Part III - Chapter XXII -' Learning the Game'

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

Having resigned his commission, Marcus Vinicius Spatula journeys to country of the Belgae in the south. Here, with Vectis, Firmus and the others, he intends to become a wine-grower. This is an ambition he never thought he'd find in his heart. In fact, his decision has more than a little to do with honouring his family's memory. However, he and the others begin to suspect that these new countrymen may not be entirely on the level.

Marcus Vinicius Spatula stood patiently, watching his horse crop the few wispy tufts of grass at the side of the road. Well, it wasn't so much a road: more a track. Still, it was serviceable enough. His eye, expert by now, took in the grading and skilfully worked stone. Something told him that it was here before any of his countrymen were. He'd had that feeling a number of times in the past few days, as he, Vectis and the others made their slow journey into this new region. Skirting the bottom of a wide valley, he had observed a team of farmhands--some guiding sturdy ploughs, others managing teams of oxen, yet others clearing vegetation with evil-looking bill-hooks. These implements looked as though they had been crafted and refined in happy ignorance of the glory that was Rome. They had an unshowy, enduring look to match the heavy doggedness of those who wielded them. Marcus shook his head--why should the whole scene be a matter for surprise? After all, he was now far from Canovium--and far enough from Vertis, come to that. This was the south of the country, relatively mild, even a touch luxuriant in places--the land of the Belgae. Gallic and tenacious, their incursions into Britannia had begun long before AD 43, the year of Aulus Plautius's decisive arrival. For the longest time, friends and military colleagues alike had told Marcus about their singular view of Rome. Many Belgic chieftains saw their buccaneering exploits in this country as proof that they were equal, even superior, to the johnny-come-lately Romans. True, many of their countrymen had been harried out of Gaul during Caesar's campaign there: they had come to Britannia as refugees, not as valiant marauders. But the Belgic Britons had their own subtle way of looking at that, too. Suffering and peril in one place paved the way for benefits in another. The Belgae were proud farmers, proud workers in iron, bronze, enamel. Their more recently exiled countrymen could further these achievements--or at least wipe blades and stoke fires--and thus help nurture the prosperity which Caesar had shattered in Gaul. Fate, the Belgae decided, had a way of working in your favour while pretending otherwise.

Rome's Britannic presence had done little, in the long term, to deflate their bouyancy. Caesar's triumphs might have suggested that, in Britannia as in Gaul, the Belgae would have to submit - vae victis and all that. Another race, more pessimistically-minded, might have done so. But Marcus knew that, like the midland and northern tribes of his acquaintance, the B elgae had hardly greeted Rome with flowers--though it was their regional neighbours, the Catuvellauni and the Trinovantes, who had given the Imperial eagle it biggest headache. After all, their federation had been ruled by King Cunobelinus, whose anti-Roman influence had actually increased during the governorships of Plautius and Scapula. And then, of course, there had been his sons, Togodumnus and the astonishing Caratacus. Thinking about Caratacus now, years after his golden age of rebellion, Marcus still felt a familiar mixture of awe and incomprehension. Quite simply, the perishable man had become an abiding legend--faster than Mercury, it was still asserted, and unhampered by a single fallible nerve. Each stage of his exploits was known and savoured by tribesmen everywhere, and no doubt repeated to their drowsing children. Watching his horse's leisurely feasting, Marcus reviewed those exploits now: Caractacus's judicious dodging of Roman forces in the south-east; his reappearance in Cambria an hour later (or so it seemed); his spurring of the Silures into canny, guerilla warfare; his northward flight to enlist the power of the Brigantes. At that point, of course, the legend had fallen foul of mortal treachery, in the shape of Cartamandua, the Brigantian queen. Caratacus had been surrendered to Rome like a chained bear. Marcus frowned. How long ago was all that? Twenty years, near enough? He sighed. That was the problem with being around when a legend was on the rise. It became a marker in your own life. Ever after, you could never pretend you weren't getting older.

Marcus knew that, like other southern tribes, the Belgae had gradually recovered from the impact of Caratacus' downfall. They had begun, in fact, to act as though it were not catastrophic at all--more a matter of one man and his regrettable strategies, the fruits of hot-headedness rather than vision. And they had set about negotiating with the new, martial arrivals, making treaties, securing advantages. They had let their communities become Romanised, at least to all outward appearances. Always, it seemed, they made sure that the noises they made to Rome combined deference with compromise; the silence underneath was pure self-interest.

