdom. It wasn't anything either one could pinpoint, but she was now Mother Queen, and the staff more willingly hastened to do her bidding. The whole kingdom was aroused by the birth of Prince Curtis, a name as alien to them as Carl and Rebecca, but one they gladly accepted. Foreigner or not, Carl was their king, and Curtis was their prince.

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       A letter arrived with a shipment of raw materials early in June AD23, announcing Raphael and Messalina were returning to Long Reach.

       Carl earlier had added a large wing to the Long Reach mansion making it into a duplex. The bedroom, with a large window looking out onto the River Trent, provided privacy for Raphael and Messalina.

       The homecoming was a curious event. Carl and Rebecca embraced Raphael, while a reticent Messalina stood back. Then as Rebecca went to Messalina, she curtsied low to the ground. Rebecca blushed, then reached out and raised her up, hugging her and welcoming her to Nottingham. Messalina was overwhelmed by the welcome, and Raphael was pleased that his beautiful bride was so warmly welcomed by Carl and Rebecca. He had been gone over a year.

       The addition of Curtis had been duly announced throughout the kingdom, so Raphael and Messalina were anxious to see the newcomer.

       "One day," Raphael confided to Carl, "I'll have a child, too. I want to leave something in this time as a mark that I've been here."

       "Don't worry, you'll have a passel of children."

       "Passel? Is that Gaelic?"

       "Ha! I forgot you learned your English from the Brits. No, it's informal western American. It means a large number of children."

       "Two will do, thanks. Just two." Raphael grew reflective. Him, a father. He looked forward to that very much.

       Language was a problem. Raphael had been teaching Messalina English, but since he knew some Greek and she knew Gaelic, they often slipped into a patois that was incomprehensible to anyone but themselves. When the three time travelers spoke English, Messalina was odd person out, though they made every effort to include her.

       Raphael quickly regained control of the finances and administration of the kingdom, but under Carl's constant reminders, he trained those who had managed while he was gone. There were problems with bookwork and records, but a competent Raphael, helped by a careful Messalina, straightened things out and trained the staff more thoroughly.

       Vashi was court adviser and resented Raphael's position of authority, but he never challenged it. Everyone had something to do but Messalina, until Carl noticed her interest in the glassworks.

       "Messalina, Raphael tells me you have experience in working with pottery in Crete and Greece. Is that so?"

       "Yes, my lord." Messalina could not bring herself to call Carl by his name, despite his numerous protestations. She was very much a person of her time.

       "Good" He spoke clearly and deliberately. "There is a fine pottery called porcelain. It requires certain kinds of clays and very high temperatures in a kiln. We can build a kiln that will do the job for you."

       "Job?"

       "We can build a kiln that will get temperatures high enough to make porcelain, if you are willing to experim... eh, to try different temperatures and different clays. Britannia has clays that will make fine porcelain. I know roughly where they are. We can send men to explore and bring back samples. But we need someone who knows fine pottery and is willing to make fine objects from the porcelain and to train others to do so. We can use that for trade with the Romans, although I want you to develop the process so we can produce ceramic devices for transmitting and holding corrosive liquids."

       "I will do the best I can." Messalina made as though to curtsey.

       "Messalina. I know you are taught to bow before a king, but you are married to my top minister, a man I consider a friend, and I want you to consider yourself equal with us. Raphael married you because you are beautiful and intelligent. And we like you very much. Consider yourself one of us, the three of us. When you become more familiar with English we will all be able to be closer friends."

       "Yes, my lord." She had grown to respect her Raphael, but she was smitten with the tall, handsome king who spoke to her so warmly.

       "Good. I will show Raphael what is needed and explain it to him, so he can help you keep track of your experiments. He is very intelligent and understands what needs to be done."

       Carl was aware of the admiration in her eyes and of his own weaknesses. He avoided working closely with women whenever possible because the chemistry was combustible, like putting a hot coal and wood shavings together. The softest breath of wind starts a fire under those conditions. He had planned to work with Messalina himself, until he glanced into her eyes. The last thing he needed were complications with Raphael over his wife, or with Rebecca over Messalina.

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       Gaio had returned with Raphael and had been placed in a new stone building in Nottingham itself. He was perturbed at being isolated from Rebecca and the so-called court, but it freed him to develop his own following with little supervision. Several young men had accompanied him to Nottingham to serve as apprentices. Rebecca often visited them to teach about diseases and how to control them. More than one young man wished he were Gaio. Gaio wished he were Carl.

