by Jack Ludlow
‘You didn’t come here just to tell me that Clodius is dead,’ said Dabo.
Flaccus, who had also spun in the saddle to watch Aquila’s flight, turned back to face the owner of the farm, treating him to a humourless smile. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Such an unfriendly way of talking,’ said Flaccus, his head weaving so that he could include the band of ruffians in his thoughts. ‘What a way to greet an old comrade. Decent type would have invited me in for a drink by now and told my mates to water and feed their horses.’ He fixed Dabo with an icy stare. ‘You are a decent type, ain’t you?’
Dabo looked at Flaccus long and hard, weighing up the odds. This grizzled centurion could make trouble for him even if the war was over, the legions disbanded and Clodius dead. What he had done was wrong and he could be punished if it was reported to a praetor, never mind the land tax-gatherer. Dabo then examined the band of men Flaccus had brought with him. Each one wore a different type of armour, tailored to the skill they had at their particular form of fighting, but the helmets and breastplates had one thing in common: judging by the dents and scratches, they had taken a pounding. Unshaven, scarred and filthy from their time on the road, it did not take much of an imagination to realise the obvious: this fellow would not need to go to a magistrate to upset things; he had enough trouble, right here with him, to ruin Dabo’s life for good.
‘There’s drink a’plenty in the trough. If you water your horses, I’ll see to some feed.’
‘And my men?’
Dabo looked at them again and shuddered slightly. He would not be able to fob this lot off with polenta or bread and cheese. ‘I’ve been meaning to roast a pig for weeks. Tonight will do as good as any.’
Flaccus grinned and raised his voice. ‘Hear that, lads. Roast suckling pig for supper and I bet old Dabo here has an underground store full of good strong wine.’
Dabo nodded, advancing towards Flaccus as he made to dismount. He spoke urgently but softly, interposing his body so that the others could not hear. ‘I might have been shy of goin’ last time, but I was a soldier once, an’ a damn good one. I can still use sword and spear, so if anybody on this farm loses so much as a hair on their head, your men might ride out of here, but you’ll not.’
Flaccus leant down and pushed his face close to Dabo’s. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you turd. If I give the word this lot’ll tear you limb from limb. You push out the boat, you hear, or I’ll leave your pretty little farm looking like the ruins of Carthage.’
Dabo tried to stare Flaccus down but there was no question of who was tougher. As his eyes dropped the centurion finished speaking. ‘I’ll do you one favour, Dabo. I’ll let you send your womenfolk away for the night. I wouldn’t want them around when my lot are full of drink.’
Flaccus could hear his men snoring in the barn and he was a good fifty paces away in an unfinished part of the house. They had eaten well – the dying embers in the courtyard pit still gave off a slight odour of the pork fat that had dripped into the ash – and drunk better, full to the brim with that grain concoction so loved by the late Clodius Terentius, the same stuff that had got him drunk enough on the night he agreed to depute for Dabo. He lay with his eyes closed, turning over in his mind what to do about Dabo, Sicily, Toger, Barbinus and his dreams of untold wealth, each thought chasing the other. It was not a sound that made him open his eyes, just a feeling that he was not alone. The boy stood, the dog beside him, framed by the moonlight from the unfinished window. He had a tall spear, too big for him, upright in his hand, so Flaccus began to reach for his sword.
‘You’ll be dead before you get it knee high.’ The voice was cracked and deep, not the voice of an adult yet, very much the sound of a boy turning into a man. ‘Minca here will take out your throat.’
‘Don’t be so sure, lad, he’s nothing compared to the wolves I’ve seen off.’
‘I want to know how he died,’ Aquila demanded.
Flaccus did not like being talked to like that, unused to it as he was, so he growled his reply. ‘How the hell should I know, I wasn’t there.’
The tip of the spear came down, but the voice didn’t change. ‘I don’t mean that.’
