The Return

by Harry Sidebottom

  The bolts above rattled back. Paullus had not long finished the food. His heart quailed. So soon? He had not thought the killers would come so quickly, not the second night. He got to his feet, pressed his back against the wall.

  Die like a man! There was nothing else to be done.

  The hinges of the trapdoor squealed as it was raised. Paullus tried to shrink yet further back from the shaft of light. There would be questions. Orestes would see to that. But they would be too late. Paullus would be dead, his testimony gone and any evidence vanished.

  The ladder was lowered. Paullus tensed himself. That would be his only chance. Take the first one while he was clambering down. Grab his legs, haul him to the ground, smash his head against the flagstones. It meant no escape. The others would kill him: shoot him down from above or stone him to death. There was nowhere to hide in the cell. But he might take one of them with him. Somehow he was sure he knew who they would send first down the ladder.

  The feet of the ladder bumped on the floor. But no boots appeared on the rungs.

  Paullus waited, almost keen to get it over with.

  ‘Pssst.’

  The sort of sound used to summon a hunting dog.

  ‘Pssst.’ It came again – low, but urgent.

  Paullus kept quiet. If they thought to lure him out, they had misjudged him.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Paullus.’ A big square head peered down from the aperture. ‘We haven’t got all night.’

  Paullus was up the ladder as if wearing the winged boots of the god Hermes.

  The slight figure of Onirus stood behind Dekis. The two guards were slumped in the corner.

  ‘Have you killed them?’

  ‘They are just sleeping,’ the old huntsman said.

  ‘With the help of one of Kaido’s potions,’ Onirus added.

  ‘The guard changes in two hours,’ Dekis said. ‘We need to be long gone.’

  Outside, the town was sleeping. A cold wind came up from the harbour. They crept along the back of the council house, then Dekis led them up the street that led away from the forum.

  All went well for two blocks, then they heard the sound of the revellers. All the houses were shuttered for the night, but they were near the small temple of Hercules. Like the homes, it was locked, but the columns flanking its entrance at the top of the steps offered a modicum of cover.

  A piper led the tipsy procession. Its tune got louder, almost drowned out by shouts and bursts of drunken laughter.

  Crouching low, shielding the white of his face with his arm, Paullus peered around the base of a column.

  A piper and a torch boy led four young men. The drinkers were well dressed, but the wreaths of rose petals were askew on their brows. Lollius was reasonably steady on his feet, but Solinus and the other two were staggering.

  The guttering torch threw grotesque shadows down the street.

  They had almost passed when Solinus stopped. He lurched towards the temple.

  Paullus wondered how they did not hear the thudding of his heart. It seemed to be trying to burst through his ribs. Six of them, three of us. They were drunk and unarmed – the two Bruttians had swords – but the uproar would wake the whole street. The hue and cry would start at once. They would be chased down.

  Solinus pulled up his tunic, fumbled with his undergarment. With a huge sigh, he pissed against the steps. The urine stank of wine. It splashed and started to run down the gutter.

  All Solinus had to do was turn his head. No matter how inebriated, he could not fail to see them.

  ‘Get a move on,’ Lollius shouted. ‘We need to knock up Roscius. I don’t know about you, but I fancy having that Syrian of his, the one with the hot eyes and the big arse.’

  ‘We can all have her,’ Solinus slurred. ‘Do her good.’

  ‘Old Roscius could do with the company,’ Lollius laughed. ‘Gets lonely, now his catamite is out at Croton’s place.’

  Solinus shook his penis. A few drops stained his clothes.

  Paullus felt the need to cough rising in his chest. He bit his own arm, held his breath.

  It seemed to take Solinus forever to rearrange himself. Finally, he reeled off after the others.

  The sounds receded. Paullus took a deep breath. The urge to cough had gone.

  They remained in the shadows until they could not hear the revellers.

  ‘Hercules’ hairy arse, that was too close,’ Dekis muttered.

