When they had finished eating, Theron and Thera cleared away their plates. They all sat companionably, sipping at their wine, or grape juice in Fabilla’s case, and picking at the dates that Thera had provided as after dinner snacks. After a while, Theron emerged from the kitchen.
“Is there anything else you or your guests require, master?” he asked.
Carbo indicated a couch. “Join us, Theron. Your daughter, too.”
Theron and Thera exchanged surprised glances, then settled themselves onto the couch.
“Tell me about yourselves then, Theron. I know you by name, I was told you ran the place for Trigeminus before me. I know nothing of Thera.”
Theron looked a little tongue-tied, clearly not used to company, let alone having to speak before this many guests.
“I’m not sure what you might find interesting, master.”
“Anything you care to share, Theron.”
Theron nodded and collected his thoughts. “Well, I was born into… into my current status. My parents were slaves before me, captured in Greece and brought to Rome when they were just children. Trigeminus purchased me when I was a young man, a little more physically capable than you see me now.”
Carbo took in the man’s slight frame and arthritis-twisted joints, and found his thoughts drifting towards his own mortality. Aching bones, a slower recovery from exertion and injury than in his youth, a general tiredness with life, not to mention the cuts he had received in the recent battle that stung like a swarm of bees every time he moved. He felt himself getting old.
Vespillo snorted. “Nothing wrong with you, man. A fine specimen. Carry on.”
Theron smiled. “Well, I worked the farm for Trigeminus, but I had learned some letters and numbers from my parents, and Trigeminus saw my potential and promoted me to be steward of this…estate.”
Calling the farm an estate was as appropriate as calling this house a villa, Carbo reflected, but he allowed Theron to continue without interruption.
“When Trigeminus was at his richest, this farm consisted of nearly two hundred iugera. He owned a domus in Nola, a fuller’s in Abella and a warehouse in Rome to store his exports.”
“I thought when he died, this house and its forty iugera were all he left in his will to Germanicus,” said Carbo, puzzled.
“That is correct, master,” said Theron. “Trigeminus fell on… hard times.” He fell discreetly silent.
“What happened?” asked Vespillo, clearly not prepared to let Theron draw a veil over the matter.
Theron sighed, then continued. “Trigeminus’ wife had died in childbirth, giving him a son. Raising the boy to be a good Roman was Trigeminus’ only interest in life. But the gods took the boy away.”
Rufa reached out and put a protective arm around Fabilla. Severa looked over to Vespillo, and squeezed his hand.
“Just a fall, when Trigeminus and his son were out hunting together,” said Theron. “Not even a bad one, but he took a deep injury when a stick impaled his thigh. The wound festered, and the fever finished him.” Theron shook his head. “Trigeminus was never the same again. He had nothing left to live for. He drank, gambled, whored around. He stopped investing in his properties, let them fall into disrepair. He sold off his assets to pay his debts, until all he possessed was this place. He died a few years ago.”
“Did the drinking kill him?” asked Vespillo.
“Only the gods know. He went to bed one night in a stupor, and did not awake the next morning.”
There was a momentary silence as everyone reflected on the sad story.
“So Trigeminus had left the place to Germanicus in his will?” asked Vespillo.
“Yes, in one of his more optimistic moments, he was considering moving to Rome, and attempting to better himself. He thought that Germanicus would make a good patron, if he informed him that he had changed his will to the general’s benefit. He died not long after this.”
“And Germanicus died just a few months after that,” said Carbo, “but not before he had passed the place on to me, after a particularly brutal engagement.”
“I have served you some ten years, master,” said Theron, “to the best of my abilities, though I had never met you.”
“I thank you for that,” said Carbo, sincerely. “You have been a faithful servant, and I have never had reason to doubt the accuracy of your accounting.”
Theron inclined his head to accept the praise.
“And Thera’s mother?” asked Rufa gently. “She died too?”
Theron shook his head angrily. They waited for him to speak, but he said nothing.
