Knight of Rome Part I

by Malcolm Davies

  “That’s what I think of your offer,” he said.

  Lucius pointed out that by his own admission, Otto’s boots were technically second hand and, in any case, when would the next giant come in wanting footwear?

  They finally agreed, shook on it and paid. Otto looked doubtfully at the small pile of change that had been poured into his palm. Once out of the shop, he showed it to Lucius.

  “Look, I gave the man coins for his boots but he has given me many more coins,” he told him.

  All the way back home, Lucius tried to make Otto understand that coins had differing values and the concept of “change”. In the end Otto shrugged and gave them to the delighted stable boy.

  “That’s quite a lot of money to give him,” Lucius told him.

  “You just told me they were small coins that cannot buy many things,” he said, bored with the whole idea of money which he thought too complicated for a man to waste his time on.

  When they returned some changes had been made. There was now only one bed in the summer house but a charcoal brazier and an oil lamp had been added to the furnishings. A rudimentary rack had been constructed in the stables for their weapons and armour. They changed and went into the house. Lucius chatted with his family while Otto sat feeling out of place and staring down at his new boots. Eventually he stood up and wandered out into the garden. Around the back of the house he found storerooms and slave-quarters. Some women were washing clothes but they looked away and said nothing when he greeted them. He poked his head through an open door and saw the cook sitting at a table with Pinerus. They did return his salute but it was clear that his presence was unwanted. He strolled around by the porter’s lodge where Janus was sitting on a stool dozing in the pale sunshine but it was what he saw next that really aroused Otto’s interest.

  Behind a low hedge at the side of the porter’s quarters was a high-fenced pen in which lay the biggest dog Otto had ever seen. It was a Molossian Mastiff; slate grey with a heavy head on a thick neck that sloped into a deep chest. Otto peered over the fence.

  “You must be Ursus,” he said.

  The dog opened one red-rimmed eye and licked his pendant jowls. He slowly got to his feet and stared up at Otto. He sniffed the air and raised his fringed lips on one side to show his fangs. A low rumble emerged from that massive body. He weighed one hundred and sixty-five pounds, his shoulders stood three feet above the ground when he was on all fours and his front legs were almost as thick as Otto’s wrists. The German looked at him with open admiration.

  “What a dog you are,” he told the beast, reverting to his native tongue. “A dog like you should be running down a wild boar in the forest, not shut up like this. But are you brave? Maybe you are just big like an ox but with no fire in you, let’s see.”

  He reached down and slid back the bolt locking the inward opening door to the pen. He moved away half a dozen paces and waited. He heard shuffling and snorting then one black clawed paw hooked back the door and Ursus stood there, free. Otto laughed aloud and shouted.

  “Come on then, here I am.”

  The dog put his head down, lifted it and bayed. The sound shook Janus awake and he nearly fell off his seat at the sight of Ursus hurtling towards the young master’s guest. He watched frozen with shock as Ursus flung himself at Otto. They collided, going down together in a snarling, laughing heap. Janus scurried for the front door shouting for help at the top of his voice. Everyone ran out and the slaves followed by Pinerus appeared round the side of the house.

  Otto had bent his knees and braced to receive the dog’s first leap. He had gripped the loose skin on either side of its neck to keep its teeth from tearing out his throat but he had been deceived at the bulk and power of his adversary. Ursus knocked him off his feet. He fell backwards desperately hanging onto his grip. The household watched in horror or excitement, according to their tastes, as the two figures locked in combat rolled over and struggling for a purchase, gravel flying up from scrabbling boots or paws. Ursus kept up a continuous growl interspersed with frantic barks. Otto was shouting in German when not laughing. Both showed open jaws full of strong, white teeth. The dog managed to get on top and advance its foam slathered fangs within an inch of the strange man’s face but Otto got a forearm in between them, blocking the final, thrust from that mighty neck which could have been fatal to him. With a quick movement of his knees, he knocked the animal’s back legs aside and twisted so that he was now above it, still with his forearm across the dog’s gullet. He let his weight bear down and cut off its breathing. Ursus’ legs scrabbled frantically in the air but grew slower and fell still as he used up the oxygen in his lungs. With a grin of triumph, Otto slid off and lay on his back with his arms stretched out either side of him. Ursus lurched to his feet and took Otto’s throat in his jaws but he did not bite down. He felt the man’s hand come up and massage the root of one of his ears. He released his grip and wagged his tail. Otto stood up, panting and grinning.

