by Jack Ludlow
‘Everyone drops the ball at some time, Father.’
Lucius frowned. ‘You’d best not drop this one, boy. If you do it could break into a thousand pieces.’
‘Then I can’t play with it?’
Lucius suddenly smiled again and sat back in his chair, his finger arched before his mouth in that familiar way, with the glass ball touching his lips. ‘Why not?’
‘I could be the best player in the world, but I cannot have a game without involving other people.’
Lucius nodded, still with that slight smile on his lips. ‘True!’
‘What I am saying is that I don’t need to drop the ball myself. Any one of my friends could be the one to break it.’
Lucius leant forward, holding the glass sphere up to the light again. ‘Imagine that this ball is you, your mind, your body, your future and your hopes.’ Marcellus looked confused. ‘You asked if Quintus could be trusted, said you cannot have a game if you don’t throw the ball to another player. If I was to say that I agree with you, there is no one to whom you can safely throw this object without fear of it being damaged, then I believe I would have answered your question about Quintus Cornelius!’
Cholon sat gazing at the blank sheet of papyrus before him. Outside his window, to distract him, the sounds of the teeming streets of Rome, along with the smells, wafted up; that, at least, was his excuse for not writing. But deep down he knew it was untrue, knew that his imagination would not furnish the words of the play he saw so clearly in his head. A child, born to a noble family, exposed at birth but rescued, who grows up to manhood and ends up a slave in the house of those very parents who disposed of him. The themes were clear in his mind too. The Romans were forever prattling on about nobility, as though it was something in the blood. He wanted his foundling to be an uncouth lout, so that when the family found him to be their own, they sought to disown him all over again. He had toyed with the idea of introducing a touch of Sophocles, having the boy sleep with his own mother, but that smacked of tragedy and Cholon very much wanted to write a comedy; a piece that would expose, through satire, the hypocrisy surrounding the high opinion in which the Romans held themselves.
He heard a slave shout the hour in the street, and laid aside his stylus, pushing from his mind the picture in which all Rome hailed him as a comic master. He was due to dine with Claudia tonight, to report on his trip to the south and the payment of Aulus’s bequests, and his mind turned to that villainous peasant Dabo.
‘What was the name of the baker? Decius. Donatus.’
There he was, again, talking to himself. He really must engage the services of a couple of slaves. Nothing like the presence of inferiors to keep you on your toes. Later that evening, as he sat opposite Claudia, listening to her tales of Titus, her grandchildren and the appalling way that Quintus treated his wife, he could not help thinking how attractive she was. Not that he harboured any desire for her himself, but it seemed odd to him that, given her independent means, there was no queue of suitors outside her door.
Thoas the Numidian was outside her door, listening hard to see if he could discover any more information. He had taken a fancy to one of the women who ran a wine shop near the market-place but unfortunately she had expensive tastes. Since his only source of coin was from Lucius’s steward, he needed a constant supply of information to maintain his suit. Callista, Claudia’s maid, sat alone in her mistress’s suite. She knew where her husband was, and what he was doing. Should she tell? If she did Claudia might send Thoas away, which was the last thing she wanted. Callista needed her husband back in her bed, demonstrating the same ardour he had shown when they first married.
‘But surely the Claudians are a very illustrious family,’ said Cholon, not in the least amused by Claudia’s dismissive wave.
‘There you are. That remark shows that you cannot acquire the mysteries of Roman bloodlines merely by being granted citizenship.’
‘Oh, I know how exclusive you all are. What I cannot comprehend is why the thought of a Claudian marrying a Falerii causes such mirth.’
‘It’s because we are Sabine,’ said Claudia.
‘Forgive me, but how can you be? Your family line is full of consuls and the like.’
‘Originally the Claudians were Sabine nobles. The last King of Rome, Tarquinus Superbus, invited us to enter his service, giving us comparable status in the city. To the full-blooded Romans, the diehards, we’re still outsiders.’
‘How long ago was all this?’ asked Cholon.
