The Pillars of Rome (30 page)

‘Mate?’ Aquila said, forgetting to whisper, which had the girl putting a finger to her lips. ‘Is that what they are doing?’

‘What else would they do?’

Feeling slightly foolish, Aquila looked up and smiled, realising, as he looked at the girl, that she seemed pretty, that she had a nice smile and that her eyes had a gentle quality that he found pleasant. Those thoughts were washed away by what seemed a racket, as the grunts and cries melded in one final outburst, which had Aquila back at the corner of the building once more searching the courtyard.

‘No one will come,’ Sosia hissed. ‘The master is not at home, so everyone does as they please. The shepherd will tell you it is different when Cassius Barbinus is here. He would never dare come near the slave quarters then.’

‘Are you a slave too?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, in a way that implied it was obvious.

‘I’m not,’ Aquila boasted. ‘I’m free-born.’

A frown crossed her face, as though the notion of anyone not being a slave was strange to her. ‘I don’t think I have ever met anyone free-born, except my master and those he has as guests. If the shepherd comes again, why don’t you knock on my shutter?’

‘Why?’

That threw her slightly and she paused before replying. ‘It’s nice to talk to someone who is not a slave.’ The slight creak of a moving shutter alerted Aquila to the fact that Gadoric was exiting, and he made to move away, followed by a slightly plaintive plea. ‘You will knock next time, won’t you?’

It was two weeks before Gadoric paid another visit to the slave quarters, weeks in which the boy thought a lot about the girl. This time Aquila asked no questions and as soon as the Celt disappeared into Nona’s cubicle he made for Sosia’s shutter. On that occasion the two youngsters just talked, but the third time they touched hands, which created a strange sensation for Aquila, one he had never experienced before, a sort of pleasant ache that ran down his arm then through his whole body.

‘You must be careful, Aquila. We have been told to prepare for Barbinus coming from Rome. When he is here your shepherd knows not to come, and neither should you.’

‘I’m not afraid of Barbinus,’ he said. ‘According to my mama he is a fat slug.’

‘If he is here the male slaves act as proper guards.’

The idea of not meeting Sosia because of Fat Barbinus was, to the boy, ridiculous. ‘Is there not a place we could meet?’

The speed of her reply told Aquila that she had thought about this; that it was no sudden inspiration and he wondered why she had obliged him to pose the question. ‘Where the washing is hung out to dry beyond the barns. It is close to the woods, and far enough from the villa and the slave quarters to be unobserved.’

‘I’ll look out for you.’

‘Be careful.’

That became a regular feature of Aquila’s days; he still hunted with Gadoric, still learnt his skills and his tongue but now it was with one eye cast elsewhere. In the evening, instead of staying with the shepherd, he would dash back to his family hut, Minca at his running heels, to wash off the dirt of the day, before making his way through the woods to the lines of drying washing. Seeing her for the first time in daylight and standing was a pleasant surprise. She had a willowy figure and her hair, tied up during the day, hung long and light brown down to the middle of her back when released. Her face was smooth and unblemished and the smile was even more pleasant when it was lit by the dying rays of the sun.

It was only a few days spent together, time for Aquila to tell her his stories; of his legionary papa,
of his mother and the arrangement with Dabo that gave him so much freedom plus the luck of having Gadoric for a friend. She had little to say to match that; born to the Barbinus household she knew no other life, yet she insisted it had been an agreeable upbringing. There were more than enough slaves to carry out the needed tasks, she was never overworked and had only been beaten twice in her life. Her father had been sent away to another property as soon as she was born, lest he neglect his duties, her mother some time later, but the females of the household had raised her as if she was their own.

‘How can you be happy when you are a slave?’

‘I know no other life, Aquila.’

Sosia and Aquila never exchanged anything other than a chaste kiss, but they did hold hands and, despite the obstacles, they talked of a future that could never be. She was a slave and he was free; Sosia belonged to Fat Barbinus, and unless Aquila had the funds to buy and free her, then that’s the way it would stay. The girl adored Minca, whose nose and tongue tended, if they got too close, to come between their faces.

