Another crash came: the sound of a door banging into the wall next to our room. They must be searching the rooms in turn. Then a different sound, one that I would never have expected: a man’s voice singing a Greek ballad from the City, with the tune not quite right and half the words wrong.

“Lord God of Hosts,” said David’s voice from the doorway. “Another traveller. God forbid he’s going the same way as us.”

I heard him lie down again and did the same, my heart still thudding like a wash-beetle. I was shaking too much to sleep, and though I had stopped being frightened, I was furious. I had been looking forward to that night’s sleep. I had been exhausted when we reached Aquae Sextiae, because of a two-day’s march, and the stupid, balky, uncooperative donkey, but most of all, because the awful previous night. We had found a place to stay like the room at Massilia, but this time we weren’t alone; there had been a handful of artisans and a shopkeeper on their way back to Massilia after taking the waters. David got the bed and I got the pallet on the floor. He snapped at me when I complained and said that the ship had been just as hard, but that was different. The ship had rocked even when in harbour, which was restful, but the floor was too hard, too unyielding, too still. Worse, I dared not use the chamber-pot in the night and had to find my way down to the Little Place in the pitch dark, got confused when I came back up and stepped on someone. This woke everybody, and they expected David to do something about me then and there, but he pretended to be too drunk or too sleepy to care.

By the time we got to Aquae Sextiae I was even too tired to appreciate the baths. They are supposed to be famous, but I saw next to nothing of them as I fell asleep in the Hot Room and would have been there all night if it hadn’t been for David, who appeared out of the steam looking the color of a cooked prawn, and bullied me into the cold plunge. That woke me up just enough to get back to our lodgings, where David had gone to the expense of getting us a room to ourselves.

I must have gone back to sleep, as the next thing that happened was David pulling the blanket off me: the sun was up already and he wanted to know why I wasn’t.

The sun might have been up, but it was still low enough to get in my eyes while I was reloading the donkey. David was striding up and down the courtyard, kicking at a pebble and throwing out comments about the delay while I took everything off and put it back on again, trying to remember exactly how the stableboy had done it in Massilia. He had done it perfectly, everything neatly tied and well balanced, and then David had made me take it all off and do it myself, and then again another three times, and by the time we departed I was beginning to hate that donkey. I hated it even more now; not just the loading, not just the constant effort to get it moving and keep it moving and heading the way I wanted it to go, but worse, that however tired I was at the end of the day, I had to unload it, rub it down, and feed it. I had accepted the idea of passing for David’s domestic, though it was going on far longer than I had bargained. Tying David’s bootlaces was one thing; being a stableboy was something else. David was supposed to be doing my father a favour, but I was feeling as though my father had sold me to him.

David looked up, stopped kicking the pebble and called out, “Good morning! Lovely day, isn’t it?”

A man in travelling clothes had just entered the yard, moving the way we had done when we got off the boat. It gave me pleasure to see that he looked pale, almost greenish.

“Yes. Very nice. Excuse me.”

He went back in as cautiously as he had come out, and reemerged, still looking like a pot plant that hadn’t had enough sun, but with his hair dripping wet.

“You haven’t seen my boy around, have you? Damn.” He bobbed back in shouting, “Felix! Felix!” in a voice that started loud but quickly dropped. When he came out again he was pulling a travelling hat low over his eyes and was followed by a lad of about twenty. The boy was shorter than David, but stockily built, and though he was carrying two large bags over his shoulder, he strolled along as if they were as light as a shawl. The smug look on his face reminded me of next-door’s kitchen boy, and that worried me.

David gave his master another friendly smile. “Have a good time in the City, did you?”

The traveller peered suspiciously at David from under his hat, then grinned sheepishly. “Oh, God, sorry if I woke you. Yes I did. Was there last summer. Bit of a change from Sagodunum. Anywhere’s a bit of a change from Sagodunum. Ever heard of it? Shouldn’t think so. I say I’m Honorius, son of Frontinus from Sagodunum, and people just look at me. Tell them it’s near Nemausus and they wake up, everybody’s heard of Nemausus. Where are you from?”

