Amulet I Read online

Chapter V

  "Men in general are quick to believe that which they wish to be true.” - Gaius Julius Caesar

  I had grown enough to pass for sixteen years old at least and in the Subura, no one asked questions. I was very fit. My thieving required a lot of running and I practised on the Field of Mars often, with other lads of my own age. I made no friends and was careful to avoid too much social contact with my peers for I feared that they would find me out as the thief I had become.

  I began to break into houses and some of the goods I stole were valuable. The jeweller in the Subura always bought my loot and we had a good working relationship. I stole, the jeweller bought and we both seemed content.

  I often puzzled over how the slave Cerberus whom I remembered well, had gotten his hands on the vestal's ring. It dawned upon me that there had to be a connection with the fire, for father would never have parted with the ring otherwise. It was a gradual process, but I worked out that my parents had probably been murdered and I suspected who had done it although I had no proof. I buried that one deep in my head for the more I thought about it, the more painful it became. I never connected it with the map in the amulet around my throat at that time.

  I slept during the afternoon, as most Romans did. It was at those times that the thoughts were most intrusive. In the half-sleep of daytime rest, my hand always strayed to the amulet around my neck. It was strange in one way. Most parents give their infant boys a bulla, an amulet that they wear until adolescence. In my case, it was a gift when I was older for my father had not believed in such things before then. The lateness of the gift made it special. Father’s own hands had made it and it was doubly precious to me for that reason. There was more to it than that. It became a representation of all that was of value in life to me. I fingered it and thought of my parents, my love for them and my loss. It was still a comfort, despite the memories and gradually those memories became a little less painful and when they surfaced, I did not always want to cry. Sometimes remembered scenes would make me smile as I lay on my cot in the dingy tenement rooms that I could hire. The amulet helped me sleep and became a depository for my treasured memories.

  At night, I prowled the well-off areas of the city. My favourite was the Quirinal, where the biggest houses were. Famous people lived upon that hill and the richer you were the higher up the hill you lived. I broke into houses if they were empty or if they looked an easy target.

  One afternoon, I found a smallish house, by Quirinal standards, but it appeared empty, so I resolved to try it that evening.

  The night sky was starlit but there was no moon and I felt conditions were ideal. I decided to climb the wall that led to what I anticipated would be the peristylium, a colonnaded garden. A tree growing close to the wall afforded an access to a keen climber and presented no difficulties.

  I scaled the tree and using an overhanging branch, dropped onto the wall and then down to the ground. There were rooms opening off the peristylium, but as slaves were the usual occupants, I gave them a wide berth.

  There was a small staircase leading up to the first floor and once I was sure there was no one awake in the house, I ascended the stairs. There was no sound, not even a dog barking and I felt my confidence growing that there was no one in the house.

  The first floor had a corridor with rooms opening off it. I walked stealthily to the room at the end and with delicate care pushed the door ajar. It was a bedroom and it was silent and empty. A divan stood in the corner and a desk held a wooden box with a lock. I walked slowly to the desk and opened the unlocked box, listening all the time. There were some scrolls and writing implements but nothing of real value, so I began to look around for something more lucrative. With each passing moment, I felt more at ease and relaxed. With no one in the house, I could take my time and perhaps find jewellery or something else of value.

  The chest that stood in the corner only contained clothes, a sword belt, a scabbard and a new pair of sandals. There were no valuable ornaments and as I made my way through the various rooms, I concluded that the owners were not particularly wealthy.

  I stood on the landing and decided to go to the Atrium where people often kept statues and ornaments. A thick silence, almost tangible, hung in the air and although the place seemed deserted, I began to have an uncomfortable feeling, as if someone was observing me. I stopped in the dark and stood still. Had there been a sound, I might have jumped six feet in the air, for I was as tense and wound as a spring.

  Moments passed. Still no audible signs of life. I looked around me. I listened. I heard a dog bark far off and a laugh in the street. The house remained as silent as a tomb. I entered the atrium through a corridor from the peristylium and as I made my way downstairs, I thought there was a faint sound from one of the slave's rooms below. I flattened myself against the wall in the stairwell, but after a few moments, there was no further sound and I put it down to my imagination.

  The atrium had some chairs and two divans, and it was clear that the occupants took some meals here, for there were some unwashed bowls that had contained food recently, on a low table. I was puzzled by the deserted house. It seemed lived in, but empty.

  In a niche in the wall, stood a small gold statue, which reflected a faint beam of light from the street outside. I felt drawn to it. It was of a soldier holding a short sword high above his head and on its base was embossed the letters: 'PRIMVM PILA LEGIO IX HISPANIA'.

  I had no idea what the inscription meant but I thought it was a golden military piece from its weight, so I was about to put it into my leather pouch when a faint rustling behind, made me turn. I was to recall that sound a thousand times, for I almost collapsed at the sight of the man facing me.

