The Sword of Revenge r-2

by Jack Ludlow

  Claudia was still shocked, seeing in Valeria’s flushed cheeks and in her eyes a gleam that was disconcerting. She knew that the Trebonii were lax in the way they raised their children, but she could not believe that they had allowed their daughter to attend on such an occasion.

  ‘And you were there?’

  That brought some of the shrew back to Valeria’s face, and a level of bitterness to her voice. ‘No. But Gaius was permitted to attend. I had to eavesdrop to hear anything.’

  It seemed pointless to observe that what she had done was both impious and wrong; besides, it was no part of her duty to rebuke someone else’s child. Not that she got the chance; the excitement had returned to Valeria’s face and her voice had a breathless quality, as she recounted what she had heard. ‘All the women were raped, of course, long before they hacked grandfather to death. They couldn’t find any trace of him, you know, so we had to make a death-mask from memory. Then the rebels piled the bodies up in a heap. Flaccus said that they had laid them together, men and women, as if they were…’

  Valeria faltered there, not sure which word to use, but Claudia had the distinct impression that, in her excited state, she had been about to blaspheme, and only collected herself just in time.

  ‘I cannot imagine what makes you say you wish you’d been there!’

  Valeria put a hand on Claudia’s arm, pressing down to make her point. ‘But don’t you see, it would bring the stories alive.’

  ‘What stories?’

  ‘Those written by Posidonius, about the tribesmen in the Alpine mountains. He’s a good historian and he tells you lots about the Celts and their customs, but he leaves out so much about what really takes place.’

  ‘Like mass rape and men hacked to pieces.’

  If Claudia hoped for a reasoned response from the girl, she was disappointed; Valeria nodded emphatically. ‘Can you imagine what it must be like, to fight and spill blood, to kill a man standing before he kills you, to be wounded and bleed, or watch a man burn alive in a wicker cage?’

  ‘No, thank the Gods,’ replied Claudia, standing up, clearly upset. ‘And if I were you, young lady, I’d turn my mind to gentler visions.’

  Valeria grinned at Claudia’s elegant back as she walked away. She still admired her and had not set out to upset the older woman, but it gave her a thrill of pleasure to have done so, even if it had been an unconscious act. The cries from outside, where the boys were playing, caught her ears. That broadened the grin as she went out to watch, promising, as it did, even more mischief.

  The ball flew from one hand to another as the players skipped and leapt about. It never spent as much as a second in any palm, being caught and immediately thrown to someone else as the watching girls squealed with delight and called eagerly to their favourites. Marcellus caught the hard leather ball in his hand, spun on his heel and threw it underhand to Gaius Trebonius, wrong-footing him completely since he had moved to cover the obvious possibility of an overhead throw. He corkscrewed in mid-air as he sought to leap backwards, while still moving forwards, and his fingertips touched the ball, but he could not hold it and it flew past him to land in the dust. Gaius did likewise, landing heavily and painfully on his hip.

  ‘He got you that time, Gaius,’ shouted Publius Calvinus.

  Marcellus had already moved to help him up, enquiring if he had hurt himself. The other boy’s face was screwed up in pain, having come down on earth baked hard by the sun, but he shook his head nonetheless; he would never hear the end of it if he admitted to feeling pain. Marcellus dusted him off as he balanced on his good leg, then walked over to fetch the ball, which had landed at the feet of Gaius’s sister, Valeria, though she had made no attempt to pick it up.

  Marcellus’s lower belly turned over as he looked at her, which made him feel ridiculous; he had known and disliked her all his life, yet something had happened to that gawky pest who had always contrived to ruin their boyish games. She had suddenly filled out and her face, with her hair dressed on this formal occasion, looked somehow different. As he bent to pick up the ball, his nose detected the scent of her body and he found himself staring at the outline of her long legs, easily visible through the material of her fine woollen dress, his eyes inexorably drawn up towards the vee at the top.

  Marcellus stood up suddenly, mentally shaking himself; it was only Valeria dressed up. Indifference would re-surface the moment he saw her in normal clothing, with her hair around her shoulder, but that thought could not be held as he looked into her eyes. She was smiling slightly, and her nosed twitched a fraction, while even her lips seemed to have effected a change, being more full and inviting. Or was it just that she was smiling, given that she normally stuck her tongue out at him.

