Cast Not The Day

  CAST NOT

  THE DAY

  Paul Waters is a well-travelled classicist; though educated in Britain, he has lived much of his life abroad, including in Africa, America and Greece. His first novel, Of Merchants & Heroes, was published in 2008.

  Also by Paul Waters

  Of Merchants & Heroes

  First published 2009 by Macmillan

  This edition first published 2009 by Pan Books

  This electronic edition published 2009 by Pan Books

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Rd, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-51506-1 in Adobe Reader format

  ISBN 978-0-330-51505-4 in Adobe Digital Editions format

  ISBN 978-0-330-51507-8 in Mobipocket format

  Copyright © Paul Waters 2009

  The right of Paul Waters to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  For K.W.

  For thy kingdom is past not away,

  Nor thy power from the place thereof hurled;

  Out of heaven they shall cast not the day,

  They shall cast not out song from the world.

  Algernon Charles Swinburne, ‘The Last Oracle’

  ONE

  WHEN I WAS A BOY, and wanted to be alone, I would climb the ancient apple tree at the back of our house, up onto the roof above the kitchens. From there, propped against the gable over the portico, where it was highest, I used to gaze out across the barley fields at the ships on the distant estuary, and dream of adventure and escape.

  High summer was best, when the sea-lanes were busy and my tutor was in no mood for teaching. Then I would spend warm afternoons dozing naked in the sun, watching the merchantmen as they rode the tide upriver to London, or out seawards on their way to Gaul or Spain or the Middle Sea.

  I was a solitary child, though I may say at the outset that this was not my own choice. I was lonely and yearned for friendship. But my father forbade me to play with the farm-hands, saying they had their own work to do, and I had mine. He was rearing a Roman gentleman, not a country peasant. And though I disobeyed him often enough, I remembered that, but for me, my mother would still be alive, and I had already brought him enough trouble. For she had died in childbirth when I was born.

  He kept a picture of her in his study, a small image painted on wood. I suppose he must have missed her, though he never spoke of it. He was private, stern and remote. Indeed, in most ways he was a stranger to me. But I knew well enough that he believed in decorum and firm discipline, for which, it seemed, I was ill suited. He used to say, before he beat me, that character is wrought with the rod, like a sword beneath the hammer.

  My only real companion in those days was Sericus, my tutor. He said he preferred books to boys, and had a strict air. But I believe he loved me all the same, and the strictness was just to please my father. He used to let me wander. But when he thought I had been away too long, he would come looking, and from my rooftop eyrie I would hear his voice in the courtyard, asking the slaves where I had gone. Then with a sigh I would pull myself up, pad across the sun-warm tiles, dust my tunic at the foot of the tree, and make my way to the front to find him.

  Sericus was an old man even then. He had come into our family years before as my mother’s tutor, when she was still a girl at her father’s house in Gallic Autun. Sericus had known her longest of all, longer even than my father, and it was he who brought her back to life for me, telling me about her smile, and how she threw back her long dark hair when she laughed, and how she had loved me even when she was carrying me in her belly.

  I never tired of these stories, which I must have asked him to repeat a thousand times. I used to think that if only I could see her clearly enough in my dreams, some magic would bring her back to me.

  But of course she never came; for there is no magic that brings the dead back to the living, whatever the Christians say.

  That year, near midsummer, I began to see something new on the water of the estuary: dark bulbous troopships, heavy and sluggish as they made their way in convoy downriver towards the sea, bearing our men away to Gaul.

  I asked Sericus who would protect us from the Saxons, with the army gone. But he answered sharply and told me to speak to my father. I frowned at this, and bent my head to my wax-board and my exercises. One did not go to my father without being summoned, as Sericus well knew.

  For as long as I could remember, high-ranking visitors had come to our villa, Father having been the emperor’s deputy in Britain, and so an important man. We received a steady stream of counts and tribunes, fat finance officers, wealthy landowners, and decurions from the cities, with their soldier escorts and smart carriages. The steward would meet them at the door and usher them inside, and I would run to the courtyard and talk to the waiting soldiers as they brushed down their horses, or lounged beside the fountain.

  They were rough men who smelled of sweat and leather; they joked and spat and tousled my hair, feeling the childish muscles in my arms and asking, while the great men conducted their business inside, when I was coming to join them in the army. They would tell me stories of battles and exotic places far away, sometimes rummaging in their satchels to find some trinket for me – a fragment of broken lamp, a rough clay votive figure, or a shard of polished glass – saying it had come all the way from Spain or wild Thrace, or sun-baked Egypt, older than time.

  I daresay, in truth, these mementoes had travelled no further than the nearest tavern or barrack-house. But for me they were full of mystery and promise, and I ranged them on the sill of my bedroom, where I would gaze at them and dream of heroes.

