“I cannot ride,” Publius stammered.
“Never mind then,” she looked away. He started to speak but she raised her hand, “No not here, come we shall walk in my garden.”
The two of them entered the long colonnaded garden. In the centre, which was open to the sky, a couple of fountains bubbled and gurgled and fine stone statues of long dead Vestal virgins adorned the grass.
“I grief for our father,” Publius said wiping the sweat from his forehead, “and I am humbled by his generosity. It is my adoption that I would like to discuss with you.”
Pompeia remained silent as they strode round the garden.
“I sense lady, that you have reservations about my adoption. So I have come to re-assure you that I intend to prove my self worthy of our father’s name.”
Pompeia folded her arms across her chest but did not reply as they made their way around the garden.
“When our father dies I will sell the house and the other properties,” Publius went on. “There are s…some debts which must be s...settled you see and some properties make us no money at all. Then I shall buy our ancestral house here in Rome, the house that your father sold. In that house, where our family have lived for generations, I shall raise my own family. The house belongs to us and I shall restore the tradition.”
Pompeia smiled.
“It is not that I dislike you Publius,” she said slowly, “You are a good man and I know my father loves you but you must decide for yourself what life you will lead. You cannot just copy another man and hope you will find the same fortune. Every man is different and I worry that you just wish to be like my father. You must be your own man Publius.”
Publius was silent as they continued their walk.
“There is more,” he said at last, ignoring her comments. “I need a wife. I have a duty to continue the family line and produce an heir and with this war the matter has become urgent. So I will marry. I have selected two women,” he said glancing at her, “they are freeborn, young and without scandal.”
Pompeia nodded.
“Of course you must marry,” she replied. “But is now really the right time? The city is in mourning.”
It was clear from his reaction that he had not considered that.
“It must be now,” Publius said nevertheless. He glanced up at her. “I would like you to help choose a wife for me.”
She stared at him for a long moment deciding whether to laugh or not.
“Alright, do these ladies have names?” she asked.
Publius’ face lit up in relief. “Yes,” he said his voice growing in excitement, “I have arranged to visit their homes tomorrow. The first meeting is at dawn and the second two hours later.” He beamed, “What father will refuse to marry his daughter into a family that has a Vestal as one of its members?”
“But do you not have any preference at all?” she inquired.
Publius shrugged, “I need a wife and an heir,” he said simply.
***
The first house they visited was a modest building on the Aventine. The family matron had just lost three of her sons at Cannae and shrouded in her mourning clothes she had sat throughout the entire audience in sombre silence. The father of the family had not even showed up. He had taken to wine after the news of the loss of his boys. The girl Publius was hoping to marry was young barely seventeen and giggled nervously throughout. A pretty girl Pompeia thought but thick as a tree trunk.
The second home was a grander affair on the Caelian hill and the family had connections to the college of priests Publius told her. They were shown into an atrium and told to wait. When the girl finally came in she was accompanied by two lawyers, mean looking men. Publius was just about to greet her when the girl caught sight of Pompeia and froze.
“What is this, you bring a Vestal into my home!” the girl cried out.
Pompeia, used to being seen in public, stood her ground, her face a model of composure that could not be ruffled by any insult. Publius tried to speak but the girl had already turned to her advisers.
“I cannot be associated with one of them,” she snapped. “This will not do. Tell them to leave at once.”
“Have I offended you?” Pompeia said in a calm voice.
The girl turned to her and seemed to grow visibly upset clawing at her hair.
“You,” she pointed her finger at Pompeia, “You Vestals are all whores, you have betrayed your vows and you are all going to die. Everyone knows what you horny bitches have been up to! Get out now. Get out of my house!”
Pompeia felt like someone had hit her in the face. She swayed on her feet, her mouth suddenly felt very dry and she tried to swallow. Then Publius was at her side leading her towards the entrance hall. The young freedman looked horrified and was muttering apologies, one after the other but Pompeia seemed only to hear half his words. They stepped out into the street and the door was slammed shut behind them.
“You had better take the first one,” Pompeia stammered.
Chapter Thirteen – Homecoming
The college of cattle drivers had built their Columbaria on top of a small hill just outside the city. The low rectangular mud brick walls looked old and weather beaten. There was no roof. Grass and weeds had sprung up in the open central space and in the cracks between the bricks and the paving stones. Just beyond the wall a line of Cypress trees, stiff and silent like sentinels, provided some shade from the hot noon sun. Adonibaal checked to see if he was alone and satisfied that he was he strode across the last few yards and entered the narrow gap between the walls. The urns of the dead stood neatly in their pigeon holes. There were hundreds of them. Slowly he made his way along one side of the wall reading the brass plated inscriptions. Then suddenly he stopped and brushed the dust from one of the urns.
“Hello Flavia,” he said.
