Roman blood

I touched his shoulder, thinking to gently push him aside, but he stood his ground like an iron rod.

'Sextus Roscius, young and old, I've known them both for years. And let me tell you, however impossible it may seem, whatever else the evidence may tell you, the son was behind the murder of his rather. What a hatred they had for each other! It started when Roscius took his second wife and had a son by her, Gaius, the son he spoiled and petted until the day of the boy's death. I remember the day he brought the infant into this tavern and forced the pretty gold-haired thing on every man in the room, because what fellow isn't proud of a new son, and young Sextus meanwhile stood in the doorway, forgotten, ignored, puffed up like a toad with hatred. I still had eyes then. I can't remember what a flower looks like, but I can still see that young man's face and the look of pure murder in his eyes.'

I thought I heard my host returning, and looked over my shoulder.

'Look towards me!' the old man shrieked. 'Don't think I can't tell when you turn away from me — I can tell from the sound of your breathing. Look at me when I talk to you! And listen to the truth: the son hated the father, and the father hated the son. I felt the hatred grow and fester in this very room, year after year. I heard the words that were never spoken — the words of anger, resentment, revenge. And who could blame either one of them, but most of all the father — to have had such a son, such a failure, such a disappointment. A greedy little pig, that's what he's turned out to be. Greedy and fat and disrespectful. Imagine the heartbreak, the bitterness! Is it any wonder my grandson never visits, and won't speak to his father? They say Jupiter demands that a son should obey his father, and a father his own father, but what kind of order can there be in a world where men go blind or else grow fat as pigs? The world is a ruin, lost, with no redemption. The world is dark….'

I stepped back, appalled. In the next instant the fat taverner jostled me aside, seized the old man by his shoulders and pulled him out of the doorway. I stepped through and glanced back. The old man's milky eyes were fixed on me. He babbled on. The son averted his face.

I untied Vespa, mounted her, and rode through what remained of the town of Narnia and across the bridge as quickly as I could.

17

Vespa seemed as eager as I to leave the village of Narnia behind. She made no complaint as I rode her doggedly down the final leg of the day's journey. When we came to a fork in the road just north of the village, she seemed reluctant to stop.

A public trough stood at the junction. I made her drink slowly, reining her back after every few swallows. A crude signpost stood behind the trough, a goat's skull mounted on a stick. Across the bleached brow someone had painted an arrow pointing to the left and the word AMERIA. I turned from the broad Flaminian Way onto the Amerian side road, a narrow path that meandered up to the saddle of a steep ridge.

We began the ascent. Vespa at last began to weary, and the jolts against my backside made me grit my teeth. I leaned forwards, stroking her neck. At least the heat of the day had begun to dissipate, and the ridge cast us into cool shadow.

Near the summit I came to a band of slaves who clustered about an ox cart, helping to push it onto the ridge. The vehicle lurched and swayed and finally attained the level ground. The slaves leaned against one another, some of them smiling with relief, others too weary to show any expression. I rode up beside the driver and waved.

'Do you make this trip often?' I asked.

The boy gave a start when he heard me, then smiled. 'Only when there's something to take to market at Narnia. The dangerous part is going down that hill.'

'I can imagine.'

‘We lost a slave last year. He was helping to brake the cart on its way down and fell under the wheel. It isn't nearly as steep on the other side going down into Ameria.'

'But downhill all the same. That should please my horse.'

'She's a beautiful animal.' He looked at Vespa with a farm boy's admiration.

'So,' I said, 'you come from Ameria?'

'Nearby. Just outside the town, at the foot of the hill.'

'Perhaps you could tell me how to find the home of Sextus Roscius.'

'Well, yes. Except that Sextus Roscius doesn't live there any more.'

'You mean the old man?'

'Oh, the one who was murdered? If that's who you're looking for, you'll find what's left of him in the family cemetery. He never lived in Ameria that I knew of, not since I was born.'

'No, not the old man; the son.'

'He used to live near my father's place, if you mean the one with the two daughters.'

'Yes, he has a daughter about your age; a very pretty girl.'

The lad grinned. 'Very pretty. And very friendly.' He arched his eyebrows in an effort to look worldly. The image of Roscia's naked body flashed through my mind. I saw her pressed against the wall, wilted with satisfaction, with Tiro on his knees before her. Perhaps Tiro had hot been the first.

'Tell me how to find his house,' I said.

He shrugged. 'I can tell you how to find it, but as I said, it's not his any more. They drove Sextus Roscius out.'

'When?'

'About two months ago.' 'And why was that?'

'The law, laid down from Rome. His father had been proscribed. Do you know what that means?' 'Only too well.'

He drew a finger across his throat. 'And then they take all your land and all your money. They don't leave the family a thing. There was some auction held down in Rome. My father said he wouldn't mind bidding on some of the land, especially the parcels next to ours. But he said it wouldn't serve any use. The auctions are always rigged. You have to be a friend of a friend of Sulla's, or else know the right man to bribe.'

Twice now I had been told the proscription story. It made no sense, but if it was true it would surely be a simple matter to prove Sextus Roscius innocent of his father's death.

'Tell me then, who lives there now?'

'Old Man Capito. Bought up the family house and some of the best farmland. My father spat on the ground when he heard he was going to be our new neighbour. All through the winter Capito allowed Sextus and his family to stay on. People thought that was only right, that Capito should take pity on him. Then he kicked them out for good.'

'And did no one take them in? Surely Sextus Roscius had friends who owed him some obligation.'

'You'd be surprised how fast a man can lose his friends when there's trouble from Rome; that's what my father says. Besides, Roscius was always a loner; I can't say that he seemed to have many friends. I suppose my father was the closest to a friend he had, us being neighbours and all. After Capito kicked him out, he spent a few nights under our roof. He and his wife and daughters.' The boy's voice trailed off, and I saw from his eyes that he was thinking of Roscia. 'But he didn't stay in Ameria for long. He headed straight for Rome. They say the old man had a powerful patroness, and Sextus was going to ask her for help.'

We rode on for a moment in silence. The wheels of the ox cart creaked and banged against the rutted road. The slaves trudged alongside. 'You told me the old man was proscribed,' I said.

'Yes.'

'And when that was announced, did no one protest?'

'Oh, yes. There was a delegation sent to Sulla and everything. But if you really want to know about that, you'd have to talk to my father.'

'What is your father's name?'

'Titus Megarus. I'm Lucius Megarus.'

'And my name is Gordianus. Yes, I'd like very much to speak with your father. Tell me, how do you think he would take it if you were to bring a well-met stranger home to dinner?'

The boy was suddenly wary. 'I think it might all depend.' 'On what?'

'From the way you talk, you've got some sort of interest in Capito and his land.' 'I do.'