(no subject)
I have been in the mood to write something all day, but I've completely lacked the inspiration. And the motivation, in all honesty. And, let's face it, I really ought to be doing my reading for Monday.
Still, I might as well have a go.
This is, technically, Cambridge Latin Course fanfic. I studied the CLC at school, and Quintus Caecilius Iucundus was far and away my favourite character.
We meet Quintus in Pompeii, which then inconveniently gets covered in a sort of natural cement. He turns up in Egypt, but the friend of his father's he's staying with dies. So he goes to England, to tell this man's son (Rufus) of his father's death, since the son is a soldier and is currently station on Hadrian's wall. He stays with some more family friends, and meets a local king. The family friend, Salvius, attempts to murder this king. People start trying to kill Quintus, so he makes a wild escape to the North, where the governor (Agricola) is. He manages to get the news to the governor, just in time to find out the king has died and left everything to Salvius. Oh, and it turns out that Rufus is there too.
And then he disappears, completely. The books move to Rome, where Salvius eventually turns up. It's not until the end of the very last book, and some fictional months later (possibly years), that Quintus turns up again, to act as the main witness at Salvius's trial.
I didn't like this absence of Quintus one bit. I wanted to read about him, not Salvius and the Emperor. Now, suddenly taken in a mad fit of latin love (blame doing latin again, and Rome), and wanting to write, I decided to fill a little bit in.
There are a few technical latin terms knocking about (such as impluvium, which was a small pool in the hall, situated beneath a hole of the same size in the ceiling, that was kept full with rain water), but most of it should make sense. It's fun doing the research for this again. I don't think you really need to know the above to work out what's going on: Quintus is a Pompeii survivor living in the North of England. He has no friends or family there.
Quintus stared at the short row of slaves in disappointment. He knew Britain was a fairly far flung outpost of the Empire, and he knew he was in a fairly far flung part of Britain, but five was not a good selection by anyone's standards. Not when you were looking to start adding to your current collection of none, because the governor wanted you to hold a party in honour of him giving you and house and job.
He shifted from foot to foot, cursing the weather as his tunic clung to his legs. This wasn't just rain. It stung, and it made his skin hurt. Of course, the locals would have a name for it, he thought darkly. They had names for every possible variation of rain imaginable. If it wasn't for the gold to the west and the prospect of hardy slaves, no self respecting Italian would ever dream of invading this country.
"Where's that one from?" Quintus asked, pointing at a distinctly overweight slave. The man was short and fat, but the sort of fat that didn't wobble, and would probably hurt you were you to hit him. His face was deeply lined, set in a permanent frown, and a dark shade of red. His skin was mottled, which Quintus knew wasn't a good sign in a slave, but otherwise the man seemed healthy enough.
"Him? Oh, Vectitos is Gaulish," said the trader. "Amazing chef, as you'd expect for one that size. Doesn't speak the local language, though, and not much latin. You need Ùisdean too." He hooked his foot around a loop of chain and jerked it towards them, pulling into view a boy of about ten, who'd been hidden behind that large man until now. "That's the son. Local mother, not a citizen but not a slave either, died in childbirth."
"So the boy speaks British?" Quintus asked.
"And latin," said the trader cheerfully. "He's still a bit wild, has a tendency to run off to his mother's family. But they won't have him anyway, and so as long as you've got the father he'll come back."
Quintus bit his lip to hide a smirk. Even the trader was rustic and unprofessional. This would be too easy, in some respects.
"So," Quintus said slowly, drawing the word out with pleasure, "you're telling me that each is useless without the other?"
"Not useless, per se," the trader stammered, becoming aware of his mistake. "Just-"
"Why should I buy two slaves when one could do the same job? It's only a few days journey south, and there are plenty of people there far more willing to oblige me." Quintus felt his purse and pursed his lips. "And if you sold one, you'd struggle to sell the other, of course."
"It's 800 for the man, 200 for the boy," the trader said with a defeated sigh.
"800 for both, and maybe I'll think about it," Quintus said, thoroughly enjoying himself. It wasn't his fault his father had taught him to have a healthy interest in money, was it? Only that thought hit a still painful wound, and Quintus's triumphed dulled. His money came from his father's holdings, his father's friends' debts and his father's death. He couldn't even visit the tomb. There wasn't a tomb. Not for a man buried under the excrement of a mountain.
