From Darkness

by C K Ruppelt

  “What happened, Adhe?” his sister Salpo asked her son. Oz felt her moving in on his left side. When she took some of his weight he sighed in relief. Now his brother-in-law Mipsa took his right side from Adhe, and they sped up.

  Adhe still breathed hard. The boy could not muster enough air to answer after half-carrying him back for several miles.

  “Is that leopard skin?” Mipsa asked staring at Adhe’s bundle, his tone incredulous.

  Salpo hissed through her teeth. “I am just glad you both got back. Let’s move Oz into the house, I need to look at his wounds.”

  On their walk to the family home they drew attention from Adhe’s three older siblings as well as the children of their closest neighbors, all pelting them with questions.

  “They ran into a leopard. That’s all we know!” he heard Salpo answer. The shadow from their porch roof felt good on his heated torn skin. “Turn, go sideways,” his sister commanded Mipsa. “The kitchen table will work best.”

  They both grunted as they helped him up onto the table. Flat on his back, he opened his eyes again. His skin was on fire and the cool table felt good. “Help me get his tunic off,” Salpo asked her husband. “Here we go. These claw slashes on his left are very deep, I need to clean those first and then sew the skin back together.”

  “Mother, also look at the back of his head please. He’s bleeding there,” he heard Adhe, able to speak again.

  He turned his head to his left. Salpo walked to the food counter on the side of the room to fetch their red wine vinegar. She poured enough to fill a wooden bowl half-way, then added water before sponging it into Oz’s wounds.

  “We will work on his head after I’ve done his chest and he can sit up.” He saw Salpo look over at the children. He felt dizzy. “It’s important not to use too much vinegar, always remember that. If it’s too much, it attacks the skin itself and won’t heal as well, but if you don’t use enough, the wound can get red and inflamed.” Oz had kept quiet so far, but now he could not hold back any longer, moaning from the pain. Is this it? Will I survive?

  Someone grabbed his left hand. Oz looked to the side. Adhe, dear, incredible boy. You got me home, impossible as it seems. He looked on as Salpo worked his wounds, moving to the deep cuts on his left side. Before he passed out, he saw a whole sheet of his skin move sideways.

  “Mother, I think he’s losing consciousness,” was the last thing he heard before he closed his eyes.

  As he slowly became aware of his surroundings again, the first thing he noticed was a strange pulling sensation on his skin. Without the pain, the rhythm of the pulls might have been lulling. His whole body was on fire, even worse than before he had passed out. With a groan, he opened his eyes.

  “Are you back with us already? I hoped you would stay out a little longer, at least until I’m done with this,” Salpo said.

  She smiled at him as she moved needle and thread with expert hands. “At least you have a good chance now to get out of this with only a few beauty marks. It does not look like the leopard got anything vital.” She cut the excess thread of the last suture and threaded the needle again with a new length.

  “So, what about you, Adhe? You are all bloody yourself. Is any of that yours?” he heard Mipsa ask.

  “No, none of it. Some of it is uncle Oz’s, but most of it comes from skinning the leopard.” After a brief pause, his nephew continued. “I thought uncle Oz was dead after his arrow just seemed to make it mad. My own first arrow missed, that cat just ran so fast. Then it jumped him and threw him down. My second arrow went into its side, but I think it was uncle Oz’s long knife that killed it. They were both lying still afterward, the cat right on top. It took me a while to pull it off uncle Oz, and I was surprised to see he was still alive.”

  “I am proud of you my son. Sounds like he might not have made it without you.” Mipsa replied.

  “Now why don’t you all go outside?” Salpo asked the children. “Adhe, you need some cleaning up yourself, and later you can tell your siblings and the neighbor children all about what happened. Mipsa, help me get Oz off the table. He should sit up, so we can look at his head next.”

  Two pairs of hands reached for him. “Ouch.” How is it possible this can hurt even worse?

  “Sorry, dear brother. I’ll try not to touch your wounds again.”

  He slid off the table and made for the chair. His sister started to explore the back of his head with her fingers, pulling on his hair.

