Part III - Chapter XXIII - 'The Fate of the Belgic Vin'

by Michael Wyndham Thomas

The group's fears about the Belgae prove justified--at least in the case of the noble Diplomus. In the end, their experiences of his 'methods' lead them to behave in a way which, though decidedly un-Roman, is wholly understandable.

Though Marcus couldn't have known it, his interview with Diplomus was to set the tone of his whole Belgic enterprise over the following three years. Not that he walked blindly into it. On waking next day, he considered--as far as memory would allow--what the others had said about their landlord-to-be. There was his apparent love of verbal contortions--so often a sign of duplicity, or a simple delight in fuddling others. Then there was his manner-- 'Oozing'? Wasn't that what Scapha had said? Hardly applicable to that surly factotum, although he clearly loved mimicking his master's wordiness. Then again, there was the whole business of their banishment to this--well, outhouse, really--to pass the night. Oh, it was comfortable enough; he'd found it so, at least. But the arrangement had been made without the vaguest hint of apology, or assurance that, had Diplomus's kith and kin not descended, Marcus and the others would have found a welcome much nearer his hearth. Ah, hadn't Firmus summed it all up--as, in his rough-and-ready way, he so often did? 'Strange cove, Tribune': that had been his thumbnail sketch of Diplomus. Perhaps the term was worth applying to all of their new neighbours--secretly, of course--until evidence argued for a more kindly attitude.

On a more practical level, Marcus addressed the others just before his departure for the lord's house: 'Look,' he said, 'I know these words just slip out--and how could they not, when you think of all the years we've used them to each other? But I think'--he paused, biting his lip-- 'I think we'd better dispense with "Tribune" and "centurion" and "scout" and the rest.'

' "Engineer,"' prompted Vectis, at which Firmus turned to him with a groan: 'You can't be left out, can you?' he grumped.

'What about "apothecary"?' asked Solatius. 'Surely no harm in that, Trib--Marcus?'

'I simply think,' said Marcus deliberately, 'that the fewer reminders we give these people about our--well, our previous lives--the better.'

'But they'll hear reminders in our names,' said Vectis. Marcus was about to remonstrate when Scapha cut in.

'Hardly as bad as hearing our imperial ranks and positions all the time,' he said. ''Specially as'--he grinned-- 'we ain't imperial no more. No, I agree with Marcus. If we keep using them, could be a red rag to a bull. And'--he shuffled awkwardly-- 'thinking of our talk last night--well, it might get so far up someone's nose that they tell someone else, who tells someone else--and before you know it, here's a bunch of Capitoline assassins strolling down the track, yelling, "Morning, gentlemen--our lives are pledged to Nero's memory and finishing off his business."' He stopped and stared at the circle of astonished faces. 'Listen,' he said more quietly. 'We're the tenants, they're the gaffers. All change.' Then he turned pleadingly to Marcus: 'Have I put a dozen feet in it again?' he asked.

'Quite the opposite, boat--I mean, Scapha. More eloquent than any counsel I could give.'

'But perhaps,' said Vectis in boyish agitation, 'we could devise titles to use amongst ourselves.' He turned to Firmus: '"O noble centurion-as-heretofore-was!"'

Firmus made to clip his ear: 'Behave!'

Taking Firmus's response as a sign of broad agreement, Marcus left to attend their gaffer.

A quarter of an hour later, he was standing in the noble's hall. Facing him was a man of about his own height, a little portly but sleekly turned out, who smiled rather wryly when he wasn't speaking and had neglected--at least, thus far--to offer Marcus a seat. Diplomus's kinfolk were about, as was the sullen factotum--but not obviously. They seemed to find all manner of reasons to pass back and forth at the upper end of the hall: now singly, now in twos. Each time, they paused and stared out of the gloom at Marcus, eyes glittering with appraisal. Children ran through the shadows, giggling. Their mothers flitted after, supposedly to chastise them. But they, too, gawped hard at the Roman.

