It was as well Lucius had his back to the quinquereme, or he would have seen the grins and flashing eyes that passed among the crew behind him. Even the pilot had to draw his hand to his mouth and pretend to cough.
On the quayside there was a long, unpleasant pause.
‘Very well,’ said Lucius eventually. ‘It is no great matter; we can catch up with the fleet on Kephallania, just as you say . . . I was delayed, and the fleet has gone on, that is all.’ He let out a sudden sharp laugh. It sounded like a dog choking. ‘Still, now we are here, we may as well eat and amuse ourselves a little . . . Which tavern is best? And which house has the best girls?’
The poor harbour-master, a lean, serious-looking man of middle age who was, no doubt, an excellent organizer of ship movements and such things, assumed a stricken expression, suspecting, I think, that Lucius was trying to catch him out in some lapse of military discipline.
‘Why I cannot say, sir,’ he stuttered. ‘I eat at the mess generally; though I hear there are good dining houses up on the hill . . . For the rest, I do not know.’
Lucius gave him a careful sidelong look, trying to gauge whether he was being mocked. He must have decided, in the end, that the man meant no more than he had said, for with a dismissive toss of his hand he cried, ‘Oh leave me alone then,’ and went marching off up the quayside.
We busied ourselves with what little there was to do.
Lucius returned soon after, having regained a degree of composure, and announced that, with the fleet already sailed, there was no need for haste. He was going into the town for the night, and the rest of us could do as we wished.
I had already noticed, from the moment our quinquereme passed through the harbour wall, the grand white-painted mansion up on the ridge, where I had first met my stepfather. The sight of it revived all my bad memories. I had not even troubled to find out whether Caecilius still owned the place; I did not care, for I had no intention of going there; and when we had finished with the business on the quay, I put up with the rest of the ship’s men in a boisterous sailors’
inn in the street behind the harbour.
I was in my room, arranging my few things, when one of the crew tapped on the door and said a man was asking for me below. He had declined to come in, and was waiting in the street.
‘Did he give his name?’ I asked, wondering who in Kerkyra might know me.
‘He would not say,’ said the crewman. ‘But he told me he was a friend of yours.’
Curious now, I left my things half-unpacked on the bed and went downstairs. By then evening was coming on. The westering sun had already sunk behind the hills, leaving the street in shadow. A figure was waiting under the porch, leaning against the pillar with his back to me. As soon as I stepped through the door he swung round.
‘Marcus, sir, so it is you after all . . . Well, what can I say?’ – with a show of admiring my uniform – ‘you have certainly made something of yourself since Tarentum, but of course I always knew you would, in fact . . .’
He talked on, pouring out a stream of babbling empty compliments while I stared at him.
It was fat Florus, much thinner now, who had done his best to make my life in Tarentum miserable, and had ridden off when I was in danger.
Clearly he wanted something. For a while I listened to his unctuous insincere protests of affection and respect. When at last he paused I asked if he was still working for Caecilius.
‘Ah!’ he said, sucking his breath through his teeth, ‘you see Marcus sir, that is the very thing. I am here when needed, always available . . . though your father is in Greece at present, as you must know.’
‘My
step
father. Yes, I heard.’
‘Yes, yes,’ he said, nodding vigorously and wringing his hands, ‘but if you see him – I suppose you
will
see him – perhaps you would tell him, Marcus sir, that you met me, and that I am here, and that I await his instructions.’
I gave him a careful look. ‘Yes, if you wish. If I see him. Is that what you wanted to speak to me about?’
‘Yes . . . Well no, not only. Since you are so important’ – with another flourish at my uniform – ‘maybe you will speak to the garrison commander for me, just put a word in . . . any work will do – anything equal to my dignity, that is – you will find me at—’ He hesitated, then stepping up went on in a lowered voice, ‘Well, to be honest with you, Marcus, I am between lodgings just at present; but ask the under-clerk at the harbour-master’s office – his name is Amplicius – and he will know how to reach me.’
