home but there was little choice in that, too. Since he was often out till after dark, his shepherd insisted the dog escort him home. Not that he stayed at home; Fulmina was not sure, but she suspected that Aquila had acquired a sudden interest in girls. All he ever did when he came home was wolf his food and depart, but he had shown a sudden tendency to wash recently, which was not something he would do if he was going to be with boys.
Clodius knew he had struck a poor bargain, one that favoured Fulmina and Aquila much more than it advantaged him. Gone were the days when the Roman Army could campaign in the fighting season from early spring till late summer, then return to help with the harvest; the conquests and the responsibilities of empire were too great. Soldiering went on all year round, and not for a year or two either: even the standard six-year engagement had been broken and he was now in his seventh year. Worse still, for Clodius, the 10th legion, in that period, had been transferred to Illyricum from a comfortable life on the southern borders of Gaul, to put down an insurrection of the local tribes against direct Roman rule. To make matters dire they were now under the supervision of an indolent commander and governor called Vegetius Flaminus.
There was little chance of plunder or a bounty in either posting; riches came from new conquests, not old ones, so Clodius found himself scraping a living, in just the same manner as he had at home, Vegetius being no more energetic in the matter of the prompt distribution of pay. The general preferred to lend it out for a while, pocketing the interest before passing the residue on to the troops. Clodius, not as sharp as some of his fellows at squeezing money out of the locals, wanted nothing more than to get home and tell Dabo that the deal was off, that it was time for the sod to do his own duty. Unfortunately that was a message that could only be delivered to Dabo’s face and the only person who could make that happen was his centurion, Didius Flaccus.
‘If only I could get home, your honour, I’d be able to sort things out. I have something of value there, something that would more than settle the debt for my leave.’
Clodius pushed all the sincerity he could into that last bit, aware that it was a debt that would fall on Dabo when he took up his proper duty and if it all went wrong then there was still that gold eagle pendant that Fulmina had stashed away. He had never been able to persuade her to tell him where it was hidden, let alone get her to part with it, just as she had never told him all the things that Drisia had prophesied about the boy’s future, but at this distance, and in such a situation, the difficulties of persuading his wife of the need to finally surrender it looked eminently possible. Not for the first time in his life, desperation made Clodius an optimist.
‘How long do you think I’ve been in the legions, Piscius Dabo?’ asked Centurion Flaccus, using the name by which Clodius was listed on the company roll. He was a grizzled veteran who had the scars to prove it, with skin like well-worn leather, short, iron-grey hair, and a pair of eyes that seemed able to see right through a toughened leather shield. Clodius’s immediate superior, he was mighty free with the vine sapling if the efforts of his men displeased him.
‘Thank the gods you’ve seen a lot of service, your honour,’ replied Clodius swiftly. ‘All the lads say they feel safer under you than some of the pups they’ve promoted recently.’
Flaccus was well used to flattery, inclined to take it as his due in the way a wine shop owner believes the warm words he gets from his early morning customers. He smiled, showing the gaps in his teeth. ‘Eighteen years, Piscius Dabo and ten of those in my present rank. If I had a silver sesterces for every promise of future payment I’ve listened to in those ten years, I’d have enough money to take my rightful place amongst the knights when I retire. And do you know how much money it costs to qualify for that?’
Clodius was aware that this was the prelude to a blank refusal. The centurion’s smile disappeared, to be replaced by a look that chilled his blood. ‘One hundred thousand sesterces, oaf. And what chance do you think I have of getting that in the year left to me, serving in this miserable hellhole. If you want leave it’s cash on the table, so you best get to work and earn a little extra. Now piss off and leave me in peace.’
