Ducking into the shade of a poplar overlooking a wide, slow-running stream, I found Quintus in the midst of a briefing from his next in charge. Linus was just back from Rome, having galloped all the way to deliver Quintus’ next packet of orders. He sat propped against the tree’s trunk. Shed of helmet and breastplate, soaked in sweat, black hair matted tightly to his head, the deputy tipped a flagon of wine to his lips and took a long pull. Linus was as exhausted as the mare.
“Linus wants to kill you.”
“Not kill him per se, just make him disappear.”
“Sounds ominous,” Quintus deadpanned. “I know quite a few Romans who ‘disappeared’ never to return.”
“As do I. Probably all the same people when you think about.”
“I’ve missed your brilliant analysis.”
“For Hunter’s sake, might we find a solution that involves less poison?”
“Fewer swords in the back?”
“Exactly!”
Knowing better than to interrupt, I stood reminiscing on the many times I too had spoken through my servants as if they were deaf or too dense to understand. Oft times, it was the only way to have a conversation. Underlings are always underfoot. It is their job to pretend they don’t hear, don’t care. The absurdity sometimes prompts masters to include the help in lighthearted banter. It makes the elitists feel good about themselves.
I have no complaints. It has been a vacation to let someone else make all the decisions. Not so long ago, I was running my own cavalry along the edge of the Gobi. Without protection, my caravans had no chance of surviving the Silk Road. My force was small by Asian standards, 100 men mounted on camel and several dozen on horseback. I wonder how my Mongols would have stacked up against these tough Romans.
“Well?” Quintus asked, snapping me out of my reverie. “Are you listening?”
“Here we are, trying to save this worthless slug’s life and he has the disrespect to ignore us.”
“Let’s kill him and collect the reward for ourselves.”
“Hunter, fetch my spatha and stretch your neck across yonder log. I’ll show you how decapitation is properly done!”
Two flagons of wine and their voices were already growing loud.
“Please forgive me, masters, I was thinking of what I could do to make your lives more complete and happy.”
“Hunter, you’re so full of shit, brown turds ooze from your ears,” Quintus growled. Motioning me to sit, he poured me a flagon. “This is serious, stupido, you’ll be wise to pay attention.”
One of the scrolls Linus delivered from Rome was a warrant for the arrest and execution of the man who killed magistrates Faustinius and Alerio.
“That damn centurion must have sent word to the Senate. Blame yourself, Hunter. You shouldn’t have killed people of such high rank. Your execution is sure to be horrible. Perhaps they’ll have you sewn into a donkey carcass and leave you in the sun, that’s always a favorite.”
“The centurion planned to have me flayed.”
“When done right, flaying can be horrible,” Linus mocked.
“So you’re an expert?” Quintus laughed. “Tell me, Linus, how many times have you been flayed?”
“Never. But we witnessed it together once, don’t you remember? The Gauls outside Circus Maximus?”
“Oh yes, the knife masters started in the morning. The massive, hairy bastards were still screaming when we left after the day’s final chariot race.”
“Those were good times.”
“Excuse me, sirs,” I interrupted. “If the plan is to kill me can you make it quick? Perhaps a spear to the back? No need to bury me, I’ll do it myself.”
They appreciated my stiff upper lip. No one likes a crybaby.
“Why don’t I steal a horse and disappear?”
They both looked mortified. “We can’t lose a horse or a prisoner,” they cried in unison.
“We would be obligated to chase you to the ends of the Empire,” Quintus said, stroking his chin. “No, we’ll just have to turn you over to the authorities in the next town we visit. Oh, look at his face. How sad!”
“Don’t worry, Hunter,” Linus snickered. “We have a plan.”
“For an insolent groom who often forgets his station, you’re not bad with the horses,” Quintus said solemnly. “That’s why we’re going to break you out.”
“We’ve done it before.”
