The Sword of Revenge

CHAPTER FIVE

The road was dusty, the air hot and arid, so Didius Flaccus ordered his men to dismount and walk the horses, a command greeted with blank and silent stares. It worried him that they did not grumble; he was used to the company of legionaries, and they did little else. These men were not soldiers, though a few of them must have been so at one time. They had recently been guards and instructors at a gladiator school, which had gone under due to the owner’s debts; tough, scarred men and ruthless, who would spear an opponent on the nod from anyone who would pay their wages. He had offered them more than that to act as his personal bodyguard because what he had to do would be hard and dangerous. The Sicilian slaves he was about to take over would work or die, probably both, and no one man, alone, could feel secure in such a situation.

‘How far’ve we come?’ demanded Toger. ‘I need a wet.’

Flaccus stopped and half-turned to answer; unlike the others, this individual actively troubled him. He was squat, lantern-jawed, with huge shoulders and a square head covered in tight curls. His eyes, small and pig-like, never ceased to move, as though he was forever on guard against some unseen attack, an impression strengthened by the worry lines that furrowed his tiny forehead. He would smile occasionally, but there was no friendliness in it. Toger’s physical presence was alarming and he had a wild and unpredictable temper. The other men did not like him, though they laughed heartily enough at his feeble jokes, and never questioned any of his suggestions. They were afraid of him and it was quite possible, Flaccus thought, that the best way to ensure their undying loyalty would be to kill him.

‘We’re near a place called Aprilium,’ he replied, looking around the cultivated fields that lined the road and stretched to the grazing land for sheep and cattle on the nearby foothills. The substantial and well-tended villas they had passed were ample evidence of the wealth such land produced, just as they were proof that the owners would not be common farmers. Barbinus himself had a property round these parts — one he had just avoided — there was no way he could take this bunch of thugs into such a place, but thinking on that reminded him of another fact. His mind went back to the pass at Thralaxas and the men he had left to die there. ‘A few of my cohort came from round here, poor bastards.’

Toger snorted derisively. ‘Poor bastards is right, if they have to work the soil.’

‘They’re even worse off than that. They were trampled into it, that is if there was anything left of them after they had been hacked to pieces.’

‘Are you thinkin’ of payin’ any social calls?’ asked Dedon, another of his ruffians.

Flaccus did not reply. Clodius Terentius had come from land that lay close to the Barbinus properties, which caused the centurion to remember two other things: Clodius had been a surrogate legionary for someone better off than he, called Piscius Dabo. The second thing was that Clodius had died owing him money. They would have to stop for the night soon, find a bunkhouse in one of the flea-ridden post-houses that lined the route. How much better and cheaper it would be to impose themselves on a free billet. Right now, Flaccus was paying for everything, their wages as well as their bed and board; a personal bodyguard had not been part of his deal with Barbinus. This lot would not consent to sleeping in a field and if they did stay at a post-house, Flaccus knew that he would probably wake in the morning to find a couple of women and several flagons of drink added to his bill.

He turned to Dedon and gave him a grim smile. ‘I’m thinkin’ of paying a call, though I doubt I’ll be welcome.’

Toger grinned, his tiny yellowed teeth making a sharp contrast with the thick red lips. ‘Who cares about that?’

They turned off the busy road slightly further south and started to ask for directions. Perhaps if Dabo had been less crabbed he might have had on his side the natural hostility of country folk for strangers, let alone a band of men such as these. That would have guaranteed a dumb response to questions about the location of his farm, but his grasping nature, as well as his parsimony, had become a local byword, so even people who had had no dealings with him, and therefore no real cause to dislike him, were happy to direct Flaccus to the right place.

The builders, Mellio and Balbus, were near to finishing for the day and, still working on the roof, they were the first to see the small band of armed men approach. What they observed made them hurry to put away their tools and for once their attitude to Aquila was as dusty as the boy himself. An air of impending trouble seemed to emanate from the horsemen as they rode into the compound, hauling their mounts to in front of the main section of the house. Minca stood, his tail stretched out behind him, the ruff along his back proud, a sure sign of danger. The workmen left from the back of the building, taking care to keep out of sight. Dabo, who had come out to greet these visitors, hurried back into the house having looked them over, sending a slave to fetch everyone in from the fields.

‘Greetings,’ he said when he re-emerged, squinting up at Flaccus, astride his horse with the sinking sun behind him.

‘I’m looking for a fellow called Piscius Dabo.’