'Honoured Marcus,' fluted Diplomus. 'I trust our business will be crowned with success. And, indeed, why should it not? Why should one of your race not prosper as much through the grape as through the sword? Forgive me'--his fingers fluttered about his mouth-- 'I should really say per grape. Or is it propter?'

Marcus tilted his head, trying to signal patience while the noble had his little joke. In truth, he began to feel itchy. He remembered the others' words: yes, this one was oozy, slippery--strange. He could certainly do without the hyperbole the man was lobbing into his speech. Honoured Marcus. One of your race. No doubt he'd prepared it all in advance, without an instant's thought for sincerity. For the umpteenth time, Marcus gave thanks for the others' forewarning. Then he frowned, pondering Diplomus's phrase 'our business.' Where exactly did the noble see himself in the whole picture--as landlord alone, or as something else which he might or might not disclose?

'I trust,' Diplomus was now saying, 'that you found your lodging commodious?'

'We were most comfortable. I thank you.' Just in time, Marcus resisted the urge to place his right fist upon his chest in salute.

'Ah, comfort,' returned Diplomus a little dreamily, spreading his hands. Marcus wondered if some flight of Virgilian fancy was in the offing. 'After such uncertain decades,' he continued, 'such anxiety on all sides, such--lamentable misunderstanding between your race and mine, let us hope that comfort shall henceforth be our watchword.'

I'm sure you'll fight tooth and nail to hang onto yours, thought Marcus, or pay others to do it while you ooze at a distance. He didn't like the emphasis the man had laid, twice now, on 'your race,' as though Marcus and his kind were a pack of hyenas. But he said, 'About the land, Diplomus--'

ndeed, honoured Marcus.' And, without offering him a chance to sit and rest for a moment, he added, 'We go.'

They rode for some two miles, so Marcus calculated--and in the opposite direction to the house where, even now, the others were perhaps playing some bleary-eyed game, trying to trick each other into using 'Tribune' or 'scout.' Perhaps Firmus was saying, as he himself so often had, that downing wine was one thing, and a grand thing too, but breaking your back trying to make the stuff . . . well . . . . He imagined Currerus, who'd actually been out inspecting the woods at daybreak, returning there now, silently interrogating every last petal and stem under the delighted eye of Solatius. And he imagined Scapha, still perhaps feeling the pinch of guilt at his unguarded reference to 'Cremona.' He hoped he wasn't; the man was built of sound sense.

hen, swatting a fly from his ear, he tried to attend to his landlord's words. It wasn't easy. They were riding roughly abreast, except that Diplomus kept craftily spurring himself a little ahead. Whenever Marcus pulled properly alongside, the noble straightened his back and quickened speed. In consequence, Marcus found it difficult to catch every word--and something told him that the ones he missed were those that counted most.

' . . . fertile as a maid in her bloom,' Diplomus was saying. 'Really, honoured Marcus, the best of land for miles and miles. I had thought of embarking for the realms of the vine myself, except that there is always . . . .'

But Marcus didn't catch what there always was. And, at that moment, his horse shook its head. Marcus was familiar with the warning: it meant 'pursuit by strangers.' Dropping further behind Diplomus, he turned round. A little way back, the factotum was meandering and swaying on a broken-backed nag. He fixed Marcus with an unblinking stare, as if defying him to criticize his mount--or to assume that he didn't have another, a stallion, stabled at home. Marcus turned hurriedly back, swallowing laughter.

' . . . if your gods smile on your labours,' Diplomus was saying, '--and why should they not?--I shall certainly be among your first customers. Indeed, your enterprise has excited much interest hereabouts. Much curiosity.' Here, Marcus thought he gave a sotto voce chuckle, but before he could be sure, the man had cleared his throat: 'And here we are,' he announced.

They were at a slight declivity. Before them, the land shelved very gently down. Marcus could see that it was good. Despite his youthful indifference to the trade, his years on the Cremona estate had trained his eye: the acreage was fertile, clearly blessed with natural drainage. On this point, at least, Diplomus had found himself speaking the truth.

