Jack Whyte - The Singing Sword

He nodded, his face troubled. "Yes, I do," he muttered, his mood changing instantly. He shook his head regretfully. "She still hasn't recovered from the deaths of the children, has she? And it's been, what? Four years?"

I thought for a while before answering his question. "Yes, it's been four years, and no, she hasn't really recovered, Cay, not deep down inside. I don't think she ever will... She blames herself — still thinks she was the cause. And she can't forgive herself for not having seen things developing sooner. She really believes she should have been able to prevent it."

"But that's nonsense!"

"Of course it is, I know that... we all do, even Luceiia, most of the time. Thank God for that, at least. But once in a while, she changes back to the way she was just after the children died... something sets her back, reminding her... and it usually happens when she hears about some child being mistreated or falling sick."

We sat in silence for long moments, each of us remembering.

During the long winter of the year in which I had killed Claudius Seneca, a withering sickness had swept through our lands. Its onset had been like the normal winter sniffles, but this illness was a killer, developing into high fevers, congested lungs, muscular spasms and paralysis. Very young children and old people seemed to lack the strength to resist it, and in our region alone scores of them died. Our household had been among the first hit, and Luceiia had convinced herself that she was responsible for bringing the contagion back from a journey she had made into Aquae Sulis shortly before the outbreak.

Three of our four daughters caught the sickness, and the two eldest, Victoria and Rebecca, born a mere eleven months apart, had died of it, Victoria mere days before her ninth birthday. Veronica, our third child, had just turned six at the time, and we thought for a while that we were going to lose her, too. But she survived, and the following year, she and her younger sister, Lucilla, were joined by another, Dorathea, our "gift from God" when one was most needed. Veronica, now our eldest, had been named after her aunt, Veronica Varo — wife to Quintus Varo, Cay's brother-in-law — who had been the first woman to welcome me on my arrival in the west, the year I fled from the wrath of the Senecas.

"Apparently," I resumed, picking up the thread of the conversation, "Lignus mistreats his children. That's what set her off in this instance. She suspects him of incest with his daughters. And of course, apart from that, she is worried about the rash of thefts that has broken out lately. Theft was unheard of around here until just very recently, and I understand her concern. Now all those things are worrisome, Cay, but I would hardly say they represent anarchy."

"Wrong, Publius. They all do. Each of them and all of them are symptoms of what I am talking about." He heaved a short, gusty sigh of frustration. "Don't you see? It's all part of what we're supposed to be preparing for, Publius — the breakup. The armies have deserted this part of Britain, for all intents and purposes. The garrisons are gone, to Londinium and Venta and Lindum, because that's where they're needed to hold off the enemy. The enemy is increasing in numbers and in ferocity from all directions, and the supply of reinforcements to us from overseas is nil! Every able-bodied soldier is on full alert — non-stop active duty. The military administration can't afford to leave domestic forces in non-priority locations, so they've pulled out the smaller, local and provincial garrisons and sent them where they'll be put to best use. That's fine, and it's sensible, and it's inevitable, but... but, Publius, there is one additional, unprecedented fact involved here: when the garrisons leave the provincial centres, for whatever reason, the machinery for enforcement of the law leaves with them."

I blinked and gazed at him, saying nothing, and he continued.

"The magistrates still rule, in name, but without the military they have no means of enforcement. Can't you see that?"

I considered it for a few moments and then shrugged. It seemed to me he was making too much out of a temporary inconvenience, so my response was dismissive.

"No, not really. Criminals are still being transported to where they can be punished, just as they've always been, aren't they?"

His response to that was scornful. "Criminals! We're not talking about criminals, here, Publius, we're talking about ordinary people who commit minor transgressions. Tax evasions, civil contempt, common assault, unruly gatherings, public drunkenness — that's where the rot sets in. Murderers and arsonists will still go under escort for punishment to the nearest military base, but the smaller, petty offenders are going unpunished and unchallenged, because it's simply too much trouble to check them.

"In direct consequence, the boundaries between right and wrong are being blurred. The emphasis — even among the ordinary, common people — is changing from 'Don't do that, or you'll be punished,' to 'Don't get caught doing that...' That represents a major change in people's attitudes, Publius, and hand in hand with it walks corruption. Judges and magistrates begin to take bribes. Some always have, but they were held in some kind of restraint in the past by the presence of the army. I had a letter on the subject from an old friend in Aquae Sulis. The situation there is disastrous. There are armed factions springing up in several places around the town, ostensibly organized to augment the military forces there in an ongoing war against a highly organized band of brigands. These brigands have become so bold, and the military forces in Aquae are so powerless against them, that people are in fear of their lives from day to day. They have no certainty of justice. They no longer have redress for any wrongdoing they suffer."

"Wait, Caius, wait." He subsided, and I bit my lip, choosing my words carefully. "I don't doubt what your friend tells you is true, but that's in Aquae Sulis."

"It's happening elsewhere, too."

"I'm sure it is, but what bearing does that have on us here, in the Colony? I don't see the connection. Isn't that why we are here? To isolate ourselves from the rest of the country and the dissolution that's bound to come when everything breaks down?"

"Of course it is, but no isolation can ever be complete, Publius. Our people still have contact with the outside world. And what we are discussing is an attitude. It's an abstraction, but it is all-pervasive, and it is beginning to affect us here in our sanctuary. We are sinking into lawlessness."

I still thought he was over-reacting, but I had no doubt of his sincerity. "Lawlessness," I responded, "that's a big word, Cay, and I don't think things are that serious. You said yourself it's only now beginning to concern you here."

"That's true, I did. So?"

"So what?"

"So what are you suggesting?"

He had taken me by surprise again. "Me? I'm not suggesting anything. Or if I am, I suppose it's that we should do something about it, find some way of stopping it."

"I see." His enigmatic smile was back in place. "And how does one stop lawlessness?"

I blinked at him, suddenly beginning to sense where this was leading, and becoming aware of an urgent need to consider seriously what I was saying. "By making new laws, I suppose... to replace the old ones."

"Exactly. And you don't think that's dangerous?" His smile was wider now but there was no humour in it.

I was nonplussed, unsure of my footing, conscious of deep waters ahead of me. "Dangerous? Not particularly. What's so dangerous about it?"

"Tell me, Publius, what's the difference between a rule, a regulation and a law?"

He had me floundering now, and I couldn't answer him because I didn't know the difference. I shrugged and he took pity on me, his mirthless smile intact as he continued.