In the Shadow of the Wall

by Gordon Anthony

  Brude did not reply. Poppaea had certainly seemed very keen on him but he wondered now whether Curtius was right. He decided to reserve judgement. Curtius saw his expression and laughed his grim laugh again. “Don’t worry, lad. Take advantage of it while you can. Just don’t expect her undying love, that’s all.”

  Brude decided to change the subject. “Where are we going?”

  “The forum,” answered Curtius. “We need to get your manumission papers drawn up and signed. It might take a while.”

  Brude discovered that Rome had more than one forum. The original forum lay between the Capitoline and the Palatine hills, near the amphitheatre, but it was too small to cater for all of Rome’s commercial and legal business so various emperors had built other fora nearby. There were smaller ones devoted to market trade in cattle and vegetables but the imperial fora were great, rectangular open spaces, dotted with statues and ringed by covered porticoes which were supported by extravagantly carved columns. The fora, surrounded by temples and basilicas, were the heart of Rome in a way that no palace could ever be. Around the edge, market stalls and shops clustered under the shade of the porticoes. People thronged there to meet and talk, to conduct business or to show off their wealth. Brude was amazed at the noise, the bustle, the colour and the astounding variety of goods for sale; food and trinkets from all over the empire, brought to Rome and on offer to anyone who could afford them.

  Curtius took Brude through the forum of Augustus where he marvelled at the high colonnades, each niche with a statue representing a hero of Rome, some of the columns carved in the shape of beautiful women. He saw the great temple of Mars the Avenger, with its huge statue of the god and dramatic carved reliefs. He wondered again at the power of Rome, which seemed full of incredible buildings atont>Rome what it was today.

  The two of them edged through the crowd, making their way to the forum of Trajan, even larger than the forum of Augustus and surrounded by enormous buildings. There was a great column of shining stone, its sides decorated with carvings of Roman soldiers in action, the picture story spiralling upwards, so high that the images at the top could not be made out. On top of the column stood a statue of a Roman, shining gold in the morning sunlight. “What is that?” Brude asked Curtius, his breath taken away.

  “Trajan’s column,” Curtius replied sourly. “Bastard!”

  “What?” Brude was surprised at the feeling in Curtius’ tone.

  “It commemorates the victory of Rome over Dacia. That’s where my family are from. My grandfather was brought here as a slave when Trajan killed our king and stole our land.”

  Brude was surprised. He had always viewed Curtius as a Roman. Which he was, he supposed, but the old gladiator obviously still remembered his roots. Brude said, “That’s what the Romans do, isn’t it? They’ve built an empire by conquering other people. Even I know that.”

  Curtius nodded. “I know, and there’s no beating the power of Rome. Dacia was an independent kingdom for centuries until the Romans needed some hard cash and discovered we had gold mines. There’s only ever one end to a story like that. You should just be grateful that your homeland has nothing but mud and rain. If you had anything the Romans needed, you’d find yourselves part of the empire before long.”

  Brude was shocked. Back in Broch Tava, he had been brought up to believe that the Romans had been forced to abandon the lands north of the Wall because of the power of the assembled tribes. He had sometimes wondered how that could be true when every story he ever heard of battles were Roman victories. He knew from bitter experience how good the Roman army was. Now, contradicting everything Brude had been taught as a boy, Curtius was telling him the only reason the Romans had left was because the lands of the Pritani had nothing of value to offer the empire. It was a disappointing revelation but one Brude realised could well be true. Any nation that could build the things he could see all around him, and conquer tribes all over the world, would surely not be afraid of the Pritani.

