Sour Grapes

Eight

Around the twisting streets of Mercurium, only the herald and the town cats were abroad. The herald enjoyed walking this tiny hilltop town at night. No beggars on the corners, no dogs or kids zigzagging in and out of his feet, no porters' poles to poke him in the eye. He could amble round the town at his own pace, even though by the time he'd called the hour at one end it was practically time to start calling the next at the other! This time of night, though, no one cared. Like country folk everywhere, they shuttered up their windows when darkness fell and rose again at dawn, and most of them, bless their hearts, slept like logs. You could hear half of 'em, especially that old pair on the corner of Pear Street and Hide Lane. Lord alive, there were some nights the herald could hardly hear his own bell for their snoring!

'Third hour of the night,' he intoned solemnly. 'Third hour of the night.'

On he strode, always taking the same route up the hill, checking on the goldsmith's and the shield-maker's, the vellum-dealer's and the spice-seller's, because even though they lived above their shops, they all slept soundly in their beds and so were happy to slip the herald a denarius each week to check the locks when he went past. Wine had made this town prosperous, he reflected happily. Wine and olive oil. Back in his great-great-grandfather's day, Mercurium was a walled hill fort like fifty others, a working town in days when meat was a luxury to be eaten once a week and most houses slept six to a room.

Not now! Mercurium had risen like its namesake, grown rich on the back of an increase in production from the olive groves and vines, their liquid output exported everywhere from Iberia to Damascus, Pannonia to Gaul. In reality, the herald had no idea where these places were. Further than from here to Rome, of course, but beyond that? It didn't matter. Wherever these exotic places were, they couldn't get enough of the liquid gold that was pressed out of these fruits and he was glad. It put fat goose on his table, brought fresh water to his street and educated his three kiddies as well.

'Fourth hour of the night.'

Aye, it was grand to walk streets that had been paved and guttered, and of course at night he could walk without impediment. Why, only yesterday the axle on the tavern-keeper's cart fell off, bumping amphorae of wine right down the hill, and he was bloody lucky only three of the buggers had broke. Not that you'd think it, listening to him! Lord alive, what language. Course, it stood to reason. Last week was it (or the week before), the poor sod got up in the morning same as usual and found his wine had turned to vinegar overnight. Now his axle broken, poor bloke. All the same, language like that, when there's lassies present!

On every block, he rang his bronze hand bell and called out the hour. 'Fourth hour of the night.' Every building he passed lay in darkness. Maybe he'd hit lucky and hear the squeak of a bat, or a moth would flutter close before his eyes, but usually it was just him and the odd tomcat, and that was the way that he liked it.

Approaching Saturn Street, he caught a chink of light through the shutters. He stopped. Watched the crack of amber for a while, but the light was not extinguished in the way it would, had someone needed the chamber pot, for example, or a drink in the night. The herald pursed his lips. Should he? Aye, why not? He rapped at the door, noting thick branches of cypress piled over the threshold. He waited. No answer. He rapped again.

'Rosenna?'

After half a minute, maybe more, the bar was eventually lifted and a swollen, tear-stained face appeared round the door, framed by a halo of tangled red curls. He smelled the dusty, dry air of wood and sawdust. Caught a glimpse of carved horses, jointed soldiers and a doll's house half finished.

'Rosenna, love, are you all right?'

'I'm fine. Honest, Herald, I'm all right. Just sitting with him, that's all.'

'I could send the wife round, if you're in need of company?'

'That's mighty sweet of you, but no. If it's all the same with you, I'd rather stay private in my grief

She closed the door and trudged back up the stairs. Love him, it was the herald who first told her that the body had been found.

'They think it's Tages the shepherd boy,' he'd said, 'but you might just want to take a peek,' because the herald was the only one who understood how worried she'd been.

'Your brother's just gone… you know… to the hot springs,' the townspeople kept telling her. 'Don't fuss.'

Don't fuss? A seventeen-year-old youth sets out to meet his lover one night and doesn't return, and they tell you don't fuss? Rosenna resumed her vigil beside her brother's bier. Would they have handed out the same advice, had it been a lass setting off in the storm? She wondered bitterly. Or a seventeen-year-old youth meeting with a female lover, not another man? Lichas's preferences might be common knowledge round here, but it didn't mean people accepted it! They liked him well enough, and when they bought their toys they'd pretend he were no different, when in truth it was Rosenna they felt sorry for, on account of the shame her brother visited upon her.

'Lichas, Lichas, what am I to do?'