Quintus realised the trader was looking at him expectantly. He had the chain linking the two slaves in one hand, and another held out expectantly. Quintus opened his purse and began to count.
Ùisdean was vocal. Quintus wondered how his former master had handled him, or whether he'd even had a former master. The boy had absolutely no respect, and his father didn't seem inclined to stop him. Quintus had never been too keen on thrashing slaves, but he was beginning to think a slap wouldn't go amiss.
"Where are we going?" the kid demanded.
"Where I go," Quintus said shortly. "And I didn't give you permission to speak."
"I don't need permission. I'm quite capable of moving me m-"
The slap was really quite satisfying. Well, until Ùisdean burst into tears and began to run in the opposite direction. Before Quintus could react the chain that still held the father and son together pulled taught, and the child fell face first into the mud.
"I am your master," Quintus told him firmly. "You do what I say, understand? I could have you killed if I wanted to, so don't make me want to."
Vectitos looked from Quintus to his son and back again. He reached down with one beefy hand and lifted the boy up by his waist. Ùisdean struggled a little, but remained quiet as Vectitos hefted him up over one shoulder and nodded to Quintus.
"Thank you," said the Roman.
They continued through the muddy streets, Quintus trying to convince himself he was only imaging that people were staring at him. He found somewhere that would build enough couches for him to hold a reasonable dinner party, another place that would provide his new chef with all of the equipment he could carry, and somewhere else that would look for a freedman to run the house for him. Most people would have a slave, but Quintus had grown up with a freedman, and wanted a freedman. Actually he wanted Clemens, but he lived in Egypt now, and Quintus had promised himself to leave the poor man alone for a little while. But invite him to visit, regularly. As a holiday.
It began to rain more heavily, and Quintus admitted defeat. He trudged back to the villa Agricola had given him, followed by his new slaves, who didn't even have the decency to look tired yet. He didn't want to go back to his new home, in all honesty. He didn't want a home of his own. Even Salvius's villa had been preferable. He wanted the company. He wanted to be cared for. In his own mind he was still a boy. Somewhere among the volcanoes and the crocodiles and the murderers and political intrigue the world had come to assume he was an adult, but he didn't feel like it yet. Adults could look after themselves.
The villa was entirely empty, and not only of the people Quintus craved. He pointed the direction of the kitchens and let his slaves take care of themselves. Once they'd left the atrium he left himself fall to the floor, exhausted.
"Is this the new fashion in Pompeii?" a voice asked dryly, coming from a doorway somewhere behind Quintus. "It's certainly... minimalist."
"The fashion in Pompeii, right now," Quintus said coldly, "is to burn all of your furniture under the rains of fire, to take anything that doesn't burn and you can carry into the street, and to die in great pain."
Rufus walked out of a room Quintus had yet to decide a use for and sat down next to the young man. Quintus glanced sideways, and saw guilt etched on Rufus's face. He swallowed and he sighed, and he forgave him.
"Sorry," Quintus mumbled. "I know it feels like a long time ago, but..."
"No, I understand," said Rufus. "I didn't think." he laughed bitterly. "Of anyone, I should understand, right?"
"What are you doing here?" Quintus asked, slipping off his sandals to stick his feet into the impluvium. He pulled them out immediately, wincing at the cold.
"Were you never taught manners?" Rufus observed.
"It's my house," Quintus pouted. "Besides, soldiers really shouldn't start talking about manners."
"I'm off duty," Rufus told him. "Mourning period."
"Why are you here, then?"
Rufus took a deep breath and let it out. He slung a companionable arm around Quintus's shoulders.
"Because, dear friend I only recently met, I want to get drunk. I want to get drunk with someone who understands why I want to get drunk so much. I do not want to get drunk with soldiers."
"I don't know how you've kept a sense of humour," Quintus said, but accepted the proposition with some enthusiasm.
The couches had arrived at some point. Quintus could vaguely remember greeting the delivery men, and paying them. Probably paying them too much, but maybe they'd been faster and politer next time.
Quintus had a suspicion that he would be a great disappointment to his father, were his father around to be disappointed. He shared this with Rufus.
