by Jack Ludlow
Dedon’s voice seemed very distant. ‘I say we should leave them alone, lads. Then perhaps young Aquila can give Phoebe a real seeing to.’
There was much giggling as they all filed out of the room. Aquila lifted his head and turned hers so that he could look the girl in the eye. She gave him a sad smile then turned away again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said softly.
That made her turn back, searching his eyes to see if he was sincere. Her hand reached out to feel the golden eagle that hung between them. The two youngsters stared at each other for what seemed an age. Then Phoebe’s other hand came up to the back of his neck and she pulled him down, kissing him full on the lips. The way he subsequently took the Macedonian girl as his own personal concubine caused no resentment, nor did she complain again. Aquila was far from sure if she genuinely liked him, or was merely happy to serve the needs of a young and persistent lover, rather than go back to what she had put up with before, but over the days and weeks he came to realise it was more than just acceptance. Phoebe lost the hunted look she had worn before, not that she got much peace. He spent every free moment in her arms, trying to talk to her between bouts of lovemaking, difficult since he had no Greek and she only had enough Latin to serve as a slave. She learnt words from him, but he garnered more from her, starting with her name, which meant ‘bright lights’. In time they could hold stilted conversations enough to explain how they came to be here in Sicily.
The mercenaries, having supervised his initiation, now seemed to adopt him fully. When not riding the farm with Flaccus, or locked in Phoebe’s arms, they took upon themselves the job of teaching him the arts of fighting; how to ride bareback and fight off a horse, saddled or not. Dedon was a trident and net man, Charro a master with the short sword. Spear throwing he knew, but the others taught him to wrestle, to fight with staves, how to kill with the boss of a shield, the way to use a knife or a rope at close quarters and how to fire off an arrow from a proper bow, and they were not gentle, which led to many a bruise and more than one cut. Aquila never complained, never let them see if he was hurt. Phoebe dressed his wounds, and rubbed oil into the tired and burgeoning muscles, never failing to finger his pendant, whispering words in Greek as she praised her eagle.
Over the months Aquila grew in strength and speed so that the contests were no longer wholly one-sided. He fought well and never whined when he was painfully bested and was thus popular amongst the men. Because his manner was less rough than his fellows, and given his single-minded attachment to Phoebe, he was popular with the women as well. Hard-hearted Flaccus, obsessed with his need to increase the yield, even consented to the holding of a ceremony, with special food and some of his own wine, to celebrate the March day following the Feast of Lupercalia, when Aquila donned his manly gown. All the concubines helped in the preparation, weaving as well as cooking. Some of them cried as he stepped forward, in a new smock, his red-gold hair carefully combed and dressed, the eagle flashing on his tanned chest, no longer a boy, but a Roman citizen and a man.
There was never a month without trouble and much as Flaccus hated the waste he was forced to sanction the occasional hanging. Flogging was a daily occurrence as the men were driven at dawn into the fields to work, overseen by other slaves whom the mercenaries had recruited. They themselves acted as a sort of mobile reserve, available to impose an even harsher regime if the trouble became serious. Flaccus spent his time between his two farms, threatening and cajoling, with many a lying promise, all to increase the land under cultivation. It was hardly surprising that any slaves who caught their guards unawares, and who had the strength, did their very best to escape from such a regime but that was happening all over the island. More worrying was the fact that these escapees had only one way to feed themselves, and that was to steal from the likes of Didius Flaccus.
The first harvest had shown a drop in yield. Even though Flaccus had anticipated this, since it was caused by his restructuring, he manufactured a towering rage, tongue-lashing his men as layabouts and threatening to cut their pay. The slaves paid for this, of course; they were driven to work even harder by an increase in flogging, plus a couple of exemplary crucifixions. This was not confined to men either; women and children suffered just as much and the young bodyguard was no longer shielded from it. As he rode from place to place, just behind his leader, Aquila could contrast the atmosphere now with that which had existed when they had arrived. Not even a ghost of a smile anywhere, just hardship and pain. Those with some spirit, who had avoided death or serious injury and had not run away to the hills, were worst off, breaking rocks in the unyielding hills. The women dug trenches in the softer ground while their children removed the earth to build embankments on the lower slopes. As he rode by, the children, some of them approaching his own age, would look up, their eyes full of envy for the golden youth with his horse, his weapons, his healthy glowing skin and his full belly.
