‘Sir,’ Paullus spoke quietly. There were wisps of smoke issuing from the joints in the door. ‘The house is alight.’
‘Diaeus, this is madness,’ Orestes said. ‘Would you let your wife burn to death?’
‘Better that than be outraged by your soldiers, then sold as a chattel.’
‘You have my solemn vow, she will be unharmed.’
‘Your word is worthless.’
Smoke was pouring out of the chimneys, coiling up from the roof itself.
‘For the sake of the gods, let her go,’ Orestes said.
Diaeus ignored him, addressed the others assembled there. ‘You legionaries are fools. The plunder of every continent flows into Rome. How many of you will see any of it? It all goes into the coffers of the senators and their high-born friends. You march and die to make the senators rich. While you are campaigning your farms are ruined, your families driven out, your land taken. Your own commanders steal your land. You are fighting to dispossess yourselves.’
There was a groan, and a roar, as something collapsed inside the house. The first flames could be seen above the parapet.
‘It is not too late,’ Orestes said.
‘No, it is far too late. I took the hemlock when I saw you approach.’
Diaeus turned to his wife. She did not flinch, but stood as docile as a heifer at the altar. Diaeus took her in his arms, kissed her on the forehead. And then the knife was in his hand, and he drove it upwards into her body. She crumpled, clinging to him. Stiffly, they tottered towards the flames. And then she was gone.
Bloodied and defeated, Diaeus faced them one last time.
‘For I know this thing well in my heart, and my mind knows it:
There will come a day when sacred Ilion shall perish.’
There was a dignity to the face with the heavy jowls, to the balding head, as he recited the words of Homer.
‘I curse every last one of you, every son of Rome. May the earth lie lightly on you, so the dogs can dig you up.’
And he turned and walked into the flames, and was seen no more.
CHAPTER 25
Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
After the footsteps had gone, there was nothing to do but wait. The cave was tiny. Paullus was cramped and very cold. He shivered, hugged himself and bit his knuckles to stop his teeth chattering. Sometimes he could not help but cough. After every muffled bout, he was terrified. Were they still nearby? Had they heard? At any moment would he be dragged out, like a rat from its hole, and butchered? He listened, strained to hear every sound. There was nothing except the wind sighing through the olive trees, and further off the oxen bellowing their distress. Tied to the plough, the baskets on their muzzles, they would be thirsty and hungry.
Paullus imagined the knife brought close to his face, the agony as it punctured the soft globe of an eye. First one, then the other, the screaming darkness that would follow. His jaws wrenched open, rough fingers grasping his tongue, the serrated blade sawing. His own blood in his throat, choking him. Hands reaching for his manhood, the blade about its hideous task.
Would they mutilate him while he was still alive? He had seen what they had done to Hirtius and Junius. They took pleasure in what they did. But he was a veteran, trained to fight. Alive, he remained a threat, even unarmed and outnumbered, even if wounded and bound, and he would not let himself be bound. They would know he had killed before, and would have no qualms about doing so again. They would know about the bandits in the Sila, and a man did not win the civic crown without shedding blood. They would be cautious, not risk indulging their pleasure in torture. It would be a quick death.
There were two of them, and they took pleasure in what they did. From the start, Paullus had never believed the killings were the work of the Hero of Temesa. He knew what it was to be haunted. The Kindly Ones had seen to that. The murders were not the work of a daemon, but of men. At first, when he saw the desecrated remains of Junius, he had thought it was a brigand, a lone man driven mad by solitude and rejection, seeking a twisted vengeance on the world. But, in the wild, the bandits had a sort of community. Those taken at Blood Rock had known nothing about the mutilated corpses. And there were two of them. It had taken two men to force Hirtius into the boiling pitch. There had been two shadowy figures slipping away from the Temple of Polites, two men just now seeking his life. The odds were long against two individuals, both sharing a motiveless desire to inflict suffering and death, finding each other in a small town like Temesa. The insane did not work well in harness, like a team of biddable oxen. Madmen did not form compacts, then efficiently put them into execution.
Both the victims had been Roman. The Bruttians had more than enough reasons to want revenge on their conquerors. Their grandparents had been raped and killed, and enslaved in vast numbers. Their best land had been seized. Now they watched Romans living on their ancestral farms. They were outcasts in their own country. More than enough reasons. But they had come to kill the girl in the temple, and Minado was a Bruttian. Not the Bruttians, then. Yet Paullus was convinced the killings were not senseless. They were designed to spread fear. The causes must lie deep in the fractured community of Temesa, a claustrophobic small town where the poor hated the rich and the rich despised the poor, and petty animosities grew and blossomed into hatred. Paullus had his suspicions, but he had no proof.
At long last the light outside faded. Paullus had to leave, but it took a great effort of will to force himself to move. Suddenly the small cleft of rock seemed like a sanctuary. Like a timid animal, he was safe in his hole.
Be a man. He was unsure if he muttered the injunction aloud. The interminable hours of apprehension and discomfort had taken their toll.
Feet first, wincing at every noise, he wriggled out of his hiding place. Not pausing, he forced his way through the brambles and scrambled down the slope to the trees.