  “Good dog,” he said. “Good dog, let’s have a drink.”

  They walked companionably back to the pen where Otto refreshed the water in Ursus’ bowl.

  Sabina turned to her husband.

  “If anyone ever wanted proof that Otto is a monster we all had it today; two beasts fighting in our garden.”

  When Janus let him out at nightfall, the dog ran straight to the summer house where he whined until Otto opened the door for him. After licking his new friend’s face, he laid on the floor peacefully beside him all night long apart from his forays around the garden when he thought he heard or smelled something that needed investigation.

  Chapter 17

  The next morning, when everyone had calmed down, Lucius and Vitius sat facing Otto who did not understand their concerns about his wrestling match with the mastiff.

  “What I want to know,” Vitius asked, “is what did you think you were doing?”

  “For the sport, to test myself against him ….” Otto replied with a shrug.

  “You do know Ursus could have killed you?” Lucius put in.

  “Have you watched wolves fighting?” Otto asked, answering the question with one of his own. Lucius shook his head. “When wolves try each other’s strength, the loser goes still and shows his throat. The winner grips the offered throat and then releases it; as with wolves, so with dogs. Ursus and I now respect each other.” Otto went on.

  “It seems to me that your companion has more experience of such things than we do, my son” Vitius said.

  That was the end of the discussion. However, the slaves smiled and nodded at Otto as he went about the house and garden. For them, the fight between man and dog was the sort of spectacle they had heard was displayed in the arena but never hoped to see themselves.

  Otto sat alone on a stool in the atrium under the projecting roof. A soft rain was falling. He rested his elbows on his knees and looked down at the mosaics, thinking. These Romans were so different. He understood that challenging Ursus had been something none of them would ever do but why was that? They were the best of soldiers but where was their warrior pride? He could make no sense of them. On the edge of his vision he saw Janus open the gate to admit a figure hooded against the rain in a blue cloak. The owner of the cloak came up the steps into the atrium and unclasped the ornate brooch holding it in place at his neck. He pushed the hood back. Otto saw that he was a young man with thickly curled hair wearing a blue tunic edged in gold fringes and a matching leather belt and boots. He held out his cloak to Otto at arm’s length.

  “Here, take it,” he said in an abrupt tone.

  Otto looked directly at him. He did not like the newcomer’s manner or his appearance. He had rings on the fingers of both plump hands and a petulant mouth. Otto decided he was not worth troubling over and returned to his examination of a fish depicted in minute tiles on the floor. Each small tile was nothing in itself but when a number of them were cleverly placed next to each other, the difference in their colours transformed them into an image. Otto admir
ed the skill of the artists who could make fish and men and horses and gods on a floor, of all places.

  “I told you to take my wet cloak,” the man shouted and threw it down beside Otto. “Now pick it up and have it dried out.”

  Otto looked up, shook his head and pushed it aside with the toe of one boot. The newcomer grew red in the face and so enraged that he shook and danced from one foot to the other.

  “I’ll have you whipped,” he shouted, “I’ll have you whipped until your bones are bare….”

  Lucius hurried out to see what the commotion was all about.

  “Greetings Servius,” he called out. “Whatever is wrong?

  Servius pointed at Otto.

  “This slave,” he snarled, “has shown me the most damnable insolence. I want him flogged…”

  “He isn’t a slave,” Lucius interrupted.

  “Well, one of your soldiers then… whatever he is, he can’t behave to me like that.”

  Otto laughed. “I am Otto, war-companion to the Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius, called Boxer. Who are you?” he asked with amused contempt. He felt he had the measure of this young man who could not control himself and was so soft his flesh shook when he stamped his feet.

