‘Dig a grave.’ Paullus handed over the pickaxe.
The boy did not want to take it. ‘You said you would not harm me.’
‘A grave big enough for your companion.’
‘Why?’
‘It is the right thing to do.’
‘Where?’
‘Here by the track seems as good as anywhere.’
While the boy laboured, Paullus untied and fed the mules, then sat and made a meal of some air-dried beef, cheese, bread, and ate an onion.
‘Your accent shows you are a Roman,’ Paullus said.
The youth’s eyes cut to Paullus, then looked back at his work. He did not answer.
‘Why did you end up with a Bruttian outlaw?’
‘My father did not return from the wars in Spain.’ There was a bitterness beyond his years in the boy’s voice. ‘My mother got into debt. We lost our land.’
‘You could have found honest work.’
‘As a day labourer, at the beck and call of another?’
‘Sometimes a man has to swallow his pride.’
The youth said nothing.
‘You could have enlisted in the army.’
‘The unpropertied cannot serve in the legions.’
There was no answer to that.
It was night by the time the grave was dug. But a near full moon had risen. Its light slatted across the road. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled.
Paullus got up, and together they dragged the corpse to the hole.
‘Take anything you want of his possessions,’ Paullus said.
As the youth riffled through the brigand’s tawdry apparel, Paullus considered the remains of the man he had killed. Gouge out the eyes of your victim and his shade cannot see you, cut off his feet and it cannot follow you, rip out his tongue and it cannot denounce you, sever his hands and the daemon cannot harm you. That was the old way, inherited from the Greeks, enshrined in their literature. No, it was not fitting. This was not murder. It was self-defence. Paullus had given him a chance. The Bruttian had rolled the dice, and he had lost.
Paullus plucked a coin from his own wallet, and placed it between the jaws of the dead man. Dis manibus: to the shades below. The outlaw could pay the ferryman.
They tipped the corpse into the grave, and the boy began to shovel the soil back.
‘When we get to the Croton road, I will let you go.’ Paullus took some high denomination coins from his belt. ‘Take these, they will help you take a new course. My advice is go to Rome. There is always building work in the city, or unloading ships at the docks.’
The youth snatched the coins, but offered no thanks.
‘Just be sure,’ Paullus said, ‘if I see you again in the Sila, I will kill you.’
CHAPTER 2
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
PAULLUS CRESTED THE LAST RISE and finally saw the sea. It lay like a silver shield, glinting under the sun. Below him at the bottom of the deep valley the river meandered through wide expanses of pale-grey silt carried down from the mountains. The mudflats were flanked by neat rectangular fields, and beyond these were the hills. The slopes to the south were terraced, set with rows of trees. Those on the far side were steeper, largely untouched by agriculture, with patches of bare, tawny rock. His eyes followed the river down to the sea, and the walls and the jumble of whitewashed buildings of the small colony of Temesa.
The remainder of his journey through the Sila had been uneventful. Last night, when he had reached the turning for the Croton road, he had kept his promise, and let his captive free. The youth had departed in silence, his thoughts unknowable. Paullus had walked on for the best part of another hour, before seeking shelter in a stand of maples well off the path. Only the hooting of an owl had disturbed his brief rest. In the darkness of the last watch, he had tacked up the mules, and continued on his way.
Paullus stopped and studied the vista. There, outside the town, at the foot of the southern side of the valley, was the farmyard of his family; above it the holdings of their neighbours Severus and Junius. From this distance, the countryside looked idyllic and unchanging. But appearances were deceptive. Like one of the Alexandrian poems he had read at school, when you really looked, studied every line and every word, much lurked below the surface. Paullus was almost home. No, now he could see, not everything was the same. The roof of old Severus’ place up the slope appeared to have collapsed. The building looked derelict, although his fields were still tended.