  ‘I’m sorry if I hurt your brother,’ he said, wondering why he had bothered to speak.

  ‘Who cares about brothers?’ She moved her hand across the front of her dress, a move which drew his eyes. Her smile broadened as she saw how his look lingered at the sight of her pubescent breasts, pushing against the fine material.

  ‘Come on, Marcellus,’ shouted Publius. ‘If you don’t hurry we’ll award you a default.’

  Marcellus turned quickly and threw the ball hard at Gnaeus, which was taken smoothly and aimed above the head of the still wounded Gaius, who ignored the pain in his hip and jumped to catch it. The ball was halfway back to Marcellus before he had got his good foot back on the ground. It was not hard; Gaius could not throw with much force from such a position, so it was all the more amazing that he, the best ball player of them all, missed it completely. He smiled weakly at such a silly mistake, then made a rude gesture in response to the farting sound that Publius sent in his direction.

  Valeria raised her fingers to her nose, as if she was trying to contain the odour of fresh sweat, which had lingered after Marcellus had walked away.

  ‘It is too soon, I grant you, but it is something that must happen.’

  ‘Marriage,’ replied Marcellus, aghast.

  ‘Why does that sound so strange, boy?’ asked Lucius. ‘Have you never heard of such a thing?’

  ‘It’s just that I’ve never considered it.’

  ‘It is not for you to consider,’ Lucius insisted, ‘it is for me to decide.’

  Lucius had been drinking, more than was good for him, unusual in so abstemious a man and it was easy to understand why. The leader of the Optimates had, to his mind, pulled off a most telling coup. By attaching Vegetius and his clients to his cause, without at the same time losing Cornelii support, Lucius had guaranteed himself an unassailable majority in the Senate, something well worth celebrating. But it was the presence of all the wives and daughters at his house, adding to the atmosphere, that had led the conversation to this point.

  ‘Still,’ he said, with a slight bow, ‘it would be interesting to hear if you have any suggestions.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘It’s very simple, Marcellus. We have more power, especially after today, than anyone in Rome, so we do not require to form alliances to increase it.’

  ‘Money?’ asked his son.

  Lucius nodded. ‘Is always handy, provided the family is of the right stock. You understand, Marcellus, that though I inherited a decent estate, I have given my life over to the pursuit of political goals, staying here in Rome for that purpose. Therefore, lesser men have been able to line their pockets with military conquests, or provincial governorships, in a way denied to me.’

  ‘Do we lack money?’

  ‘Let us say that we have a fortune in need of repair. Therefore you must marry someone who has a great deal of wealth, but no power. They will be grateful for that which we confer on them, the Falerii name alone is something, and we can take a massive dowry, which will ensure that the family maintains its leading position in Roman society.’

  Marcellus, who had had a few cups of wine himself, could smell Valeria’s scent in his nostrils and as he conjured up a vision of her, standing before him, he felt his b
lood begin to race. ‘Are the Trebonius family wealthy?’

  Lucius actually hooted with laughter, his neck stretched out to make him look like a newly hatched fledgling demanding food. ‘No, they’re not, and it wouldn’t matter anyway. The Trebonii have been noble for less than two hundred years. I might countenance a step down for a good dowry, but I won’t go that far.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cholon was tired, hot and dusty; drawn curtains could not keep either the heat or the filth out of his litter. He looked at the scroll on his knees for the hundredth time, praying that he would arrive in Aprilium soon. Many of the men who had died at Thralaxas had come from this region, so the box at his feet was full of silver denarii. The first part of his task would be simple; he had sent a message ahead to the local praetor, asking him to arrange for the relatives of those dead men who had lived close to the town to assemble and await his arrival. That would take care of most of the contents and please the bearers who had had to transport him and his treasure. After that he would deposit the remaining funds at the local temple of the Goddess Roma, then take a tour through the region, hoping to find the dependants of the others on his list. Each would be given a token that, along with proof of their identity, would qualify them for their share of the bequest.