The area in which Marcus and the others found themselves was the civitas of the Belgae, within striking distance of the Channel and Gaul. The civitas was a hotch-potch of settlements--true to their attitude, it pleased the Belgae to let the mighty Roman eagle busy itself with hotch-potches. It almost seemed as if they treated Rome like a child, with permission to stay up and play past its bedtime. If the legions wanted to charge about, important banners unfurled, that was their business. The Belgae had farms and forges to run.

And that, in a way, was why Marcus was there--why he was waiting for Vectis and the others to finish their talks with the local chieftain concerning land suitable for vineyards. At first, it had surprised them all when the noble declined to deal directly with Marcus. The Belgae, it seemed, inclined towards the use of middle-men.

Marcus approached his horse and began to stroke his neck. Having fed, the animal was restless--probably more impatient than he was himself. Then he stepped back and took a good look round. They were on the edge of a dark flood-plain, more fertile than a dozen Monas put together. Beyond, there was a thickly wooded rise. Marcus would not have been surprised to learn that, within it, a Belgic fort stood masked and impregnable. The legions had long known of the Belgic preference for lowland defences--no lofty hill-forts for them. Caesar himself had come upon such strongholds--more by accident than design, perhaps. By all accounts, including the emperor's own, he'd been impressed to the point of dismay by the cunning use which they and neighbouring tribes had made of natural defences. It was all a far cry, Marcus, concluded, from a horde of demons, druidically inflamed, rushing down an open shore in Cambria. Like wooded fort, like people, Marcus thought; and again he pondered the ease with which the conquered could accept, absorb, even neutralise the conquerors. The Belgae would need a lot of watching.

Suddenly he heard his father: 'That south slope is trouble. Vines no longer than ribbons down there.' And he saw Lenita, wearing the comb he'd gifted her at Cremona market. These unbidden illusions no longer shocked him, but they naturally stirred a powerful, grieving love. He knew that he had to keep his mind clear for the venture in hand--which was itself an act of devotion to his family's memory. At least, he hoped it would be. Wondering if he would ever come near his father's vineyard skills, he watched Currerus as the scout came walking stiffly towards him.

'Well?'

'Hmmm,' said Currerus.

'Hmmm?'

'Singular folk, these Belgae, Tribune.' Like the others, Currerus could not shake the habit of addressing Marcus in the old way.

'So--what says the noble and singular Diplomus?'

Currerus frowned, gathering the exact words into their proper order: 'An accommodation,' he recited, 'can be reached about the land.'

'I see. Any danger that he may reveal the terms of this accommodation to me?'

'He wishes to see you tomorrow morning. The tenth hour. Vectis has all the other details. For myself, I found it difficult to attend to his words.'

'Full of high style, eh, Currerus?'

'Full of something. Apart from that, his entire household seemed to have turned out to stare at us. 'Course, none of this put our Vectis off--he matched Diplomus in the oratory stakes. But'--here he smiled and opened his palms-- 'my old job didn't make for regular chat with folk.'

'And what of tonight? Do we lounge here at this roadside?'

'Diplomus has--what was it?--provided for that happy contingency. We shall be attended to--but it seems our arrival coincides with a visit from some of his kinsmen. Otherwise, he said, he would host our evening's leisure--or something like that.'

'So he seems well disposed to us?'

Currerus frowned: 'Put it this way, Tribune: when I left, he was deep into praise for wine, especially the Roman vintages. A firm favourite in his household, he says. He's willing to pay over the odds for it, instead of that Gallic muck. According to him--'

'How am I to take all this?' interrupted Marcus. 'As a blessing on our venture? Or a warning that they'll keep on with their imports, however well we do?'

Currerus scratched his head: 'Tribune, perhaps my injuries turned me into a bigger simpleton than I feared. But I couldn't at all fathom what he was really driving at. No doubt Vectis will have understood, or Scapha--sharp as a sword, that one.'

'You do yourself a disservice, scout. But, as you say, we'll doubtless learn all from the pair of them. Now rest yourself--or have a look about.'