  Curtius took him into the shade of the portico and inside the great basilica. The place was crowded and noisy with people, many wearing togas, jostling and shouting, while others sat behind wooden tables covered with scrolls; quills and ink near at hand. It was all incredibly confusing to Brude but Curtius barged his way through, asked directions and eventually led Brude to join a queue at one of the tables. They waited nearly an hour before they had their turn at speaking to the scribe. When Curtius explained that Brude had been awarded the rudis by the emperor himself at the games, the scribe gave Brude a look of mixed admiration and suspicion. After Curtius showed him the rudis, the clerk selected a scroll, which already had a lot of writing on it. He carefully filled in some blank spaces. Brude had to give his new Roman name, which still sounded to him like it belonged to someone else, then the scribe handed him the scroll. “You need to get it signed and sealed by the praetor,” he said, waving the quill in his hand vaguely towards one end of the basilica.

  Another queue and this time they waited until it was nearly midday before Curtius presented Brude and his scroll to the praetor, one of Rome’s senior magistrates. There were normally eight praetors elected each year, though in practice those who were elected were usually approved by the emperor, or at least were men he did not disapprove of. The praetors were responsible for the smooth operation of the law so they were extremely busy men. Brude’s audience lasted no more than a few heartbeats before he came away with his papers. He looked at the documents, admiring the red seal and the flourish of the signature. Curtius laughed at him. “Stop pretending you can read. Come on, we need to leave one copy here as a record. You keep the other copy safe. It’s your proof of manumission.”

  Manumission. Freedom from slavery. Today, at last, Brude was living life as a free man. “Can I go home now?” he asked Curtius.

  “Home? You mean that nonsense about going back to Britannia was serious?”

  Brude nodded. “It wasn’t nonsense. I want to go home.”

  “What for?” Curtius seemed genuinely puzzled.

  “I have family there. Friends.” He wanted to say he had Mairead waiting for him but he had been away for eight years and he knew she would probably be married to someone else by now.

  Curtius dragged him over to a small stall selling sweetmeats and cold drinks where he handed over a few coins to the stallholder. Then he led Brude to a shady part of the portico where they sat on a stone bench as the crowd passed by on all sides. While they ate, Curtius spoke to him earnestly, his face etched with concern. “Listen lad, you’ve been away a long time. Things in your homeland wonnt be the same as when you left. Going back is never a good idea, believe me. Anyway, how would you get there? It’s a long way and you have no money to pay for food. You can’t afford to go by sea and it would take you months to walk there. A man alone can run into all sorts of trouble on a journey like that.”

  Brude had travelled enough to know how to get round that problem. “I could work for a merchant. Bodyguard! That way I’d be fed and paid while I work my way home.”

  Curtius looked at him long and hard. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  With a sigh, Curtius said, “Well I think you’re mad, but then you’ve done your share of crazy things so I shouldn’t be surprised. But, if you take my advice, you’ll stay here a bit longer. Earn yourself some money before you start off on such a long journey on your own. Don’t leave Rome until you are sure of what you’ll be leaving behind.”

  Brude wasn’t sure why Curtius was so insistent that he stayed, but he respected the old man enough to at least give his words some thought. It was only later that he realised Curtius led a lonely life that meant he had few friends and probably didn’t want to lose someone he had known for so long. Now, though, they left the forum, making their way back to the amphitheatre where they found the guards from the gladiator school waiting with two wagons already loaded with the familiar cheap, rectangular boxes which acted as coffins for the dead gladiators. B
rude wondered which one held the body of Josephus. Curtius acted as though he did not much care but he was silent for most of the journey back through the busy streets which led out of the city to the school.

  Lentulus was not there, probably still sleeping at Trimalchio’s house, but Curtius gathered the remaining gladiators and told them what had happened. They were pleased for Brude but saddened at the loss of so many of their companions. Pollio, still limping badly, clasped Brude’s hand warmly. “Well done, boy,” he said with feeling. “I know how hard that must have been.”

  Brude nodded but could think of nothing to say. He was free while Pollio, vastly more experienced, was still a slave and would go back to the arena once his leg was healed. Brude had toyed with the idea of asking Curtius for a job as a trainer at the school but he knew now that he could not do that. He had been one of them but now he was raised above them, a free man, and he could not go back to being one of them again.

