Like all Romans, while his father had been alive Paullus had been completely in his power. Under patria potestas, according to the law, a son could own nothing. Anything he might acquire or be given was the property of his father. When he came of age, still he could not marry, divorce or go to law without permission. A father was within his rights to banish or even execute his son. The annals of Rome were well stocked with examples of fathers who had taken the latter harsh decision. In the Greek east Paullus had come to realise that such savage customs were not universal, that other people did things differently.
Paullus set the jars aside. All that remained was to heat the pitch and liberally spread it over the interiors. Later, if he thought it necessary to make the colour uniform after the mending, he could bake two parts chalk with one part lime and paint it on the jars.
Outside Niger started barking – the deep, menacing note that warned of the approach of strangers.
Paullus went out into the farmyard. A procession was leaving the road from town, and coming through the belt of oaks and beech trees. The two annual chief magistrates were at the front. Among the thirty or so landowners who followed, Paullus saw Ursus the priest, and both Fidubius and Vibius. The latter two were accompanied by his friend Lollius and Fidubius’ bailiff Croton. There was purpose, even urgency, about the way they all came through the trees.
Paullus whistled Niger to sit at his heels.
‘Health and great joy.’ It was Ursus who hailed Paullus.
Having returned the greeting, Paullus waited. For some reason, he felt nervous. Perhaps the evident anxiety of the newcomers – the good and the great of Temesa did not cast off their measured dignity to hurry through the countryside without cause – had transferred itself to him.
‘Have you seen your neighbour Junius?’ Although the magistrates were there, it was the priest who spoke.
‘Not since threshing, when I returned his ox.’
‘The old witch Kaido said he was dead – murdered.’
‘I would not have thought the visions of a Bruttian wise woman would have been given such credence as to bring this company out from town on foot.’ Paullus tried to keep any mockery out of his tone.
Ursus sucked in his sunken cheeks even further with irritation. ‘She said she had come from his land on the other side of Mount Ixias, actually seen his corpse with her own eyes.’
Paullus looked round. ‘Where is Kaido?’
‘She vanished.’
‘Vanished?’
The priest tutted in exasperation. ‘She must have slipped away from the marketplace while we were talking. The most direct route is across your farm.’
‘I will come with you.’
Paullus told Niger, who had been winding through Lollius’ legs, to stay with a gesture of his hand.
Hunched against the rain, they crossed the first field, their feet treading down the unburnt stubble, the wind whipping the olive branches above their heads. The trunks of the trees were black from the downpour. Picking up the track, the men climbed back and forth up the terraced vineyard. When they were near the top, as suddenly as it had come, the storm was gone. Paullus watched the dark clouds and the trailing curtains of rain driving up into the heights of the Sila.
The sun shone from a blue, washed-out sky. The heat returned to the day. The ground steamed, and there was a rich, loamy smell to the air. They went by Severus’ empty house and across the fields that were now a part of the ever- expanding holdings of Lollius’ father.
Reaching the hut of Junius, they halted to catch their breath, as if it had been prearranged. Many of the landowners were not young, but they were countrymen, uncorrupted by the indolent luxury of a big city. Whatever their age, these were men who still farmed and still enjoyed taking their hounds into the forest. Not one of them would dream of showing weakness.
Ursus rapped on the door of the hut. There was no answer. The door was locked. At a nod from Fidubius, the slave Croton kicked it open. There was no one inside. Paullus went in and felt the ashes in the grate. They were cold.
‘Anything missing?’ Ursus asked.
Paullus looked round. ‘It looks the same as when I brought back the ox.’
Some innate decency, or perhaps merely a deep-seated belief in the sanctity of private property, prompted Fidubius to order Croton to lash the door shut behind them.
The path over Mount Ixias was narrow. They went in single file, well spaced, so the encroaching brambles did not flick back on the next man in line. The ascent to the ridge was steep, going down the other side no better. They pressed on, although they all suspected that there was no reason to hurry. Paullus got the impression that some of them were certain what they would find.