'Stroll, honoured Marcus. Introduce yourself to your future riches.' Marcus dismounted and began to walk, pacing out the land--he could have still been in the XX Legion, treating the earth like a slate for a battle-plan. He turned, ready to pronounce his satisfaction with what he saw. Diplomus had now dismounted; the factotum was standing by his side. Something in their regard made his words die in his throat. Perhaps it pleased them, in a skulking way, to have a Roman standing down below them. Perhaps his pacing had over-emphasised his origin in a race devoted to conquest. Indeed, perhaps they were wondering what had really brought him to reside as a tradesman among the Belgae. Or could it be that they had no interest in his past--and were instead pondering their combined part in his future. Even from a distance, he could see mockery and cunning in their eyes. Well, he certainly didn't intend doing business in their way. For all they knew, he might suddenly say, 'I do have other land to survey, among the Durotriges.'

Suddenly, he cursed himself. Would he have agonized like this in the Legion--about this one's gaze or that one's tone of voice? Surely Diplomus was hardly worth all his pondering and fretting--his 'brain-boiling,' as Firmus had so often called it. The man was testing Marcus, like one boy trying to outstare another. Hadn't he played that game often enough in his Cremona days? Hadn't he played it with Alacer on his visit home? The thought of his brother--whose name would grace their casks--emboldened him. 'He may yet be alive, Marcus,' he whispered to himself. 'Hold on to that.' For a moment he saw his mother's face, gently approving his determination. Then, arms akimbo, he staightened to his full height and faced the waiting pair, becoming every inch the Imperial soldier: 'Yes,' he called. 'Good soil indeed. Let us address details at once.'

When they returned to Diplomus's house, Vectis and the others were waiting at the Romanised archway. To Marcus's relief, the kinfolk seemed to have evaporated. He didn't relish having to attend to financial negotiations, labour hire and matters of transportation with the eyes of the household roaming his frame. He was a Tribune turned vineyardist, not a lowlife in a comedy by Plautus.

Formal agreements were reached speedily. Diplomus's facts and figures, all carefully prepared, seemed reasonable and above board. He made great play of shoving them under everyone's nose in turn--probably so that, at some future date, they couldn't claim to have been wilfully excluded from proceedings. As Marcus's chief business aid, Vectis tonelessly approved all proposals. They also learned that they could stay in their present lodging ('the hog-shed,' as Firmus now privately dubbed it) for as long as they wished. A modest payment would be exacted for this, said Diplomus, smoothly. Details could be worked out once the vineyard had begun to yield returns. At this point, the factotum, who had been loping round the hall entrance, melted away in the direction of the kitchens. Firmus and Currerus watched him go, then rolled their eyes at each other.

'Your food for the evening must be prepared,' said Diplomus. 'I grieve that, yet again, I am prevented from attending you. My brothers persist in sitting foursquare upon my hospitality'--here he chortled like an indulgent patriarch. 'They have engaged tumblers and jugglers for the children's delight. Who knows? The entertainers may inflame them with tales of Rome and her glories.' Again, there was almost a chuckle.

'I'd rather sort out the terms of our lodging now,' said Marcus.

'In good time, honoured Marcus, in good time. Now, what kind of associate would I be if I insisted on your starting off in debt?'

The very kind you are, thought Vectis. Though the agreements all appeared sound, he was still uneasy. This chap had it in him to argue that a fish was a bird. What might he not do with black-and-white contracts? And what exactly did he mean by 'associate'? 'Marcus,' he said, 'I should greatly like to see this fertile soil of ours.' The others nodded and, since it was clear that no extra hospitality was about to gild the moment, the meeting ended. As they rode away, Diplomus stood in his archway and bowed low. He could have been a tragedian addicted to riotous applause.

'So,' said Firmus when their horses were well clear, 'no room for us among the exalted jugglers at his table this night?'

'Yes,' said Scapha, 'and the gods forbid that we should know a jot about Rome.'

