by Jack Ludlow
‘Did I ever tell you what we did to some of them Salyes tribesmen, young Aquila?’ said Clodius, gathering the boy into his arms to avoid throwing him any more. He made his way into the welcome shade of the canopy where the reed roof jutted out over the door of the hut. Aquila, his blue eyes wide with interest, shook his head. ‘Smelly mob, they were. Never washed so you could always tell when they was about to attack, the camp dogs would start whining. On top of that they had this war cry that they never let up with. Noise fit to drive a man over the edge of the world, I tell you. Could never get them to shut up so what we did, when we caught ’em, was to bury ’em in some sand right by the edge of the water.’
‘Swim,’ said Aquila eagerly.
‘In a minute,’ replied Clodius, shaking him slightly. He raised his voice to make sure the two women could hear. ‘Right by the water’s edge, as I say. Then we told ’em to yell their war cry as the water rose. The tide don’t rise much in the middle sea, but it certainly came up enough to shut those Gallic bastards up.’
Fulmina knew where the story was aimed. She nudged Drisia as she replied. ‘No point in trying that on you, eh! Clodius, you’d just drink it, like you used to do every coin that came into this house.’
Clodius scowled and put the boy down. He liked a drink and could not deny it, but given the way it had been in short supply he felt aggrieved. Aquila looked from one to the other, aware that they were going to be bad to each other again. He didn’t understand and it showed in the anxious look on his face. Fulmina spotted it and her whole tone changed.
‘Come on, little one, cheer up. Papa’s back and he’s going to take you for a dip in the river.’
Clodius sniffed loudly, pulling a face and nodded at Drisia. ‘Happen that someone else could use a dip in the river.’
Fulmina glared at him. ‘Just stay out of the house for a bit.’
More prophesying, thought Clodius, so they wanted both him and the boy out of the way. He entered the hut and grabbed a hunk of unleavened bread off the rough table, stuffing it into his mouth as he re-emerged into the warm sunlit evening. The words that followed were hard to comprehend, but the nodding head told Aquila that Fulmina was speaking the truth. Papa was going to take him for a swim, so he whooped with joy and ran for the river. Both adoptive parents looked after him smiling serenely, then their eyes met and the smiles evaporated.
‘Don’t be down there forever,’ snapped Fulmina. ‘The nights are drawing in and I can’t afford to feed you by the light of a tallow wad.’
‘This is no life for a man,’ said Clodius, stomping off in pursuit of the boy.
Fulmina went into the hut, leant over the pot of polenta and gave it a stir. ‘It would be nice to come across a real man, just once in my life.’
Aquila had thrown off his smock and dived right in. Even at three he could swim a bit, though it looked more like a dog paddling than the proper thing. His body was golden brown and his gold hair took on a ginger shading when it was wet. Round these parts, where people, including his adoptive parents, had black hair and dark skin, he was the cause of much comment. Clodius murmured a quick incantation to Volturnus, the River God, then treated himself to a cooling and cleansing dip; he did not stay in the water long, but sat by the edge and watched the boy splash around in the stream.
There were few times that Clodius could say he was happy, but this was one of them. He had been indifferent to his other children, partly because he had been away on legionary service when they were Aquila’s age. By the time he got back they were old enough to argue with him, and Clodius got too much of that from his wife to welcome more of the same from his offspring. Yet even taking that into account, they did not have what this youngster had. Curious they might be, but everyone hereabouts liked him, for he had a way of attracting people. Perhaps it was his gaiety, for he was always laughing, always on the move, and never morose. Even that fat slob of a mill owner had offered Aquila some honey-coated bread the day he had run away to visit Papa’s place of work. Fulmina, thinking he had been stolen, had yelled at the boy when she found him, a rare thing, since she hardly ever raised her voice to him, but, without crying, he took her hand, as if he realised that she was only shouting because she was frightened for him.
‘It’s a bugger bein’ poor,’ said Clodius, raising his head to address the gods. They had heard precious little from him lately, no nocturnal songs and slurred requests for intercession. ‘If you can’t bless me with some fortune, then put some aside for young Aquila. Maybe you’ll help him to find his real family. They have the money to raise him to be somethin’. I’m damned if I do.’
