Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
THE SUN WAS DIPPING into the sea, and waders and other seabirds were lifting off the estuary as Paullus walked to Temesa. The air was full of the clamour of the birds. Paullus was tired. It had been the first day of harvesting the wheat. Although you could not start until the sun had burnt off the dew, each of the twelve hours of daylight was long in the summer. But it was not the hard physical labour or the relentless swing of the scythe that accounted for his weariness.
Paullus had woken in the dead of night and known they were there before he had seen them. They were asleep on the floor of his room: three dark, humped shapes. The breathing of the three old women was regular, their slumber undisturbed. Through the watches of the night he had lain rigid, afraid of waking them, unwilling to hear their recriminations. In the end he must have slept. When Eutyches roused him, they were gone.
The town house of Vibius, the father of Lollius, occupied an entire block of the main street of Temesa. It presented a blank face to the world, a tall wall of dressed stone. At the gate a porter took his cloak and conducted him inside. The atrium was wide and porticoed, the columns of fine marble. Paullus recognised several of the torchbearers and attendants of the other guests. They got to their feet and respectfully touched their fingers to their lips and bowed their heads. One whom he did not know was slow to rise, and made an offhand obeisance. The slave was very broad shouldered, with a jutting chin and a palpable air of menace. As Paullus passed he got a waft of perfume of spikenard and cinnamon. Obviously the pampered and thuggish favourite of a local dignitary.
The dining room opened onto a garden with a fountain and artfully lit Greek statues. The guests were still standing, sipping drinks and talking quietly. Fidubius was the very first man Paullus encountered. At least Alcimus’ father would not have to rise as he entered. That would have been too awkward.
‘Health and great joy, Gaius Furius Paullus.’
Paullus returned the greeting. ‘Alcimus was a good citizen, a brave soldier and a loyal friend. May the earth lie lightly on him.’
Fidubius’ broad face was pale, as immobile as a waxen death mask. ‘I always knew my son was mortal. As you say, may the foreign soil rest softly on his bones.’
As a good host, Vibius had waited until the painful exchange was completed. Now he came forward and embraced Paullus.
‘Welcome home, Paullus. Thank the gods that you were spared.’
Without waiting for a response, Vibius took Paullus’ arm and led him away.
‘Let me introduce you to our fellow diners.’
There were three couches set for nine men. Apart from his friend Lollius, Paullus already knew Ursus, the priest of the Temple of Polites, and two of the three other local landowners. The last guest was a Greek philosopher, whose name he did not catch.
Vibius poured a generous libation and guided them to their places.
Before they reclined, house slaves took their shoes, washed their hands and feet, anointed them with balsam and wreathed their heads with roses. The slaves themselves wore wreaths of myrtle. Paullus was glad that he had left the corona civica on its plinth. The oak leaves would have drawn unwelcome attention and been a hurtful reminder both to Fidubius and himself.
Paullus was placed on the right-hand couch between his friend Lollius and Ursus. Paullus was relieved that one of the landowners had been given the place of honour on the middle couch. In this household, age and dignitas must outweigh military service, or, given the presence of Alcimus’ father, perhaps it was another example of the tact of the host.
The servants set the first course on little tables in front of each couch. Hard-boiled eggs and small fried fish, a salad of lettuce and rocket – nothing extravagant, but it was good, and the bread was warm from the oven. After his day in the field, Paullus was hungry, yet he was careful not to snatch more than his share or eat greedily. His father had not stinted in beating good manners into his son.
‘Who owns that large slave in the atrium?’ Paullus spoke quietly to Lollius, so that the priest did not hear. ‘The one with the big chin and the insolent manner?’
‘Croton belongs to Fidubius.’
‘Croton?’
‘Fidubius bought him in Croton.’ A look of distaste crossed Lollius’ features. ‘Nasty brute, town bred, but now bailiff on Fidubius’ main estate. Croton has got above himself since we heard the news that Alcimus was dead. It could be that even stern old Fidubius needs to lavish affection on someone. If so, Croton is a poor choice.’