  We had our own jetty on the water’s edge, by a hamlet fortified against raiders from the sea. From there, each harvest time, we loaded barges with grain destined for London. For the rest of the year traffic seldom stopped there; but late one afternoon at the end of summer, when I was basking on the roof, I spotted a naval cutter veer suddenly from midstream and put in. I watched, and presently two men on horses appeared on the track. They paused, like dogs seeking a scent, then struck out through the barley fields, spurring their horses and throwing up a plume of dust behind, riding at a gallop under the avenue of limes that led to our house, and clattering into the courtyard – two men in uniform, with the straight-backed poise of officers. But when they were close I saw they had removed the marks of rank from their tunics.

  They shouted for the groom, ordering him to wait: they would not be long. Then they strode up the steps un
der the porch.

  The groom was still at the fountain with the reins in his hand when they returned. They mounted, wheeled their horses, and urged them away under the gateway. And as they turned, one of the men glanced up and caught sight of me looking down at him. For a moment he paused, grim-faced, and shook his head. Then he looked away and was gone.

  I waited, feeling the first cold fingers of fear creep in my hair. A stillness had descended on the house, and I was just about to return inside when hurried footfalls sounded on the ground below.

  I craned my head over the cornice to see, and found myself looking straight into the face of Sericus.

  ‘Come down this instant, Drusus,’ he cried, ‘and be quick; your father is waiting.’

  He was standing in front of the tall windows of his study when the slave admitted me, half turned away, staring out across the barley fields. Though he must have heard me enter he gave no sign; and so I waited, standing formally with my hands at my sides as I had been taught, feeling the cold of the marble floor beneath my feet and remembering that, in my haste, I had forgotten to fetch my sandals from my room. He would have something to say about that, and my dusty tunic too. He always remarked on such things.

  The pause lengthened. I shifted uneasily on my feet. Eventually, when still he did not move or acknowledge me, I said, ‘Father, I am here.’

  I heard him draw in his breath, and then with a sudden movement he turned. His face was in shadow, dark against the sunlight; and, as if seized by some sudden purpose, he strode across the floor, so swiftly that I almost thought he intended to strike me. But I knew that was not his way. When he reached me he suddenly dropped down on one knee and gripped my shoulders, and touched my hair and brow like a man deranged. I stared down at the white inlaid marble, confused and afraid. For never in my life had I known him show such feeling, either of joy or anger; not even when he beat me, when he was always calm and precise, like a man who breaks horses.

  He made to speak, and his voice was so strange and broken that I looked up and stared. His eyes were shimmering, and there was water on his cheek. I think I even gasped out loud, for it shocked me beyond all reason to see my father crying.

  Whatever he saw in my face caused him to master himself. He took a long breath, and after a pause released me from his grip and stood to his full height. When he spoke again it was in his usual voice, measured and businesslike.

  ‘You are too young,’ he said, ‘for what I have to tell you. But it cannot wait, and I want you to listen carefully. Today I had two visitors, men bound by bonds of old friendship. They brought me a warning. Our new emperor, it seems, is no longer content merely to remove me from office. I am summoned to Gaul, to the court at Trier, to answer certain . . . questions.’

  He paused, and his face twisted in irony at this final word.

  In my innocence I asked, ‘When will you be back, sir?’ I had not yet come to know the language of the court, where every horror bore a pretty name.

  He looked from me, casting his eyes over the stacked books of his library, and the little faded picture of my mother on the shelf.

  ‘I cannot say . . . I expect to be a long time. There are certain arrangements that must be made. I shall send you to your great-uncle in London, Lucius Balbus; he is of your mother’s bloodline, and he will take care of you.’

  I had never heard of this man Balbus, and did not want to be sent away. ‘But, sir!’ I cried, ‘Sericus and the slaves can look after me.’

  He shook his head. ‘You cannot stay. I have instructed Sericus to accompany you, for your studies. Do not neglect your education. Such things are of no great concern to Balbus, by all accounts; but there is no freedom without it. How old are you now?’

  ‘Fourteen.’ It was something he never remembered.

  ‘Well, I believe Balbus has a son about that age, who will be a friend to you. Now stop staring like a fool, and attend to what I say. I suspect, in the future, you will encounter difficulties: a man like me has enemies as well as friends, and only at times such as this does one discover which is which. You will have to face them as best you can; and through it all, Drusus, I hope you will remember you are my son, and bear yourself accordingly. It is in your own hands now to make yourself a gentleman, and to learn what that means. Now prepare yourself. You leave today, before nightfall.’

  I stood in silence, while he talked on, details I cannot

  recall. But then, seeing my eyes on him, he broke off and drew a long breath.