Flaccus was tense, wondering, unlikely as it seemed, if the boy might kill him. The dog was much more dangerous, of course, but he often found that a dog got confused if you attacked, instead of waiting for the animal to have a go at you. He considered doing that now, weighing the odds, then he realised the drink he had consumed was making him aggressive. There was no need for this. What was the point of assuming the worst? The boy just wanted to know how his Papa had died. Flaccus could tell him what he knew and if the situation still seemed dangerous after that, then he would be forced to do something about it. But first he had to get the boy to relax.
‘Tell me about your Papa, boy. I only knew him as a soldier.’
So Aquila did tell him what he remembered, not much, being only three at the time; a kind soul ground down by his labours, yet who always had time for a swim or a game. And he also told him, without adding too much more, that Clodius was not his real father.
Having told the tale several times, not least to Lucius Falerius Nerva and Titus Cornelius, Flaccus had honed it to perfection, but to this boy, he had to say more, to explain why a senatorial commission had been sent to Illyricum in the first place, though he did not include the fact that he had gained from the depredations of the governor they had come to investigate. Vegetius Flaminus always made sure some of his illicit gains came the way of his inferior officers. Nor was he going to admit that Clodius was forever after him for leave, requests which Flaccus turned down because the legionary had no money to pay his centurion for the privilege.
‘He was a good soldier, though, as tough as old boots,’ Flaccus said, not sure if he was telling the truth. He had never seen Clodius in a proper fight, only marching his daily twenty miles or working like a slave, digging ditches or raising fences so that Vegetius Flaminus could charge for his labour. That was a man he was happy to damn.
‘Bein’ a proconsul is a sure way to make a mint, lad, but this Vegetius I was talking about was another case altogether. He would steal your eyes then come back for the holes and having a province that was not at peace suited him just fine ’cause he could justify more taxes for defence. Mind, he pocketed that then charged the farmers and mine owners for soldiers to protect them.’
He had charged them for fieldworks and irrigation schemes as well, ending up with a legion that was better trained for labouring than fighting, but Flaccus decided to leave that out too.
‘When the commission arrived it was led by a real soldier’s soldier, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, and he was a man who hated corruption. Easy for him mind, he was the richest man in Rome after he conquered Macedonia.’
‘Where’s Macedonia?’
‘Do you know where Greece is, lad?’
‘No.’
‘Then there ain’t much point in trying to tell you where Macedonia is, and that don’t matter anyway. This Aulus made Vegetius shake in his boots, stopped all the little swindles the governor was up to, got the legions out after the rebels and had the whole place at peace in three months.’
‘I really only care how Clodius died.’
‘I’m comin’ to that, boy, but it don’t make sense if’n you don’t know what led up to what happened.’
Flaccus related how, after the news came of a revolt to the south, Aulus had sent him off in command of a cohort to reconnoitre the ground. For the ex-centurion this was a painful segment to recall; not only had they watched Roman soldiers and another proconsul called Publius Trebonius being hacked to death by rebels, that was the night he and Clodius had come close to getting their hands on Publius’s treasury, in a wagon well away from the place where the killing was taking place. Close, but not close enough. They had emptied the strongbox and buried the gold but when they returned the next day, with Aulus Cornelius leading i
n person, the sacks they had taken and buried, a mint of money, had disappeared. All they found was a heap of hacked-about Roman bodies.
‘Yet Aulus was not content. Said it weren’t right so south and south we went, running if you don’t mind, with the general out in front, though we stopped when we saw what we were going to have to fight. Turned out we was facing an army, not a band of rebels, thousands of the sods, Illyrians and Dacians from over the border, all heading north, so Aulus Cornelius decided to fall back and hold the pass at Thralaxas. Then he sent me back to bring up more soldiers. Trouble was that slimy bastard Vegetius Flaminus wasn’t havin’ any of it and with Aulus Cornelius out ahead with the advanced guard there was no one to give him orders.’
That was an uncomfortable memory for Flaccus, the recollection of his standing before Vegetius, filthy, tired and hungry, while the governor quaffed wine and ate grapes, certain in the knowledge that there was nothing he could say or do to effect any change in the man’s intentions.
