The Pillars of Rome (29 page)

He paused again, wondering if he was using too much rhetoric. After all, his father must have guessed what was coming and there was nothing in the face to tell him how he was doing. The slave in the doorway was looking at the ceiling. Not that a
look of approval from him would have raised Marcellus’s hopes, so, still uncertain, he plunged on.

‘But I must confess to such an inability. You have set me a standard and when I apply it, can I really say I feel respect for every adult I encounter? In truth, I cannot. Few equal you. That is point number one. The second point I wish to respectfully bring to your attention is the one I have already alluded to. Since the primary duty of a Roman is to oppose tyranny, can I sit still and observe such behaviour in action, and do nothing to curb it.’

Marcellus began to warm to his task, addressing an expressionless parental countenance. He spoke of the glory of Roman tradition, of the expulsion of the Tarquin kings, naming heroes and castigating villains to support his case. Of the need for the strong to protect the weak, which had been the basis of the expansion of the Republic from a city-state to an empire. Finally the time came for the peroration, the closing arguments, the justification for boxing Timeon around the ears. The man had used that vine sapling once too often. Since that day, months before, when Aulus Macedonicus had halted him in mid-swing, he had become even more free with the stinging sapling. The blows were heavier, more frequent, just as the pleasure he took in administering them shone on the man’s face.

‘As I have observed already, Father, it is my duty
to abide by the regime set by you, as well as to take my punishment without flinching. Yet I owe a duty to you that transcends even that. I cannot ignore one thing, that the lessons you favour me with are of a higher value than those of any Greek teacher, however able. When I am faced with a choice between acceding to your wishes on the one hand, and following your principles on the other, I can only choose one course. To put one on a higher plane than the other would be to insult you to an unacceptable degree. Timeon the pedagogue has so come to enjoy the vine sapling that he employs it without respite. I also cannot believe that it is part of the education you wish me to benefit from, to have me sit under the lash of a tyrant and do nothing.’

Marcellus, when he stopped speaking, was slightly at a loss. He might be addressing his father as though he was a fellow-senator, but he was still his son and he could not, like a member of that august assembly, end participation in the debate by merely sitting down. He knew, as he spoke his final words, that they detracted from the impression he was seeking to create, smacking, as they did, of the impertinence he had sought so hard to avoid.

‘I yield the floor,’ he stammered.

‘An interesting dissertation,’ replied Lucius, calmly. ‘You seek to tell me that you have elevated my principles above my instructions, implying, as
you did so, that the punishment administered to you was excessive. Tyrannical, in fact, so that you, as a Roman, felt bound to oppose it.’

Marcellus didn’t reply. In this game he wasn’t allowed to.

Lucius rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘It’s well argued, boy, and it might be that you have the right of it. Perhaps Timeon has become too fond of the whip. If he has, you have the right to make this plain to him in a manner that he will comprehend. The question is, does that run to buffeting him around the ears, to the extent that he required the attentions of a physician?’ Lucius stayed silent for a second, but there was no doubt that he had yet to finish. ‘Perhaps it does, Marcellus. I would never knowingly countenance a Greek thrashing a Roman, especially if it was unjust.’

Again he paused, this time looking at the slave still standing silent in the doorway. Marcellus felt his hopes rise. His father would be persuaded, by the power of his arguments, to order Timeon to desist and Marcellus could then justly still that insistent, internal voice, that whispered steadily the accusation of cowardice. He could tell himself, as well as his fellow pupils, that he had argued for a noble cause and triumphed. His father stood up and turned his back, as a prelude to leaving the room.

‘However, Marcellus, you’ve ignored one very important point. You’re not the only boy in the
class. You see fit to attack your teacher. What will the others think? Marcellus Falerius can do this, why can’t I? Perhaps you had good cause. It may well be that you adhered to my principles in this matter but in following one, you ignored another and that is the duty of a Falerii to set an example.’

He brushed past the slave, still talking as he walked away. ‘So, Marcellus, much as I admire your rhetoric, I know I must curtail your spirit. If this hurts you greatly, remember I only do it to discourage the others. I shall not enjoy hearing you cry in pain but it is very necessary that you do so.’

The slave had obviously been given his instructions; as his master’s voice faded, he entered the room and closed the door, with Marcellus looking at him unflinchingly. From behind his back came another vine sapling. No whip then, just the same tool as that used by his teacher. The slave held the boy’s gaze as he raised it above his head. Marcellus continued to stare, fighting to avoid the blink that would come as a natural reaction to the blow as the slave hunched his shoulders and began his swing. He could not help himself; his eyes closed.

He heard the thudding sound and wondered why he felt no pain, then looked, only to find himself eyeball to eyeball with the slave as the dust from the coarse blanket rose behind him. Marcellus looked over his shoulder as the slave lifted the sapling from
the bed. The mark he had made was deep. When Marcellus looked back at the man, he was treated to a broad wink.

‘Now, if’n it was that bastard Timeon, Master Marcellus, there’s not a slave in the household would hesitate. It would give us great pleasure to tan his hide. You’ll have to yell a bit, like, or it’ll look fishy, but how’s your papa to know if the marks on your back are from me, or that sod who he’s set to teach you?’

The slave raised the sapling again as principle fought with subterfuge in the youngster’s breast. What would be the consequences of accepting this offer from the slave? Could he cheat his fate and keep his dignity? Then the round sweating face of his pint-sized teacher came into view and he treated the slave to a smile, which was returned.

‘Now don’t you go yellin’ too loud, Master Marcellus, otherwise that will make your papa suspicious.’