Much to Solatius's joy, Currerus had lately developed an intense interest in the flora and fauna of this foreign place. Indeed, he was beginning to rival the apothecary in knowledge of herbs and their powers. Previously, of course, he'd just crashed through them, bearing messages or assessing the lie of the land. Marcus was fascinated by his enthusiasm. More practically, he thought that the scout and Solatius might develop great expertise in the wine venture. He watched now as Currerus moved along the track, bent slowly and peered in an almost alarming way at the grass which his own horse had carelessly cropped.

Currerus wasn't the only changed man. They all were, in one way or another. At times, over the past few weeks, Marcus had felt that he himself was now someone else entirely. He was a civilian now. Civilian--the number of times he'd repeated the word, as though it were unintelligible, something out of the Dobunni or Brigantes lexicon. And a vineyardist: the calling he'd rejected countless times with snorts and laughter. So absorbing had these changes been that he'd clean forgotten his forty-seventh birthday: a real pity, not least because, in a sense, it had been celebrated. They had passed through Glevum en route to the south--there'd been some final, pernickety matters for Marcus to settle there--and had been treated like emperors at the fort. Only afterwards, riding over the Belgic border, did he realised that he'd turned forty-seven on their last day with the garrison: a day particularly memorable for fatted meat and libations.

A stone came ringing past him on the ground. He turned to see the others walking abreast from Diplomus's house. Firmus broke ranks first, calling out, 'Well, Currerus, what name would we give that blue flower in Rome?'

Solatius rolled his eyes: 'Pay no heed to the philistine, scout,' he advised, at which Firmus roared with mirth. As the centurion passed Marcus, however, he jerked a thumb in the direction of Diplomus's house: 'Strange cove, Tribune,' he mouthed.

Vectis and Scapha joined their would-be vineyardist: 'Well, Tribune, we are now in the amphora business,' said Vectis breezily. 'You are to meet the good Diplomus at the hour of ten tomorrow. He assures us that the land will suit our purpose admirably. The subject of money has been broached--so, too, has the matter of Belgic labour. He was full of recommendations and advice.'

'And himself,' added Scapha.

'Did he explain any further,' asked Marcus, 'why he preferred not to see me now?'

'The Belgic way, Tribune.' Vectis's tone suggested that he'd lived his whole life among them. 'At any rate, the Diplomus way.'

Marcus looked from one to the other: 'Do you trust him?'

'Not an inch, Tribune,' came the unified response.

'One good thing, sir,' continued Scapha, 'about your not seeing him: we can put you well in the picture, ready for tomorrow. Better that than have him oozing all over you today. Give you time to prepare.'

'Oozing, Scapha?'

'There's a place for him back in Rome,' said Scapha, bitterly. (A spirit of discreet but heartfelt treason now existed among them all.) 'Nero would have had him on a gold lead, thinking he was in control. And the man would have played sweetly along.'

'Respectful and insolent in the same instant,' elaborated Vectis. 'Quite a performance.'

'Well, I'd advise,' said Scapha, 'that as long we're on this patch we grow eyes just here'--and he patted the back of his head. 'Never thought I'd say it, sir,' he added with a sigh, 'but you knew where you were with a Druid.'

'Cave!' hissed Currerus, now returning with the centurion.

A figure was walking, or rather slouching, towards them. Though barely thirty yards off, and able to see Marcus clearly, he hardly looked as though he were about to straighten his back and offer a salute.

'Diplomus's factotum,' muttered Firmus. 'Delegated to lead us to our sleeping quarters.'

Marcus started: 'Doesn't sound like they're in his grounds.' About to press the centurion, he changed his mind. The shuffling figure was the one to interrogate. As he drew close, the factotum made unnecessary play of kicking up the dust.

'Am I to understand, sir,' began Marcus, assuming his Tribune's bearing, 'that we shall not be accommodated within your master's walls?'

The man paused for a long moment, as if picturing the layout of Diplomus's domain and itemizing its sleeping quarters. 'No,' he said, finally. 'That is, yes. My noble's brothers lodge with him tonight. Perhaps tomorrow also. Perhaps even'--here he broke off, spreading wide his hands, as though he held all of time aloft like an angler with a prize salmon. 'Then there's the wives, the children. Had you come last week....' Pausing again, he scrutinised Marcus, his gaze implying that the problem was entirely due to slack Roman timing.