The idea of lying crossed Dabo’s mind but he dismissed it, sure that this man knew he was at the right farm. Besides Aquila had jumped down from the uncompleted roof and wandered over to stand beside him. The dog loped across the compound and took station by the boy’s leg, his presence causing some of the horses to shy away till Aquila took him by the ear, said something quietly in that heathen tongue he had learnt from the Celtic shepherd who had owned the animal, and Minca sat down.

‘That’s me,’ Dabo replied with an air of confidence he certainly did not feel. ‘And who might I be addressin’?’

‘Says it all really. Here he is, Piscius Dabo of the 10th, a legionary Hastari, who has just spent years fighting in Illyricum, and he don’t recognise his own centurion.’

‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘It’s no joke to Clodius Terentius,’ replied Flaccus coldly.

The name froze Dabo’s blood but it acted very differently on Aquila, who rushed forward and grabbed at the greave on Flaccus’s leg. ‘You know him?’

Flaccus looked down at the dust-covered boy, his hair standing on end, full of red stone mixed with sweat. Then Dabo spoke, his voice hard and commanding. ‘Get back in the house, Aquila.’

Minca, suddenly on his feet, growled at Dabo’s tone. Flaccus looked at him, then back at the boy. ‘Aquila? Is this Clodius’s youngster?’

‘In the house,’ shouted Dabo again, ignoring the threatening sound of the dog beside him.

Aquila was long used to ignoring Dabo but something unusual in the voice had him halfway to complying. He turned to go, but Flaccus’s words, matter of fact and free from emotion, stopped him.

‘Lad ought to know that his Papa’s dead, Dabo, don’t you think?’ Aquila spun round and grabbed the leg again, his red-rimmed eyes looking up pleadingly at the grey-haired centurion. Flaccus continued in the same flat tone. ‘Killed at a place called Thralaxas, along with the rest of my men. Heroes all of them, you might say.’ He must have seen the pain but the voice hardened and he pointed his finger at Dabo. ‘Died a soldier’s death, lad. Trouble was, it was this man’s death, not his own.’

Dabo’s children, in from the fields, had gathered in a group by the well. Aquila gripped the leather greave on Flaccus’s leg tightly and his head fell forward to touch the horse’s sweating flank. When he lifted it again, and gave Flaccus a final look with those bright blue eyes, full of the hope that he was lying, the centurion could see the streaks of the tears that were cutting a path through the thick dust on the boy’s face. He was not a soft man; years of soldiering had removed what little kindness he possessed, yet he spoke gently now, reaching down to touch Aquila’s hair.

‘Sorry, lad. There’s no easy way to say a loved one’s gone.’

Aquila pushed himself violently away from both horse and rider, causing Flaccus’s mount to rear slightly at the strength of the shove. The boy ran between the other horses, heading for the group by the well. Minca followed, with each rider taking a firm grip on their reins as their mounts sought to avoid the black menace that was suddenly in their midst, barking wildly as it raced after the boy. The group by the well stood rock-like and bemused as Aquila pushed his way through, though they parted more readily for the dog, then turned to gaze as the pair ran off into the fields, heading for the woods on the other side.

‘You didn’t come here just to tell me that Clodius is dead,’ said Dabo.

Flaccus, who had also spun in the saddle to watch Aquila’s flight, turned back to face the owner of the farm, treating him to a humourless smile. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘Such an unfriendly way of talking,’ said Flaccus, his head weaving so that he could include the band of ruffians in his thoughts. ‘What a way to greet an old comrade. Decent type would have invited me in for a drink by now and told my mates to water and feed their horses.’ He fixed Dabo with an icy stare. ‘You are a decent type, ain’t you?’

Dabo looked at Flaccus long and hard, weighing up the odds. This grizzled centurion could make trouble for him even if the war was over, the legions disbanded and Clodius dead. What he had done was wrong and he could be punished if it was reported to a praetor, never mind the land tax-gatherer. Dabo then examined the band of men Flaccus had brought with him. Each one wore a different type of armour, tailored to the skill they had at their particular form of fighting, but the helmets and breastplates had one thing in common: judging by the dents and scratches, they had taken a pounding. Unshaven, scarred and filthy from their time on the road, it did not take much of an imagination to realise the obvious: this fellow would not need to go to a magistrate to upset things; he had enough trouble, right here with him, to ruin Dabo’s life for good.

