A BATH AND A NICE LIE DOWN
I have to say that our soft landing in the great pile of sloppy dung created quite a revival in Gavius. He was like a new man, wiping the burning excrement from his eyes with almost as much excitement as he spat it out of his mouth.
That he then attempted to throttle me was likewise a pleasant change from his normal demure self, though his hands were too slippery to purchase much of a grip – that's not to say I couldn't be asphyxiated in dung. And all the while our cordial driver ignored our presence, being either quite deaf or completely overcome by the noxious fumes of his lading.
In the end something had to give, and so this time it happened to be the tailgate.
A sickly and rusted bolt had had enough and popped off with barely a nudge from my floundering feet. Considering much of the load was in a near fluid state, the sprung-opening vented a considerable part of it onto the road, including two actors.
I barely felt the bump as we both came to sliding halt in the mess.
Sitting up – and as usual feeling for broken bones – I noticed our quiet cobbled street had been turned into something more resembling an overworked sewer. Gavius was still a little distracted and was about to lunge at me again when we heard a voice shouting behind us.
“By the gods, what in Hades have you two done here?”
I looked the cur up and down, seeing an Etrurian farm type in sleeveless yellow tunic, thinly filled purse and old riding boots just made for shovelling manure – at least he wasn't one of the Dictator's land grant soldiers, from whom a real working over involving a pig trough was quite possible.
The wagon had stopped not far beyond and our driver had at last been quick in spotting the trouble – us. It was then I began realising how disgusting and unexplainable my current condition would be. Obviously he would be looking for compensation for tipping out his fertiliser. I'd have to work just as fast on him as on Gavius – who was paused mid-strangling.
“Weren't you looking,” I shouted, “What? Do you drive around with your eyes closed? Here we are…Two gentlemen out for a stroll and some ungrateful so and so comes and dumps this load on us.”
The farm type considered the filth before him, still not sure of what to make of this disaster.
“I mean,” I continued my tirade fingering my worn out tunic, “Look at this, this was brand new not a day ago…And its ruined…What am I going to tell my mother, whose poor gnarled arthritic hands wove this delicate cloth for a month to dress me so fine.”
“I'm…I'm sorry…I didn't see you...”
“Didn't see us? You damn near ran us over…If good Gavius,” I patted my friend's shoulder with one hand while trying to loosen his grip on my neck with the other, “hadn't thrown me from the path of your damned mule I would surely be a corpse.”
I waved a dripping hand his way.
“Perhaps I should be…I was to see the Town Praefect this very morning to take up a new survey of the surrounding farmlands. How am I to see our esteemed governor looking like this? Perhaps he might think some locals are none to happy with his planned redistributions?”
The Etrurian visibly swallowed – surveys conducted by the local Roman magistrate were always bad news for a native population.
“Now…Now, do not believe this was an act of treachery my good man,” the farmer stammered, “I may have dozed off for a moment…That is all. I pay my dues and I voted for the Dictator's Boni…I want no trouble with the Praefect.”
“You want no trouble,” I screamed, as a thought occurred to me that this farmer might be much better connected than I presumed – still – daring it all, I was on a roll, “Are you going to explain this?”
“Perhaps we can come to some sort of an arrangement,” he gestured to his rather limp purse.
“An arrangement?”
I winked at Gavius – only to get my eyelids stuck together by the coagulating stable muck.
“For your inconvenience of course.”
“I see,” as I worked my eye open again.
“Of course…Of course,” he said hurriedly opening his small purse and seeing what was inside.
Here was a man who understood an unkind word to the local magistrate could mean anything from a tax audit to a survey peg in his kitchen.
“I have with me five denarii, there's a good bathhouse just around the corner and I'm sure they could replace your clothes kind sirs – I want no more trouble – none. I'm the Dictator's man through and through, don't think for a moment that being an Etrurian makes me someone to be doubted in loyalty.”
Which usually was the case.
As he hurriedly thrust the silver coins into my hand, my careful response of trying to hide my exuberant jumping up and down was to say, “I see – and do not believe me as some over blown Roman official seeking out those not born of my blood.”
I bit at the coin to be sure, before adding.
“I respect your honesty and accept this entire incident was an accident.”
Although the farmer went at first to shake my hand – he soon thought better of it, and instead fixed his tailgate shut and generally rushed about to be on the move again. None of us wanted to be around when the surrounding residents began smelling the spill.
So in a matter of a few minutes, Gavius and I were alone in the street, with only the sound of galloping hooves fading into the distance.
