And, where one would have thought him blessed, Mars had let Owen die.
Enough. Marcus rebuked himself, realizing the bent of his thoughts. Mars is my patron. I will not question him. Still, he had to wonder if his self-chidings would ever truly satisfy his grief-stricken desire to know why.
Partially to divert his thoughts, he quickened his pace. Perhaps the bustle of activity, the unrivaled splendor of the Imperial Forum would stir his Roman blood to its old vigor. His strong legs pumped beneath him, his sandals slapping against the cobblestoned street.
As it rose up before him, the forum was indeed an invigorating sight. The hum of busy shoppers filled the air. Market stall traders loudly shouted the worthiness of their goods; slave masters boasted on the traits of their human wares. Wild and colorful, the atmosphere was exactly what Marcus had hoped would revive him.
This is what Owen died for. For Rome’s glory, her people, her Republic. Perhaps no soldier could have asked for a more glorious end.
“A melon, noble patrician? They are sweet and crisp, I assure you!”
Marcus gestured impatiently. Great gods, but these forum peddlers grated on his nerves. He strode carelessly from one booth to another, glancing over the wares. Nothing he saw tempted his appetite.
“A pastry, sir? They are filled with the best dates. Do you not desire–”
“Enough.” Marcus snapped at him. He played with the corners of his money pouch with complacency he knew must be fairly maddening to the peddler. The pastries did look appealing, the first food that had attracted him. At last, he tossed the man a coin. “Give me one.”
Bowing and scraping, the peddler gave him his purchase. “The gods be with you, my patron.”
“And with you.” Marcus took the pastry with dry apathy. Biting into it, he savored its delicate sweetness before sauntering on his way.
Not far away, in the center of the forum, Marcus could see the slave podium. An auctioneer was mounted atop it, his singsong voice carrying over the busy clatter of tongues. A large crowd of buyers, mostly men, were gathered around the podium, surveying the proceedings with apparent interest.
Their amusement attracted Marcus. In his current state of mind, diversion in any form was welcome.
He quickened into a brisker pace, joining the compact spectators around the ring. On the outskirts, he settled his shoulders and made a little cough. As he expected, the lower classes glanced his way. Seeing his toga and obvious rank, they immediately cleared a path for him. Casually nodding, Marcus strode through their midst and procured a position within good view of the scaffold.
From there, he surveyed the shackled slaves. They stood in a dejected line, awaiting their turn to be sold with dull apathy. Their number was overwhelming, but he knew the slave business well. Only the young, strong, or beautiful. All others could be sent to the arena, for all their worth.
The majority of the slaves were blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Iceni brutes. Marcus felt a tinge of anger. Still, his interest grew. The British barbarians were certainly well-built, to say nothing of their good looks. Few, if any, Romans could boast such dazzling hair colors and fair skin.
His eyes flitted along the line of captives, making mental notes of their qualifications. Near the center of the line, his eyes stopped. If he knew slaves, he had found the prize of the entire lot. The captive was a young Briton, quite possibly no more than thirteen years of age.
Marcus knit his brows. The boy was young, but his other qualities more than made up for that shortcoming. Like all of the Iceni, he was tall and strapping, taut muscles protruding from his biceps and legs. He was attired in a short kilt, clearly designed to show his muscular physique to better advantage. But strength was not his only selling points. He was also strikingly good-looking. Thick, wavy blonde hair covered his head, complimenting his cerulean blue eyes.
On all sides, fellow buyers were pointing out the qualifications of the young captive. He had already attracted more than his share of attention. The bidding would be intense.
Marcus felt a tinge of competitiveness. Slave auctions could be fierce. And there was nothing he enjoyed more than a little serious competition, a war of wits and gold. The young Briton was worth buying if only to prove that he could.
Sidelong, he noticed a legionary also studying the boy. Partially to test the waters, he gestured in his direction. “There is a hearty brute if I ever saw one. By the gods! What a profit I could turn over with muscles like those.”
“You mean the lad?” The legionary did not shift his gaze. “If so, you have a good eye for slaves, patrician. Provided you can put up with some obstinacy, these Iceni captives are said to make the best attendants.”
“You mean to buy him?”