Their scheme would put everybody in jeopardy. For me to claim the two officers were my friends would be a stretch, but in the months we had ridden together they had come to count on me. Bright, witty fellows, they charge around Italy’s midsection delivering the mail by day and more often than not sleep in a friend’s castle by night. As their trusted servant and proverbial fly on the wall, I’ve been enjoying the role I play. It would be a shame to derail their careers because I’m getting a kick out of slumming.
“Excuse me, sirs, may I suggest an alternative?”
From the log of Hunter
Ethics Specialist
63 A.D.
At the gates of Arretium, I turned my gelded paint out of formation and bolted for the northern hills. Thundering down a white-pebbled lane lined with lollipop pines, I twisted in my saddle to find Quintus and Linus a dozen horse lengths behind. Cheered on by soldiers manning the battlements, mounted upon superior horses, they made up ground with every stride. And also outpaced the remainder of the pursuit.
Leaping a low stone wall, crashing into the cover of forest, I leaped from my horse and stood ready for the blade. Closing my eyes, I waited for the strike. In place of searing pain, there was a light tap against my chest. The resulting scratch was not going to fool anyone.
“You’ve got to do better than that, sir.”
“You’re crazy, Hunter, do you know that?”
“Hurry,” Linus hissed. “The men are coming.”
“Let me borrow your short sword, sir.”
Turning the gladius toward myself and placing its point beneath my left shoulder, I took a deep breath and ran toward Quintus to jam its handle against his leather greave.
“Take the sword, sir,” I groaned.
“Glory to the Gods! You are crazy, Hunter.”
“If you must bury me, don’t leave me long.”
The next thing I remember is resting on my side, slowly regaining the feeling in my limbs and torso as Quintus and Linus filled in the shallow grave. They said I had played dead for six hours and had been buried for at least two.
The plan went more or less as scripted. Once my body was turned over to the authorities and depositions of all the men taken, I was quickly planted in a woodlot outside the walls. Quintus and Linus attended the funeral as official representatives from the Legate.
Upon returning to town, they stood the burial crew to a round of drinks and waited an appropriate interval before trotting back to fetch me. Though I assured them my resurrection was only a trick I had learned in the East, a way of slowing one’s heartbeat and holding the breath, the two men weren’t sure what to make of me. Both wore wide-eyed, shocked expressions when I staggered to my feet less than 30 minutes after being pulled from the ground and began beating the dust from my hair.
Crying out in false pain as I worked a clean tunic over my shoulder, I turned so they could not see the scabs over my once bloody wound had already gone to pink. There was yet some internal knitting to be done, but I could travel. I will not elaborate on the wretched experience except to say that in more than 30,000 years of life, it ranks near the bottom.
Inside the satchel they provided were the spare clothes and sandals I had packed the previous night, as well as a thoughtful addition of picnic supplies–fresh bread, cheese, smoked fish and two oranges.
Linus handed over a leather scroll case containing a letter of identification and a reference from a fictitious employer in Ravenna stating I was an honest man and good with horses. From Quintus, I received a letter of introduction to the headman of his Roman estate, as well as a sealed l
etter instructing the man to take me on as a groom.
My rise from the dead spooked Quintus. In place of his usual confidence and boyish swagger there was fidgeting. Questions were started but never finished, trailing away in a mutter of “Never minds.” It was touch and go whether the invitation to serve on his farm would be rescinded.
“Don’t be concerned,” I soothed. “It was only a trick.”
Like many masters who know deep down their charges are lying, he took the easy way and accepted my words. Dealing with servants is often like dealing with your own children, you make allowances out of caring, but also for reasons that are quite selfish. While hatching our plan, Quintus became quite keen on sending me to his estate. Linus says the place has fallen on hard times and could use an influx of manpower.
I’ll muck stables and trim vines for a year or two. It will be nice to see Rome from the view of the landed aristocracy before I head back to the Ganges. Last visit to the city, most of my time was spent in Rome’s heaving underbelly trying to rein in my bloodthirsty Mongols.
It rankles to know I missed the great Caesars and Jesus, Cleopatra and Mark Antony. This will give me a chance to catch up.