Thera instead spoke up. “Trigeminus sold her,” she said matter of factly. Theron’s face twisted, but Thera continued. “Mother was considerably younger than Father. Not that I remember her. But she was still young enough to be a valuable stake at the dicing table.”
Tears now rolled freely down Theron’s cheeks. “He never even told me what he had done. Not till they turned up, and dragged her away screaming for me to stop them from taking her away from Thera.”
Rufa got up and walked over to Theron, and put an arm around his shoulder. The old man started to sob uncontrollably, burying his head in Rufa’s chest. She stroked his bald pate as his body shook. Carbo and Vespillo looked at each other in surprise, unsure how to respond. Carbo opened his mouth to speak, but Rufa’s look was forbidding, and he shut it again. He knew Rufa herself had been sold into slavery by her uncle to pay gambling debts, and Carbo could think of nothing he could say to ease the situation.
After a while, the sobs settled down. Thera moved to her father and gently prised him away from Rufa, helping him to his feet. Theron looked stricken with embarassment.
“Master, honoured guests, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what…”
“Think nothing of it,” said Carbo, in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone.
“Come, father,” said Thera, guiding him towards the door. She glanced back at Carbo. “With your permission of course… master.” The word came out as if it was a foreign word, unfamiliar on her tongue. Carbo realised that for all the life she could remember, she had never had to answer to anyone but her father.
“Of course, Thera. And then you can retire yourself as well. We will make our own sleeping arrangments.”
“Thank you,” said Thera, and led her father away.
An uncomfortable silence settled on the room. Fabilla looked from adult to adult, aware that something sad had been related, but not quite able to grasp the full significance of the story she had heard. After a moment, she blurted out, “Mother, may I sleep in Thera’s room tonight?”
Rufa looked at her, taken aback, then let out a light laugh. “Of course, if Thera doesn’t mind.”
Fabilla looked confused. “But you can just tell her to let me, can’t you? She is a slave.”
Rufa’s expression darkened. “As were you, a few short weeks ago. Have you forgotten so quickly?”
Fabilla looked crestfallen. “I’m sorry, mother, I didn’t think.”
Rufa tousled her hair. “Go, find her. But make sure you ask permission. I will see you in the morning.” Fabilla gave Rufa a kiss and rushed off, then came rushing back, and threw her arms around Carbo. “Good night mother, good night Carbo. I love you both.” And she was gone.
The solemn atmosphere broken, the small group continued to drink and chat. But the events of the day soon caught up with them, and very soon Vespillo and Severa made their apologies and left. Marsia looked exhausted too, and Carbo dismissed her for the night.
“Just you and I,” said Rufa, a mischievous smile on her lips. “A little time alone together.”
Carbo looked at her with mock horror. “Do you really think I am up to anything energetic? After today?”
She laughed, and kissed him firmly on the lips. Carbo encircled his arms around her, held her close as he kissed her deeply. As she took his hand and led him towards the master bedroom, he reflected, as he so often did, how this woman had saved him,
made him whole again. He didn’t know where he would be without her.
Chapter IV
“Welcome to my little home,” said Quintus.
Carbo gaped, looking around him in amazement. They were only in the atrium, but it was still easily the most spectacular room he had ever been in. The walls were lined with beautiful bronze statues of fauns and nymphs, marble busts on ornate pedestals and delicately carved statuettes of male and female youths carrying pitchers of water and sheaves of wheat. The impluvium was deep, wide and immaculately clean, the surface of the water reflecting the sky above. It was surrounded by eleven statues of what looked like satyrs, though they appeared more horse-like than goat-like.
Quintus noticed Carbo examining them. “Sileni,” he explained. Carbo had once seen a comedy that involved a drunken Silenus, the tutor to Dionysus, and supposed these figures were related in some way, but decided not to reveal his ignorance by enquiring further. He looked at the walls, covered with bright, colourful rustic scenes. Even to the rough ex-centurion, the room was a place of beauty. Having risen to hold high rank in his legion, he had hobnobbed with his noble and patrician commanders, and even been invited to dine with them. But the field quarters of a military commander, no matter how wealthy, could never compete with a purpose-built leisure villa in Italy. Even a sumptuous domus in Rome, like the priestess Elissa’s, where Rufa had been a slave, did not have the space in that crowded city to spread out into such a palatial dwelling as this.
