Cast Not The Day

by Paul Waters

  In my imaginings on the road I had thought to see in my uncle Balbus some reminder of my mother, since he was of the bloodline; and it was true his eyes were brown like hers, and mine, but they were sunken in a face gone jowly and fat.

  He looked up from a mess of open scrolls and writing-tablets as I entered. He put me in mind of a great indolent bull, stirring from its bed of grass. But as his eyes fixed upon me I remembered the formalities and said, ‘I am Drusus, son of Appius. My father sends his greetings, sir.’

  ‘Does he? Well, come here, boy, and let me see you.’

  He remained seated. My father would have stood.

  I stepped forward. Light shafted in from a small high window. In the corner a cluster of hanging lamps, suspended on little chains from a bronze standard, illuminated the wide stone slab of his desk.

  He sat back and cast an appraising eye over me, clicking his tongue like a farmer inspecting a goat at market.

  ‘I see you have picked up your father’s frown,’ he said eventually. ‘But you have your mother’s black curling hair and fine looks, at least.’

  ‘She died when I was born, sir. I did not know her.’

  ‘No, of course; but I remember her, though it is long ago now, when we still lived in Gaul, before the barbarian Franks robbed us of our lands and we were forced to scatter. Did your father not tell you? . . . No, I suppose not. He was always the great man, and what were we to him? Still, the headstrong horse does not always win the race, eh? And now the wheel has turned and you are here.’

  It was clear to me this man and my father would have had little in common, but remembering I was his guest I said, ‘I am sure, sir, that my father always regarded you with honour.’

  At this his eyes widened. He slapped his hand on his thigh and gave a great laugh. ‘Well, you have his diplomat skill at least . . . How old are you, boy?’ And when I told him he went on, ‘Fourteen is old enough to make yourself useful. Now you are here, you can learn something of trade. That will please Appius.’

  He scratched himself and chuckled, and reaching forward took up a wax-tablet and pushed it towards me. ‘See here, I have a shipment just in from Gaul, a fine consignment of Rhineland glass. How is your reading?’

  I peered down at the inscribed words. It was a list, and I read out loud, ‘Ten-inch platters – three hundred; wine-jars – one hundred and fifty; engraved pitchers – fifty; drinking cups – one hundred . . .’ and on through the manifest. And, as I read, my uncle Balbus craned his head over the desk and described to me each piece, and what price it would fetch, and where it would best be sold.

  In the midst of this I did not hear the door-latch sound behind me. Suddenly he broke off; and then I turned.

  A woman had entered, attended by the old male house-slave who had first admitted us. She was much younger than my uncle; but there was nothing soft or girlish in the stare she gave me. I felt it like a blast of cold air.

  My uncle, suddenly meek, said, ‘Ah, Lucretia, here is the boy . . . I was just telling him about our new shipment from the Rhine—’

  But she cut him off before he could finish. ‘The child has brought his slave. Why was I not told?’ And then, to me, ‘Well, you are unexpected. And I thought we were beneath Appius’s notice . . . how quickly fortunes change.’ Her lips moved in a thin smile. But her eyes were lifeless, like lamp-wicks in daytime.

  I looked at her. I could not understand her dislike, to one she did not even know. I understand it now. I am older, and I have seen more of humanity.

  She was wearing a long silk robe, so thin her legs showed through; and around her neck a chain with one large inlaid stone of amber. The colour made her look pallid, like straw beside gold. Her black hair was pinned up, in a way that just then was the fashion, and from her ears clusters of earrings hung like grapes.

  ‘Madam,’ I said, ‘he is not a slave. He is my tutor, and a freeman. His name is Sericus. But if he is not welcome here, then I too shall go, for he is old, and I will not leave him all alone.’

  It was of course the wrong thing to say. I expect she had had no intention of casting Sericus out into the street: she merely wanted to complain and have her say, like a dog that marks its ground. But now, as I stood straight-backed and looked her in the eye, I saw I had confirmed and branded on her mind every prejudice that she had ever held.

  She glared, and I glared back.

  ‘Look at him,’ she said, talking over me. ‘Can he dress in nothing better?’