  “Certainly not worse than the rest of you.”

  He put on a shaky smile for his sister. I wish I could pass out again.

  679 AUC (75 BC), early spring

  Bibracte, Free Gallia, Nation of the Aedui

  Drestan and Ganna emerged onto the main plaza from the ornately decorated Great Hall, which served both as a palace and meeting place for the council of chieftains of the Aedui. The place seemed eerie with the late morning fog still hanging on. The sky above was heavily overcast; the day felt like it was on the cusp of bringing late spring snow.

  Little Aina came running up to them. Drestan smiled at Ganna before dropping to his knees to open his arms wide. Since their days as budding warriors training together, they had shared a fairytale romance culminating in their big wedding. He was still as happy as when they snuck away from their chores as youngsters to spend time together. The feeling of fresh new love had changed over time to something deeper, involving trust and deep understanding of each other.

  The only thing dampening their joy through the years had been their losses of some of their beloved children to both sickness or accidents. Drestan knew that no parents were immune to this, yet he wished their pain would ease over time. Their focus had narrowed sharply to their three surviving children, two glorious boys plus Aina, who’s happy disposition seemed an endless well of joy. At eight years she had decided she would skip becoming a wife and mother in favor of becoming a famous warrior. She loved playing with her brothers, especially when that play involved learning how to fight.

  “Aina, sweet girl, look at how dirty you are! Well, certainly my mistake for letting you dress yourself in your best clothes today,” his wife chided the girl in a stern voice. Aina wore a long over-shirt against the cold, in a beautiful orange, purple, and blue plaid pattern, with big patches now covered in brown dirt. He glanced at Ganna and realized from the quiver in her cheeks that his wife had to work hard to suppress her smile. The dirt would wash out, and Ganna doted on Aina as much as he did.

  “I was fighting a battle while you were inside!” Aina shouted in excitement. “And I won!”

  “Who did you fight as? If it was Andarta, I hope you didn’t say that out loud again,” Ganna asked Aina quietly, followed by their daughter’s quick smile and a shake of her head.

  Aina had gotten into trouble before when pretending to be the goddess of war during one of her games, shouting that she had changed out of her she-bear form to fight alongside the mortal humans just as an old druid had walked by. Daring to impersonate a god had resulted in a caning on the spot. Drestan knew that only druids were supposed to have a direct connection to the divine, except when some of the gods decided to walk among the common humans to mingle, yet he had told the man in no uncertain terms what would happen if he were to ever a lay a hand on one of his children again. The man had never returned to his farmstead.

  “Drestan, we should pack right away.” Ganna turned to face him. “We need to get east soon if we are to have a successful harvest and food for the next winter. If it’s as bad as what we just heard from your father and brothers, there won’t be many farmhands left to help.”

  “First, I need to ask all our people to see who will come with us. The more we can talk into joining us, the better our future there.”

  His oldest brother Liscan, the current Vergobret, had just offered him a heavy responsibility. He would now be chieftain over a vast stretch of fertile land in the eastern border region, tucked between the tribes of the Lingones to the north and the people of t
he Sequani to the south. The area had seen many raids from both, and a desperate call for help had reached Bibracte after the old chieftain and most of his warriors had been killed.

  Ganna hugged little Aina, while Drestan embraced them both in a bear hug. “I can’t help but be worried if this is the right thing to do for all of us,” he stated. Ganna kissed his cheek, before whispering into his ear. “You complained about not feeling challenged just a few months ago, don’t you remember? It will be good for us, you’ll see.” He hoped she was right.

  679 AUC (75 BC), early summer

  Island of Pharmacusa, Roman Province of Asia

  It was another day with a perfect blue sky above the azure waters of the eastern Aegean Sea, though that was where the similarities to a boring and uneventful yesterday ended. Caesar turned to his friend Quintus, who looked miserable standing next to him on the deck of the small bireme galley, hands tied just like Caesar’s.

