The Pillars of Rome (16 page)

Anytime in the last three years, thought Clodius, but he did not say that his old drinking companion had become stand-offish around the time that the child had arrived. That was also, coincidentally, the time that Dabo acquired his third farm. ‘I don’t like to just drop in. It ain’t polite. An’ you might be busy anyway.’

‘Never too busy to see an old chum,’ replied Dabo, in a jolly tone. ‘Why don’t you drop round soon, and we’ll have a proper wet.’

The voice from the mill cut through the hot morning air. ‘What do you think you’re about, you lazy swine?’ Clodius jumped back to work, dashing across the yard and grabbing a sack from the pile. He practically ran to load it onto the cart, while all the while the voice followed him. ‘Why do I employ you? I could get a slave to do your work for the food he needs to eat, instead of parting with hard earned denarii to keep you.’

‘Denarii,’ gasped Clodius as he passed Dabo.
‘I’ve never seen a coin larger than a copper ass from that bastard.’

‘This is cruel work, Clodius,’ said Dabo raising his voice so that his friend could hear him as he raced away to the pile of sacks. ‘Strikes me that you need somethin’ a mite better than this.’

Clodius replied from under another sack. ‘I won’t argue with that, friend.’

‘Best drop over an’ see me soon. I can’t stand by and watch a fellow legionary in a pickle like this.’

‘Will you leave Clodius alone to get on with his work.’

Dabo shouted back at the mill owner in an even louder voice. ‘Put a pair of socks in your mouth, you fat slob. Remember, Samnite pig, that you’re talking to a couple of citizens of Rome.’

‘Citizens of Rome,’ whooped the mill owner. ‘Some citizens, one with his arse hanging out of his smalls and the other a long-winded fart with ideas above his station.’

Dabo growled, and looked set to go into the mill and box the owner’s ears.

‘Don’t, Dabo,’ gasped Clodius. ‘The bastard’ll only take it out on me.’

The mill owner was treated to a glare and Dabo’s eyes were still angry when he turned to talk to Clodius. ‘You come and see me, d’ye hear.’

Aquila raced across the dusty yard, his long golden hair flying behind him, as soon as Clodius came into sight. For all his moans about the little fellow, Clodius was fond of him. He was a tyke, into everything and always in trouble, just like his adopted father. Despite the rigours of his working day, Clodius caught him and tossed him high in the air.

The boy squealed with delight and said, ‘Gain.’

Clodius puffed loudly. ‘Come on lad. Your papa’s had a hard old day.’

The boy held his arms out insistently. ‘Gain!’

‘Just one more, right?’

Aquila nodded untruthfully and made Clodius toss him up in the air until Fulmina stopped him. ‘What are you trying to do, addle the boy’s brain. If you shake him about much more he’ll end up as daft as you.’

He was surprised to see Drisia come out of the hut, less so that she fixed him with an evil look. An infrequent caller since the time the boy had been found, the soothsayer was even more wizened than Clodius could remember. Even so she never seemed to age, nor, as far as he could tell, did she ever change her clothes, which were filthy, smelling worse than a cow byre in summer while her dull grey hair was matted, uncombed and dirty. Clodius suspected that the old bitch encouraged Fulmina’s fantasies about the boy, because his wife always
seemed to nag him more after the rank one had made a visit.

‘Did I ever tell you what we did to some of them Salyes tribesmen, young Aquila?’ said Clodius, gathering the boy into his arms to avoid throwing him any more. He made his way into the welcome shade of the canopy where the reed roof jutted out over the door of the hut. Aquila, his blue eyes wide with interest, shook his head. ‘Smelly mob, they were. Never washed so you could always tell when they was about to attack, the camp dogs would start whining. On top of that they had this war cry that they never let up with. Noise fit to drive a man over the edge of the world, I tell you. Could never get them to shut up so what we did, when we caught ’em, was to bury ’em in some sand right by the edge of the water.’

‘Swim,’ said Aquila eagerly.

‘In a minute,’ replied Clodius, shaking him slightly. He raised his voice to make sure the two women could hear. ‘Right by the water’s edge, as I say. Then we told ’em to yell their war cry as the water rose. The tide don’t rise much in the middle sea, but it certainly came up enough to shut those Gallic bastards up.’

Fulmina knew where the story was aimed. She nudged Drisia as she replied. ‘No point in trying that on you, eh! Clodius, you’d just drink it, like you used to do every coin that came into this house.’

Clodius scowled and put the boy down. He liked a drink and could not deny it, but given the way it had been in short supply he felt aggrieved. Aquila looked from one to the other, aware that they were going to be bad to each other again. He didn’t understand and it showed in the anxious look on his face. Fulmina spotted it and her whole tone changed.

‘Come on, little one, cheer up. Papa’s back and he’s going to take you for a dip in the river.’

Clodius sniffed loudly, pulling a face and nodded at Drisia. ‘Happen that someone else could use a dip in the river.’

Fulmina glared at him. ‘Just stay out of the house for a bit.’

More prophesying, thought Clodius, so they wanted both him and the boy out of the way. He entered the hut and grabbed a hunk of unleavened bread off the rough table, stuffing it into his mouth as he re-emerged into the warm sunlit evening. The words that followed were hard to comprehend, but the nodding head told Aquila that Fulmina was speaking the truth. Papa was going to take him for a swim, so he whooped with joy and ran for the river. Both adoptive parents looked after him smiling serenely, then their eyes met and the smiles evaporated.

‘Don’t be down there forever,’ snapped Fulmina. ‘The nights are drawing in and I can’t afford to feed you by the light of a tallow wad.’

‘This is no life for a man,’ said Clodius, stomping off in pursuit of the boy.