Fulmina sat down heavily on the side of the wooden tub; the washing would have to wait till she had more energy. Perhaps she could card some wool, anything, just to stay sitting for a bit. The ache in
her lower belly was getting worse and she seemed to have less strength each day. At first she had put the pain down to some smelly pork that Dabo had delivered, months before, as part of his bond.

‘Typical,’ she said out loud, rubbing her belly, thinking once more it was possibly true. ‘The richer he gets, the meaner he becomes.’

Dabo might not be getting richer but he was certainly acquiring more land. He had taken advantage of the call-up to buy, at rock bottom prices, the farms of other men who had gone off to war. There was much mumbling from the womenfolk about his ability to avoid serving in the legions, as well as the way he used his ‘phantom’
dilectus
to avoid paying taxes – if he was not here, if he was serving in the legions, he was not liable. The men moaned too, but while most guessed what had happened, they did not let on, it being a bad idea to inform anyone in authority about anything, because once they started poking their noses in to people’s lives, you never knew what they would turn up. And really, anyone who could get one over on those in power, unless they happened to be a miserable sod like Dabo, was openly admired rather than condemned.

She looked out of the door of the hut. It was getting late and she spoke again, softly. ‘Where is that boy.’

Aquila was rarely home, up at the crack of dawn
and off to the woods. He had told Fulmina the day they met about his new friend, though not about his way of behaving like an old man and, at first, she had felt inclined to forbid him to see this Gadoric. After all, there were some undesirable folk about and those jokes the men made about shepherds were not always misplaced. Yet it soon became obvious that such a course was impossible unless she found something else for the boy to do, and in her more sanguine moments she was grateful; the slave/shepherd had, these last two seasons, given him an interest in things. That had stopped the boy moaning about the lack of friends to play and hunt with, Aquila quite forgetting, or not caring, that they did not have his freedom. The notion that he should work was never considered; having toiled all her life, Fulmina was not going to see her precious Aquila, bent over, doing the kind of back-breaking labour a boy his age would be consigned to by the likes of Dabo. He was destined for greater things.

But she could not keep him at home all day, so, if he went to the woods, even if he sometimes stayed out most of the night, she just had to trust him, with the help of the gods, to look after himself, something he was going to have to do anyway if this pain got any worse. She just wished he would give up bringing that huge dog home but there was little choice in that, too. Since he was often out till after dark, his shepherd insisted the dog escort him
home. Not that he stayed at home; Fulmina was not sure, but she suspected that Aquila had acquired a sudden interest in girls. All he ever did when he came home was wolf his food and depart, but he had shown a sudden tendency to wash recently, which was not something he would do if he was going to be with boys.

Clodius knew he had struck a poor bargain, one that favoured Fulmina and Aquila much more than it advantaged him. Gone were the days when the Roman Army could campaign in the fighting season from early spring till late summer, then return to help with the harvest; the conquests and the responsibilities of empire were too great. Soldiering went on all year round, and not for a year or two either: even the standard six-year engagement had been broken and he was now in his seventh year. Worse still, for Clodius, the 10th legion, in that period, had been transferred to Illyricum from a comfortable life on the southern borders of Gaul, to put down an insurrection of the local tribes against direct Roman rule. To make matters dire they were now under the supervision of an indolent commander and governor called Vegetius Flaminus.

There was little chance of plunder or a bounty in either posting; riches came from new conquests, not old ones, so Clodius found himself scraping a living, in just the same manner as he had at home,
Vegetius being no more energetic in the matter of the prompt distribution of pay. The general preferred to lend it out for a while, pocketing the interest before passing the residue on to the troops. Clodius, not as sharp as some of his fellows at squeezing money out of the locals, wanted nothing more than to get home and tell Dabo that the deal was off, that it was time for the sod to do his own duty. Unfortunately that was a message that could only be delivered to Dabo’s face and the only person who could make that happen was his centurion, Didius Flaccus.

‘If only I could get home, your honour, I’d be able to sort things out. I have something of value there, something that would more than settle the debt for my leave.’

