by Tom Holt
The roadhouse was doing good business: stables full, people in travelling clothes lounging about on the porch, potboys and kitchenmaids scurrying across the yard fetching wood and water and stuff. A quick glance at the tariff painted up on the outside wall gave me a reasonable idea of what sort of place it was:
Bread 1a
Relishes 2a
Hay:
per mule 2a
per horse 3a
Wine:
Falernian 4a/6th
House 2a/6th
Ordinary la/6th
Well, quite: fancy prices for the carriage trade. Good sign, I thought; someone who'll cough up twopence for a pint of drinking wine wouldn't think twice about flipping a farthing or two into a hat if he'd happened to like the tune.
Actually, it always amazes me how people who wouldn't normally give you the dirt between their toes will happily throw away good copper money on a snatch of a song in a public place. Nearly everyone puts in something, apart from the very poor and the very rich. If I had my time over again, I'd be a harpist.
Obviously, it was good manners and common sense to ask the landlord before setting up a pitch. As we'd expected, he didn't mind; a nice cheerful tune would entertain his customers, he said, maybe pull one or two passers-by in off the road. Just so long as we didn't get under anybody's feet, that was fine. In fact, if we were good for business, he'd send the girl over with some of yesterday's bread when the rush was over, and we could doss down in the hayloft over the traphouse for free.
Lucius Domitius might have talked like an idiot half the time, but he had the common sense to lay off the Heliodorus and the Strepsiades and stick to ballads and showtunes. As a result, we did all right, which pleased us both, me because I like money, Lucius Domitius because (as he put it) there's no better accompaniment for instrumental harp, musically speaking, than the rhythmical clinking of copper in a felt or leather receptacle. A small crowd gathered after a while and asked if he did requests. Most of them were for 'Gone For A Soldier' or 'Agrippina's Dwarf' or the-one-that-goes tum-tumpty-tum; but one old toothless git of an ex-soldier hobbled up and asked for 'Banks of Scamander'. If you don't know that one — and most people don't — it's a catchy little number by one Lucius Domitius Nero Claudius Caesar Germanicus, about the only thing he ever wrote that's got a tune you can whistle. Of course, the old soldier didn't put anything in the hat; in fact, after a moment or so he wandered off to the bar to cadge drinks. He made Lucius Domitius' day, even so, and I think if he'd tried to touch us for money, Lucius Domitius would've given him the whole hatful out of sheer gratitude.
Luckily, though, it didn't come to that; and, by the time we retired to our hayloft with our basket of stale bread (with some ancient watercress and a wedge of hard cheese thrown in out of sheer naked benevolence), we were only a farthing short of four sesterces. Not just good money, practically wealth.
'I told you,' I told him, 'we should've done this years ago. Sixteen pence, just for tickling a few strips of gut. It beats work, that's for sure.'
Lucius Domitius frowned. 'You can't have been paying attention,' he said. 'That was work. Bloody hard work. On my feet playing, four hours without a break—'
'That's not work,' I pointed out, 'that's what you used to do for fun. Dammit, you used to bribe people to come and listen to you. And even if it does count as work, three weeks' money for four hours' graft — next best thing to being a senator, I reckon.'
'Whatever.' He made a show of being tired, yawning, stretching, all that. 'Now would you mind shutting your face, please? I want to eat this garbage they've given us and go to sleep, if it's all the same to you.
I wasn't offended, or at least not much. 'All right,' I said. 'We'll divvy up the takings, and then we can turn in—'
He scowled at me. 'What do you mean, divvy up?' he asked unpleasantly 'Divvy up,' I repeated. 'You get your half, I get mine, same as we've always done.'
He laughed. 'You can forget that,' he said. 'I earned it, I'm keeping it. You be grateful you've got a feed and a roof over your head.'
I couldn't believe my ears. 'You what?' I said.
'You heard me. I work, I get paid. Or were you accompanying me on the flute, and I didn't notice?'
'You bastard,' I pointed out. 'Here, give me my share, before I lose my temper.'