  Looks like Quintus needs some cheering up. “You know, it’s all your brother Marcus’ fault,” Caesar said, forcing a grin. “If he had not boasted about how much he learned about the finer points of rhetoric at Apollonius Molon’s school on Rhodus, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I’ll give him an earful when we get back.” He received a smile back from Quintus. The man’s brother, a certain Marcus Tullius Cicero, was only a few years older than Quintus or Caesar, and already a former praetor and now aedile of Rome. Also, as a highly successful lawyer the older Cicero frequently crossed paths with Caesar at the courts. “Without Marcus’ boasting, you certainly wouldn’t have joined me”—he looked beyond Quintus—“and I wouldn’t have brought all of them along.” His group contained several friends, clients, and servants. The distinction between the three categories had become blurred for him since Sulla’s time. Every major family in Rome had clients rendering help in exchange for patronage, including legal representation, loans, employment or even elections for public office. Out of fear, few of Caesar’s original clients had stayed loyal to his family throughout Sulla’s persecution. His thankfulness to these remaining few made him consider many of them as close friends. He felt responsible for them and would do whatever he could to help them rise alongside his own career.

  “Look at how ecstatic these sorry excuses for Greeks are at catching so many Romans,” Quintus said, nodding to a group of the pirates standing guard, joking to each other amid frequent laughter. The two pirate galleys with Caesar’s leased trading vessel in tow made their way into one of many coves of the island of Pharmacusa.

  “Yes, they blame us evil Romans for all their plights; personal ones and the rot afflicting the Hellenistic world in general,” Caesar replied. “Sadly, they are likely right. Until we became masters of the eastern Mediterranean, Greece and Asia province were wealthy and mostly peaceful. There is a good reason why everybody in the known world calls pirates Cilician, no matter their true origin. Cilicia is just southeast from here.” They both looked at the pirates. Caesar smiled as he continued to talk in hushed tones. “I read that a hundred thousand slaves are changing owners every single day at the auctions on Delos. Even though that number seems unbelievable, if only a fraction is true it tells you how bad things are here in the east. The common people either work for us, turn to banditry or piracy, or are threatened with slavery by the bandits and pirates—or by our Roman publicani if they can’t pay their taxes.”

  What he didn’t say out loud was that most of the slaves not sold to the Parthians ended up shipping west to Sicilia, Sardinia or Calabria, where they worked on one of the many wheat, olive, or wine plantations owned by Caesar’s peers, the noble and rich rulers of Rome. The richer these men became the more slaves were needed to cover their ever-rising demand for labor.

  The galley’s pirate captain walked up to the group to inspect Caesar, his friends, and the trader’s original crew. “These are all yours?” The man asked him and Quintus, opening his arms to encompass all of Caesar’s entourage.

  “Yes, as I told your men earlier, they are with me and we are not to be separated. Consider us a package.” Caesar answered with a steady voice while holding his head high. The pirate’s nose started crinkling before his face changed to an open sneer. Caesar held his gaze while noticing from the corner of his eye that Quintus had turned away from the man, no longer able to hide his disgust.

  “We shall see,” the man said before moving on to inspect the trading ship’s captive crew. He stopped in front of a captive sailor wearing a clean tunic. “You must be the captain. Are you Greek?” the pirate received a nod. “Where are your men from?”

  “From Apollonia like me, except for these two over there that are from Brundisium in Italia,” the captain explained, pointing to two men fearfully standing off to the side. The Italian crew members now drew the pirates’ attention.

  “Put the Greeks into the pens,” the pirate captain ordered, pointing at the captain and his crew. “We will sell them tomorrow at the slave market in Rhodus.” He turned to wave at the two Italians. “For these two exalted guests, bring them our fine Greek shoes and togas.”

  Amidst much laughter, a pirate rushed to a big travel trunk at the back for two pair of each. He held them out with a wicked grin on his face. “Put them on. Now.”

  The men stripped and did as they were ordered. The pirates started to cheer and mock them with rude gestures and profanities amid constant cat calls, whistles and laughter. Caesar felt sorry for the two sailors, he could not imagine any scenario that included mercy for them.

