To Grasp the Miraculous, AD 593: 607

Vann Turner’s

To Grasp the Miraculous, AD 593 - 607

A Novella of the Dark Ages

To Grasp the Miraculous, AD 593 – 607

Copyright 2020 by Vann Turner

ISBN: 978-1-7357029-1-9

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020918391

Published by Feather Books, Cosby TN

Distributed by Smashwords

This novella completes the Tribonian Trilogy. Each of the books is self-contained without a cliff-hanger at the end.

The three books in the Trilogy are listed below. They may be read in any order, each to powerful effect. But there is a forward thrust throughout the Trilogy. When I wrote the first words of To Forestall (‘Putrid!’ Titus said, sniffing the air and curling his lips in revulsion.), the final scenes of To Grasp (on the cliffs of Scotland) had already been revealed.

To Forestall the Darkness: A Novel of Ancient Rome, AD 589 (pub 2013)

To Abandon Rome, AD 593 (pub 2017)

To Grasp the Miraculous, AD 593 - 607: A Novella of the Dark Ages (pub 2020)

~ Dedication ~

Dedicated to Robert Simmons,

my late husband.

Of course, beloved.

First and foremost.

It could not be otherwise.

Also dedicated to my neighbors,

more than neighbors, friends,

more than friends, family:

Lenny & Susan Croote,

Tony & Starla Myers,

Mike & Lori Roberts.

Thanks, guys!

⁂⁂⁂

Table of Contents

Liber 1, Italia

Chapter 1

Map of Italy

Chapter 9

Ptolemy’s Map of Britannia

Liber 2, Scotia

Chapter 10

Chapter 13

Map of Vicinity around Dundee

Appendices

~ Author’s Remarks ~

~ Biographical Note ~

~ Titles by Vann Turner ~

~ Acknowledgments ~

Epigram

Let dreamers dream

What worlds they please,

Those Edens can't be found.

The sweetest flowers,

The fairest trees

Are grown in solid ground.

We're neither pure, nor wise, nor good.

We'll do the best we know.

We'll build our house and chop our wood

And make our garden grow.

And make our garden grow!

— Leonard Bernstein

— Candide, Act II, Finale

Chapter 1

A Royal Summons

August, AD 593

Lombard guards had provided protection for the malcontents on their journey from Rome toward the Alps. The bedraggled line of refugees — whom the Pope had refused to bless as they set out on their journey — now neared their destination. It was a palatial estate outside Verona in the Lombard Kingdom of Italy.

Titus Tribonius was the first to notice a horseman approaching the refugees at a gallop. He stood up in the wagon and felt Adria grip his left forearm, tightening, her fingernails digging into his flesh.

He raised his arm in signal for the assemblage to stop and simultaneously commanded the Lombard driver to halt. Behind them came an anxious mumbling from those seeking a life free of Rome.

The thuds of the galloping horse got louder while the unsettled mutterings of the fugitives quieted into a somber silence. Anxious eyes watched.

Titus continued to stand as the bearded rider slowed his mount to a walk and repositioned himself in the saddle. The young recruit squared his shoulders, ran fingers through his black hair to smooth it. He straightened his spine to make himself as tall as possible.

A smile played at the corners of Titus’s mouth. In lowered voice he asked, Why, Adria, he’s no older than Boastful, and what’s that? Seventeen? Eighteen?

Eighteen now, she answered.

"Look at that air of importance he’s assumed. This must be his first solo assignment. And so, of course, he needs to put on an air of authority to mimic his elders. So young, Adria! I wonder if I was so full of my own self-importance at that tender age."

At the wagon the young Lombard soldier spewed out in snide voice, "So you are the Roman Consul Titus Tribonius?" There was contempt in the word, you.

Decent Latin, young man, Titus answered.

The soldier suppressed a self-congratulatory snicker.

I was Consul for a short while, Titus continued.

The King demands your attendance!

The King?…Here?…He told me he was taking the Pope’s tribute to his palace in Pavia.

He did. But now he awaits!

Titus assented with a single nod.

Titus, no! Adria protested, then whispered, The King can’t be trusted! Her hand still clutched his forearm. There was a pleading in her green eyes.

He pried Adria’s grip from his arm and with tender strokes caressed her cheek with the back of his finger. Through those years in Rome, he thought, you were at my side protecting me. And you protect me still. His voice to her was gentle: "Adria dearest, you’ve seen the scars on my back. And that gash on my neck? This King did that himself with his own blade. And so when the King Agilulf summons, you attend!"