  I drew my breath to answer, to tell her I had other clothes in my clothes-chest, and that my father had ordered me to travel thus. But she must have guessed that for herself. And I knew I had said enough.

  Black desolation seized me, and for the first time I felt the full meaning of my loss. I wished with all my heart to be back among familiar things: the house-slaves who knew me; the dogs in the yard who lounged beside the stable; my own room, with its childish treasures, and my bed of oiled beechwood. I knew at that moment that if I was to live as a guest here, it was in the teeth of her opposition, and she wanted me to know it. It was a hard thing to bear, after so much else.

  The draught from the open door had caught the hanging-lamps. The fine smoke pricked my eyes and I looked away, not wanting her to think it was she that caused me to blink away the tears.

  Meanwhile Balbus was talking on, consoling, conciliating, like a man calling for peace when the battlefield is already strewn with corpses. I believe he was actually embarrassed for my sake, and I liked him for it.

  ‘All this,’ he was saying with an air of cheer, ‘can be dealt with in time, and anyway, let us not worry the boy today, so soon after he has arrived. Appius has provided a significant sum for his keep, and no doubt matters will resolve themselves . . . Do you not think so, Drusus?’

  I looked him in the face and answered that I hoped so. ‘And I thank you for your hospitality, sir, while my father is away. But I am keeping you from your business, and I should like to go and see my tutor.’

  I had wanted to sound like a man, like my father when he spoke to his political friends; but my young voice broke and betrayed me. I pressed my lips together, feeling foolish.

  I heard Lucretia’s earrings jangle. I did not look at her. But Balbus laughed and said, ‘Yes, yes, of course you would.’ He snapped his fingers at the door, where the slave was waiting. ‘Patricus, give the boy something to eat, and take him to his tutor as he asks.’

  And so I left them. If I had known how long I was to stay in that house, and what misery I was to endure, I daresay I should have pushed past him, run to my room and leapt from the window. It is not for nothing that the gods deny us foreknowledge.

  And besides, I had Sericus to think of.

  I found him in a room off a passageway behind the kitchen, sitting on the bed with his hands in his white hair, like a man in despair.

  He sat up quickly when I walked in. ‘Ah, Drusus, I was just coming to find you.’

  I looked about, appalled. The room reeked of damp, and the walls were stained with green and black growths. In the corner his casket stood open with his few things still unpacked. I think he had realized there was no other place for them.

  ‘What is this?’ I cried, gesturing at the filthy walls. ‘Do they take you for a dog?’ My father would not have accommodated the lowest creature in such squalor, let alone a man, slave or freeborn.

  But Sericus said, ‘Hush, and let it be. It will be better when it is aired, and I imagine they are pressed for space. Come now, the courtyard at least is pleasant. Let us go and enjoy the last of the light.’

  So we went outside, to the little square garden I had seen from my window, with its patch of grass and its solitary damson tree. The breeze had died. Smoke from the kitchen ovens hung in the air.

  ‘What news?’ he said, when we had sat down on the stone bench. ‘Have you met your uncle yet?’

  ‘Yes, and his wife too. Her name is Lucretia. She hates me.’

  He let out a sigh. ‘Really
, Drusus, what talk! How can you possibly suppose it? She does not even know you.’

  I snatched at a tall weed growing at the foot of the bench and was about to cry out that I knew I had judged this woman Lucretia well enough. But then I thought of the fetid dark room he had been consigned to, the indignity and insult of it, and how the stable life within our family was all he had ever known. I think, then, I first felt in my heart what it was to be powerless in a hostile world.

  And so I said instead what he wished to hear. ‘Yes, Sericus, perhaps you are right. It will seem better tomorrow.’

  ‘Good boy.’ He patted my knee. ‘Remember, we must give them no cause to complain.’

  No, I thought, we have nowhere else to go. But I said nothing, and for a moment we sat in silence, considering the ruin of our lives.

  A pigeon fluttered down and settled on the damson bough in front of me. It clawed the wood and shifted, and gazed at me with its head cocked. Then, in a flurry of angry movement, it was gone. Already the sun had passed behind the high surrounding wall, leaving us in shadow.