Marcus smiled. He had by now reconciled himself to their enigmatic, voluble landlord--or, putting it another way, the man's behaviour had made him even more determined to thrive. 'Gods above!' he called out, pointing ahead, 'what on earth is that peculiar shrub?'

'Ah,' said Currerus, 'now, I am convinced that it is native to this land--'

'Whereas I,' cut in Solatius, 'could take you to a hundred meadows in northern Gaul, where you could observe exactly the same hue, the same bulbous curve . . . .'

And so they rode on to inspect their pot of gold.

In fairness, it has to be said that the 'Alacer' vineyardists worked and prepared the land thoroughly; that the first year's yield was middling to reasonable; and that the second was almost worthy of the chosen name. The toiling Romans grew popular among the Belgae with whom they dealt. The hired labourers had no call to complain about how they were treated. The local carters, upon whom Marcus depended for cross-channel shipments, admired their diligence and openness. (One carter even let slip that Diplomus's regard for himself was not universally shared.) Prunec, a local gardner whom Marcus had hired, proved to be as knowledgeable and kindly as old Vinitor, genius of the Spatula vines in Cremona. Apart from that--much to Firmus's baffled amusement--he shared Solatius and Currerus's passion for pestering the region's flora till it surrendered its secrets. And he was truly impressed with his employers' capacity to admit and learn from their errors.

In all, they met with success--of a sort. They paid their way, were modestly comfortable--and had not the slightest regret about, as Scapha put it, 'soaring away from Rome's Eagle.' Yet the casks of 'Alacer' did not earn their true value. Something nibbled like a huge, insatiable rat at the edges of their enterprise. Vines collapsed when the night had brought neither wind nor rain. More than once, Marcus, Scapha and Firmus accompanied a consignment of flavoursome 'Alacer' to the coast, only to discover that the ship engaged for its export had already embarked with the goods of others. Three cavernous Gallic vats, specially ordered, arrived whole one evening at the Romans' lodging and were discovered in pieces at first light next day. The labourers and carters grew awkwardly silent: not from guilt at any wrongdoing, it seemed, but from shame at another's transgressions.

Marcus spoke with Diplomus about these and other misfortunes--at first carefully, then ever more sharply. Always the answers were the same: marauding Durotriges ('Or Atrebates--low-bred folk, honoured Marcus, jealous beyond words of any triumph but their own'); straw-chewing simpletons from settlements nearby ('alas, noble Marcus, the power to distinguish between japery and criminality is not bestowed on all of my tribe'); and, inevitably, sheer hatred of Rome ('a flagrant display by--well, person or persons unknown, dearest Marcus').

During the second season, Marcus took to posting night guards among the vines. Vectis and the others, Prunec, trusted labourers, he himself--everyone took their turn. The mean casual sabotage abated. So, too, did any problems with distributing the first season's yield. 'Well, we knew they would,' sighed Firmus, and all agreed. Marauding Atrebates, indeed! Straw-chewing simpletons! Gods above, it was a journey and a half to the vineyards from the nearest substantial settlement. No-one would take on such a route-march, especially by night, just to inflict spiteful damage--unless, of course, they were being paid. It had to be Diplomus, Marcus thought--and the oily factotum. Where, he wanted to know, was the simpleton or low-bred oik who could orchestrate a mix-up with the shipping?

Aside from all that, Marcus had time and again pressed Diplomus about the rent for their lodging. He had even strode unannounced under the Roman archway and pressed money on the man. Each time, he had been rebuffed in the same way: 'No talk of rent, honoured Marcus, no talk of money at all--not until your gods truly smile upon your sweat.' Yes, thought Marcus: the man was merely biding his time until he could smile upon it himself--then give it a wipe with a crippling bill.

'It's been months now,' said Vectis one evening, as he and Marcus were skirting the woods by the lodging. 'The time's past for misreadings, for benefits of the doubt. He is as we always guessed he was.'

