from the call-up; farmer Piscius Dabo, who could feed himself and his family, was not. Never mind his sons were too young to look after the place while he was away; never mind that the fields would go to rack because he was not there to tend them. Rome had been made great by fighting farmers; it would stay great the same way. Getting Clodius drunk, and having him review a life that was far from perfect, then recalling with a rosy tint the time they had soldiered together, Dabo had persuaded him to sign up under his name.
Serving legionaries were exempt from the land tax, so for all the time Clodius served in Dabo’s place he had paid not a bronze ass to the local legate and because of that he had enjoyed an extra degree of prosperity. One of his neighbours, who had gone off to fight in the same legion as Clodius, had left a wife and two children to look after his holding. The eldest boy, the mainstay of the farm, had died of a flux, so the place was going to ruin. All it needed was one more thing to go wrong and the wife would be forced off the land before her husband could get home and put the place to rights. So ‘good neighbour’ Dabo had stepped in and bought her out at a knock-down price of her harvest brought in for free, added to half of his own. He was now the owner of three farms; with one more Dabo would definitely have enough land to realise his dream and change over from crop growing to rearing cattle. He would start small, he already had a goodly number of pigs, but there was actual money to be made in ranching and sheep rearing, real copper and silver coin, instead of the near-total barter system that he was engaged in now.
A tax-gatherer seeking ten years’ dues now would ruin him, for he was over-extended, busy turning his humble home into something approaching a proper villa that would go with the status to which he aspired; the future rancher had committed the small amount of actual money he had to paying for that. Hard to imagine now, in amongst all the filth and rubble and the dust blown into every chamber in the old part of the house, but it was Dabo’s dream to live and die like a true gent, a knight with an income of a hundred thousand sesterces. Ranching would bring him that — not all at once, but in time, as with real money he could change over from seed to pasture, then buy up a whole load more properties from neighbours struggling to make ends meet.
That Clodius’s service had lasted ten years had surprised Dabo as much as it had, no doubt, infuriated his old companion. News had filtered through that, after some great and bloody battles, the campaign in Illyricum was over. The 10th Legion would return to Italy to be disbanded and so would Clodius, so Dabo only had to wait a few more months and he would be freed from the burden of his contract. No point in antagonising anyone at this stage, so much to the annoyance of his hard-pressed offspring, and at some cost to his own blood pressure, he let Aquila do pretty much as he pleased.
‘Look at the bugger,’ he said to himself, as he spied the boy chatting to the two robbing sods who were putting on the timbers that would support his new roof. Aquila was standing, golden hair blowing in the breeze, a long pole in a bucket of tar, which he was stirring over a fire to keep it fluid enough to coat the wood. ‘What I wouldn’t do to be able to take a stave to the lazy sod’s back. He’ll toil for strangers but not lift a finger for the man who feeds him.’
Aquila enjoyed helping the two builders who had at one time, like Clodius, been small farmers, for both had been soldiers, and were happy to talk about it. As legionaries they had built for the Roman army in many a far-flung province; now they built for customers like Dabo but were happy to answer questions about their service from a youth just as eager to work for no pay.
‘Sighting a camp ain’t easy,’ said Balbus, removing his leather cap and wiping the sweat from the brow of a large head. ‘You want high ground to start with. Mind, it can’t just be set on any old hill, though half the generals in the Roman army don’t seem to be aware of that.’
‘Generals!’ His small, stringy partner, Mellio, spat as he said that, his sunburnt face screwed up with hate. He did not like superiors of any description and he was vocal about his reasons. ‘They either kill you, maim you, or beggar you.’
Aquila fanned the charcoal under the kiln to keep it at maximum heat. Minca, with more sense on such a hot day, had found a cool patch of damp earth on the shady side of the well. He lay there, tongue lolling out, watching Aquila toil at the fire.
‘That hill would be a good place,’ the boy said, pointing at a gentle rise that dominated the ground between the Via Appia and the foothills of the mountains. His other hand was held up to shield his face from the intense heat.
‘Granted,’ Balbus replied, ‘but what about water? It has to have its own water supply if it’s going to be for more than one night, and it should be flowing enough to wash away the legion’s shit. That’s the most important thing. It’s better to build on flat ground with water than to take a hill that’s bone dry. Then it needs clear lines of assault that you can protect against and you don’t want the natural line of attack to be comin’ from the east, ’cause in the first light of a clear day, your enemy can advance on you unseen.’
Mellio cut in, to point to a clump of trees that would require to be cleared. ‘An’ then you use ’em to build a palisade that’ll keep the sods out even if they do attack.’
‘Were you ever attacked?’
‘More’n once boy.’ Skinny Mellio puffed out his chest. ‘I’ve lopped the head off men trying to get over our walls, and that was the ones that hadn’t been speared before they got that far. I couldn’t tell you the number of times me and Balbus here had nothing but our shields, our sword arms, and a mate on our left hand between us and perdition.’
‘I’d like to hear it.’
‘Work first, lad,’ said Balbus, ‘then we can do the story-tellin’.’
Aquila was like any boy his age; he had dreams of glory, often imagining himself at the head of a great army, charging down upon a fierce, barbaric enemy, and by sheer personal bravery, routing them. It had nothing to do with the predictions Fulmina had made that promised that very thing; they were usually relegated to the back of his mind and only recalled when he happened to touch the leather amulet on his right arm. Now, caked in dust from head to foot, the vision was different. He saw himself standing on a hilltop, with a plan on the table before him, directing legionaries to build the most impregnable fortress the world had ever seen. Men like Balbus and Mellio would gasp with amazement at his technical prowess, and wonder at the number of his innovations. And they would raise their swords to salute a hero.
Claudia had felt a genuine sense of grief at the news of Aulus’s death, and had cried copiously, earning jaundiced looks from both Quintus and Cholon, both of whom were aware of the cold way in which she had treated him while he was alive. She would not have demeaned herself by trying to explain and knew, in the future, if anyone talked of nobility, her thoughts would turn to him. But there was relief for him too, and the burden of loving her he carried; Aulus had died in battle, so his spirit, at least, would be at rest.
Listening one more time to a description of the events as described to the family was distressing. Cholon was subjected to a rigorous interrogation, because he had been there to personally observe the actions of Vegetius Flaminus and if anything was to be done about the man, proceedings should be instituted before the triumphant general, waiting outside the city with his legion, entered Rome. Titus had a rather austere military directness, which precluded him from seeing the effect his questions were having on the tender-hearted Greek.
‘Please, Titus,’ said Claudia, for she had seen the chest heave, heard the quickly drawn breath as Cholon tried to hold back his tears. ‘Can you not see the distress you’re causing?’
The sound Quintus made was eloquent enough; the mere idea that a slave, even one now free, could have feelings worth consideration, was alien to him. Titus, made aware, walked over to put an arm round Cholon, wondering why the Greek threw his stepmother such a venomous look. After all, she had intervened to protect him.
‘Brother,’ Quintus barked, making no attempt to hide his impatience. ‘We are due to attend upon Lucius Falerius. It would not do to be late.’
‘I am told he often keeps people waiting, Quintus,’ said Claudia, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘Your father remarked on it more than once.’
‘Entirely due to the work he does on behalf of the Republic, Lady.’
‘True, albeit he had a very singular vision of the way things should be.’
Quintus gave her a look that was meant to convey that she, as a woman, could hardly understand such things. He called to Titus to follow him and Cholon, not wishing to be alone with Claudia, left on their heels.
‘The death of your father is a blow to the whole Republic. We shall wait a long time to see his like.’