“Well, Gavius, old chum,” I said, watching the retreat of the farmer, as my friend slipped and tumbled backwards again into the manure, “there goes the best meal ticket in town that doesn't involve a fish.”
“Shut up, Calvus,” Gavius growled from the kerbside, “I'm up to here in fish, money and scandal. I'm a sodding actor not some hustler's fall guy.”
“Gavius,” I scoffed, “I'm quite hurt.”
“Shove off, I need a bath, not your hurt feelings.”
By Jove the old son was really annoyed this time, he was positively fuming – as well as reeking. And this was the thanks I got for not only saving his life, but also extracting some much-needed cash from a susceptible local.
Well, I never.
So I said what any admonished evil doer might, “Sod you Gavius, if you want some bath money, you'd better show me the respect I deserve.”
And while the flying clod of dung was not what I expected, it was good enough for me. I hoisted the slacker onto his feet and off we went to find this reputable bathhouse our newfound farming friend had mentioned.
As it turned out the place in question managed to snag the title of bathhouse only by featuring a bath – more by coincidence than good planning I thought. Anything else, like obliging staff, a masseuse, pleasant surroundings and hot water seemed to be optional extras the half Greek, half Alsatian attendant didn't want to extend to us.
Instead he barked something about filthy, money thieving low lives and growled our tunics would have to be burnt.
I wasn't going to argue.
What I wanted was a good face scrub and some rose oil, not bad company – sourpuss Gavius was there for that.
It was a two-bit bath at best but he charged us a nice round Sestercii instead.
For another three we got new tunics – something the previous owners had left behind in embarrassment, mine was bright red, Gavius' more a faded pink.
However the dark ring we left around the edge of the tepid Caldarium – and the Tepidarium was frigid – obviously the only thing in the furnace were our tunics – came as a decent parting gift.
We left feeling the refreshing cling of new tunics – and someone else's parasites – while still needing to have a bath. But as a pair down on their luck – as if actors are in any other sort of way – this was still a better start to the day than we were accustomed to.
Our old hairy friend Merdius was waiting for us around the corner, nosing yet another pile of rubbish. Someone had been good enough to donate him a new bridal and a pretty red leather leader – which he had chewed through.
And what's more – struggling to sit astride his wide girth were two fat, one-talent amphorae.
A quick tap on the cool red clay said the jars were full, and looking at the wooden label whose tie string was set into the wax cap seal, my drooling mouth went into spasms.
I couldn't believe it.
Not one little bit.
I – and I suppose cranky old Gavius, when he apologised – had become the proud owners some of Arretium's finest Chianti.
At this point I ignored the big “C” inscribed with the slap of a tar brush to the sides of each jar.
Anyway after the flounder incident I felt Claudius owed me, and two thousand Sestercii in wine was a fine place to begin.
Clearly it was an opportunity not lost on me. I could drink it all now, and die the happiest drunkard to live, or I could use it as an investment to keep that one step ahead of the phantom and Sulla's cronies.
It was a tough decision – one that delayed me till I tossed a coin. Indeed I tossed it four times before I regretfully acknowledged what the gods intended for me.
I was going on the run – sober, well, sober-ish – how much could a little taste hurt?
But after struggling with both attendant corks – I was forced to accept it would be sober and nothing less.
So off we went, Merdius, Gavius and our new career as quality wine merchants in tow.
Well, right up until Gavius noticed we were leaving town – he'd presumed all the coin tossing and cussing had been tiddly winks.
“Where are we going, Calvus?” his old whining voice returned.
I pointed to the north-gate – and smoke-belching clay kilns along the banks of the River Arnus beyond – grandly announcing, “Florentia.”
“Florentia?” he blurted out as if he had just swallowed a large biting insect.
“Yes, Florentia,” I replied curtly, as if there was another place to go.
Porcia and my fish might be on that road. And if my luck held out maybe I'd find the conspirators with the other half of the cash – using Claudius' lost wine as bait – not that I was about to tell Gavius any such.
He sounded wounded now – like a small child promised a rocking horse for his birthday and given a clothes peg instead.
I did that to my little brother once and Manius still doesn't speak to me, thanks be to the gods.
“But what about the play?” he complained.
“The play? Have you been participating in reality these last two days,” I bellowed, “The sodding play is over. We're closing the curtain and taking a last bow. Both our necks are on the line. By the gods, wake up.”
“But we were to perform for the Dictator,” he whinged just a bit more.
Thank the gods he wasn't a fall-down leg-kicking hair-pulling tantrum-thrower – and contrary to what my Ma says, I too have grown out of that twenty-something's phase.
