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 dose 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 day-long 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.’

‘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 c:ome 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.

‘Tell me again,’ he demanded.

The old man looked at the pieces arranged before him. ‘I see a golden aura and I see you under a great and valuable burden. It consists of something you value highly, that you have worked and toiled to acquire. There are men around you, numerous and yelling.’

‘Cheering?’ asked Flaccus, sitting forward eagerly, to confirm what he had been told by others.

The soothsayer was wise in more than one respect; he knew enough to tell a customer what they wanted to hear, while at the same time keeping doubt in his voice, for too overt an enthusiasm would dent the aura of omniscience on which he relied.

‘Perhaps cheering.’ Then he bent forward to look again at the decorated pieces of ivory that covered the table, his voice becoming more eager. ‘Cheering. Yes, definitely cheering.’

‘And the golden aura?’ asked Flaccus, his voice anxious.

‘Great wealth, Centurion. A golden aura means great wealth.’

Flaccus slipped another coin across the table, gold this time, part of the money that came to him through his rank. ‘Speak plain, soothsayer, and this is yours.’

The old man looked up, his pale watery eyes fixed on Flaccus, the voice as steady as his gaze. ‘I risk damnation.’

Flaccus, his heart pounding, fished out two more coins, feeling that he was, at last, on the verge of hearing the plain truth. He laid the coins on the table beside the other one and the soothsayer’s eyes flicked to the side, to take them in. Then having calculated the fee, he lifted them to gaze steadily at his excited customer.

‘You will be covered in gold and men will cheer you. I can say no more.’

He reached out a hand to take Flaccus’s money but the centurion covered it, gripped it tightly and pulled the soothsayer forward. ‘A good future then?’

‘Not good,’ replied the old man, his lined face creasing into a toothless smile. ‘Brilliant.’

Flaccus released the hand and allowed him to take his reward. Then he stood up. ‘I shan’t forget you, soothsayer. When this prophecy comes to pass, you will get your just reward.’

‘If the gods will it,’ replied the old man calmly.

As Flaccus left the soothsayer’s house, he did not fail to say, as he passed though the door, a quick prayer to the Goddess Cardea.

Little interest was taken, at home, in the doings of the 10th legion. Conquest excited the citizens; what happened in a rebellious Roman province like Illyricum meant little by comparison, so Clodius and his fellow soldiers felt ignored and with good cause. To be away from the centre of attention was bad enough, but to then be cursed with a commander like Vegetius made things ten times worse.

‘He don’t give a fig about us,’ said Clodius/Dabo, to the closest of his workmates. ‘He treats us like a private work force, then pockets our pay for months on end.’

The vine sapling caught him across his naked back, for in the deep drainage ditch, shovelling the earth over the side above his head, he had not seen Flaccus approach. Clodius cried out as the thin, swishing length of pliant wood struck him.

‘He might pay you out with a proper floggin’ at the wheel.’

Clodius crouched down trying to get below the range of that vine sapling he saw swinging in Flaccus’s hand. ‘Save your wind to dig, scum, or you’ll have no puff left at all.’

Clodius cursed under his breath, careful to ensure that the departing Flaccus could not hear him. ‘It’s all right for you, you greedy bastard. Old Vegetius Flaminus pays you a portion of his take for our labour.’

‘You need eyes in the back of your head when that sod’s around,’ whispered one of the men in his section. ‘I hope something happens soon, or we’ll have dug up the whole damn province!’

By keeping his soldiers from their proper occupation Vegetius Flaminus was able to hire them out, digging irrigation ditches and the like, pocketing the proceeds and while this pleased some of the absentee Roman ranchers, it failed to excite the ones who actually lived in the province, especially those on the borders. The rumbles of discontent were getting worse. Not that Vegetius cared; the need to confront the rebels and bring Illyricum back to peace and prosperity took second place to his own well being and the state of his coffers. He was selling the tax farming concessions at exorbitant rates, costs which only fuelled unrest since they were passed on to the already over-burdened provincials and rumour had it he was making a pretty penny from bribes paid by the locals for protection as well, parcelling out small pockets of troops to protect the outlying farms. Stands to reason that you only need protection from a threat, so it was in the senator’s interest to keep the danger alive.

Some of this filtered back to Fulmina. Most soldiers had started off richer and were, in any case, less of a spendthrift than her husband, or perhaps they served under centurions who charged them an affordable amount to go on leave. Messages drifted back that Clodius was alive and well, if far from happy, accompanied by promises of his imminent return laden with booty.

‘Never out of trouble, is Clodius,’ was the basic refrain she heard from these itinerant messengers, to whom his true identity was no secret. Fulmina always took care to show them the golden-headed boy, thanked the messengers kindly, gave them wine, oil and freshly baked bread, and sent them on their way with a return message, this to the effect that she and Aquila were well and happy.

‘Clodius Terentius must put his duty to the Republic before any thoughts of our welfare,’ she would say, imbuing the words with as much sincerity as she could muster.

Clodius/Dabo was not fooled when this message returned. These high flown sentiments were just a barely disguised message to say that if he wished to stay away forever, she would not pine to death for the lack of his company. Of course the returnees would all praise the boy, saying what a fine lad he was, big for his age and lively. At first Clodius welcomed the praise, but time and the thought of the comforts of home made him less and less inclined to do so, until any mention of this changeling child was met with a growl. This would be followed by all his well-rehearsed grievances, most notably the lack of any prospect of plunder.

Thoughts of booty often turned his mind to that charm. To Clodius, the more he thought about it, the greater his sense of injustice. Damn Fulmina and her dreams; damn Drisia and her spitting; never mind her bag of bones. Here he was, on short rations half the time, stuck in the middle of nowhere, under a false name, at the beck and call of anyone who cared to order him to do anything, including die a painful death, all this while his wife kept the means of his deliverance locked away and lavished on a strange child the affection that should properly, as her husband, have come to him. It was hard to recall that he had once looked forward to raising him like his own son.