  “He is my oldest friend, Otto and should be treated with respect,” Lucius told him.

  “Then let him earn some, Boxer,” Otto replied.

  The visitor looked as if he might either burst or break into tears. With a hard glare at Otto, Lucius picked up the cloak and led Servius into the house with one arm over his shoulder. Otto heard Sabina’s voice wearily saying, “What has he done now?” and then all was silence once more. He went into the summer house feeling sorry for himself and lay on his bed, one arm flung over his face. After several minutes, he heard the door open and looking up, saw a slave carrying a high-backed stool and cushion followed by Aelia. Her servant placed the seat for her. She sat and he lit the charcoal brazier, even though the afternoon was not cold. Aelia smiled at Otto as her attendant departed.

  “Oh dear,” she said kindly, “how hard it must all be for you. What on earth happened with Servius?”

  Otto told her and she laughed aloud.

  “He is a pompous ass, always has been. The problem with Servius is that he is the only child of a rich father who was in turn the sole heir of a rich man. His is the third generation of privilege and he believes in his own importance above everything else….”

  “What does he do?”

  “Nothing; he has money and property so he has no need to do anything. Even if he wanted to, I doubt that he would have the will and intelligence to achieve much.”

  “But Boxer is the only son of a rich man and he is a soldier; an honoured officer…”

  Aelia laughed again, gently.

  “We are not rich,” she said.

  She saw the expression of disbelief pass across Otto’s face. He looked into her eyes with his own, so pale that the blue of them seemed almost colourless in bright sunshine.

  “My father was Badurad, a war counsellor to a king. He was accounted wealthy among our people because he had a sword, a mail shirt and a horse. Lady, you are rich.”

  Aelia sighed. “We have status Otto and land but not as much money as you might think. We have to keep up our position in society and that costs a lot. Lucius contributes from his pay so we are comfortable but far from rich, as you believe. Two bad harvests means we have to borrow and it takes three good ones to repay the loan. Now, tell me how you came to be my grandson’s companion and I will tell you all about my family.”

  He recounted everything; the wise woman, her prophecy and his father’s demand that whatever happened he must follow his fated path.

  “Very well, I shall think about what I have just heard. Do you know that some years ago there was a civil war in Rome and the empire?”

  “Yes,” replied Otto. “People said that the Romans’ bloodlust was so great that they turned on each other because there was no-one left to slaughter in the whole of the Gallic and Belgic lands.”

  Aelia pursed her lips and tilted her face for a moment before continuing.

  “That is, of course, a view. However, there were great men in Rome at that time whose power was equally balanced. The richest of them was Crassus who was killed in far eastern lands. Pompeius Magnus fought Caesar and lost his life. Then the Divine Julius was murdered and his heir, the present Emperor we call Augustus, fought with the Antonian family for control of the empire. Everyone in Rome was forced to take a side, whether they wanted to or not. My late husband, Vitius’ father, chose the Antonians. They lost and so did he. His villa in Rome, his estates and his gold were confiscated by the victors. We barely escaped with our lives. My parents owned this house and our farms outside the city so here we came to seek refuge. When they died, we inherited and here we live now. You see, Otto, there are degrees of wealth as there are of poverty. By the standards of my youth, I and my family are poor.” She rose to her feet. “Tomorrow, I shall visit you and tell you a great story you will understand and enjoy.”

  She was as good as her word. The next day, she began to recount the fall of Troy.

  “Achilles’ mother told her son that if he sailed away to fight in this war, he would fall but his fame would last forever. If he stayed home, he would have a long and happy life but his name would die with him. He chose glory…”

  “Of course, what warrior would not?” Otto enthused.

  Aelia laughed gently. “I knew this would be a story close to your heart.”

  They spent many afternoons together while Otto was in Luca. Listening to the old lady’s tales and conversing with her improved Otto’s Latin to the point where only his persistent accent showed he had not been brought up speaking that language. Sometimes their cultures clashed.

  “Why do you Germans hate us Romans?” she asked.

