by Jack Ludlow
The other guard had his club ready again. ‘Go on, you bastard. It’ll be a real pleasure to sort you out.’
‘No!’ shouted the leader, so close to Aquila he made the boy jump. ‘Dying means nought to him, but let him endure a slow death, toiling in the fields and see if he enjoys that.’
‘Sir,’ said Aquila softly but urgently, tugging at the overseer’s tunic. ‘Would money ease his journey?’
The eyes narrowed, and the man paused before replying. When he did speak his voice was full of doubt. ‘It might, lad, but where’s the likes of you goin’ to get any money?’
Aquila pulled out the soft leather purse and pressed it into the overseer’s hand. As his eye caught a hint of what the boy was doing, the man spun round and loudly ordered the column to proceed, an action that cut Aquila off from everyone else. Yet one of his hands stayed still, ending up behind his back and it was that which took the offering. Looking down Aquila saw the hand squeeze the purse a couple of times. He then made half a turn back towards the boy, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Why, this will do your shepherd no end of good, lad. At least it’ll make sure he survives to reach Sicily.’ The voice lost the tone of kindness, becoming harsh again. ‘After that, it’s out of my hands, and from what I’ve heard, men like him don’t last long in that part of the world.’
He stood over Fulmina’s bed, looking into the peaceful face, his hand rubbing the amulet on his upper arm. It was as though the gods had combined to empty his life of everything he valued, for he knew he would never see Gadoric or Sosia again, just as his mama would never hold him in her arms. He was not given to tears, but Aquila cried now, the sobs rising in volume until he wailed in his grief, not able to tell which loss was the greater. Eventually the wailing ceased; it had to, since no human being could sustain such a sound and he knelt by the bed, his eyes tight shut, full of images that made him want to die.
That was how Dabo found him, hunched over, his hand still holding Fulmina’s. The farmer, arms full of food, looked at the dead body without emotion, wondering how this would affect his bargain. He had known when he struck his deal that Clodius would be away more than one season, but he had never thought service would extend this long. Not that he himself had failed to prosper by it. What worried him most was the thought of Clodius coming home, on leave, and forcing Dabo to do his own duty, thus jeopardising his chances of increasing his wealth still further.
It would not take this boy’s papa long to find out that during all the time Clodius had been serving in his name, Dabo managed to avoid paying any tax. What a potent threat that would be if it came to a dispute between them. He put his hand gently on Aquila’s shoulder, tenderness brought on by necessity, rather than any finer feeling. Dabo had to create an impression in which Clodius, should he return, would think well of him.
‘Come boy. Death takes us all. We’ll see her a decent pyre and send her off properly.’
Aquila, red-eyed, looked up at Dabo. Fulmina had disliked him, so did he, blaming Dabo for his papa’s absence. Then he remembered. Clodius was not his father, any more than the dead Fulmina had been his mother. He spun round, pushed past Dabo, and rushed out of the hut, heading for the river, the woods and that lean-to where he had had so much pleasure. He was also heading for the only thing in his life that seemed certain. Everything had been taken from him, everything except one thing, the dog, Minca.
‘What if he takes off to join his father?’ said Dabo. He knew his fat wife was not really listening, more intent on consuming the bowl of grapes on the table than listening to her husband’s catalogue of woes, but really Dabo was just thinking aloud. If his wife had ventured an opinion, he would have probably told her to shut up. ‘You might say that Clodius hasn’t happened to come home yet, and that’s true. But if the boy turns up he’ll know our bargain’s dead. What then?’
He paced the main room of his house, kicking up clouds of pale dust that had accumulated on the floor from the newly plastered walls. With open arms he spun round to indicate the under-furnished room. ‘And just when I’ve built this place!’
‘This place’ had yet to be given a proper roof. The man who had been given the job of making the tiles had under-priced his products to get the work, now he was demanding more money to complete the bargain. Dabo knew he would have to pay in the end, but he would fight as long as he could, only giving in at the approach of winter for nothing marked the level of his success more than this building. Really it was only one side of a proper villa, but he had plans already drawn to extend it round so that it formed one of those fashionable courtyards, like the one at the Barbinus ranch, just up the road.
