Free The Boat of Fate by Keith Roberts

the little dagger I always carried, was in my hand. I stared at it, bemused; to this day, I swear, I have no recollection of drawing it. I suppose I could have killed him, in that same mad flush, and brought away scarcely a memory.
    There was a long silence; then he said quietly, ‘I see ….’ He seated himself again, slowly, spread his palms flat on the desk-top; and it was as if we acted out some grim and fabulous play, all the lines learned wearily by heart. His words fell measured and steady, like little stones; before his lips had shaped them I knew what they would be.
    ‘Caius,’ he said, ‘many years ago I instructed my servant to speak to you. It was also my wish that he train you, in swordplay and the general use of weapons. My hope was that it might make a man of you, but it seems the experiment has failed.
    ‘For too long now you have deliberately flouted my wishes. I let you go your own way, hoping that one day you would come to your senses. In that, too, I have been disappointed. Now you have shown me steel, under my own roof. You have gone too far.’
    He drew a heavy breath before continuing; and already the fear was on me. Fear, and a burning self-contempt. The desolation I felt was not for Calgaca but myself; so soon had selfishness overcome my grief.
    ‘You will leave this house,’ said my father. ‘And your instructor, who has taught you some things too well, can go with you. You will pack whatever you wish to take at once; I want you to be gone by dawn. If you remain, I shall take steps to secure your removal. This is no longer your home.’
    The shock, coming so soon on the greater shock of Calgaca’s death, almost unmanned me; a part of me wanted to fling myself at his feet, grovel and beg forgiveness. Yet so swift is thought that I understood in the same instant the uselessness of such a course. With the realisation came a cold, swimming rage. It dictated that I should use the weapon I had drawn, add my father’s blood as a sacrifice to the blood already spilled. I think he saw that; none the less, he droned on.
    ‘I shall not disinherit you,’ he said. ‘If and when you acquire maturity, and some sense of duty, you may return and ask my pardon; until then, I don’t want to set eyes on you. I shall give you no money; you must be prepared to make your own way in the world. However, you may if you wish take a horse from the stables; I shall expect you eventually to return its price to me. Where you go is entirely your concern; but I will if you choose give you a letter to my brother in Rome. I shall not recommend you to him; he must form his own impression as to your usefulness. And may God help you. Now you can go. And send Marcus in to me, please.’
    He looked away at that, picked up the book and started to read. He never glanced up again; and I turned and left, without a word.
    Marcus was up, sitting brooding over a jug of wine. He glanced at me as I entered; then rose, silently, at the expression on my face. I told him, flatly, what had happened. I think he was as shaken as I was; when I had finished he stood for a moment, pursing his lips and frowning, before reaching silently to grip my arm.
    ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Wait for me here. I shan’t be long.’ He strode out, quickly. I heard his feet on the flags of the atrium, far-off the click of my father’s door. Then there was quiet.
    I sat listlessly, watching the lamp flames bob and dip. In time, he returned. He didn’t speak to me; just crossed to the workbench and began quietly stowing the tools, setting chisels, hammers and saws neatly in their racks. When he had done, and the wood shavings were swept into a pile, he lifted down two heavy saddle panniers from the wall. He moved round the room, quickly and efficiently, selecting weapons and clothes, stowing them with the ease born of long practice. I watched him uncomprehendingly for a time before I spoke. When I did open my mouth my own voice was a shock to me.