  The soft beam of light from the window outlined him. That same faint light revealed that his contorted features grimaced and snarled. He thrust a blade at my chest. It pushed me back against the wall. I glimpsed a scar running down one side of his face. An opaque eye that did not move.

  I had jumped almost out of my sandals when I saw him, but the blade point at my chest made my knees tremble and I felt a wave of sweat. Panic. An urgent message from my bladder. The end had come. I knew death when I saw it and cursed myself for my stupidity.

  I tried to push the blade away, but the man held it firm. The point began to hurt as it pinned me against the wall. The man looked at me and said nothing. His silence was as terrifying as his appearance. Moments passed without a sound, then sweet relief; he raised the blade. I was on the point of wetting myself.

  'I should kill you for the little thief you are,' the man said in a gravely voice, 'but I don't often kill kids.'

  The accent was rural and crude and the word 'often' did nothing to inspire confidence. I noticed my knees were trembling.

  ‘I am most sorry to be here but I thought the house was empty. I wasn’t trying to steal, honestly.’

  'Trying to steal my retiring present were you? Of the ten Centurions left in that legion after the battle, I was the only one rewarded in that way and it offends me to have a brat like you even touch it.'

  ‘I was only looking at it, you must be very proud.’

  I reached behind me with a quick and dextrous movement replacing the ornament without taking my eyes from the man in front. The old soldier raised his right hand deftly and fast and the hilt of the gladius struck me on the chin hard.

  I remembered no more until morning.

  When I awoke, it was to the sound of birdsong and a headache. The sun was shining above me and I could not move. My hands felt numb, tied behind my back and I was unable to change my posture, for a cord stretched up from my hands and fettered feet, to encircle my throat. My captor sat on a stool in the peristylium and regarded me with cold killer’s eyes and a faint smile.

  The face that confronted me had only one functioning eye and there was a scar reaching from forehead to chin that had even I realised had healed badly for it drew the face towards it in a frightening grimace. If anything, the face looked marginally
worse in broad daylight than it had in the gloom of the Atrium in the night. It kindled thoughts of demons and furies, dead souls and Hades and worse still pain and eventual oblivion.

  'Why would a thieving little rat like you break into an old soldier's home in the dead of night? You must have known there are penalties for doing what you were trying to do. I think I might torture you a little before I send you on your way to Hades. Well what have you got to say for yourself?'

  He got up and poked at me with his sword.

  I tried to reply with some glib excuse but no words came, my mouth was dry. My heart palpitated beneath my ribs and I was breathing fast. Fear had chased away all my thoughts and replaced them with visions of torture and death. I was so young I thought, I had my whole life ahead and here I was. It finally happened then, I could not control my bladder any longer. I lay in the pool of urine and tears came too.

  Quintus Cerialis, former prefect of the Ninth Legion regarded his handiwork with satisfaction. I did not know it then but he was in reality, a kind man and his intention of frightening me seemed fulfilled. He must have found it hard to keep up the terrorising, for he was not a bully, which became apparent, for he let me up after cutting my bonds.

  'Clean yourself up.' His voice low and serious, he handed me some underclothing and indicated a small hand-pump in the corner of the courtyard.

  I stood there. There was a lack of understanding at first. One moment death, painful death, loomed ahead like some approaching cloud and in the next, the sentence had miraculously been revoked. I washed myself and put on the clean underwear. I looked round and found the Prefect regarding me, the look of anger still clear upon his contorted face. I hoped he was not of the same ilk as Gennadius. There would be no escape if that were the case.

  'Are you still going to kill me?' I looked him in the eye. As soon as I spoke I realised it was a stupid thing to ask. I was irritated by it and angry with myself.

  'We all die soon enough. Don't tempt me to hasten the end for you. I could do it and no one would be any the wiser, boy.'

  'But you won't will you?'

  'You have committed a serious crime. I don’t have to kill you, there are worse punishments for the likes of you, punishments that fit the crime. If I hand you over to the Aediles, you'll face ten years as a galley slave and believe me, few survive more than five years and no one survives the full term.'

  'I, I'm really, really sorry sir,'

  'Sorry! What do you mean, sorry? We're all sorry for something. Sorry doesn't put it right. You were here because your whole life has been wrong. You don't know discipline. You don't know right from wrong!'

  'I don't understand,' I said, on the verge of tears again. I was not used to being berated in this way. Nothing he had said so far had a glimpse of comfort and I still did not know his intentions.

  'You will understand when that overseer flays your bleeding back with his leather whip! D'you think you can get away with the kind of life you lead? Where are your parents? Who are they anyway, to let a child like you loose on the streets at night?'

  I was hesitant at first as I began to tell Quintus the truth about how I had become a thief. I hoped that the prefect would feel sorry for me despite himself.

  ‘If you have children, you will understand how I felt; I was on the streets of Rome hungry and desperate. A poor orphan. Where could I turn?’

  ‘Look you little thieving rat, I have no children that I know of and you can quit trying to make me feel sorry for you, it won’t work!’

