Down from the mountains, in the valley of the Tiber, he had kept moving, much like an arrow that had overshot its target. He had no real expectation that Burdo could overtake him. The old man was a drunk, pretentious in his cups, and, although there had been no overt move, not one given to Platonic friendships with younger men. Yet, despite it all, Castricius was glad that he had not killed him.
The balmy breeze stirred some tall blue flowers in the nearest meadow. Soon Castricius would be back in Rome. Sometimes he liked to leave the slums of the Subura, for no better reason than to stroll in the flowerbeds in the Temple of Peace. Rejuvenated, like a man released from the mines, Castricius felt the strong need for a woman. Back in Rome, it would be best if he did not visit Caenis, at least not for a time. He should exercise some self-control. He must find new lodgings, new haunts, a new whore, a whole new identity.
Civil war was coming. Death on the streets of Rome. Most men feared unrest. They were fools. A time of troubles was a time of opportunity. Octavian had shown that here in Perusia. It was the order of nature. Tall plants were cut down to let new ones grow. In his knapsack Castricius had a document that might bring down a friend of Caesar’s. He needed to keep that somewhere secure, needed to keep his nerve.
‘Wine lulls cares to sleep, just as mandrake does with men.’
Burdo was standing above and behind him.
‘The soul will be in a condition to watch while the body sleeps only if moderation has been observed in drinking.’ Castricius admired his own response, calmly quoting Cicero as if at a symposium. ‘How did you get here?’
‘That is no concern of yours.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘A frumentarius, a true frumentarius, has colleagues in every town.’
‘What now?’
‘We carry on our journey to Maximinus.’
Castricius put a hand on his knapsack. So near, so far. But it was not done yet. There were ways out of every maze. ‘All that talk of running and hiding, I was not sure if you were encouraging me, or steeling yourself for the attempt.’
Burdo actually laughed. ‘I took you for an educated youth. It was my attempt at Socratic dialogue.’
Castricius said nothing.
‘Like the sage, I was trying to lead you to the correct conclusion. There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There is no escape.’
Castricius took a sip of his watered wine. ‘Words are slippery things. They mean different things to different people. Even if I had discerned your intent, I would have run. Consider my options. Travel to the north, and make the attempt on Maximinus. There I would be surrounded by many men, all eager to strike me down. Or take off across the Apennines, chased by one man whose orders demand that I remain alive.’ Castricius put down the cup. ‘What if I will not go?’
‘Then I will take you back to Rome in chains, and Menophilus will carry out whatever threats he made which forced you into this position.’
Now Castricius grinned. ‘The cross, the mines, the beasts; he was not specific.’
‘He battered the last Prefect of the City to death with the leg of a chair. Not a man to be trifled with.’
Castricius rested his hands on the knapsack. ‘There is no hope of persuading you?’
‘None.’
‘Pity.’ Castricius drew the concealed sword and lunged up out of the chair.
Burdo was ready. From nowhere he blocked blade with his own.
Castricius feinted a cut to the head, then dropped to one knee, and aimed for the legs. Again Burdo got his sword in the way. Four, five times more Castricius pressed the attack. Every time Burdo was ready. Castricius fought down a sliver of panic. Burdo was a trained swordsman, but he was old and fat. He must tire.
Swarming forward, Castricius unleashed a series of cuts and thrusts to the face. None looked like getting through. Each was blocked by Burdo with minimal effort, with time to spare.
Castricius stepped back, guard up, panting.
‘Maximinus would have killed you anyway,’ Burdo said.
That was it. No need for a guard. Never a riposte. Burdo could not kill him. Castricius thrust, an incautious effort. Burdo knocked the blade wide. Castricius forced himself not to retreat or recover.
The long years of Burdo’s training, the memory in his muscles took over. Without thought, his sword moved to strike, then the frumentarius checked himself. And Castricius drove his own blade into the older man’s stomach.
*
After a time, the pain became a constant. The blood was hot on his clutching hands. The flagstones under him were wet. Burdo was aware of movement. Castricius was bending over him, his hands at his face, putting something in his mouth. A coin. The urine-foul taste of copper.
‘For the ferryman.’ The voice came as if from far away.
Burdo forced himself to speak. ‘Not yet … not dead … not yet.’
‘No, but soon.’
Afterword
Modern scholarship largely has ignored the frumentarii. They have no entry in the latest edition of The Oxford Classical Dictionary (2012). For a recent overview see R.M. Sheldon, Intelligence Activities in Ancient Rome: Trust in the Gods, but Verify (2005), 250-260.
Much of the interior life of Julius Burdo comes from Artemidorus, The Interpretation of Dreams, in the translation by R.J. White (Reprint, Isle of Arran, 1992).
This story explains something that happens offstage in the novel Iron & Rust (2014). The original working title of this story contained a homage to Love and War in the Apennines by Eric Newby (1971), and while writing I drew on that classic several times. The plot, however, is inspired by the great Elmore Leonard’s ‘Three-Ten to Yuma’ (first published in Dime Western Magazine, March 1953).
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About the Author
Dr Harry Sidebottom teaches classical history at the University of Oxford, where he is a lecturer at Lincoln College. He has an international reputation as a scholar, having published widely on ancient warfare, classical art and the cultural history of the Roman Empire.
Iron & Rust is the first book in a major new series, Throne of the Caesars, and follows his acclaimed and bestselling series, Warrior of Rome. He divides his time between Oxford and Newmarket in Suffolk, where he lives with his wife and two sons.
www.harrysidebottom.co.uk
Also by Harry Sidebottom
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The Warrior of Rome Series
Fire in the East
King of Kings
Lion of the Sun
The Caspian Gates
The Wolves of the North
The Amber Road
The Throne of the Caesars Series
Iron & Rust
NON-FICTION
Ancient Warfare
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ttom, Silence & Lies (A Short Story)
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