The Pillars of Rome r-1

by Jack Ludlow

  The boy stopped when he saw the red-tiled roof of the spacious villa, so he called Minca to heel and leant on the spear to think. Gadoric’s words rang in his ears, for the shepherd, talking of battles in which he had fought, never tired of telling Aquila to look before he leapt. The man who had led him into battles against the legions had forgotten that lesson, and those of his men who were not killed had ended up as Roman slaves. He had drawn the engagements with a stick, showing in the earth the dispositions of the men who had fought and the reasons one side gained victory and the word surprise was paramount! The shepherd repeated it over and over to make sure the boy understood.

  ‘Before you go trying to surprise an enemy, lad, just make sure he hasn’t got a little shock in store for you, for if he has, it’ll be you that dies and not him. Use everything, your eyes, your ears and your nose. Listen for the sounds that should be there, for if they’re not, then something else is. But there’s a sense in you without a name, a feeling when things are not right. Trust that too.’

  Something was not right here, but this was no battle. He could hardly just barge in to the farmyard and demand an explanation. What have you done with your slave, the shepherd? All he would get for his trouble would be the toe of the overseer’s boot on his backside. His eyes roved over the landscape, taking in the details, features he had seen time and again, yet seemed to him as if they were being observed by a different set of eyes. In his heart he wanted to attack the place, to storm it and set it ablaze. The house and the outbuildings were set on flat land, but that was man-made, excavated out of the slope of the hillside, and the stable roofs, furthest from the entrance to the property, on the other side of the slave quarters were a continuation of the slanting grassy field where the excavation ended. The whole landscape was on an incline, falling gently towards the road bridge that crossed the culvert. Aquila looked up the hill to his right to where there was a small copse from which he could observe the whole extent of the farm without himself being seen. He tugged at the dog’s ear again, harder this time, for Minca was reluctant to let go of the scent, and hauled him up towards the trees.

  The small wood surrounded the cistern that held the water that supplied the spacious villa, and fed the fountain, the canopy of trees keeping the contents cool. From this height Aquila could not see into the actual central courtyard of the house itself, the place where he had stood the night he heard Sosia scream, but he could see the tip of the water spewing from the fountain as it rose to a height near that of his own. He stared at the house for quite some time, forming, as it did, a complete square enclosing the courtyard. There was no sign of Gadoric at all, which was a relief; Aquila had feared almost as soon as he had realised where the spoor was taking them, that he would find the shepherd strung up from a gibbet or crucified, yet he must be there and if he was there was a good chance he was still alive. Aquila crouched, his cheek against the smooth shaft of the spear, idle finger stroking the leather amulet that felt so strange on his arm, aware that he had no idea what to do. After all, he was only a boy and Gadoric had obviously been brought here by force, so he would need to be rescued the same way. Aquila knew how many men occupied the Barbinus ranch, knew it was certainly too many for him and the dog to tackle.

  He looked at the far side of the ranch, nearer to the Via Appia where the barns were situated and wondered if Gadoric had been taken there. Since he could see nothing from here he decided to take a look, just to reassure himself, so he left the copse and headed along the hillside, all the time looking out for some clue which might be afforded by the changing angle of the view. Once past the line of the buildings, he headed downhill, till he was on the opposite side from their original approach, encouraging Minca to cast around again for the spoor. The dog ran around in a random way, nose to the ground, covering a great deal of ground in a fruitless search. Suddenly Minca stopped and raised his head looking towards the nearby buildings and Aquila turned, still leaning on his spear. Then he heard the shouts and the barking dogs, the noise accompanied by the cracking of a whip. He threw the spear to the ground and raced towards the wicker fence that marked the perimeter of the farm buildings. Through a gap between two of the barns he saw the group of chained men in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by armed guards, some of whom had fierce-looking dogs straining on stout ropes.

