Of Merchants & Heros by Paul Waters Read Free Book Online

up to the house.
    I found Caecilius in my father’s old study, which he had made his own. I avoided the room if I could. He had removed my father’s books, replacing them with a matching set of painted vases he had imported from Greece, of rampant satyrs chasing nymphs. He looked up sharply when I entered. He expected people to knock, even me and my mother. I was dusty from the orchard. In the cool interior I could smell my sweat.
    ‘Yes?’ he snapped. ‘What is it?’
    ‘You are sending away old Postumus,’ I said.
    He set aside his papers and sat back, as if he had been waiting for this. ‘Yes, I am. He is a hired hand, not a slave, and I have no more use for him.’
    ‘No one has thought to tell you, sir, with all that has happened lately, but Postumus has been with us all his life, and his father before him. He has nowhere else to go.’
    ‘And I have a farm to run.’
    ‘But sir!’ I cried. ‘What else will he do? He is part of the family almost, not some old shoe to cast out on the midden.’
    He stared at me and there was an awkward pause. No doubt I had gone too far. But I was angry.
    ‘Is this the way your father taught you to speak to your elders?’
    he said pompously.
    ‘My father would never have dismissed a man like Postumus.’
    His thick lips tightened into a harsh line. ‘I will not speak ill of the dead, Marcus. Your father had his merits, I daresay. But he was too indulgent by far, and such men are taken advantage of. These workers’ – with an angry wave towards the window – ‘are paid to work. One day they will all be old and useless. What then? In my opinion you are much too close to the farmhands; it is bad for discipline to think of them as ‘family’ as you call this man. And now I see they have you dancing to their tune. I suppose they put you up to this, or do you deny it?’
    I began an indignant answer, but he silenced me. ‘No, do not speak. Listen. Out of consideration for your mother I will find something else for this old man to do, though God knows what. But do not come to me again with such a request, unless you intend to pay for it with your own funds. I hope that is clear.’ He reached out and pulled a letter from a pile of scrolls, saying, ‘And while you are here there is something else. I have decided to appoint a bailiff here: there are useful men all over Italy – discharged servicemen, landowners down on their luck – who will accept what they are offered. My business will soon take me away, and it is clear to me I cannot leave things to run themselves.’
    This was his revenge. The expression on his face told me so. He was not a man to be crossed, even in the smallest thing. Everything was a battle, and every battle had to be won.
    I said, ‘But sir, I can manage.’
    ‘Oh? I do not think you can. But either way I do not intend to leave you here, wasting your time picking apples and threshing corn like some land peasant. You are more useful to me elsewhere; I need help, and now you are my adopted son it is time you earned your way.’
    He paused – a significant, self-satisfied pause to let me know who had triumphed and who had lost in this exchange. For a few moments our eyes locked, mine full of anger; his challenging me to say more. Eventually I looked down at the grey-stone floor; I was powerless, and he knew it, and he wanted to make sure I knew it too.
    Then with a contented grunt he went on, ‘So. I am awaiting news from Rome that will determine my future plans. When I am ready you will be told.’ He fluttered his hand. ‘Now you may go and tell old-man Postumus of his good fortune.’
    Before long my new stepfather had another surprise for me. I knew he had been married once. But I did not know, until the day before a carriage arrived bearing her, that he had a daughter.
    She was twelve years old. Her name was Caecilia, but her father called her Mouse. It was not a term of endearment. It was his way of mocking the way she looked.
    He spoke to