Back in cover, he leant against the bark of an olive. It was dark. There was a waning moon, but it was often obscured by the black clouds scudding in from the unseen sea. He listened intently. Small, nocturnal rustlings, as furtive animals sought to feed or to prey on each other. An owl hooted and was answered from far off. Occasionally, one of the oxen lowed miserably, and with little hope of succour. No sounds that did not belong to the peace of the night.
Paullus ached all over. Gingerly, he eased the stiffness out of his limbs, back and neck. Every movement hurt. He was light-headed with hunger and anxiety. Was there any fight left in him? There was nothing to be gained by staying here. He had to face whatever was in the darkness.
Slowly, he flitted from one tree to another. Stopping in the blackness under the boughs, every sense alert in the gloom of the night. What was it the brigand chief had said at Blood Rock? Every night must be like this for the slave-king of Nemi, always patrolling, always waiting for the next escaped slave who would steal up, intent on his death, and on taking his place. Every night must be a time of terror.
Paullus moved along through the plantation, then down along the drystone wall by the stream. His first thought was to get to his sword belt by the water trough. As he got near, he realised the danger. The slighter-built archer had shot from close by, and must have noticed the set-aside possessions. There was just enough light to take a shot. If Paullus had been setting an ambush, it would have been here. Like a hunter at a waterhole, you waited at the place to which you knew your quarry must be drawn.
When he was some thirty paces away, Paullus flattened himself to the ground. No matter how hard he tried, he could detect no lurking presence: no sound, sight or smell. It was hours since the attack. Perhaps they had left, abandoning, or at least postponing, the attempt. In a small town like Temesa, everyone knew each other’s business. It was difficult to absent yourself from where others expected you to be for the best part of a day without drawing comment.
He thought about his own home. They would have expected him to return before dark. How long ago since nightfall? The oxen needed to
be fed and watered, bedded down. Even now would Eutyches or Pastor be crossing the river and beginning the long climb into the hills? Might they too be walking innocently into danger?
The thought spurred him into action. He covered the distance at a run, grabbed the sword belt and dived into a small hollow some paces beyond. No arrows sped out of the night, no enemies rose up from the darkness.
One of the oxen called unhappily. It would be cruel to leave them. Yet they were exposed on the plough land, and he had not scouted the eastern extremities of the field. Paullus looked at the clouds, at the thick blanket of the night. It would take a good shot to bring him down. A strange fatalism stole over him. Naevius had told him it often came over soldiers who had been too many times in combat. They became careless of their own safety.
Fuck it, and Naevius too.
Paullus stood up, buckled on the belt and walked out across the furrows.
*
Despite his fatalism, Paullus had walked back with his head ducked and his torso between the solid shoulders of the beasts. There was accepting the will of the gods, and there was recklessly putting yourself in the way of harm.
A halo of light from a lantern had shown him Pastor trudging up the track from the Sabutus. As was his custom, the old shepherd travelled armed. That had been a relief. Paullus had offered no explanation until they were safe home in the farmstead, the oxen stalled and the whole familia gathered around the fireplace. For the rest of the night Pastor and Eutyches had taken turns to stand watch in the main room of the farmhouse. Probably it was an unnecessary precaution, but Paullus had slept soundly.
In the morning Paullus had gone down to Temesa and told the magistrates and council what had happened. Predictably there was consternation. Paullus had not expected the undertone of animosity. Although he was the victim of an unprovoked attack, there seemed to be an unspoken feeling that it was his fault, as if he had in some mysterious way been responsible for the return of an evil everyone had hoped was over.
Whatever stalked the hills, it was November and the ploughing had to be finished, the wheat sown. There were only nine and a half hours of daylight. And so, on the second morning, Paullus was back in the top field. This time Eutyches did the ploughing and Paullus sat with his back to the water trough, his sword – as well as a tall hunting bow and a quiver full of arrows – close to hand.
The trough was an old sarcophagus fed from the stream. It was ancient and had no inscription. The bones of whoever had lain there had long mouldered to dust and their name been forgotten. Temesa was built on the bones of the dead, so Kaido said. When asked to explain, the Bruttian witch merely repeated herself: built on the bones of the dead.
It was broad daylight, and any further attempt on his life improbable. But Paullus remained alert, and he heard the men coming before they emerged down through the trees. There were five of them: Solinus and the other two young kinsmen who had been at the boar hunt of Fidubius and Vibius, accompanied by two slaves. All of them were carrying weapons and their nerves were obviously on edge.
‘There has been another murder.’ Solinus gave the news without preamble. ‘The magistrates want you there.’
‘Where?’
‘A farm up the Sabutus.’ Solinus seemed surprised by the question. ‘Marcellus is dead.’
‘I would be happier if you left one of your servants to keep an eye on my ploughman.’
Solinus shrugged but agreed.
They went back over the ridge and took the path that ran along the northern bank of the river. Paullus walked with Solinus and the others followed. They did not talk, and Paullus had the impression that they were watching him. Since the civic crown, he was used to people staring. Sometimes it was appealing, especially when the self-important had to get to their feet at his entrance. Now it was vaguely irritating.
