can see clearly over many miles. Could one chance-passing seeker after carrion have seen Sulcipia’s body lying beside me on the ground? There are many things man does not understand.
When I had finished, I climbed further up the hill. There was a glade there of birches, and the little spring that fed them made the grass green all around. I saw a sapling that was straight and healthy. I dug it up with care, carried it down and planted it in the stony earth above Sulcipia. Then I went up and back several times to refill my water-gourd and soaked the birch’s roots. They would have good feeding in time.
I left Secunium the next morning, at first light. I remember well what I had with me: those things with which I had come. The clothes I stood in, boots, black cotton trousers under my leather leggings, a simple cotton shirt and over that my light summer cloak. In my satchel were my winter cloak, a pair of sandals, four maps of Italy, two unused wax tablets and three styluses. Hanging from my belt were my knife and water-gourd. The only things I left with that I had not brought were calluses and an even heavier heart.
I walked north, up and through the ruined fields where Sosius had first taken me. Did I know where I was going? Not entirely. Away. Secunium’s life was not mine. I have seen so many men in trouble for living a life that was not theirs, for never living their own – though it seems much easier so. When people realise their mistake, it is usually too late to change. Sometimes, as when I left Secunium, let alone left Hannibal, I did so because I had to find my own way.
‘The wettest thing is water,’ says Xenophanes, ‘the brightest thing is light, the hottest thing is fire, the softest is air. But the hardest is to know yourself.’ As I think does Scipio, I grow old learning something of that every day.
I was about to pass an olive tree, old and big but wizened, burnt. I stopped to look at it. Olives are strong. This one was already sprouting new shoots and leaves from its blackened bark. It seemed to me a symbol of hope for Secunium, a symbol, too, of the strength of Rome. You can burn an olive, and destroy a year’s crop, even three, but it will fruit again. The vine is the same, with the vigour of a weed. Olive and vine must be uprooted to be killed. Hannibal thought that by burning he would do enough. As this tree and many showed, he was wrong.
Sosius stepped into my path from behind the tree. I stopped again. He looked at me openly this time. ‘Go well, Teacher. Perhaps you don’t know it, but you have taught while you’ve been here.’
‘Taught, Sosius? I don’t know about that. But I do know I have learnt.’
‘Here, take this,’ he said, pressing a bag against my chest. ‘I don’t need it now. Vale. Farewell.’
I watched him until he disappeared over the brow of the hill back into his village of, or so it seemed, the damned. Perhaps they would know peace again, and thrive and farm.
When he had gone, I thought it would be easier to carry one bag, not two. So I opened Sosius’. There were four barley cakes in it, two cheeses, and a little leather pouch, shut with a thong.
I squatted down, tugged the thong of the pouch and tipped it up. Gold fell to the ground, gold pieces. I picked one up. It had clay on it. So Sosius had had gold buried underground. Where? The shrine, probably. No one would think or want to look there. I scraped off the clay. ‘Senatus populusque Romanus,’ I made out. Roman gold. I laughed out loud as I remembered. Hannibal had paid me each month, as he paid everyone who served him – when he could – although most served for love, not gold. But I had never taken the money, just asked him to keep it for me. It never occurred to me to ask for it when I stayed behind. Hannibal had paid me in a different kind.
* * *
My childhood. That is what made me, and I have made Rome, so I must give a true account. And be consistent. Chronology, then, Bostar. I shall use the order of time, and not totter about like a new-born colt. Though I am hardly that. An old warhorse, perhaps, now put out to grass. But I shall chew my grazing carefully, and dream.
He seemed immensely tall, a fair giant, my first teacher, Rufustinus. He was also very thin. My nanny, Quinta, was the opposite, dark and small and round. We were all astonished to learn, years later in Celtiberia, that they were to marry – no, Bostar, I shall not forget that I am to be Thucydidean, or try to.
Rufustinus was my litterator, employed to teach me to read and write when I was four. We Romans have a clear and tested system of education. A litterator teaches letters to an abecedarius, someone learning a-b-c, and that then was me. In lesser families, the father acts as litterator, but my father did not have the time and did, presumably, have the money to pay someone else to do it. I had a class with Rufustinus each morning for two hours in a room at the far end of the courtyard.
He came from near Verona in the north. His mother was a Celt, and that explained his fair hair and blue eyes. Of course, Rufustinus didn’t tell me this. I would never have dared ask him. He kept strictly to work. I learnt what little I knew from Festo, who used to help me dress. Yes, I know, Bostar. I’ve already mentioned him. Anyway, Festo told me that Rufustinus had been a clerk to one of the state priests, or pontiffs, and that’s why he was so clever. That meant little to me. Other things did.
‘And why, Festo, is he so tall?’ I once asked.
‘Also because, young master, he is a Celt. Theirs is a land of many rivers and mountains. The people there need to be big to cross and to climb. Why, some of them are taller than the Aventine. They march at great speed round their country, catching animals to eat.’
‘What kind of animals?’
‘Huge shaggy ones called aurochs, and others called bison, ten times bigger than the biggest cow. They kill them with clubs bigger than I am, and then’ – and Festo whispered in my ear – ‘then they eat them raw.’
I remember this conversation because it made me curious. A little scared too, I suppose, but above all curious. Perhaps that was when I developed a love of travel I have never lost. For weeks I dreamed of giant Celts with clubs in wild and wasted lands. But it did me good. I certainly worked harder after that, and never did anything that might annoy Rufustinus.
I thought about what Festo had told me. When Rufustinus wasn’t watching, I looked at him hard. Yes, he was tall, but not all that tall, I decided. So the next time Festo was sent to help me dress, I challenged him. ‘Festo, you said the Celts are very, very tall, and Rufustinus is, certainly. But he’s not all that tall, only two or three hands more than you.’
‘Granted, young master. He was obviously the runt of his litter. Now, your sandals …’ Well, I have known many Celts since then and travelled through their lands. I have never seen a giant. Perhaps I will one day, in my dreams.
Runt or not, I found Rufustinus’ Latin strange at first, guttural and harsh. But he had an excellent reputation – otherwise, of course, my father would not have employed him – and he taught me well. Or, rather, I think he must have done, because I learnt to read and write sooner than was expected of me.
But the truth is that I cannot remember how he taught me. I remember words written down on tablets and placed on or beside the objects they described. Mensa on a table, cathedra on a chair, lucerna by a lamp and so on. In time, I think, Rufustinus began to place the letters in order for me