It took a couple of hours to reach their goal. They fanned out, then halted, every man pausing to appreciate the upland field: five iugera, almost flat, facing south and well sheltered. Most of the stubble was blackened, but a patch in the south-west corner was still golden. Just beyond the scorched earth, half a dozen crows were busy, perched on a low, humped shape.
‘The old woman was telling the truth,’ Ursus said.
The carrion birds rose, cawing their annoyance.
The corpse had not been there very long. It was not yet bloated, but something larger than the crows had already been at the remains – a fox or a wolf. But it was not the work of the scavengers that shocked the men to silence.
Junius lay on his back. In death his eyes did not regard the sky. His eyeballs were gone. Those delicate orbs might have been pecked out. But the birds had not stripped him naked. No wolf had cut out his tongue or hacked off his extremities: his nose, hands and feet. One of the hands was missing. Perhaps a beast had taken that, but only another man would have severed his penis and stuffed it into the bloody ruin of his mouth.
Despite the mutilation and the attentions of the animals, it was obvious how he had died. They were wounds to both arms – Junius had fought – and three cuts to the left side of his chest. The latter were wide and deep, great trenches which had peeled the flesh back to expose the ribs. Most likely they would have killed him before the desecration of his body.
‘A butcher’s cleaver or a slashing sword,’ Ursus said.
Some of the onlookers were ashen faced. The priest was not one of them, nor were Vibius or Fidubius. The latter’s big slave Croton had his head on one side, as if considering the killer’s handiwork.
No one moved to touch the corpse. To touch death brought pollution. Those whose calling was to handle the dead lived outside the town, shunned by the citizens except when they were necessary. They would be summoned later.
A swarm of flies rose when Paullus bent to study the body. Close up there was the sweet stench of decay. Careful scrutiny revealed nothing else. None of the others moved to help when Paullus went to turn the body. The flesh was cold and clammy from the rain and decomposition. He heaved Junius onto his side. There was another massive cut to the back of the neck. Mortally injured, Junius had been on his hands and knees when the killer finished him. Before laying the corpse back, Paullus noticed a small puncture wound high on the left thigh. Its edges were ragged from the barbs of the arrowhead when it was removed.
Paullus wiped his hands in the damp earth, then scrubbed them with the stubble. Even so, when he got to his feet, the others stepped away from him.
‘The Hero of Temesa has returned,’ Fidubius said.
They all looked at Ursus. The priest said nothing.
‘In all the stories that was how Polites treated his victims,’ Fidubius said. ‘It is in the paintings in the temple.’
‘Yes,’ Ursus said, ‘but why would the Hero return after all these centuries?’
‘To punish evil men,’ Fidubius said.
‘Was Junius more evil than other men? Are we worse than our ancestors?’ The old priest was unconvinced. ‘It is more likely the work of brigands.’
Vibius spoke for the first time. ‘Daemon or bandit, the killer must be caught, and caught qui
ckly. If not the peasants will soon be too afraid to work the outlying farms, the land will be abandoned.’
Some of the men put their thumbs between their fingers to ward off evil; one spat on his own chest, as if the words of Vibius would bring about the very thing against which they warned.
CHAPTER 11
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
IT WAS MARKET DAY IN TEMESA. They were held every eighth day. Everyone from the area knew that. There was a calendar inscribed on the wall of the docks for those arriving at the port.
Paullus walked into the forum. The facades of the Temple of Jupiter at the northern end and that of the basilica at the southern were hung with garlands, as were the columns of the porticos that linked them. As ever on the eighth day, the enclosed space was thronged. All the people were clean and well groomed, wearing their best clothes. The bathhouses and barbers had opened early and done good trade. Even the slovenliest peasant from a remote farmstead up in the Sila wanted to look their best.