“Maridunum.”

“Oh, aye. Got far to go?”

“Making for Arelate for now—”

“Great! Wonderful! We can travel together! It’ll be nice to have company.”

It probably was nice for Honorius, and it might have even been nice for David, who was the one who got talked to, but the only company I had was Felix and the donkey, and I would have preferred the donkey.

Honorius didn’t appear to be in any hurry, which made it easier to keep up. He was from a local council family, apparently, and a very junior official himself: he had been bullied into it by his cousins and the rest of the council—which seemed to be more or less the same thing—and the position had swallowed up all the little money he had, which was why he couldn’t afford a donkey.

I wanted to keep close to him, not just to hear the conversation (which didn’t seem worth the effort), but so as not to be on my own with Felix, who seemed more than ever like next-door’s kitchen boy.

Suddenly, he said, “’Syour name?”

“What . . . Andreas.”

“You Greek?”

I wasn’t going to argue. “Yes.”

“Got it easy, ain’tcher?” And he spat beside my feet.

I had been absolutely right about next-door’s kitchen boy. I concentrated even harder on keeping up, hoping that if he did something nasty David might see him, and I managed not to make any sound, though I couldn’t keep the tears from coming.

At the sixth milestone, we came off the road for a rest and something to eat, and just as I sat down, Felix wandered past, tripped over me, and kicked my cheese into the dust. I picked it up and tried to scrape off the dirt and the pine needles but it started crumbling, so I gave it up as a bad job and tossed it into the bushes. Honorius and David both noticed, and David snapped at me for wasting good food. By that time I didn’t know whether he meant it.

I couldn’t just sit there doing nothing, and I was afraid I would start crying again, so I went and checked the pack saddle.

“Wipe your eyes and blow your nose,” David said behind me. “Don’t give Honorius anything else to latch on to; he’s suspicious enough already.”

“What have I done wrong now?”

“Nothing, you’re just too pretty.”

“How did he—I thought I—”

“Calm down, it’s not you, it’s me. He thinks I’m a boy-lover. He’s been making little digs all morning.”

Strangely enough, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind before. If David was, it would explain a lot; especially why he had so willingly left me alone.

As the day went on, it became more like early Spring in the City: grey and chilly and damp. A fine drizzle started that blew into my face under my hat, then it turned to pouring rain and my cloak got wet and heavy; and Honorius got less talkative.

After a long silence, he said, “I’ve had enough of this,” and led the way down a cart-track.

The farmhouse was the smallest of the buildings, and the people there glowered resentfully when Honorius told them what he wanted; but as soon as they caught sight of his belt, they filed out to the sheds, leaving only an old woman muttering in the kitchen. Honorius snapped at her to bring a brazier, then wandered round the room muttering himself, while it filled with the smell of wet wool. Finally, he found a Robbers board in a cupboard and settled down to play with David, who had the good sense to lose more than half the time.

I got bored and stiff sitting on the floor watching them, and after supper (garlic stew with goat) I was thankful to see Honorius go to bed early. They had the bedroom, so we moved back the table and stools and I spread the blankets on the floor. We had the brazier, so we probably had the best of it.

The next day was much the same, except the rain had stopped and once Felix realized that he wasn’t going to get reactions from me, he left me alone, concentrating instead on throwing stones at anything that moved and half the things that didn’t. The road was flat and dull, with a dank marshy smell instead of the spiciness of the hills going to Aquae Sextiae, and I was more bored than tired when we stopped for the night. For the first time, I saw an advantage in travelling with Honorius: he might have been dirt poor, but he was still an official, and that gave him rights to use the Rest-house, and of course, we were welcome to stay there, too.

Though it hadn’t been lime-washed for years and one wing had missing tiles, there were plenty of clean rooms, more than enough for each of us to have one. I unloaded the donkey, looking forward to getting clean but worrying about Felix, when Honorius bustled over from where he had been haranguing the caretaker with a scowl that would turn milk.

“I can’t believe it! That incompetent idiot! They weren’t expecting anybody, he says, so the baths haven’t been fired! Mother of God, how much notice do these people need? I told them on my way through that I’d be back today. I must apologize. I . . .”