He squeezed past her knees and with a steadying hand on the wagon jumped to the ground. His eyes sought out Pertinax in the throng. There he was, the tall black man standing beside the mule immediately behind their wagon. He was Titus’s lifelong friend and probable half-brother. Titus called to him, Pertinax, I don’t know how long I’ll be or if I’ll return. So send a runner ahead with two messages. First for the cooks to get busy. Use your best guess as to the number of our new clients. The other is for Hæmon to prepare three rooms — for Adria, Boastful and Barba. He paused briefly. No! Make it four rooms, Aodán too. And if I am not back within the hour, take our new clients home. See if you can get them past the haunted villa before mid-afternoon.

Understood, Titus, Pertinax called back and adjusted the lay of the blue bandana over his head and left eye.

On the ground, Titus turned to address the hundreds following behind. Hear me! His voice was loud, clear, like that of an orator. "There is one danger you will pass along the way. You’ve heard of the Larvae of the vengeful dead? Believe me, the tales are not woven of addled fancy. Larvae are real. The angry ghosts will corrupt your souls and drive you mad. If I am not back within the hour, Pertinax will take you ahead and will again warn you of them as you approach the haunted villa. Heed his words! For your own safety, obey what he tells you!"

Overhead, a single crow, bisecting the crystalline blue, cawed repeatedly to those below. Titus craned his head upward, nodded, then kissed the tips of his fingers, extended his arm and, unfolding his fingers, sent the kiss upward. In words so quiet that breath barely escaped his lips, he said, I’ve not quite mastered your language, Sir Crow. I hope that is a Welcome Home and not a warning. But tell all the others I’ve returned.

Titus approached the horseman, who tossed one end of a lasso toward him that he might place it around his own chest.

With a theatrical show of abject meekness, slowly, Titus bent, picked it up and then with both arms tugged, full force, stepping backward at the same time. The rope flew out of the young guard’s grip and lay on the ground.

I will accompany you! But not like a prisoner! Before the guard could respond, Titus added, Let’s go! and started trotting ahead. From behind him came cheers and jeers from the refugees seeking a safer home in the foothills of the Alps.

Titus glanced back to see a young man dash out of the throng to scavenge the abandoned rope.

The guard, flummoxed, brought his horse alongside Titus and accompanied him at a slow walk.

A hundred yards ahead Titus spied their destination. It had previously been shielded from view by a thicket of fir trees skirted with birch. It was a peaked pavilion erected of royal blue cloth. In front of it nearly a dozen men, standing in a rough circle, were tossing something back and forth while the one in the middle tried to block the toss.

An afternoon of pleasantries, my King? he thought. Once we are settled on the estate — and of course after the harvest is in — we too will have pleasantries. Perhaps there’ll be another carnival. True, my downfall and banishment had stemmed from a carnival, but still my four hundred slaves needed to be set free. And what a riotous time it was! What with the theatrical skits — all of them comedies. The trenchers piled high with food, the tug-o-war games. Men’s teams, women’s teams. Mixed teams! Hilarious! And the kaleidoscope of colors from the freedom caps! Yes, I will host another Saturnalia come Nativity. Yet again, as before, I’ll be circumspect under the dominant religion and will call our Saturnalia a carnival.

Ahead, the circle of men paused their game and all heads looked. Then came a scurrying toward the pavilion, a donning of helmets and a lining up with lances. Four slaves dressed in white attended one of the men.

Titus slowed his trot to a walk. Slow down, Titus said to his guard.

I’m in charge here! he replied.

We must respect our King enough… — He hesitated to catch his breath, bending over, placing hands on knees and breathing deeply. — to give him time to ready himself.

Ja!

Titus resumed his walk, fairly pleased with himself that mid-way through his allotted years — and although he could no longer run — he could still trot.

As they got closer to the pavilion, his strides became stately, measured strides, the strides of a Consul of Rome. When they reached the pavilion, they stopped. By lifting his arms questioningly and raising his eyebrows he sought direction from his guard, who just shrugged. So Titus smoothed his dark wavy hair — just as the young guard had previously done — and at full stature passed unbidden between the troops with their lances.

He entered the pavilion.

⁂⁂⁂

Map of Italy

In AD 593, save for the areas around Rome and Ravenna, the Lombard Kingdom stretched as a conglomeration of Duchies from the Alps through Sicily.

Chapter 2

Royal Threats

The pavilion was open on the sides, providing much light. Only the end was enclosed in blue. There King Agilulf awaited him, seated at the far end on a chair draped in golden silk. He was a full