Silence & Lies (A Short Story)

by Harry Sidebottom

  Burdo shook his head. ‘Not altogether. The landowner wondered why a bunch of slaves were having expensive dinners and good-looking slave girls brought to the cave. Luckily he was well disposed towards Crassus.’

  ‘Let us have some more wine,’ Castricius said.

  Burdo picked up his refilled cup. ‘When the Republic fell, during the proscriptions, there were numerous men …’ Through the wine fumes the details eluded him. ‘Lots of men who were hidden by their wives or servants. Some slaves took their place, were killed in their stead.’

  ‘Health and great joy,’ Castricius said lifting his drink. ‘So all that is needed to vanish are a faithful wife, loyal servants, and rich friends – things rather missing at the moment in my life.’

  Burdo smiled. In a part of his mind the alcohol would not let him reach, was a man who hid in a tomb for months, perhaps years. He too had relied on the complicity and courage of his wife.

  The terracotta cup made a reassuring clunk as he put it down. Made out of a material which was part of every man’s life, earthenware was good. Everyone knew that.

  *

  It was dark in the bedroom, but enough moonlight filtered through the chinks in the shutters. Castricius had lain awake for hours. His eyes had long since adjusted. Regular, stentorian breathing from the other side of the room.

  Castricius pulled back the blanket, and rolled out of bed. The straw mattress made no sound, but the leather straps creaked as the weight came off. He stood motionless. There was no break in the rhythm of Burdo’s breathing.

  Barefoot, knife in hand, Castricius crept across. He did not want to do this, but it was necessary.

  Over the bed, he steadied himself. Much of his share of the wine had gone into plant pots surreptitiously, or splashed on the ground in prodigal libations. But he had consumed enough to make his head ache and his hand potentially unsteady.

  Steeling himself, he hefted the blade. It was short, nothing but a food knife, yet he kept it honed to the sharpness of a razor.

  He could just slip away. The ageing frumentarius was not a bad man. Obviously Burdo was a pederast, but not a predatory one like his old tutor. That had been the first man Castricius had killed. There had been eight since. Most likely there would be more. No, he could not slip away. Not until he had done this first.

  Leaning over, he drew the cover off the shoulder of the sleeping man. Burdo murmured. His throat was white in the gloom. Castricius would be gentle. With infinite care, he slid a finger under the cord Burdo wore around his neck. Forefinger and thumb of his left hand pinched a loop. The knife in his right cut the thong.

  Burdo shifted, a hand moved. If he woke, things would have to be very different.

  The big frumentarius grunted, and settled back into some alcohol-induced dream.

  Castricius silently let out his breath.

  When he felt steady again, he pulled out the metal roundel from under Burdo’s tunic.

  Forcing himself not to rush, Castricius moused back across the room. He sheathed the knife, knotted the severed cord, and slipped the identity disc down the neck of his own garment. Gathering his knapsack, and carrying his boots, he went to the door.

  No amount of care could stop the latch from clicking. In the silence it seemed as loud as a shout.

  Burdo continued to snore. The room stank of stale wine. The corridor of the inn was patterned in moonlight from the colonnade that opened onto the courtyard. Castricius put on his boots. So far, so good.

  The stables were across the yard, on either side of the front gate. The stable boys slept in the hayloft above. It should not matter if they woke, but it had been market day, and quite likely they would not. Everyone would have had a drink.

  Castricius went into the leather-smelling darkness of the tack room. He took a saddle off one of the trees, and a bridle from a hook by the door. An old scabbard hung nearby. Castricius drew the blade. Even in the gloom, the steel looked notched and rusty. Castricius tucked it into the knapsack.

  Inside the stables was the sweet smell of hay and warm horse. Their heads turned towards him, and they regarded him with their great, round eyes.

  The previous day, as soon as they had arrived and learned it was market day, he had selected which horse. A chestnut gelding belonging to a merchant. It was tall with straight legs and a deep chest. It shifted as he tacked it up, breathing loudly on the back of his neck.

  As he led it out, the others stamped and called out. One kicked its box door. Two grooms tumbled down from the loft.

  ‘Wake the porter. Get the gate open.’ Castricius gave their sleep-fogged thoughts no time to frame questions.