The corpse on the bed made no reply, and Rosenna buried her head in her hands. The smell of jasmine in such a small chamber was making her retch, but there was no money in the box to pay for an embalmer, and in any case, three days in the river was three days too late for such services. She had to rely on oil of jasmine, camphor and a thick linen sheet, but she couldn't let him lie there alone in the State mortuary. Lichas had had his whole life ahead of him, a life that had been cut short with a sharp, stabbing dagger. The least Rosenna could do was keep vigil for her brother, burning torches at all four corners of his bier and laying cypress outside his door.

'All life is ordained,' the priest had told her, and no doubt he meant it as comfort. 'Man's destiny lies in the lap of the gods.'

Rosenna was having none of it. 'You can't teach us on the one hand that we're allotted seven times twelve years by the gods, then tell us that Satres can bring his sickle down any time he bloody well chooses!'

'You are angry, child,' the priest said. 'But destiny is destiny nonetheless, and the cycle of life to which you refer can only be achieved through dedication, sacrifice and prayer.'

'Lichas was seventeen!' she protested. 'If you're saying a person has to stuff all their sacrifice and prayers into their first two years of adulthood, why was it him and not me?'

'Child, we can only beseech the gods for postponement of the inevitable, and however much we read the sky and examine the livers of bulls, the gods only let us know what they want us to know. Their secrets are not always for human divulgence.'

Too exhausted to cry further, Rosenna picked up a painted wooden chariot and spun the wheels slowly.

'Wee orphaned Jemma's never gonna get that house for her dolls now,' she whispered quietly. 'And what of Tiro's crippled lad? How's he going to walk again without that contraption you were designing for him?'

It was typical of Rosenna to worry about the auctioneer's son, whose left foot was paralysed when he fell into the quarry, and not herself. At twenty-one, she had no fears for her own future. She'd get by, but Lichas… Now, Lichas had been marvellous. Ill get that foot working, sonny, don't you fret. She could almost hear her brother's voice. I'll rig up a trolley that you can stand inside and push round. Between the two of us — she even remembered the way he'd ruffled the lad's hair — we'll have you right in no time.

The upsurge of memories was too much and she was consumed once more by grief. Finally, when the spasm had passed and all that remained was an emptiness deep in her soul, she blew her nose, splashed her face with cold water and slumped back in her chair. There were some, she reflected sourly, who feared that any man who loved other men was a threat to their bairns. Huh! You canna help how you're born, any more than you can help having crossed eyes or a big nose. Lichas was a fine carver, he made loads of kids happy and there was nowt mucky about it!

You don't understand, sis.

His voice echoed back through the years when, even at thirteen, he knew he was different.

Folk'll always be prejudiced against something. In this case, it happens to be me.

That was why he took himself off to the hot springs now and then. There was a quiet corner, he said, where others of his persuasion could link up.

I'm among friends there.

Friends, aye — but also lovers, casual acquaintances who meant nothing or random encounters that satisfied a need… until that fateful trip in December.

It's Saturnalia coming up, he had said. The hot springs attract a large number of visitors. There's a huge market for toys.

And toy boys, she thought miserably.

Lichas returned home not only sold out, but happier than Rosenna had ever seen him.

I met someone, sis. His name's Hadrian and, would you believe, we've both lived in Mercurium our entire lives, yet never found each other until last week!

Hadrian. Rosenna rolled the name round on her tongue and the taste was bitter. Hadrian, who was a full seven years older than Lichas but a whole world away, with a rich family and a different set of attitudes and outlooks.

'He'll hurt you.'

Don't be daft, sis. How Lichas had danced round the room! Hadrian loves me.

'Maybe he does,' she'd retorted. 'Now. But what happens later? Lichas, trust me, this man can only hurt you.'

Beside his jasmine-sodden bier, wracking sobs overtook her once more. 'They won't listen,' she wailed, wringing her handkerchief. 'I've been to the City Prefect, the Tribune, the

Magistrates, the Quaestor. Holy Nox, I've been round anyone who's anyone in this town and told them who killed you, but not one of the bastards listened.'

At least, they pretended they hadn't.

'Bastards!' she said again. 'I hope the whole bloody lot rot in hell.'

It was his father. Hadrian's father had the clout to cover it up, because hadn't Rex been some general in their bloody army? And that was always the root of it, wasn't it? 'Them' and 'us'.

'Because we're Etruscans — commoners — we don't bloody count.'

What counted was money. Connections. Then you could cover up your son's murderous deeds and pass it off as a cheap homosexual quarrel.

'Well, I know,' she spat. 'I know who killed you, little brother, and I don't care what kind of high-flying patrician they've brought in to suppress the truth. That bastard Hadrian is going to pay.'

As it happened, that bastard Hadrian was already paying.