The soaking wet bundle landed right on top of him, catching him, in his reverie, totally unawares. They rolled over in the grey sand that lined the side of the stream, laughing and squealing, with Clodius pretending to hit Aquila severely, and taking the punches of the boy, hard for a mere three-year-old, in good part. Aquila was allowed to win, and he sat astride his papa, grinning from ear to ear, and saying ‘ender ender.’
Clodius surrendered happily.
‘Dabo’s coming down a bit, to mix with the likes of you.’
‘Happen he’s realised that true friendship don’t lie with money.’
‘In a pig’s ear,’ snapped Fulmina, but quietly, since the child was asleep. ‘He’s got a whole host of folk to get drunk with. Why choose you?’
Clodius felt that Dabo had hinted at some kind of work, but he did not want to say anything to Fulmina, knowing she would only scoff. ‘Well that don’t count, since the invitation was plain.’
‘So that’s it. A weasel like Dabo crooks his little finger and mighty man Clodius runs off to oblige. Well just you make sure you’re fit to get to the mill tomorrow, otherwise he might sling you out of your job.’
‘He won’t,’ Clodius insisted. ‘The bastard’s too mean.’
‘He’ll get himself a slave if you’re late once more.’
‘Not him. That would mean layin’ out real money. He’d rather give me a pittance every day than put down any of his precious capital to buy slave labour.’
‘What worries me, Dabo, is that, if prices drop, the bastard will get himself a slave.’
Dabo nodded, his face full of comradely concern. ‘Which they will, mate, as soon as there is a decent war. Price of slaves will go down as it always does.’
‘Not much chance of that is there?’
They were sitting just outside Dabo’s house; not really a house, more an elevated hut with space underneath for the livestock, but it had more than a single room, so it qualified as a house. Dabo’s fat wife had been ordered to bed and the men sat in the warm spring night, drinking steadily but quietly.
‘Happen there will be a war soon,’ Dabo replied. ‘They’ve started on the dilectus.’
‘The call up don’t affect me, thank the gods,’ said Clodius, taking a swig from the large gourd Dabo had given him.
‘Then there’s some fortune in being poor,’ Dabo growled.
It was the way Dabo said it that alerted Clodius. ‘Not you!’
‘Rumour has it!’ said his old comrade sourly. ‘They can’t fill the levies with the normal methods. I’ve heard they’re planning to pull in men who’ve already done their time, as long as they meet the property laws.’
‘That’s sacrilege!’
‘It was once, Clodius, but the consuls have got the priests in their pockets, as well as the laws in their hands. They can do whatever they like, and will, just so long as they get enough men.’
Clodius took a swig of wine, before replying, ‘I’m sure it’s just a rumour.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ They sat in silence for some time, each alone with his thoughts and memories. It was Dabo who eventually spoke. ‘Not that life in the legions was that bad.’
‘It wasn’t good either,’ replied Clodius, for once dropping the rosy glow that usually accompanied his military recollections.
‘The women were willing enough.’
&
nbsp; Clodius laughed. ‘Don’t recall that it mattered much if they were willing or not.’
‘Damned right, Clodius,’ Dabo whooped. ‘We speared ’em anyway.’
‘Makes you wonder how many of Rome’s slaves are bred from Roman juice.’
‘Quite a few, old friend, quite a few,’ Dabo gently tapped his fired clay goblet against the wooden gourd in Clodius’s hand. It made a hollow sound, so Dabo filled it to the brim before completing the toast. ‘The good old days.’
‘Back breaking work on the march, and then even more when we pitched camp for the night,’ said Clodius ruefully.
‘Booty, Clodius.’
‘Don’t seem to recall mine lasting all that long, Dabo. An’ when I came back the farm had gone to ruin. That six years’ service did for me.’