  Lying back, he tried to forget the heat, allowing the jogging of his chair to send him into a dream-like state. He had been on the road for weeks now, first to the north of Rome, now heading south. It was so good, no longer being a slave. Odd that the Republic put so much store by the aura of citizenship, yet they allowed any slave freed by a Roman to automatically assume the same rights as his late master. Aulus had left him with more than enough to live in comfort, though he would have given it all back if he could, just to have that man to serve. It was not to be and once this task was over he would have to find a new way of filling his time.

  Relations with Claudia had not blossomed immediately, despite her plea that they should be friends, but they had improved, especially when they shared an equal rage at Quintus’s behaviour. Claudia was as close to disowning her stepson as Cholon was to poisoning him, a fitting end to someone who was prepared to embrace his father’s murderer. Titus, sickened by what he had witnessed, had gone back to Spain as soon as he decently could, leaving behind what he termed ‘the stink of Roman politics’. Cholon half-wondered if, when this task was complete, he might not depart himself, perhaps to Biaie, which was by the sea and by all accounts a very idyllic place, more Greek than Roman. Eyes closed and curtains drawn, he knew they had arrived in Aprilium just by the babble of voices he heard through the curtain, so he put aside thoughts of a villa overlooking the sea, of the plays and poetry he would write, bringing his mind back to the present and the task in hand.

  If the journey to Aprilium had been bad, this was worse. The first part of his route had been on a proper road, the Via Appia, now he was being ferried along badly maintained cart tracks; fine for a horse, passable for a cart, but worse than useless for a litter carried by four stumbling bearers. Finally, having been tossed about quite enough, he alighted from the chair and walked, looking over fields of crops and pasture to the mountains which dominated the eastern skyline, rising in ever-increasing ridges all the way to the centre of Italy.

  The praetor in Aprilium had been most obliging; all the farmers on Cholon’s list were Roman citizens, liable for land tax just as they were liable for service, so the directions he had been given were fairly comprehensive. The men had been exempt during their service, but now they were dead, their relatives would have to find the means to satisfy the needs of the Roman state. The praetor had avoided saying it, but he fully expected most of the money that Cholon was distributing to end up in his municipal coffers.

  He and his now-empty litter had to leave the track to make way for a cart, laden with vegetables, the mule being pulled along by a bent old crone, with dirty white hair, spiked and unkempt, her face burnt near black by years spent in the sun. Cholon took the opportunity to check his directions, though he took care not to get downwind of her. The old woman stopped at his bidding, and in the way of country folk seemed to chew upon the question.

  ‘My he’s getting popular,’ she wheezed, grinning and exposing her toothless gums. ‘He had a whole lot of visitors the other day. Not that he had cause to welcome them.’ She laughed then, though the sound was more of a cackle, her bony frame shaking with the effort. ‘Happen he won’t welcome you after what they did.’

  ‘The fellow I’m looking for is dead,’ said Cholon, ignoring the logicality of that remark. ‘He has a son of the same name, I assume?’ She did not reply, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, while her bony hand reached into a pouch on her side. Cholon felt that this old woman could close up, for country folk did not like authority and with his decorated litter and his fine clothes he might look very much like some authoritarian figure. ‘I assure you that his family will welcome me. I bear a bequest coming to them from a very famous man, a reward for his service in the legions.’

  If he thought she had been amused before, it was as nothing to the state she was reduced to following that remark. Her eyes opened wide, a great gush of fetid air escaped from her open mouth, and the sound she made, a single screech, seemed to echo off the surrounding hills. Another followed and the mule, frightened, shied away, but the halter was firmly held and the animal received a mighty slap. Then she bent double, her hands clutching her sides, gasping for breath through her gums, her spiky hair flopping about as she tried to get some air and she kept repeating the words he had used each time she stopped laughing enough to draw breath:

  ‘Service…legions…bequest…’

  Cholon looked round at his bearers to see if they could offer any enlightenment but they looked equally bemused, so there was nothing to do but wait for the crone to recover. Eventually her breathing grew more regular, her hand rubbing her aching ribs as she slowly returned to normality, until finally she looked Cholon in the eye.

  ‘Turds float, friend, an’ if you ever doubted it, you’ll stand convinced when you meet your man. All used to laugh at him, sayin’ that he would be a knight an’ all. Happen they was wrong.’