‘Is that all you can do. Sit there and stuff yourself?’ he snapped, allowing his frustration to get the better of him. His wife ignored him and took elaborate care in the choice of her next grape. ‘We’ll have to take him in with us. Keep him here.’
‘And feed him,’ croaked his wife, finally speaking. Her voice seemed to hint that any food vouchsafed the boy would diminish that left for her.
‘I’ve got to go get him anyway, so he can light Fulmina’s funeral pyre.’
‘Pyre!’ His wife put down the grapes in her hand. ‘All you are planning to do is fire her hut, with the body still inside. I don’t call that a pyre.’
‘I suppose you’d have me build her a proper one,’ he growled. ‘Ten foot high and half a forest to rest on. A pretty penny that would cost.’ Dabo jabbed his finger in her direction, leaning over the table to emphasise his words. ‘Logs don’t grow on trees you know!’ He was out of the door before he realised what he had said, the sound of his wife’s laughter echoing behind him in the barely furnished house made him even angrier.
Aquila was not at the shepherd’s hut and the place looked as if it had been put to rights and found a new occupant. Given the sheep were out of their pens, Dabo surmised that Barbinus’s overseer had got himself a new shepherd so he made his way to the woods knowing that the boy had always played there.
‘Lazy little swine,’ he murmured to himself, stumbling through the undergrowth. ‘Never done a day’s work in his life. I’ll take him in all right and I’ll have him out in the fields just as quick. He’ll earn his keep in my house.’
He tried to put as much good feeling into his voice as he could when he called out the boy’s name, even smiling as he did so, just in case he was being secretly observed. Dabo might be a mean-fisted sod, well past his true prime, but he had been a soldier, and he was a countryman to his fingertips. The hairs on the back of his neck, and the tingling sensation of his skin, told him someone was close, probably Aquila, so he spoke loudly, his voice echoing in the seemingly empty forest.
‘Come on, lad. I know you’re upset, bound to be. I’d leave you be if I could but what am I to do? I’m too pious a fellow to start your mother’s funeral without you. It’s your duty to see her off. She’d only suffer in Hades if you don’t.’
The spear was twenty feet away from him, but he saw the flash of its silver head out of the corner of his eye, and the thud as it hit the trunk of the oak tree made him jump. He used the quivering shaft to aim his look. No sign of Aquila, but that huge dog had come into view, and had him fixed with a frightening stare.
‘She’s not truly my mother, is she?’
Dabo spun round, biting back the curse; how had this boy got round behind him, in such a short space of time, without making a sound? Aquila stood, arms by his side. There was no threat in his pose, yet he had managed to inform this adult that he could have killed him with ease.
‘Well, that’s as maybe,’ replied Dabo calmly, aware that the dog was behind him now and the nerves in his back told him it had come a lot closer. ‘But she raised you as a son, adopted you, even if it weren’t sworn. You have to see her off, lad. I know you was fond of her.’
The boy’s shoulders suddenly slumped and his head dropped so Dabo walked across to him, realising for the first time, with a slight shock, that Aquila was
now a fraction taller than him. He was just about to put his arm round the youngster’s shoulder, in a paternal gesture, when he heard the dog growl. It was very close by the sound of it and Dabo half turned, to fix the beast in the corner of his eye.
‘I’d take it as a kindness if you’d tell your animal I’m a friend.’
Aquila didn’t look up, but he said something Dabo couldn’t understand, and the farmer was relieved to see the dog sit down. He patted Aquila on the shoulder, his eye catching the leather amulet with the raised eagle, which he examined while he searched for the right words to use. To his mind it was an un-Roman object, not suitable wear for a boy Aquila’s age. Idly he wondered if the shepherd had given it to him. If he had, it would just about sum up what he thought, along with the rest of the neighbourhood, about their relationship.
