Free The Boat of Fate by Keith Roberts Page A

‘Marcus,’ I said, ‘we must go to Rome.’
    He stopped at that, tight-lipped, and looked down at me. His face in the lamplight was grim and hard. Finally he shook his head. ‘No, lad,’ he said, ‘that’s where you’re wrong. We don’t have to go anywhere. You can take yourself to Rome, if that’s your wish; but I don’t have to trail along after you. I was your father’s man. I served him well enough, to my way of thinking; and precious little thanks I’ve had for it, when you weigh it through. Well, that’s one thing; I suppose I should be used to ingratitude by now. But I’m not thinking of taking service again; least of all with you.’ And he wrenched up the lid of the strong-box, began stowing coins into the pouches of a body belt.
    I nodded, realising that God, or the Gods, had not yet done with my punishment. I drew my dagger again, sat looking dumbly at the blade. The old fear of shedding blood was on me strongly, but I think at that moment I could readily have opened my veins. ‘Then I shall join my mother,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, Marcus, for speaking stupidly.’
    He turned from what he was doing, thoughtfully; then reached across and plucked the weapon from my hand. ‘Go and pack,’ he said gruffly. ‘And let’s have no more talk like that. If you want to please your mother, you can start behaving like a man; it’s not too late.’ He paused, momentarily; then his voice softened. ‘Rome’s as good a place as the next,’ he said. ‘And if we’re travelling the same way we might as well ride together. Your father made me responsible for you years enough ago; I know I’m a bloody fool but I don’t like leaving a job half done. Go on, get on with it. Come back when you’re through.’ And he readdressed himself to the stowing of the coins.
    I walked dazedly to my room. But the effort of logical thought was too much for me. When Marcus put his head round the door an hour or more later, I was still sitting on the bed, surrounded by the litter I had pulled arbitrarily from cupboards and chests. He set to without a word, making up essentials into bundles, discarding the rest. When he had finished he dumped the packs on the bed. He had laid out a thick tunic and cloak; I changed into them, hearing his voice in the peristyle.
    ‘I wish,’ he said quietly, ‘to pay my respects to the Domina ….’
    There was silence, lamplit and flickering, till he returned. I followed him then, hefting the packs. Moments later, we were in the street; the door clicked softly behind us.
    He roused Victor at the stables. The groom yawned and grumbled, demanding my father’s authority. Marcus ignored him, picking out the two best horses and saddling them silently. He slung the packs across the back of a third animal. ‘That’s a bonus for good service,’ he said grimly. ‘I’m paying it to myself.’ Half an hour later we were riding through the quiet streets of Italica.
    The moon was high, sailing a serene sky. The air struck chill; I muffled myself in my cloak, shivering, following Marcus dumbly and automatically. We passed streets and buildings I had known from earliest childhood; the town baths, the little library, the desyhop above which Gellius still presided sourly over his classes. The moonlight lay bright in the streets, but nothing stirred. Houses jerked past, their windows blind and dark as the eyes of skulls; it seemed to my fevered imagination the place was already a town of the dead. We passed through the east gate unchallenged, emerged from shadows on to the white, paved road. There we both reined, looking back. Behind us lay my mother and everything I had known; in front the road stretched between tall cypresses, a dim, straight ribbon vanishing into the dark. Somewhere an owl called, haunting and shrill; I shivered again, involuntarily, at the omen.
    Marcus clicked to his horse, urging it gently forward. I followed him at a walk, passed into the shadows of the first trees. The hooves