I didn’t see my father again for many months. To be honest, I didn’t even know when he went. My life went on, unchanging, although each time I crossed the tablinum I still saw the faint stain of blood on the floor, a darkening of the white wooden tiles in the mosaic of Zeus and Hera.
Two things happened in that time. One is important, one not. The first is that my mother had her baby. She was called – she is still called – Cornelia. I used to hear her cry or mewl occasionally. That is all. Well, not quite. She did become important to me, but much later, and in ways I still don’t understand. But let me keep to Bostar’s chronology. I will come to Cornelia in time.
The other is quite different. When my father was away fighting what has become known as the first Illyrian war – there has been one more since and will, I prophesy, be more unless we change. But for Bostar’s sake I won’t go into that. When my father was away, I first met the friend who has shared my life.
It was a grey day, cold and wet. The wind whistled through the selenite. Even the fire’s smoke seemed to judder, rising, in that blast. Even Rufustinus seemed cold. I noticed that he kept returning to the brazier, once he’d written on the board. The chalk, I remember, slowly spread on his dark kidskin gloves until it was like a white blaze on a brown filly. Normally, he stayed by the blackboard to elucidate and question. Not that day.
I wasn’t doing well. I remember wishing I’d put on my woollen socks, not my cotton. It doesn’t seem to matter at the time, when you get up fast because you’re late and just put on what’s easiest and nearest. ‘Celerius agens, lentius dolens. Act in haste and repent at leisure,’ goes the proverb. I have found often that is true, and tried to change accordingly. Perhaps the soldier and general in me was formed in a small child wearing the wrong socks. It’s possible. Why else should I remember?
We were covering the Greek genitive of comparison. ‘In Latin, Publius, as you know, we use the ablative for comparison or quam plus the ablative,’ Rufustinus said. I nodded. ‘Greek uses the genitive instead, or
Socrates sapientior quam ceteris.
‘That’s easy,’ I said. It was.
ὁ Ʃωκράτης σοϕeώτερος
‘Good, Publius, good. Now, soon we will have a visitor, so just one more exercise.’
‘A visitor? Who?’
‘You’ll find out soon enough. Back to the perfect and aorist tenses. What is the difference between these two sentences?’ And he wrote out in that neat hand of his: ἡ θάλασσα λέλυκε τήν γέϕυραν: ‘The sea has broken the bridge.’ἡ θάλασσα ἔλυσε τὴν γέϕυραν: ‘The sea broke the bridge.’
‘So, explain,’ and in the cold his breath steamed.
‘The perfect, λέλυκε, describes a past action whose effect is still continuing. But the aorist, ἔλυσε, means that on a certain date the sea did break the bridge. It means that was a historical fact.’
‘Very good, Publius.’
It wasn’t, really. I loved the Greek aorist from the start. I still do. The ability to distinguish between the perfect and the aorist seems to me one of Greek’s many superiorities over Latin.
That was as much progress as we made that day.
‘Come in!’ Rufustinus responded quickly to the knock. I turned my head to the door. A boy walked in. About my age and size, he looked uneasy and scared. He had a mop of red, tousled hair, freckles and a turned-up nose. And his ears, I thought, were too big for the rest of him. He stood just inside the door.
‘Well, come in, Gaius Laelius, come in!’ Rufustinus chided. ‘Don’t just stand there. Sit down, over here.’ Rufustinus pointed to a desk on the other side of the room. Laelius took a step forward. ‘Close the door first, boy.’
Laelius sat down. His nose, I saw, was running. Perhaps he had a cold. Or perhaps it was just the cold. Rufustinus picked up his stick and tapped it against the blackboard. ‘Publius, this is Gaius Laelius. He is the son of Priscus Laelius, a client of your father’s. Your father left instructions that I am to teach him with you. He is said to be bright, and well advanced.’
Laelius looked shyly at me. When our eyes met, he quickly turned his away.
‘But let’s see what we’ve got,’ Rufustinus went on, ‘a scholar or a sow. Laelius, what are the principal parts of sperno?’ he barked.
I saw Laelius stiffen. A tough one, sperno. I’d felt Rufustinus’ stick for getting it wrong. ‘Sperno, spernere, sprevi, spretum,’ Laelius gave back, without hesitation. His voice was high, but soft.
‘And tango?’
‘Tango, tangere, te …’ He stumbled. ‘Tetigi, tactum.’
‘Ah hah,’ from Rufustinus. That was high praise. I was rather enjoying this. ‘What’s the supine of lavo?’
‘There are two, sir, lautum and lotum.’
‘Adverbs divide into which classes?’
‘Manner, degree, cause, place, time and … and …’ I didn’t know either. Laelius screwed up his nose, concentrated, went on, ‘And order.’
‘Well, well. Your father has taught you properly, I see. Publius, I do believe that this young man will test you.’
He did. And he still does.
I had expected this, or something similar. ‘I am a teacher, on my way to Rome.’
‘Why Rome?’
‘To find work.’
The boy looked at me, hard. I held his gaze. At last, ‘Wait there,’ he said. He turned his horse, walked back to the squadron. I saw him, though I couldn’t hear, talk to the commander.
He slipped off his horse, a gelding, chestnut brown. I had seen so many horses dead. It was good to see living ones, even on a sullen grey morning, in the cold.
He walked back to me. ‘Anything in the bag, Marcus?’
‘Nope. Just some old scrolls. Maybe he is a teacher. But I did find this.’ He handed over my little pouch of gold.
My interrogator opened it, whistled under his breath. ‘Where did you get this? Did you steal it?’
‘No, it was a gift,’ I said.
‘A gift? Some gift! Who from?’
‘From, from’ – I faltered – ‘from a friend.’
‘Teacher, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. For a start, don’t you know that no one travels without a pass? Don’t you know there’s a war on? For all we know, you might be a spy for that bastard Hannibal. Now, hold out your arms.’
So