Patria
609 Ab Urbe Condita (145 BC)
THE ROUTINE OF THE PRISON did not change. Twice a day the trapdoor was opened. The ladder was not put down. No opportunity was offered for escape. Instead, one by one, a pail of food, a jug of water and a new slop bucket were lowered by rope. The prisoner had to tie the handles of the old ones to the rope to be hauled up. The trapdoor had opened three times. It was the evening of the second day.
The public slaves were in an invidious position. Doubtless they had been ordered not to talk to the prisoner. But, on the other hand, Paullus was both a local landowner and the holder of the civic crown. It was known he had high-ranking patrons in Rome itself. A turn of the stars, and his fortunes might change. If he were declared innocent and released, things would be very difficult.
The slaves volunteered next to nothing, but they answered his questions. Evidently there was no overseer of the two on duty at any time. If there had been, the guards would have remained silent. Their answers had mainly been negative. No, there had been no visitors. No one was to be admitted. Eutyches and Pastor were being held in the house of Ursus. No, they had not been put to the torture yet. The priest refused to give them up until there was a formal trial. No, there was no date set for the proceedings.
The grudging conversation over, they shut the trapdoor. Paullus was left to eat in the dark. The food was always bread and cheese.
Every Roman citizen accused of a capital crime was entitled to a public trial before a magistrate and jury in Rome. It was one of the foundation stones of the Republic. Without that right there would be no liberty, and it was libertas that made Rome the envy of the world. If the charges were treason or aiding the enemy, the prisoner would be kept in custody. Otherwise, even if he was to be tried for murder, it was accepted that he had the option to retire into exile.
Paullus knew that he would not be put on trial in Rome. There was no evidence against him, except the theta ornament, and it could not be proved that he had lost it in the house of Marcellus. Indeed, his own familia – his mother as well as his slaves – could testify that it had been mislaid or stolen some days before the murder. He had no motive and could not be argued to have gained from any of the killings. Eutyches was a witness that he had been in his own field the day Marcellus died. Of course, many slaves said what they thought their inquisitors wanted to hear under the lash, but, for all his surliness, Eutyches was loyal as well as tough. No conviction would be secured. Not if he were defended by senators of consular rank, his old commanders, Lucius Aurelius Orestes and Lucius Mummius, the conqueror of Corinth. Like most things in Rome, libertas was amenable to the influence of the powerful.
Paullus would not be put on trial in Rome. The real killers could not allow it to happen. Paullus would not leave this cell alive. They would have to ensure that.
Talking to the guards in the brief moments of light, Paullus had looked all around the subterranean chamber, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. There was nothing – just bare, damp stone walls. If they came to kill him, he would not die quietly. He would fight with his fists and boots, his teeth and nails. If they came to kill him, they would also have to kill the guards. They might be suborned, but then they could not be left alive knowing the truth.
It would do no good explaining the danger of their predicament to the guards. Even if he convinced them, they would not dare turn him loose. If he escaped, the dereliction of duty would bring them torture and execution. For them the whirlpool of Charybdis was in plain sight, but the monster Scylla lurked out of sight in her cave.
Paullus had thought about poison. Yet he ate the gaol rations. It would be difficult to conceal toxins in plain bread and cheese and water. Poison was not always certain, and usually it left a trace, a black discolouration of the skin. The prefect of the Bruttians would arrive next month, and there would be an investigation.
There was an awful irony in this. The visit of the prefect was as regular as the seasons. November: thirty days; the sun in the sign of Scorpio; sowing of wheat and barley; the prefect holds court in the town of Consentia. December: thirty-one days; the sun in Sagittarius; olives gathered and beans sown; the prefect hears cases in Temesa. The prefect, of course, was Orestes, Paullus’ old commander. With him, in charge of his bodyguard of soldiers, would be Naevius, the old centurion. It was November. They were in Consentia. So close, yet so far. They might as well have been on the other side of the Adriatic, back in Achaea. It was late in the month. Soon they would take the road to Temesa. Yet the imminent arrival of his patron, and his friend, promised Paullus no salvation. Rather, it hastened his end. The killers could not let Paullus talk to the prefect. They would have to ensure he was dead before Orestes reached Temesa.
Paullus sat alone in the dark, a foul old blanket draped around his shoulders. Had there been light to see, an observer might have taken him for a vagrant. At times he doubled up coughing. The damp was making it worse. Paullus’ thoughts reached out beyond the stone walls to Minado: the way her hair curled over the nape of her neck, the perfect oval of her face and the way she lifted her chin without a hint of vanity. In her company he felt an ease, and a companionship he had known with no other girl. It was a cruel tragedy that he had found the woman he wished to marry, and now he would die in this dank cell. But he could not have married Minado. She was a Bruttian. She could have become his concubine. There was no shame in that. But their children would not have been Roman. Debarred from inheriting his land or wealth, they would have had a dismal life in the Roman colony of Temesa, forever trapped among the oppressed.
The bolts above rattled back. Paullus had not long finished the food. His heart quailed. So soon? He had not thought the killers would come so quickly, not the second night. He got to his feet, pressed his back against the wall.