The spring ploughing was over, the fields planted. For the slaves it was normally a period of comparative rest. Not now. Some were kept to water the fields, the rest put to work increasing the irrigation, working up on the hillsides which had, until then, remained uncultivated. They cursed the earth, which was nearly as hard as their grim and ruthless master. Flaccus rarely slept and never relaxed, refused the services of slave girls and worried constantly, watching the stalks of wheat as they grew. He ranted and raved throughout the harvest, cursing the slightest waste. Only when he began to see some of his labours bearing fruit did he consent to spend some time away from his duties. It was no holiday; Flaccus was called to discuss joint measures against banditry with the other men overseeing the Sicilian farms. There had been an upsurge in attacks as increasing numbers of slaves went missing and coordinated action was needed to root these villains out of their mountain retreats.
If he had been unable to look his fellow-bailiffs in the eye, Flaccus would not have gone even then; now the centurion knew he could, for the summer harvest was up. Not by much, but it pointed in the right direction and he had increased the land under the plough. Next year, always assuming the Gods blessed them with the right amount of rain, he would see, in the number of bushels his farm produced, something to crow about. Determined on a final check in progress, Flaccus insisted on going via the inland farms, increasing the journey time by two-thirds.
Aquila was saddled up before first light, holding the second horse, waiting while his leader repeated his instructions for the tenth time. Dedon’s voice sounded like a nagged husband, as he agreed to each point. Eventually Flaccus mounted up, but not without delivering a last command. ‘Leave half your men here, Dedon, and take the rest back to the main farm. If there’s any trouble, send for me, right away.’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Dedon wearily, wishing the man gone so that he could go back to bed.
‘That’s it then!’ But Flaccus didn’t move, as though the act of tugging the horse’s head round was too much to bear. Aquila leant down and pulled the reins for him.
‘Don’t look back, Flaccus,’ he said, as they cantered out of the compound.
Once he had shaken off the dust of his own properties, the old centurion relaxed. They climbed the saddle of a steep hill, with Mount Etna to the south, rumbling and belching smoke. He was in a talkative mood, no doubt buoyed by success, and for the first time he allowed himself to indulge in a little reminiscence, speaking of Clodius and how close the pair of them had come to being rich, even admitting their plan to steal the gubernatorial gold.
‘It was me that spotted the wagon, and I only chose Clodius ’cause he was lying next to me watching what was going on.’ Flaccus was brief regarding what he and Clodius had seen before that, Roman soldiers running the gauntlet and mass rape taking place all around, the women eventually killed and mutilated. In his mind’s eye he could see that wagon parked away from all that, occasionally lit as the fires of the other burning wagons flared. ‘We had it in our hands, near all of it, and we buried it under a thick bush, but in the darkness w
e left a trail in the grass that stood out like a sore thumb at first light, so when we came back next day the rebels had pinched it. It should have been mine, because it’s prophesied, boy.’
Aquila, riding alongside him at a slow canter, adopted a non-committal look. Fulmina had believed in her Gods, yet they had led her a hard life and given her a painful death.
‘Don’t think I’m a fool,’ Flaccus continued, sensing the doubt. ‘Any number of fortune-tellers have seen it. The first time a soothsayer told me I’d be burdened with wealth, I laughed at him, but a second told me the same, and then a third. The last one was the most detailed and after what happened with Clodius I went back to see him.’
‘What did he say?’
‘The same thing.’