'I see,' said Marcus, neutrally. 'So where do we rest?'

But already the factotum was pushing through the group and trudging ahead.

'You will find all properly fitted and furnished,' he called over his shoulder.

The others began to follow--save for Marcus, who simply stared. For sure, he had no need of red carpets--or wines and sweetmeats before he'd even tethered his horse. But this fellow was treating them like a brace of hawkers.

'Don't worry, sir,' whispered Scapha, turning back. 'His boss can muster more geniality--whatever lies behind it.' Sighing, Marcus swung onto his horse. As he did so, he noticed two more men coming from Diplomus's house. They were leading the others' horses. Yet another couple of servants trailed them, shouldering a long pole on which were strung the party's belongings. Well, thought Marcus: that at least is hospitable--sort of.

The light was beginning to fail. The ploughs were disappearing from the valley, along with the stooping forms of their steersmen. The sight made Marcus and the others feel tired--that and the fact that, presumably, they were nearing their abode beyond the pale. After ten minutes or so, during which no-one spoke, the track curved round the base of a hillock to reveal their lodgings. While the servants tethered the horses and brought the bundles in, the factotum gave the party a perfunctory tour of the house. It seemed commodious enough: about the size of a villa's reception hall and bedrooms combined. Food and drink were waiting on a rough-hewn table in a kind of dining space. Having waved and muttered his way about the place, the factotum ushered out the servants and then fell into his beloved trudge, pausing only briefly at the door: 'Ten of the clock, then,' he said to Marcus, adding 'sir' after studied hesitation.

'Do we clean the place too?' asked Firmus, more gruffly than Marcus would have liked: they were guests, after all; they had obligations in respect of gratitude, however slippery their remote host might be.

The factotum appeared to consider this. At last, he said, 'No,' his tone giving the impression that, while he didn't think it a bad idea, he was more interested in using what was clearly a favourite word. Then he departed, his men filing along behind him.

'Bit exposed isn't it, this pile?' said Scapha when they'd gone.

Marcus was about to agree. But then, through the window, he saw the fringes of another wood. Firmus noticed it too, and his centurion's savvy allowed him to read his Tribune's thoughts: 'Fair few tricky defences in there, sir, I'll wager--at some time, if not now.'

How long d'you think this food's been cooling its heels?'

'Eat, Vectis,' advised Marcus, turning back into the room, 'then you may discover.'

'Tribune,' began Solatius, 'what if--?'

Marcus raised his hands in mock dismay: 'Gentlemen, enough, enough. Let us concentrate upon the business that brings us here. I am disposed to make the very best of our enterprise, whatever attitudes our host and his minions may cherish.'

And so they bathed (after a fashion), then ate, drank and lounged. Marcus resolved aloud to deal civilly with Diplomus and his people; he urged the others to do likewise.

'That'll include the shuffler, then,' grumped Scapha; then , in a perfect imitation of the man, ' "You will find all properly fitted and furnished."'

Some drank more heartily than others; as the night wore on, the mutual toasting became more extravagant and haphazard. For himself, Marcus exercised restraint. The others could sleep it off tomorrow, but he needed a clear head to deal with his landlord-to-be. He was glad to see that Vectis and Currerus were similarly moderate.

'Tribune,' said Firmus suddenly, his normally ruddy complexion now almost carmine in the torchlight. 'What name?'

'Name?'

'Our wine, Tribune. By what name shall it spread its reputation?'

'Well, not "Spatula," Tribune. With respect.' Currerus looked closely at Marcus, hoping that the Tribune understood his meaning.

'Why ever not?' demanded Firmus, shaking his fist at the scout in mock-rage. 'Traitor. Flower-chewing traitor!'

'A traitor who is in the right, centurion,' cut in Marcus. 'Rome's reach grows ever longer. Vespasian may prove worthy where Nero was vile. But he is only one man among many: every Emperor is. If there are those in Rome who still bear ill to the name of Spatula, it would be imprudent--reckless--to remind them of my existence, even in this netherworld of empire. Besides, if they discovered I was following in the family trade, their unfathomable minds might call it provocation.'

