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‘Hey, friend!’ calls Amarantus. ‘Why are you beating that poor mule?’ The old man in the road turns around. He has been using his staff as a goad, and he pants with the effort. The mule trembles under the weight of two big covered baskets. His rear is criss- crossed with bloody weals. ‘What business is it of yours, Big Nose?’ Amarantus lowers the heavy amphora to the ground and wipes his forehead with his arm. Although it is mid-December and cool, he is sweating with the exertion. He considers calling the man ‘Old Ferret Face’ in return but starting a fight will do no good. Instead, he gives the man his most charming smile. ‘Don’t you know what Pythagoras teaches? After death, some people’s immortal souls come back into animals? That might be your old granddad you’re beating.’ The man stares for a moment, and then grins. ‘Or it might be my mother-in-law,’ he says. ‘Made my life miserable for twenty odd years.’ |
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The mule lifts his nose and to Amarantus’s surprise he moves towards him. Amarantus reaches out to stroke the mule’s nose. Prickly fur tells him the poor creature has probably never been brushed. ‘He likes me,’ says Amarantus. ‘Not at all,’ says Ferret Face. ‘He likes the smell of your wine. I presume you have wine in that amphora and not olive oil?’ Amarantus nods. ‘Just bought it in Nuceria and now I’m heading back to Pompeii.’ ‘What?’ Theoldman snorts.‘Youboughtwinein Nuceriato take to Pompeii? That’s like bringing honey from Sparta to Athens!’ Amarantus sighs. ‘I know,’ he says. ‘But someone told my master that Nucerian wine was going to be popular this Saturnalia, so here I am.’ ‘Walk with me?’ says the man. ‘In fact, walk a little in front? Then this stubborn creature might budge.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Really! His name is Potiscus,’ says the man. ‘And I am Numerius Popidius Nico, seller of clay objects.’ ‘I’m Amarantus,’ says Amarantus, and feels a pang of envy. How he longs to claim the three names of a Roman freedman. He takes the stopper out of the amphora, slops a little into the palm of his hand and lets Potiscus taste it. The mule licks greedily and shudders with happiness. ‘Yup!’ Nico grins. ‘Definitely my mother-in-law.’ |
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Amarantus heaves the amphora over his left shoulder and says, ‘Why not keep him to the side of the road? The earth is still soft from yesterday’s rain and it’s easier on feet and hooves than those paving stones.’ He sets off and looks over his shoulder. Sure enough, the mule is following him on the soft verge. ‘Glad you came along!’ calls Nico. ‘I was running out of gods to invoke.’ ‘Who’s your favourite?’ asks Amarantus. ‘Venus, of course,’ says Nico. ‘In all her guises. You?’ ‘Dionysus,’ says Amarantus. ‘In all his guises. He gave me this fine nose and the ability to appreciate his miraculous liquid.’ ‘Ha!’ laughs Nico. ‘Did that big nose of yours help you find a decent vintage in Nuceria?’ Amarantus sighs. ‘Eventually,’ he says. ‘But do you know what I saw as I left Pompeii? A slogan that read: TRAVELLER, EAT BREAD AT POMPEII BUT DRINK AT NUCERIA.’ ‘So, your master’s insight came from something written on a wall?’ ‘Apparently. It took me three hours to get there and another three to find a decent amphora of wine.’ He shakes his head. ‘A whole day wasted.’ ‘Still, it’s nice to be out on the open road.’ ‘As long as you don’t have to lug a big amphora,’ grunts Amarantus. ‘And when I get back, I have to unblock the upstairs toilet or our tenants will revolt.’ ‘You have rooms to let?’ ‘My mistress does, yes.’ ‘I don’t suppose one of those rooms is free? I was hoping to sell my wares during the Saturnalia. I’ve got a load of clay figurines in those baskets. Also, some dice-boxes.’ ‘We do have a room.’ Amarantus shifts the heavy amphora to the other shoulder. ‘But we don’t have a stable for your mule.’ ‘Pity.’ As they crest a rise in the road, Amarantus stops to put down the amphora again. ‘We’ve reached the downhill stretch,’ he says over his shoulder. From here he can see the walls of Pompeii and the Nucerian Gate about half a mile ahead with purple Vesuvius rising up behind it. He hears the distant shout of Praeco the town-crier announcing the noon opening of the baths. Then he feels something gently butt his shoulder. It’s Potiscus the mule, looking at him with pleading eyes. ‘Oh, all right!’ Amarantus laughs and unstops the amphora. He is about to tip a little into the palm of his hand, as before, when the mule gives him a mischievous nudge. At least a sestertius’s worth of wine splashes onto the paving stones of the road. The mule laps happily. ‘Impudent beast!’ Nico lifts his heavy staff, but Amarantus puts up his hand. ‘I don’t mind.’ Nico shrugs. ‘So, did you at least hear the good news when you were in Nuceria?’ ‘What news?’ ‘Nero might revoke the ban.’ Amarantus stares. ‘The ban against gladiator games?’ he says. ‘But it’s only been four years. It’s supposed to last ten.’ ‘Our magistrates have been pleading with him for months. Rumour says he’s going to open the games himself on the Ides of February. That would be good news, wouldn’t it?’ ‘The best!’ says Amarantus. ‘Our wine bar is right on the road to the amphitheatre. This could get us out of debt!’ He feels a huge surge of affection for the ferret-faced old man and his mangy mule. ‘Listen,’ says Amarantus, ‘my master died a few months ago and I’ve taken to sleeping in his bedroom because everyone else thinks it’s unlucky. It’s at the front of the house with easy access to the street. You can have one of the upstairs rooms for the standard price, and for an extra sestertius a week, I’ll keep Potiscus in my room. Deal?’ ‘Deal!’ Nico holds up a small clay flask and pulls out the cork. ‘Now, if you let me fill my flask with some of that wine, I can walk with you and this creature might be persuaded to carry your amphora, too.’ |
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‘You’re a hero!’ says Amarantus. He fills the old man’s flask and then settles the amphora on the mule’s back between the baskets. With Nico waving his uncorked wine-flask, they set off down the road. After a few paces Amarantus looks over his shoulder. To his astonishment Potiscus is happily following them, and only weaves a little as he lives up to his name: Tipsy. |