Clodius struggled hard to save up enough to satisfy Flaccus; there was no alternative. They had been talking of reform in the legions for years, it being a much abused system; but no one actually ever got round to changing anything. Only the centurion could grant leave and the longer you wanted, the more he charged to release you. In Flaccus, Clodius was stuck with a particularly avaricious member of that breed of robbing bastards who were put in authority above people like him. Pay did get through from time to time, but just when he was getting ahead, a drinking bout or a game of knucklebones would diminish his small reserve of capital. Actually when it came to gambling, knucklebones or dice, he usually lost everything he had saved and occasional trips into the garrison town cleaned him out just as quick. A night spent in the wine shops and brothels of Salonae left him with a heavy head and a very light purse.
His least successful idea was to gamble with his centurion in the hope of winning some leave. Flaccus scooped Venus so many times with the dice that Clodius now had a substantial debt to pay just to get even with the man, never mind acquiring the funds to get ahead and all the while his wife and the child were living in comfort, which was how the disgruntled legionary imagined it. It was not true, of course, and had Clodius been aware of Dabo’s other proposals, made because of his absence, he might have been even more discontented. Not that these extra worries would have had any foundation; Fulmina had had her fill of men, knowing they would promise the earth to conquer and deliver precious little when the time came to pay.
‘You’re certain?’ asked Didius Flaccus, his eyes fixed intently on the hunched old man opposite. Between them lay a set of small pieces of ivory with images, numbers and symbols carved into them. These had been selected and laid out, to be read by a man who claimed to understand the portents they contained.
‘Nothing is certain,’ replied the soothsayer, his eyes hooded in a heavily lined face. ‘The gods speak to us in riddles.’
Flaccus had considered telling him about the others, for this was not the centurion’s first visit to a seer; a deeply superstitious man he had consulted one in every posting he had ever had. But this Salonae soothsayer, the best in the city by repute, might ask him why he sought reassurance for predictions that had already been made. Didius Flaccus could not admit he was prey to great doubts, half the time convinced that the gods, or the stars, determined everything, the other half only too aware of the evidence of his own eyes; that life was all chance. He still wanted to hear his future, but in plain language. Yet this man before him was like the rest, wrapping up his predictions in convoluted words and riddles that did not make sense.
‘Tell me again,’ he demanded.
The old man looked at the pieces arranged before him. ‘I see a golden aura and I see you under a great and valuable burden. It consists of something you value highly, that you have worked and toiled to acquire. There are men around you, numerous and yelling.’
‘Cheering?’ asked Flaccus, sitting forward eagerly, to confirm what he had been told by others.
The soothsayer was wise in more than one respect; he knew enough to tell a customer what they wanted to hear, while at the same time keeping doubt in his voice, for too overt an enthusiasm would dent the aura of omniscience on which he relied.
‘Perhaps cheering.’ Then he bent forward to look again at the decorated pieces of ivory that covered the table, his voice becoming more eager. ‘Cheering. Yes, definitely cheering.’
‘And the golden aura?’ asked Flaccus, his voice anxious.
‘Great wealth, Centurion. A golden aura means great wealth.’
Flaccus slipped another coin across the table, gold this time, part of the money that came to him through his rank. ‘Speak plain, soothsayer, and this is yours.’
The old man looked up, his pale watery eyes fixed on Flaccus, the voice as steady as his gaze. ‘I risk damnation.’
Flaccus, his heart pounding, fished out two more coins, feeling that he was, at last, on the verge of hearing the plain truth. He laid the coins on the table beside the other one and the soothsayer’s eyes flicked to the side, to take them in. Then having calculated the fee, he lifted them to gaze steadily at his excited customer.
‘You will be covered in gold and men will cheer you. I can say no more.’
He reached out a hand to take Flaccus’s money but the centurion covered it, gripped it tightly and pulled the soothsayer forward. ‘A good future then?’
‘Not good,’ replied the old man, his lined face creasing into a toothless smile. ‘Brilliant.’
Flaccus released the hand and allowed him to take his reward. Then he stood up. ‘I shan’t forget you, soothsayer. When this prophecy comes to pass, you will get your just reward.’
‘If the gods will it,’ replied the old man calmly.