  Gadoric stood head and shoulders above the others and even from this distance Aquila could see that his flaxen hair was matted with dried blood, but he stood erect, looking around with his single eye, unlike the others, chained to him, who seemed to be bowed under the weight of some great burden. He was not sure but they looked like the men who had worked on the ranch doing the most menial tasks, cleaning out stalls, shifting hay, keeping the courtyard clean; one thing he did know, if it was them they were all slaves. Aquila stopped at the fence, not sure what to do until he heard Minca growl beside him, and just in time he reached out and grabbed the animal round the neck to stop it diving through to rescue its master. Minca struggled in his arms, trying to break free without doing any harm, the boy holding him speaking rapidly in the strange, barbaric tongue it understood, using soothing words to try and calm the animal.

  He knew that if Minca tried to get to Gadoric, it would have to fight every one of those other dogs. Thus occupied, any one of those armed guards could then spear him. He had to get him away for if one of those guards swung a whip anywhere near Gadoric he would not have the strength to hold him back. Grabbing both ears he hauled the dog’s head round and pulled him away from the point where he could see his master. Aquila grabbed his spear and headed back up the hill at a run, the sheepdog right by his heels. He went higher this time, skirting the rear of the copse he had occupied earlier. Just before he lost sight of the farm he heard the crack of the whip in the clear morning air and he looked back to see the file of prisoners being marched towards the front gates, heading for the road beyond the bridge.

  The boy ran as fast as he could and Minca must have sensed their destination since he sped on ahead, making for the hut. Aquila knew he could leave the dog there; given the job of guarding his master’s property, he would not budge and added to that, he would tear apart anyone who tried to enter. They reached the hut in good time, and Aquila, having given Minca his instructions, made as good a job as he could of securing the place, well aware that neither the damaged door or even the walls would hold the dog if he really wanted to get out. He was halfway through the wood when he realised that the spear was still in his hand.

  He cursed softly and turned back in the direction of home, knowing he would have to leave it there before going in search of the column of slaves. He might be a free-born Roman but no one would like to see such a weapon in a young boy’s hand. Racing across the stream, he ignored the stepping stones and the water that, spraying up from his flailing legs, soaked him to the skin. Aquila rushed into the hut and threw the spear into the corner by Fulmina’s chest and was halfway back out the door when he heard the painful sob. The hut was not empty, as he had first thought. Then Fulmina spoke his name and the boy went back in reluctantly. She lay wrapped in her bedding, her face full of pain and creased with the marks of dried tears. Aquila felt under the covers for her hand and as he took it she clutched it tightly, pulling him hard towards her body and emitting a strangled gasp. Total confusion filled his mind, for he could not go and leave her like this, yet he could not stay.

  ‘Thank the gods you came, Aquila,’ said Fulmina through clenched teeth. ‘I have lain here praying that you’d return.’

  ‘I must get help,’ he cried, aware that half his mind was on the fate of Gadoric and feeling guilty for it.

  ‘Help!’ The laugh that came from her throat was horrible. He tried to pull away but he was still tightly held by her hand. ‘I’m beyond help, son.’

  ‘No!’

  Fulmina’s body arched over in agony, pulling his hand into her lower belly, then she raised her head and whispered in his ear. ‘In the chest. Go to the chest.’

>   Fulmina released his hand and Aquila obeyed. She must have heard the lid creak open because her eyes were still shut tight yet she spoke in a staccato way, each few words punctuated by a small cry of pain. ‘A small ampoule… Aquila… Dark brown it is…down the side by your right hand…under my mourning shawl… Quick, boy, quick.’

  Aquila felt down the side of the chest, his hand closing over the small clay container and he pulled it up and held it out for Fulmina to see. Still she did not open her eyes. ‘Have…you got…it?’

  ‘Yes!’ He jumped back to the bed, reaching again for the hand.

  ‘Open…it, Aquila…but don’t…spill-’ Fulmina cried out in agony, unable to finish what she was saying as Aquila broke the wax seal on the small bottle.

  ‘What shall I do?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Help me…drink it.’