The previous afternoon, or in the early hours of that morning, many rustics had loaded their produce onto a donkey, or hefted it onto their own shoulders, or those of their wife, and made the trek into town. They brought eggs and cheese and poultry, fresh figs and almonds and chickpeas. With the coins gathered from their sale, they purchased those things they could not make themselves. At stalls set up between the columns, or in the open square, there were traders to meet any conceivable requirements. There were silver- and goldsmiths, potters and stonemasons, confectioners and key-makers, weavers and tailors, cobblers and workers in leather, merchants in ointments and spices, scribes and money-changers. For the reassurance of body and soul, there were doctors and astrologers. Catering for more transient needs were bakers and innkeepers, the sellers of fast foods and whores.
Elevated at the top of the steps to the temple sat the aediles. These two junior magistrates oversaw the market. They assigned and rented out the pitches, were meant to maintain order and settle disputes. Behind them was a stone table with bowls of various sizes set in recesses in its surface. This was the official gauge of measurements of goods to which anyone could appeal.
Paullus saw that the aediles were unbothered by suspicious customers. Although the forum was crowded, trade was not brisk. Quintus the old ironmonger had fallen asleep on his stool. Babilius the shoemaker stood disconsolate, a suede buskin in hand, all his patter exhausted. No clients sat on the benches which he thoughtfully provided, or perused the footwear artfully arranged on the screen propped between two pillars. Most people stood in small groups talking. There was a larger gathering by the statues in front of the basilica. It was here that official pronouncements were displayed. In the usual run of things, these did not provoke especial interest: lists of candidates for local elections, or copies of decrees of the senate and laws passed by the assemblies of the people in Rome. The former were always from the same limited circle of families, and the latter often of limited effect on the lives of those who dwelt in and around Temesa. Today was different. A man at the front of the crowd was reading what was painted on the wooden boards to those who could not get close, or were illiterate. His audience hung on every word. Paullus did not have to listen. He had read the notice yesterday, when it was posted. It was two days since they had found Junius. The announcement detailed his murder, the hideous mutilation of his corpse, and a promised a large reward for the apprehension of his killer.
To escape the hot sun, Paullus walked into the shade of the colonnade. Some of the others strolling in the dim light glanced at him, then looked quickly away. He stopped at the stall of the fishmonger. At his arrival, two women, empty baskets on their arms, stopped studying the display on the iced trays and moved off. The fishmonger greeted him politely, but without enthusiasm. Mechanically, Paullus chose some sprats, paid for them, said he would collect them later on his way home, and continued on his way.
The winner of the civic crown demanded respect, but a man tainted with violent death was best avoided. Temesa was a small town. Everyone would know that he had been one of those who had found old Junius. Paullus was the one that had actually handled the corpse. Worse, it would be common knowledge that, for some reason, he had not yet seen fit to go to the Temple of Polites for ritual purification.
Back in the sunshine, Paullus paused. Two young children were playing peek-a-boo around the columns of the temple. Their high, clear laughter cut through the hubbub of the market. Paullus could not remember being so carefree as a child, could not imagine ever feeling so happy. An ignoble part of him wanted to shatter their innocence, as certainly as throwing a pottery vessel onto the flagstones.
The old women had not appeared for many days. When he woke in the dead of night, expecting to see their dark, hunched shapes, there was nothing. Instead, just a feeling of hopelessness and impending doom, an almost physical sensation of falling into a pit. There was no way out. To seek purification from Ursus, he would have to tell the priest what had happened in the last house in Corinth, and that was impossible.
The laughter had stopped. From all directions at once Paullus was assailed by the noise of the market. Around him swirled ill-defined shapes and colours, yellow and red and white. The mingled smells of cooking and fish and humanity made his gorge rise.
‘Are you alright?’
Paullus realised that he was standing motionless. The vague colours resolved themselves into the brightly dyed clothes of passers-by, the wall of noise separated into the individual sounds of a market day.
‘Are you alright?’ It was Onirus, the Bruttian camp servant. He spoke in the local language.
‘Yes, thank you.’ Paullus, unlike many of the colonists, knew the dialect of Oscan.