Up close, his breath and body smelled bad. He had done his best with his clothing, but I saw his cloak was dirty, and worn threadbare where the hem caught on the ground. His feet were grey with dust, and the overstraps of his sandals had been botched together with rivets. He was trying to look like a successful man of business; it was pathetic; anyone could see it was a sham, and for a moment I felt sorry for him.
‘I’ll put a word in at the garrison,’ I said, thinking they might find something for him there. Then, for no particular reason, I asked, ‘How is your friend Virilis, the one who was in Tarentum with you.
Is he here too?’
Immediately his face changed. He leapt back and cried, ‘That snake! Why do you mention him? Has Caecilius told you then?’
‘Told me what?’
He seemed not to hear, but went on, ‘Virilis is no friend of
mine
, that ditch-born son of a whore – may the gods rot him, the weasel! It was an oversight, no more than that—’
‘What was?’
He regarded me suspiciously. ‘You
know
. You knew all along, and you are making fun of me. Caecilius must have told you. I was not stealing the land-rents, as that informing snake told Caecilius; it was no more than a misunderstanding. I had the money for safe keeping in my room; I meant to bring it but must have forgotten, that’s all; an oversight, anyone could have done it.’
I began to understand. Perhaps Florus saw it in my face.
Suddenly ingratiating again, he clutched at my tunic as I stepped towards the door. ‘Tell him so, Marcus sir. Don’t forget. A mistake.
That’s all. A mistake.’
Just then, from somewhere down the street, a voice shouted out, ‘Hey, you!’
Florus’s head jerked round. He gasped, bit his knuckles, hitched up his grubby old mantle, then hurried off along the side-alley without another word.
I watched him go, then turned. The man who had shouted was racing up the street.
I stepped out, and extended my arm to block him.
He halted, looked angrily at my face, then glanced down at my uniform.
‘He owes me,’ he said.
I said, ‘He has nothing.’
‘Pah!’ said the man. ‘He should have thought of that.’ But by now Florus had made his escape.
Seeing this, the man gave a contemptuous shrug, spat in the gutter, then turned and sloped off the way he had come.
So much for Florus. I don’t know what trouble he had got himself into; but I did no more for him than put this man off his track for a while.
I shook my head and returned inside. I had concerns enough of my own, for it had become clear, on the crossing from Brundisium, that Lucius had neither forgiven nor forgotten. With that, and his fractious mood, I was not looking forward to the rest of the journey to Athens.
We departed next day, steering south for the island of Kephallania. I stood with Lamyros the pilot at the stern, and watched the rocky sinuous coast of Epeiros recede in the east.
I was thinking of Titus. Already he was there, somewhere among the steep wooded ravines and high peaks, and with him were the crack troops he had taken from Italy: the best of Scipio’s veterans, men who had defeated Hannibal in Africa, and who knew the taste of victory.
All through the winter he had been holed up with the military planners, working on dispositions, appointments, troop transports, intelligence reports and all the business that moving an army required. But commands are only formally assigned to the new consuls when they take up office, when each consul’s province is chosen by lot – unless the Senate consents to some other arrangement. And so, until that day, nothing was certain.
That year, his co-consul was a man named Paetus. On the Ides of March, on the day they took up office, he and Titus convened the Senate and sought permission to allocate that year’s commands not by lot, as was customary, but by arrangement; telling the Senate that he and Paetus had agreed between them that Paetus would remain to administer Italy, while Titus would go to Epeiros, to conduct the war against Philip.
The Senate had agreed, and next day Titus had set out for Brundisium, where his ship was waiting.
From somewhere behind me, Lucius’s voice broke into my thoughts. He was complaining to Lamyros. I scarcely listened; he had found reason to complain of something or other ever since Brundisium. At least, for a brief while, I was not the target of his anger.
He had been abrupt and hostile from the moment he set eyes on me. On a ship, such things are quickly noticed. Even before we reached Kerkyra the rest of the crew, having got the measure of Lucius for themselves, were throwing me discreet sympathetic looks – and adding, when they could be sure Lucius would not see, a mocking gesture of the fingers, or a roll of the eyes and tongue, parodying sea-sickness, or hilarious imitations of Lucius’s awkward pot-bellied way of walking along the deck.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to play on this to my own advantage, and to Lucius’s detriment. But, I reflected, I should only be feeding my own vanity, and doing no good to Titus, or the cause of Rome, or to the shades of the innocent people of Abydos.