Dabo had come back at the same time, but he had brought his farm back to proper fruitfulness, so he reckoned he knew just who was to blame for his companion’s failure, and it was not divine providence. ‘You had rotten luck, Clodius, an’ no mistake. No father to tend your fields and kids too young to pull their weight.’
‘I reckon Fulmina did her best,’ said Clodius, in a rare expression of praise for his wife.
‘Beats me how she kept her looks. For all the work she does, she’s still a fine looking woman.’
‘Made of stone as far as I’m concerned. I hinted that Aquila could use a playmate.’
‘What did she say to that?’
Clodius laughed without pleasure, then took another deep swig. ‘Said that it was me grovelling for a playmate. Told me if I wanted one I could do some extra work and buy comfort at the brothel in Aprilium.’
‘Sad thing when a woman takes her favours away. Makes for a hard life.’
The drink was beginning to affect Clodius. He laughed properly and drained his gourd. ‘You can say that again, Dabo. A sheep’s bum is enough to excite me these days.’
‘Do you remember that centurion and the goat?’
‘Do I,’ whooped Clodius.
They were off, swapping well-worn tales and reminiscences, talking of the good times and relegating the bad, capping each story with a cupful of wine, until life in the army seemed the highest thing to which a man could aspire. The drink flowed, with Dabo going into the storehouse below and coming back with an ampoule full of his potent grain spirit. How they laughed. All the old jokes were trotted out and soon they were singing the songs, with their filthy words, that the legions had used since time immemorial to ease the pain of a long march. Dabo, who was drinking a good deal less that Clodius, made sure his guest’s gourd was never empty.
They were trying to recover from the pain in the sides after a particularly hilarious anecdote. This concerned an officer who preferred boys trying to persuade his commander to let him raid a nearby town because he had heard it contained an all-male brothel full to the brim of young blond Scythians. He could not say that, of course, and it was not even true, one of the more impudent soldiers having concocted the story as a joke. Everyone had sidled as near to the command tent as they could to eavesdrop on the exchange, which had become increasingly desperate as the man found all his arguments refuted.
Clodius told the story well. He had the officer’s high-pitched voice to perfection, as well as the gruff tone to convey the increasingly irritated responses of the commander. Dabo was reduced to hugging his sides, trying to get his breath, while Clodius, laughing just as much, had rolled down the steps, scattering the chickens, and was now crouched over, hands around his stomach, half in pain and half in hysterics.
‘What a life eh! Clodius.’
‘Golden days,’ gasped Clodius.
‘You know what we need now, old friend,’ said Dabo, staggering down the three steps and helping Clodius to his feet. ‘We need a woman. What says we get in that there cart and head for town.’
Clodius started to shake his head, patting his belt to indicate his lack of funds. Dabo threw his arm around his guest’s shoulder. ‘Pay no heed to that, old friend. This one’s on me.’
‘Never,’ replied Clodius, with profound disbelief.
‘Damn women, Clodius,’ Dabo slurred. ‘You give them a squeeze and they greet you with an elbow in the ribs. Damn them, I say. They don’t treat their chickens that bad. If the cock don’t perform they get mad, chop its head off and cook it, then go and buy another, but we’re not ever allowed to perform.’
‘That’s right. Mind you, an elbow’s better than a chopper across the throat,’ slurred Clodius, with a wide, knowing grin.
‘Let them hear the sniff of Cerberus on their way to hell, I say. I’m willing to stand you…’
‘Stand me. I think I can stand on my own, thank you!’ spluttered Clodius, reprising the homosexual officer’s arch voice. They both screeched with laughter, doubling up again. Dabo, recovering first, grabbed his friend and bundled him into the cart.
‘Aprilium, here we come,’ he crowed.
If Clodius had wondered why the mule, which should have been in its stall, had spent the whole night harnessed in the shafts, he was too drunk now to enquire.
Clodius sang nearly all the way to Aprilium, and since Dabo had been clever enough to fetch a flagon of grain spirit along, neither his throat, nor his level of inebriation, faltered. In between the songs and the usual requests for some form of intercession from the gods, Dabo moaned about the prospect of having to go back into the legions.
