by Tom Holt
Be that as it may Now, I've got an ear for music like a cabbage has teeth, but I dare say that Lucius Domitius' stuff was as good as anything else, maybe even a bit better. Big deal. As far as I was concerned, this didn't actually help us much. Now, if he'd been prepared to use his divine gift to make us a copper or two along the way, like by singing in people's houses or playing the bagpipes outside country inns, I could have seen the point in that, and I'd have been right behind him, every step of the way But he wouldn't ever do that. His reason was, he was terrified that someone who'd heard him in the old days, when he used to give these recitals in front of thousands of people packed into theatres and racetracks, would know in a flash it was the Emperor Nero, who wasn't dead after all but still alive and taking a hat round outside a carters' brothel in upper Pacoma. Well, quite. I don't think that was the real reason, either. I think it was all in his head, because music and poetry made him think of the old times, who he used to be and what he'd lost, and he just couldn't bear to be reminded of that. It's as if he felt he had to pay a price for getting out of the palace alive that night — and for Callistus, of course — and the price he thought was fair was the thing he loved most in all the world, or maybe second most. And fair play to him, who's to say that wasn't the right thing to do? After all, we're all supposed to make sacrifices to the gods when they do something for us, and sacrifices are supposed to mean something, like you're giving up something valuable, to show how grateful you are. Most people, of course, they send the cook down to the market to buy the cheapest, scrawniest couple of chickens he can find, because any old rubbish'll do for the gods, and what they don't want will make a casserole for the servants. That's not my idea of giving thanks, though I won't pretend I'm religious or anything like that. Lucius Domitius, though, when he gave thanks for the life of my poor brother, he did it properly, gave up something he really valued, and I have to say, that was all right by me.
Also, of course, it meant I didn't have to listen to him practising, which was also a blessing.
So there we were, on this otherwise perfectly agreeable morning, stood there in the middle of the road like a lopsided triumphal arch, while Lucius Domitius listened to this old boiler singing his song. It seemed to go on for a very long time but eventually she ran out of verses and it ground to a halt.
'Right,' I said. 'Now, do you think we could possibly get on with running for our lives? If it's absolutely convenient, I mean.'
Of course, I was exaggerating a bit, because we hadn't seen hide nor hair of any soldiers, but there was nothing to say they wouldn't show up at any minute, and besides, strolling for our lives wouldn't have sounded nearly so good. But it didn't matter. I was wasting my breath anyhow, because he wasn't paying any heed to me. He was too busy wallowing in self-pity, the bastard. Eyes all red and puffy, and a big fat wet tear rolling down his cheek. That was a bit much, from where I was standing. I mean, it was a nice enough little tune and the old woman had an all-right sort of a voice, but it wasn't anything to get you sobbing your eyes out.
'Hey,' I said, 'Lucius Domitius, pull yourself together. This isn't the time or the place.'
He turned his head and looked at me. A proper sight, he was. 'I guess you're right,' he said. 'I'm sorry. Very unprofessional of me, like laughing at your own jokes.'
Well, I could've said something pretty amusing at his expense right then, but I let it go. No point picking a fight. It'd only have delayed us further, and by this point I'd had enough of standing still in the open. 'Don't worry about it,'
I said, grabbing him by the sleeve and hustling him along.
But he was still brooding about it at midday, when we sat down for a rest under a chestnut tree and ate some of the food our hosts had kindly given us (cheese, needless to say). 'Bloody strange,' he said, 'hearing that song, right out here in the wilds of Sicily I'm amazed it got this far.' He grinned. 'Someone must've liked it, I guess.
'Quite probably,' I said. 'Catchy tune. Nice words. And it only takes one satisfied customer to go prancing round humming it and suddenly the whole village knows it. There was a song like that back home when I was a kid, something about a wandering knife-grinder and a farmer's daughter—'
He gave me a poisonous look, for some reason. 'Well, anyway, he said. 'That's quite enough about that. Let's just put it out of our minds for now, shall we?'