‘You can’t stay out here, in the woods, boy. You need a home. I made a pact with your papa to look after you and Fulmina. She might be dead, but I’ve still got you as a charge on my conscience.’ Dabo’s voice took on an encouraging tone. ‘I’ve moved the few things she owned to my place. We’ll fire the hut to see her off. Place is near to falling down anyway, then you can move in with me.’
‘I was going to join Clodius.’
‘At your age? You might be tall, but you’re still a toddler. I can’t have you wandering about, exposed to heaven knows what. How could I face old Clodius if’n anything happened? No. You come and live with me.’
He felt the boy stiffen, taking Aquila’s upper arm, immediately below the shining leather amulet, exerting just enough pressure to move him slightly. ‘I won’t hear a word against it, lad, and I shall send a message to your papa to get himself home, so he can look after you himself. Now come along. You know it’s the right thing to do.’
Aquila allowed himself to be pulled into motion and Minca stood up and slowly padded along behind them. The older man talked steadily, but Dabo’s mind was elsewhere. Should he let Aquila go, and take a chance on him coming to grief on the journey? The road to Illyricum was long and dangerous, especially for a good-looking youth who had led a sheltered life. It was tempting, but Dabo knew he had no choice. Not knowing what had happened to the boy, should he fail to reach his papa, was the worst possible alternative, one that would make Clodius hopping mad. So, he would take him home and sort him out, though he would have to get that dog chained up, for Dabo knew he could not do a thing with the boy until that was achieved.
These thoughts had made him tighten his grip on Aquila’s arm, though he relaxed it immediately, albeit his hand ached to take a real purchase. What this youngster needed was a good thrashing, possibly more than one. That, and a few backbreaking days toiling in the fields. Proper work! That would knock the stuffing out of him. First things first; get him home, see to Fulmina’s funeral, get a rope on that animal and then, if Clodius ever did come back, it would be to a vastly different creature than this cheeky bastard beside him.
When Didius Flaccus and Cholon Pyliades returned a week later to the pass at Thralaxas there was nothing left to see, not even any evidence of a fight. Any trace of the ashes and bones had been removed on the rushing feet of the fleeing survivors of the battle against the legions. The rebellion was over, the enemy crushed. Their general might be a blubbery fool, but the training that Aulus had instituted in his army paid handsome dividends when it came to the actual contest. The field was heaped with Dacian bones, with Illyrians and Epirotes to make up the numbers. Vegetius Flaminus would get his triumph and he would also probably avoid any censure for his previous conduct, given it was hard to impeach a successful general. It was also hard for Flaccus, after so many years of service, to quite get a hold of the fact that he was now retired. The Greek servant would never get over the loss of a man he loved.
‘What now?’ said Cholon.
‘The quickest way home, mate,’ replied Flaccus.
‘Which is?’
‘The way of the legions. South to Epirus and a sea passage to Brindisium.’
Cholon smiled, though his heart was like lead. ‘I would have thought you would want to get away from the legions.’
‘I do,’ said the newly retired Flaccus with feeling. He rubbed his hands over his short grey hair. ‘But I have an even greater wish to shake the dust of Illyricum off my feet.’
Flaccus had avoided giving the old soothsayer in Salonae any time to explain. The man had tried to gabble something as Flaccus stabbed him repeatedly, the message lost in cries of agony, but the last words had been plain, and the old man had a gleam in his eye as he uttered them.
‘Everything I have said will come true.’
‘Tell the Goddess Angita.’
Flaccus had grabbed him to shake more information out, only to see the light of life fade from the soothsayer’s eyes, leaving him in the same state of doubt about his future as he had been the last time.
‘I must seek out the heirs of those who died here,’ Cholon said. ‘My master left instructions that they should be granted pensions.’
‘Just how rich was he?’ Flaccus demanded in wonder.
‘His true richness lay in his character.’ Cholon put his hands to his eyes, pressing back the tears. ‘I think the dust of this place will cling to me till I die.’
Flaccus reached down into the sandy cart track and scooped up a handful. ‘Then take some with you, mate. It’s always best to be able to look at your enemy square in the face.’