Claudia waved a dismissive arm again. ‘Three or four hundred years ago, but it’s like yesterday to the Falerii.’
‘Then why is Lucius betrothing his son, Marcellus, to a member of your family?’
‘Money, Cholon. Old Uncle Appius Claudius is close to being the richest man in Rome. Even Aulus, with all the wealth he brought back from Macedonia, barely surpassed him. The dowry will be enormous.’
Cholon was tempted to ask why Aulus had married her in that case, since the Cornelii claimed to be a much older family than even the Falerii, but he knew that it would have been tactless, as well as unwelcome, and would serve only to ruin the relaxed atmosphere of the evening. Claudia, for her part, was wondering how long she would have to wait to ask Cholon that all-important question. Her son, if he had survived, would be exactly the same age as Marcellus Falerius. There would be a ceremony soon, when the boy put on his manly gown, and since he was going to be betrothed to a Claudian, albeit from another branch of the family, then she was going to be invited to witness the event. It was not something to which she was looking forward.
‘Let me tell you about the most startlingly odious cretin I met on my travels. This fellow had sent someone else to serve in his place in the legions, while he stayed at home and worked his farm.’ Cholon leant forward, a look of amazed amusement on his face. ‘Do you know, he had the gall to try and fool me into paying Aulus’s bequest to him, even though he was hale and hearty…’
Thoas had already left the door. There might be something to gain from exaggerating what the two of them had said about the forthcoming betrothal, but he doubted, once that Greek bastard had started telling tales of his travels, he would hear anything else of interest.
CHAPTER TEN
Lucius Falerius Nerva’s grandfather, like so many other senators, had done well in the distribution of Latifunda on the island of Sicily after the Second Punic War. These ‘farms’ were not like those in Italy, being vast arable areas worked entirely by slave labour. The main property, on the northern coastal plain, was fertile, and, with the hills nearby, generally well watered. The other, in a valley towards the centre of the island, was less favoured, requiring a greater commitment to irrigation than Lucius had been prepared to either plan or fund. Both holdings had been allowed to stumble along without much improvement, under the control of a lackadaisical overseer; worse than that, he had allowed male and female slaves to mix freely, with predictable results. They built themselves comfortable huts; some had been on the land so long that their young children toiled alongside them, both generations working at an unhurried pace and eating a fair proportion of what they grew. Flaccus, having paid a quick visit to the other Barbinus properties, changed that in his first week by rebuilding the slave compounds – he would destroy any exterior lodgings – followed immediately by a severe cut in the food supply.
A surveyor had laid out the practical way to increase the area under cultivation and thus the yield, an improvement that would require an increase in the number of slaves. Such an investment might eat into Flaccus’s profits, so he first determined to see what he could achieve with the resources to hand. No other farm on the island, as far as he could tell, had operated such a lenient regime and all produced higher profits, so an initial improvement should be simple. His next step was the separation of the families, a policy he explained to his band of mercenaries.
‘They shouldn’t have womenfolk and a litter anyway. Makes ’em soft. We’re going to shift all the women an
d children inland. They’re useless in the fields anyhow, especially at ploughing and planting time, and they spill most of the water they carry in the wrong place. We’ll send them to the other farm. They can start work on the irrigation ditches.’
‘They can’t break rocks, Flaccus,’ said Dedon, an interruption that was practical rather than sympathetic.
‘No, but they can carry them. Breaking stones will be a punishment for those that give us trouble.’ He looked around the assembled mercenaries, aware of their indifference. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking this is all going to go smooth. We’ll have plenty of aid from the other farms to start with, but once we’ve sorted the place out we’ll be on our own. I don’t expect that all of you will be here in a year’s time. One or two of you might be dead.’
That made them pay attention. ‘There are only a few of us, an’ hundreds of slaves. Some of them will work with us, the ones who’d rather flay their mates than toil themselves, but we’ll always be outnumbered and Rome is a long way off. Other farms, barring the odd runaway, have got their slaves nice and pliant, but only because they’ve been hard. They work or they die and if they cause trouble they’re worked even harder and die quicker. Our lot have had it easy and they’re not about to take kindly to what I plan to do. There’s only one way to keep the lid on any trouble. You’ve got to be ruthless. First sign of dissent, you crack down. Kill if you must, but remember slaves cost money.’