From the log of Hunter
Ethics Specialist
63 A.D.
My stint in the cavalry has left me with an appreciation for how much quieter and easier walking is. The slower pace is liberating, perfect for absorbing the scenery and setting the mind free.
While the views may be superior from atop the warhorses Quintus and his boys had me charging around on, those animals demand the utmost attention. Once a horse senses its rider is distracted there will invariably be hijinks. A spotted mare nearly took my head off with a low-hanging limb the afternoon I had the audacity to try a quick nap in the saddle. Even aground you must be wary around horses. I witnessed a roan stretch out its neck and take a nasty bite out of an unsuspecting foot soldier’s arm.
“You got too close,” Quintus scolded the howling man.
So far, I’ve passed many soldiers, both foot and cavalry, on the journey south. Some forced me to the side as they marched by in formation, while others were involved in construction projects ranging from aqueduct building to road repair. Romans are an industrious lot. With their arches and intricate measurements, they love building functional structures that are also aesthetically pleasing. The saying they are born plumbers could not be more true.
Most of the journeyers on the cobbled roads leading to Rome weren’t soldiers, but everyday folk. While walking the straight, well-maintained thoroughfares you invariably fall into step with travelers who cover ground at the same rate. Be they merchants, beggars, retired soldiers or Priests of Jupiter returning from a conference, these are your traveling partners.
Although my intention was to keep a low profile, there was no avoiding conversation. “Where are you from? Where are you headed? Think it will rain? What do you do for a living? Why aren’t you in the army?” It took a league or more of walking and talking before anyone would venture into the sticky realm of politics.
To many, Emperor Nero is no less than a gift from the Gods. The supreme leader has promised to refurbish the city by putting the unemployed to work on construction. The boom will cause many support industries to spring up, creating more jobs. Retired soldiers will finally get the pensions they deserve. The great city has more than enough bread and wine for all.
These sentiments come almost exclusively from neophytes making their first trip to Rome. Should a northbound journeyer contradict with tales of dysentery, robbery, rape, high taxes and poor air, the pilgrims are quick to demand their version is correct because “everyone back home is saying so,” or “my brother’s friend Publius told me.” There’s not a lot pushback from the bedraggled souls headed home with their tails between their legs. Some things you must learn on your own.
And, perhaps, the beaten down earn a kernel of satisfaction knowing they aren’t the only stupido to believe a rumor passed along by a brother’s pal’s cousin.
Halfway to Rome on the Via Cassia, I was brought to a halt by a farmer’s wife running from the muddy fields screaming and waving her arms. “Help! Help!” Her husband was plowing the back acreage and their ox had fallen into a hole, she said. The tale smelled fishy to me, but other travelers were already rushing forward to assist. I warily followed.
The ox, a massive white beast with long sweeping horns, had indeed fallen into a pit twice deeper than it was tall. Ringing the sinkhole, we travelers were treated to the sight of a farmer trying to calm his berserk family asset while it stomped the daylights out of an Etruscan burial chamber. Stone urns, rude statuary, a cedar sarcophagus painted with dancing minstrels, the beast was doing a thorough job of smashing everything.
Risking his life to save his precious ox from further harm, the farmer ripped off his toga to cover the animal’s eyes. Murmuring into its floppy ear, the farmer slowly brought the leviathan under control. The contrast of his pasty white torso against his dark arms and neck drew points and laughs.
To the sundial salesman next to me the solution was obvious. The farmer was going to have to dig an earthen ramp up to ground level. With a good crew, the rocky soil could be moved within a day, maybe two.
Before I could agree, a pair of quarrymen from Carrera offered a better suggestion. They had passed a detail of soldiers and slaves building an aqueduct not too far away and thought the project may have equipment that could be of service. While the senior quarryman and the farmer’s wife were dispatched to ask for assistance, the junior man was left to erect a sturdy frame over the hole.
