The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER TWO

Piscius Dabo did not like Aquila and he did not like having to provide a roof over his head, especially since he was forced daily to admit that the boy, whom he had attempted to tame, had fought him to a standstill. No blows had been exchanged: the fisticuffs had occurred between his own children, especially his eldest son Annius, though for very much the same reason: Aquila’s refusal to toil in the fields. Annius, who had already put on his manly gown, was a good two years older than Aquila, but there was no difference in their height and build, nor in their willingness to fight each other. So it was a fair match, until Dabo’s other children intervened, ganging up on Aquila and overpowering him by numbers.

Rufurius, Dabo’s second boy, originally as willing to thump Aquila as the rest, had recently shown a marked reluctance to take part, only joining in when personally threatened, and that, allied to Aquila’s increasing growth, meant beatings were rapidly becoming a thing of the past. The object of all this anger was not unwilling to work, provided the task suited him and his prowess with trap and snare. That and his ability to tickle fish meant that he contributed more to the pot than he would ever manage labouring in a field. Stolen food of course, and the Barbinus overseer would skin him alive if he found the culprit, but Dabo was not doing the thieving himself, nor averse to free food on his table, so he turned a blind eye to the source.

Aquila, when not hunting, would work happily around the villa, feeding the hens and pigs, or chopping wood for the fire, another source of friction since proximity meant that he could eat when he liked, while helping himself to the water from the well, this while the others toiled in the blazing heat with no more food or water than they could carry. And these days, given their father’s prosperity, they had to work quite a distance from the house.

The dog was a real problem; Dabo’s own mutts were terrified of it, hiding their tails and whining submissively if it came close. Aquila had reacted angrily the first time Dabo had suggested chaining Minca up, making it plain that both he and the animal would be off up the road at the first opportunity. The boy’s blank refusal to be used as an extra farm labourer could only be altered by a sound buffet round the ears, but it would be a brave man who would do that with the dog loose. The huge black and brown animal, who would sit immobile as Dabo’s children fought Aquila, bared his teeth if the older man even came close. Nor could Dabo just kill the damn thing; if he did, he knew that it would be Aquila he would have to chain up. The boy had a spear hidden somewhere and Dabo had already learnt, on the day that Fulmina died and he had sought him out in the woods, that Aquila knew how to use it. It had thudded into a tree right by Dabo’s head, and he knew, from the look in the boy’s eye, that he had missed deliberately.

His own children could not understand; their father constantly moaned to them about Aquila, but was curiously reluctant to do or say anything to the culprit himself. They could not know that every time the boy angered him, he conjured up a vision of Aquila running away to the nearest town, telling the tale of his life on this farm and the man who owned it, which might lead to a tax-gatherer calling at his door. That stayed the hand and whip that he so liberally used on his own offspring. As far as the Roman state was concerned, Piscius Dabo was serving with the legions in Illyricum; the fact that the person who was doing the soldiering was none other than Clodius Terentius, Aquila’s adoptive father, was the cause of the aforesaid worry.

They had swapped places because Clodius was on his uppers, a landless, wage-paid day labourer, which exempted him from service. Dabo was doing well, which snared him, because in the Roman State only those with property could be trusted to defend it. A man who had lost his land — Clodius had lost his own holding because of his stint in the legions — did not qualify for the Dilectus. Dabo had only held on to his own farm because his father had looked after it while he was a serving soldier. So pauper Clodius, recipient of the corn dole, had been exempt from the call-up; farmer Piscius Dabo, who could feed himself and his family, was not. Never mind his sons were too young to look after the place while he was away; never mind that the fields would go to rack because he was not there to tend them. Rome had been made great by fighting farmers; it would stay great the same way. Getting Clodius drunk, and having him review a life that was far from perfect, then recalling with a rosy tint the time they had soldiered together, Dabo had persuaded him to sign up under his name.

Serving legionaries were exempt from the land tax, so for all the time Clodius served in Dabo’s place he had paid not a bronze ass to the local legate and because of that he had enjoyed an extra degree of prosperity. One of his neighbours, who had gone off to fight in the same legion as Clodius, had left a wife and two children to look after his holding. The eldest boy, the mainstay of the farm, had died of a flux, so the place was going to ruin. All it needed was one more thing to go wrong and the wife would be forced off the land before her husband could get home and put the place to rights. So ‘good neighbour’ Dabo had stepped in and bought her out at a knock-down price of her harvest brought in for free, added to half of his own. He was now the owner of three farms; with one more Dabo would definitely have enough land to realise his dream and change over from crop growing to rearing cattle. He would start small, he already had a goodly number of pigs, but there was actual money to be made in ranching and sheep rearing, real copper and silver coin, instead of the near-total barter system that he was engaged in now.