"Ah, but see," Rufus said, waving an empty cup in the air, "I knew I was a disappointment. That's why I joined the army."
"Girls like soldiers," Quintus said, staring at the ceiling. There was a hole in it. Should there be a hole in it? He thought he could remember a hole at home. It let the water in, didn't it? "I don't like water in Britain," Quintus said. "It's too cold."
"Whole country's too cold," Rufus agreed. "You should come to Egypt with me. When the army releases me." He sat up a little and frowned. "Have you got your feet in the impluvium again?"
"No," Quintus lied, sticking out his tongue. "Anyways, wine makes British water warmer."
"No, it just makes you number," Rufus sat, climbing to his feet. "Come on, out of there."
Quintus had a sneaking suspicion that Rufus wasn't quite as drunk as he was. Of course, being a soldier, he probably did this sort of thing more often. Caecilius had never really let Quintus drink too much. He'd always insisted Quintus's wine was diluted. It wasn't fair!
Rufus was trying to pull him out of the pool. After some consideration, Quintus decided to let him. After some more swearing on Rufus's part, Quintus realised that perhaps he ought to help.
When Rufus ended up in the shallow pool as well, Quintus thought that perhaps he shouldn't have helped.
Rufus was still wearing his Tribune's uniform, for the most part. Aspects like the helmet and greaves had been taken off before Quintus got home, and now the breastplate was gone as well. Essentially, Rufus was wearing a short tunic, and a leather skirt. He pulled the cingulum off with a clumsy hand, and tossed it out of the water. Wouldn't want it to get it ruined.
"You're really very drunk, aren't you?" Rufus said, in an almost affectionate tone of voice. Quintus immediately felt a pang of guilt. Barbillus may have died months ago, but Rufus had only just found out. He'd come to Quintus, of all people, for comfort, and probably to hear about his father's last days, and what had Quintus done? Got drunk, and talked about his own family. Tears began to well up in Quintus's eyes.
"Oh, you-" Rufus broke off and sighed heavily. "Come here," he said, pulling Quintus towards him. "You civilians are all the same, you know."
"'msorry," Quintus said into Rufus's chest. Warm arms encircled him, and he pulled himself out of the mire of guilt just enough to appreciate it. "Don'go."
"Go? I'm not going," Rufus frowned.
"You're my friend," Quintus told him.
"You're mine too," Rufus said with a chuckle. "Let's face it, the things we've told each other tonight, we've got no choice but to be." He squeezed Quintus gently. "And there aren't any exploding mountains or crocodiles in this country. Just the risk of death by cold."
"Get out of the pool," Quintus thought outloud, puzzling out what Rufus was hinting at.
"Yes, my little banker, out of the pool."
Eventually, after Quintus tried and failed a few more times, Rufus woke the slaves and had the chef haul Quintus out. Quintus let himself be draped over one of the couches.
"He has nothing?" he heard Rufus ask.
"Nothing," the boy announced cheerfully. "Not even a blanket for us."
"Slaves come second," Rufus muttered to himself as much to the boy. "What's your name?"
"Ùisdean," answered the boy.
"We're going to have to Romanise that," Rufus said. "In the mean time, take this up to the fort. Tell the men on the gate who sent you, and give them this as proof. Get someone to show you where my quarters are, and bring back the chest I keep under my bed. Can you remember all of that?"
"Of course."
"Quintus is too soft on slaves. Go."
Quintus wondered what Rufus had given the boy, and thought perhaps he ought to mention the risk of never seeing the child again. But it was too much effort to roll over, and Rufus would never hear him while his face was bruised in the couch. Besides, the boy was gone now. Long gone, or only just? Eh, gone.
"Sleepy now?" Rufus said quietly, and Quintus felt a hand in his hair. "Wine does that. You could have said you weren't so accustomed to it, you know. There's no shame in not being able to keep up with a soldier.
"Mmph," said Quintus.
"The boy is getting some blankets and dry clothes. I'll see if I can convince one of the messengers tomorrow to get the rest of your things from Salvius's villa. Idiot banker."
Quintus wanted to object, but he could barely understand the words any more. They just sounded nice. It was nice, having someone talking to him as he fell asleep. it was like home again.
