ceased to be polite. The people of the city seemed more helpful if you towered over them with a threatening look, and eased your sword in your belt if they showed signs of trying to hurry by. He was directed to the street, but it was the smell that took him to the premises he sought, a whiff of fresh baking that somehow managed to overbear the odour of filth and packed humanity. The shop, with a small crowd outside, was a dark cavern at the bottom of a towering tenement in a street called the Via Tiburtina.
Aquila looked up at the narrow band of light between the two buildings on either side of the street, which seemed to be leaning towards each other the higher they went. Drying clothes hung from every balcony, women screeched at each other across the divide, their voices raised so they could be heard above the din from below, while naked children played in the doorways of walls covered in drawings and messages, some rude, others complaints. Beggars, blind or with missing limbs, sat against those walls, their knees raised to avoid the open sewer that ran down the middle of the roadway.
He called over the heads of those waiting to be served. ‘Is this the bakery of Demetrius Terentius?’
There were two women behind a table, one of middle years, bent, with a face ravaged by pain, the other much younger, both coated in flour, with hair stuck to their faces by perspiration. The bent woman, who seemed to be toothless, ignored him; it was the younger one who answered. The older woman spoke sharply and the young girl went back to serving her customers.
‘I wish to speak with Demetrius.’
‘Round the back, if you can stand the heat.’
Aquila was not welcome, and not because the owner was working. He was done for the day, busy replacing all the sweat he had lost by consuming copious quantities of well-watered wine, none of which was offered to his surprise guest. Demetrius was his adoptive parents’ eldest son, long gone from the place when he had been found, no more than a name and an occupation, yet someone to connect him to his past.
‘You can’t stay here!’
Demetrius was gross, looking as though he consumed more bread than he sold, with his great belly hanging out over a thick leather belt and the fat, round face, still bright red from his ovens, was scowling. Aquila could hardly blame him for his reserve. After all, he had only heard of this young man, now standing before him, from the odd passer-by who had come in from the countryside around Aprilium. He had never seen him, nor had his wife. They knew he had been found in the woods, which was a pretty tenuous way to claim kinship.
‘I don’t remember asking,’ the young man replied, ‘but I’m a stranger in Rome. If you can help me to find lodgings, I can pay.’
‘What with?’
‘I have money.’
His fat, adopted stepbrother sat forward, resting one podgy hand, and half his stomach, on a huge thigh. ‘How much money?’
‘Enough,’ replied Aquila coldly.
Demetrius let his eyes fall very obviously to the golden eagle, which seemed to reassure him. ‘If you can pay, I’ll put you up and get your name on the voting roll, provided you’re content to share with Fabius.’
‘Who’s Fabius?’
Demetrius laughed, without humour, but with enough effort to make his gut wobble. ‘Why, I suppose he’s like your nephew, though I dare say he’s older than you. How did you get on with my father?’
Aquila hesitated. He did not want to tell fat Demetrius that he had loved Clodius, as any small boy would love someone he thought was his Papa, so he kept all emotion out of his voice. ‘I got on very well with Clodius, from what I can remember. He left home in my fourth summer.’
Demetrius heaved himself to his feet, his fat, red face wreathed in a grim smile. ‘Then you’ll get on with Fabius. He’s the laziest, drunken bastard it’s ever been my misfortune to meet. Siring him has given me no pleasure at all.’
Fabius was a shock, so like his grandfather that it was uncanny; as he and his new roommate talked, Aquila had to keep reminding himself that this was not Clodius and it was far from just a physical likeness. His laugh was the same and the way he scowled, when his mother scolded him for coming home smelling of drink, was the spitting image of the way Clodius had looked when Fulmina chastised him for the same offence. He was hearty, amusing company, and when he had enough drink liked nothing better, he said, than to sit with his feet in the Tiber and sing.
‘Your grandfather used to go the woods. That’s why he found me.’
‘Would I have liked him?’
‘I did. I loved him, but he went off to the legions when I was small.’
The story of how Clodius had deputised for Piscius Dabo was not long in the telling and no one knew if Fabius’s grandfather had signed up because Dabo got him drunk, or he just wanted to get away from being a landless day labourer. It was supposed to be for a year or two, but it had gone on for ten and ended in Clodius’s death at Thralaxas.
‘Bit of a bugger being exposed,’ said Fabius. ‘Mind, they left you with that thing round your neck, so one of the parents wanted you back.’
‘I’d trade it to know who they are.’
‘You’re mad. Who cares about parents?’
‘Easy to say when you’ve got them.’
‘You can keep mine, and you watch out, that fat old sod of mine will milk you for every penny you’ve got.’ Fabius followed up his words with a deep swig from his tankard, while Aquila wondered if his ‘nephew’ was being cheeky, given that he had been sitting in this tavern happily spending Aquila’s money for several hours. ‘And don’t leave that charm round your neck lying about, or the miserable old bugger will pinch it.’
‘Your father speaks highly of you too,’ said Aquila.
That produced a deep growl, and he said for the hundredth time, ‘Imagine you being my uncle.’
It was hard; Fabius was ten years older than Aquila and looked twenty. The younger man, still well short of twenty summers, had spent all his life in the open air, eaten when he was hungry and drunk little. Fabius liked smoky, dark taverns, day and night. His complexion was puffy, his eyes bleary and, though nothing like his father, he was rapidly running to fat.
‘I’ll have to find some kind of work.’
‘Work!’ Fabius spat, then he looked around the dark tavern, full of people who shared his tastes and his appearance. ‘That’s only for idiots.’
‘You don’t work?’
‘I do the odd day here and there, down at the Tiber warehouses, but there are other ways of making a crust.’ Fabius threw back his head and laughed. ‘Even for the son of a baker.’
Aquila soon found out how Fabius made a ‘crust’. There was no malice in his thieving: it was petty, opportunistic and harmless, relying on a quick eye and even faster reflexes. Walking down a street with his ‘nephew’ was quite an experience. Fabius’s eyes, never resting, looked for something, anything, to filch as if it was some kind of game in which his wits were pitted against the whole world. He would take things that had no use or value to him, just so he could laugh about it later in the tavern, selling the stuff on if he could get the price of a drink.
His ‘nephew’ had undertaken to show him Rome, marching up and down the seven hills, pointing out all the places of interest: the Capitoline, the Forum and the Temple of Janus. They were on the Palatine Hill, among the large houses of the very rich, when Fabius spotted the red shoes on a first floor windowsill, freshly cleaned and drying in the sun.
‘Cup your hands, quick.’
Aquila obeyed without thinking, taking the weight easily as Fabius stretched up and grabbed at the shoes. He knocked one into the room behind, but came down triumphantly with the other.
‘There,’ he said holding it up. ‘A victory for the bare-arsed peasants.’
‘One shoe?’
Fabius waved it gaily. ‘A senator’s shoe, a trophy, Aquila. The bastards usually put these on our necks to grind us down.’
The shout behind them alerted Fabius to danger and he looked back to see a servant hanging out of the window, the other shoe in his hand, yelling for them to stop.