A tax-gatherer seeking ten years’ dues now would ruin him, for he was over-extended, busy turning his humble home into something approaching a proper villa that would go with the status to which he aspired; the future rancher had committed the small amount of actual money he had to paying for that. Hard to imagine now, in amongst all the filth and rubble and the dust blown into every chamber in the old part of the house, but it was Dabo’s dream to live and die like a true gent, a knight with an income of a hundred thousand sesterces. Ranching would bring him that — not all at once, but in time, as with real money he could change over from seed to pasture, then buy up a whole load more properties from neighbours struggling to make ends meet.

That Clodius’s service had lasted ten years had surprised Dabo as much as it had, no doubt, infuriated his old companion. News had filtered through that, after some great and bloody battles, the campaign in Illyricum was over. The 10th Legion would return to Italy to be disbanded and so would Clodius, so Dabo only had to wait a few more months and he would be freed from the burden of his contract. No point in antagonising anyone at this stage, so much to the annoyance of his hard-pressed offspring, and at some cost to his own blood pressure, he let Aquila do pretty much as he pleased.

‘Look at the bugger,’ he said to himself, as he spied the boy chatting to the two robbing sods who were putting on the timbers that would support his new roof. Aquila was standing, golden hair blowing in the breeze, a long pole in a bucket of tar, which he was stirring over a fire to keep it fluid enough to coat the wood. ‘What I wouldn’t do to be able to take a stave to the lazy sod’s back. He’ll toil for strangers but not lift a finger for the man who feeds him.’

Aquila enjoyed helping the two builders who had at one time, like Clodius, been small farmers, for both had been soldiers, and were happy to talk about it. As legionaries they had built for the Roman army in many a far-flung province; now they built for customers like Dabo but were happy to answer questions about their service from a youth just as eager to work for no pay.

‘Sighting a camp ain’t easy,’ said Balbus, removing his leather cap and wiping the sweat from the brow of a large head. ‘You want high ground to start with. Mind, it can’t just be set on any old hill, though half the generals in the Roman army don’t seem to be aware of that.’

‘Generals!’ His small, stringy partner, Mellio, spat as he said that, his sunburnt face screwed up with hate. He did not like superiors of any description and he was vocal about his reasons. ‘They either kill you, maim you, or beggar you.’

Aquila fanned the charcoal under the kiln to keep it at maximum heat. Minca, with more sense on such a hot day, had found a cool patch of damp earth on the shady side of the well. He lay there, tongue lolling out, watching Aquila toil at the fire.

‘That hill would be a good place,’ the boy said, pointing at a gentle rise that dominated the ground between the Via Appia and the foothills of the mountains. His other hand was held up to shield his face from the intense heat.

‘Granted,’ Balbus replied, ‘but what about water? It has to have its own water supply if it’s going to be for more than one night, and it should be flowing enough to wash away the legion’s shit. That’s the most important thing. It’s better to build on flat ground with water than to take a hill that’s bone dry. Then it needs clear lines of assault that you can protect against and you don’t want the natural line of attack to be comin’ from the east, ’cause in the first light of a clear day, your enemy can advance on you unseen.’

Mellio cut in, to point to a clump of trees that would require to be cleared. ‘An’ then you use ’em to build a palisade that’ll keep the sods out even if they do attack.’

‘Were you ever attacked?’

‘More’n once boy.’ Skinny Mellio puffed out his chest. ‘I’ve lopped the head off men trying to get over our walls, and that was the ones that hadn’t been speared before they got that far. I couldn’t tell you the number of times me and Balbus here had nothing but our shields, our sword arms, and a mate on our left hand between us and perdition.’

‘I’d like to hear it.’

‘Work first, lad,’ said Balbus, ‘then we can do the story-tellin’.’

