‘Let’s hope you’re right.’ They sat in silence for some time, each alone with his thoughts and memories. It was Dabo who eventually spoke. ‘Not that life in the legions was that bad.’
‘It wasn’t good either,’ replied Clodius, for once dropping the rosy glow that usually accompanied his military recollections.
‘The women were willing enough.’
Clodius laughed. ‘Don’t recall that it mattered much if they were willing or not.’
‘Damned right, Clodius,’ Dabo whooped. ‘We speared ’em anyway.’
‘Makes you wonder how many of Rome’s slaves are bred from Roman juice.’
‘Quite a few, old friend, quite a few,’ Dabo gently tapped his fired clay goblet against the wooden gourd in Clodius’s hand. It made a hollow sound, so Dabo filled it to the brim before completing the toast. ‘The good old days.’
‘Back breaking work on the march, and then even more when we pitched camp for the night,’ said Clodius ruefully.
‘Booty, Clodius.’
‘Don’t seem to recall mine lasting all that long, Dabo. An’ when I came back the farm had gone to ruin. That six years’ service did for me.’
Dabo had come back at the same time, but he had brought his farm back to proper fruitfulness, so he reckoned he knew just who was to blame for his companion’s failure, and it was not divine providence. ‘You had rotten luck, Clodius, an’ no mistake. No father to tend your fields and kids too young to pull their weight.’
‘I reckon Fulmina did her best,’ said Clodius, in a rare expression of praise for his wife.
‘Beats me how she kept her looks. For all the work she does, she’s still a fine looking woman.’
‘Made of stone as far as I’m concerned. I hinted that Aquila could use a playmate.’
‘What did she say to that?’
Clodius laughed without pleasure, then took another deep swig. ‘Said that it was me grovelling for a playmate. Told me if I wanted one I could do some extra work and buy comfort at the brothel in Aprilium.’
‘Sad thing when a woman takes her favours away. Makes for a hard life.’
The drink was beginning to affect Clodius. He laughed properly and drained his gourd. ‘You can say that again, Dabo. A sheep’s bum is enough to excite me these days.’
‘Do you remember that centurion and the goat?’
‘Do I,’ whooped Clodius.
They were off, swapping well-worn tales and reminiscences, talking of the good times and relegating the bad, capping each story with a cupful of wine, until life in the army seemed the highest thing to which a man could aspire. The drink flowed, with Dabo going into the storehouse below and coming back with an ampoule full of his potent grain spirit. How they laughed. All the old jokes were trotted out and soon they were singing the songs, with their filthy words, that the legions had used since time immemorial to ease the pain of a long march. Dabo, who was drinking a good deal less that Clodius, made sure his guest’s gourd was never empty.
They were trying to recover from the pain in the sides after a particularly hilarious anecdote. This concerned an officer who preferred boys trying to persuade his commander to let him raid a nearby town because he had heard it contained an all-male brothel full to the brim of young blond Scythians. He could not say that, of course, and it was not even true, one of the more impudent soldiers having concocted the story as a joke. Everyone had sidled as near to the command tent as they could to eavesdrop on the exchange, which had become increasingly desperate as the man found all his arguments refuted.
Clodius told the story well. He had the officer’s high-pitched voice to perfection, as well as the gruff tone to convey the increasingly irritated responses of the commander. Dabo was reduced to hugging his sides, trying to get his breath, while Clodius, laughing just as much, had rolled down the steps, scattering the chickens, and was now crouched over, hands around his stomach, half in pain and half in hysterics.
‘What a life eh! Clodius.’
‘Golden days,’ gasped Clodius.
‘You know what we need now, old friend,’ said Dabo, staggering down the three steps and helping Clodius to his feet. ‘We need a woman. What says we get in that there cart and head for town.’
Clodius started to shake his head, patting his belt to indicate his lack of funds. Dabo threw his arm around his guest’s shoulder. ‘Pay no heed to that, old friend. This one’s on me.’
‘Never,’ replied Clodius, with profound disbelief.
‘Damn women, Clodius,’ Dabo slurred. ‘You give them a squeeze and they greet you with an elbow in the ribs. Damn them, I say. They don’t treat their chickens that bad. If the cock don’t perform they get mad, chop its head off and cook it, then go and buy another, but we’re not ever allowed to perform.’
‘That’s right. Mind you, an elbow’s better than a chopper across the throat,’ slurred Clodius, with a wide, knowing grin.
‘Let them hear the sniff of Cerberus on their way to hell, I say. I’m willing to stand you…’
‘Stand me. I think I can stand on my own, thank you!’ spluttered Clodius, reprising the homosexual officer’s arch voice. They both screeched with laughter, doubling up again. Dabo, recovering first, grabbed his friend and bundled him into the cart.
‘Aprilium, here we come,’ he crowed.
If Clodius had wondered why the mule, which should have been in its stall, had spent the whole night harnessed in the shafts, he was too drunk now to enquire.
Clodius sang nearly all the way to Aprilium, and since Dabo had been clever enough to fetch a flagon of grain spirit along, neither his throat, nor his level of inebriation, faltered. In between the songs and the usual requests for some form of intercession from the gods, Dabo moaned about the prospect of having to go back into the legions.
‘I’m a man of substance now, Clodius. I had my eye on another place next door to my father’s old farm. Given a bit of luck I can join them all together and go into cattle ranching.’
‘That’s where the loot is, Dabo. Every moneybags in Rome is well into ranching.’
His host slapped his hand hard on the side of the cart. ‘That’s right! The last thing I need is another six years in the army. It will throw my plans right out.’
Clodius tried to console him with a pat on the back. ‘Shame at that, Dabo. If you was to get on, I could say that I know someone who’s a knight. Not many people round these parts can call someone worth a hundred thousand denarii a friend.’ He leant over and grabbed the flagon. ‘Mind, I hope you drink a choicer brew than this shit when you’re rich.’
For the first time that night, Dabo’s bluff, cheerful manner deserted him. ‘That’s just it, you oaf. If I go into the legions I won’t be rich. I’ll end up like you, on my arse.’
Clodius’s mood changed just as quickly. ‘Don’t say as I take kindly to being called an oaf.’
Dabo ignored him. ‘And it’s only because I’ve got a bit that I’m being called up in the first place.’
Clodius put all the sympathy he could into the reply. ‘But you’re not sure that you are going to be called up.’
Dabo seemed to collect himself, losing his belligerent tone. ‘That’s right, Clodius. Help yourself to another mouthful, old friend, and right sorry I am for any offence. It’s not your fault that you’re near potless. That’s what sticks in my craw. If they was to call you to the ranks what harm would it do.’
‘Depends on who I’m fightin’ with.’
‘I don’t mean that. It’s the law that means only men of property can be trusted to fight. Crap I say. If you’ve got nothing to lose they won’t have you. If you own a farm, you’re taken into the army, ‘cause they reckon you’ve got something to defend. Your farm goes to seed while you’re away, so you end up a pauper who they can’t call up, living off the public dole.’
‘Blessings on Tiberius Livonius,’ slurred Clodius, helping himself to another swig. ‘Needed that corn dole on more’n one occasion.’
‘Tell me, Clodius, if they called you up, changed the law, like, what would you do?’
‘I’d go. What else could I do? Might be better off in some ways, for I tell you, Dabo, I’m fed up humping sacks of grain for a pittance. Not that the pay in the army would keep a pig in scraps. Family’d likely starve when I was gone.’