You'd have thought he'd have apologised, said he was sorry for trying it on. Not a bit of it. He actually seemed upset at me. 'You thieving little Greek,' he snapped at me. 'What the hell do you mean, your share? You didn't do a damn thing, just sat there with your feet up. You didn't even take the hat round.'
I was telling myself, Stay calm, put up with it, losing your rag never helped anything. 'Arsehole,' I said, and I was starting to get all shrill and speechless. 'Whose idea was it in the first place, for fuck's sake? Who had to talk you into this gig, when you were saying, Oh no, we don't dare, someone'll recognise me? Who was it said we could steal a harp? Who was it bashed that bloke on the head? Come to that, who was it saved you from Strymon, when anybody else would've just left you there? You'd be dead right now if it wasn't for me.'
'I like that,' he sneered. 'All right, if we're playing that game, who rescued you from the prefect's men in Alexandria ? Who went back and got you out of that prison in Damascus , when they weren't even looking for me?'
'Oh, right,' I said. 'And I suppose you got away from that tallow-chandler and his men in Istria all by yourself, I had nothing to do with it.'
'You got me into that mess to begin with, I'll give you that,' he said. 'But all I remember about that is how you nearly got us both killed, saying we could jump to the ground from the window'
'Screw you,' I said. 'All right, what about the fishmonger in Halicarnassus ? He was going to chop your hands off with his cleaver.'
'Balls. And since you started this, what about that time you were up on a cross, and I told them to let you go? Can't trump that, can you?'
'Yes, but that was only because of Callistus—' stopped short; we both knew that was far enough. Otherwise I'd have to say What about the time my brother died to save you? and that wouldn't do either of us any good.
He stared down at the straw 'Well,' he said, 'I guess you did help me choose the music. And getting the harp was your idea And—'
I lifted my head. 'Half's too much,' I said. 'I think we should change the split. How about three to one?'
'Straight down the middle, like we've always done,' he insisted.
'Otherwise it's too complicated. We'll only end up arguing over half a farthing.'
'Better still,' I said, 'you be treasurer, hang on to the money, and when we need stuff, we pay for it. I mean, where's the point splitting it up? It's not like we're going our separate ways or anything.'
'No, that's right,' he said, not looking at me. 'That's not likely to happen, not after all this time. If you'd rather carry the money— 'What, get lumbered with all that extra weight? No fear. You're the big, strong one, you can do the heavy lifting.' I clicked my tongue. 'I'm sorry,' I said. 'I shouldn't have yelled at you like that. Wasn't called for.'
'Forget it. Eat your dinner before it rots.'
Always the same; it's not what you say that really buggers things up, it's what you don't say Worse still is when you don't say it so loud that even a deaf man with his head down a hole can't help hearing it. It's not like we're going our separate ways, no, that's not likely to happen, not after all this time. What he didn't say was, well, this is what I've come to, even when I've had my second chance, my fresh start: busking outside taverns, stuck with you. I guess it was playing the harp again that started him off. So long as he hadn't done that, hadn't played music, sung, any of that shit, he'd been able to keep himself buried deep down inside. He'd concentrated on the running away and not getting caught — easy enough when you're starving and on the run, you have to pay attention, you can't let your mind wander off into the places you'd rather it didn't go. You've got an excuse. But when you're free and clear, and the novelty's
starting to wear off, like the silver wash on a dud coin, you stop and think, Hang on; so I'm still alive and they haven't got me, but where in hell is this place, and how did I ever get here? And then you start thinking, and how exactly am I going to get home? A bit like Ulysses, really; you survive the Cyclops and the clashing rocks and the sirens and the kingdom of the dead and the witch who turns men into pigs and the shipwreck and God knows what else, and you come to an empty beach, where you stand up and find you've lost everything. All your ships sunk, your men dead, your treasure and weapons dumped or at the bottom of the sea, your clothes ripped off you in the reefs. You stand up on that beach naked in a strange country, and you say to the gods, Thank you very much, thanks for nothing; I did all that, I was a fucking hero, and look where it's got me. You stand there on the beach, and you've got nothing left but yourself, who you are. Only Lucius Domitius didn't even have that. On the one hand, he had a harp; on the other hand, he had me. Poor, unlucky bastard.