  ‘Listen then,’ he said, ‘and hear the truth, though by the gods I would spare you this. Someone at court, some intriguer, has brought a charge against me, and I must go to answer it. Such are my enemies: small men, who dare not show their faces, who have worked in the shadows to bring me down. In the meantime you will be safer elsewhere. Is that clear?’

  ‘But, Father,’ I cried, ‘what have you done?’

  ‘Done?’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘I have done my duty and served the emperor. And now that he is dead, his sons squabble over their inheritance, like dogs fighting for a bone. My loyalty has been my undoing, for loyalty to one is treason to the other—’

  He ceased, and with an impatient motion of his hand turned away, and stood with his back to me, beside the great onyx desk.

  ‘Now go; the slaves are already packing your things, and Sericus is waiting.’

  So ended my childhood. I never saw him again.

  TWO

  WE CAME TO LONDON through the open suburb of farmsteads and villas to the south, halting at the watering-place by the bridge, where the carters and litter-bearers gather.

  The house of Balbus lay in the heart of the merchants’ quarter, off the Street of the Carpenters, close by the Grove of Isis. Everywhere was crowded. The hot air smelled of dust and unwashed bodies. Behind the street the workshops sounded with the noise of hammers and saws and engravers’ chisels.

  An old house-slave admitted us. He asked after our things, which we had left with the wagon, and said they would be fetched. Then he took Sericus off, leaving me with a sullen-looking servant-girl. She led me past rooms hung with bright silk draperies, and cluttered with fussy, gilded furniture. But my room was elsewhere, on the uppermost floor below the rafters, bare and low and whitewashed.

  ‘The Mistress says you must sleep here,’ mumbled the girl, avoiding my eye and stepping past me to open the shutters. I glanced about. There was a narrow bed with a grey coverlet, and, in the corner, below a festoon of cobwebs, a washstand. But otherwise it might have been some old attic store. It was not the kind of room my father would have offered to a guest, however humble.

  Just then the girl let out a small, smothered cry. The breeze had snatched the shutter from her hand, sending it banging against the outer wall. It was a small enough thing; but she glanced back at the door, biting her lip.

  ‘It’s just the wind,’ I said, smiling to put her at her ease. ‘Here, I’ll help you.’ I leant out and secured the rusted catch, saying, ‘See, it is done.’

  She nodded, then turned to the washstand and busied herself with the few things there, brushing off the dust.

  I asked brightly if my aunt was at home, and at this she stiffened and paused. She was as timid as a snared bird. The Mistress, she said, staring down at the floor, was resting in her private rooms, and must not be disturbed.

  ‘And my cousin?’ I asked, frowning. ‘What of him?’

  ‘Albinus is out, sir. He is at the bishop’s.’

  Her voice was so low that it took me a moment to realize what she had said. ‘But what,’ I asked, staring, ‘has he to do with such a man?’ I had heard my father talk of Christians to his political friends. They were meddlesome zealots, he said, always stirring up trouble. And I knew the farm-hands drove them off with sticks, whenever their whey-faced wandering preachers came onto our land.

  The girl looked quickly at me, then looked away, her mouth setting firm, as if I had lured her into saying more than she ought.

  ‘You mu
st ask him yourself,’ she answered. Then, before I could speak again, she hurried off.

  I listened to her footfalls recede along the boards of the passageway, and sat staring down at my dusty boots. I rubbed my eyes. I was tired; I felt it now.

  The night before, we had put in at a wretched off-road inn, and lain on filthy beds full of fleas. I had asked Sericus if the emperor’s family were really so terrible that we must travel thus, dressed as backwoodsmen and hiding like thieves. But he had told me crossly to hush; my father had good reason, and we were doing as he had ordered.

  After that I had left him be. I could see he was unhappy enough already.

  The flea-bites were sore. I pulled off my boots, and scratched at my heel. The city noise was carrying in, and with it the stench of rancid cooking, charcoal mixed with goose fat. I got up and padded to the window, and looked out.

  Below me, two floors down, a sickly damson tree was growing in a grim, paved court, straining for the light; and as I looked the old house-slave passed under the colonnade, hurrying with his old-man’s gait towards the kitchens and servants’ quarters at the back.

  He had said, when he admitted us, that my uncle Balbus was out at the docks, attending to business there. I thought of how my father had spoken slightingly of Balbus, saying he was some sort of trader, whose business was ships, and buying and selling. But then, I reflected with a shrug, my father had little good to say of me either. So perhaps, after all, my uncle and I should like one another.

  A slave brought water in an earthen jar. I stripped, and washed my body at the basin; and presently the girl came tapping at the door, and told me my uncle had returned and would see me now.

  I had wanted to dress in something fine, to show I was not just nobody. But my clothes-chest had not yet come, so in the end, telling myself that clothes do not make a man, I pulled on my grimy homespun tunic once more, and made the best of it.