He ran out of breath and words, and stood there with his face brick-red with embarrassment. He got over it as best he could by inviting David to dine with him, apologizing in advance, certain the food would be as incompetent as everything else.

I would have preferred not to spend the evening in the same room as Felix, nor to spend it serving David’s food. David didn’t seem very enthusiastic either, but he smiled and thanked Felix nicely, and sent me to fetch the spoons.

The food wasn’t bad, though not exactly elaborate. They may not have had time to heat the baths, but they had ample time to roast a chicken, and the table had a clean cloth. Bread and a dish of cabbage and leeks accompanied the meager feast. I wondered how Honorius had ever been able to afford a trip to the City.

He was very keen to tell us. “Always pays to keep in well with the Others,” he said cheerfully. “Annoy them and you’ve got big German boots wearing holes in your dining room floor. Keep them happy and they can be nice as honey. I was in Tolosa on business and Alarichos happened to mention he’d like to know what was happening, with the new Emperor and all, and when I said I’d been considering a trip, he offered to help with expenses.”

“Talking of helping with expenses,” David said, “it’s been such a privilege travelling with you that I hope you won’t be offended if . . .”

“No, no, of course I wouldn’t be offended.” He was back in the mood of the first morning and started chattering about the City again: “Do you know the Church of Sergius and Bacchus? Isn’t it a lovely situation? Did you hear about the time Nikolaus absolutely stole the race for the Blues? I was there, and it was an absolute disgrace . . .”

David said mostly “Yes” and “No” and “Really?” A good idea, as if he was like my father, who wouldn’t have gotten any further than the bookshops of the Augusteion. He was just as monosyllabic when Honorius spoke of the taverns and brothels; but Honorius talked enough for two, and, if you believed him, had performed enough for three or four. Felix hung on every word, though I would have thought he’d heard it all already, and I suppose that was why he wasn’t looking where he was going with the jar. There was a crash and the smell of neat wine filled the room; Honorius leaped to his feet, nearly knocking over the table, shouting and cuffing the boy so hard that he staggered, slipped on the wet floor and landed on hands and knees among the broken pieces of winejar.

With no remaining wine, the evening tapered off.

The next day travels were worse; Felix took out on me whatever his master had done to him the previous evening. I kept the donkey between us, but that didn’t save me from Felix’s tongue. He must have noticed the way I looked during some of the stories from the night before, because he took up where Honorius left off, trying to make clear to me the advantages of being a proper man. When I thought about it later, it struck me that most of it must have been imagination or repeating other people’s stories, as he had no more beard than I, and from his hands and feet probably had a lot of growth in him still. But if he was trying to embarrass me, he certainly succeeded, even if it wasn’t for the reason he thought, and for the first time, I started worrying about what would happen when David and I did settle down.

At last we came to signs of people: a whitewashed cemetery wall, then a little cluster of houses. There wasn’t much accommodation, but Honorius and his belt got it, and offered to share. David said he didn’t like the look of the locals and thought he’d be happier about the donkey if we stayed with it. The thought of a night away from Felix was such a relief that it was all I could do not to start crying. We found a cooked-meat shop next to a baker’s and brought food back to the stable. It was peaceful there, the donkey in one stall and us in another. When it poked its head over the stall, looking hopefully at us, I gave it some of my bread; it really didn’t have such a bad disposition. When it had finished, it snuffled in my ear; it tickled, not unpleasantly, and its breath was sweet and smelled of hay.

The next day was one to be endured, not remembered. Again, I kept the donkey between myself and Felix, and the only comforting sight was the milestones. I started counting the paces between them: only another six miles, only another five, only another four. At last it was only another one, and then there was Arelate.

