‘You?’
He ignored the irony, given he was always accusing Romans of being barbarians.
‘It is not often polite to allude to a friend’s private situation, to the lack of pleasure, the emptiness in their lives.’
Claudia wanted to say that he alone had the power to change that, he who had helped her husband, but she had promised never to ask again the only question that mattered to her, the one that haunted her dreams — where had Cholon and Aulus exposed her newborn son that night of the Feast of Lupercalia — so she bit her tongue.
‘I wonder that you do not take another husband.’ Her eyes shot up in surprise as he continued. ‘There, I’ve said it. I have wondered for some time and now it is finally out in the open.’
‘I’m shocked.’
‘Please forgive me, Lady.’
Claudia laughed again. ‘What is there to forgive? I am happy to know that you care so much for my welfare.’
‘Truly?’
She smiled at the Greek, in a way that made her utterly believable. ‘Truly.’
‘It’s just that you spend too much time alone and, if I may say so, too much time in Rome. There are some wonderful places on the coast around Neapolis…’
His voice trailed off; he had said something to wipe the smile off her face, yet whatever it was had not made her sad or angry. No, whatever it was had rendered her thoughtful.
He could not comprehend the sheer size of Rome, nor the quantity of people, rich and poor, who thronged its busy thoroughfares. Here he was, in the capital of the empire, ready to admit that the place scared him more than the idea of facing a herd of elephants armed with a catapult, not that he had ever seen one, let alone a herd.
They were rude, these city folk, treating Aquila’s polite enquiries with either a shrug or ill-disguised contempt, eager to be about their business and with no time to give directions to someone who, by his accent, was a country bumpkin and, by his appearance, no true Roman anyway. So Aquila saw more of the city than he should, saw that Rome was full of temples, some to gods he had never heard of, while the sheer wealth of the place was as astounding as its size. Numerous carts fought for the right of way with those walking, everyone pushed aside for the occasional litter, as the rough servants of some wealthy individual demanded passage.
The marketplace was bursting with produce of every kind while behind the stalls, and in the streets that led off the square, little shops abounded. They sold goods of silver and gold, leather and wood, made statues of men whose brows all seemed noble. Aquila, with his height, his distinctive red-gold hair, now down to his shoulders, plus his battered sweat-stained armour, stood out from the jostling crowd. Many a suspicious glance was thrown in his direction, looks which tended to linger on that valuable charm he wore round his neck, with eye contact being broken as soon as he turned to face these curious people. They were wary of a man who had a spear, used by the look of it, wore a sword at his side, and carried a bow, with a quiver full of arrows slung across his back.
He found the bakery eventually, only because, once he realised that he was being ignored, his enquiries 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.