  ‘A metaphor for life,’ Onirus said. ‘Romans pissing on us.’ He turned to Paullus. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘We have got you a horse,’ Dekis whispered, ‘a good one. It is tethered in the grove outside the east wall. Fidubius owns so many, he will hardly miss one.’

  ‘The gates will be locked,’ Paullus said.

  ‘There is a hidden door, used by Bruttian smugglers.’ Onirus grinned. ‘You Romans have no idea what happens in this town.’

  ‘Why are you helping me?’

  ‘Fuck knows,’ Dekis said. ‘My daughter is very persuasive.’

  ‘You looked after me in the camp, and saw me right with the plunder after Corinth,’ Onirus said. ‘Besides, some of them wanted to blame the murders on the Bruttians, and you are no more guilty than us.’

  ‘We should get moving,’ Dekis said.

  ‘I need you both to do something for me,’ Paullus said. ‘I am going to the deserted village near Blood Rock. Dekis, tomorrow at noon, not before, go to Lollius. Tell him I left you a message saying where I am hiding.’

  ‘Are you sure? Lollius . . .’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Paullus turned to Onirus. ‘I want you to do something else. You will need the horse. I can take my own mules, and get everything else I want from my farm. Although I could do with some food, especially raw meat.’

  ‘You are hungry,’ Onirus said, ‘and at a time like this?’

  ‘Not exactly. Is there any of Kaido’s potion left?’

  ‘Yes,’ Dekis said. ‘What are you planning?’

  And Paullus told them.

  CHAPTER 28

  Patria

  609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)

  THE CRESCENT NEW MOON hung in a soft blue sky. Its light speckled the ground through the bare branches of the beeches and oaks. Leaving the road, Paullus had given a low whistle. Now he whistled again so the hound could find him.

  Niger came bounding through the trees, bursting with pleasure and excitement. He wound through his master’s legs, hackles raised, baring his teeth in welcome. Paullus made much of him, fussing his ears, talking gentle nonsense.

  There was little time to spare. When the alarm was raised at the gaol, his own farm was the obvious place to look. Signalling Niger to follow silently, Paullus went through the belt of trees and into the farmyard.

  Always secure a line of retreat. The army had taught him that. The Achaeans had paid a high price at the isthmus for ignoring the lesson. Paullus went straight to the stables. It was dark inside, but Paullus could have moved around them blindfold. He took down two riding saddles. The mules were sleepy and docile, although, true to their reputation, one took a deep breath as he fastened its girth. Paullus kicked it in the stomach, not hard, but enough to make it exhale. He cinched the straps tight, then hung some lengths of rope, along with the provisions Onirus had provided, from the saddles. He made sure the bag containing the potion concocted by Kaido was not touching those that held the food. When meddling in such things, you could not take too much care.

  Leaving the saddled mules standing in their stalls, he went across to the hay barn. With a pitchfork he shifted aside the hay, then got a spade and started digging. It took no great time to unearth the two swords. He had wrapped them in oilcloth, and they did not look too spotted with rust. He scooped up a handful of the hidden coins. It seemed profligate not to rebury the others, but there was no time. Anyway, if his plan failed, he would only need a single coin: wedged between his teeth to pay the ferryman across the Styx.

  Paull
us collected his old army entrenching tool from the store shed, then led the mules out as quietly as he could. If the noise carried to his mother and her maid in the house, the silence of Niger might reassure them. He stood for a moment, debating which way to go. The road was more exposed, but the track at the rear of the farm slower. He swung up onto the lead mule, turning its head towards the treeline and the road beyond.

  Paullus told Niger to stay. Looking back, he saw the black dog watching him go.