  ‘I was just looking for some food. I haven’t eaten in days.’

  ‘You look plump enough to eat, you little liar. Do you think the legions employ imbeciles as Prima Pilae?’

  He looked at me and I recognised the look in his one eye. It betrayed sympathy despite his scarred appearance, but the fact of the intended theft interfered with any compassion that I could wring from him. I began to relax a little, as the spectre of imminent death receded. I still kept an eye on the short sword in his hand. He was silent for a few minutes, pondering my fate. I was still unsure whether he might kill me or not.

  'I'll give you a choice boy. It's a simple choice. You can become a man, or you can go to the galleys. I have influence with the Ninth Legion and can get you enlisted with ease.'

  'But I'm not old enough.'

  'I don't care how old you are, you need military discipline.'

  'I don't know anything about being a soldier.'

  'You'll learn soon enough! It made me what I am to-day. And what is that I hear you ask? I am a man with honesty, integrity and discipline. Things that even a little street rat like you can learn. They dragged me from the same gutter as you and they made me into a man. A fighter and a killer, but a man. I have led a life and seen things that a worm like you wouldn’t believe! All for the glory of Rome!'

  'But...'

  'Silence! A life of honour, a life of comradeship and fidelity,' Quintus spoke with feeling, thrusting his stubbly face close to mine, his eye was staring wide and I wondered if he was a little mad.

  'If you can do that, boy, I will help you to become a soldier. If you refuse, then I'm sorry for you, you'll be seasick for the rest of your short life. Well?'

  It seemed to me that the only way out of the predicament, the only way to escape, was to humour this fierce man and embark upon the very career that I had wanted since I was a ten year old. It made sense to capitulate. I had no thoughts of escape. No thoughts of running away, yes, I would become a soldier and meet what seemed to be my destiny.

  'All right then, I'll join the legions. Is the Ninth a good one?

  I wished in the end I had not asked, for I was treated to the strategies of Pompey in Spain and the role that the Ninth Legion had played in suppressing the tribes that threatened Roman rule.

  We ate during the lecture. Fruit, figs, and bread with watered wine appeared and the prefect never ceased speaking all the while. It was a diatribe.

  It was late afternoon when Quintus took me by the scruff of the neck in a grip of steel, to the recruitment stall on the Campus Martius.

  'Quintus! How are things?'

  The man who spoke was an officer. He was a tribune but I did not know that then.

  'Not bad. I have a new recruit for you.'

  'Oh?'

  'Yes he has expressed extreme keenness and enthusiasm to join the Ninth, but he may need a bit of watching, he had a tricky side to him.'

  'How old is he?'

  'Old enough.'

  'You're sure? The general has been having a crackdown on the age we recruit at. He said that the younger ones don't fight well.'

  'I can vouch for his age. He'll fight well enough.'

  'If you say so. Word has it we're going to Etruria to train in a few weeks.'

  'I think that will suit my reprobate friend here. He's never been out of Rome. He has expressed a wish to see more of the world and out of the kindness of my heart I have agreed to let him.'

  All this took place without either of them so much as glancing at me. It annoyed me, but I could no more break the grip that Quintus had on my tunic than I could have dealt with the Gordian knot.

  'He needs to sign here,' the tribune said indicating a scroll of papyrus in front of him.

  'Sign it,' Quintus said, 'you can write can't you?'

  'Yes sir,' I said, and wrote my name.

  'He might be useful as a scribe in that case,' the tribune said, 'if he can write, he might even be useful to the General's scribes.'

  'He needs his proper training first, this one.'

  'Of course, the training hasn't changed from your day or mine.'

  'Over there lad,' Quintus said and pushed me roughly towards a huddled group of new recruits of varying ages, supervised by a squat, stocky Centurion. The realisation that I was now a soldier began to dawn on me like a tattoo, painful and permanent.

  When they herded me with the others to the camp, Quintus did not say goodbye. He did not even bid me luck or farewell, nor d
id he look over his shoulder. I was sorry for that, but hoped he would spare me a thought in the years to come, for he had changed my life.

  A tall thin Optio shoved me into line and I wondered if all that had happened in the Subura could have been for a reason. Perhaps the Gods had planned all this for me to become a soldier. The thought disappeared almost as fast as it had evolved. I knew it was the way things happened, in this strangest of worlds.

  I did not mind the discomfort of the barracks nor did I mind the physical activity for I was a fit young man. It was the loss of my freedom that rankled. I was used to going where I wanted and doing things in my own time at my pace. It took long weeks for them to instil in me that a soldier is only a tiny speck of sand on a huge beach and the sea of discipline rolled in upon it anyway. There was as much use in challenging that new discipline as there was in dreaming of wealth. I knew it and I took it into my mind and body with a maturity that was uncharacteristic for one as young as I was. It was only weeks before I realised that to become a soldier I had first to abandon my individuality. I had no fears for that, because I had not liked the person I was becoming in the Subura and I knew that, hard as it was, the Legion was offering me an escape.