‘There’s drink a’plenty in the trough. If you water your horses, I’ll see to some feed.’

‘And my men?’

Dabo looked at them again and shuddered slightly. He would not be able to fob this lot off with polenta or bread and cheese. ‘I’ve been meaning to roast a pig for weeks. Tonight will do as good as any.’

Flaccus grinned and raised his voice. ‘Hear that, lads. Roast suckling pig for supper and I bet old Dabo here has an underground store full of good strong wine.’

Dabo nodded, advancing towards Flaccus as he made to dismount. He spoke urgently but softly, interposing his body so that the others could not hear. ‘I might have been shy of goin’ last time, but I was a soldier once, an’ a damn good one. I can still use sword and spear, so if anybody on this farm loses so much as a hair on their head, your men might ride out of here, but you’ll not.’

Flaccus leant down and pushed his face close to Dabo’s. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you turd. If I give the word this lot’ll tear you limb from limb. You push out the boat, you hear, or I’ll leave your pretty little farm looking like the ruins of Carthage.’

Dabo tried to stare Flaccus down but there was no question of who was tougher. As his eyes dropped the centurion finished speaking. ‘I’ll do you one favour, Dabo. I’ll let you send your womenfolk away for the night. I wouldn’t want them around when my lot are full of drink.’

Flaccus could hear his men snoring in the barn and he was a good fifty paces away in an unfinished part of the house. They had eaten well — the dying embers in the courtyard pit still gave off a slight odour of the pork fat that had dripped into the ash — and drunk better, full to the brim with that grain concoction so loved by the late Clodius Terentius, the same stuff that had got him drunk enough on the night he agreed to depute for Dabo. He lay with his eyes closed, turning over in his mind what to do about Dabo, Sicily, Toger, Barbinus and his dreams of untold wealth, each thought chasing the other. It was not a sound that made him open his eyes, just a feeling that he was not alone. The boy stood, the dog beside him, framed by the moonlight from the unfinished window. He had a tall spear, too big for him, upright in his hand, so Flaccus began to reach for his sword.

‘You’ll be dead before you get it knee high.’ The voice was cracked and deep, not the voice of an adult yet, very much the sound of a boy turning into a man. ‘Minca here will take out your throat.’

‘Don’t be so sure, lad, he’s nothing compared to the wolves I’ve seen off.’

‘I want to know how he died,’ Aquila demanded.

Flaccus did not like being talked to like that, unused to it as he was, so he growled his reply. ‘How the hell should I know, I wasn’t there.’

The tip of the spear came down, but the voice didn’t change. ‘I don’t mean that.’

Flaccus was tense, wondering, unlikely as it seemed, if the boy might kill him. The dog was much more dangerous, of course, but he often found that a dog got confused if you attacked, instead of waiting for the animal to have a go at you. He considered doing that now, weighing the odds, then he realised the drink he had consumed was making him aggressive. There was no need for this. What was the point of assuming the worst? The boy just wanted to know how his Papa had died. Flaccus could tell him what he knew and if the situation still seemed dangerous after that, then he would be forced to do something about it. But first he had to get the boy to relax.

‘Tell me about your Papa, boy. I only knew him as a soldier.’

So Aquila did tell him what he remembered, not much, being only three at the time; a kind soul ground down by his labours, yet who always had time for a swim or a game. And he also told him, without adding too much more, that Clodius was not his real father.

Having told the tale several times, not least to Lucius Falerius Nerva and Titus Cornelius, Flaccus had honed it to perfection, but to this boy, he had to say more, to explain why a senatorial commission had been sent to Illyricum in the first place, though he did not include the fact that he had gained from the depredations of the governor they had come to investigate. Vegetius Flaminus always made sure some of his illicit gains came the way of his inferior officers. Nor was he going to admit that Clodius was forever after him for leave, requests which Flaccus turned down because the legionary had no money to pay his centurion for the privilege.

‘He was a good soldier, though, as tough as old boots,’ Flaccus said, not sure if he was telling the truth. He had never seen Clodius in a proper fight, only marching his daily twenty miles or working like a slave, digging ditches or raising fences so that Vegetius Flaminus could charge for his labour. That was a man he was happy to damn.

‘Bein’ a proconsul is a sure way to make a mint, lad, but this Vegetius I was talking about was another case altogether. He would steal your eyes then come back for the holes and having a province that was not at peace suited him just fine ’cause he could justify more taxes for defence. Mind, he pocketed that then charged the farmers and mine owners for soldiers to protect them.’

