Flaccus grinned and raised his voice. ‘Hear that, lads. Roast suckling pig for supper and I bet old Dabo here has an underground store full of good strong wine.’
Dabo nodded, advancing towards Flaccus as he made to dismount. He spoke urgently but softly, interposing his body so that the others could not hear. ‘I might have been shy of goin’ last time, but I was a soldier once, an’ a damn good one. I can still use sword and spear, so if anybody on this farm loses so much as a hair on their head, your men might ride out of here, but you’ll not.’
Flaccus leant down and pushed his face close to Dabo’s. ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, you turd. If I give the word this lot’ll tear you limb from limb. You push out the boat, you hear, or I’ll leave your pretty little farm looking like the ruins of Carthage.’
Dabo tried to stare Flaccus down but there was no question of who was tougher. As his eyes dropped the centurion finished speaking. ‘I’ll do you one favour, Dabo. I’ll let you send your womenfolk away for the night. I wouldn’t want them around when my lot are full of drink.’
Flaccus could hear his men snoring in the barn and he was a good fifty paces away in an unfinished part of the house. They had eaten well — the dying embers in the courtyard pit still gave off a slight odour of the pork fat that had dripped into the ash — and drunk better, full to the brim with that grain concoction so loved by the late Clodius Terentius, the same stuff that had got him drunk enough on the night he agreed to depute for Dabo. He lay with his eyes closed, turning over in his mind what to do about Dabo, Sicily, Toger, Barbinus and his dreams of untold wealth, each thought chasing the other. It was not a sound that made him open his eyes, just a feeling that he was not alone. The boy stood, the dog beside him, framed by the moonlight from the unfinished window. He had a tall spear, too big for him, upright in his hand, so Flaccus began to reach for his sword.
‘You’ll be dead before you get it knee high.’ The voice was cracked and deep, not the voice of an adult yet, very much the sound of a boy turning into a man. ‘Minca here will take out your throat.’
‘Don’t be so sure, lad, he’s nothing compared to the wolves I’ve seen off.’
‘I want to know how he died,’ Aquila demanded.
Flaccus did not like being talked to like that, unused to it as he was, so he growled his reply. ‘How the hell should I know, I wasn’t there.’
The tip of the spear came down, but the voice didn’t change. ‘I don’t mean that.’
Flaccus was tense, wondering, unlikely as it seemed, if the boy might kill him. The dog was much more dangerous, of course, but he often found that a dog got confused if you attacked, instead of waiting for the animal to have a go at you. He considered doing that now, weighing the odds, then he realised the drink he had consumed was making him aggressive. There was no need for this. What was the point of assuming the worst? The boy just wanted to know how his Papa had died. Flaccus could tell him what he knew and if the situation still seemed dangerous after that, then he would be forced to do something about it. But first he had to get the boy to relax.
‘Tell me about your Papa, boy. I only knew him as a soldier.’
So Aquila did tell him what he remembered, not much, being only three at the time; a kind soul ground down by his labours, yet who always had time for a swim or a game. And he also told him, without adding too much more, that Clodius was not his real father.
Having told the tale several times, not least to Lucius Falerius Nerva and Titus Cornelius, Flaccus had honed it to perfection, but to this boy, he had to say more, to explain why a senatorial commission had been sent to Illyricum in the first place, though he did not include the fact that he had gained from the depredations of the governor they had come to investigate. Vegetius Flaminus always made sure some of his illicit gains came the way of his inferior officers. Nor was he going to admit that Clodius was forever after him for leave, requests which Flaccus turned down because the legionary had no money to pay his centurion for the privilege.
‘He was a good soldier, though, as tough as old boots,’ Flaccus said, not sure if he was telling the truth. He had never seen Clodius in a proper fight, only marching his daily twenty miles or working like a slave, digging ditches or raising fences so that Vegetius Flaminus could charge for his labour. That was a man he was happy to damn.
‘Bein’ a proconsul is a sure way to make a mint, lad, but this Vegetius I was talking about was another case altogether. He would steal your eyes then come back for the holes and having a province that was not at peace suited him just fine ’cause he could justify more taxes for defence. Mind, he pocketed that then charged the farmers and mine owners for soldiers to protect them.’
He had charged them for fieldworks and irrigation schemes as well, ending up with a legion that was better trained for labouring than fighting, but Flaccus decided to leave that out too.
‘When the commission arrived it was led by a real soldier’s soldier, Aulus Cornelius Macedonicus, and he was a man who hated corruption. Easy for him mind, he was the richest man in Rome after he conquered Macedonia.’
‘Where’s Macedonia?’
‘Do you know where Greece is, lad?’
‘No.’
‘Then there ain’t much point in trying to tell you where Macedonia is, and that don’t matter anyway. This Aulus made Vegetius shake in his boots, stopped all the little swindles the governor was up to, got the legions out after the rebels and had the whole place at peace in three months.’
‘I really only care how Clodius died.’
‘I’m comin’ to that, boy, but it don’t make sense if’n you don’t know what led up to what happened.’
Flaccus related how, after the news came of a revolt to the south, Aulus had sent him off in command of a cohort to reconnoitre the ground. For the ex-centurion this was a painful segment to recall; not only had they watched Roman soldiers and another proconsul called Publius Trebonius being hacked to death by rebels, that was the night he and Clodius had come close to getting their hands on Publius’s treasury, in a wagon well away from the place where the killing was taking place. Close, but not close enough. They had emptied the strongbox and buried the gold but when they returned the next day, with Aulus Cornelius leading in person, the sacks they had taken and buried, a mint of money, had disappeared. All they found was a heap of hacked-about Roman bodies.
‘Yet Aulus was not content. Said it weren’t right so south and south we went, running if you don’t mind, with the general out in front, though we stopped when we saw what we were going to have to fight. Turned out we was facing an army, not a band of rebels, thousands of the sods, Illyrians and Dacians from over the border, all heading north, so Aulus Cornelius decided to fall back and hold the pass at Thralaxas. Then he sent me back to bring up more soldiers. Trouble was that slimy bastard Vegetius Flaminus wasn’t havin’ any of it and with Aulus Cornelius out ahead with the advanced guard there was no one to give him orders.’
That was an uncomfortable memory for Flaccus, the recollection of his standing before Vegetius, filthy, tired and hungry, while the governor quaffed wine and ate grapes, certain in the knowledge that there was nothing he could say or do to effect any change in the man’s intentions.
‘The men that Aulus had couldn’t hold the place, not enough of ’em, and Vegetius knew that, so he was as good as condemning them to death. So, when no reinforcements appeared, they fought a delaying action then got off as many as could still run. Clodius weren’t one of them, nor was the great Macedonicus and death was the price they paid. Hard to know whether the general was a fool or not, lad.’
Flaccus was sitting up now, while a glum Aquila was slumped by the window, with his back to the damp wall, the spear and Minca by his feet. ‘He relied on another man to do his duty. Vegetius didn’t, and they all died for it.’