Conversation became general throughout the room. The topic was land: its properties and price, the shortcomings of slaves and hired labour. The philosopher aside, the guests knew of what they spoke. Between them the host and the other five elderly farmers owned a great deal of land around Temesa and in the Sila. In the time of Paullus’ grandfather, Rome had confiscated half the land of the Bruttians, punishment for the locals’ loyalty to Hannibal. Most had been declared public land, available for citizens to rent as pasturage, but the best farming land had been reserved for the new colonists. Three hundred veterans and their families had been sent. Each had been given twenty iugera, except for thirty cavalrymen who had been granted twice as much. Of course such equality had not lasted into even the second generation. It was not so much the diligence of the farmers, or even the fertility of the soil, as the vagaries of marriage and inheritance. Roman custom demanded that an estate be divided between the children. Having just the one son ensured the holding of a family remained intact, and a well-placed marriage would see it increase. Paullus himself was an only child, as had been his father, although his mother had been one of four, and had not added much land. Other families had done much better, including all those represented at this meal.
And other ways to make money were available to those who had the capital to invest. Those not averse to risk could buy a share in a vessel trading out of the port. But only the foolhardy took this course. One shipwreck and a family might be ruined. Property was much safer. Acquire a town house or shop, an olive grove or meadow, and you could always find a tenant to bring you a steady return. Greater profits could be generated by banding together and forming a company to bid for the contracts to fell timber or tap pitch in the high Sila. The produce was floated down the Sabutus to be exported from Temesa. Paullus’ father had often talked of such projects, but had always lacked the wherewithal.
The main course arrived. There was chicken with chickpeas and lentils, but also a suckling pig to each couch. The latter were an expensive indulgence, and utterly delicious. Again Paullus had to exercise self-control. Not wanting to drink too fast, he took in his surroundings. There were pictures that he had not seen before on the walls: the labours of Hercules, obviously by a Greek artist. For a moment he was transported somewhere else. The stench of burning was in his nostrils. He saw the soldiers, blind drunk and laughing, playing dice on the picture they had ripped from its frame. Hercules writhing in agony as the poison in the shirt ate into his skin. Surreptitiously Paullus extended three fingers, one after another – It was not my fault, I did not wish it to happen, I should not be cursed – ticking off his defence.
Dragging his gaze away from the pictures, Paullus reached for his cup. His hand was steady. He took a sip and looked at the familiar display of Carthaginian weapons. The two broken spears, the hacked shield and dented helmet, and the broad slashing sword had been there when he was a child. They had been stripped from the dead on the battlefield of Zama by Lollius’ grandfather. Again the past threatened to overwhelm Paullus. Once more he smelt the stench of burning. This time he heard the piteous cries of the women and children. He closed his ears to their terror, took a deep pull on his wine and forced himself to listen to what the Greek philosopher was saying.
‘Hunting is undoubtedly the finest training for war. In the heat of the summer or the icy blasts of winter, ranging across the wild country, it toughens the body. Yet its greatest benefits are those of the spirit. The hunter glimpses his prey, then loses its track. It trains the soul to deal with all the vicissitudes of fortune.’
Ursus touched Paullus’ hand. ‘Typical Greek impertinence.’
The priest was very old, his cheeks sunken, his face seamed with deep lines. Beneath his long nose, his thin lips were taut with disapprobation. ‘How dare that hirsute Greekling presume to lecture this company? Let alone you, a Roman who has won the civic crown.’
‘You do not care for the Greeks?’ Paullus had no wish to talk about the corona civica.
Ursus looked into Paullus’ eyes. ‘I advised your father not to waste his money when he sent you to that Greek schoolteacher. Everything Greek – hot baths, sitting in theatres, futile contemplation of the soul, questioning the existence of the traditional gods – it all undermines the very manliness of a Roman. It digs up the roots of the mos maiorum, and without the ways of our ancestors we are nothing.’
The priest paused, then spoke so that all could hear. ‘The only good Greek is a slave or dead.’
The ensuing silence was uncomfortable.
The philosopher rallied. ‘For the wise man death holds no fear.’
Ursus fixed him with a fierce gaze. ‘The pious man always fears the punishment of the gods.’
Vibius gestured for the slaves to bring in the nuts and fruit and more drink.
‘Paullus, tell us about the campaign in the east,’ Ursus said. Doubtless the killing of Greeks was a congenial subject.
‘It would be too painful to Fidubius.’ Again Paullus caught the smell of burning.
‘It is a fine thing to die for your patria,’ the priest said. ‘We all grew up hearing the tales of our fathers’ battles against Hannibal.’
Paullus glanced at Fidubius. The mask had slipped. Alcimus’ father looked back at Paullus with utter hatred.
‘We marched a long way, fought two battles, and burnt the city of Corinth.’ Paullus’ head was pounding, the screams of the women and children ringing in his ears.
‘Corinth,’ one of the landowners said, ‘the richest city in the east.’