After three years, there was no hurry. Paullus let his gaze drift across the river to the spring of Lyka and the Temple of Polites. The sanctuary, gloomy and ancient, shaded by wild olives, was the only thing that the wider world knew about the town of Temesa. Long ago, long before the Romans arrived, Odysseus had come ashore here in his wanderings after the sack of Troy. Polites, one of his sailors, had got drunk and raped a local virgin. The natives had stoned Polites to death. Odysseus had sailed away, leaving his companion unavenged and unburied. Polites had not rested quietly in death. His daemon had stalked the hillsides, murdering old and young alike, mutilating men, women and children. The Oracle at Delphi ordered the locals to build a temple, and every year offer the daemon the most beautiful virgin in Temesa. The girl was locked in the empty temple overnight. Every year in the morning they discovered her dismembered corpse. The grisly ritual continued until Euthymos, three times victor in the boxing at Olympia, happened to pass through the town. His pity for that year’s victim turned to love. Hiding himself in the sanctuary, he fought the daemon until it fled and dived down into the sea. Euthymos married the girl, and Polites was gone for the rest of time. Although the superstitious still swore they had seen his shade slipping through the surrounding woods.
Paullus’ eyes sought out one particular tree. A huge and ancient wild olive grew close by the temple. One of its upper branches overtopped, and almost reached the roof. As a child he had climbed that tree. It had been Lollius’ idea, but he had backed out, leaving Paullus to make the climb with their friend Alcimus. They had made it to the roof, scrambled up to a trapdoor behind the facade. The trapdoor had been locked. Breaking it open had been a step too far. Entering the temple was sacrilege. If caught, they would have been in terrible trouble. But it had been fear of the daemon that had turned them back. Forcing themselves to make the jump back to the branch had been the hardest thing.
The Hero of Temesa, as Polites became known, was the sole claim to notoriety of the town of his birth. It was sanguinary and horrible, but at least, like his childhood adventure, the story of Polites had concluded happily. Paullus was unsure if his own homecoming would end as well. Still, there was nothing to be gained by delay. He gathered up the lead rein, and set off again.
Paullus did not take the direct route, the road down by the river, but instead went along a footpath that clung to the shoulder of the southern hillside. He had no desire to meet any neighbours, answer their banal or intrusive questions.
From up here all the main holding of his family farm was spread out. It was not large, only twenty iugera, the standard allocation for a colonist. You could walk its boundaries in well under half an hour. But the soil was good. After the defeat of Hannibal, when the Romans confiscated half the land of his Bruttian allies, they had seized the most fertile. A broad belt of mature oaks and beech trees screened the farm from the road and the river, and provided shelter from the south-westerly wind that in winter whipped up the valley from the sea. The house and barn, the olive and wine presses and storage tanks, the stables and sheds were built up against the timber. They faced inwards, and were connected by a wall to form a small compound. The stone threshing floor was outside, in front of the gate, to catch the breeze. Alongside the homestead stood the cottage garden – vegetables planted between apple and pear trees – and the stock pens. The dung heap was sited downwind to the east. A stream ran from the ridge down to the river. On its west was a meadow where the sheep were pastured when they were driven back from the hi
gh Sila in the autumn. There were two fields to the east. That next to the buildings was flat and set with olive trees with wheat growing around them. The enclosure to its south was terraced up the slope. Here vines were propped between the silvery trunks of more olives.
The final piece of Paullus’ patrimony, the top field, a five iugera plot, the dowry his mother had brought to her marriage, was to the north, on the other side of the river and over the ridge, a couple of hours’ walk away. By far the best wheat, as well as the juiciest olives and the sweetest grapes grew there. The top field had a special place in his heart. On the craggy hillside above the cultivated land was a cave. Its entrance was screened by brambles. No one else knew it existed. It was here Paullus had often hidden from his father in his childhood. He had not even told his friends Alcimus and Lollius about this secret place.