(And then I thought, yes, but when Ulysses told them who he was they gave him a ship full of treasure, more than he'd robbed off the Trojans, far more than he'd lost along the way; and they gave him a lift home and unloaded his going-away presents on the beach, and all his troubles were practically over. He was free and clear, and in the end he got back everything he'd lost, and lived happily ever after. Lucius Domitius — well, he'd got a harp again, he was playing music and people were listening, enjoying it, even; was that a shipful of treasure to him, far more than he'd lost along the way? Wouldn't be surprised if he saw it like that. Never did have much sense, my friend Lucius Domitius.
And then I thought, what about what Blandinia had told me, the things he'd done, the things he used to be. Suppose, when he stood up on the beach after the shipwreck, it turned out that that was what was left. Suppose that was the real Lucius Domitius, and the only reason he hadn't done any of that stuff in our ten years together was because he hadn't had the opportunity? You think you know someone. You think you can judge character, but you can't, and that's how frauds and swindlers and bastards like me make our living, pretending to be good when we're bad to the core. Now I've never been any good at that game — not because I'm a good man, but because I'm not even good at being bad; if either of us had any talent in that line, it was him. He could tell a tale, put on a character, make you believe he was something he wasn't. You think you know someone, but all you ever get to see is bits and pieces, and that's at the best of times. Except Callistus, of course. But he was different—
—And besides, I've always wondered about Ulysses. I mean, here's this bloke, so we're meant to believe, who gets dumped on by every god in the sky For ten years, it's just one ghastly, horrible adventure after another. No sooner has he managed to slither out of one certain-death scenario but he slides into the next one, nastier and even more certain-death than the last one, chased by monsters and soldiers and probably market commissioners and pork butchers with big cleavers, though the poet doesn't mention them. All this time, he's scheming and scamming and lying to everybody he meets, tricking and cheating, ducking and dodging his way, right across the known world, from Troy to Sicily Even when finally he gets home, against all the odds, it's not as if they're pleased to see him or anything. Oh no — it's still more lies and tricks and schemes, ending up with the most appalling bloodbath right there in his own dining room, him against the whole senate and people of Ithaca, and what for? All this heroism, all these amazing deeds that will live for ever in the memories of generations yet unborn; what does he get out of it at the end? Gold, silver, prizes, purple tapestries, a triumphal arch and a procession down main street, followed by the hand of the beautiful teenage princess in marriage? Like hell. All he gets out of it is the privilege of going to sleep in his own little room again, next to a faded old bag with a face like a prune who he hasn't seen in twenty years. I ask you — why bother? Stupid fool should've stayed in Phaeacia and got a job.
Still, I can't talk. Been there, done that; only I was never a king or a prince or an emperor of the Romans to begin with, and if I went home and started picking off my enemies there with a bow and arrow, I'd get nailed to the nearest tree, and quite right too. When I've stood up on that beach, naked and destitute, with nothing but me left, they've arrested me for vagrancy and slung me in the lock-up. I could roll up at the palace gate on Scheria wearing nothing but an embarrassed grin and say I was the long-lost king of Ithaca till I was blue in the face, but no one would ever believe me. I guess telling the tale only works if the tale is true, or if you can make them believe it is.)
We spent the day lounging about. We realised that we weren't in any hurry to get to Praeneste. In fact, we'd only told ourselves we were going there because people as a rule need to believe they're going somewhere, rather than just wandering aimlessly about. But it seemed silly to leave this safe, comfortable billet, where we had food to eat and a place to sleep, money to pick up by the hatful, and where the guy in charge didn't seem to mind us being there. You'd have to be as thick as army bacon to walk out on all that on the off chance of finding something almost as good twenty miles down a hard, dusty road.
'Sooner or later,' I told Lucius Domitius, 'they'll get sick of the sight of us and set the dogs on us, and then we can go to Praeneste. Meanwhile...'
