as unguents. My progress was slowing. It was time to turn east, to an easier way.
Preparations had been long and patient, hushed. My life was unchanged, but I smelt and sensed the bustle in the kitchens, saw the greenery put up to beautify our house. I was put to bed early the night before. Quinta tucked me in, and said, ‘Now remember, don’t wait up for him. He only comes to children who are asleep.’
‘Who, Quinta? Who comes?’
‘You’ll find out in the morning – if you go to sleep.’ She kissed me on the forehead, said, ‘Good night,’ crossed the room and softly closed the door. Her smell, of lavender and laundry, stayed behind.
I fought to stay awake. From far below us in the Forum, I heard the drums that marked the passing of the hours. I forced my eyes wide open. I clenched my teeth, held my arms rigid. I pinched myself, sat upright, pushed off my blankets to be cold – but I fell asleep.
I woke with a start. What had I done wrong? Yes, fallen asleep. I jumped up, rushed to the window and tugged the curtain open. I could hear people stirring in the house. It was not fully light, but enough for me to see, as I turned, an unfamiliar little table by the end of my bed. On it were boxes. I was running to the table when the door opened and my father and mother came in. I checked myself.
‘Good morning, Father. Good morning, M––’
‘Oh, go on!’ my mother laughed. ‘Happy Saturnalia. Open them!’ She was fat about the middle, fatter than when I had last seen her.
How long had it been since Quinta had told me? Six months, five? I still didn’t understand.
She had been putting me to bed. I was spitting into the bowl she held, having cleaned my teeth with the usual stem of arrowroot and my dentiscalpium, my toothpick, when she said, ‘And by the by, young master, you soon won’t be alone.’
‘What do you mean, Quinta? I’m not alone. I have you, and Festo, and my father, and––’
‘I mean a brother or a sister. You’re going to have a brother or a sister or maybe, who knows, two of each.’ Her kind face smiled, and the crows’ feet round her eyes became like a spider’s web and as she nodded enthusiastically her double chins wobbled.
‘Two of each?’
‘Or even one of each,’ she said, sounding hopeful.
I looked hard at her. Slowly, I put my right thumb in my mouth. For once, she didn’t pull it out. I still remember sucking hard. I don’t think I did it again until I saw the carnage at Cannae and then, yes, I sucked my thumb.
Sorry, Bostar. Cannae is some way off, I admit. But the extent to which past, present and future are the same baffles me. What is an action? By asking that very question, I am presuming my past – from which I acquired the capacity to ask it – my present – in which I ask it – and my future, without which it would lose its force.
An action, any action, is surely the result of someone doing something intentionally. That intention is formed, in large part at least, by that person’s past and presupposes the consequences of the future. But say I moved this chair to the door to have a different view. Say Aurio then came in to clean when we had gone to bed and, in the dark, tripped over the chair because it wasn’t where he expected it to be. My action would have had consequences, yet no one could say they were intentional. Perhaps, then, we need a new word for that kind of action.
But back to Quinta.
‘I don’t understand. I’m going to have a brother, or a sister, or two of them, or one of each?’ I asked.
Quinta tutted. I have not known since a sound so sure, unless it be the thud of a pilum lodged in flesh. ‘It’s past your bed-time,’ she marched on in her brusquest manner. ‘What I mean is that your mother is going to have a baby,’ she said, tucking in my sheets.
‘What, tomorrow?’
‘No, Publius, not tomorrow.’ She was suddenly gentle. She sat down on the edge of my bed.
‘Well, when?’
‘When, when … when the baby is ready. When the baby is ready, Publius, you will have a brother or a sister. Or both.’ She chuckled. I saw the creases in her rosy cheeks. ‘Now, you must sleep.’ She leant forward across me, about to blow out the candle, and her soft bosom against my chest made me feel safe.
‘Quinta?’ I said softly, slipping round on my side to face her.
‘Yes?’
‘Have you got babies?’
Suddenly, she crossed and clenched her hands beside me. ‘No, young master, no, I haven’t. Except …’ And the thing I still remember is the cheeks of my nanny, Quinta, in soft candlelight, wet with tears. I hope I have not failed her.
When they came back, three were limping. Two others had great gashes in their sides. ‘So, not a pig, a boar,’ I said out loud. I had begun talking to myself, as men do when they are long alone. But they all had full bellies. They had killed.
The land was opening out. Early some mornings, if the breeze was right, I could smell the sea from the Mare Adriaticum, over to the east. The dogs fell further and further behind, although I always left out for them any hare or rabbit I could spare. But those were just scraps. They must have been hungry, as by then was I. It had been eight weeks, nine, since I left Secunium. As I left Bruttium, forage became increasingly rare. I saw villages, inhabited, but I stayed away. I did once come upon an olive store. I ate as many as I could and took as many as I could carry. I left behind a gold piece in the almost empty jar. I chuckled as I thought how I must, thereby, have added to the local lore of sprites and fairies.
The world needs more of those. I once asked my father how it was that trees grew upside down. I meant, of course, how they went up so high. You couldn’t, for example, throw a javelin that high.
He scoffed, and told me not to be so silly. But I still don’t know the answer.
I had reached the brow of a small but steep hill, rich in brambles and wild rose. I paused to catch my breath and look around. Below me, on the little plain, was the pack of dogs, tongues lolling in the heat. The lead dog, a big, grizzled grey mastiff, moved forward and stretched out his neck, it seemed, towards me. He gave out a long ululating howl, then barked, once, twice, turned and trotted back the way he had come. The others followed. I don’t know why, but I thought this was an omen, and I thought the omen good.
They both came and sat on my bed. They were holding hands. I had rarely seen them together before, let alone like this. ‘What are they?’ I asked, pointing to the boxes.
‘Presents, Publius, presents,’ my father said with a smile.
‘What kind of presents?’
‘How should we know?’
‘Aren’t they from you?’
‘No,’ my mother replied. ‘They come from Saturnus, a god. Today is his birthday. He brought you, and all other good children, these presents in the