Quintus woke violently, choking instead of screaming, and falling off a couch not meant for sleep. He was too hot and terrified by it, he couldn't breath and he struggled to move. Panic ripped the blanket into two and knocked its owner to the floor.
"Great Jupiter, what in Hades is wrong with you?" Rufus gasped, winded and bruised.
Quintus stared around, banging his head on the couch. The pain help him recognise reality, and the truth of the nightmare began to sink in. He buried his head in his hands, and tried not to cry.
"I take it you're not a morning person," Rufus commented wryly, rubbing a bruised elbow. "What was that, a nightmare?"
Quintus nodded, the movement jarring something in his head and bringing on an unusually welcome headache. Anything to distract him now. Nausea began to catch up with him as well, and he focused on that too.
"Mars, that was violent. Pompeii?"
Quintus started to nod, and stopped himself just in time. "Yes," he responded quietly.
"Damn it, what time is it?" Rufus grumbled, climbing to him feet, apparently content to leave Quintus with his misery. "It's not light yet, is it? No, no, it is. I'm needed back at the fort by the third hour! Where's the rest of my uniform? This isn't good."
Quintus let him stumble around him, resting his head against the couch now and squinting in the light. No wonder his father hadn't let him get drunk.
Rufus slipped a hand under Quintus's chin and pulled his head around to face him.
"Look," he said, "I have to go. Agricola needs me again today, despite the fact I’m meant to get some time to myself. You just stay here, alright? I'll get that chef of yours to sort you out some breakfast. Take it easy today. I'll try and be back by the sixth hour. We'll sort you out some proper furniture, and some more slaves, and get whatever you had left from Salvius. Whatever you do, stay out of the impluvium."
Quintus laughed at that, surprising himself.
"Yes, mother," he teased.
"Good boy," Rufus snorted, ruffling Quintus's hair. "You owe me a blanket." It was an odd goodbye, to Quintus's way of thinking, but goodbye it apparently was. He watched Rufus sprint out of the atrium, still only half dressed, and went back to concentrating on not being sick.
1 is probably a misnomer, but you never know. There might be more of this. I think Quintus is going to get rather ill (which would be a good reason for him not ratting out Salvius sooner).
Still, I might as well have a go.
This is, technically, Cambridge Latin Course fanfic. I studied the CLC at school, and Quintus Caecilius Iucundus was far and away my favourite character.
We meet Quintus in Pompeii, which then inconveniently gets covered in a sort of natural cement. He turns up in Egypt, but the friend of his father's he's staying with dies. So he goes to England, to tell this man's son (Rufus) of his father's death, since the son is a soldier and is currently station on Hadrian's wall. He stays with some more family friends, and meets a local king. The family friend, Salvius, attempts to murder this king. People start trying to kill Quintus, so he makes a wild escape to the North, where the governor (Agricola) is. He manages to get the news to the governor, just in time to find out the king has died and left everything to Salvius. Oh, and it turns out that Rufus is there too.
And then he disappears, completely. The books move to Rome, where Salvius eventually turns up. It's not until the end of the very last book, and some fictional months later (possibly years), that Quintus turns up again, to act as the main witness at Salvius's trial.
I didn't like this absence of Quintus one bit. I wanted to read about him, not Salvius and the Emperor. Now, suddenly taken in a mad fit of latin love (blame doing latin again, and Rome), and wanting to write, I decided to fill a little bit in.
There are a few technical latin terms knocking about (such as impluvium, which was a small pool in the hall, situated beneath a hole of the same size in the ceiling, that was kept full with rain water), but most of it should make sense. It's fun doing the research for this again. I don't think you really need to know the above to work out what's going on: Quintus is a Pompeii survivor living in the North of England. He has no friends or family there.
Quintus stared at the short row of slaves in disappointment. He knew Britain was a fairly far flung outpost of the Empire, and he knew he was in a fairly far flung part of Britain, but five was not a good selection by anyone's standards. Not when you were looking to start adding to your current collection of none, because the governor wanted you to hold a party in honour of him giving you and house and job.
