Cailin nodded. "Why not?" she said. "Last night the doors between the worlds were open. Perhaps not as widely as at Samain, but open nonetheless. I felt my mother would want me to be generous toward Berikos. It is strange, is it not, Ceara? Just a few weeks ago Berikos was strong and vital, the lord of his world. Now he is naught but a weak and sad old man. How quickly the gods render their judgment when they decide that the time has come for it."

"Life is fragile, my child, and appallingly swift, as you will soon find. One day you are filled with the juices of fiery youth and nothing is impossible! Then just as suddenly, you are a dried-up old husk with the same desires, but no will left to accomplish the impossible." She laughed. "You have a little time yet, I think. Go with your man now. Send for me when the child is due. Maeve and I will come to help you."

Cailin took the time to stop by the bench where her grandfather sat in the sunshine of the May morning. She bent to kiss his white head, and taking his hand in hers, gave it a squeeze. "Farewell, Grandfather,'' she said quietly. "I will bring you the child after it is birthed."

She and Wulf returned to their own home, and Cailin, finding more strength in herself than she would have thought, helped to seal the walls of the new barn with mud daub and wattle while Wulf worked in their fields with the servants. It was a good summer, neither too dry, nor too wet. In the orchards the fruit grew round and hung heavy upon the boughs of the trees. The grain ripened slowly while the hay was cut, dried, and finally stored in the barns for the coming winter.

The cattle grew fat, their herds having increased quite sizably that spring with the birth of many calves. In the meadows the sheep had multiplied, too, and shearing time was drawing near. Cailin, sitting outside the hall one warm day, looked across the shimmering fields contentedly. For a moment it appeared as if nothing had changed, and yet everything had changed. It was a different time, and she was beginning to sense it most strongly.

One evening she and Wulf lay upon their backs on the hillside looking up at the stars. "Why do you never mention your family?" she asked him. "I am to bear your child, yet I know nothing of you."

"You are my family," he said, taking her hand in his.

"No!" she persisted. "What of your parents? Did you have brothers and sisters? What has happened to them? Are they in Britain?"

"My father died before I was born," he told her. "My mother died when I was just past two. I remember neither of them. They were young, and I was their only child."

"But who raised you?" she said. She was sorry he had no close relatives, but on the other hand it meant that he was all hers.

"Kin raised me, in my village along a river in Germania. I was passed from one relation to another like a lovable but unwanted animal. They were not unkind, mind you, but life was hard. No one really needed another mouth to feed. I left them when I was thirteen, and joined the legions. I have never been back. This is my land now, my home. You and our child are my family, Cailin. Until I found you, I was alone."

"Until you found me," she told him, "I was alone, too. The gods have been kind to us, Wulf."

"Aye," he agreed, and looking up, they saw a falling star blazing its way across the heavens.


***

A slave came from Anthony Porcius one day with a message. Antonia had gone into labor, and the magistrate was at a loss. He wrote that Antonia's women seemed helpless; although they should not be, Cailin thought. He begged that Cailin come to the villa to aid them. Wulf Ironfist was not happy about it, but Cailin did not think in light of the magistrate's kindness to them that she could refuse.

"We will pad the cart out, and I will travel in complete comfort," she told her husband. "Our child is not due for another few weeks. Even if we go slowly, I can be there by day's end."

Anthony Porcius was grateful when Cailin arrived. Antonia was still in labor and was having great difficulty. "She sent all the women who had always been with her away after Quintus's death, and replaced them with a group of fluttery girls. I do not understand why," he told Cailin, answering her unspoken question.

"It probably had something to do with making a new start," Cailin suggested. "Perhaps the other women, who were with her when she was married to Sextus Scipio and to my cousin, made her sad. They were only reminders of all she had lost, of better times now gone."

"Perhaps you are right, Cailin Drusus," he answered.

"You have asked me to come, and I came," Cailin replied, "but how will Antonia feel about my presence? I will help her, of course, but I am no expert. Why did she have no midwife among her staff?"

He shrugged helplessly. "I do not know."

"I have never birthed a child before, Anthony Porcius, but I know what must be done. Antonia will be able to help me, for this is her fourth child. Take me to her."