'As we hoped, prayed, he would not be,' suggested Marcus. 'But how to prove it? I mean, that house of his, that factotum and all the other skulkers, the endless stream of bothers and cousins--it's a regular palace of Nero there. I thought of investigating elsewhere--dignitaries in other districts--but he's probably glued their mouths with gold. Or just shut them up with a crook of the finger.'

'And if you tried, another bunch of vines would topple the very next midnight,' said Vectis.

'But why is he doing it?' demanded Marcus. 'He still calls himself our associate--well, he could do handsomely out of us. With another kind of man, I'd happily put arrangements on a different footing.'

'He is doing handsomely, Trib--Marcus. His kind of handsome, mind.'
Seeming not to hear, Marcus wiped his brow: 'It's not as if he's smelling like a rose. Our workers know all kinds of things--we know they do--but they daren't utter a peep. And still there's all his--what's Scapha's word?--oozy talk about mutual benefits and sharing good fortune. Does he simply not realise that profits are his for the asking--well, negotiating, at least--if only he'd help? Where on earth is the good of all this?'

'Caratacus,' murmured Vectis.

Marcus swung round at him: 'What? O gods, don't tell me Diplomus is blaming him?'

'No. The spirit of Caratacus. That's what all this is about. In a mean little snivelling way, of course--a way that would make Cunobelinus's son spin in his grave.'

Marcus took Vectis by the arms and brought him to a halt: 'I don't . . . Vectis, you're not--'

We're being conquered, Marcus. Little by little. Crushed vines here, messed-up transport there. I know it's not an onslaught by hundreds when the sun is at the zenith. That's what we were used to--certainly prepared for--in the time of Glevum and Varis. But now we're being broken bone by bone. The intent is the same. It doesn't bother this Diplomus if he loses anything by it. He's making a point--slowly, gradually--and savouring it in the same way. You and I, Firmus, Currerus, Solatius, Scapha--we're trained Romans. In our fighting days, we expected to see the biggest boulder splitting in two. We expected to split it ourselves, if so commanded. Diplomus prefers to wear it away, drip by drip by drip. And it's us. Or, to give us our human name'--he shrugged-- 'we're just the tenantry.'

'I cannot understand such thinking,' said Marcus. Then, more softly, 'We can't stay.'

'I should say not. And we shan't have to. Our initial agreement with Diplomus was for three years--which are steadily drawing to a close. He can't wriggle out of that--it was properly witnessed. Not, of course, that he wouldn't try. His kind can probably tunnel out of Tartarus. Thing is, of course, we could likewise . . . .' He let his voice trail away.

Shocked, Marcus peered closely at him: 'Could what, Vectis? Wriggle out?'

Vectis placed a silencing hand on his arm: 'We could think like Diplomus. We could, shall we say, trump him before he plays his hand. Or, to spare you any discomfort, I should be happy so to do.' Marcus regarded his engineer warily. Suddenly, there was an edge in his voice, in his very manner, which hadn't been there when they served in the Legion; and that edge became pure bitterness when he added, 'When in Rome, Marcus . . . .'

They walked on. Marcus wasn't sure what to expect: some elaboration of some plan, he supposed. Instead, Vectis shivered and rubbed his arms: 'Chilly for the time of year,' he said. 'I expected better here in the south. Actually, looking back, I'd say it was milder where we first worked together.' His voice softened. 'That bridge--all our own work.'

'And that road-grading,' chuckled Marcus.

'Ah, the glamour of Empire,' said Vectis.

'There was your fort, though, Vectis.'

'Ah, yes, a grand little project, though I say it myself.'

'Salinae.'

'Salinae,' repeated Vectis almost dreamily, as though pondering a nickname for paradise. 'Or thereabouts. Very mild. A friend to the grape.'