Adonibaal gazed at the urn that contained the ashes of his bride. Slowly he got down on his knees. So this is where they have buried you he thought. He had been away for twenty four years. He knelt and looked at the urn. It was of a cheap design, cracked in places and the only thing identifying her was her name and the day on which she had died, scratched onto a brass plate. This was all that remained of her, that and a memory. There were no flowers or offerings but someone had left her a silver coin. He picked it up and held it between thumb and finger. The coin was old, very old. No one had been to the grave in years. He glanced at the urn next to hers. It was her father. He smiled sadly as he remembered the look on the man’s face when he’d learned that his daughter was going to marry into the aristocratic Fabian clan. Old fool. Well at least the college of drivers, to which her father had belonged, had done its duty and ensured that she had received a proper burial and so could pass on into the afterlife.
That should have been my duty he thought.
He opened his hand and looked at the two tiny figurines. He had carved them onboard the ship that had taken him to Carthage, all those years ago. One image of Flavia; one for the daughter he had lost. After all the time that had passed he could still picture Flavia’s face as clearly as if she was standing beside him now. She had been the only woman he had ever loved. The only woman he had ever wanted. He cocked his head. Yes if he listened carefully he could hear her voice and the way in which she laughed. She had understood him from the very first moment when they had met. Flavia and he had been meant for each other, they were soul mates.
Everything he had done had been for her. They had both been virgins. On the first night that they had spent together they had sworn an oath of loyalty and promised to wait for each other. He had given his word in the presence of the gods that he would never abandon her. She in return had told him she would never love another.
“Spirits of the departed,” he whispered turning to look at the ground. “I honour you and wish you to know that I am loyal still and that our oath endures. Dearest Flavia, I was not here to say my farewell to you. Forgive me for this. You were strong and kept your promise. Fortune was not your friend but d
o not despair, for one day soon we shall be together again. I was and am your husband.”
He placed the two figurines on top of the urn.
In his weaker moments, when he had despaired of the life he was living her memory had always come to guide him back to the light and given him the strength to continue.
Then his mood darkened as the memories came flooding back. They had never given him the chance to say goodbye to her. They had not allowed him to see her and his daughter being buried. He raised his face to the sky and stifled a cry of shame and anger. They had all been against him, thwarting his every move, striking at him with everything they had, his father wielding the law, Janus the whip and his brother, most painful of all, by breaking his word and betraying his confidence. He clenched his hand into a fist and pushed it into the soil. He had trusted Numerius but his brother had gone straight to his father, like a dog would go to its master and after that he’d lost Flavia and everything that mattered to him in life. He had trusted Numerius. He had loved him and had thought he’d known his mind. But his brother had left him to die like some sort of wounded beast. His brother had done nothing to help him. From his cell in his father’s house he had begged Numerius for help but his brother had not come, he had not stood up for him and when his punishment was read out Numerius had remained silent. His brother’s desertion had cut deep for Numerius had been his only real friend.
***
Adonibaal descended the hill with steady confident steps as he headed for the old salt road in the valley. The noon heat was already fading and the sun was getting low on the horizon. He had changed his appearance after he’d left Hannibal’s camp. Gone was the beard, the ponytail and the foreign clothes. Instead he had become clean shaven and had his hair trimmed in the short Roman fashion. On the road to Rome he’d stumbled across a farm whose owner had been murdered. He’d guessed that bandits were to blame. The farmer however had been his size so he’d taken the dead man’s clothes and changed into a plain sleeveless black tunic with a belt and a pair of sandals. Now if anyone looked at him they would see a simple shepherd or a farm labourer. Slung across his back he carried a large quiver into which he had placed “Centurion” and the dismantled parts of the Scorpio, the Roman army crossbow he’d found at Cannae. He’d dismantled the Scorpio in such a way that only a very close examination would reveal it for what it was. The Scorpio was a brilliant and inspired piece of engineering, a perfect snipers weapon. It could be operated by a single man and fired a bolt with terrible accuracy over a distance of a hundred yards. It had been designed for city sieges and was easy to carry and quickly assembled. The bolt from a Scorpion could even punch through armour although he doubted Fabius would be wearing any. It had however been some years since he had last used the weapon and being in a remote spot he had decided to test and hone his skill. That had been a mistake.
He thought again about the encounter with the boy. He had been angry with himself afterwards for his lapse of concentration. The boy had surprised him and then fled before he could decide what to do. Maybe the long years spent in the company of thousands of men in Hannibal’s army had made him forget the demands of operating alone. The boy had seen his face and he had seen the weapon. He would think he’d killed the farming family and maybe he would report the matter to the local magistrate? Yet he had shrugged off his concerns. There were swarms of bandits operating in Italy now that Hannibal had crushed the Roman armies. The magistrates would have more important matters to concern themselves with and the boy knew nothing of real importance.