“Sod the Dictator…If the phantom's about, the only actors the old man will need are those in his funeral procession.”
Which I guess was an idea, we were handy for that.
No, what was I thinking?
And then – as we neared the gates and I spotted a cursed tax-duties inspector – the old son changed his tact, he got cranky again – even forceful.
“Sod you Calvus,” Gavius threatened me with his limp wrist, “Dead or not, this could be our big break. Do you want to give it all up for some stolen wine and a nasty headache – don't you have dreams?”
“Sure I have dreams you slack minded git, and staying alive is one of them.”
He, stopped, jumped onto some unfortunate boot-shiner's stool, took a theatrical breath and gushed his best Eunuch, “Then be just another weak glowing ember in the cauldron of life, I want to be that flame bursting forth, be it even only a passing moment.”
Clearly the several blows to his head had taken their toll, he was talking piffle – and it was in Greek.
Embers? Flames?
What bollocks.
Our necks were itching for the strangler's garrotte – or whatever the execution was for conspiring to kill a Dictator and wart-face wanted to quote some Athenian twaddle.
“You're not changing my mind,” I shouted over my shoulder as his stoic protestations retreated behind Merdius' rump – at least the Eunuch's sandals were getting a clean from a large Carthaginian with a fierce disposition – too bad I still had all the cash.
And that was just about when I came face to face with the taxman – another Carthaginian I guessed – with the same scowling constipated face as Gavius' newly acquainted boot-man – the latter having just begun visiting his gladiator-style headlock skills on my newly skimp friend.
Comparing their approachable styles, these two dark-skinned North Africans were probably brothers.
The duties collector eyed the labels on Meridus' amphorae, then looked my fine clothes – featuring moth holes and one of those stains you only notice in the sunlight – and my friendly smile up and down.
Upon reflection he then sneered in snotty Spanish tainted Latin, “Twenty Sestercii, for his Praefect's pleasure.”
“Five Denarii,” I almost choked – I only had three left after our so called bath, “This is hardly Rome my good friend, nor is this the road for robbers to be about.”
“Are you suggesting the Senate and people of Rome are robbing you?”
“I am the people of Rome, and I haven't seen these proceeds – for five Denarii from every pillock who came down in the last shower I should be borne upon a litter of gold to be a Citizen…Sunshine.”
He bent down to look me in the eye.
“If you've got quarrels, you can try the easy way, me, or his lordship's advocates,” he swung an outstretched arm towards five militiamen dressed in chain-mail and white military tunics.
Curses – Sulla's veterans.
They were playing drafts in the shade of a wine-bar awning just outside the gate. At least these were Latins, I was getting tired of Gavius being worked over by foreigners or natives.
“Surely, my good man, we can come to some sort of agreement,” I pleaded, “I'm a little cash poor, but asset rich at the moment, something not easily fixed standing here arguing with you.”
“Have it your way, give me one of those jars and I'll let you through for ten Sestercii…Sunshine,” he said stealing my term of endearment saved for dim-witted public officials.
It was state-authorised robbery, there was no other word for it.
Suddenly I didn't feel so bad being a small cog in the wheel that might bring an end to the Dictator and his sodding Conservative Party. The Boni and all their hangers-on were no better scoundrels than me. They were the ones who thought a purple-lined toga made a difference, not I.
Clearly going into business was looking shaky in this current political climate.
“So who is his lordship, so this good Roman might give a petty Praefect a piece of his mind?”
“Well, young Marcus Valerius Messalla will be having lunch with Lucius Cornelius Sulla this day. Perhaps you can catch them both for a chat.”
“Well, good then,” I shot back, regardless of how pathetic it sounded, “I'll do just that? Where will they be dining?”
I started turning the mule about, only to see Gavius' shoe-shiner coming my way, Gavius was flat on his back – again – and bleeding – again.
The tax collector was unimpressed by my empty threat.
As I braced for the impact of Gavius' friend, the prat shouted after me, “Apologise for me sunshine, I'll be waylaid keeping the Republic's latrines flushing.”
Ordinarily I would have had a witty response for that, but by this time I was bartering with the other Carthaginian for his one bit polish and work over of Gavius. As I only had large denomination Denarii, he took one and kept the three and three-quarter Sestercii worth of change.
Our wheeling and dealing concluded, I helped the Eunuch to his feet and turned for the south-gate where a less enthusiastic duties officer might be thinking of morning tea.
Almost immediately I knew I should have taken the bolt down the road to Florentia, risking the heavily armed militiamen catching me up.
Because that's when I heard the spine tingling words of, “Hello Calvus? Now just where were you off to?”