  They moved off to do his bidding. Castricius led the horse towards a mounting block. One of the stable boys was coming back. The other hesitated by the lodge.

  ‘That horse …’

  ‘Is requisitioned in the name of our Sacred Emperors, Gordian the Father and the Son.’ Castricius pulled the identity disc free, held it close to the boy’s face. MILES ARCANA. Even if he was illiterate, the boy would recognise the symbol of a frumentarius, a feared secret soldier.

  ‘Now, give me a leg up, and you rouse out the porter, and get the gate unlocked.’

  It was hard to believe time could pass so slowly. Eons ground away until the porter appeared. He was dishevelled, crapulous, grumbling.

  ‘Knock, knock. What hour of the night is this? Charon himself gets more peace ferrying the numberless fucking dead.’

  ‘Open the gate, grandfather.’ Castricius heard a shutter open somewhere in the inn, but did not think his voice betrayed any anxiety.

  ‘Intempesta, dead of night, the unlucky hour.’

  ‘The gate.’

  Deep in the inn a door slammed.

  ‘This place is too dark for Hades. What are you?’

  ‘A soldier with urgent business down the road.’

  A leery look came over the porter’s face. ‘Any horse thief can say that.’

  Castricius leant down from the saddle, and showed him the metal roundel. ‘Open the gate. The fewer who hear me leave the better.’

  Knock, knock, knock, the porter muttered as he fumbled with locks and bolts. A torch flared in the colonnade. The leaves of the gate squealed open.

  ‘Stop! That is my horse!’

  The porter and stable boys peered at the merchant.

  Castricius kicked his boots into the ribs of the horse. It clattered past them.

  ‘The hinges need oiling,’ Castricius said, as he passed.

  ‘Stop, thief! That is my horse!’

  Beyond the gate, the road was white and open. Much taken with his own cool audacity, Castricius turned his mount south-east, towards Rome.

  *

  He went towards Rome. Stole my horse. To Rome. Horse. Rome. Thief. They yammered at him. Down on one knee, Burdo ignored them, continued to study the floor of the stable in the guttering torchlight.

  He had been half drunk when they woke him. Realising the MILES ARCANA disc was gone had sobered him up. At least the little bastard had not taken his sword. He still had the diplomata.

  Catch him. Nail him up. Send him to the mines. As bad as the days of Bulla Felix.

  ‘Your horse was shod with hipposandals front and rear?’

  The merchant answered in the affirmative.

  ‘And he is a chestnut gelding, white blaze, one white foot, about fifteen hands?’

  ‘Yes, and he is worth …’

  ‘I will try to get him back.’ As if one fucking horse mattered. Burdo had been a fool, an old, fat, complacent, drunken fool. And even if he caught the knife-boy, he could not kill him.

  The horse he had ordered got ready was led up. Burdo tied his bedroll to the rear horns of the saddle. A boy passed him a bag of bread and cheese, and he lashed that and his water flask tight as well.

  ‘That horse cost me …’ The rest of the complaint was lost under the clatter of hoofs.

  Burdo rode fast through the necropolis which flanked the road out of t
own. When the tombs ended, he slowed to a gentle canter. Castricius had a start of half an hour or more. He would be riding flat out. But, if he turned off the road, in the darkness, Burdo would not see where he might have gone, unless he went slowly.

  There was a hint of lightening in the azure sky over the black bulk of the mountains to the left. That was where the high peaks lay. It was away from Rome. The knife-boy would not go that way.

  Burdo pushed on down the road. The upland plain spread out around him. It was dark, but well-worked, flat and open, with nowhere to hide, nowhere else to go. He kicked his mount into a gallop. The exhilaration of riding fast at night chased away some of the wine fumes.

  The sky was marbled with pink and blue when Burdo came to the foothills of the next spur of the mountains. No one had crossed his path. No slave, vagabond or bandit, not even a fox. The road inclined up, and trees crowded its margins. Burdo slipped off the horse’s back, and led it for a time to let it get its wind back.

  It was darker under the trees, and Burdo went slowly, looking about. The left still led away from Rome. If anywhere, the knife-boy would take a track to the right. Burdo hauled himself back into the saddle, and trotted down the road, all his attention focused on the western timber.