‘The men that Aulus had couldn’t hold the place, not enough of ’em, and Vegetius knew that, so he was as good as condemning them to death. So, when no reinforcements appeared, they fought a delaying action then got off as many as could still run. Clodius weren’t one of them, nor was the great Macedonicus and death was the price they paid. Hard to know whether the general was a fool or not, lad.’
Flaccus was sitting up now, while a glum Aquila was slumped by the window, with his back to the damp wall, the spear and Minca by his feet. ‘He relied on another man to do his duty. Vegetius didn’t, and they all died for it.’
‘Will this Vegetius be punished?’
Flaccus laughed softly. ‘Punished. He’s been voted a triumph from what I’ve heard, lad, with the thanks of the Senate. Shouldn’t have been, mind. He didn’t kill enough Dacians to warrant the award, so the bastard slaughtered a few thousand of the Illyrian locals and called them Dacians to make up the numbers. Made himself a lot of money into the bargain. Those he didn’t kill he sold into slavery.’
‘Perhaps I should kill this Vegetius.’
‘I’d wait till you’re a bit older. For now, till your fields and breed youngsters of your own.’
‘I don’t till fields!’ said Aquila sharply.
‘What the hell d’you do then?’
‘I do what I like. It was no part of the bargain that I should work in Dabo’s fields.’
‘That won’t last, then. Your Papa’s dead.’
Aquila’s hand rubbed the leather amulet on his right arm, a constant reminder of the circumstances of his birth. ‘I told you, he’s not my real father.’
‘Makes no difference to me, lad. Now I’m tired, so why don’t you take your dog off to bed and let me get some sleep.’
‘What age can I join the legions?’
Flaccus yawned and stretched, before lying back down on his cot. ‘You’ve got a few years yet. Time to get yourself enough property to qualify. Maybe they’ll call on Dabo again.’
‘I’m not staying here.’
Flaccus yawned. ‘Then go away.’
‘I heard one of your men say you’re going to Sicily.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Will you take me with you?’
‘Not on your life. Now piss off.’
‘I’m not responsible for money Clodius Terentius lost gamblin’,’ Dabo insisted.
Flaccus gave him a wolfish grin. ‘The person I played dice with was listed in the century roll as Piscius Dabo.’
‘So what?’
‘So that’s the fellow who lost and owes me money.’
Dabo stood up and banged his fist on the table, then walked towards the window where he could see Flaccus’s men saddling their horses in the early morning light. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You come barging in here like bandits, helping yourselves to my food, my oats, my water and my wine, without even so much as a copper ass offered in payment. Then you have the damn cheek to ask me to pay that numskull Clodius’s debts.’
‘Someone has to pay ’em and since you have the right handle I reckon it’s you.’
‘Well I’m damned if I know how I’m to do it.’
‘Perhaps if we re-light the fire and strap you to the same spit we roasted that pig on last night you’ll think of a way.’
Dabo saw Aquila emerge from the byre. He stood watching Flaccus’s men, the dog by his side. ‘You got as much chance of getting coin out of me as you have out of Clodius.’
Flaccus had stood up, unseen by Dabo, and walked up behind him. He grabbed the farmer’s shoulders and spun him round, pinning him against the wall by the throat. ‘Is that right?’
‘I’ve got no coin,’ croaked Dabo. ‘Even if I wanted to pay you, I can’t.’
Flaccus banged Dabo’s head painfully against the wall. ‘You shit. You send another man to do your duty then sit here getting fat while the vultures feed off his gizzard. What did you shell out for that, a few vegetables and some corn, with the odd suggestion that a wife with a husband so far away might like another to warm her bed?’
Dabo was looking at him wide-eyed, mostly due to pain, but partly wondering how he knew about the suggestions he had made to Fulmina. ‘The boy told me all about you, Dabo. I don’t think you deserve to live.’
‘The boy. Take the boy,’ Dabo gasped.
‘What do I want with a lad like him?’
‘He’s good at hunting. Put him near a forest and you’ll never be without meat in your pot.’
‘I’ll have as much meat as I like, shit!’