When they reached Antonia's quarters, they found her alone, her maidens having fled. Glimpsing her father's companion, Antonia's blue eyes flashed angrily for a moment, but hiding her ire, she said, "Why have you come, Cailin Drusus?"

"Your father called me to help you, though the truth is you know more about birthing a child than I do. Still, I will do what I can, Antonia. Your young women seem very helpless."

Antonia whimpered as a contraction tore through her, but she nodded. "You were good to come," she answered grudgingly.

The child, who came shortly afterward, was born dead, the cord wrapped about its little neck. It was a boy, and quite blue in color. Cailin wept openly with sadness at Antonia's misfortune. Though she had detested her cousin Quintus, she knew that Antonia had loved him greatly. Loving Wulf as she did, Cailin could but imagine Antonia's deep sadness at losing the posthumous son of Quintus Drusus.

Antonia, however, was dry-eyed. "It is better," she said fatalistically. "My poor little Marius is now with the gods, with his father." She sighed dramatically.

Quintus is hardly with the gods, Cailin thought sourly, as Anthony Porcius attempted to comfort his daughter. "I will stay the night and return home on the morrow," Cailin told them, wincing just slightly as she felt a mild cramp in her belly. She started nervously.


"What is it?" Antonia, sharp-eyed, demanded.

"Just a twinge," Cailin told her with more self-assurance than she was actually feeling. She hated being here, and the morning could not come quickly enough for her.

"Do not leave me so quickly, Cailin Drusus," Antonia pleaded. "Stay with me a few days, at least until my initial sorrow is past. You are no use to that handsome husband of yours in your present condition. Bide with me a little bit. I will wager you would enjoy soaking in my baths. You have no such amenities in your hall, I believe."

Cailin considered Antonia's tempting offer. She really wanted to go home; frankly, Antonia made her uncomfortable now. If she had any real sorrow over the loss of her poor little son, there was none that Cailin could see. What kind of a woman was she? Still, her pleading tone seemed genuine, and the offer of the baths was an enticing one. Cailin did not mind the more primitive life she was living, except for one thing. She really did miss the baths, with their hypocaust heating system, that had been in her family's old villa. It had been well over a year since she had had the luxury of a long, hot soak. It would be nice to remain for a short while to indulge this familiar luxury.

"Well," she said, "I'll stay, Antonia, but only for two or three days." Then she wrapped the tiny corpse in a swaddling cloth and removed it for proper burial, sending Antonia's silly maidens back in to attend to their mistress's needs.

Their mistress hardly noticed them. She was too busy plotting. She had seen the spasm that had crossed Cailin's face. Was it possible the girl was going into an early labor? Or perhaps she had miscalculated the time of her child's arrival. Antonia Porcius knew she would never again have such an opportunity for revenge, and she wanted that revenge badly. If Cailin would deliver her child here, alone, and without her Saxon husband, then both Wulf Ironfist's wife and child would be at her mercy. Oh, Quintus, she thought. Help me to avenge your unjust death at the hands of that barbarian. Let me make him suffer as I have suffered! Why should he be happy when I am not?

"You are very good to stay with Antonia," Anthony Porcius said to Cailin that evening as they shared a meal. "This tragedy could not have come at a worse time for me. I have found a buyer for my house in Corinium. I mean to remain here with Antonia, as she is widowed. There are few young men about now, and she may not have the opportunity to marry again. My grandson will need a man's influence. If Antonia does remarry one day, no good son-in-law would refuse me my place in this house. And though she will not admit it, I think my daughter needs me."

"You need to travel to Corinium shortly?" Cailin guessed.

"Yes, I do, my dear. I have let my home run down a bit in the years since Antonia first married Sextus Scipio. I was alone, and it really didn't matter to me then. Now, however, I must make several repairs before the new owners will agree to my price. They wish to take possession as soon as possible. I am lucky to have found buyers at all in these hard times. I plan to oversee the work personally, so I will have to be away for several weeks. I know you cannot stay with Antonia all that time, but if you will visit with her for just the next few days, it will help her to overcome her sorrow." He smiled fondly, seeing his daughter as no one else certainly did. "She indulges little Quintus far too much," he confided, "and without me, there is no discipline at all."