Clodius pushed all the sincerity he could into that last bit, aware that it was a debt that would fall on Dabo when he took up his proper duty and if it all went wrong then there was still that gold eagle pendant that Fulmina had stashed away. He had never been able to persuade her to tell him where it was hidden, let alone get her to part with it, just as she had never told him all the things that Drisia had prophesied about the boy’s future, but at this distance, and in such a situation, the difficulties of persuading his wife of the need to finally surrender it looked eminently possible. Not for the first time in his life, desperation made Clodius an optimist.

‘How long do you think I’ve been in the legions, Piscius Dabo?’ asked Centurion Flaccus, using the name by which Clodius was listed on the company roll. He was a grizzled veteran who had the scars to prove it, with skin like well-worn leather, short, iron-grey hair, and a pair of eyes that seemed able to see right through a toughened leather shield. Clodius’s immediate superior, he was mighty free with the vine sapling if the efforts of his men displeased him.

‘Thank the gods you’ve seen a lot of service, your honour,’ replied Clodius swiftly. ‘All the lads say they feel safer under you than some of the pups they’ve promoted recently.’

Flaccus was well used to flattery, inclined to take it as his due in the way a wine shop owner believes the warm words he gets from his early morning customers. He smiled, showing the gaps in his teeth. ‘Eighteen years, Piscius Dabo and ten of those in my present rank. If I had a silver sesterces for every promise of future payment I’ve listened to in those ten years, I’d have enough money to take my rightful place amongst the knights when I retire. And do you know how much money it costs to qualify for that?’

Clodius was aware that this was the prelude to a blank refusal. The centurion’s smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look that chilled his blood. ‘One hundred thousand sesterces, oaf. And what chance
do you think I have of getting that in the year left to me, serving in this miserable hellhole. If you want leave it’s cash on the table, so you best get to work and earn a little extra. Now piss off and leave me in peace.’

Clodius struggled hard to save up enough to satisfy Flaccus; there was no alternative. They had been talking of reform in the legions for years, it being a much abused system; but no one actually ever got round to changing anything. Only the centurion could grant leave and the longer you wanted, the more he charged to release you. In Flaccus, Clodius was stuck with a particularly avaricious member of that breed of robbing bastards who were put in authority above people like him. Pay did get through from time to time, but just when he was getting ahead, a drinking bout or a game of knucklebones would diminish his small reserve of capital. Actually when it came to gambling, knucklebones or dice, he usually lost everything he had saved and occasional trips into the garrison town cleaned him out just as quick. A night spent in the wine shops and brothels of Salonae left him with a heavy head and a very light purse.

His least successful idea was to gamble with his centurion in the hope of winning some leave. Flaccus scooped
Venus
so many times with the dice that Clodius now had a substantial debt to pay just
to get even with the man, never mind acquiring the funds to get ahead and all the while his wife and the child were living in comfort, which was how the disgruntled legionary imagined it. It was not true, of course, and had Clodius been aware of Dabo’s other proposals, made because of his absence, he might have been even more discontented. Not that these extra worries would have had any foundation; Fulmina had had her fill of men, knowing they would promise the earth to conquer and deliver precious little when the time came to pay.

‘You’re certain?’ asked Didius Flaccus, his eyes fixed intently on the hunched old man opposite. Between them lay a set of small pieces of ivory with images, numbers and symbols carved into them. These had been selected and laid out, to be read by a man who claimed to understand the portents they contained.

‘Nothing is certain,’ replied the soothsayer, his eyes hooded in a heavily lined face. ‘The gods speak to us in riddles.’

Flaccus had considered telling him about the others, for this was not the centurion’s first visit to a seer; a deeply superstitious man he had consulted one in every posting he had ever had. But this Salonae soothsayer, the best in the city by repute, might ask him why he sought reassurance for predictions that had already been made. Didius
Flaccus could not admit he was prey to great doubts, half the time convinced that the gods, or the stars, determined everything, the other half only too aware of the evidence of his own eyes; that life was all chance. He still wanted to hear his future, but in plain language. Yet this man before him was like the rest, wrapping up his predictions in convoluted words and riddles that did not make sense.