Toger snorted derisively. ‘Poor bastards is right, if they have to work the soil.’
‘They’re even worse off than that. They were trampled into it, that is if there was anything left of them after they had been hacked to pieces.’
‘Are you thinkin’ of payin’ any social calls?’ asked Dedon, another of his ruffians.
Flaccus did not reply. Clodius Terentius had come from land that lay close to the Barbinus properties, which caused the centurion to remember two other things: Clodius had been a surrogate legionary for someone better off than he, called Piscius Dabo. The second thing was that Clodius had died owing him money. They would have to stop for the night soon, find a bunkhouse in one of the flea-ridden post-houses that lined the route. How much better and cheaper it would be to impose themselves on a free billet. Right now, Flaccus was paying for everything, their wages as well as their bed and board; a personal bodyguard had not been part of his deal with Barbinus. This lot would not consent to sleeping in a field and if they did stay at a post-house, Flaccus knew that he would probably wake in the morning to find a couple of women and several flagons of drink added to his bill.
He turned to Dedon and gave him a grim smile. ‘I’m thinkin’ of paying a call, though I doubt I’ll be welcome.’
Toger grinned, his tiny yellowed teeth making a sharp contrast with the thick red lips. ‘Who cares about that?’
They turned off the busy road slightly further south and started to ask for directions. Perhaps if Dabo had been less crabbed he might have had on his side the natural hostility of country folk for strangers, let alone a band of men such as these. That would have guaranteed a dumb response to questions about the location of his farm, but his grasping nature, as well as his parsimony, had become a local byword, so even people who had had no dealings with him, and therefore no real cause to dislike him, were happy to direct Flaccus to the right place.
The builders, Mellio and Balbus, were near to finishing for the day and, still working on the roof, they were the first to see the small band of armed men approach. What they observed made them hurry to put away their tools and for once their attitude to Aquila was as dusty as the boy himself. An air of impending trouble seemed to emanate from the horsemen as they rode into the compound, hauling their mounts to in front of the main section of the house. Minca stood, his tail stretched out behind him, the ruff along his back proud, a sure sign of danger. The workmen left from the back of the building, taking care to keep out of sight. Dabo, who had come out to greet these visitors, hurried back into the house having looked them over, sending a slave to fetch everyone in from the fields.
‘Greetings,’ he said when he re-emerged, squinting up at Flaccus, astride his horse with the sinking sun behind him.
‘I’m looking for a fellow called Piscius Dabo.’
The idea of lying crossed Dabo’s mind but he dismissed it, sure that this man knew he was at the right farm. Besides Aquila had jumped down from the uncompleted roof and wandered over to stand beside him. The dog loped across the compound and took station by the boy’s leg, his presence causing some of the horses to shy away till Aquila took him by the ear, said something quietly in that heathen tongue he had learnt from the Celtic shepherd who had owned the animal, and Minca sat down.
‘That’s me,’ Dabo replied with an air of confidence he certainly did not feel. ‘And who might I be addressin’?’
‘Says it all really. Here he is, Piscius Dabo of the 10th, a legionary Hastari, who has just spent years fighting in Illyricum, and he don’t recognise his own centurion.’
‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘It’s no joke to Clodius Terentius,’ replied Flaccus coldly.
The name froze Dabo’s blood but it acted very differently on Aquila, who rushed forward and grabbed at the greave on Flaccus’s leg. ‘You know him?’
Flaccus looked down at the dust-covered boy, his hair standing on end, full of red stone mixed with sweat. Then Dabo spoke, his voice hard and commanding. ‘Get back in the house, Aquila.’
Minca, suddenly on his feet, growled at Dabo’s tone. Flaccus looked at him, then back at the boy. ‘Aquila? Is this Clodius’s youngster?’
‘In the house,’ shouted Dabo again, ignoring the threatening sound of the dog beside him.
Aquila was long used to ignoring Dabo but something unusual in the voice had him halfway to complying. He turned to go, but Flaccus’s words, matter of fact and free from emotion, stopped him.
‘Lad ought to know that his Papa’s dead, Dabo, don’t you think?’ Aquila spun round and grabbed the leg again, his red-rimmed eyes looking up pleadingly at the grey-haired centurion. Flaccus continued in the same flat tone. ‘Killed at a place called Thralaxas, along with the rest of my men. Heroes all of them, you might say.’ He must have seen the pain but the voice hardened and he pointed his finger at Dabo. ‘Died a soldier’s death, lad. Trouble was, it was this man’s death, not his own.’
Dabo’s children, in from the fields, had gathered in a group by the well. Aquila gripped the leather greave on Flaccus’s leg tightly and his head fell forward to touch the horse’s sweating flank. When he lifted it again, and gave Flaccus a final look with those bright blue eyes, full of the hope that he was lying, the centurion could see the streaks of the tears that were cutting a path through the thick dust on the boy’s face. He was not a soft man; years of soldiering had removed what little kindness he possessed, yet he spoke gently now, reaching down to touch Aquila’s hair.
‘Sorry, lad. There’s no easy way to say a loved one’s gone.’
Aquila pushed himself violently away from both horse and rider, causing Flaccus’s mount to rear slightly at the strength of the shove. The boy ran between the other horses, heading for the group by the well. Minca followed, with each rider taking a firm grip on their reins as their mounts sought to avoid the black menace that was suddenly in their midst, barking wildly as it raced after the boy. The group by the well stood rock-like and bemused as Aquila pushed his way through, though they parted more readily for the dog, then turned to gaze as the pair ran off into the fields, heading for the woods on the other side.
‘You didn’t come here just to tell me that Clodius is dead,’ said Dabo.
Flaccus, who had also spun in the saddle to watch Aquila’s flight, turned back to face the owner of the farm, treating him to a humourless smile. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘So what do you want?’
‘Such an unfriendly way of talking,’ said Flaccus, his head weaving so that he could include the band of ruffians in his thoughts. ‘What a way to greet an old comrade. Decent type would have invited me in for a drink by now and told my mates to water and feed their horses.’ He fixed Dabo with an icy stare. ‘You are a decent type, ain’t you?’
Dabo looked at Flaccus long and hard, weighing up the odds. This grizzled centurion could make trouble for him even if the war was over, the legions disbanded and Clodius dead. What he had done was wrong and he could be punished if it was reported to a praetor, never mind the land tax-gatherer. Dabo then examined the band of men Flaccus had brought with him. Each one wore a different type of armour, tailored to the skill they had at their particular form of fighting, but the helmets and breastplates had one thing in common: judging by the dents and scratches, they had taken a pounding. Unshaven, scarred and filthy from their time on the road, it did not take much of an imagination to realise the obvious: this fellow would not need to go to a magistrate to upset things; he had enough trouble, right here with him, to ruin Dabo’s life for good.
‘There’s drink a’plenty in the trough. If you water your horses, I’ll see to some feed.’
‘And my men?’
Dabo looked at them again and shuddered slightly. He would not be able to fob this lot off with polenta or bread and cheese. ‘I’ve been meaning to roast a pig for weeks. Tonight will do as good as any.’