‘And you believed him?’ asked Aquila, incredulous.
The older man’s eyes narrowed, because after losing his gold he had gone back to see that soothsayer with his sword in his hand. Losing his temper, he had used it. ‘They were his dying words, which is a telling thing when he confirmed what he’d said before.’ Flaccus’s voice took on a priestly tone, as if to lend authority to the words. ‘I see a golden aura. There are men around, numerous and cheering. You will be covered in gold.’
‘That’s a lot of gold,’ said Aquila, who clearly didn’t believe a word of it.
Flaccus shook his head and looked back towards the flat, well-cultivated landscape. ‘Maybe he meant I’d make my fortune here. I thought we’d done it then, your Papa and I. My prophecy come true, but it was not to be.’
‘What do you think happened to it?’
That made Flaccus angry; in his mind it was still rightfully his and if anyone had got in the way of him possessing the gold it was that buffoon Clodius, not something he could say to Aquila.
‘That bastard Vegetius Flaminus probably nabbed it, an’ if he did, he wouldn’t hand it in.’
They fell silent. Aquila guessed that greed had caused the problem and for the first time in an age, he thought of Clodius, feeling a tinge of sympathy for his fate. But his mind soon returned to Flaccus and what he said about Vegetius Flaminus, thinking it was a bit thick to accuse someone else of a crime you had fully intended to commit yourself. The road had been rising for some time and as it wound round the spur of a mountain, they came to the spot at which it started to drop, a vast cultivated plain and the long seashore clear in the morning sun.
‘I shall go there one day,’ the boy said finally.
‘Go where?’
‘Thralaxas. I’d like to see the spot where Clodius died.’
Flaccus just grunted and he spurred his horse to make it go faster down the hill. The spear that flashed past Aquila’s eye, aimed at his leader, took his horse just behind the ex-centurion’s leg. The animal reared up, throwing Flaccus onto its wounded haunch. Aquila shot forward, his head behind his horse’s neck, as Flaccus fought to stay mounted. Looking back, he saw the arrows, which had been aimed at him, thud into the ground. It did not register consciously, but he had counted six of them; nor that he had added that to the spearman and tallied up that they faced at least seven armed assailants. The boy had his sword out and he hit the centurion’s horse with the flat of the blade, a blow that made it fall forward onto all four legs, and as Aquila rode by he grabbed the reins and yanked the animal into lumbering motion. Flaccus regained his saddle and adopted the same pose as Aquila, his profile as low as possible. Both horses were screaming, though only one had the pain to justify it, as they shot down the slope, hooves flying on the scree. As soon as he had Flaccus’s horse moving, Aquila reached behind his back for the spear, pulling it from the harness and pushing out in front like a lance. There would be more; it did not make sense to attack from the side and not to block their path.
‘The rocks,’ he yelled, even before the three men rose up to stop them. He went straight on, catching the first in the chest before his sword was up. The blow, into a heavy man running forward, nearly dislocated his shoulder but at least it arrested the forward movement of his horse. He pulled on the reins to make it rear, his grip on the spear so tight that it hurt. That extracted the weapon from the dying man, freeing it for subsequent use. He pulled even harder to hold the animal up in the air, the hooves keeping another assailant at bay. That gave him time, as the horse fell back onto the ground, to alter his grip and cast the spear.
It was a bad throw, made off balance, but it glanced along his quarry’s thigh, which forced him onto one knee. Flaccus had gone for the third man with his sword and they were now engaged hand to hand, with sparks shooting from their blades, the sound echoing off the hillsides as the metal clashed. Flaccus parried the blows with just enough skill to get past his man because he was not trying to kill or wound him, he was trying to get clear. Both could hear the cries of their original attackers, now running down the track to join the fray.
‘Ride boy!’ Flaccus shouted, as he spun his horse so it was facing uphill. He made a sweep with his sword, enough to make his opponent leap backwards, before hauling the animal’s head round to chase after Aquila. They put a lot of distance between themselves and their attackers before pulling up, with both them and their mounts breathing heavily. Aquila looked at the centurion and grinned.