  ‘Have you met your cousin yet?’ asked Sericus.

  ‘He is out.’ And, looking him in the face, I said, ‘He has gone to see a bishop.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘I heard it from the cook while you were with your uncle. It seems the people here are Christians.’

  I stared at him. It was worse than I feared. ‘But Sericus, why would Father send us to such a place? The Christians drink human blood and kiss bones – I know; the boys at the farm told me. And they cast spells to make corpses walk, rising from their tombs!’

  ‘Really, Drusus! Why do you heed such foolish nonsense? The farm-hands make up these stories to scare you.’

  ‘But my cousin—’

  ‘Calm yourself, and let me finish. The bishop is their high priest, after all, and I daresay they pay their respects from time to time. Now come, I know a little of Christians, and you have nothing to fear from them. Remember only that they do not take kindly to talk of the gods, or offerings, which they consider insulting to their own particular god. So better to be discreet in what you say, out of courtesy; for do not forget we are guests, and must honour their ways.’

  I did not see Albinus that day. But next morning, while I was dressing, I heard a harsh, impatient voice bark out my name from the courtyard below. I had slept fitfully, disturbed by the unfamiliar city noises – a woman’s sudden scream from the road outside the house; a dog’s constant barking; and later, near dawn, the draymen calling to one another as they brought market traffic through the streets. But the chest of my belongings had finally arrived, and I had dressed in my smart maroon tunic, with its border of ivy leaves.

  ‘Where have you been, slow-belly?’ Albinus cried when I appeared. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling?’ It was the only greeting he gave me. Then he turned and yelled down the passageway at the slave, ‘Get a move on, Patricus! I am still waiting, and I shall be late.’

  He had the same pinch-lipped face and yellow complexion as his mother; but where hers was touched with carmine and kohl and lip-paint, his was plain and puffy with sleep. His hair was lank and unwashed, and though he was taller than I, he stood badly, with the posture of one who has never been taught how to hold himself.

  The old slave came hurrying from the back of the house. ‘Carry my bag!’ ordered Albinus, snapping his fingers at a satchel of brown leather lying on the flagstone. Then, turning to me, ‘Father says I must take you to his offices, though I cannot think why you want to go there. And now I shall be late for the bishop again, and it will be your fault.’

  We set out, with the old slave walking ahead.

  ‘Well?’ Albinus said, stalking along beside me, ‘How long are you staying?’

  ‘Not long.’

  ‘Is that so? If your father has upset the emperor it may be longer than you think. That’s what Mother says.’ He gave a quick high-pitched laugh, like a fox’s bark.

  ‘Let her say what she likes. She does not know my father.’

  ‘What of it? Everyone knows what happens to people who displease the emperor.’

  This brought back all the fears and misery I had spent the waking hours of the night wrestling with. ‘My father will send for me soon; you’ll see.’ I kicked hard at a stone, sending it skittering over the cobbles. Albinus regarded it with amusement as it hopped along and rattled into the gutter, but he said no more, and for a while we walked in an uneasy silence.

  Then, a new idea coming to him, he said, ‘Guess what? The bishop says I shall soon be made a Reader.’

  I shrugged. ‘Well I can read already.’

  ‘So can I, you fool. A Reader is something else. It means I shall one day be a priest . . . Mother wants that very much.’

  I thought of the stories the farm-boys had told me, and remembered I must be careful.

  With a wary look I asked him why he wanted to be a priest.

  ‘Why? Why? What sort of question is that?’ He snorted in derision. But then a vacant look settled on his face, and he brought his long bony finger up to his mouth and began chewing the nail, sucking and crunching at it. ‘Anyway, I shall be excused civic duties if I am a priest, and the family will be exempt from tax, and that will make us richer.’

  I considered this. ‘Then it’s a good thing everyone is not a priest, or there would be no one to govern the cities, or fight off the barbarians.’

  He sniffed and said, ‘Fool.’ But I perceived he had no other answer, and was pleased to see I had silenced him for a while.