  A streak of brightness revealed a gap in the foliage. Burdo reined in, and remained on horseback to study it. There were no ruts from carts, and the grass was not worn away, but it was some sort of track, too wide to have been made by animals. He thought for a time, then clicked his tongue to make the horse walk on.

  The sun was risen, but Burdo heard the ox cart before it came into sight. The axle needed greasing. Close to the squeals and the rumbling of the wheels were deafening. Only when it was stationary could Burdo hear what the driver said.

  He was a smallholder, hauling fodder into Cales. Men like him got up early. He had been on the road for two hours. No one had passed him.

  Burdo dismounted, let the horse graze, ate a piece of bread. It was easier on his aching head, easier to think, when the wagon was near out of hearing. Castricius had a lead. Although the ox cart moved slowly, Castricius could have turned off the road somewhere ahead. On the other hand, there was that tempting track behind.

  Last night, as he fell asleep, Burdo had dreamed he was having sex with a new slave. The boy was beautiful and yielded willingly, submissively and without reluctance. That was all auspicious, as it would be even for a man who loved women.

  Burdo caught the horse, hauled himself back into the saddle, and turned its head around to the North. Not too much faith should be put in a dream which had come while the soul was still muddied by the lees of wine, but he would chance his luck on the track.

  The trees were mostly beeches with some oaks. Some way in, at a boggy dip in the track, Burdo got down and found what he had hoped. Fresh hoof prints. The depth and spread indicated a horse of the right size, going at a canter. Best of all, the sharp, too regular outlines showed it was wearing hipposandles.

  Smaller paths branched off. They led no great distance to circular terraces cut out of the slopes. Only grass and weeds grew on them. Collapsed stacks and piles of recently cut timber showed the charcoal burners continued to work these woods.

  Burdo followed the trail; the crushed grass and an odd hoof print here and there. The track was steeper now, too steep for a cart or wagon. The woodsmen must bring the lumber and charcoal down on sleds. Like him, Castricius must have walked his horse here.

  A cuckoo called in the distance, and once his mount was startled by the shriek of a jay.

  The path ran into a wider clearing. There was a stack about half as tall again as a man. It had been alight some time – at least two days – the smoke issuing from its low vents was white and the heat had darkened its earth crust to near black. Beyond the stack was a low wattle and daub hut. Burdo called. No one answered. A lit stack needs constant tending. He watched the hut and the woods, turning all around. He watched them so hard his eyes stung.

  A flash of dusty red and a hopping motion. A jay was feeding on the ground at the treeline. As he watched, it flew off.

  Dismounted, holding the reins in his left hand, Burdo drew his sword. Walking towards the hut, he had to force himself not to crouch. An arrow could come from any direction, hunching forward would do no good.

  The door of the hut was tied on by thongs of leather. It yawed as he pushed it open. The squalid space was empty; a couple of bowls, a stool, a pile of straw for a cot, the stench of unwashed humanity, nothing else. Outside by the water butt were two sets of footprints, one of them military boots.

  Burdo cast around. Prints and torn grass where the chestnut gelding had grazed. A pile of droppings – still slightly warm – where the path continued uphill. It was almost too easy. Castricius had told the truth about one thing at least. He was no countryman.

  The jay shrieked somewhere not far among the trees.

  The charcoal burner was watching nearby. There was nothing he could tell except that Castricius had been here and then ridden on. No point in hunting him down.

  Burdo watered his horse, ate some bread and cheese, and resumed the pursuit.

  As he got higher the bigger trees gave way to juniper, and the sun was hotter on his shoulders.

  At a place where a mountain stream crossed the track, there were sheep, all together, at a stand. Without warning the dogs were all around him. Snarling, eager to attack, they were restrained by five or six shepherds.

  ‘Have you seen a rider come this way?’ Burdo’s question was otiose, there was no other way.

  ‘Who asks?’ The speaker would be the leader. Between the thickets of his beard and the tangled hair, his face and eyes were barely visible. What expression could be glimpsed was not amicable.

  ‘He is a horse thief.’ Burdo was not going to answer. He was very conscious of being alone in a remote place.

  ‘You are a soldier.’ It was said with no love.

  ‘A chestnut horse with a white blaze.’

  ‘We have seen nothing.’