  Cholon was still confused. ‘You’ve yet to furnish me with proper directions.’

  The old woman pulled out a handful of bones and threw them at the ground. What she saw there made her quiver and she fixed him with a beady eye, which suddenly seemed full of anger and hate. ‘You can’t miss it, man. Keep on this track till you see a new villa going up, three sided and a portico, like a proper gent’s. That’s Dabo’s place.’ He stood aside to let her pass and she started laughing again, though softly this time, repeating the same litany. ‘Service…legions…bequest. I’ll wait here for you, Greek. Be sure and come to me on your way back. Me and my bones have a message for you.’

  Cholon pushed past angrily, barely giving the bones spread out on the track a second’s glance. They were clearly an attempt to solicit a payment for some specious form of rustic fortune telling. He was near the farm, too late to turn back and ask, before it struck him: he was dressed as a Roman nobleman and had spoken in proper Latin. How had the old creature known he was Greek?

  ‘What does that look like to you?’ asked Mellio, from his vantage point on Dabo’s roof, one hand pointing into the distance.

  Balbus stood upright, a red tile still in his hand, shaded his eyes and followed Mellio’s pointed finger, examining the litter as it approached, then he turned his attention to Cholon, walking alongside, holding, very obviously, a rolled scroll.

  ‘Tax-gatherer,’ he snapped, dropping the tile, which slid noisily down the roof and flipped over the edge onto the dust below.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Mellio, looking anxiously at his mate.

  Dabo shouted up angrily from the courtyard. He had been watching the two men, wondering how he could get them to speed up the work, which had slowed considerably since Aquila’s departure. ‘Careful of those tiles, you lout. They cost money
.’

  Balbus ignored him and spoke softly to Mellio. ‘We don’t want to meet any tax-gatherers do we?’

  ‘No we don’t!’

  Balbus made for the ladder. ‘Best quit for today, says I.’

  ‘Where’re you going?’ Dabo yelled at them as he scurried across the yard. Again they ignored him, climbing down to ground level as he strode into the courtyard to confront them. ‘I’ve been watching you two all morning, and I want to tell you I’m not satisfied.’

  Balbus turned his back to him. ‘Hide the tools, Mellio. We don’t have time to get them away.’

  ‘What do you mean hide the tools? You get back up on that roof, or you’ll not see a denarius from me.’

  ‘There’s someone coming to see you, mate, someone you won’t make welcome.’

  Dabo’s face paled under his broad-brimmed hat, the image of Flaccus coming to mind, but his meanness overlaid that. ‘Get back to work. Now!’

  They glared at each other for several seconds, the two workers weighing the cost of non-payment against the price that might fall on them if they were caught working as builders. They were officially classed as poor, entitled to free corn, and Balbus shrugged, bent down and picked up his hammer, before making his way back to the ladder. Mellio, following him, whispered urgently.

  ‘What you doin’?’

  Balbus turned and spoke sourly. ‘Can you imagine what that tight-fisted bastard will do if he gets an excuse not to pay us?’

  Mellio looked at their employer’s retreating back and shrugged in agreement. Dabo had turned and hurried to the open side of the compound, casting his eyes down the track. It did not take him long to reach the same conclusion as the builders and his heart nearly stopped with fright.

  ‘Nine years,’ he moaned to himself. ‘Nine years’ land tax. They’ll ruin me.’

  He turned and made for the house, calling to his wife. His sons Annius and Rufurius were in the fields, so she would have to deal with this intrusion; after all, officially, he was dead. That made him stop moving and shouting; it was one thing being at home while someone else fought your war but he had never considered that Clodius would actually get himself killed. Silently, standing in the middle of the compound created by his new, half-built villa, he cursed the man; if he was officially dead, then everything around him belonged to Annius, his heir. Dabo fought to bring some order to his thoughts, regarding a son who disliked him nearly as much as he disliked Annius. If the boy ever found out about this he would probably boot him off the property. He could lose everything. Time to come clean. What he had done was illegal, but it was a regular if not a common occurrence, one to which the magistrates could turn a blind eye. As for the taxes, he could slip them a bribe that would be a lot less than he owed, with a grovelling apology for missing the census.