Well, he shouldn't have said that, because all the rest of the afternoon I was humming that stinking tune under my breath. I just couldn't get it out of my mind. I was still humming it when we kicked our boots off under the table at a scruffy old two-room inn that evening.
'Will you shut up that row?' Lucius Domitius hissed at me. 'People are staring.'
I was about to point out that that was bloody fine, coming from him, when to my amazement I heard the same tune coming from the back of the room. There was nothing for it, of course. We had to go and see who was singing it.
Turned out to be this smelly old carter, who was sort of stacked up in a corner, drinking his way through a small bath of the gorgon's blood the management had the nerve to pass off as red wine. No point talking to him if you wanted a rational answer, but sitting next to him on the bench was another man, presumably his mate — a little bit younger and less mothbitten round the face, and to all appearances moderately sober.
'That tune your pal's singing.. .' I began.
He looked up at me and frowned. 'Yes, I know, I'm sorry about that.' He leaned across the table, tugged his chum by the wrist and shouted, 'MENIPPUS, SHUT UP, YOU STUPID OLD FART,' so loud that heads turned right across the room.
'It's all right,' I said politely, 'he wasn't bothering us. It's just that song he was singing, it's familiar from somewhere but I can't think where I heard it.'
He looked at me sideways and laughed. 'Obviously you two aren't from round here,' he said, 'or you'd know that song. It's famous in these parts, that song.'
Lucius Domitius didn't say a word, but he was glowing so much the back of my neck got burnt.
'Really?' I said. 'Traditional, is it?'
He grinned. 'You could say that. Good story, too.' That was a hint, so I sat down next to him and waved to the innkeepeer for more booze. When it came, the man went on, 'That song is by the emperor Nero himself. The fat, ugly, murdering bastard,' he added, with feeling. 'So I expect you're surprised to hear it being sung by respectable folk. But it got famous around here because of the stone quarries.'
'Stone quarries,' I repeated. 'There are stone quarries nearby, are there?'
He nodded. 'You bet. Bloody terrible place, by all accounts, though I've never been there. Anyway, it's one of the places where that evil shit Nero used to send people to die. Hundreds of 'em he put in there, thousands even, and not more than one in twenty made it past the first year, or so they reckon. All the rich and powerful Roman lords who pissed him off, or else he was after their money and trumped up some phoney charge against them. He was always doing that.'
'I remember,' I said with a sigh. 'Nobody was safe.'
'Too bloody right. Anyhow,' he went on, spilling some of the wine as he poured it, 'one of the things that creep Nero did was, he'd hold these parties for all the high-up Romans, and when he'd got them trapped in that huge palace of his in Rome, he'd make 'em all sit there for hours and hours while he played his harp at them and sang. Sheer murder it was, by all accounts, because he couldn't play the harp worth pigshit and his voice was something like a cat in an olive press.
So he's doing one of these parties, and there sitting in the front row is this fat old Roman senator. I can't remember his name, not that it matters worth a fart. So this old senator's been there for three hours or more, on top of a big dinner with a lot to drink, and the music's going on and on, and finally he can't keep his eyes open a moment longer, and he nods off to sleep and starts snoring. Well, that turd Nero catches sight of him and does his nut, what a terrible insult to his singing and all that crap, and he calls for his guards and sends the poor old fat bloke of
f for five years in the quarries.
'How terrible,' I said. 'Carry on.
'Well,' said the carter, 'a couple of years go by, and one day Nero's sitting on his golden throne chatting to some people, and he asks, whatever became of old So-and-so, haven't seen him round here in a camel's age. Well, of course, everybody gets very twitchy, until someone says, don't you remember, Caesar, you had him chucked down the pit for falling asleep during your wonderful concert.