Fulmina went into the hut, leant over the pot of polenta and gave it a stir. ‘It would be nice to come across a real man, just once in my life.’

Aquila had thrown off his smock and dived right in. Even at three he could swim a bit, though it looked more like a dog paddling than the proper thing. His body was golden brown and his gold hair took on a ginger shading when it was wet. Round these parts, where people, including his adoptive parents, had black hair and dark skin, he was the cause of much comment. Clodius murmured a quick incantation to
Volturnus
, the River God, then treated himself to a cooling and cleansing dip; he did not stay in the water long, but sat by the edge and watched the boy splash around in the stream.

There were few times that Clodius could say he was happy, but this was one of them. He had been indifferent to his other children, partly because he had been away on legionary service when they were Aquila’s age. By the time he got back they were old enough to argue with him, and Clodius got too much of that from his wife to welcome more of the same from his offspring. Yet even taking that into account, they did not have what this youngster had. Curious they might be, but everyone hereabouts liked him, for he had a way of attracting people. Perhaps it was his gaiety, for he was always
laughing, always on the move, and never morose. Even that fat slob of a mill owner had offered Aquila some honey-coated bread the day he had run away to visit Papa’s place of work. Fulmina, thinking he had been stolen, had yelled at the boy when she found him, a rare thing, since she hardly ever raised her voice to him, but, without crying, he took her hand, as if he realised that she was only shouting because she was frightened for him.

‘It’s a bugger bein’ poor,’ said Clodius, raising his head to address the gods. They had heard precious little from him lately, no nocturnal songs and slurred requests for intercession. ‘If you can’t bless me with some fortune, then put some aside for young Aquila. Maybe you’ll help him to find his real family. They have the money to raise him to be somethin’. I’m damned if I do.’

The soaking wet bundle landed right on top of him, catching him, in his reverie, totally unawares. They rolled over in the grey sand that lined the side of the stream, laughing and squealing, with Clodius pretending to hit Aquila severely, and taking the punches of the boy, hard for a mere three-year-old, in good part. Aquila was allowed to win, and he sat astride his papa, grinning from ear to ear, and saying ‘ender ender.’

Clodius surrendered happily.

‘Dabo’s coming down a bit, to mix with the likes of you.’

‘Happen he’s realised that true friendship don’t lie with money.’

‘In a pig’s ear,’ snapped Fulmina, but quietly, since the child was asleep. ‘He’s got a whole host of folk to get drunk with. Why choose you?’

Clodius felt that Dabo had hinted at some kind of work, but he did not want to say anything to Fulmina, knowing she would only scoff. ‘Well that don’t count, since the invitation was plain.’

‘So that’s it. A weasel like Dabo crooks his little finger and mighty man Clodius runs off to oblige. Well just you make sure you’re fit to get to the mill tomorrow, otherwise he might sling you out of your job.’

‘He won’t,’ Clodius insisted. ‘The bastard’s too mean.’

‘He’ll get himself a slave if you’re late once more.’

‘Not him. That would mean layin’ out real money. He’d rather give me a pittance every day than put down any of his precious capital to buy slave labour.’

‘What worries me, Dabo, is that, if prices drop, the bastard will get himself a slave.’

Dabo nodded, his face full of comradely concern. ‘Which they will, mate, as soon as there is a decent
war. Price of slaves will go down as it always does.’

‘Not much chance of that is there?’

They were sitting just outside Dabo’s house; not really a house, more an elevated hut with space underneath for the livestock, but it had more than a single room, so it qualified as a house. Dabo’s fat wife had been ordered to bed and the men sat in the warm spring night, drinking steadily but quietly.

‘Happen there will be a war soon,’ Dabo replied. ‘They’ve started on the
dilectus
.’

‘The call up don’t affect me, thank the gods,’ said Clodius, taking a swig from the large gourd Dabo had given him.

‘Then there’s some fortune in being poor,’ Dabo growled.

It was the way Dabo said it that alerted Clodius. ‘Not you!’

‘Rumour has it!’ said his old comrade sourly. ‘They can’t fill the levies with the normal methods. I’ve heard they’re planning to pull in men who’ve already done their time, as long as they meet the property laws.’

‘That’s sacrilege!’

‘It was once, Clodius, but the consuls have got the priests in their pockets, as well as the laws in their hands. They can do whatever they like, and will, just so long as they get enough men.’

Clodius took a swig of wine, before replying, ‘I’m sure it’s just a rumour.’

‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ They sat in silence for some time, each alone with his thoughts and memories. It was Dabo who eventually spoke. ‘Not that life in the legions was that bad.’

‘It wasn’t good either,’ replied Clodius, for once dropping the rosy glow that usually accompanied his military recollections.

‘The women were willing enough.’

Clodius laughed. ‘Don’t recall that it mattered much if they were willing or not.’

‘Damned right, Clodius,’ Dabo whooped. ‘We speared ’em anyway.’

‘Makes you wonder how many of Rome’s slaves are bred from Roman juice.’

‘Quite a few, old friend, quite a few,’ Dabo gently tapped his fired clay goblet against the wooden gourd in Clodius’s hand. It made a hollow sound, so Dabo filled it to the brim before completing the toast. ‘The good old days.’

‘Back breaking work on the march, and then even more when we pitched camp for the night,’ said Clodius ruefully.

‘Booty, Clodius.’

‘Don’t seem to recall mine lasting all that long, Dabo. An’ when I came back the farm had gone to ruin. That six years’ service did for me.’

Dabo had come back at the same time, but he had brought his farm back to proper fruitfulness, so he reckoned he knew just who was to blame for his
companion’s failure, and it was not divine providence. ‘You had rotten luck, Clodius, an’ no mistake. No father to tend your fields and kids too young to pull their weight.’