‘What about the women?’ asked Charro.
‘Threaten ’em, but don’t touch, that is unless you get any trouble. Then you can do with them what you like.’
Aquila, armed with a sword and shield to add to his spear, acted as a sort of personal bodyguard to Flaccus, so he saw very little of the anguish these orders caused; having given his instructions, the new overseer was content to let his men carry them out. The mercenaries would be brutal, they were being paid for that, but he had no desire to witness what they did. Even Flaccus might have baulked at some of their wilder activities. The ex-centurion rode all over the properties, sketching his plans for the better use of the land and available water. Aquila did not see the women and children torn from their huts, know of the hardships of their march to the inland farm stockade with no food or water on the way, of protesting men hung by the thumbs from trees and flayed till they were nearly dead, or of the fate of the women who fought to remain themselves, victims of the slack observance of Flaccus’s instructions. Some, having serviced the whole band, still had enough life in them to be fetched back to the men’s barracks, with the stark choice of meeting their needs, or the offer of a painful death.
But Aquila saw the smoke of the burning huts on the horizon, looked into the glazed eyes of the men who had now been herded into the wooded compounds, watched as they worked, chained together, saw the vultures in the sky, before they swooped to feed on the bodies of those women and children who had died on the march. He had stood beside Flaccus on the day that those unfortunate men, who dared to protest at their treatment, with precious few tools to dent the solid rock, started on the first of the new irrigation schemes. He knew the inducements they had been offered were a lie; there would be no easy life after the punishment was served. Aquila had been with Flaccus as he drew the plans for the next natural aqueduct. And if they were not broken on that, they would be returned to the land, to ploughing and planting, just as soon as this channel through the hills was complete.
He ate with the mercenaries and listened to their stories, happy to be treated as an equal while they related the more salacious incidents. He was part of the band, accepted since the death of Toger as one of them, and he was growing up, turning from a boy into a man. Aquila was, at last, part of a family again.
‘Time you dipped your wick, boy,’ said Dedon, a remark which the others greeted with a small amount of ribald comment, accompanied by whistling and cheering. Aquila turned back quickly to look at the table, Dedon having observed his eyes locked on to the swaying hips of Phoebe, the youngest of the slave girls. The hut had a dozen such women, who acted as cooks, maids and concubines. Some, like the object of his attentions, were resigned to their fate, accepting the attention of the mercenaries rather than face the alternative; others had taken to it as if born to the life. All ate better than the other female slaves and if the work was unpleasant, it was less arduous than shifting dust and rocks.
They were sitting in the hut, at a long wooden table strewn with the remains of their supper. Aquila, determined to keep up with his new-found friends in the article of wine, was slightly drunk. They had the hard heads of grown men accustomed to drink; he was still a youth, not yet old enough to don his manly gown, so he treated everyone at the table to a knowing look, meant to convince them that the suggestion was way too late.
‘You’ve got a full bush of hair on your balls now,’ added Charro with an exaggerated wink. Then he looked at his mates and smiled. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve been slipping it to one of the girls when we’re not about.’
Aquila leered at him to confirm the truth of the statement, touching the side of his nose with a slow finger at the chorus of enquiries that followed. Dedon responded, his voice jocular. ‘You say he got hair, Charro. How’d you know that? You been having a peek while he washes?’
‘He don’t just wash himself, brother. That eagle round his neck ain’t the only thing he plays with.’
Dedon pretended to be shocked. ‘Is that right! Found a use for his right hand has he?’
Aquila blushed furiously as they all laughed, making gestures with their own hands to illustrate their meaning. ‘I say we should have a look and see what he’s got.’
