He cursed softly and turned back in the direction of home, knowing he would have to leave it there before going in search of the column of slaves. He might be a free-born Roman but no one would like to see such a weapon in a young boy’s hand. Racing across the stream, he ignored the stepping stones and the water that, spraying up from his flailing legs, soaked him to the skin. Aquila rushed into the hut and threw the spear into the corner by Fulmina’s chest and was halfway back out the door when he heard the painful sob. The hut was not empty, as he had first thought. Then Fulmina spoke his name and the boy went back in reluctantly. She lay wrapped in her bedding, her face full of pain and creased with the marks of dried tears. Aquila felt under the covers for her hand and as he took it she clutched it tightly, pulling him hard towards her body and emitting a strangled gasp. Total confusion filled his mind, for he could not go and leave her like this, yet he could not stay.
‘Thank the gods you came, Aquila,’ said Fulmina through clenched teeth. ‘I have lain here praying that you’d return.’
‘I must get help,’ he cried, aware that half his mind was on the fate of Gadoric and feeling guilty for it.
‘Help!’ The laugh that came from her throat was horrible. He tried to pull away but he was still tightly held by her hand. ‘I’m beyond help, son.’
‘No!’
Fulmina’s body arched over in agony, pulling his hand into her lower belly, then she raised her head and whispered in his ear. ‘In the chest. Go to the chest.’
Fulmina released his hand and Aquila obeyed. She must have heard the lid creak open because her eyes were still shut tight yet she spoke in a staccato way, each few words punctuated by a small cry of pain. ‘A small ampoule… Aquila… Dark brown it is…down the side by your right hand…under my mourning shawl… Quick, boy, quick.’
Aquila felt down the side of the chest, his hand closing over the small clay container and he pulled it up and held it out for Fulmina to see. Still she did not open her eyes. ‘Have…you got…it?’
‘Yes!’ He jumped back to the bed, reaching again for the hand.
‘Open…it, Aquila…but don’t…spill-’ Fulmina cried out in agony, unable to finish what she was saying as Aquila broke the wax seal on the small bottle.
‘What shall I do?’ he asked desperately.
‘Help me…drink it.’
He put his hands behind her head and lifted it slightly, putting the ampoule to her pale lips. Fulmina’s other hand came up, to hold the back of his, then she forced his hand up so that the contents spilt down her throat. Her body jerked several times and she gagged slightly, as though she could not swallow the contents, but she persevered, keeping it at her mouth until she was sure it was empty. Once she had finished Aquila took it from her, then held her head against his chest, feeling the spasms subside. He talked, as much to comfort her, as to remind himself why he had come home.
‘Barbinus’s men have taken Gadoric. They’ve chained him to some other men and they were marching them off towards the road the last time I saw. Mama, I must go and see if I can help him.’
‘The money, Aquila,’ she said softly, as though she hadn’t heard him.
‘Money?’
‘In the chest.’
‘It won’t be enough to buy his freedom, Mama.’
She seemed at ease now, the potion she had taken having lessened her pain. ‘No, boy. We never had enough of that to be free, any of us, but fetch it anyway.’
Again he went to the chest, Fulmina speaking softly to guide him. ‘Take everything out, Aquila.’
Everything did not amount to much; a mourning shawl, two extra blankets, a clean white woollen smock for Aquila which she had made in anticipation of his putting on his manly gown, with a decorated leather belt to go round his waist. A small box containing the polished stones, plucked out of the stream over the years, that she had never quite got round to turning into a necklace, some oddments of clothing and Fulmina’s winter bed socks.
‘At the bottom, a false floor. You can just get your nail under it.’
The boy ran his fingers across the smooth wood until he felt the small indentation and prised the lid open with his fingernail. He pulled out the soft leather pouch, tied at the neck with a thong and took it over to where his mother lay, her eyes open now. It seemed as if the potion had worked and the pain had gone so he tried to give her the purse but she pushed it away. ‘Yours Aquila. Take it.’
‘Mama, I must go and see what has happened to Gadoric.’
She smiled, the eyes once more had that light of love in them, then with a great effort she hauled herself up to a sitting position, bent forward and kissed the raised eagle on his leather amulet. Aquila heard the words of her prayer, calling on the gods to keep their word. Then she lay back again. ‘Your shepherd? Of course, off you go.’
He stood up to leave and she spoke again. ‘I wonder, Aquila, if you could spare me just one of those coins?’
‘Yes,’ he said, surprised and he pulled the pouch open.
‘There’s some silver ones. If I could have one of those.’
He tipped the coins out into his hand, wondering if the pouch contained enough to bribe one of Gadoric’s guards. There was not much, only three silver denarii with the rest copper asses. He gave one of the silver coins to Fulmina, who clutched it in her hand.
‘Now, boy, give your mama a goodbye kiss and go and see about your shepherd.’
Aquila had planted a perfunctory kiss on her forehead and was halfway out of the door before she finished speaking, calling his farewells. ‘I’ll see you soon, I promise.’
‘I pray to the gods you don’t, my son, just as I prayed, just now, that they grant you your destiny.’
Fulmina raised her hand and put the silver coin under her tongue, then she lay still, for the pain had gone, never to return. The potion, which she had prepared with her own hand, would see to that. She thought of the boy and of her husband and of the life she had led and when she died the small amount of tears she had summoned up filled her eyes, then ran down the sides of her face.
Aquila came upon the column of slaves in a matter of minutes, as they were heading south towards the Via Appia, past the dusty ill-defined lane that led up to his hut and again he saw Gadoric, head and shoulders above the rest. Other boys had gathered round, to follow and mock the straggling group of chained men. He was really close when he saw one of them pick up a stone, pulling his arm back to throw it. Aquila thundered straight into him, sending him flying and as they both fell to the ground he followed up with a punch on the ear. The others, once they had recovered, sought to pull them apart.
‘I’ll kill you,’ he screamed, struggling in the arms of boys he usually called friends.
‘Hold there!’ cried one of the guards pushing between them. The column had stopped so Aquila pulled himself free of the restraining arms and looked round to see Gadoric’s one good eye fixed on him. The shepherd gave him a single emphatic shake of the head and it was only then that Aquila realised that his friend had lost the shuffled gait he normally used when others could observe him. He stood to his full height, as Aquila had seen him many times, proud and magnificent, even dressed in bloodstained rags.
The guard laughed and called to Gadoric. ‘Your little playmate has come to rescue you, Blondie. Now there’s true love for you. Makes you wonder what you two got up to in that there hut.’
The rest of the guards laughed, adding ribald comments of their own. Aquila could not really hear them, his whole attention was fixed on Gadoric, who suddenly spoke quickly in his own tongue, knowing that only Aquila could understand him.
‘I hope I taught you well. Look after Minca.’ The one eye flicked to the side to indicate the guard, still laughing at his own joke. ‘Perhaps we were seen, practising with the spear. It makes no difference, they know I’m not the witless idiot I pretended to be.’
‘No talking,’ growled one guard.
‘What’s he sayin’?’ demanded another, confused at the Celtic tongue.
‘No more shepherding, Aquila,’ said Gadoric quickly.
The guard who had made the joke stepped forward and raised his club. If he had expected his prisoner to try and avoid the blow, he was disappointed. Gadoric just fixed him with a look and the club remained in the air. ‘One more word out of you, you bastard, and you’ll never get near Sicily.’
‘Sicily!’