Rufa gripped his hand as she too stared. She let her fingers trail over a bronze statue of a faun playing pipes, and Carbo smiled as he saw the look of wonder in her eyes. Then she wrinkled her nose, and Carbo followed her gaze. He saw the cause of her disgust, a bronze statue of a goat lying on its back, legs in the air, while Pan copulated with it. The statue left nothing to the imagination, and he raised his eyebrows at Quintus. Quintus just shrugged his shoulders. “My father has rather…eclectic tastes. I’m told this statue is considered the height of sophisticated humour. Besides, Pan is a god. Sex with animals, that’s just what they do isn’t it?”
Carbo recalled that the Greeks believed that Jupiter had seduced women while in the form of a swan, a satyr and a golden shower. And as for the origin of the minotaur… He shook his head and thanked Aphrodite that his tastes were more conventional.
“This way,” said Quintus. They followed him into a beautiful peristylium. Carbo glimpsed various rooms leading off the peristylium, some of which he couldn’t guess the purpose of, others such as a large tablinum decorated with frescoes and busts, a bit more obvious. Quintus led them through an exit in one corner of the peristylium and Carbo came to a halt, stunned.
They were in a garden, fully enclosed by a portico colonnaded by dozens of fluted columns made from stuccoed brickwork. It must have measured over two hundred yards, end to end. Down the centre ran a long ornamental pond, full of lilies and fish, with a fountain at the far end in the shape of a water nymph. Intricate topiary took the form of birds and wild animals. More busts and marble statues rested in recesses along the walls. There was a delicate, fresh fragrance in the air of flowers and dew. The sky had cleared, the weather no longer foul as it had been a few days before, and the autumn sun, shining down at an oblique angle, cast aesthetic shadows.
“This must be what Elysium is like,” whispered Rufa. Carbo couldn’t help but agree with her. He had seen more of the world than her, but this was beyond anything he had experienced.
Quintus smiled indulgently. “Please, take a seat. What would you like to drink? Some wine? Fruit juice?”
“Wine for me, please,” said Carbo. Rufa said nothing, still staring around her. “Rufa?” prompted Carbo.
“What? Oh, sorry. Anything, thank you.”
Quintus flicked his fingers, and Carbo noticed how he didn’t even turn to check the slave he had summoned had hurried to his side. This was a young man born to privilege, and used to obedience, Carbo realised. A tall, reedy slave, little more than a boy, bowed to Quintus.
“Yes, master?”
“Three cups of wine please. Falernian for our honoured guests. And take their cloaks.”
“Of course, master.” He took the light cloaks from Rufa and Carbo and hurried away.
“Falernian?” said Carbo. “Really, that’s not necessary.”
“Don’t be absurd. We have fought together. Nearly died together. You are my friends and guests. Now please, be seated. My father and brother will want to meet you soon.”
Rufa and Carbo sat next to each other, and Rufa’s hand slipped into Carbo’s lap, where he gripped it reassuringly. He knew she felt overawed and out of her element. To some extent, he did as well, but hoped he was hiding it better. Their wine arrived quickly, in beautifully engraved silver cups.
Carbo tried to remember the etiquette that had been passed down to him from the patrician legates and tribunes that he had served with. He looked into the cup and swirled it, watching the amber-brown liquid move. He took a sniff, noting the delicate scent, and then took a small sip. He let the wine rest on his tongue for a little, and although it was sharp, there was none of the roughness he was used to. He swallowed and nodded at Quintus with a smile.
“Twenty year old dry Faustian Falernian, mixed in equal measures with spring water. Does it meet with your approval?”
Carbo took a deeper draught. “It certainly does.”
Rufa, who had been watching Carbo, now shyly took a drink. She savoured it, swallowed then grinned at Carbo.