He had charged them for fieldworks and irrigation schemes as well, ending up with a legion that was better trained for labouring than fighting, but Flaccus decided to leave that out too.

‘When the commission arrived it was led by a real soldier’s soldier, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, and he was a man who hated corruption. Easy for him mind, he was the richest man in Rome after he conquered Macedonia.’

‘Where’s Macedonia?’

‘Do you know where Greece is, lad?’

‘No.’

‘Then there ain’t much point in trying to tell you where Macedonia is, and that don’t matter anyway. This Aulus made Vegetius shake in his boots, stopped all the little swindles the governor was up to, got the legions out after the rebels and had the whole place at peace in three months.’

‘I really only care how Clodius died.’

‘I’m comin’ to that, boy, but it don’t make sense if’n you don’t know what led up to what happened.’

Flaccus related how, after the news came of a revolt to the south, Aulus had sent him off in command of a cohort to reconnoitre the ground. For the ex-centurion this was a painful segment to recall; not only had they watched Roman soldiers and another proconsul called Publius Trebonius being hacked to death by rebels, that was the night he and Clodius had come close to getting their hands on Publius’s treasury, in a wagon well away from the place where the killing was taking place. Close, but not close enough. They had emptied the strongbox and buried the gold but when they returned the next day, with Aulus Cornelius leading in person, the sacks they had taken and buried, a mint of money, had disappeared. All they found was a heap of hacked-about Roman bodies.

‘Yet Aulus was not content. Said it weren’t right so south and south we went, running if you don’t mind, with the general out in front, though we stopped when we saw what we were going to have to fight. Turned out we was facing an army, not a band of rebels, thousands of the sods, Illyrians and Dacians from over the border, all heading north, so Aulus Cornelius decided to fall back and hold the pass at Thralaxas. Then he sent me back to bring up more soldiers. Trouble was that slimy bastard Vegetius Flaminus wasn’t havin’ any of it and with Aulus Cornelius out ahead with the advanced guard there was no one to give him orders.’

That was an uncomfortable memory for Flaccus, the recollection of his standing before Vegetius, filthy, tired and hungry, while the governor quaffed wine and ate grapes, certain in the knowledge that there was nothing he could say or do to effect any change in the man’s intentions.

‘The men that Aulus had couldn’t hold the place, not enough of ’em, and Vegetius knew that, so he was as good as condemning them to death. So, when no reinforcements appeared, they fought a delaying action then got off as many as could still run. Clodius weren’t one of them, nor was the great Macedonicus and death was the price they paid. Hard to know whether the general was a fool or not, lad.’

Flaccus was sitting up now, while a glum Aquila was slumped by the window, with his back to the damp wall, the spear and Minca by his feet. ‘He relied on another man to do his duty. Vegetius didn’t, and they all died for it.’

‘Will this Vegetius be punished?’

Flaccus laughed softly. ‘Punished. He’s been voted a triumph from what I’ve heard, lad, with the thanks of the Senate. Shouldn’t have been, mind. He didn’t kill enough Dacians to warrant the award, so the bastard slaughtered a few thousand of the Illyrian locals and called them Dacians to make up the numbers. Made himself a lot of money into the bargain. Those he didn’t kill he sold into slavery.’

‘Perhaps I should kill this Vegetius.’

‘I’d wait till you’re a bit older. For now, till your fields and breed youngsters of your own.’

‘I don’t till fields!’ said Aquila sharply.

‘What the hell d’you do then?’

‘I do what I like. It was no part of the bargain that I should work in Dabo’s fields.’

‘That won’t last, then. Your Papa’s dead.’

Aquila’s hand rubbed the leather amulet on his right arm, a constant reminder of the circumstances of his birth. ‘I told you, he’s not my real father.’

‘Makes no difference to me, lad. Now I’m tired, so why don’t you take your dog off to bed and let me get some sleep.’

‘What age can I join the legions?’

Flaccus yawned and stretched, before lying back down on his cot. ‘You’ve got a few years yet. Time to get yourself enough property to qualify. Maybe they’ll call on Dabo again.’

‘I’m not staying here.’

Flaccus yawned. ‘Then go away.’

‘I heard one of your men say you’re going to Sicily.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Will you take me with you?’

‘Not on your life. Now piss off.’

‘I’m not responsible for money Clodius Terentius lost gamblin’,’ Dabo insisted.