  He put his hands behind her head and lifted it slightly, putting the ampoule to her pale lips. Fulmina’s other hand came up, to hold the back of his, then she forced his hand up so that the contents spilt down her throat. Her body jerked several times and she gagged slightly, as though she could not swallow the contents, but she persevered, keeping it at her mouth until she was sure it was empty. Once she had finished Aquila took it from her, then held her head against his chest, feeling the spasms subside. He talked, as much to comfort her, as to remind himself why he had come home.

  ‘Barbinus’s men have taken Gadoric. They’ve chained him to some other men and they were marching them off towards the road the last time I saw. Mama, I must go and see if I can help him.’

  ‘The money, Aquila,’ she said softly, as though she hadn’t heard him.

  ‘Money?’

  ‘In the chest.’

  ‘It won’t be enough to buy his freedom, Mama.’

  She seemed at ease now, the potion she had taken having lessened her pain. ‘No, boy. We never had enough of that to be free, any of us, but fetch it anyway.’

  Again he went to the chest, Fulmina speaking softly to guide him. ‘Take everything out, Aquila.’

  Everything did not amount to much; a mourning shawl, two extra blankets, a clean white woollen smock for Aquila which she had made in anticipation of his putting on his manly gown, with a decorated leather belt to go round his waist. A small box containing the polished stones, plucked out of the stream over the years, that she had never quite got round to turning into a necklace, some oddments of clothing and Fulmina’s winter bed socks.

  ‘At the bottom, a false floor. You can just get your nail under it.’

  The boy ran his fingers across the smooth wood until he felt the small indentation and prised the lid open with his fingernail. He pulled out the soft leather pouch, tied at the neck with a thong and took it over to where his mother lay, her eyes open now. It seemed as if the potion had worked and the pain had gone so he tried to give her the purse but she pushed it away. ‘Yours Aquila. Take it.’

  ‘Mama, I must go and see what has happened to Gadoric.’

  She smiled, the eyes once more had that light of love in them, then with a great effort she hauled herself up to a sitting position, bent forward and kissed the raised eagle on his leather amulet. Aquila heard the words of her prayer, calling on the gods to keep their word. Then she lay back again. ‘Your shepherd? Of course, off you go.’

  He stood up to leave and she spoke again. ‘I wonder, Aquila, if you could spare me just one of those coins?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, surprised and he pulled the pouch open.

  ‘There’s some silver ones. If I could have one of those.’

  He tipped the coins out into his hand, wondering if the pouch contained enough to bribe one of Gadoric’s guards. There was not much, only three silver denarii with the rest copper asses. He gave one of the silver coins to Fulmina, who clutched it in her hand.

  ‘Now, boy, give your mama a goodbye kiss and go and see about your shepherd.’

  Aquila had planted a perfunctory kiss on her forehead and was halfway out of the door before she finished speaking, calling his farewells. ‘I’ll see you soon, I promise.’

  ‘I pray to the gods you don’t, my son, just as I prayed, just now, that they grant you your destiny.’

  Fulmina raised her hand and put the silver coin under her tongue, then she lay still, for the pain had gone, never to return. The potion, which she had prepared with her own hand, would see to that. She thought of the boy and of her husband and of the life she had led and when she died the small amount of tears she had summoned up filled her eyes, then ran down the sides of her face.

  Aquila came upon the column of slaves in a matter of minutes, as they were heading south towards the Via Appia, past the dusty ill-defined lane that led up to his hut and again he saw Gadoric, head and shoulders above the rest. Other boys had gathered round, to follow and mock the straggling group of chained men. He was really close when he saw one of them pick up a stone, pulling his arm back to throw it. Aquila thundered straight into him, sending him flying and as they both fell to the ground he followed up with a punch on the ear. The others, once they had recovered, sought to pull them apart.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ he screamed, struggling in the arms of boys he usually called friends.

  ‘Hold there!’ cried one of the guards pushing between them. The column had stopped so Aquila pulled himself free of the restraining arms and looked round to see Gadoric’s one good eye fixed on him. The shepherd gave him a single emphatic shake of the head and it was only then that Aquila realised that his friend had lost the shuffled gait he normally used when others could observe him. He stood to his full height, as Aquila had seen him many times, proud and magnificent, even dressed in bloodstained rags.