Now old Nero, he's had a drop to drink already that day, he's feeling a bit soft, so he says, We can't have that, send a messenger and have him released at once. So off the messenger goes, and back he comes with the senator, who's still just about alive but not nearly as porky round the tum as he used to be; and he's still wearing the rags of his senator's purple gown, and everybody's real sorry for him, and there's this big sloppy scene where Nero forgives him, and everybody's sobbing their eyes out, and it's all fine. But then Nero says, I've got an idea, let's have a nice party to celebrate old what's-is-name's getting out of the can, and everybody thinks, Oh shit, because they know what's coming, but they all say, What a clever idea, Caesar, let's do that. So they bring on the booze, and as soon as everybody's sat down, up gets Nero and he starts doing a concert. Well, he's done one song and he's halfway through the next when the old senator gets to his feet and slowly starts walking out of the room. Nero's absolutely furious. He swings round and he says to the senator, Where the bloody hell d'you think you're going? And the senator lets go a great big sad sigh, and he says, Back to the stone quarries, Caesar, where do you think?'
I didn't look round and I didn't say a word. Had to bite a dirty great chunk out of my tongue, but I managed it. Anyway, the carter went on, 'So that's exactly what he did; and every day for the next three years, until Nero finally got what was coming to him and some bugger finally slit his useless throat, which meant all the poor prisoners in the quarries got let out and sent home again, that old senator used to sing that same song, the one Nero'd been playing when he walked out, over and over again, till everybody in the quarries and the villages around knew it by heart. Well,' he finished with a shrug, 'I guess folks round here must be the only people in the world who still know any of that fat arsehole's music. Reckon you could call that immortal fame, if you were so minded.'
Immortal fame. That old thing.
Now the other day I was in the market square, leaning up against a bookseller's stall reading the Odyssey. Now before you get the wrong impression of me, I wasn't doing it for fun; I was checking some facts for this story I'm telling you, though that's by the by Anyhow, there's this really weird bit in the Odyssey, where Ulysses is on his way home from Troy, and it's taken him ten years to get nowhere and he's had all kinds of really horrible adventures with monsters eating his friends and now he's been shipwrecked and everybody's dead except him, and he gets washed up on this island that nobody even knew was there. And the locals, who must've been a damn sight more soft-hearted than most islanders I've come across, take him to the king's palace, where he gets a cracking good feed and a change of clothes and a nice warm fire to dry out his bones — all without anybody asking who he is, because of course hospitality is its own reward, and a good man's always ready to help out anybody who's in a bad way on the road, regardless of whether the unfortunate guest is a prince or a beggar. Yeah, right. Anyhow, so there he is, incognito, stuffing his face with good wheat bread and cheese, and the palace minstrel gets up and starts singing a song about — guess what — the remarkable adventures of the great hero Ulysses, who sailed for home after the fall of Troy, had marvellous adventures, and then was never heard of again.
Immortal fame, see. Ulysses gets to be famous, even while he's still alive — but you can bet your front teeth that the adventures the minstrel was telling the tale about weren't anything to do with the real Ulysses. Either it was stuff that had happened to somebody else who wasn't famous, so the minstrel told the story but made it about Ulysses instead, or else he just made it all up out of his head and pretended it was about Ulysses just to make it more interesting.
Same with Lucius Domitius, as I'm sure you've figured out for yourselves. Just as the Ulysses listening to the song wasn't the same man as the Ulysses the song was about, so Lucius Domitius was never the Nero Caesar the carter's mate told his tale about. Same in my line of work, too. The Galen who tells everybody in the village he's a wealthy cheese importer is just a cheap crook; but for all I know, to this very day there may be people in the arse end of Sicily who're still waiting for Galen the cheesemonger to come back, buy up all the cheeses in town, and make them all suddenly rich, so they're free and clear, and all their troubles are over. It's like I left a little bit of me behind, and it's grown and changed, like a shoot grafted onto a tree, into something with a life of its own. Which is more than I've ever had, at that.
'Of course,' Lucius Domitius said next morning, after we'd left the inn, 'it's a very old story.'