  The funeral was short but well attended. Every gladiator in the school was there, the guards as well, along with the slave girls who helped to run the school. Even Tygaeus the physician came. All six coffins were placed in one grave, an old ram was sacrificed by an even older priest andCurtius sent for a stone mason to carve an inscription on a simple headstone.

  Afterwards Kallikrates and Curtius said their farewells to Brude, laughing together over Trimalchio’s instructions for him to collect his things from the school. “What have you got?” Kallikrates joked. “Sixteen sesterces and the clothes you’re wearing?”

  “And he owes me four for them,” said Curtius glumly. Then he tried to pretend he was only joking when Brude insisted on paying him. They clasped hands again and, with a lump in his throat, Brude walked out of the main entrance of the school, carrying his wooden sword, his manumission papers and twelve sesterces.

  He had nothing, but he had everything, for he was a free man.

  Brude soon discovered that freedom was a relative term. Trimalchio was incredibly rich and loved to show off his wealth but, although he provided free food and lodgings for his retainers, he did not pay them very well. Brude was constantly at his beck and call, for everywhere Trimalchio went, whether in his carriage or in the small covered chair carried by eight slaves, he insisted on being accompanied by a retinue of guards. Most of the men he employed were old soldiers, veterans with grey hair and tired limbs who had taken money instead of land when they left the army and had managed to lose most of it through bad luck or bad judgement. But they were tough and uncompromising men who served Trimalchio well. They hated Brude.

  They were not allowed to carry swords in the city but each of them usually had a short wooden cudgel, which could be deadly if used properly. Brude got one for himself and eventually had to threaten to beat one of the old soldiers to death to keep them from constantly antagonising him. He had quickly learned that Curtius had been right. Gladiators were popular as long as they were slaves who fought to entertain the crowd but, once out of the arena, they were despised almost as much as actors. He tried hard to keep to his promise of not fighting, but his patience was tested frequently. He assured the other guards that he intended to stay only until he had enough money to allow him to travel home in comfort but his life was full of tension. He was fairly certain that the only reason the men did not jump him as a gang was because they knew Trimalchio favoured him.

  There were compensations, of course. He enjoyed visiting the baths, whether accompanying Trimalchio or on his own. And there was usually a woman available if he wanted one but, again, as Curtius had predicted, Poppaea, although she slept with him from time to time, soon moved on to other men.

  Summer slowly turned to autumn and gradually the winter rains arrived. There was even some snow one day. Trimalchio did not venture far when the days were wet and cold. Brude realised that, after so many years of living in the heat, even he was feeling the weather cold when he kne it was nothing like the chill winters of the north. He decided he would go home in the springtime, for there was nothing to keep him in Rome. He had no time for the sycophants who flocked round Trimalchio and he was starting to despise himself for growing used to the luxury. In particular, he hated it when Trimalchio forced him to go to the amphitheatre so that he could give the fat man the benefit of his expertise as they watched the gladiators fight. On one occasion, Pollio was in the arena and Brude could hardly watch the combat. Pollio won, but was wounded again, this time on the arm. Brude felt helpless and angry watching Curtius lead the veteran gladiator from the arena. Trimalchio, of course, thought it was splendid entertainment.

  Then, one dull day not long after the midwinter festival of Saturnalia, Trimalchio summoned Brude to his private room. “Marcus, my dear friend,” said Trimalchio, with a sad expression on his chubby face. “I have a great favour to ask of you.”

  Brude wondered what was coming next. “What is it?” He could not bring himself to call Trimalchio by his praenomen of Publius. He did not feel close to the man at all and had no wish to seem too familiar.

  “My former master, Gnaeus Vipsanius Aquila, the man who freed me years ago as a reward for my services, has asked a favour of me. I am, of course, duty bound to assist him.” Brude nodded. He had learned that slaves who were freed were still obliged to support their former masters. He felt no such compunction about being loyal to Trimalchio, although the fat man seemed to take it for granted that he did, for such was the Roman way. Roman society depended on patronage, even if there was no formal master/slave relationship. Wealthy men looked after the interests of their clients while, in return, the clients acted to support their patrons in their political ambitions. When a slave was freed, the obligations were even stronger, although Brude reasoned that, technically, it was the emperor who had freed him so he owed nothing to Trimalchio.