The others roared their approval. Aquila was on his feet quickly, but the hands of the two men on either side had already taken hold. Vainly, he struggled to get free as more hands grabbed at him as the rest of the band gathered round. A couple of the men took his legs and he felt himself lifted in the air. They laid him, still squirming as hard as he could, on the table, scattering the plates and goblets. He felt the hands at his small clothes and sought to turn as they were torn off, heard the whoops of joy and the ribald remarks, keeping his eyes tightly closed while he was minutely examined. Rough hands flicked at his private parts, with many a reference to size and function.
‘Let’s set him to a woman,’ whooped Dedon.
Roars greeted this. They had his smock off before he was lifted into the air again. The men carried him bodily to one of the rooms at the end, calling out to all the girls to witness what was happening, and they crowded round for a view of this novel event. Only Phoebe stood back, unwilling to participate.
‘Who’s it to be?’ Dedon leered, his finger pointing at those most eager to see. ‘Come girls, off with your shifts and let our hero have a look.’
Two of the girls threw off their clothes and stood naked, ready for inspection. His captors dropped him to the ground, still holding his arms tightly, and made him face the pair, the roars that greeted the beginning of his erection louder than any that had gone before. He tried, but he could not help himself, having spent a good deal of time fantasising about the very act he was being encouraged to perform.
Dedon pointed at his groin. ‘You’re in for some pleasure girls by the look of that, but we still have to decide who’s going to be lucky.’
They pushed him forward until he was standing by the first of the girls, a rather plump creature with huge breasts. Dedon had appointed himself judge, and he crouched down to see the effect this was having on the boy. ‘By the Gods, lads, it’s twitching. Aquila’s prick has a life of its own.’
He was presented to the next girl, older than the rest, who waggled her hips a little to entice him. Aquila had that sensation in his groin, that mixture of pleasure and pain, and it was becoming unbearable. He shut his eyes and tried to think of something else, an act which Dedon misinterpreted.
‘No. This one’s no good.’ The mercenary raised his head to pick out a third candidate and almost immediate
ly his eyes lit on Phoebe, standing well away from the crowd. ‘We’ve been going about this the wrong way, lads. I started all this ’cause our young cock-sparrow has his eyes on a certain swaying arse.’
Phoebe must have known what was coming, for she shrank back against the wall. That only encouraged Dedon, who jumped across the room to grab her. He hauled the girl close and growled in her ear. ‘You’re lucky you’re still here, the way you carry on. Don’t think I haven’t seen you, making yourself scarce at night. Time you earned your fuckin’ keep.’
He started to laugh, the pun being unintentional, then spun round and dragged her forward, repeating his remark to universal acclaim. ‘This is the one for Aquila. He’ll gain an inch, once he catches sight of Phoebe without her shift.’
The women, who knew which side to take for their own well-being, helped Dedon to pull off Phoebe’s clothing. Aquila was shuffled towards her and he knew, even with his eyes still shut, that he was before the slimmest as well as the youngest of the slave girls, a Macedonian about his own height. Dedon was right. It was her hips he had been watching, moving enticingly under her woollen dress, and, to him, part of the attraction was her reluctance to indulge the others. He had had his eye on her for weeks, trying to pluck up the courage to get her alone, his confidence alternately boosted and crushed by the enquiring looks she gave him.
‘Oooh!’ He felt himself jerk spasmodically as her cool hand brushed against him. He opened his eyes. She was standing very close, deliberately not looking at him, her eyes full of tears. Aquila looked down, to see that Dedon had hold of her wrist, and was pushing her hand, so that it rubbed gently against him. He opened his mouth to protest, to ask the crowd to stop, but Dedon spoke first.
‘We best get them to it, lads,’ cried Dedon, mistaking the sad look in the boy’s eyes. ‘I don’t think our novice can hang on much longer.’
Aquila felt himself lifted bodily once more. Phoebe allowed herself to be led, unresisting, to the straw pallet on the floor. The women laid her down, forcing open her arms and legs to welcome him, as his bearers lowered Aquila into position. Dedon took hold of his gold charm, pushing it out of the way, as he whispered in Phoebe’s ear.