With a quick incantation to Janus, the ex-soldier led the way south.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Quintus Cornelius was being sonorous in a theatrical way, over-indulging himself in the sadness of the occasion and for once his stepmother was not inclined to reproach him for it. There had been a moment, when he had heard of the death of his father, when Quintus had seemed, not happy, but calmed. He had, of course, come into his inheritance – he was now the head of the Cornelii household and he was describing, as he sketched his ideas for the sculptures around the tomb, the images the public would see as they passed it on the road in and out of Rome.
‘I think your father would care more what was here at the family altar.’
‘We have no death mask, lady, but one can be made from the best of his statues, the most striking likeness, and will stand in the place of honour.’
‘No ashes,’ said Claudia, ruefully. ‘It is sad that such a man should have no ashes, no pyre with mourners weeping at his passing. I think we would really have seen his soul ascending to the heavens, not just a flock of doves.’
‘Cholon brought back a handful of dust from the place where he died. I intend that should go in his sarcophagus and the written inscription on the outside will remind Romans as long as time exists that my father died as well and as bravely as Leonidas at Thermopyle.’
‘Many men died with him, Quintus, do not forget that.’
‘Ordinary soldiers, lady.’
‘Roman soldiers, seventy-four of them. I wish to erect a plaque near his tomb listing their names, for they were as brave as their general and I will endow a memorial sacrifice every year so that the God Aeternitas is reminded of their bravery.’
The way Quintus said, ‘As you wish,’ left Claudia in no doubt that he thought her notion a trifle foolish, while she was sure that her late husband would have approved. He also thought any grief she showed at the death of Aulus was faked; being the kind of insincere person he was, Quintus was much given to labelling other people with the same shortcoming. Cholon might be sincere but he had no love for her, the wife who had made his master so unhappy, and both had stood in embarrassed silence when she cried at the felicitations the senior consul brought to the house – a signal honour which showed just how Aulus was viewed by his peers. She hoped that Titus would come home soon – he was on the way, not that she would be open with him, but he would accept her sorrow as genuine, which it was, though she was honest enough in herself to see there was a degree of self-pity in her anguish.
She knew she should feel free. Quint
us thought her unconcerned about the Cornelii family name, but she was; the memory of her husband was too strong for her to easily bring that into disrepute. Having wounded Aulus in life she was not inclined to sully his name in death and what of Brennos, now a big enough nuisance to be a subject of occasional conversation in the circles in which she moved, the most recent barbarity another example of hatred. His opposition to Rome had not mellowed and she knew he had several wives and a large family, even a numerous tribe of his own.
Should she leave everything behind and go to Spain there was no guarantee that she would be welcome and how could she tell him that his son by their union had been exposed by Aulus, and was certainly dead; that the talisman by which he put so much store she had not only taken but lost; that it was buried under moss in some field or forest still hanging on the bones of a new born baby? The images of that horrible year flashed through her mind. At least Aulus had died unaware that the boy had been a love child, and he had expired in the fashion he would have wished, as a soldier serving the Republic. It was odd to think, given their edgy relationship over the last eleven years, that she was sure she would miss him.
The slave had entered so silently that when he spoke to Quintus, it made her start. ‘The most noble Lucius Falerius Nerva is at the gate, sir, and begs to be allowed to intrude upon your grief.’
‘Show the senator in at once,’ cried Quintus, almost beaming. ‘What an honour, lady, what an honour.’
He was so eager, too puffed up that such a man was calling, that Claudia wanted to ask why he did not crawl to the gate and open it himself, but an unspoken peace had been declared until the funeral rites were over and she was not about to break it. Was it so strange that the leading man of Rome should call to offer condolences for the death of her most puissant soldier? It was unlikely to be prompted by affection; you could not live with Aulus and not know that he often despaired of his childhood friend, nor could you be unaware that Lucius had slighted him more than once, subtly for certain, for he was a master of that art, but snubbed nonetheless. Had Claudia been head of the household she would at least have made the dried-up stick of venom wait. As it was, he was with them quickly, his son in tow, wearing black instead of his normal toga.