Paullus considered the arrangement of his family farm. Such mixed farming of scattered plots – different things growing together in small fields set in widely separated valleys – did not produce the highest yields. The big new estates of the wealthy were buying up blocks of contiguous land and turning each field over to just one crop. They had the money to invest in new planting, and their gangs of slaves and seasonally hired labourers gave them the manpower needed for such extensive harvests. But for a small farmer the old ways were the safest. If a storm swept down one valley, it might spare another. Should disease blight one crop in a field, it might not destroy its neighbour.
Now he was closer, Paullus could see that several tiles had slipped on the roof of the barn, some rails were missing in the fences of the stock pen, and the dung heap was overflowing. This all gave the place a rundown air. It was not unexpected. Counting inclusively, as all Romans did, Paullus had been away three years. Not a day had passed that he had not thought of this place. Now, suddenly unsure of his own emotions, he led the mules along the track that switchbacked down the terraces to his home.
The gate to the farmyard stood ajar. It had sagged on its hinges. As he approached a deep, fierce barking came from within. Paullus stood still. The huge and vicious black dog came hurtling out, hackles up, fangs bared. Paullus hung on to the reins as the mules sidestepped, thoroughly alarmed by the unbridled aggression.
The hound skidded to a stop a few paces short. The hackles still stood in a crest over the bunched shoulder muscles, but the bark changed to a high yelp. The beast shifted from one paw to another. Its lips pulled far back into a foolish, toothy grin. Then it launched itself at Paullus.
‘Niger, you lazy old dog.’
The hound forced itself between Paullus’ legs. Once through, it turned and repeated the process.
‘Were you sleeping? You never bark at someone you know.’ Paullus fussed the soft ears, kissed its head. ‘Not unless they wake you up.’
Round and round the dog went. Once its hard, bony skull cracked against Paullus’ knee.
‘You clumsy, great dog.’
Paullus looked up. An old man was standing in the gate. His tunic was ragged, and his hair sparse and unkempt. A scythe was clutched aggressively in his hands. He peered myopically at the newcomer, but did not speak.
‘Eutyches.’
Recognition dawned on the aged and unlovely face.
‘You are back, then.’
‘Yes,’ Paullus said. He had forgotten just how ugly his family’s elderly slave was. Beetling eyebrows gave Eutyches a look of obstinacy, while his protuberant and loose lower lip hinted at imbecility.
‘Your nurse is dead.’
‘When?’
‘Last winter. The cold got her.’
Rhodope had been nurse to Paullus’ father. She had always seemed ancient.
‘Has my mother got a new maid?’
Eutyches snorted derisively. ‘What with?’
Paullus said nothing. Times would have been hard.
‘Don’t suppose you have come back weighed down with gold?’
‘What happened to Severus up the hill?’ Paullus changed the subject.
‘Hanged himself.’
‘A woman’s death,’ Paullus said.
‘Went off his head. They say he saw the Hero in the forest.’
‘People say all sorts of things. Where is my mother?’
‘In the house, where else?’
‘The fences need fixing in the stock pen.’
Eutyches made a dismissive gesture. ‘With the shepherd away up in the Sila, there is too much work for one man.’
‘I am back now.’
‘Yes,’ Eutyches said without discernible enthusiasm. ‘You have cut your arm.’
‘It is nothing.’
This reunion had gone on long enough. Paullus handed over the lead rein. While the slave held the mules, Paullus unlashed his shield and javelins, retrieved his helmet and armour from his baggage, and also extracted a carefully wrapped parcel. ‘Feed and water the mules. I will help get the rigging off them later. Do not touch the packs.’
Niger trotting at his heel, Paullus went to the house. It had two floors, but it was not large. Built of mortared rubble, after seeing Rome and the towns of the east, it now struck him as squat and primitive. The afternoon was hot and the door was wide open, the shutters drawn back from the glassless windows. From inside came the click and shuffle of the loom. He stepped into the gloom.
When his eyes adjusted, he saw his mother, Annia. She stopped spinning wool and stood.
‘Health and great joy,’ she said.
Paullus repeated the formal greeting.