'I hope that Diplomus doesn't stir anything--'

'I'm assuming, Currerus, that the noble is primarily concerned with his standing and his wealth. As long as we bolster both for him . . . well, let's hope that he's at least on nodding terms with integrity.'

'How about "Cremona"?' asked Scapha, thereby sobering himself up on the instant. 'I can't believe I said that. Forgive me, Tribune.' His loose tongue earned him wrathful looks. 'And you, Vectis,' he sheepishly added, realizing that, by association, he'd wounded the engineer as well.

But Marcus laid a hand on his arm: 'Our scars are healing, Scapha. Or burrowing deeper under the skin.' But still there was general, nervous coughing and shuffling. Setting aside his personal tragedy, Marcus no longer had a town he could call his birthplace: Cremona itself had gone the way of his kin--destroyed by Nero's madness. Suddenly, oblivious to the watchful eyes around him, he found himself pondering the woeful state of affairs to which, in resigning his commission, he had said goodbye. Nero's appalling governance had caused rebellion in Gaul, prompting him to scuttle away from this life and the spectre of his appalling turpitude. As a memento mori for the Empire, his suicide had brought Rome to the brink of chaos. Then had come all the pandemonium surrounding the quartet of contending Emperors--more rivalry, more fear, more destruction--until Vespasian emerged supreme. And what of all the other birthplaces--all the other home towns dear to Rome's confused, embattled subjects? Dozens of them had suffered like Cremona: sacked, torched, both. Scapha's unthinking suggestion reminded Marcus of the convulsions which had so recently seized the heart of the Empire. Perhaps all present were thinking the same.

At last, to everyone's surprise, he blinked, shook his head briskly--and gave a broad smile. Reaching out, he nudged Firmus and indicated Scapha's near-empty goblet. 'Oh,' said the centurion, 'oh, right.' The centurion's momentary puzzlement broke the ice. There was general laughter, and the goblet was filled to overflowing. Unnoticed, Marcus gave an indulgent nod to the assembly. He could hardly be angry with Scapha. Besides, the fall of Cremona struck him as a kind of blessing. To his mind, the calamity ensured a peaceful hereafter for Gravis, Lenita--every cherished soul now lost to him. He would have grieved far longer and more helplessly had he known that, though they had died, the place was still going about its business. This was selfish reasoning, he knew--even cruel to the memory of its other townsfolk. But--well, the oppressed mind found strange ways to console itself.

Vectis brought him back to the moment: 'One of our servants had a lucky goat,' he announced. Pausing, he looked impatiently from one face to the other, seemingly amazed that his words had gone for nothing. 'I mean,' he continued at last, 'that we could use its name. Lived till over ninety. The servant--or was it the goat? Anyway, there's your augury--for the wine.'

'And the name, Vectis?' asked Marcus. As at an unseen signal, they all leaned towards the engineer, who again eyed each face in turn.

'Lambrusco,' he said gravely.

To a man, they goggled.

'Well, I'm for my bed, gentlemen,' said Marcus at last, realizing that Vectis needed rescuing from his own good intentions. And they all dispersed, some quietly, some clumsily, Firmus muttering that he was damned if he'd wash or clean a stick in the place, whatever that factotum geezer might have been hinting.

As he lay back on his surprisingly comfortable couch, Marcus stared at the remaining lit torch. Suddenly, he found himself turning the perfect name round on his tongue, as though it were the first drop of the wine itself: 'Alacer,' he murmured.

End of Chapter XXII

Latin Terms used in Chapter XXII:

"Cave!" - "Look out!"

Civitas - "Tribal Area" defined by the Romans for administrative purposes. These units, each with their own "capital", were based on pre-Roman tribal areas. The Civitas "capitals" were often developed on, or near to, the pre-Roman tribal capitals, depending on the politics and military situation at the time each was "colonised".

Factotum - Someone employed to carry out a variety of duties within a business or household, sometimes the "senior" servant.

Memento mori - Something, often an object, that acts as a reminder of the inevitability of death.

"Vae victis" - Literally means "Woe unto the conquered."

Part I - Part II - Part III - XXII - XXIII - XXIV - XXV - XXVI

© Worcester City Museums