  The fat man blinked as he tried to explain his predicament. “Aquila has a son, a young man who will be seeking a military post within two years. Aquila has requested that I allow you to work for him to train his son in the art of combat before he joins the army.” He went on, “Aquila’s first son was killed while with the army in Judaea and he wants to give his one remaining heir every chance of survival that he can.” Trimalchio clasped his hands together, almost pleading. “It is a most unusual request, I must say, but it is one I really cannot refuse. Would you do this for me, Marcus? Would you be prepared to leave my humble home to help my patron Aquila?”

  Brude managed to stop himself from smiling. He had no idea who font> was, and he was still determined to leave for home in a few months, when the weather was easier for travelling, but even a few months away from Trimalchio’s house would be a bonus. “Yes, I will go to Aquila,” he said.

  Trimalchio’s eyes filled with tears. In an uncharacteristic display of gratitude, he gave Brude two silver denarii as a farewell gift.

  Two hours later Brude had found the home of Gnaeus Vipsanius Aquila, a large two-storey house near the Capitoline hill. A slave admitted him to the atrium. In the centre of the atrium was the impluvium, the small pool used to collect rainwater, and in the centre of the impluvium was a small bronze statue of an eagle with outstretched wings. Around the walls of the atrium were small niches in which stood carved busts. Brude recognised one of them as the emperor Septimius Severus with his curly hair and beard. The emperor’s image was everywhere in the city, of course. Nobody was allowed to forget who was responsible for maintaining the safety and security of the empire. The other statues were distinguished-looking men but he had no idea who they were. Above them, on the bare white wall, hung face masks of yet more men. These, Brude knew, must be the death masks of Aquila’s ancestors, kept so that they and their deeds could be remembered down through the generations.

  Through a wide, open doorway, beyond the eagle statue, Brude could see the peristyle, a square garden courtyard, surrounded by columns. Beyond that, he saw the doors which led to the private rooms of the large house. Household slaves scurried silently about their duties and he saw immediately
that this house was owned by somebody of more refined tastes than Trimalchio. It was elegant, yet functional at the same time, merely hinting subtly at wealth rather than screaming opulence as Trimalchio’s home did.

  The slave showed him to one of the large public rooms off the atrium, and there he met Aquila. Trimalchio’s former master was a tall man with thinning grey hair, piercing blue eyes and a hawked beak of a nose, which Brude guessed had been the inspiration for the man’s cognomen Aquila, or eagle. He was seated in a finely carved wooden chair but rose to greet Brude, his manner rather stiff and formal but very polite. He was wearing a toga of white linen with a thin purple stripe running down it and around its edges. There were two other people in the room. Aquila introduced them. “This is my son, Lucius,” he said, indicating a young boy of around sixteen years of age, with a mop of dark hair and the same eyes as his father. He was dressed in a white tunic of fine linen. Brude noticed that he was not wearing his bulla, the good luck amulet worn by all Roman children, indicating that Lucius had now come of age and was a citizen in his own right. “And this is Cleon, who keeps my business affairs in order,” said Aquila in a tone which suggested some affection for the man. Cleon, short and running to fat, with a balding head and a pock-marked face, nodded with a welcoming smile. He stood beside a wooden table which was covered in neatly stacked papyrus scrolls and vellum parchments.

  Aquila offered Brude a drink of watered wine, which he accepted. Cleon poured the drink into a fine silver goblet for him. Brude took the opportunity to look around the room, admiring the wall paintings, depicting mythical heroes and a fine mosaic on the floor showing Neptune, god of the sea, blowing a favourable wind into the sails of a large sailing ship. He took the wine from Cleon and, while he sipped it, Aquila studied him with an appraising look. “I take it Trimalchio has explained why I asked you here?”