He shifted from foot to foot, cursing the weather as his tunic clung to his legs. This wasn't just rain. It stung, and it made his skin hurt. Of course, the locals would have a name for it, he thought darkly. They had names for every possible variation of rain imaginable. If it wasn't for the gold to the west and the prospect of hardy slaves, no self respecting Italian would ever dream of invading this country.
"Where's that one from?" Quintus asked, pointing at a distinctly overweight slave. The man was short and fat, but the sort of fat that didn't wobble, and would probably hurt you were you to hit him. His face was deeply lined, set in a permanent frown, and a dark shade of red. His skin was mottled, which Quintus knew wasn't a good sign in a slave, but otherwise the man seemed healthy enough.
"Him? Oh, Vectitos is Gaulish," said the trader. "Amazing chef, as you'd expect for one that size. Doesn't speak the local language, though, and not much latin. You need Ùisdean too." He hooked his foot around a loop of chain and jerked it towards them, pulling into view a boy of about ten, who'd been hidden behind that large man until now. "That's the son. Local mother, not a citizen but not a slave either, died in childbirth."
"So the boy speaks British?" Quintus asked.
"And latin," said the trader cheerfully. "He's still a bit wild, has a tendency to run off to his mother's family. But they won't have him anyway, and so as long as you've got the father he'll come back."
Quintus bit his lip to hide a smirk. Even the trader was rustic and unprofessional. This would be too easy, in some respects.
"So," Quintus said slowly, drawing the word out with pleasure, "you're telling me that each is useless without the other?"
"Not useless, per se," the trader stammered, becoming aware of his mistake. "Just-"
"Why should I buy two slaves when one could do the same job? It's only a few days journey south, and there are plenty of people there far more willing to oblige me." Quintus felt his purse and pursed his lips. "And if you sold one, you'd struggle to sell the other, of course."
"It's 800 for the man, 200 for the boy," the trader said with a defeated sigh.
"800 for both, and maybe I'll think about it," Quintus said, thoroughly enjoying himself. It wasn't his fault his father had taught him to have a healthy interest in money, was it? Only that thought hit a still painful wound, and Quintus's triumphed dulled. His money came from his father's holdings, his father's friends' debts and his father's death. He couldn't even visit the tomb. There wasn't a tomb. Not for a man buried under the excrement of a mountain.
Quintus realised the trader was looking at him expectantly. He had the chain linking the two slaves in one hand, and another held out expectantly. Quintus opened his purse and began to count.
Ùisdean was vocal. Quintus wondered how his former master had handled him, or whether he'd even had a former master. The boy had absolutely no respect, and his father didn't seem inclined to stop him. Quintus had never been too keen on thrashing slaves, but he was beginning to think a slap wouldn't go amiss.
"Where are we going?" the kid demanded.
"Where I go," Quintus said shortly. "And I didn't give you permission to speak."
"I don't need permission. I'm quite capable of moving me m-"
The slap was really quite satisfying. Well, until Ùisdean burst into tears and began to run in the opposite direction. Before Quintus could react the chain that still held the father and son together pulled taught, and the child fell face first into the mud.
"I am your master," Quintus told him firmly. "You do what I say, understand? I could have you killed if I wanted to, so don't make me want to."
Vectitos looked from Quintus to his son and back again. He reached down with one beefy hand and lifted the boy up by his waist. Ùisdean struggled a little, but remained quiet as Vectitos hefted him up over one shoulder and nodded to Quintus.
"Thank you," said the Roman.
They continued through the muddy streets, Quintus trying to convince himself he was only imaging that people were staring at him. He found somewhere that would build enough couches for him to hold a reasonable dinner party, another place that would provide his new chef with all of the equipment he could carry, and somewhere else that would look for a freedman to run the house for him. Most people would have a slave, but Quintus had grown up with a freedman, and wanted a freedman. Actually he wanted Clemens, but he lived in Egypt now, and Quintus had promised himself to leave the poor man alone for a little while. But invite him to visit, regularly. As a holiday.
It began to rain more heavily, and Quintus admitted defeat. He trudged back to the villa Agricola had given him, followed by his new slaves, who didn't even have the decency to look tired yet. He didn't want to go back to his new home, in all honesty. He didn't want a home of his own. Even Salvius's villa had been preferable. He wanted the company. He wanted to be cared for. In his own mind he was still a boy. Somewhere among the volcanoes and the crocodiles and the murderers and political intrigue the world had come to assume he was an adult, but he didn't feel like it yet. Adults could look after themselves.