The blanket was hit again, with all his might, that followed by a howl of pain.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The flickering light from the tallow wads seemed to cast their own spells in Gadoric’s hut, only adding to the power of his words as he intoned a long Celtic saga. Aquila listened with rapt attention; the words were not yet so familiar that he could easily follow this story and the shepherd had been talking for over an hour, never once pausing as he recited, from memory, a tale of war, fickle gods and magic. This was just one of many sagas the shepherd had imparted and Aquila had learnt all about the Celtic way of fighting, their tribal rivalries as well as their religion. Nothing was written; every potion that healed, or spell that damned, was committed to memory, as were the stories of a world at one with nature and the elements, where a tree could be a better friend than a fellow man. A world where earth, fire and water provided the means not only to live but to worship.

Gadoric’s pastoral religion was very close to that
of Fulmina, who held herself untainted by what she saw as Greek imports, but some of the Celtic myths had echoes of the celestial heroes worshipped at Rome. There was
Dagda
, a God of the Open Sky to match
Jupiter
,
Taranis
, a God of War to equal
Mars
, male and female counterparts to the Greek deities of
Apollo
and
Artemis
. But given the sheer number of gods and sacred objects, this pantheon, to Aquila, seemed full of chaos, with no power great enough to impose order on a fractured world. Only the Celtic holy men could truly understand, which made the boy suspicious.

Fulmina hated augers and priests and had taught him to be sceptical of the breed. She was adamant; they only performed their rituals for money, position, or to gain power over their followers. The boy enjoyed Gadoric’s tales, but not as much as he enjoyed learning how to throw a spear or fire one of the Celt’s trio of flint-tipped arrows, weapons forbidden to slaves. Gadoric had stolen the spear from the guard hut by the road of the Barbinus villa; if found by the senator’s overseer, it would be enough to see him crucified.

Even more pleasure came from occasional daylong trips into the foothills of the mountains, the sheep sent to crop overgrown grasses on steep hillsides. Leaving them to graze under the watchful eye of Minca, Gadoric and the boy would seek the spoor of larger creatures, bears and big cats, with
the shepherd teaching him which signs to look for and how to track their routes. Close to the villa or in the hills they hunted for food daily, sometimes at night when the moon was full, and since Celtic traps were cunning, Fulmina’s pot was rarely without meat. His mentor taught him all he knew, and the seasons passed in a blur of happy activity.

The first night-time expedition without Minca was no hunting trip, with Gadoric strangely reluctant to explain to Aquila what he was about. But the absence of the dog, left to guard the shepherd’s hut, was soon explained by the destination, none other than the slave quarters of the Barbinus villa. One sniff of Minca’s scent and the guard dogs would have raised the alarm and brought out men with flaming torches in case it was some kind of dangerous predator. The Celt, with the boy at his side, watched the compound for an age as the last light of the day disappeared. He waited until the barns were closed, the lanterns lit in all the occupied buildings and the moon up enough to bathe the landscape. Only then did he begin to creep forward to the wicker fence built to keep out stray animals.

‘Follow,’ Gadoric whispered in his broken Latin, making an opening where the fence was joined by knotted twine.

‘Are we going to steal some rabbits?’ Aquila asked.

The ‘No’, hissed over suppressed mirth, mystified the boy, as he followed Gadoric to the long building he knew to be the slave quarters. Halfway along, Gadoric stopped, and reaching up, tapped gently on a closed shutter, which was opened, just a fraction, a couple of seconds later.

‘Stay here beneath shutter, Aquila. If anyone come, likely to get too close, throw dirt at it then get out sight yourself. Make for break in fence and wait for me in field on other side.’

The Celt stood up, pulled the shutter wide open, and jumping up, eased himself through, leaving Aquila, still mystified, crouching down on his haunches, his back against the stone wall. Through the gap between shutter and frame above his head he could hear whispering, that followed by a low chuckling sound mixed with soft female laughter. That was followed by silence, then the creak of something wooden, a sound that began to be repeated with increasing frequency. Then the moaning started, low at first, but getting louder, until it sounded as if it was being muffled. To the boy it seemed so noisy that everyone within the compound should hear it. Alarmed enough to stand, he eased himself past several other closed shutters towards the end of the building, looking round the corner towards the defunct fountain in the centre of a courtyard bathed in moonlight. Thankfully there was no one around. No one, not
even the dogs, seemed to be alerted by the noise which he was sure he could still hear. Still, he felt it prudent to pick up some loose dirt, just in case.

‘Hello, who are you?’

The shock of that voice was total, even although it was soft and female, and it froze him to the spot as every drop of his blood seemed to head for his gut. Slowly he looked up, to another open shutter and the girl who was leaning out. She was smiling and unthreatening, but that did nothing to make him feel safe. Caught in the compound he would be lucky to escape with a severe flogging.

‘Who wants to know?’ he asked, with more bravado than courage.

‘My name is Sosia,’ she replied in a gentle tone. ‘Are you going to tell me yours?’

‘Aquila…’ He hesitated then, unwilling to add the name Terentius, which would make him easy to identify to the overseer.

‘Are you with the shepherd?’

Another shock. ‘You know about him?’

‘Everybody knows about him.’ There was enough moon to show how much that notion alarmed Aquila, so she added quickly. ‘Well, not everybody, just the women. He comes to visit Nona quite often, but usually he is alone.’

‘Who’s Nona?’

‘A slave.’

‘What is he doing with her?’

Sosia chuckled, and said, ‘Listen.’ The moaning, for all the muffling, was loud and increasingly frequent, then came the first of a series of stifled cries and deep-throat groans. ‘If Nicos, the overseer, catches them, he will be furious.’

‘Why?’

‘Slaves are not allowed to mate without permission.’