  *

  Fidubius himself now lived in his town house in Temesa. It was close to the council house and the baths, the other amenities of civilized life, altogether comfortable for an affluent old age. His rural estates stretched along the valley of the Sabutus, with outlying holdings north towards Clampetia and south in the direction of Terina, as well as sheepfolds and pastures far to the east in the high Sila. But the main villa was several miles up river near the bridge at Ad Fluvium Sabutum. It had been Alcimus’ childhood home, and Paullus knew it intimately.

  The villa consisted of a central building with wings added. Its layout was like the house of the murdered Marcellus, except on a grander scale. Domestic servants, all home-bred slaves, lived in the main house to keep it in constant readiness on the off chance that Fidubius should decide on an unannounced visit. The domicile of the owner was separated from the farm buildings and the quarters of the agricultural slaves by a low wall, and the whole complex was surrounded by a somewhat taller perimeter wall. The house of the bailiff stood between the working farm and the villa, from where both could be overseen. It was set in the corner between the outer and internal walls, and two further walls created a separate small interior compound.

  Paullus approached from the west, through the olive groves that grew almost up to the boundary. They were behind with their autumn work. New trenches had not yet been dug around all the trees. About a hundred paces out, after taking what he needed from the saddle packs, he tethered the mules, leaving them enough rope to graze.

  At the edge of the trees, he stopped and listened. There was nothing to hear. Looking at the new moon, he estimated it was just gone midnight. Everyone should be asleep. He secured the coils of rope across his shoulders, and one of the swords, the entrenching tool and the bag of meat all in his belt.

  Stepping out of the shade into the blue moonlight, he felt very exposed, although, at this hour, he was reasonably sure there would be no one to see him. There was a wicket gate, but it would be bolted from the inside.

  At the foot of the outer wall, he halted again and strained his ears to catch any suspicious sound. Again, there was nothing. The wall was about eight feet high, designed to keep out wolves from the forest, not a determined man. The top was smooth, not set with broken shards of glass. It would be a foolhardy thief that broke into the villa rustica of Fidubius. Paullus took a firm grip on the coping stones and hauled himself up.

  Lying along the top, he studied the bailiff’s house and its courtyard. Nothing moved in the cold light. The sentinels were out of sight. Paullus gave a low bark, like that of a rutting deer. It was the wrong season, but the bailiff should be sleeping, and anyway was not bred in the countryside.

  The hounds appeared from around the house. The two huge black mastiffs wore collars spiked with nails. There was no need to make another noise. They had scented his presence. They padded towards where Paullus lay. Hackles raised, fangs and eyes very white in the half-light, they silently stalked this unexpected prey that sounded like a deer, but smelt like a man. If he descended into their territory, they would pounce and tear him to bits, baying for blood. They would wake the entire farm.

  Paullus threw the first two chunks of meat at their feet. Beasts like these were always kept hungry to increase their natural savagery. Neither hesitated, but gobbled down the food in one or two gulps. Paullus tossed down the rest of the meat, and they fell on it.

  The mastiffs settled on their haunches, but remained alert. No gift of food would win them over. They were still intent on ripping this intruder limb from limb. Just let him set foot in their domain.

  A man can outwait a dog. Suppressing the desire to cough, Paullus stayed very still, and looked over at the house. It was right a bailiff should have something of his own. It made him more loyal. Paullus remembered from his childhood Fidubius, up at the villa, holding forth on the duties of a bailiff. He must be the first out of bed and the last to go to bed, must see the farmstead is closed, that each one is asleep in his proper place, that the stock are bedded down and have fodder. He must be sober and honest and hard-working. He must withhold his hands from the goods of others, and turn his face from wrongdoing. The bailiff should be given a female slave as a mate to make him steadier and more attached to the farm. The litany of desiderata had gone on and on. Presumably it had been intended for the education of Alcimus, but Fidubius had not adhered to his own injunctions.

  One of the mastiffs gave a low, unhappy whimper. It got up, turned round, then curled up in distress. The other looked over, ears pricked. Either in sympathy or sensing weakness, it too got up and began to sniff its kennel mate. Then it became unsteady on its legs and fell to the ground, as if felled by a slingshot. Both hounds were still.