I stood staring like a yokel. I tried to tell myself that I came from the greatest city with the greatest markets in the world, but it didn’t work. Booths lined every street, filled with bolts of cloth, kitchen-ware, jewelry. Shoemakers sold hobnailed boots of every size. Some shops sold gowns, others specialized in hooded cloaks. Some shops had jars of olives, others had jars of honey. I smelled preserved figs and the sour tang of liquamen, saw dangling strings of onions and garlic, bunches of dried herbs, great green piles of cabbages, and bundles of carrots. Brown-faced countrywomen sat surrounded by baskets of eggs and chickens staring with bright eyes out of string bags. Clunking noises poured from the butcher shops, all festooned with hanging joints and chains of sausages; repulsive, unrecognizable wares filled the counters on wooden trays. We passed one shop selling imported spices, and I nearly fainted when someone mentioned the price of pepper.

I suddenly realized that the donkey and I were on our own, and looked round frantically for David. By a mixture of dragging and pleading, I got the donkey through the crowd, and found David, also on his own.

“Where’s Honorius?”

“Gone off to stay with a friend, thank God. I said good-bye nicely and gave him such a big tip he tried to talk me into coming to Sagodunum, but I think we’ll go on to Avennio and cross the river there. A little bit of Honorius goes a very long way. The same for Felix, I should think.”

I burst into thankful tears, and nearly lost sight of David again.

I didn’t have as much chance to look around as I would have liked, as David pushed through the crowds. I managed to keep the donkey going, even when he wanted to stop and investigate the vegetable stalls, and at least it was easy to see where David had gone. As we left the market area, the roads got less crowded and I was able to catch up with him, but even so, he had to come back to me once because I was staring at the children: tiny children running and shouting at each other in Latin—clear, fluent Latin, far better than I was speaking when I was fourteen, and younger than I had been when my father first tried to get “Good morning, teacher” into my head. I thought of all the years I spent memorizing before he would let me near any other teacher, and here were guttersnipes chattering away like Cicero. Monstrously unfair.

“I suppose you were gabbling away like that at their age,” I said enviously.

“Are you going to stand here all night? I saw a likely place round the corner.”

It was more than likely, it was comfortable. We stabled the donkey and carried in the bags, but when I went to unpack, my fingers came away oily. I emptied the bag as fast as I could, though it wasn’t a clothes bag, just the one with our cooking things. There at the bottom lay a little pile of broken pottery in a puddle of oil. I remembered then that Felix had lurched against the donkey just before we set out; obviously he had been in a mood for smashing things, because that pile of broken pottery was—had been—our lamp and bottle of oil. The oil had soaked through the bag and into our bags of lentils and oatmeal, making a slimy mess of both.

“It’s a bit of luck we got here on market day,” David said. “At least we can do something about them. Here you are,” and he tossed me the purse.

“Me?”

“You’re supposed to be my boy, aren’t you? It would look odd if I did my shopping myself.”

“But . . .”

“Stop fussing and get on with it. Aaron and Julian, it’s just like shopping in the City.”

“But . . .”

“Don’t tell me you never . . . No, I suppose you haven’t. Stupid bloody Greeks, cooping up their women like Persians or Syrians. All right, this is where you start.”

And off I went, purse in one hand, bag in the other, and wishing the gutters would swallow me.

I found a shop with baskets of dried beans, peas, and lentils of every kind; in the back they had open sacks, as well as full ones, so you could buy smaller quantities. When I tried asking for what I wanted, another customer elbowed me aside, followed by a second and a third. When the last one who pushed past me had been served, the shopkeeper disappeared inside, leaving me standing in the street. It was some time before he came out again and started topping up the baskets; he still did not notice me. I spoke to him, but something seemed to have happened to my voice. I don’t think he caught the words, but he did hear something, because he turned round and actually saw me for the first time.

“You wanted sumfink?”

“Two pounds of lentils and two of oatmeal, please.”

“Come again?”

“Two pounds of lentils, please. And two pounds of oatmeal.”

He scooped up the lentils and carefully poured them into the pan of the scales hanging over the counter, moving the counterweight with gentle taps, then tipped in a few more. I held out the bag and he emptied the pan into it.

“What was the uvver fing?”

“Two pounds of oatmeal.”

“What?”

“Oatmeal,” I blared. He still looked blank, so I opened the other bag and showed him what was left.

“Oh, porridge. Why‘n’cher say so?”