Flaccus gave him a wolfish grin. ‘The person I played dice with was listed in the century roll as Piscius Dabo.’

‘So what?’

‘So that’s the fellow who lost and owes me money.’

Dabo stood up and banged his fist on the table, then walked towards the window where he could see Flaccus’s men saddling their horses in the early morning light. ‘I’ve had enough of this. You come barging in here like bandits, helping yourselves to my food, my oats, my water and my wine, without even so much as a copper ass offered in payment. Then you have the damn cheek to ask me to pay that numskull Clodius’s debts.’

‘Someone has to pay ’em and since you have the right handle I reckon it’s you.’

‘Well I’m damned if I know how I’m to do it.’

‘Perhaps if we re-light the fire and strap you to the same spit we roasted that pig on last night you’ll think of a way.’

Dabo saw Aquila emerge from the byre. He stood watching Flaccus’s men, the dog by his side. ‘You got as much chance of getting coin out of me as you have out of Clodius.’

Flaccus had stood up, unseen by Dabo, and walked up behind him. He grabbed the farmer’s shoulders and spun him round, pinning him against the wall by the throat. ‘Is that right?’

‘I’ve got no coin,’ croaked Dabo. ‘Even if I wanted to pay you, I can’t.’

Flaccus banged Dabo’s head painfully against the wall. ‘You shit. You send another man to do your duty then sit here getting fat while the vultures feed off his gizzard. What did you shell out for that, a few vegetables and some corn, with the odd suggestion that a wife with a husband so far away might like another to warm her bed?’

Dabo was looking at him wide-eyed, mostly due to pain, but partly wondering how he knew about the suggestions he had made to Fulmina. ‘The boy told me all about you, Dabo. I don’t think you deserve to live.’

‘The boy. Take the boy,’ Dabo gasped.

‘What do I want with a lad like him?’

‘He’s good at hunting. Put him near a forest and you’ll never be without meat in your pot.’

‘I’ll have as much meat as I like, shit!’

‘Then put him to work in the fields. He’s mine now, as good as my own son. I’ll flog you him in debt bondage. Then you can do with him what you like. Sell him to a Greek brothel for all I care. With that hair he’ll fetch a mint.’

Flaccus rammed Dabo’s head against the wall again and the farmer’s eyes and mouth opened wide with the pain. ‘Killing you would be a pleasure, but I don’t think you’re worth the trouble it would cause me. You’d best thank the Gods I asked a lot of people how to get here. If I’d not provided so many witnesses to who I was after, I’d string you up to the nearest tree.’

The ex-centurion’s knee drove hard into Dabo’s groin just as he let him go and the farmer slid down the wall, doubled over in pain, to be kicked as he rolled over onto his side and finally he was spat on. After a final curse Flaccus walked out into the cool sunlit morning, where his ruffians, having saddled the horses, stood waiting for him, with Aquila watching them in silence. The ex-centurion mounted up, hauled round the animal’s head and walked it over.

‘Does the turd that owns this place have a horse?’ Aquila nodded. ‘Then saddle it up, boy. You’ve got no future here. Your guardian just offered to sell you to me. I won’t buy you, even to sell on. Clodius wasn’t the best soldier in the world, but he did his duty and so shall I. I’m heading south on the Via Appia. You can come with me if you can catch us.’

Flaccus hauled round his horse’s head and cantered out of the courtyard. Aquila wasn’t looking; he was in the byre saddling Dabo’s ploughing mare.

Drisia, an old soothsayer hated by Clodius, stood by the roadway. She had been a confidant of Fulmina and many’s the time she had cast her bones or spat some concoction onto the dry earth floor of the hut to read the signs that she insisted only she could interpret. Flaccus and his men came by and she had a more frightening effect on the horses than Minca. They all shied and had to be forced past her and when Flaccus caught a whiff of her stink, he understood why. She opened her mouth and let out an unholy cackle, then threw a handful of fresh corn over him. He looked back to see her still laughing, rattling one hand around in a bag at her waist, the other pointed straight at him. Flaccus brushed the corn husks off his saddle and kicked his horse hard to get it moving.

The boy, now with a spear strapped to his back, rode by Drisia a few moments later, hurrying to catch up with the men ahead. The old crone hissed at him with a toothless wheeze, and uttered that one word she used, after the death of Fulmina, whenever he had been unfortunate enough to cross her path.

‘Rome!’