Silence & Lies. Harry Sidebottom

you thinking of running?’ Burdo said.

      ‘Should I take that as an offer?’

      ‘No,’ Burdo said. ‘I like to know where I stand.’

      ‘A pity. I thought you might be open to reason.’

      Burdo said nothing.

      ‘From where I stand, there seems no point.’ Using just his right hand, Castricius wrapped a hard-boiled egg in spring greens, and ate. ‘Where would a man run? Across the Rhine or the Danube? The northern barbarians would hand you in chains to the first centurion they saw. And, anyway, in the gloomy forests would it be a life worth living? I was brought up in the cultured city of Nemausus, and have spent the rest of my days in Rome. I would not thrive in a mud hut, with no baths, no conversation. Think of the barbarians’ huge, pallid women, and a diet of nothing but milk and roast meat.’ Castricius dabbled his right hand in the fingerbowl. He never used his left. His table manners were impeccable.

      ‘The Euphrates?’ Burdo said.

      ‘Too far. You would be caught long before you got there.’

      Burdo dipped an egg in fish sauce, and ate it before he spoke. ‘You know those men who pretended to be Nero miraculously saved or returned from the dead or whatever? Back in the reign of the Emperor Titus, one of them got over the river, and the King of Kings refused to hand him back.’

      Castricius considered this.

      ‘When I was young,’ Burdo continued, ‘I served on Caracalla’s winter campaign in the East. There was a Cynic philosopher with the army. When we were dispirited by the cold, he would take his clothes off, and roll naked in the snow. After a time he deserted to the Parthians. They did not give him up, not even when the Emperor demanded.’

      When Castricius smiled his face was yet more lined, but still alive with the freshness of youth. ‘I do not pretend to be either a philosopher or an imperial prince, and I do not care to expose myself in the streets. Philosophers are different. Dio of Prusa was often bothered by people wanting to be his students. When they would not leave him alone, he threw stones at them. If they still did not go, he used to stand naked on the public highways, and so prove that he was no better than any other man.’

      The serving girl brought their next course. She was short, slatternly but pretty. Castricius said something indecent to her. She smiled wearily as she walked away. Working in the inn, she might as well go around with her skirts turned up.

      ‘Not that long ago,’ Castricius said, his eyes still on the girl, ‘an Emperor ordered the execution of a man called Julius Alexander. Somehow this Alexander heard that the frumentarii were coming, and he murdered them.’ The knife-boy looked significantly at Burdo. ‘After that he killed all his enemies in his native city of Emesa. Then he set off for the Euphrates.’

      ‘Emesa is not far from the border,’ Burdo said, his voice very neutral.

      ‘But he never got there.’ Castricius took a drink. ‘Although he was a fine horseman, he had a boy with him. The boy got tired, and Alexander could not bring himself to leave him behind. When they were overtaken, Alexander killed the boy, then himself.’

      Burdo shook his head. ‘You should never travel with a catamite.’

      *

      At Narnia the Via Flaminia divided. They took the easier, westerly road to Fulginae, across the foothills.

      In the carriage Castricius relapsed into silence. It put Burdo in mind of a crow or some other bird which quit its talking or singing when a cloth was put over its cage. Castricius was a problem. He was not a prisoner. Sitting there dressed like an off duty soldier, he was armed, had a knife at his belt, and the concealed blade destined for Maximinus. Yet he was not a colleague. He had to be delivered to the North, watched every step of the way. At least now he was dozing.

      Burdo regarded the countryside. The vineyards and olive groves were giving way to upland meadows and woods. Where the incline was too steep for vegetation, the exposed stone was light grey and crumbling. On hillocks were stands of pines, their trunks straight and tall and bare, foliage fanning out above. Burdo remembered it all well. Thirty years before he had cross quartered these ranges again and again, just one man in a huge army hunting Bulla Felix. Endless forced marches, raids, ambushes, none of it had caught the bandit chief. It was a woman who had brought Bulla down in the end, like so many men. Easier to admire the brigand from a safe distance, but he had courage, that and a ready wit. Before they threw him to the animals, the Praetorian Prefect had asked him, ‘Why did you become a bandit?’ Bulla had replied, ‘Why are you Prefect?’