Quintus took a seat himself, drinking and chatting to his two guests about the improvement in the weather, the countryside, how they were settling in at Carbo’s farm. Despite the gulf in their classes, Carbo found Quintus to be a considerate host, and he found himself quickly growing at ease, as his respect and liking of the young nobleman grew.
A loud voice broke their conversation. “Please stand for Gaius Sempronius Blaesus.”
The man who emerged from the house immediately struck Carbo as being a little frail. He was tall, with a rim of short-cropped white hair around a bald pate. He stooped, and he was supported at the elbow by an athletic looking young male slave, the one who had announced him. He walked with short, measured steps down the garden towards Carbo and Rufa, appearing stiff and arthritic. Carbo sympathised, twenty-five years in the legions made him feel like an old cart that had been on the roads too long. This man must have fifteen years on him, but he doubted he had trod the cobbles in his caligae with sixty pounds of legionary’s pack on his back, or gone hand to hand with battle-maddened Germans, so was likely better preserved than Carbo.
Carbo and Rufa stood, and Quintus sprang to his feet with a beaming smile.
“Father.” He walked straight up to the older man and gave him a crushing hug, and then a kiss on both cheeks. Blaesus seemed to wince a little at the strong embrace.
“Quintus, a very good day to you.” His accent was refined, his voice a little high and weak. He turned from Quintus, and looked at Carbo. His eyes narrowed, and a shadow seemed to pass across his face.
“Carbo, this is my father, Gaius Sempronius Blaesus,” said Quintus, brightly. “Father, This is Gaius Valerius Carbo. The man I told you about, who saved us from the bandits. Former pilus prior in the XIIIth Gemina. Lately of Rome. And a hero.”
Blaesus gave Carbo an appraising look. “I see.” He extended his hand and Carbo shook it, noticing the weak strength in the grip, as Blaesus continued. “You are very welcome, y… y… y… young man.”
The stutter took Carbo by surprise and he glanced involuntarily at Quintus. Quintus gave a slight shake of the head, keeping his expression neutral. Carbo quickly turned back to Blaesus.
“Thank you for honouring us by allowing us to visit your wonderful home. Your son does you credit, he also fought honourably and well when it was needed.”
Blaesus gripped Carbo’s hand tighter at that, and Carbo was surprised at the real strength suddenly there. Blaesus’ eyes seemed to flash. Then the hand dropped
away, and Blaesus looked down.
“That is good to hear. Too often my son has been a di…di…disappointment.”
Quintus’ smile vanished, and there was an uncomfortable silence, broken only by birdsong and the tinkling of the fountains. Blaesus sighed and shook his head, then let the slave guide him to a bench. He settled himself down stiffly.
“So, Carbo. Tell me what brings you to these parts?”
“Carbo owns a farm nearby…” began Quintus, but Blaesus held up a hand, cutting Quintus short.
“Carbo,” he said again, emphasising the name. “What brings you to these parts?”
Carbo flicked a glance at Quintus, who looked crestfallen. “I…ah…own a farm nearby.”
“Really,” said Blaesus. “I didn’t know that.”
“Well, no,” said Carbo, feeling disconcerted. Was this how noble families always dealt with each other? He knew that the father was the head of the family, the paterfamilias, with absolute power of life and death over everyone in his household. But he had always assumed it was more of a concept than an actual thing. He thought that fathers still loved their sons. Blaesus was showing little evidence of love. “I have never visited it before. I inherited it from my commander.”
“Hmmm, that place used to belong to Tri…Tri…Tri…” Blaesus stopped, making a disgusted face. He flicked his fingers and the slave offered him a cup of wine.
As he drank, Quintus helpfully supplied the name. “Trigeminus, father.”
“I know who it was,” snapped Blaesus. He took another deep drink from the cup, then spat. “This is a rather poor vintage of Falernian, boy.”
“Yes, master,” said the slave.
“Well, take it away and get something at least halfway decent.”
The slave bowed, and hurried away with the cup.
“Should we have the slave punished, father?” Rufa had remained quiet throughout all this, but she looked down at the mention of punishment of the slave. Blaesus, though, ignored the question.
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