  He walked on sulkily, with his ungainly stride. It was a humid, cloudless morning, early still, and in the street the traders were opening their shops and setting up their brightly coloured awnings.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Albinus, ‘what will you do when you are a man? I bet you don’t even know. You had better think of something, now you are on your own.’

  His barb had found its mark. I drew down my brow and looked ahead, wondering what to say.

  The slave Patricus had halted beside a water trough, waiting for us to catch up. Beyond him, on the street-corner, a young legionary was standing outside a cobbler’s shop. He had taken off his boot, which was broken, and was leaning on the doorpost, with his broad suntanned foot resting on the stone step, while the shoemaker worked at the boot. He glanced round, and catching me looking gave me a white-toothed smile.

  I smiled back. Against the busy people around him, rushing to and fro, intent on their dreary business, he looked strong and free and beautiful, like a sleek horse in a field of donkeys.

  But Albinus had seen he had vexed me, and was not going to let his question drop. ‘So?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t know, do you?’

  ‘Yes I do,’ I flared back at him. ‘I shall be a soldier.’

  ‘A soldier?’ He broke into a mocking laugh and rolled his eyes. ‘How ridiculous! What sort of man chooses to be a soldier? Anyway, don’t you know it is sinful to fight for the empire? Do you know nothing at all?’

  I ignored him. His words made no sense. Meanwhile the legionary had turned away. I saw him hand the cobbler a coin and take his boot. Then he crouched down at the kerb and tied it on, his fingers moving swiftly over the hide laces in quick familiar movements.

  Albinus jabbed his finger in my ribs. ‘Hey, didn’t you hear me?’

  ‘I heard,’ I said, slapping his hand away.

  ‘Well I pity you. That’s all.’

  ‘I don’t want your pity, Albinus, and I don’t care what your bishop says. I shall be a soldier and a warrior, and do something fine and good.’

  This set him off again, and he was still chuckling to himself when we reached his father’s offices.

  We found Balbus among a group of attentive-looking clerks, reviewing a shipping list. He dismissed them when we entered, and greeted me in his loud bluff voice. He seemed genuinely pleased to see me. His shipment of glass, he said, was being unloaded that morning, and we would go to the do
cks together to see. I saw him cast a questioning glance at Albinus.

  ‘No, Father, you know the bishop is waiting, and I am already late. I only came to bring him here.’

  ‘Yes, of course; the bishop.’ And for a moment a cloud of resignation crossed his heavy face.

  Albinus shrugged and turned. ‘Goodbye, little warrior,’ he said with a snide smile. Then he left. I could hear him laughing to himself all the way through the anteroom.

  I set out with Balbus.

  As we made our way along the route, he pointed out the shops and trades of the men he knew, greeting them with loud good-natured friendliness and pausing for a word; Lampadius the ship’s chandler, Maltius the cooper, Arminus and Phason the sailmakers, and Gabinius the coppersmith, who had a wide yard behind the street, full of men working.

  From the alleyway that led to the docks there came wafting up on the damp air the smell of caulking and rope, fish and stale wine. But instead of turning that way we continued to the city wall, and out through the eastern gate, to an open place of wagons and mule-carts. Here a driver, one of my uncle’s men, was lounging beside a gig. He leapt up when he saw us, but Balbus waved him aside, saying he would drive himself today.

  ‘See those ships?’ he said as we set off.

  I looked out across the grassy flatland. Some distance away, at a looping bend in the river, a line of merchantmen lay berthed.

  ‘Yes, sir. But why do they not come to the city dock?’

  ‘They cannot – not the biggest freighters. Their keels are too deep. So they put in there. It is where I have my warehouse.’

  At the wharf, a line of bare-chested stevedores were unloading a ship, passing crates from hand to hand, chanting a Keltic worksong, and from high up on the poop a shaven-headed foreman stood barking instructions – ‘Careful with that, you ditch-born whore . . . You! Yes, you! Pick up that crate, don’t stare at it.’

  ‘What of my cargo?’ called Balbus.

  ‘One crate broken, sir, and one in the river. I sent the bastards in after it.’

  My uncle glared at the water. ‘Careless fools. The wealth of Croesus must lie in this mud. One day someone will dredge it all up and make his fortune.’