  The galley had made it to the beach. The men manning the oars upped their speed for the last few feet to get the ship as far onto the sand as possible. The pirates standing at the bow jumped down into the sand to help drag it up further before the momentum was gone. A wide plank was thrown over the side.

  “Take them to the camp!” came the command from the captain.

  Caesar raised his hand, again acting the belligerent nobleman in the hope of saving the lives of his servants and less wealthy friends. “Wait for me, I need to be first,” he shouted. His entourage moved only after he stepped onto the plank. “Here is our honor guard. Lead the way,” he told the pirates that stood with swords and pikes in hand, ready for any attempt at escape.

  They walked off the beach toward the pirate camp, hidden in a slight depression half-way up the hill, invisible from the sea. Their guards guided Caesar and his friends far away from the beach through the campsite. He noticed how the stench of the unwashed men combined with the rot of old food and worse. He gagged as they walked past a pirate defecating at the edge of the perimeter, thanking the gods for the steady breeze blowing over the island. Still, this was preferable to the slave pens on the galley with the possibly short and brutal lives that went along. He wondered where the former crew members would end up. With few other skills beside sailing, they would be working silver, copper or gold mines, in stone quarries, or worse, in lime production, with its caustic burning of limestone or sea shells.

  His group settled down as best they could. A couple of hours later, a pirate brought a sack with stale bread and a small earthen jar filled with olives. Before Caesar could eat more than a handful, two grizzly looking men came for him. “You, come now,” one of them told him.

  He stood up and followed them across the camp. The two men halted in front of the pirate captain who commanded the small galley, and who waved for Caesar to move on. “Go, he is expecting you,” the man told him while pointing at another man lounging close to a fire on a fine and expensive couch. Caesar walked up and the pirate leader turned to show him a crooked smile. He was small, yet heavy-set, with a big hooked nose over a full black beard, giving the man a hawkish countenance.

  “I will ask for a ransom of twenty talents for you, young Roman. That’s the amount I get for a Roman senator, not the likes of you, but I am making an exception. I’ve heard from my captain that you are acting like a haughty swine. I doubt you will be worth much to anybody, but I will make a good show of effort for my men. If I end
up with little or no ransom money paid, I will have the pleasure of killing you, perhaps some of your friends, and selling your servants.”

  It was abundantly clear that the man hated everything Caesar stood for. Greed was the only thing keeping him alive. As Caesar scrutinized the man, he had to laugh out loud. The heavy-set man had donned Caesars’ own lorica musculata, ransacked from his travel chest. It had been his father’s old-fashioned traditional Roman armor, these days only worn by higher ranking officers to distinguish them from the rank and file that wore scale armor or chainmail. It had a polished bronze breastplate as its center piece, surrounded by wide leather strips meant to extend the armor’s coverage to shoulders and thighs. The pirate had tied the breastplate first at the top, but then by necessity had to keep the sides loose to allow for his ample stomach. Comically, this resulted in the breast plate sticking out at forty-five degrees. Caesar was sure the man had meant to impress him, showing that he was at the mercy of the pirates. Instead, he felt amused by the theater.

  “I tell you what, oh mighty pirate leader. Why don’t you ask for fifty talents instead of twenty? I am worth that much at least. I believe you have no idea who you are dealing with. I am Gaius Julius Caesar, scion of the ancient family of the Julii.”

  The man’s grin was even wider now. He gave a loud chuckle before shouting at his men to gather as many crew as were close.

  “Tell them again what you just told me!” he commanded his Roman captive.

  “Very well.” Caesar turned to look at as many of the filthy former sailors and fishermen as he could, before continuing. “I told your mighty leader here to ask for fifty gold talents as my ransom. I am a Caesar of the Julii family, which means I am worth that much and more. If you want that ransom paid soon, I suggest you let my servants and some of my friends go. They need to arrange the money in the bigger cities of Asia province and Graecia. I also feel compelled to warn you right now—once the ransom has been paid and you set me free, I will come back to crucify you all.” Caesar said, lips parted for a wide grin. The whole group of pirates let out loud hoots and laughter. Some, already drunk from celebrating their catch of the day, fell to the ground to hit the dirt with their open palms.