Die like a man! There was nothing else to be done.
The hinges of the trapdoor squealed as it was raised. Paullus tried to shrink yet further back from the shaft of light. There would be questions. Orestes would see to that. But they would be too late. Paullus would be dead, his testimony gone and any evidence vanished.
The ladder was lowered. Paullus tensed himself. That would be his only chance. Take the first one while he was clambering down. Grab his legs, haul him to the ground, smash his head against the flagstones. It meant no escape. The others would kill him: shoot him down from above or stone him to death. There was nowhere to hide in the cell. But he might take one of them with him. Somehow he was sure he knew who they would send first down the ladder.
The feet of the ladder bumped on the floor. But no boots appeared on the rungs.
Paullus waited, almost keen to get it over with.
‘Pssst.’
The sort of sound used to summon a hunting dog.
‘Pssst.’ It came again – low, but urgent.
Paullus kept quiet. If they thought to lure him out, they had misjudged him.
‘For fuck’s sake, Paullus.’ A big square head peered down from the aperture. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
Paullus was up the ladder as if wearing the winged boots of the god Hermes.
The slight figure of Onirus stood behind Dekis. The two guards were slumped in the corner.
‘Have you killed them?’
‘They are just sleeping,’ the old huntsman said.
‘With the help of one of Kaido’s potions,’ Onirus added.
‘The guard changes in two hours,’ Dekis said. ‘We need to be long gone.’
Outside, the town was sleeping. A cold wind came up from the harbour. They crept along the back of the council house, then Dekis led them up the street that led away from the forum.
All went well for two blocks, then they heard the sound of the revellers. All the houses were shuttered for the night, but they were near the small temple of Hercules. Like the homes, it was locked, but the columns flanking its entrance at the top of the steps offered a modicum of cover.
A piper led the tipsy procession. Its tune got louder, almost drowned out by shouts and bursts of drunken laughter.
Crouching low, shielding the white of his face with his arm, Paullus peered around the base of a column.
A piper and a torch boy led four young men. The drinkers were well dressed, but the wreaths of rose petals were askew on their brows. Lollius was reasonably steady on his feet, but Solinus and the other two were staggering.
The guttering torch threw grotesque shadows down the street.
They had almost passed when Solinus stopped. He lurched towards the temple.
Paullus wondered how they did not hear the thudding of his heart. It seemed to be trying to burst through his ribs. Six of them, three of us. They were drunk and unarmed – the two Bruttians had swords – but the uproar would wake the whole street. The hue and cry would start at once. They would be chased down.
Solinus pulled up his tunic, fumbled with his undergarment. With a huge sigh, he pissed against the steps. The urine stank of wine. It splashed and started to run down the gutter.
All Solinus had to do was turn his head. No matter how inebriated, he could not fail to see them.
‘Get a move on,’ Lollius shouted. ‘We need to knock up Roscius. I don’t know about you, but I fancy having that Syrian of his, the one with the hot eyes and the big arse.’
‘We can all have her,’ Solinus slurred. ‘Do her good.’
‘Old Roscius could do with the company,’ Lollius laughed. ‘Gets lonely, now his catamite is out at Croton’s place.’
Solinus shook his penis. A few drops stained his clothes.
Paullus felt the need to cough rising in his chest. He bit his own arm, held his breath.
It seemed to take Solinus forever to rearrange himself. Finally, he reeled off after the others.
The sounds receded. Paullus took a deep breath. The urge to cough had gone.
They remained in the shadows until they could not hear the revellers.
‘Hercules’ hairy arse, that was too close,’ Dekis muttered.
‘A metaphor for life,’ Onirus said. ‘Romans pissing on us.’ He turned to Paullus. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken.’
‘We have got you a horse,’ Dekis whispered, ‘a good one. It is tethered in the grove outside the east wall. Fidubius owns so many, he will hardly miss one.’
‘The gates will be locked,’ Paullus said.
‘There is a hidden door, used by Bruttian smugglers.’ Onirus grinned. ‘You Romans have no idea what happens in this town.’
‘Why are you helping me?’
‘Fuck knows,’ Dekis said. ‘My daughter is very persuasive.’
‘You looked after me in the camp, and saw me right with the plunder after Corinth,’ Onirus said. ‘Besides, some of them wanted to blame the murders on the Bruttians, and you are no more guilty than us.’
‘We should get moving,’ Dekis said.
‘I need you both to do something for me,’ Paullus said. ‘I am going to the deserted village near Blood Rock. Dekis, tomorrow at noon, not before, go to Lollius. Tell him I left you a message saying where I am hiding.’
‘Are you sure? Lollius . . .’
‘Quite sure.’ Paullus turned to Onirus. ‘I want you to do something else. You will need the horse. I can take my own mules, and get everything else I want from my farm. Although I could do with some food, especially raw meat.’
‘You are hungry,’ Onirus said, ‘and at a time like this?’
‘Not exactly. Is there any of Kaido’s potion left?’
‘Yes,’ Dekis said. ‘What are you planning?’
And Paullus told them.