The farmhouse of Marcellus faced south at the top of the slope overlooking the Sabutus, well placed to catch any breeze in summer, yet sheltered by tall elms for the winter. It was an impressive structure: two wings jutting out from the main house to form an open courtyard. There was a walled compound down the incline containing the farm buildings and slave quarters. The homestead was set in an estate of many iugera, the land worked by half a dozen home-bred slaves. Yet the whole place had a shabby and neglected air. Plaster peeled from years of damp under uncleared gutters, and both wings of the house were boarded up and unused.
Although descended from an original colonist of Temesa who had equestrian status, and benefitting much from family inheritances, in other respects Marcellus’ life had not been so fortunate. He had married late, and to a woman of shrewish character. Like many couples intent on handing down their holdings undivided to the next generation, they had had only one son. The gamble had failed; both son and wife had died of fever. Marcellus had never remarried. Never the most gregarious of men, he had withdrawn into his solitary grief. Paullus remembered that at school Lollius had compared the widower to Timon of Athens, a misanthrope who had shunned all company and come to loathe humanity. It was a fair comparison, if made with the cruelty of youth. Marcellus seldom ventured down to the town, never attended the festivals and had no friends or close family. Although rich in property, he was a miser, and, as Fidubius had described him at the hunt, a man of no account. Marcellus had never adopted an heir and, it was said, he had never remade the will that bequeathed everything to his long-dead son.
There was no one about and the courtyard was unpopulated, except for some chickens desultorily pecking the hard-packed surface. They squawked and scattered as the men crossed to the threshold of the farmhouse. The door was ajar. Paullus noticed that the lock was not splintered and the hinges were in place. Marcellus had known his killers and, however grudgingly, had let them into the house. Solinus led Paullus inside. The others followed at their back.
The main chamber on the ground floor was large, and everyone who mattered in the colony was there: the magistrates, the great landowners, Vibius and Fidubius, the latter shadowed by the intimidating figure of Croton, the priest Ursus, even the innkeeper Roscius and his little catamite Zeno. There was a solemnity about them, as if they were attending a religious ritual of which they did not totally approve, and whose outcome they considered dubious.
Those assembled greeted Paullus with stiff formality. Even Lollius did not embrace him, and the eyes of his friend were dull and expressionless, like the empty windows of a dark room.
The coldness was unsurprising, given what had brought them there.
What was left of Marcellus was arranged in front of the fireplace. The killers had not stinted themselves. They had taken their time. Two cups stood on the mantelpiece with an empty jug of wine and a plate with some leftover cheese and a crust of bread. This had been no frenzied attack. A table had been moved to give space to operate. A vase still stood on its surface. The table had not been shoved aside, but picked up with care. That would have taken both men. They must have overpowered Marcellus first, for there were no signs of struggle. Nothing in the room was broken, no furniture overturned, and nothing, except the table, was obviously out of place.
The domestic order of the room made the object on the flagstones yet more repellent.
All the dead man’s extremities had been removed – penis, hands, feet, nose and ears – the tongue severed, and the eyes gouged out. The penis had been inserted in the mouth, but this time the other body parts had been fastened to a string which ran around the neck and were then packed under each armpit. It had taken skill to extract the eyeballs with enough of the optic nerve remaining to tie them to the string.
No effort had been spared to ensure that the shade of Marcellus would be unable to stalk his murderers: no eyes to see, ears to hear, nose to scent, feet to follow, hands to seize, tongue to denounce, and no penis to outrage in vengeance. The elaboration went beyond any folk memory. It reminded Paullus of the fate of Apsyrtos in the Argonautica of Apollonius of Rhodes. At least one of the killers was a man of some education. Pe
rhaps, like Jason, he had knelt and three times licked then spat out the blood of his victim. It was impossible to tell. There was blood everywhere. Drowsy flies feasted on the dark pools on the floor.
And there was worse. Through the gore, rope marks could be seen on all the truncated limbs. Marcellus had been alive, at least to begin with, as they calmly and methodically tortured the defenceless old man. Paullus remembered his own terror in the cave the other night, and felt a terrible sympathy. Perhaps the pain had been inflicted to extract the location of hoarded wealth, but Paullus thought the motive was nothing but wanton cruelty. Paullus imagined them in the midst of their barbarity stopping to eat and drink.
No one had spoken since Paullus came into the room.
‘Where were the slaves?’ Paullus broke the silence.
‘In the fields,’ Ursus said. ‘Everyone knows Marcellus only allowed them in the house to serve his meals.’
‘When were you last here?’ demanded Fidubius.
The question wrong-footed Paullus. ‘Not for years. Marcellus did not encourage visitors. Probably before his son died, when I was a child.’
‘You recognise this?’ Vibius held out a small copper ornament in the shape of the Greek letter theta.
‘Yes, it is mine.’
‘Then how do you account for it being found in this room?’
Paullus felt something take a cold grip on his heart. ‘It was placed here to implicate me.’
‘Or you lost it in the struggle.’ As always Vibius sounded well mannered, almost disinterested.
‘There was no struggle.’
‘And how do you know that?’ Fidubius’ interjection was triumphant.
‘The room is undisturbed.’
The Return Page 22
