Read Online Of Merchants & Heros by Paul Waters - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Waters
Tags: General Fiction
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residence was not far from ours, a large walled house on the edge of the sanctuary of Aphrodite. Returning, I heard the loud self-satisfied voice of the fat agent in my stepfather’s study, so I decided to wait in the garden, among the palms and oleanders.
But Caecilius must have seen me pass the door. He called, ‘Come here, Marcus, please.’ I went in. Florus and Virilis were there.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Did you take the note as I instructed?’ He inclined his head at Florus, and addressing him in his listen-and- learn tone went on, ‘As I was telling you, significant men are always useful to one another. The praetor will know my name from Rome, of course, and he will want to meet me as soon as possible.’
He returned his gaze to me and there was a pause. They all looked at me expectantly. This was just what I had hoped to avoid.
‘Well?’ said Caecilius again, tapping the desktop with his ring.
In a hesitating voice I said, ‘I took the note, sir, but—’ I tried to signal with my eyes that it would be better for us to speak alone, but Caecilius burst out impatiently, ‘But what? Come along, boy, pull yourself together, what was the reply? When does the praetor wish to see me?’
‘There was no reply,’ I said.
‘No reply?’ he repeated, the colour rising in his plump cheeks.
Now, finally, I had his attention. I could see his mind working.
Quickly he said, ‘Of course, you saw the praetor himself ?’
He could hardly have supposed this. Even Caecilius did not see messengers himself. He left it to the steward, or one of the slaves.
But I knew what he was doing. He was saving face, at my expense.
Awkwardly I explained what he must have known very well, that it was one of the praetor’s staff who took the note.
‘Some idiot clerk,’ he said, nodding at Florus and Virilis. ‘And did he read it? I don’t suppose he did. I don’t suppose he could read Latin at all.’
‘Yes, sir. He read it while I waited. He was Roman. He spoke Latin to me.’
There was a silence. Florus had developed a sudden interest in the oleander beyond the window. Virilis was looking at his boots.
My stepfather cleared his throat. ‘Well, Caeso is a busy man. He has a whole city of Greeks to take care of, after all. But really, Marcus, you might have waited for an answer . . . No!’ – raising his hand as I drew my breath – ‘do not attempt to answer me back! Let me finish. Must I always see to a job myself, if I want it done properly? I suppose you went hurrying off to waste your time in the market, or were gaping at the shops. I have told you before. Work comes first!’
In fact I had come straight back. I did not tell him this now. Nor did I say that I had pressed the man at the praetor’s residence for an answer. He had been no mere clerk, but a quaestor or some other senior official: a Roman, dressed in a white tunic bordered with red.
He had been courteous, and, when I asked, he had looked over the note again, and repeated that there was no reply, adding, ‘Who is this Aulus Caecilius, anyway, some sort of merchant?’
None of this I mentioned now to my stepfather. Instead I said, ‘Do you want me to go back again, sir?’
‘Oh, no; leave it, leave it.’ He fluttered his thick hand at me in a gesture of irritated dismissal. ‘I expect I shall hear something during the course of the day.’
In fact he heard nothing. It was I who met the praetor first. And in circumstances neither of us could have foreseen.
Tarentum interested me well enough, for there was always something new to see. But I had not grown up with city life, and there were times when I was glad to escape to the hinterland, where the great farming estates were. Though I disliked the sour mistrustful bailiffs on the farms, who had grown hard and brutal as the slaves they oversaw, yet it was pleasant to ride out among the horse-farms and orchards and vineyards, and to be away from Caecilius for a while.
It was a fine day of warm
But Caecilius must have seen me pass the door. He called, ‘Come here, Marcus, please.’ I went in. Florus and Virilis were there.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Did you take the note as I instructed?’ He inclined his head at Florus, and addressing him in his listen-and- learn tone went on, ‘As I was telling you, significant men are always useful to one another. The praetor will know my name from Rome, of course, and he will want to meet me as soon as possible.’
He returned his gaze to me and there was a pause. They all looked at me expectantly. This was just what I had hoped to avoid.
‘Well?’ said Caecilius again, tapping the desktop with his ring.
In a hesitating voice I said, ‘I took the note, sir, but—’ I tried to signal with my eyes that it would be better for us to speak alone, but Caecilius burst out impatiently, ‘But what? Come along, boy, pull yourself together, what was the reply? When does the praetor wish to see me?’
‘There was no reply,’ I said.
‘No reply?’ he repeated, the colour rising in his plump cheeks.
Now, finally, I had his attention. I could see his mind working.
Quickly he said, ‘Of course, you saw the praetor himself ?’
He could hardly have supposed this. Even Caecilius did not see messengers himself. He left it to the steward, or one of the slaves.
But I knew what he was doing. He was saving face, at my expense.
Awkwardly I explained what he must have known very well, that it was one of the praetor’s staff who took the note.
‘Some idiot clerk,’ he said, nodding at Florus and Virilis. ‘And did he read it? I don’t suppose he did. I don’t suppose he could read Latin at all.’
‘Yes, sir. He read it while I waited. He was Roman. He spoke Latin to me.’
There was a silence. Florus had developed a sudden interest in the oleander beyond the window. Virilis was looking at his boots.
My stepfather cleared his throat. ‘Well, Caeso is a busy man. He has a whole city of Greeks to take care of, after all. But really, Marcus, you might have waited for an answer . . . No!’ – raising his hand as I drew my breath – ‘do not attempt to answer me back! Let me finish. Must I always see to a job myself, if I want it done properly? I suppose you went hurrying off to waste your time in the market, or were gaping at the shops. I have told you before. Work comes first!’
In fact I had come straight back. I did not tell him this now. Nor did I say that I had pressed the man at the praetor’s residence for an answer. He had been no mere clerk, but a quaestor or some other senior official: a Roman, dressed in a white tunic bordered with red.
He had been courteous, and, when I asked, he had looked over the note again, and repeated that there was no reply, adding, ‘Who is this Aulus Caecilius, anyway, some sort of merchant?’
None of this I mentioned now to my stepfather. Instead I said, ‘Do you want me to go back again, sir?’
‘Oh, no; leave it, leave it.’ He fluttered his thick hand at me in a gesture of irritated dismissal. ‘I expect I shall hear something during the course of the day.’
In fact he heard nothing. It was I who met the praetor first. And in circumstances neither of us could have foreseen.
Tarentum interested me well enough, for there was always something new to see. But I had not grown up with city life, and there were times when I was glad to escape to the hinterland, where the great farming estates were. Though I disliked the sour mistrustful bailiffs on the farms, who had grown hard and brutal as the slaves they oversaw, yet it was pleasant to ride out among the horse-farms and orchards and vineyards, and to be away from Caecilius for a while.
It was a fine day of warm
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