Frowning, Marcus stopped. Was this a plan, after all? 'So . . . so,' he stuttered, 'are you saying we should--'

'Well,' Vectis burst in, businesslike, 'I don't know about you, Marcus, but I'm for that blazing fire indoors.' He turned for the lodging, and Marcus let him stride ahead. 'You know what you're doing,' he said quietly to Vectis's retreating back. 'You plant the notion, I ponder it into bloom.' And an idea was indeed taking hold of him. Yes, at the place of bridge, at the place of the salt, there had been mildness in its season. Surely 'Alacer' could flourish--well, 'thereabouts,' as Vectis would have it. And if the real Alacer had already passed beyond, his spirit would look down and approve--as it hadn't been able to, with the sleek bulk of Diplomus in the way. But surely his brother hadn't passed beyond. He would yet taste the wine that bore his name.

A cart filled to bursting. Horses laden long before cockcrow. The near edge of autumn: gold and russet already snaking through the slopes and valleys. The lodging has been swept and tidied, as though its occupants were finicky beyond words. Even Firmus has lent a hand, though that is not why he is morose. This is no way to do it, he insists--skulking off into the night. Securing his horse's burden, Vectis remarks that they are imitating Christ.

'Here, don't start that,' grumps Firmus.

Vectis explains about Christ's warning--heaven knows where he heard it--about coming like a thief in the night to triumph over evil, to bear away the good. He himself, of course, doesn't believe a word of it. But they are delivering themselves from evil, taking their good venture to a better place. Wouldn't Firmus agree? Firmus spits. Vectis rubs his chin: no, perhaps not one of his better analogies.

The group rattle along the track. Diplomus's domain rises shadowy before them. Currerus takes the reins of Marcus's horse, and Marcus slips off. Despite Vectis's offer to think like Diplomus, Marcus has insisted that he alone should bear all responsibility. He walks steadily towards the archway, relieved that he will never see its mock-Imperial horrors again. Under his arm is a bundle containing a bag of coins and a letter. The coins represent an estimate of what they owe for three years' lodging. It is necessarily rough: Marcus feels foolish about it. But he has conversed in a general way with other landowners in the area, about rents and tithes and going rates, and he can only hope that what he is about to leave corresponds to the size of the debt. Of course, they should have found somewhere else to live, certainly after the first twelvemonth. But, Marcus now realises, they were too intent on their toils and the prospect of plentiful times--and worn down by Diplomus's tomfoolery in the matter of the rent.

Marcus places the bag at the entrance to the archway, having retrieved the letter and secured it on top. The letter states, quite simply, that Diplomus's way of business must remain forever at variance with Marcus's own. The valediction, far from being fulsome, merely wishes Diplomus and his kin an eventful life.

As he turns to leave, Marcus is startled by a commotion above him. For a second, he expects to see a stooping shape with burning eyes, and he braces himself to leap aside, in case the factotum hurls down a spear or axe. But it is a bird of night, already high against a vapoury moon--taking off, perhaps to a refuge from all that daylight means: honesty, brightness, plain dealing. One of the others starts muttering glumly about auguries. But Marcus sees the bird as the only fitting emblem of the Romano-Belgic pile before him.

About to re-mount his horse, he is surprised to see that six have become seven. There stands Prunec, shivering. They are good workers, he tells the rest, not bothering to disguise the pleading in his tone. Their next vineyards will do everything that these should have done. He wishes to remain alongside them. Besides, he says--cocking a thumb at the archway--he has cause to fear for his life. Marcus bids him find a space in the cart.

Somewhere a cock crows. By the time it has done, the band of vineyardists are striking out for the land of the Dobunni. Marcus is wondering if the bridge at Vertis still holds, if all the graded roads are yet well tended. Vectis hopes that the Salinae fort will still please his eye and flatter his engineer's vanity.

Again Firmus grumbles: 'If being a civilian means vanishing like a--'

'It means being prudent,' cuts in Vectis. 'For us, now, it means divining fresh blows instead of waiting to duck them.'

'And also, Firmus,' Marcus adds, 'it means ridding ourselves of two-legged lice.'

Firmus harrumphs. Day begins to break. They press on.

End of Chapter XXIII

Latin Terms used in Chapter XXIII:

Tartarus- Similar to the Christian "Hell".

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