He yawned. 'Sure,' he said, 'why not? Crazy, isn't it?' He laughed. 'It must be weird, stopping in one spot your whole life. People do it, though, so it must be possible. I mean, take this place. You can bet the innkeeper took over from his dad, who got it from his dad, and so on back to Aeneas and Lars Porsena. A bit like an empire, really, only it's smaller. And,' he added, chewing a straw, 'not nearly as much pain and effort. It'd be fun, running an inn.'
I laughed. 'Don't you believe it,' I said. 'I grew up in one, remember? It's bloody hard work, all hours of the day and night; and it's bad enough in regular jobs where you've got one or two bosses ordering you about. In the tavern business, every bugger who walks in through the door's your boss, and you spend your whole life being told what to do by strangers. Fuck that for a swim in a cesspit.'
He shrugged. 'That's just you, Galen,' he said. 'It's like every place we've ever been. Soon as we move on, suddenly it becomes a dump, the last place the gods made, the armpit of the universe; at least, until we go on somewhere else, and then that takes over as the most dismal spot on earth. In all the years we've been together, I can't remember you ever saying anything nice about a place.'
'Yes, but that's not me being miserable. It's just that all the places we've been were horrible.'
'Really?' He looked at me. 'You don't think there's a simpler explanation, maybe. Well, who knows? Perhaps you're right. What about here, then? Is this a horrible dump, or have we finally broken our ten-year bad patch and stumbled on somewhere that's slightly decent?'
'It's all right,' I said. 'I mean, there's nothing actually bad about it. Just a roadhouse, that's all; not bad, not good, not anything, really If you were a regular citizen, like a trader or something, and you stopped here on your way somewhere, I don't suppose you'd even notice it.'
'True,' he replied. 'Extremely telling point you just made there, only it's not a point about this place, or even wayside inns in general. It's a point about people. Oh, I know; if I'd had to spend the night here in the old days, I'd have been furious at whoever was in charge of planning itineraries for stranding me for a whole night in a poxy little inn. Someone would've ended up in the stone quarries for that. But, like I said, that's a comment about me, about the way I was back then. Doesn't tell you anything important about this inn.'
The way he was then .. . Interesting, I thought. 'Sure,' I replied, 'but you were hardly a regular citizen. I'm talking about ordinary people. Not emperors of the Romans, and not poor unfortunate buggers like us with empty bellies and boot soles as thin as onion skins. You can't go by what the very rich think, or the very poor. They're always different.'
'Funny way you have of seeing things,' he said. 'Of course, by that w
ay of reckoning, I never was ordinary people. An emperor and a tramp, the opposite ends, but never the in-between. You know, I probably have a very strange view of the world. Unique, even.
I was getting bored with this discussion —just think of that, will you? A Greek, fed up with talking. If you'd told me such a thing could exist, I'd have laughed in your face. 'I expect so,' I said. 'Unique, and no bloody good to any body else. Sounds about right, for us.'
That evening, Lucius Domitius played and the hat went round. The take was rather less, three and a half sesterces as against a gnat's nibble under four, it was still more money than either of us had ever earned by honest work in our whole lives before. Good money, just for picking at a few bits of sheep's innards. If only, I kept saying to myself, if only we'd known about this racket earlier, like maybe nine years and nine months ago. For one thing, we'd both be rich by now; or at least, we'd have earned enough to buy a few acres, a little farm on a hillside with barley interplanted between the vine rows so as not to waste space. Only — back then, mind — if you'd said to us, work hard for ten years and, if you're lucky eventually you might get to be small-time peasants — well, it's not the sort of offer that sets you quivering like a bird dog, is it?
The landlord was pleased, anyhow According to him, bar takings were up, either because we cheered people up and so they spent more, or else because they came in the bar instead of sitting outside in the yard because of the godawful racket. Either way was good enough for him, and to mark his grateful thanks, he saw to it that we each got a raw onion with our stale bread and leftovers that night. Fantastic.