‘Not any more,’ Paullus said.
‘But the plunder.’ Naked avarice shone in the eyes of the small-town worthy. ‘There must have been wagonloads.’
‘Most of the precious things were destroyed or burnt. As military discipline ordains, the rest was collected together, then distributed to the soldiers.’
‘Then you must have returned as rich as Vibius here.’ The landowner laughed, intoxicated by his own wit.
Paullus felt as if a band of iron was tightening around his temples. It was hard to draw breath. ‘The centurions and higher officers did well. Not so much reached ordinary legionaries.’
‘Come now,’ the man said, winking.
Vibius intervened. ‘Let the boy keep his becoming modesty. I have hired a flute player for our entertainment.’
Paullus had to leave. Unsteadily he pushed himself to his feet. ‘Vibius, my thanks. Gentlemen, you must forgive me, but I have a long day ahead tomorrow. The harvest does not gather itself.’
There was a fleeting look of annoyance on the host’s features before they relapsed into their usual suavity. ‘Of course, Paullus. Those of us who are old and no longer toil ourselves forget. May the gods hold their hands over you.’
The slaves were still waiting outside in the atrium. Paullus glowered at Croton. The bailiff stared coolly back, with just a dip of the head, perhaps even a slight smirk. Paullus felt his anger rise. He would wipe the smile off his face. Before he could act on the urge, the porter brought him his cloak and escorted him to the gate.
Unable to face going home yet, Paullus walked down through the town towards the sea. He considered going to the tavern of Roscius. The innkeeper was empty headed, and much given to the most ludicrous superstitions. In his cups Roscius was bitter, fulminating against the fate that had robbed him of his family farm and reduced him to running a bar. Was he not a Roman citizen, descended from good, colonist stock? But, when sober, he was amiable, kept a good cellar, and the girls in his establishment were clean and willing. Paullus remembered Apollonia and Brundisium, and dismissed the idea. It would mean more wine, and most likely in his present mood lead to a fight with another customer.
The streets down to the port were dark and empty. Paullus took little notice of his surroundings, lost in his thoughts. It was not the fault of those at the dinner. Of course Fidubius hated him. It could not be otherwise. Paullus had returned, and Alcimus had not. There was no tragedy worse than a parent mourning a child. As for the rest, they could not understand. The original colonists might have known. They had fought in Italy and Africa. Temesa had been their reward. The colony had been founded to watch the Bruttians, and suppress brigandage in the Sila and piracy along the shore. The settlers and their descendants were exempt from other military service. The next generation, the landowners at the dinner, had never followed the standards, never had to stand close to the steel.
When the recruiting party came, Paullus and Alcimus had volunteered. The Bruttians had not had a choice. Debarred from serving in the Italian allied legions, they were conscripted as camp servants. They endured the discipline and privations of the army, shared its dangers, but enjoyed few of its rewards. Thirty of them had marched out of Temesa. Just six had returned. Neither those Bruttians who had survived nor those who had died had been mentioned at the dinner. They were beneath notice. But, now and then, when the dead crossed Paullus’ mind, he thought about their parents and wives and children.
The docks were almost empty. A couple of warehousemen regarded the wreath of roses on Paullus’ head and his fine clothes with suspicion. Young men returning from a drinking party were often trouble. When they saw he was alone, they bade him a civil good evening.
Paullus walked to the end of the jetty. Out beyond the moored merchantmen, the shadows of the clouds played on the sea. The night air was cool, and smelt of salt and fish, of tar and sun-bleached wood. Alcimus and he had enlisted for the eternal reasons that drew young men to the army. They had wanted to prove themselves, to see the world and to make their fortune. The former aims both had achieved; the latter only Paullus. They had been inseparable. Then Tatius, the smart youth from the backstreets of Rome, had joined their brotherhood. The Three Graces, the centurion had mockingly dubbed them. United until death, Alcimus had said. Alcimus’ words had been prescient.
Between the scudding clouds, the stars shone bright: the Pleiades, the Belt of Orion. The same constellations that shone over Corinth. And suddenly Paullus was back there outside the last house.
The street was full of smoke. Soot, like black snow, eddied in the backdraught of the fires.
‘One more house,’ Tatius said.
‘We have enough.’ Alcimus coughed. It was getting hard to breathe.
‘Alcimus is right,’ Paullus said. ‘The flames will cut us off.’
‘No, one last house,’ Tatius said. And there was a strange, mad light in his eyes.