The villa was entirely empty, and not only of the people Quintus craved. He pointed the direction of the kitchens and let his slaves take care of themselves. Once they'd left the atrium he left himself fall to the floor, exhausted.
"Is this the new fashion in Pompeii?" a voice asked dryly, coming from a doorway somewhere behind Quintus. "It's certainly... minimalist."
"The fashion in Pompeii, right now," Quintus said coldly, "is to burn all of your furniture under the rains of fire, to take anything that doesn't burn and you can carry into the street, and to die in great pain."
Rufus walked out of a room Quintus had yet to decide a use for and sat down next to the young man. Quintus glanced sideways, and saw guilt etched on Rufus's face. He swallowed and he sighed, and he forgave him.
"Sorry," Quintus mumbled. "I know it feels like a long time ago, but..."
"No, I understand," said Rufus. "I didn't think." he laughed bitterly. "Of anyone, I should understand, right?"
"What are you doing here?" Quintus asked, slipping off his sandals to stick his feet into the impluvium. He pulled them out immediately, wincing at the cold.
"Were you never taught manners?" Rufus observed.
"It's my house," Quintus pouted. "Besides, soldiers really shouldn't start talking about manners."
"I'm off duty," Rufus told him. "Mourning period."
"Why are you here, then?"
Rufus took a deep breath and let it out. He slung a companionable arm around Quintus's shoulders.
"Because, dear friend I only recently met, I want to get drunk. I want to get drunk with someone who understands why I want to get drunk so much. I do not want to get drunk with soldiers."
"I don't know how you've kept a sense of humour," Quintus said, but accepted the proposition with some enthusiasm.
The couches had arrived at some point. Quintus could vaguely remember greeting the delivery men, and paying them. Probably paying them too much, but maybe they'd been faster and politer next time.
Quintus had a suspicion that he would be a great disappointment to his father, were his father around to be disappointed. He shared this with Rufus.
"Ah, but see," Rufus said, waving an empty cup in the air, "I knew I was a disappointment. That's why I joined the army."
"Girls like soldiers," Quintus said, staring at the ceiling. There was a hole in it. Should there be a hole in it? He thought he could remember a hole at home. It let the water in, didn't it? "I don't like water in Britain," Quintus said. "It's too cold."
"Whole country's too cold," Rufus agreed. "You should come to Egypt with me. When the army releases me." He sat up a little and frowned. "Have you got your feet in the impluvium again?"
"No," Quintus lied, sticking out his tongue. "Anyways, wine makes British water warmer."
"No, it just makes you number," Rufus sat, climbing to his feet. "Come on, out of there."
Quintus had a sneaking suspicion that Rufus wasn't quite as drunk as he was. Of course, being a soldier, he probably did this sort of thing more often. Caecilius had never really let Quintus drink too much. He'd always insisted Quintus's wine was diluted. It wasn't fair!
Rufus was trying to pull him out of the pool. After some consideration, Quintus decided to let him. After some more swearing on Rufus's part, Quintus realised that perhaps he ought to help.
When Rufus ended up in the shallow pool as well, Quintus thought that perhaps he shouldn't have helped.
Rufus was still wearing his Tribune's uniform, for the most part. Aspects like the helmet and greaves had been taken off before Quintus got home, and now the breastplate was gone as well. Essentially, Rufus was wearing a short tunic, and a leather skirt. He pulled the cingulum off with a clumsy hand, and tossed it out of the water. Wouldn't want it to get it ruined.
"You're really very drunk, aren't you?" Rufus said, in an almost affectionate tone of voice. Quintus immediately felt a pang of guilt. Barbillus may have died months ago, but Rufus had only just found out. He'd come to Quintus, of all people, for comfort, and probably to hear about his father's last days, and what had Quintus done? Got drunk, and talked about his own family. Tears began to well up in Quintus's eyes.
"Oh, you-" Rufus broke off and sighed heavily. "Come here," he said, pulling Quintus towards him. "You civilians are all the same, you know."
"'msorry," Quintus said into Rufus's chest. Warm arms encircled him, and he pulled himself out of the mire of guilt just enough to appreciate it. "Don'go."