‘That was close,’ he gasped.
‘You weren’t worried were you?’ asked Flaccus, his chest heaving as he spoke. Aquila raised his eyebrows. ‘They can’t kill me yet, boy, I haven’t got my gold.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Titus had been ordered back to Rome and he was unsure why. Perhaps his constant carping about the need to mount a proper campaign had bored his superiors; during his years in Spain he had acted as Legatus to more than one arriving general, so had attended many a conference to hear their aims and ideas. He half suspected, when he heard their instructions, that the Senate did not want an end to the war. It provided a method of rewarding, or enticing, the members. Nothing tickled their vanity like the prospect of a triumph and since they were not short of that vice, ambitious men queued up for the chance to gain one in the only province that remotely provided an opportunity. Lucius always had a hand in such appointments, something that flowed from, and helped secure, his majority. If his nominees did go off to war, he hedged them about with so many restrictions that their dreams of a ride in the triumphal chariot were doomed to remain unfulfilled.
Right now he had to converse over dinner with the two people in the world for whom the mention of anything to do with Spain, and especially Brennos, was taboo. Unaware of the whole story surrounding those events, he knew nevertheless that Cholon and Claudia avoided any reference to his father’s campaign. Hardly surprising; his stepmother could not welcome any reminder of what must have been a painful captivity, while the Greek would bridle at anything that in any way threatened to diminish his late master. The subject of what he had been engaged in could not be avoided altogether, but it tended to centre on how his service might enhance his political prospects, with Claudia insisting his career so far had been a success.
‘A moderate one perhaps. All appointments are in the personal gift of the commander and I have had longer employment than most, which I can only put down to luck.’
‘Nonsense. It was deserved,’ said Claudia.
‘What I really need is a proper campaign, with the chance to really make my mark. Nothing I’ve achieved up till now qualifies me for office.’
Titus smiled, his modesty completely natural, and at that moment his stepmother felt a pang as she saw his father, to the life, before her. The Greek too saw the image and longed to be near Titus, the fact of his being unattainable only making the longing greater. His nightly tours of the streets of Rome occasionally produced sexual gratification, but he got nothing else from the men he slept with, except, because they tended towards the rougher sort, the odd bruise. Yet here, before him, was the very thing he sought on those excursions, the image of his late master.
‘Nonsense,’ he croaked, trying, and failing, to disguise the catch in
his throat.
‘It’s all very well being a military Legatus, Cholon, but I’d need to be a quaestor at least, and a very successful one at that, to find the money I need for a real career in politics.’
‘I’m sure you’ll achieve what you need in time,’ added Claudia.
Titus shook his head, but he did not continue. His stepmother knew as well as he that the two careers complemented each other; few men would vote to give high military command to someone who had never held any kind of Republican magistracy.
‘I don’t have the kind of money I need for an aedilship. The campaign would ruin me, let alone the games I’d have to provide. I rather think my dear brother is suffering from that right now. You must remember they’re nothing like they were in father’s day. Now, with wild beasts and gladiatorial death fights, they cost a fortune.’
‘Then Quintus should help you,’ said Claudia.
Titus smiled. ‘I won’t ask and he has yet to offer.’
Cholon cut in. ‘Then he ignores his responsibilities, and, I may say, your father’s wishes.’
Titus just shrugged; as head of the house, Quintus had inherited a great deal of money and a lot more in assets. Given time to repair the depredations caused by Aulus’s bequests, he was again among the wealthiest men in the city. What Titus had been left, while ample to live on, was nowhere near enough to provide him with the means to embark on a public career. If he could not find an alternative source of income, the cursus honorum was barred to him. Intent upon his own progress, Quintus saw it as no part of his duties to use some of the huge estate to advance his younger brother’s political career.