‘You looked unwell.’
‘A fever, nothing more.’
Onirus regarded him sceptically. ‘If I may say, you have not seemed yourself.’
‘I am fine.’
‘Well, if you are sure.’
‘Very sure, thank you.’
Onirus hesitated before taking his leave. Paullus liked the slim young Bruttian. They had served together. Once, in camp, Paullus had saved Onirus from a beating, and he had given the servant a generous share of the plunder. Yet every time they met the same unspoken question hung in the air. The year before, Onirus had watched Paullus and Tatius and Alcimus leave the precinct of the Temple of Apollo. Only Paullus had returned through the burning streets of Corinth.
Gathering himself, Paullus walked on across the forum. His emotions back under control, he took in his surroundings. From the steps of the basilica a public slave was calling out the names of debtors in case any present would put up the money to secure their release from gaol. It was the sole exception to the ban on public business on a market day. The list was surprisingly long, and no friend or relative came forward. The poor of Temesa had many reasons to hate the rich.
Moving through the crowd, Paullus murmured a good day to those he recognised. There was nothing overt, but few seemed to welcome the greeting. Paullus ignored the incivility. He was struck by the number of well-dressed unaccompanied women. They went about their business unveiled. That would not happen in Greece. They said travel broadened the mind, but it came at the price of making the familiar unsettling.
It was cool and dark in the tavern. Lollius was already there. They hugged each other fondly. Paullus’ friend exhibited no reluctance.
Lollius was drinking with an old Bruttian huntsman called Dekis. Lollius kept a fine pack of hounds, and Paullus had heard that Dekis had a beautiful daughter, although he had not seen her himself. Lollius had never done anything that did not serve his pleasures.
Roscius came over with another cup and a plate of salted almonds.
‘You two saw him, then?’ As always the thickset innkeeper smelt of perfume – cinnamon or cassia.
The young men agreed that they had. There was no need to ask who Roscius meant.
‘None of us are safe now the Hero has returned.
Only a fool would go into the woods.’
Lollius looked at Paullus. There was an almost supercilious smile on his long, delicate face, as if he was amused by the superstition of the innkeeper.
‘The charcoal burners have heard Polites howling like a wolf up in the hills.’ Roscius turned to the other customer. ‘Isn’t that right, Dekis?’
The leathery and deeply lined face lifted from his drink. ‘Maybe so, maybe not,’ Dekis said. ‘For sure they heard wolves howling.’
‘It was bandits,’ Paullus said.
Roscius shook his head. ‘What brigand would mutilate a man that way?’
‘One with a malevolent and cunning mind,’ Paullus said. ‘One that wanted to rest undisturbed at night, maybe to divert suspicion, terrify people so that there was no search.’
The innkeeper made a sign to avert evil. ‘What did old Junius have that a brigand would want?’
Paullus had no answer to that.
‘A robber would have ransacked his hut,’ Roscius said. ‘It is like I say, Polites has returned.’
Further discussion was prevented by loud and angry shouting from out in the square.
‘It is probably nothing,’ Lollius said. ‘Let us have another drink.’
‘Afterwards.’ Paullus got up.
Roscius told his serving boy to mind the inn. If there was trouble, he was to bring the shutters down. The boy, Zeno, pouted. He wanted to come too. Wherever the innkeeper went the delicate youth followed. There was no doubt about the tastes of Roscius. For once the innkeeper told his paramour to stay behind, and then followed Paullus and Lollius out. Intent on drinking, Dekis remained.
A mob of working men had gathered in front of the basilica. Some were townsmen, but most wore the rough clothes of the countryside. They were all shouting at once. The women and children had vanished from the forum.
The uproar brought out the two chief magistrates. The duoviri were joined on top of the steps by Lollius’ father Vibius, as well as Ursus and Fidubius. The magistrates, duoviri and aediles alike, were at a loss. It was Fidubius who raised his hands for silence.
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