"Go? I'm not going," Rufus frowned.
"You're my friend," Quintus told him.
"You're mine too," Rufus said with a chuckle. "Let's face it, the things we've told each other tonight, we've got no choice but to be." He squeezed Quintus gently. "And there aren't any exploding mountains or crocodiles in this country. Just the risk of death by cold."
"Get out of the pool," Quintus thought outloud, puzzling out what Rufus was hinting at.
"Yes, my little banker, out of the pool."
Eventually, after Quintus tried and failed a few more times, Rufus woke the slaves and had the chef haul Quintus out. Quintus let himself be draped over one of the couches.
"He has nothing?" he heard Rufus ask.
"Nothing," the boy announced cheerfully. "Not even a blanket for us."
"Slaves come second," Rufus muttered to himself as much to the boy. "What's your name?"
"Ùisdean," answered the boy.
"We're going to have to Romanise that," Rufus said. "In the mean time, take this up to the fort. Tell the men on the gate who sent you, and give them this as proof. Get someone to show you where my quarters are, and bring back the chest I keep under my bed. Can you remember all of that?"
"Of course."
"Quintus is too soft on slaves. Go."
Quintus wondered what Rufus had given the boy, and thought perhaps he ought to mention the risk of never seeing the child again. But it was too much effort to roll over, and Rufus would never hear him while his face was bruised in the couch. Besides, the boy was gone now. Long gone, or only just? Eh, gone.
"Sleepy now?" Rufus said quietly, and Quintus felt a hand in his hair. "Wine does that. You could have said you weren't so accustomed to it, you know. There's no shame in not being able to keep up with a soldier.
"Mmph," said Quintus.
"The boy is getting some blankets and dry clothes. I'll see if I can convince one of the messengers tomorrow to get the rest of your things from Salvius's villa. Idiot banker."
Quintus wanted to object, but he could barely understand the words any more. They just sounded nice. It was nice, having someone talking to him as he fell asleep. it was like home again.
Quintus woke violently, choking instead of screaming, and falling off a couch not meant for sleep. He was too hot and terrified by it, he couldn't breath and he struggled to move. Panic ripped the blanket into two and knocked its owner to the floor.
"Great Jupiter, what in Hades is wrong with you?" Rufus gasped, winded and bruised.
Quintus stared around, banging his head on the couch. The pain help him recognise reality, and the truth of the nightmare began to sink in. He buried his head in his hands, and tried not to cry.
"I take it you're not a morning person," Rufus commented wryly, rubbing a bruised elbow. "What was that, a nightmare?"
Quintus nodded, the movement jarring something in his head and bringing on an unusually welcome headache. Anything to distract him now. Nausea began to catch up with him as well, and he focused on that too.
"Mars, that was violent. Pompeii?"
Quintus started to nod, and stopped himself just in time. "Yes," he responded quietly.
"Damn it, what time is it?" Rufus grumbled, climbing to him feet, apparently content to leave Quintus with his misery. "It's not light yet, is it? No, no, it is. I'm needed back at the fort by the third hour! Where's the rest of my uniform? This isn't good."
Quintus let him stumble around him, resting his head against the couch now and squinting in the light. No wonder his father hadn't let him get drunk.
Rufus slipped a hand under Quintus's chin and pulled his head around to face him.
"Look," he said, "I have to go. Agricola needs me again today, despite the fact I’m meant to get some time to myself. You just stay here, alright? I'll get that chef of yours to sort you out some breakfast. Take it easy today. I'll try and be back by the sixth hour. We'll sort you out some proper furniture, and some more slaves, and get whatever you had left from Salvius. Whatever you do, stay out of the impluvium."
Quintus laughed at that, surprising himself.
"Yes, mother," he teased.
"Good boy," Rufus snorted, ruffling Quintus's hair. "You owe me a blanket." It was an odd goodbye, to Quintus's way of thinking, but goodbye it apparently was. He watched Rufus sprint out of the atrium, still only half dressed, and went back to concentrating on not being sick.
1 is probably a misnomer, but you never know. There might be more of this. I think Quintus is going to get rather ill (which would be a good reason for him not ratting out Salvius sooner).