'Really,' I said.
'Oh yes.' He nodded firmly 'In fact, it's at least four hundred years old. In the earliest version of it I've come across, it's set in the court of Dionysius, who was the dictator of Syracuse back in Plato's time.'
'Oh' I said. 'It's not true, then. I mean, you didn't...'
He looked uncomfortable. 'I never said that,' he replied. 'I'm just saying, it's an old joke, that's all.'
'But you did — I mean...
'I'd rather not talk about it.'
Well, it was none of my business. Still, it struck me as a bit farfetched that anybody, even a Roman senator (and they're all as crazy as a barrelful of polecats), would set himself up for a second term in the slate quarries just for the sake of an apt quotation. Then again, I'm just a farm boy from the back end of Attica , so what would I know about Roman noblemen?
'Anyway' I said, 'at least we know where we're headed.' I'd done some discreet asking around in the inn, and found out that we were no more than three days' walk from Camarina, and once we got there we stood a fair chance of finding a ship bound for the African coast without having to hang around for too long.
Truth is, I was getting a bit sick of the sight of Sicily As things had turned out, the place had seen us right, but luck's a bit like a heap of rocks piled up on the edge of a cliff directly above your house. It doesn't do to push it.
'Three days' walk,' Lucius Domitius was saying. 'I don't think these boots are going to make it that far. I say when we reach the next village we buy a couple of mules.'
I shook my head. 'We don't want to do that.'
'Why the hell not? We've got money And anyway, we can ride them to Camarina, sell them when we get there, get our money back and save ourselves a walk.'
'Bad idea,' I said.
That annoyed him. 'What the hell's wrong with it? And another thing,' he went on. 'You keep saying, the sooner we're off this road the better, before the soldiers come up here looking for us. We'll cover the ground a hell of a lot quicker if we ride.'
'Absolutely not,' I said. 'We'll get to Camarina on our own two feet, thank you very much. No mules.'
'What's wrong with mules?'
He was starting to get on my nerves. 'I don't like 'em, all right?'
'I see. Going to tell me why?'
'No.'
'Please yourself.'
Actually, there's no secret about it, and Lucius Domitius knew perfectly well, or he should have done if he'd ever listened to me over the years. Plain fact is, I can't be doing with mules. I think it's got something to do with the time Callistus and me were in Bithynia, and we'd done something or other to make ourselves unpopular in this town we were passing through, so much so that some git had called the guard, and we had reasons of our own for not wanting to explain ourselves to a parcel of soldiers right then. But it was all right, because tied up outside the town's knocking shop were these two mules, and we thought, hop on them, we'd be out of town and gone long before the soldiers got there. So we help ourselves to these mules, and off we go, and we'
re almost out of the danger area when suddenly my mule decides to stop running and stand there still as a rock, like he'd just seen the gorgon's head or something, and nothing I could do would get the miserable creature to move. So there I was, shouting and kicking at this completely stationary mule when the soldiers show up, and next thing we know we're in the cooler, with stealing mules added to the charge sheet (and stealing livestock on its own'll get you strung up in Bithynia, which is a horrible place at the best of times, you just take my word for it). Anyway, that's me and mules. Now if Lucius Domitius had said donkeys or an ox-cart or even horses, I might well have said, yes, fine, because I'd far rather ride than walk any day of the month. But mules — no way on earth, never again.
So we went on walking, and at the end of that day we fetched up in this town.
Proper-sized place it was, with two inns, bathhouse, bakehouse, even its own diddy little theatre and racetrack. Another time I'd have said, let's hang around here a day or so, see if we can't work a decent fiddle. But we had money in our purses and what I was interested in after a hard day's walking wasn't sizing up marks, it was getting my boots off and resting my feet on a footstool for a few hours. So we put in at the less evil-looking of the two inns, paid cash in advance for a jug of the local poison and a couple of plates of pot luck, and settled down for an evening of lounging around like a couple of gentlemen.