I resolved, therefore, that, whatever the provocation, I should give Lucius no cause, nor undermine his command. And so, when, scarcely two hours out of Kerkyra, Lucius went to the stern-house and called for a flask of wine, I refused to meet the crew’s knowing nods and winks, and instead leant on the rail, watching the long line of the coast in the distance, keeping my thoughts to myself and reflecting on the battles to come.
On the second day we rounded the sheer, white cliffs of Cape Leukatas, with its temple of Apollo perched on top. Ahead, beyond the headland, lay Kephallania, pine-clad, rising from a glittering sea; and next to it, close by, the island of Ithaka.
The sail was hauled down. The pilot gave the order for oars, and we passed through the channel which separates the two islands, emerging shortly before sunset into a wide, sheltered bay.
On the far side, spreading up the hillside, was the town of Sami, white-painted, shining orange and golden in the late sunlight; and all around us, on still water like burnished bronze, sat the triremes and quinqueremes and storeships of the Roman fleet, lying peacefully at anchor.
I should not have cause to mention our stay at Sami, but for the fact that it was here that Lucius met the love of his life.
I do not know where he first found the boy, but by the second day they were inseparable. His name was Doron. He was more than ten years younger than Lucius – sixteen or seventeen – though his slender body and girlish manner made him seem younger still.
He had flawless olive-coloured skin; pretty, fluttering hands, and shrewd black eyes like a money-lender’s. His father, as I later learnt, had run off some years before with a woman from Syracuse, leaving him to be brought up by his doting embittered mother. She had allowed him to do as he pleased, which is not the best way to bring up a son or daughter in a busy harbour town. He had little money, but at some point he discovered the one thing he possessed that gave him power over others: his epicene looks.
These looks he exploited to the full, gaining for himself, along with a hoard of petty love-gifts, enough money to keep himself in bright, fashionable clothes. Anyone who has walked down the streets behind a port could guess what he gave in exchange.
For all my dislike of Lucius, yet it was painful to see how he was put upon. Doron played on the strings of his heart as an expert musician plays the kithara. He was all tenderness and smiles whenever Lucius was within sight. When he was not, he was sulky, sharp-tongued, long-faced and petulant. He could change his features as an actor changes his mask.
During those few days at Sami, Lucius fell completely for the boy’s siren song. He thought he had found the perfect love, though even the roughest deckhand or wharfside trollop could see he was deceived. He was a slave to Doron’s every whim.
But if Lucius was blinded, Doron was not. With all the skill of a master angler he had Lucius caught.
It was a catch he did not intend to lose.
Before long, the provisioning of the fleet was done, and it was time to depart.
The bulbous, heavily laden transports would need to be towed around the Gulf of Malea, a slow and tedious journey, with many halts. Lucius had no patience for this. He announced he intended to sail ahead to Athens in a convoy of three fast quinqueremes. The rest of the fleet could proceed at its own pace and meet him there.
Next day we prepared to put to sea. All about the wide bay, tenders were rowing between the ships, or from ship to shore, and on the decks the crews were making final preparations – loosening the furled sails, preparing the ropes, stowing the last baskets of provisions and casks of water.
All of a sudden there was a commotion at the far end of the waterfront. I glanced up from what I was doing and saw Doron, striding onto the quayside from under the archway, wearing a sunhat garlanded with a ribbon, and sumptuously dressed in a sky-blue travelling cloak with ruby buttons.
On the deck everyone turned to look, just as Lucius appeared at his side, beaming like a bridegroom, followed by three porters struggling with a vast cedarwood clothes-chest.
‘By God!’ muttered Lamyros beside me. ‘Surely he’s not bringing the boy with him?’
The rugged old marines, veterans from the war with Hannibal, were sitting about on the quay, busying themselves with their gear, or lounging in the sunlight while they waited to board. One turned and said something. Then all their heads swung round.