  Shepherds, brigands, they were one and the same. Wandering the high places, weapons in hand, bold in their poverty, beyond the reach of authority. Bulla Felix had drawn support from them. Once the brigand had captured a centurion. Head shaved, the prisoner had been sent back with a message: Feed your slaves, lest they become bandits.

  Back very straight, looking neither right nor left, Burdo slowly walked his horse through the flock. They moved this way and that, bleating. The shepherds watched him go.

  The remainder of the day he rode across broad, sloping downs, miles of sheep-cropped grass, with occasional stands of yews. He lost the trail. After circling about for an hour or more, he had to make a decision. Assuming Castricius would have continued towards the south-west, he shaped his own course in that direction.

  That evening he thought his judgement vindicated. Three, perhaps four miles away – almost impossible to be sure of distances in the dark – the pinprick glow of a camp fire. It could be seen so far because it lit up the underside of the branches in one of the islands of yew trees. The only man who would build his campfire among trees was one not fearing pursuit, or one who knew nothing of fieldcraft.

  The morning revealed the latter to be true. The marks of military boots and a shod horse. Signs heading on south-west. No attempt at concealment.

  Burdo sat by the still warm ashes of the fire of his quarry, and unrolled the maps and itineraries of his memories. If Castricius continued to head west, it would be hard, slow travelling. He would have to struggle across one of the high passes, and come down to the headwaters of the Tiber near Tifernum Tiberinum. Only then might he pick up speed, following the only feasible route; along the banks of the Tiber, and through the hilltop town of Perusia. From where they were now, Burdo could ride swiftly south over the downs, follow one of the small mountain streams, and strike the Via Flaminia in the vicinity of the hamlet of Ad Aesim. From there easy going back to Fulginae, and then a short-ish ride north-west f
or an encounter at Perusia.

  *

  Perusia was very beautiful for a town with such a blood-stained past. Castricius admired its Forum and theatre, its steep, but elegant streets. Yet everything he thought must come from a later date than the cataclysm that gave Perusia its sole place in history, its indelible notoriety. After the siege, after he had massacred all the leading men, after he had sacrificed his enemies on an altar, Octavian had burned the place to the ground. Of course some historians wrote that the fire had been started by a Perusine, some poor soul driven out of his wits by suffering and misfortune. But that was the sort of thing apologists must say for the man who had reintroduced monarchy in Rome and abolished everything that passed for freedom.

  Castricius sat on the terrace with the shells and crusts that remained of his late breakfast. There was no one else about. His horse was being saddled, his knapsack was by his hand. Soon he would be off, but for now he was happy to enjoy the view out over the green valley; the well-marshalled ranks of olives and vines, the coppices of tall trees.

  A man can only run for so long. A mind as much as a body can only take so much flight. He had arrived in Perusia yesterday morning, his horse and himself near foundering. Having taken a private room in this inn, he had slept from the 4th hour to the 8th. Getting up, he had gone to the baths. After a massage, he had ordered the best dinner the inn could provide. Then he had slept for another twelve hours. No paid company in his bed. He had been very tired. Now, on this bright spring morning, he was ready to take to the road again for the final easy run down to Rome.

  Castricius felt he had learned a great deal since his escape from Cales. His experiences had reinforced the conclusions he had drawn from his conversations with Burdo. Identity was not fixed. It was mutable and contingent. He was now convinced, a man could be anyone he wished. Anyone at all, as long as his behaviour suited the role, he possessed one or two rudimentary props, and his desires chimed with the expectations of others.

  At the inn in Cales his high-handed demeanour had suited a frumentarius, and his audience had been happy with that, right up until the end. Even after the arrival of the owner of the horse, the others had been unsure, had made no attempt to stop him. In the mountains, the same persona had worked again. Yet this time it had evoked not obedience, but mistrust and fear in the charcoal burner. He had proffered no help at all. When Castricius had blundered into the shepherds, he had let them draw their own conclusions. A youth in something like undress military uniform, on a fine horse, riding as if Hecate and all the Furies were on his heels. They knew his sort. He was a deserter and horse thief. They had welcomed him, admired such spirit in one so young. They had given him food, looked to his mount. They had given him directions, and a token for a shepherd further along. Without the latter, Castricius doubted he would have survived the Pass. The snow had still been hock-deep, blanketing everything; easy to lose the path, fall, break a leg.