‘Then put him to work in the fields. He’s mine now, as good as my own son. I’ll flog you him in debt bondage. Then you can do with him what you like. Sell him to a Greek brothel for all I care. With that hair he’ll fetch a mint.’
Flaccus rammed Dabo’s head against the wall again and the farmer’s eyes and mouth opened wide with the pain. ‘Killing you would be a pleasure, but I don’t think you’re worth the trouble it would cause me. You’d best thank the Gods I asked a lot of people how to get here. If I’d not provided so many witnesses to who I was after, I’d string you up to the nearest tree.’
The ex-centurion’s knee drove hard into Dabo’s groin just as he let him go and the farmer slid down the wall, doubled over in pain, to be kicked as he rolled over onto his side and finally he was spat on. After a final curse Flaccus walked out into the cool sunlit morning, where his ruffians, having saddled the horses, stood waiting for him, with Aquila watching them in silence. The ex-centurion mounted up, hauled round the animal’s head and walked it over.
‘Does the turd that owns this place have a horse?’ Aquila nodded. ‘Then saddle it up, boy. You’ve got no future here. Your guardian just offered to sell you to me. I won’t buy you, even to sell on. Clodius wasn’t the best soldier in the world, but he did his duty and so shall I. I’m heading south on the Via Appia. You can come with me if you can catch us.’
Flaccus hauled round his horse’s head and cantered out of the courtyard. Aquila wasn’t looking; he was in the byre saddling Dabo’s ploughing mare.
Drisia, an old soothsayer hated by Clodius, stood by the roadway. She had been a confidant of Fulmina and many’s the time she had cast her bones or spat some concoction onto the dry earth floor of the hut to read the signs that she insisted only she could interpret. Flaccus and his men came by and she had a more frightening effect on the horses than Minca. They all shied and had to be forced past her and when Flaccus caught a whiff of her stink, he understood why. She opened her mouth and let out an unholy cackle, then threw a handful of fresh corn over him. He looked back to see her still laughing, rattling one hand around in a bag at her waist, the other pointed straight at him. Flaccus brushed the corn husks off his saddle and kicked his horse hard to get it moving.
The boy, now with a spear strapped to his back, rode by Drisia a few moments later, hurrying to catch up with the men ahead. The old crone hissed at him with a toothless wheeze, and uttered that one word she used, after the death of
Fulmina, whenever he had been unfortunate enough to cross her path.
‘Rome!’
CHAPTER SIX
Marcellus rose before cockcrow, knowing the entire household was in for a busy day. He had barely finished dressing when the summons came, so he hurried to the study, not in the least surprised to find his father already surrounded by scribes and up to his elbows in work. He waited patiently while the business was concluded and once the men who attended on him had gone, he was invited to sit opposite, preparatory to another of their talks on the state of Rome and the nature of politics.
‘It has been my wish that you should be privy to my thinking, Marcellus.’
The boy composed his face in an attitude of seeming attentiveness that he had learnt early in life. From the moment when Lucius had considered him capable of reasoning, he had included his son in some aspects of his ideas, and as time had passed that had become more complex. He was now treated as a trusted ear, perhaps the only person in Rome with whom his father was truly open. Lucius insisted that if Marcellus was to come upon his inheritance and the power he now wielded, then he must know both how it had been acquired as well as the methods by which it was exercised.
These sessions had once been something to look forward to, a time when such talks had been used as a means of teaching Marcellus Roman history, occasionally talking about the ancient books of prophecies sold to Tarquinus Superbus by the Sybil at Cumae, incomplete, because the Sybil had offered them to the Roman king for a fortune in gold. When he declined to pay she burnt half the books and offered him the remainder at the same price. Another refusal led to another burning and finally Tarquinus paid the price demanded for a quarter of what he could have had in the beginning. Lucius had seen them, and even copied some out, so father and son had spent many a happy hour trying to make sense of the riddles the remaining books contained, as well as speculating on what was missing. That all seemed distant now; Lucius had long given up both on that and his history lectures in favour of dissertations on the day-to-day state of Roman politics, while his son had long since given up saying thank you for what he considered a burden.