He weighed that, then when it was in my bag, stood looking at me.

“How much?” I asked eventually. He told me; but then I got into a muddle with the coins and he had to help me pick out the right ones. He put them in a belt-pouch, his eyes still on me.

“You Greek?” he asked abruptly. I admitted it. He nodded, satisfied.

“Fought you was talking funny.”

“How much did it come to?” he asked. I passed him the purse and he tipped the remaining coins onto the bed, pushing them around with his finger. His eyebrows went up like a pair of brick arches. “Is this all you’ve got left? How much does oil cost anyway?”

“I couldn’t get oil.”

“Whyever not? We passed at least three shops on the way here.”

I tried to explain about the shopkeepers looking through me; David glared at me and went back to counting the coins, as if they would come to a different total. Then he coaxed them back into the purse, invoked some saints I’d never heard of, and said, “Come on. I’ll show you how to do it.”

He set off at his usual pace, leaving me behind him to squeeze through the crowds. When we came to an oil shop, he just waved his hand and the shopkeeper turned round deferentially. David gave his order and we came away with a little bottle of oil.

“You see? It’s easy.”

“Of course it’s easy if you’re six-foot tall with a head like a bonfire,” I said crossly. “If I was a shopkeeper, I wouldn’t ignore you either.”

“You’ll have to be more aggressive about it. Show you’re there. Make a fuss.” He stopped at a stall with a big basket of apples and asked the price.

“Christ in glory, that’s far too much. Look at them—more wrinkles than my grandmother.” He mentioned a much lower price; the stallholder said indignantly that they were the last of the crop, but still sound; when they were gone there would be no more till autumn, and he made a counter suggestion. The two prices seesawed around till they met in the middle and I found myself carrying a dozen apples as well as the oil.

“It’s not a price they give you at the beginning, it’s a flight of fancy for you to use as a starting-point,” he said, munching an apple. “Mother of God, they do it just the same in the City.”

“I told you, I had never bought anything.”

“You don’t even seem to have watched other people either.” He took another apple from the bag and started on it. “These won’t last long and there’s no fresh fruit at this time of year. Go and get some dried figs, and I’ll watch you.”

David stood across the road while I went up to a shop selling preserved fruit. Once again, the shopkeeper ignored me at first, but with David’s eyes on me, I couldn’t give up, so in a lull, I shouted “Hey!” The shopkeeper gave me an offended look, but at least he saw me. I managed to beat down his price a long way, and proudly took the jar to David.

“Not bad,” he said. “Now let’s get a lamp.” It took a while to get what he wanted, but eventually we found lamps the right size without too much fancy decoration, and some spare wicks. Then, as an afterthought, David sent me to get more oil.

We got to the baths eventually, rather late in the day, but it was an experience not to be missed: magnificent, like everything else in Arelate. I confessed that some things were even better than the City.

“All the trade between Gallia and Our Sea comes through Arelate, the people are rich and they like to be seen spending money. The churches are splendid and you ought to see the tombs.”

“They look well-to-do. I haven’t even seen any thin beggars, have you? David, I asked you—”

“There’s the Baths.”

My own guess would have been an Imperial palace. Only the crowds going in and out, and the swaddled baby lying in a little corner near the entrance, showed that it wasn’t. The inside was just as magnificent, and I was relieved when we found a sausage seller. David bought three, two for him and one for me; I’m not sure what was in them, apart from garlic, but they were big and I could hardly finish mine.

When we came out, the baby had already gone. There must have been a shortage of children, I thought, for it to be taken in before nightfall.

David led us back to our room the same way we had come, which annoyed me. I had wanted to see more of this huge, rich—this vulgar city, and I grew even more annoyed when I recalled the turns we had taken and realized he had taken us round three sides of a square. I tried asking him why, but he wasn’t paying any attention.

We settled down for the night in our old routine: me in the bed, David by the door. Clean, comfortable, and thankful beyond all imagining to be away from Felix, I was nearly asleep when I became aware of David’s breathing: louder than usual, in a strange rhythm.

I might almost have thought he was crying.