a ruffian like Dabo, sounded as though it belonged to a girl!
‘I am in search of the relatives of Piscius Dabo.’
Dabo said nothing, trying to make sense of the words. Cholon mistook the look on his screwed-up face as a sign of bucolic stupidity, so he repeated the name slowly, and still lacking an answer, leant forward slightly and proceeded to spell it out letter by letter.
‘I heard you the first time,’ snapped Dabo, stung by the implication that he was an idiot.
His visitor was slightly taken aback, left with a wholly inappropriate and patronising look on his face. Dabo looked beyond Cholon to the four bearers, waiting for instructions to lower their chair.
‘Who’s asking?’
The Greek recovered his dignity, squared his shoulders and spoke sharply. ‘You will first tell me, have I come to the right farm?’
Dabo nodded. ‘You have, but I’ll say no more until you tell me why you’re here and who you are.’
‘Please be so good as to fetch the owner. My business is with him.’
‘I am the owner.’
Cholon blinked, then looked around the area, as though what had been said could not be true. The man was old enough to be a dead legionary’s father, but the century scroll had said that the deceased was the head of the household. His eye caught the two builders, standing idle on the roof, listening to the conversation below, deep suspicion on their faces, so he tried to inject a friendly note into his voice.
‘Then it is you I have come to see.’
Dabo declined to respond; if anything his frown deepened and his voice was now positively hostile. ‘About what?’
Cholon was tempted to rebuke him, even tempted to turn on his heel and forget this prosperous fellow who dressed like a tramp. He did not need the money by the look of the surroundings and his manner was offensive, but it was not his place to interpret the general’s instructions. So he took a deep breath and launched into the familiar litany, one repeated so many times in the last few weeks. But he refused to look this fellow in the eye, instead casting his gaze over his shoulder, to where Mellio and Balbus were eavesdropping.
‘First I must express my regrets at the loss of the head of the household. Be assured that Piscius Dabo did his duty by the Republic and, at Thralaxas, died as honourable a death as any man can hope for. Already in Rome the tale is the stuff of legends. Before the final assault, the general in command, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, realising that few, if any, of the men he led would survive, bade me carry his wishes to his executors. These were that all the men who died with him should be remembered in his will and their relatives should not suffer by their death. I am here to fulfil that wish.’
‘What does that mean spoken plain?’
‘It means,’ snapped Cholon, ‘that Dabo’s heirs are to benefit from the death in battle of Piscius Dabo. Are you his next of kin?’ Dabo threw back his head and laughed, a reaction which annoyed Cholon even more. After all, the dead deserved respect, so he shouted at the man. ‘Are you related to the legionary, Piscius Dabo?’
Dabo grinned at him, tempted to tell him of his fears of the tax-gatherer. He was firstly relieved because those had evaporated and the second question had only served to increase his humour. ‘I’m related to Piscius Dabo, all right. None closer, friend. You could say we was twins.’
‘I’m wondering if we can stand by and let this pass,’ said Mellio who, like his workmate, had heard every word of the exchange. Both men knew of the bargain struck between Dabo and Clodius, which was common enough knowledge locally.
‘By rights any money should go to Aquila,’ replied Balbus.
He was still musing, wondering if he should intervene, while the well-dressed visitor fetched a scroll from the litter, scanning it, talking all the while, explaining the procedure for the collection of the money. ‘A twin you say? I cannot find any evidence of a twin on the census. Only a son, Annius.’
Dabo spoke quickly and there was a new note of respect, triggered by greed, in his voice. ‘The twin was a joke, sir. Annius is Piscius Dabo’s eldest. He’s out in the fields, working.’
‘Then it is to him that I must speak.’
Dabo was stumped; if he asked Annius for help the boy would do the opposite just to spite him, but he could hardly admit to being hastari legionary Dabo, alive and well. Not only would that pose some danger, but he could kiss goodbye to any coin that was going. At least the task of fetching Annius would give him time to think, so he touched the brim of his straw hat and headed off towards the ribbons of fields that made up his farm.
‘Is it any of our business?’ asked Mellio.
Balbus nodded, his eyes fixed on Dabo’s retreating back. ‘It is that. So if we’re planning to say anything, we best be quick.’
Cholon was not shocked; being Greek he was more inclined to praise Dabo for his good sense rather than take a stiff-necked Roman attitude and berate him. Neither would he report him, it being none of his affair. The only question to be answered was how to get Aulus’s bequest to this boy called Aquila, for he certainly could not countenance going all the way to Sicily to deliver it. The builders were back on the roof, working away, when Dabo came scurrying back into the courtyard with a young boy of about ten, surely too young to be the Annius Dabo listed in the census two years previously, a census that the parent had managed to avoid.
‘Here you are, sir,’ cried the father. ‘This is the younger Dabo.’
‘Is it indeed?’
Dabo, fooled by his visitor’s smile, grinned and came close, wafting the odour of the pigsty in Cholon’s direction. ‘Small for his age, ain’t he, but he’s a good lad.’
‘I’m sure he is.’ Cholon looked at the boy, who immediately avoided his eyes. ‘What’s your name, lad?’
Dabo reacted with exaggerated surprise. ‘Why, Annius!’
‘Let him answer.’ Cholon turned to the boy, pointing at Dabo. ‘Who is this?’
Rufurius, clearly nervous, replied without thinking. ‘My father, sir.’
‘Your father?’
‘What he means is…’
‘It’s perfectly plain what he means. Now boy, what is your father’s name?’
Rufurius was utterly confused, his head turning between Dabo and Cholon, as the Greek favoured him with a look that encouraged him to speak. It was too much for the boy to make up a name on the spur of the moment, even though his father, with a screwed up look on his face, was willing him to do so.
‘Piscius Dabo.’
The paternal hand took him hard round the ear and Rufurius spun away with a painful cry. ‘Idiot!’
Dabo made to go after the boy, but Cholon placed himself between them and put his hand on Dabo’s stinking smock. It was not physical strength that stopped the farmer, more that he had no idea who this man was and it would never do to go belting someone important. Besides, the four litter bearers had started to move towards him, though their master waved his other hand to tell them to remain still.
‘The boy has saved you a flogging, if not something worse. You would do well to remember that.’
Dabo just growled, glaring past Cholon at the cowering Rufurius. ‘I wish I’d exposed you, you little turd, and I curse the day that Clodius found Aquila.’
‘Found?’ asked Cholon. He removed the restraining hand and rubbed his fingertips together, in a vain attempt to rid them of Dabo’s smell.
‘Not that he would’ve found the little bastard, if I hadn’t have filled him full of drink. If anybody deserves a reward, it’s me.’
‘It is not a reward.’
‘It’s money ain’t it?’ Cholon nodded, moving backwards to avoid the spittle that Dabo, in his ire, was spraying around. ‘Same difference. I looked after the boy and his mother for years, an’ took him into my own home when she died. I’m not one to spit on a friend, even if the boy wasn’t his own flesh and blood. Not many can claim to be a foundling twice.’
Cholon did not want to hear any of this; what he wanted was information about this Aquila, then he could leave this farmyard, as well as this stinking peasant. ‘You are not making sense. What is all this about exposure and foundling children?’
‘The boy, Aquila. He was found by Clodius after a night’s drinking, lying a couple of leagues off the road in