       Nottingham's mores were different from those of Camulodunum. There was no large court to serve the king, no large group of retainers, lords, and others who lived off the king and his income. Nearly everyone had a job and worked most of the day on that job. So young women did not flock to Gaio as they had in Camulodunum, although he plowed the ground with some of the female peasants who were brought to him for examination and treatment. It was a depressing experience after the fleshpots of Camulodunum, but his two-year leave from Aaron had ended long ago. He had no intention of returning to the trader, which was why he was in Nottingham. Aaron would not dare claim him in Carl's presence.

       One of several Catuvellauni soldiers who enlisted in Nottingham's army was a young soldier who showed exemplary bravery in one of the several incidents that resulted from Carl's efforts to stamp out banditry. His name was Cunovali, and he swore allegiance to Carl and his kingdom. Cunovali was a young officer, one who had made his way through the Catuvellauni ranks by exhibiting bravery, without family or even tribal connections, for he was Dumnonii. He lacked polish and grace and had a hot temper, but he was a superb soldier and leader. And he had a mind that fastened on tactics like a leech.

       Cunovali was wounded in one of the skirmishes, and the wound had not healed properly. Rebecca used some of the new drugs she was gathering from sorcerers and the Druid priests who dabbled in drugs. The drugs were natural medicines, either leaves of plants or fungus. And some of them actually worked, as her careful records showed. She was developing her own pharmacopoeia.

       Cunovali's wound continued to seep. She finally made a small incision in his chest, where she found a suppurating cyst. With Gaio's help, she removed the cyst and placed a small drain to keep it from forming again. Her herbs kept an infection from developing and within a week Cunovali was back to his vibrant, aggressive self. His devotion to Rebecca was doglike. She had cured him, and he owed her his life.

       The pugnacious Dumnonii did not mix well with the other officers, but his quick grasp of tactics was admired, especially by Ort who had been promoted to General with Cunovali serving under him.

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       "Teutius, some of the most difficult commands of Jesus are that we love one another, preferring others above ourselves." Carl was teaching the former Druid something from the gospels, though they technically hadn't been written yet. "In fact, Jesus said, 'He who would be greatest in the kingdom of heaven must be least . . . .' He even told us to help our enemies for in doing so we will heap coals of fire on their heads."

       "What? How can that be?"

       "Good question, that's why I said these are difficult commands. You'll find it hard enough to love other believers, but showing mercy to our enemies is really difficult."

       "What if you are in battle? That will get you killed."

       "Yes, but I suppose he meant 'enemies' in other contexts, you know, Dumnonii or other Druids who may hate our guts, especially yours." Nothing like teaching someone in a different culture Carl thought, to give one perspective on one's own interpretation.

       "I'm not sure I can love my enemy. That's asking too much."

       "Yes, well, Jesus did it and we should try to emulate him. Paul tells us that while we were still enemies with God and deserving of his wrath, he sent his son to die for us, to make peace between us and God. I can't understand it all, I just accept it because Jesus told us to do so. It's a command to his followers, Teutius. That's you and me.

       "Well, it's a hard command to follow." Teutius bowed his head.

       Carl placed his hand on his shoulder. "It is hard. I have great difficulty living up to Jesus' commands, but I still try because of what he's done for us. When we. . .I fail, I can only ask for forgiveness—no sacrifices, no mystery incantations, for God told the Jews—and us—that he didn't want those things. He wanted a clean heart."

       Teutius shifted his feed for a few minutes. "I'll have to think on this."

       "Do, Teutius, and do so for the rest of your life."

       Teutius was leaving the Long Reach mansion when Raphael walked in. He was intimate enough with Carl to be blunt. "What's he doing here?"

       "I'm teaching him the Bible."

       "But Jesus hasn't been crucified yet, has he?"

       "Not yet. I'm trying to emphasize his teaching and miracles, but Teutius' animism of wood spirits and water goddesses make a poor background for understanding an all-powerful yet personal god. I'm beginning to appreciate Paul's missionary problems," he noted with chagrin.

       "How can you teach something that hasn't happened?" I can't teach about Allah. That's for Muhammad to proclaim.

       "It isn't easy—there's a fine line between worship and blasphemy."

       Raphael changed the direction of the subject. "Muhammad proclaimed Jesus as a mighty prophet, but I've read of English clerics who've questioned his very birth."

       "No historian of repute disputes his birth, what they dispute is where, when, and how." He realized what he had said. "No Twenty-first century historian of repute!"

       "You know," Raphael branched into a new subject, "if Christianity didn't have a six-hundred year head start, Islam would have dominated the Western world as well as the Middle East." It was an oft-expressed view.

       "It's possible. Both are missionary-minded. But there's no way of knowing what will happen, especially now, since the West, and not just the Romans, may develop far earlier than either the Arabs or the Chinese. If, in fact, the scientific principle gets started before Christianity spreads, it may affect the development of Christianity in the West."

       He screwed his mouth. "We've unleashed a Genie, and we can't put him back in the bottle."