Aquila was like any boy his age; he had dreams of glory, often imagining himself at the head of a great army, charging down upon a fierce, barbaric enemy, and by sheer personal bravery, routing them. It had nothing to do with the predictions Fulmina had made that promised that very thing; they were usually relegated to the back of his mind and only recalled when he happened to touch the leather amulet on his right arm. Now, caked in dust from head to foot, the vision was different. He saw himself standing on a hilltop, with a plan on the table before him, directing legionaries to build the most impregnable fortress the world had ever seen. Men like Balbus and Mellio would gasp with amazement at his technical prowess, and wonder at the number of his innovations. And they would raise their swords to salute a hero.

Claudia had felt a genuine sense of grief at the news of Aulus’s death, and had cried copiously, earning jaundiced looks from both Quintus and Cholon, both of whom were aware of the cold way in which she had treated him while he was alive. She would not have demeaned herself by trying to explain and knew, in the future, if anyone talked of nobility, her thoughts would turn to him. But there was relief for him too, and the burden of loving her he carried; Aulus had died in battle, so his spirit, at least, would be at rest.

Listening one more time to a description of the events as described to the family was distressing. Cholon was subjected to a rigorous interrogation, because he had been there to personally observe the actions of Vegetius Flaminus and if anything was to be done about the man, proceedings should be instituted before the triumphant general, waiting outside the city with his legion, entered Rome. Titus had a rather austere military directness, which precluded him from seeing the effect his questions were having on the tender-hearted Greek.

‘Please, Titus,’ said Claudia, for she had seen the chest heave, heard the quickly drawn breath as Cholon tried to hold back his tears. ‘Can you not see the distress you’re causing?’

The sound Quintus made was eloquent enough; the mere idea that a slave, even one now free, could have feelings worth consideration, was alien to him. Titus, made aware, walked over to put an arm round Cholon, wondering why the Greek threw his stepmother such a venomous look. After all, she had intervened to protect him.

‘Brother,’ Quintus barked, making no attempt to hide his impatience. ‘We are due to attend upon Lucius Falerius. It would not do to be late.’

‘I am told he often keeps people waiting, Quintus,’ said Claudia, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘Your father remarked on it more than once.’

‘Entirely due to the work he does on behalf of the Republic, Lady.’

‘True, albeit he had a very singular vision of the way things should be.’

Quintus gave her a look that was meant to convey that she, as a woman, could hardly understand such things. He called to Titus to follow him and Cholon, not wishing to be alone with Claudia, left on their heels.

‘The death of your father is a blow to the whole Republic. We shall wait a long time to see his like.’

Quintus Cornelius bowed in acknowledgement to Lucius Falerius Nerva, but added nothing to the older man’s commiserations. His host might be as thin as a sapling, yet his lively hazel eyes belied any thought that he might be weak and the grip he had given Aulus’s two sons upon their entry to his house had not lacked physical strength. ‘He laboured on behalf of Rome, without thought for his personal well-being.’

Titus, standing to one side, had the impression that Lucius was talking about himself, not his late father, as he wondered why he and his brother had been summoned here. Surely the senator, who claimed such close friendship to Aulus, would not have diminished himself if he had called upon them!

The older man turned to include Titus in his next statement. ‘You will both miss his guiding hand, will you not?’ The brothers murmured in assent, as Lucius, nodding sagely, laid a thin hand on Quintus’s shoulder. ‘Which is why I asked you here. Since your father is gone, I wish to offer, in his place, my humble support. The path to prominence is strewn with pitfalls for the unwary. I betray no trust when I say that Aulus himself depended on my advice.’

Lucius half-turned, his eyes fixed on Quintus in a way that excluded Titus, this as the tone of the old man’s voice changed, taking on a harder edge than previously. ‘After all, it was I who secured his last two appointments to Spain and Illyricum, just as I supported him in earlier times, giving up my rights as senior consul when we served together so that he could take command in Macedonia.’

Titus experienced the first faint stirrings of resentment and he fought to remain still so that his feelings would remain hidden. Old enough to see his father as more than just a hero, he was aware, as any son must be, that he had had faults; but he had stood as a paragon compared to this man, who, if rumour was to be believed, had stooped to murder to gain his political ends. Now, by the tone of his voice, Lucius seemed to be implying that Aulus Cornelius would have remained a nobody without his help.

It was almost a surprise to Titus that he spoke; the words seemed to come out of his mouth unbidden. ‘I’m sure my father was properly grateful for the help he received from his many friends. They must take pleasure from the knowledge that they extended their trust to one of the most able men in Rome.’