‘Your letter reached Lollius. Your friend came and read it to me.’ His mother came and kissed him. Her cheeks were dry and slightly rough, like old papyrus, and smelt of lanolin from the wool.
Paullus held her at arm’s length. Her face was strong and mannish, an impression heightened by her scraped-back hair.
‘You will make an offering to the household gods.’ She stepped back from his grasp. She had not asked after his health, or mentioned the bandage on his arm. If he had hoped for a more effusive welcome, he would have been disappointed.
‘In a moment.’
Her silence was eloquent of her disapproval.
Paullus removed the leather covers from his shield and helmet, and unwrapped the oiled cloth from his armour. He checked they were not rusted, and then hung them and his javelins on their accustomed hooks on the wall. He unbuckled the scabbard from his belt and put the sheathed sword on the plinth under the rest of his equipment. Finally he took from the parcel a wreath of oak leaves tied together with a ribbon. The leaves were dry and crackled in his fingers. One dropped to the floor. He stooped and picked it up, before placing it with the wreath next to the sword.
The corona civica was awarded to a man who had saved the life of a fellow citizen, and then, for the remainder of the battle, held the place where the exploit had occurred. Such a man was to be honoured for the rest of his life. He was exempted from all public duties. Entitled to a seat of honour at the games, even the senators of Rome should rise when he entered a room.
Paullus regarded the civic crown, trying to sort out his feelings. Yes, there was pride, but also a terrible sadness. He had saved the wrong man.
His mother brought him back from the past. She had lit the fire on the altar, and now handed him a saucer of wine.
A man polluted by blood-guilt should not approach the altars of the gods. It had been unavoidable while he was still in the army. Those under military discipline had to abide by its rituals. But now he was a civilian again, and these were the gods of his own home. The act would be of his own volition, the sacrilege more personal.
Trying not to betray his reluctance, Paullus stood in front of the little shrine. The genius of the house was painted as a dignified man in a toga. The divine guardian was flanked by two attendant spirits. The lares danced gaily, their short tunics flared; each held a wine jug and a drinking vessel. A snake coiled by their feet. The craftsmanship was local and rough, but that did not lessen the power of the divinities. Paullus bo
wed his head, placed his right hand flat on his chest, and muttered a few conventional words.
In more affluent houses any scraps of food that were discarded in the dining room were offered to the lares. In this home nothing had ever been wasted. Even the saucer contained only a minute portion of wine. Paullus made the libation. The wine hissed in the flames.
‘You will want to look over the farm,’ his mother said.
‘Tomorrow will do.’
‘Whenever your father returned he inspected his property.’ Her voice was sharp.
‘My father never went further than Croton.’ Paullus regretted the words as soon as they were spoken.
‘Your father was a brave man. It was fate that he was not called to serve. He was a good man, respected the gods, never drank to excess, worked himself into an early grave on our behalf.’
‘It has been a long journey, and I am tired.’ Paullus attempted to sound conciliatory. ‘Today Eutyches will take you into town to see if you can buy a new maid.’
He fished a handful of coins from the wallet on his belt. She took them without speaking.
‘You can ride one of the mules.’
‘I have walked to Temesa all my life. I am neither infirm nor an invalid.’
Paullus turned and went out of the house.
‘I have managed well enough these last three years,’ she called after him.
Paullus helped unload the mules. Afterwards he watched Eutyches and his mother walk away.
As soon as they were gone, he set about hiding the plunder. The majority of the coins he buried in the hay barn, along with the swords he had taken from the brigands, all carefully wrapped in oil cloth. Then he raked the hay back to cover the disturbed soil. A few of the highest denomination coins were secreted behind a loose stone in the wall of the olive press. He had hidden things there as a child. Finally he got a ladder and tucked the bag containing the golden drinking set in the rafters of the house, high up under the tiles, well out of sight. He did not unwrap the cups, the mixing bowl, or the wine cooler. Especially not the engraved wine cooler. He had no wish to look at that.
The Return Page 2