It cost me the remainder of the afternoon and much of the night, but I stayed to assist. We began by felling several trees and sectioning them into logs to assemble the frame. In the hours it took for our envoys to return with reinforcements and a donkey cart loaded with ropes, we cobbled together a heavy structure complete with a pair of crossbeams to hang block and tackle.
The senior quarryman was not impressed with our design, and neither was the Roman engineer who tagged along to make sure we didn’t damage his thick ropes or giant pulleys. Another tree had to be felled to construct extra bracing. Guidelines were added to anchor all four corners securely to the ground.
Soothed by a pail of oats, bawling and kicking the walls only occasionally, the ox stared up at us with pleading brown eyes as the project dragged. One thing I’ve learned about working with professionals is to listen when one says to slow down.
As a chap who likes to get things done quickly and efficiently, I’m usually good at motivating stalled perfectionists into motion. As much as they hate to hear it, most often 95 percent perfect is just as good as 100. And then there are projects when 99 percent right is just as wrong as zero percent.
The masters got everything to their liking, including a redo of the lattice of ropes beneath the ox’s ribcage. In the light of several dozen torches, pulled by a donkey and a handful of soldiers on one rope and a long line of travelers and neighboring farmers on another, the ox slowly emerged from the tomb with its owner on its back. Mouthing sweet nothings into the ox’s ear, the farmer had tears rolling down his cheeks.
Once the heavy beast dangled high above the pit, the second phase of the operation commenced. Under the direction of the headman and engineer, a floor was laid beneath the ox. The first attempt failed. As the animal began walking to safety, the floor timbers gave way to tumble into the hole. The ox and farmer would have gone right with them if the rope crews hadn’t been holding fast.
The wisdom of adding the guidelines and extra bracing was borne out as the swinging ox banged against the armature’s left front post with a direct hit, yet caused no damage other than a purple welt the size and shape of a rutabaga on the farmer’s leg. As is so often the case, whether it be 30,000 B.C. or 2230, the second try was the charm.
Shouting congratulations to the ox as it made a beeline for a nearby stone barn, bonded by a group effort well done, we of the rescue crew slapped
each other on the backs, laughed and shook hands.
A gaggle of stout peasant women clustered together on the sidelines seemed genuinely surprised the men pulled it off without killing anybody. I think they had been psyching themselves up to work around a hole all night rendering a 2,000-pound animal. After a moment, they gradually switched gears to assemble a humble feast.
Augmenting the bread, butter and preserves furnished by the wife and her neighbor friends, travelers added picnic supplies to the potluck, including wedges of cheese, cured meats and dried fruit. From their cart, the engineer and soldiers pulled a pot of pickled anchovies and an amphorae of wine.
The farmer could not express his gratitude too many times. Limping with a makeshift crutch, he circled the torch-lit party shaking hands and looking each helper straight in the eye as he offered them his most heartfelt gratias tibi.
Now as the first glow of dawn lights the eastern horizon and the fires have dwindled to ash, the drunken volunteers lay in heaps around the pit. As much as I would enjoy a look inside the tomb to see what sort of relics survived, I know better than to expect the night’s cohesiveness to carry into the light of day. The group dynamic hit its zenith halfway through the amphorae. We were all brothers and sisters.
Today will be another story. Should anything of minor value be unearthed, there are sure to be petty squabbles. If gold or diamonds are discovered it will only be worse. My suggestion to the farmer was to lock himself and his wife in the barn with the ox and let the others fight it out. Hopefully, when things start to go badly, he heeds my warning.
I prefer to remember the dancing and camaraderie. It is time to shut off this computer and be on my way. I could reach Rome tomorrow if I hurry.
From the log of Hunter
Ethics Specialist
63 A.D.
The communal mood on the road darkened along with the smoggy skies as I approached the city of two million on the thronging, arrow-straight Via Flaminia. Most of the traffic on the wide thoroughfare was headed in the opposite direction. Individuals on foot, families riding in donkey carts, citizens dressed in regal finery and mounted on horses all had a dazed look to them.
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