The old man turned his penetrating gaze on the younger Cornelii. Titus had his father’s height and build, as well as his features: the thick, black hair of the younger Aulus, a straight and prominent nose and the kind of brow that denoted both brains and natural dignitas.

‘Properly grateful,’ said Lucius, rolling the words around his mouth, as though tasting them. Then he turned his attention back to Quintus, moving closer and placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘I have already said that I admired your father. I shall not labour the point, since that would only debase the sentiment. Above all things, Aulus was a practical man.’

Even the stony-faced Quintus flicked an eyebrow at the way Lucius had used the word ‘practical’, but he said nothing to interrupt; the importance of the man clutching his shoulder precluded comment.

‘The Forum Romanum was not his natural home. I’m not sure he always, for instance, grasped the importance of patrician loyalty. Sometimes it was hard to see him as what he professed to be, a member of the Optimates.’

Lucius noticed the shocked look on Quintus’s face and he turned sharply, as if aware that it would be the younger of the pair who would speak, and held his hand up as an instruction to remain silent. It was breeding rather than respect that made Titus hold his tongue.

‘I express myself in a lame fashion. I have rarely met a more upright man than Aulus Cornelius, incapable of subterfuge.’ He paused for a moment, then produced a thin smile. ‘Which is a handicap in politics. When I spoke of loyalty, I did not mean it in the personal sense. I meant adherence to a higher goal, namely the safety of the Republic. Aulus served Rome on the battlefield and I do not doubt that his sons will do their city the same service, but he was also needed in Rome. There are as many enemies in the city as there are on the frontiers. I asked you to call on me today so that I may be sure that you understand the nature of your inheritance.’

He was talking exclusively to Quintus now, again excluding Titus, but that was in order; the words he used could only apply to the new head of the Cornelii household. All the family responsibilities fell on Quintus’s shoulders, including firing the first shafts in the campaign to bring Vegetius Flaminus to justice.

‘But more important than that, I wish to stand in his place. You are heir to a great fortune and an even more illustrious name. You will both assume, in time, your place in the Senate. After that, with guidance, you could rise to become consul. I intend that you shall succeed and I hope that you will stand by me in the defence of everything that is sacred, and learn the art of politics at my side.’

Quintus bowed again and finally spoke. ‘I am yours to command, sir.’

Lucius ignored Titus’s frown, and patted his elder brother on the shoulder. ‘You gladden my heart by saying so, young man.’

Titus nodded to the various people they passed, who wished to greet the brothers, while also, they being in mourning dress, silently condoling with them. Quintus seemed not to notice, striding down the street with his mind on distant prospects. It was no secret he hankered after high office, that he longed to serve as a consul. Quintus’s whole life had been bent to that one supreme goal. His brother decided he should be brought back to earth, reminded of just how shabbily they had been treated.

‘He should have called on us, and paid his respects to our stepmother.’

‘Do be quiet, Titus.’

‘You don’t agree?’

Quintus stopped and faced his brother. ‘What if I do? Am I about to tell the most powerful man in Rome that he lacks manners?’

‘I think father would have found a tactful way of telling him!’

‘There’s a world of difference. They were of an age and had been friends for years.’

‘All the more reason for Lucius Falerius to call.’

Quintus frowned. ‘You’re just like father, you know, blind to reality. Lucius Falerius doesn’t call on anyone.’

‘So you are about to join his circle of arse-lickers,’ Titus snapped.

‘Don’t you dare address me like that again, brother. I would remind you that I am now head of the family and as such I have duties, one of which is to seek advancement.’

Titus was aware that he had gone too far; his brother’s elevation entitled Quintus to a degree of deference, yet he could not bring himself to actually apologise, though he did force himself to speak with a more measured tone.

‘I know that, Quintus, yet I would advise you to take care…’ Titus saw the angry glare in his brother’s eye, and spoke quickly to deflect it. ‘I have as much interest as you in the well-being of the family. I would beg you ask yourself one question. If Lucius Falerius values father’s memory and our future so much, why is it beneath his dignity to call? Or is it that he does not truly consider either of those things to be worth the trouble?’

‘If a man like that offers me his good offices, then I would not refuse. Neither would our father.’

Titus spoke softly to take the sting out of his words, taking a gentle grip on Quintus’s arm. ‘Father was the man’s equal, not his client. Do not lash yourself to Lucius Falerius any more tightly than he did.’

Quintus responded by pulling his arm free and striding off.