  The guard laughed and called to Gadoric. ‘Your little playmate has come to rescue you, Blondie. Now there’s true love for you. Makes you wonder what you two got up to in that there hut.’

  The rest of the guards laughed, adding ribald comments of their own. Aquila could not really hear them, his whole attention was fixed on Gadoric, who suddenly spoke quickly in his own tongue, knowing that only Aquila could understand him.

  ‘I hope I taught you well. Look after Minca.’ The one eye flicked to the side to indicate the guard, still laughing at his own joke. ‘Perhaps we were seen, practising with the spear. It makes no difference, they know I’m not the witless idiot I pretended to be.’

  ‘No talking,’ growled one guard.

  ‘What’s he sayin’?’ demanded another, confused at the Celtic tongue.

  ‘No more shepherding, Aquila,’ said Gadoric quickly.

  The guard who had made the joke stepped forward and raised his club. If he had expected his prisoner to try and avoid the blow, he was disappointed. Gadoric just fixed him with a look and the club remained in the air. ‘One more word out of you, you bastard, and you’ll never get near Sicily.’

  ‘Sicily!’

  The guard, obviously senior to his fellows, turned round and pushed his face close to Aquila’s, relishing his words as he spoke. ‘Oh yes, lad. Our dumb shepherd here, who has so cheated his master, is set to grow corn. He’ll not get much to eat, nor little water to drink neither, and in that heat, I don’t suppose he’ll last too long, which is all to the good, I say.’

  ‘One day, Aquila,’ said Gadoric quickly, still speaking in his own tongue, ‘you must ask your mama if you are truly her son.’

  The club of one of the other guards hit him on the back with a strength that propelled him forward and Gadoric tried to spin round, his face full of hate, but the chains that attached him to his fellow prisoners stopped him.

  The other guard had his club ready again. ‘Go on, you bastard. It’ll be a real pleasure to sort you out.’

  ‘No!’ shouted the leader, so close to Aquila he made the boy jump. ‘Dying means nought to him, but let him endure a slow death, toiling in the fields and see if he enjoys that.’

  ‘Sir,’ said Aquila softly but urgently, tugging at the overseer’s tunic. ‘Would money e
ase his journey?’

  The eyes narrowed, and the man paused before replying. When he did speak his voice was full of doubt. ‘It might, lad, but where’s the likes of you goin’ to get any money?’

  Aquila pulled out the soft leather purse and pressed it into the overseer’s hand. As his eye caught a hint of what the boy was doing, the man spun round and loudly ordered the column to proceed, an action that cut Aquila off from everyone else. Yet one of his hands stayed still, ending up behind his back and it was that which took the offering. Looking down Aquila saw the hand squeeze the purse a couple of times. He then made half a turn back towards the boy, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Why, this will do your shepherd no end of good, lad. At least it’ll make sure he survives to reach Sicily.’ The voice lost the tone of kindness, becoming harsh again. ‘After that, it’s out of my hands, and from what I’ve heard, men like him don’t last long in that part of the world.’

  He stood over Fulmina’s bed, looking into the peaceful face, his hand rubbing the amulet on his upper arm. It was as though the gods had combined to empty his life of everything he valued, for he knew he would never see Gadoric or Sosia again, just as his mama would never hold him in her arms. He was not given to tears, but Aquila cried now, the sobs rising in volume until he wailed in his grief, not able to tell which loss was the greater. Eventually the wailing ceased; it had to, since no human being could sustain such a sound and he knelt by the bed, his eyes tight shut, full of images that made him want to die.

  That was how Dabo found him, hunched over, his hand still holding Fulmina’s. The farmer, arms full of food, looked at the dead body without emotion, wondering how this would affect his bargain. He had known when he struck his deal that Clodius would be away more than one season, but he had never thought service would extend this long. Not that he himself had failed to prosper by it. What worried him most was the thought of Clodius coming home, on leave, and forcing Dabo to do his own duty, thus jeopardising his chances of increasing his wealth still further.