  “We do not,” he replied.

  “Why then do you cross the Rhine to kill and plunder in Roman lands?”

  Otto snorted in derision.

  “Roman lands? We have raided and fought wars across the river since the beginning of time. The Belgic people are our cousins who decided to stay in territory they had conquered in the south. Then you Romans come and when we do what we have always done you say we are your enemies. No-one invited Rome into our world….”

  Four days after his first visit, Servius called again in the early evening. He pointedly ignored Otto.

  “I have arranged a little celebration, madam, to welcome home our Lucius,” he told Sabina.

  “Spending the evening with a group of young men with nothing better to do than to drink too much wine and misbehave, you mean,” Sabina laughed.

  “Perhaps a little wine will be drunk but in a good cause,” replied.

  “And that cause would be what?”

  “Enjoyment, lady, recreation, relaxation after the harsh military discipline poor Lucius has endured….”

  “Go on then; as if anything I could say would stop you.”

  While Lucius dressed to go out, Otto went over to the summer house, changed into his soldier’s boots and buckled his pugio dagger around his waist under his cloak. He caught up with the other two just as Janus was letting them through the gate.

  “I don’t remember inviting you, whatever your name is,” Servius snapped looking at Otto for the first time.

  “I go where Boxer goes,” Otto replied.

  “And who told you that you may call the noble Tribune Lucius Taurius Longius by that name? You really take a lot on yourself for a barbarian, don’t you?”

  “Come on, Servius, Otto is my sworn companion of course he must come with us.”

  “Even when he is unwanted? My, what a faithful dog you are; heel boy, heel,” Servius said spitefully.

  Half a dozen urchins were waiting in the street. They held pitch-soaked torches, as yet unlit, to guide the gentlemen through the dark streets. They would be paid a few coppers to accompany them to the place of their night’s entertainment and would
then wait outside as long as it took to see them home again. Only then would they be paid; unless their “gentlemen” had lost all their money at dice or simply chased them off.

  The moved off downhill, crossed the square and turned left past the garrison barracks and into a narrow street that followed the curve of the city wall. The torches were lit with flint and steel. They gave off a yellow guttering light and the air was full of the pungent odour of burning pine resin. Wavering shadows danced before them off the walls until they stopped at a door identical to all the others but heavily reinforced with iron straps. Servius knocked and a hatch opened. A pair of hard eyes reflecting the torchlight examined the party.

  “Welcome Master Servius,” a harsh voice said as the door was thrown back.

  They found themselves in a room about ten feet square. It was empty other than for a pair of stools, an oil lamp on a bracket and lines of hooks on the walls from which cloaks hung. There was a second door, equally massive, opposite the street door. Two heavily set men with an air of suppressed violence about them took the newcomers’ cloaks. One of them stopped in front of Otto.

  “No slaves admitted, sirs, sorry but house rules,” he said.

  “He’s not a slave,” Lucius told him. “He is the son of a German noble visiting my home while I’m on leave.”

  “You don’t say?” the doorman responded. “Well, if you vouch for him fair enough.” Then he noticed the dagger on Otto’s belt and pointed at it. “Visitor or not, no weapons on the premises; we look after it, you not worry, savvy?” he said very slowly and loudly in case Otto spoke no Latin.

  Otto looked over at Lucius who nodded so he reluctantly handed over his prized knife. The second man opened the inner door and a blaze of light fell into the cubicle with a sound of music and a sweet perfume.

  “Welcome to Calypso’s Island,” he said as they stepped through into an enclosed garden. The space was bounded by high walls on three sides and a low house with a red glow passing through closed shutters at the windows.

  In the middle, under a canopy warmed by charcoal braziers, a dozen men of around Lucius’ age reclined on couches or lay on mounds of pillows on a rich carpet. Torches flamed in wall brackets to illuminate the scene. The other guests wore garlands of artificial flowers on their heads and held goblets. Girls passed among them pouring wine and offering snacks and sweets from trays. Two female flautists accompanied by a man with a lyre sat on stools to one side making music for their indifferent audience.