‘I’m a man of substance now, Clodius. I had my eye on another place next door to my father’s old farm. Given a bit of luck I can join them all together and go into cattle ranching.’
‘That’s where the loot is, Dabo. Every moneybags in Rome is well into ranching.’
His host slapped his hand hard on the side of the cart. ‘That’s right! The last thing I need is another six years in the army. It will throw my plans right out.’
Clodius tried to console him with a pat on the back. ‘Shame at that, Dabo. If you was to get on, I could say that I know someone who’s a knight. Not many people round these parts can call someone worth a hundred thousand denarii a friend.’ He leant over and grabbed the flagon. ‘Mind, I hope you drink a choicer brew than this shit when you’re rich.’
For the first time that night, Dabo’s bluff, cheerful manner deserted him. ‘That’s just it, you oaf. If I go into the legions I won’t be rich. I’ll end up like you, on my arse.’
Clodius’s mood changed just as quickly. ‘Don’t say as I take kindly to being called an oaf.’
Dabo ignored him. ‘And it’s only because I’ve got a bit that I’m being called up in the first place.’
Clodius put all the sympathy he could into the reply. ‘But you’re not sure that you are going to be called up.’
Dabo seemed to collect himself, losing his belligerent tone. ‘That’s right, Clodius. Help yourself to another mouthful, old friend, and right sorry I am for any offence. It’s not your fault that you’re near potless. That’s what sticks in my craw. If they was to call you to the ranks what harm would it do.’
‘Depends on who I’m fightin’ with.’
‘I don’t mean that. It’s the law that means only men of property can be trusted to fight. Crap I say. If you’ve got nothing to lose they won’t have you. If you own a farm, you’re taken into the army, ‘cause they reckon you’ve got something to defend. Your farm goes to seed while you’re away, so you end up a pauper who they can’t call up, living off the public dole.’
‘Blessings on Tiberius Livonius,’ slurred Clodius, helping himself to another swig. ‘Needed that corn dole on more’n one occasion.’
‘Tell me, Clodius, if they called you up, changed the law, like, what would you do?’
‘I’d go. What else could I do? Might be better off in some ways, for I tell you, Dabo, I’m fed up humping sacks of grain for a pittance. Not that the pay in the army would keep a pig in scraps. Family’d likely starve when I was gone.’
‘That’s it!’ cried Dabo, putting as much sincerity int
o his voice as he could. ‘If’n you had a decent wage, enough to keep Fulmina and your young Aquila in comfort, how would you feel about the Army?’
‘A damn sight better than I would workin’ for that tightwad at the corn mill.’
‘Drink up, old friend,’ said Dabo, placing his hand on the bottom of the ampoule and pushing it up. ‘There’s plenty more where that came from.’
‘You’re a fool, Clodius.’ Fulmina spoke without rancour. Her voice was resigned rather than harsh, for which her sore-headed husband was extremely grateful. ‘Always were, and now you’ll go and get yourself killed, most likely.’
‘I’m not that easy to kill.’
‘You’re going away?’ asked Aquila, who, by the look on his face, was struggling with this strange concept.
‘I’m going to be a soldier again, boy.’
‘Can I come?’
Clodius bent down and put both his hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘No lad, you have to stay here and look after Mama.’ Aquila had heard that too many times as Clodius departed to his job at the mill to be pleased at the prospect. ‘Maybe, when you’re grown up, you can be a soldier too. And if your papa can just fall in the way of a bit of luck, you might even be a member of the first class, a principi.’
His wife sniffed loudly. Drisia’s soothsaying had promised much more than that, but it was not something Fulmina discussed with the sceptical Clodius. Even so, she could not let his remark pass. ‘Some future for Aquila, and all the while Dabo’s eldest brat grows up to be a knight.’
‘Dabo’s a long way from bein’ that,’ said Clodius looking up, for once on safe ground with the promise Dabo had given him to support his family while he was away. ‘But at least I’m getting some of his wealth to rub off on me. At least, this time, I won’t be at the bottom of the pile.’