  Paullus dropped off the wall. Drawing his sword, he moved to the stricken animals. They did not move. Cautiously, he prodded them with the flat of the blade. Their flanks were moving, but they did not react. Not knowing what was in Kaido’s potion, he had no idea of the strength of the drugs he had put in the meat. It might be enough to kill them, but they might come round before he was gone. They were guard dogs doing their duty, but there was no room for pity or sentimentality. Legionaries also died doing their duty. Such was life. Paullus cut both their throats.

  Both front and rear doors of the house would be locked and bolted. The kitchen window was the place. It had shutters, but no bars or glass. Paullus slid the sword back through his belt and took out the entrenching tool.

  Inserting the tip in the join of the wooden boards, he paused and let his memory trace his projected journey through the house: through the kitchen, across the main room, up the stairs, where the door of the bed chamber was to the right on the landing. When he was young, he and Alcimus had played in the house with the children of the then bailiff. The layout would not have changed. From breaking open the shutters to reaching the bedroom would be the work of a few moments. With luck, too few for a sleeping man to wake and gather his senses.

  No point in waiting. Paullus put all his weight behind the tool. The shutters cracked – all too loud in the quiet night – and sprung open. Entrenching tool in hand, Paullus vaulted the sill. He stumbled over an unseen stool, kicked it away, and set off.

  Racing up the stairs, he heard something. Reaching the landing, he wrenched open the bedroom door. The chamber was lit by a tiny lamp, and smelt of sex and perfume: spikenard and cinnamon. Croton was out of bed, barefoot, tugging on a tunic. Hades, there was another figure in the bed.

  For a burly man, Croton was quick. The bailiff snatched up a sword – a guilty conscience sleeps with a weapon – and lunged. Paullus parried with the entrenching tool. The bigger man used his weight to smash Paullus back against the wall. No chance to draw his own blade. Croton’s left hand had him by the throat. Paullus managed to seize the slave’s sword hand.

  Croton’s hand was like a vice. The fingers closed, crushing Paullus’ windpipe. He could not breathe. He tried to bring his knee up into Croton’s crotch. The big man half turned.

  ‘You are a hard little bastard to kill.’ Croton’s breath was hot and stank of stale wine.

  The fingers tightened. Panic rose in Paullus, like a tide of bile.

  ‘But you are finished now.’

  Sparks of light were flaring in Paullus’ darkening vision. He could feel his own grip on his opponent’s sword arm weakening. Slipping towards unconsciousness, he made one last effort.

  Paullus stamped down with a boot. The heel landed on Croton’s unprotected toes. The slave roared
with pain. The grip on Paullus’ throat slackened, he twisted free and retreated towards the far corner.

  Croton went to follow, but stopped, limping badly. ‘Zeno, stab him in the back.’

  So that was who was in the bed. Paullus should have known.

  ‘Move and I will kill you too!’ Paullus’ shout came out as a croak. His eyes did not leave Croton as he shifted the entrenching tool to his left hand and drew his sword with his right.

  ‘Him too,’ Croton mocked. ‘You are finished, civic crown and all, soldier boy.’

  It was all bravado. Paullus was a trained swordsman, Croton was not. But Paullus wanted him alive.

  Before Paullus could decide what to do, Croton lunged. Paullus blocked the blow with his blade. The heavier man dropped his shoulder, intending to hammer Paullus against a wall again. This time Paullus was ready. He sidestepped. The force of the attack drove Croton past, put him off balance. Paullus left a leg trailing and tripped his assailant. It was an old wrestling move from his youth. As Croton went down, Paullus hit him on the head with the entrenching tool. Not a clean blow. Croton was on his hands and knees, but still moving, pushing himself up. Paullus brought the solid implement down hard on the back of the slave’s head with a sickening thump. This time Croton did not move.