He stepped onto the old salt road. The road was nothing more than a dusty unpaved track. He paused to allow a wagon pulled by an ox to pass by. In the distance he could see the walls of Rome. The great fortifications, for which Hannibal had such respect, made of giant blocks of yellowish stone, rose to a height of ten yards and snaked their way across the hills. For two hundred years now those walls had kept out all invaders. For two hundred years they had made the citizens of Rome feel safe. He smiled. He was happy to be back he realised.
As he drew closer to the Colline gate the old salt road merged with another road and the traffic grew thicker. Workmen were repairing sections of the wall and the ditch in front. The dull rhythmic thud of their picks and spades at work seemed to sum up the sullen atmosphere of the workmen. So they still intend to fight he thought or at least someone intends to fight. He passed the shrine of Venus Erycina, the goddess of prostitutes and glanced up noticing suddenly that he was being watched by armed men on top of the gate house.
As he covered the last few yards a soldier stepped forwards to block his path. The man held up his hand for him to stop.
“State your business in the city?” the soldier demanded.
“I have come to help,” Adonibaal muttered. “I heard that every man is needed.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” the guard replied glancing curiously at the quiver. “Where are you from then?”
“Nowhere,” Adonibaal replied, “I go where the grass is green and where my sheep take me.”
The soldier glared at him trying to see if Adonibaal was making fun of him. “And where are your sheep now, old man?” the soldier said.
“Foreigners took the lot, three days walk south of here,” Adonibaal grunted keeping his eyes on the ground. The guard suddenly looked uncomfortable. “Three days walk, you say?” He turned and glanced down the road apprehensively. “And they expect us to fight with boys and old men and useless weapons,” he muttered. “How can we win?” As if conscious that he had said too much the guard waved him on.
Adonibaal was just about to pass under the gate when the guard reached forwards and pulled “Centurion” from out of the quiver. “What’s this?” the soldier said in surprise staring at the weapon, “Looks foreign to me.”
The guards stopped chattering and sauntered over to have a look at what their colleague had found.
“I found it,” Adonibaal said sternly, “Its mine. They told me to come armed.”
“That’s a fine blade,” one of the guards muttered enviously.
The soldier who held “Centurion” examined it intently turning it over in his hand. Then he shrugged and handed it back to Adonibaal with a grudging look.
“Alright, alright, old man, we’re not thieves,” he said.
***
Adonibaal entered Rome and as he did so he pulled the hood of his Palla over his head. It looked a little odd in the summer heat but the fear of being recognised worried him more. It had been twenty four years, but he knew that people had a knack for recognising faces. He had grown up in the city and knew its streets like the back of his hand, yet just one casual chance encounter with someone who knew him would be a disaster.
His thoughts turned to Numerius. His younger brother would be an old man now. Maybe he was dead; maybe he had already long ago left the city. He’d heard nothing and knew nothing about his brother’s whereabouts but there was always a chance that he had remained in Rome. He didn’t like to be reminded of his brother because it normally put him in a bad mood, but now that he was in Rome and knowing he may come face to face with him at any moment, he felt a growing sense of curious excitement. From beneath his hood his eyes began to search the faces in the crowd.
His brother owed him. His brother had been the chief beneficiary of what he Adonibaal had done. Murdering his father had turned him into a fugitive and a traitor, a man whose name and memory were erased from history for all time. But Numerius; he had been free to continue his life. He would have inherited everything, the family estate, their title, his father’s wealth and as head of the family he would be able to marry whom ever he liked. As eldest those things should have been mine Adonibaal thought. He’d trusted his brother, he’d loved him. They’d fought together, shared the pain and misery of a thousand beatings and humiliations and still his brother had betrayed him. Why? Why? Why? He’d being asking himself that question for the past twenty four years and had long ago given up believing he would ever know
the answer. His brother had been the only man who’d known about his plans to marry Flavia but on that fateful night when he had murdered his father, Adonibaal had still been unable to accept that Numerius could really have betrayed him. Those doubts had saved his brother’s life.
He took the street called Alta Semita, and headed towards the city centre. The Quirinal district in which he found himself was the most northerly hill in Rome and the Alta Semita, one of the oldest streets in the city. Modest houses lined the road, their front rooms turned into workshops, taverns and bars. He’d forgotten how noisy Rome could be. The sound of the city broke all around him. Blacksmiths at work, barking dogs, street vendors crying out for business, crying babies, the crunch of sandals and boots on the stones, the whinny of horses and a new sound he hadn’t heard before, the wailing of women in mourning. Every man, even the boys seemed to be armed with a variety of weapons and he pulled “Centurion” from his quiver. It would do to blend in and act like all the men were doing.
He passed the tavern where he had first met Flavia as a young man. The owner was a stranger but the tavern had hardly changed and the sight of the old place brought back a hundred memories. He had finally come home and with that realisation he became aware of a new understanding; whatever happened now he would not be leaving the city again. He had come home for good. He would not run away a second time.
The Shield of Rome Page 11