The legionary turned. A sardonic smile played about his lips. “Provided the gods do not favor you more, friend. I know the gold dances in your purse.”
Marcus laughed good-naturedly. “I like to know my competition, friend.”
“And you will have plenty of it.” The legionary struck his chest with a broad hand. “I do not give up easily. And a third of the men here have their eye on the boy.”
Marcus made no attempt to hide his amusement. Infernal braggart. The Praetorian legionaries were paid higher than standard soldiers, but with a yearly salary of three hundred and seventy-five denarii, the chances of one procuring a slave such as the young Briton was highly improbable.
As he watched, the Iceni captive was thrust onto the platform and the placard lifted from his neck. The auctioneer launched into his customary singsong torrent of praises.
“Noble Romans! I have here an Iceni prisoner, taken during the heroic campaign of our own gallant General Suetonius! Note his blonde hair, his blue eyes. Slaves like this are not to be had every day, gentlemen. We will start at one thousand denarii. Undue the knots in your purse strings and begin your bidding now!”
The finger of the legionary went up. “One thousand-ten.”
Bide your time. Marcus crossed his arms upon his chest, striking an air of nonchalance. He would wait until the fools had expended their resources.
“One thousand-ten! Any higher?”
Sprinkled throughout the crowd, fingers rose. Paltry bids were placed, bringing the amount to two thousand denarii. Everyone seemed to want the boy, yet was unwilling to commence the serious bidding with a substantial amount.
Marcus stepped forward. The foolery had gone on long enough. “Three thousand.”
The nonchalance seemed to snap. At once, serious bids echoed throughout the buyers. Marcus’s bid had launched an immediate campaign.
“Three thousand, two hundred.”
“Three thousand, five hundred!”
Marcus lifted his finger. “Four thousand.” He glanced at the young captive, looking for his response.
Surprisingly, there was none. The boy was rigidly motionless, his features taut and white. His stoicism seemed to indicate he cared little about who won his body and soul in the bidding. Instead, he cast many sidelong glances at a Briton waiting below the podium two slaves behind him. They seemed to share a connection, a mutual attachment of sorts.
Marcus cast his eyes over the British man. Perhaps he was the boy’s relation. Things of that sort happened often. Still, it was singular that a boy with such high chances of becoming the property of a wealthy patrician was more concerned about another slave than his own future.
The bidding stilled. The auctioneer rubbed his hands together. “Come, come, gentlemen! Surely this is not the end of the bidding for so distinguished a slave. Look at his broad shoulders, his strong legs! Do I hear a bid for over four thousand?”
“Four thousand, one hundred.” A Greek merchant near Marcus lifted his finger.
“Four thousand, one hundred it is! Any higher!”
“Four thousand, five hundred.” Marcus spoke coolly. He looked to the Greek, awaiting his response.
The merchant threw up his hands, gesturing good-naturedly. “The gods favor you, patrician. I
shall bid no more.” He stepped back into the murmuring crowd.
The auctioneer looked around. “You have heard the bid for this lot. Have we any higher?”
“For an untrained barbarian?” The legionary Marcus had spoken with earlier lifted his voice with haughty derision. He seemed a bitter sport. “The sum is madness. Let the young patrician have his Iceni brute. I doubt there is another man among us who will squander so much on him.”
Marcus laughed openly. The soldier’s poor temper was amusing. He bowed towards him, his voice mocking. “We won’t discuss the state of my means, friend. If your means will not allow you to buy the boy, state as much.”
The legionary’s face twisted. Muttering some indistinct rant, he stepped away from the auction block. Marcus allowed his satisfaction to gleam after him.
Again, the auctioneer rubbed his hands. He peered at the silenced crowd. Abruptly, he struck the gong beside him. “Sold at four thousand, five hundred denarii!” Then, to Marcus himself, “You have bought a champion, sir, though barbarian blood does flow in his veins.”
“Barbarian or champion, the slave is a dog. You may send the bill to me at the domus of Rowland Virginius tomorrow.” Marcus gestured carelessly. “Bring him to me.”
Two of the city soldiers guarding the slaves gripped the boy by the shoulders and pulled him from the podium. With his new slave kneeling at his feet, Marcus tossed each of the men a dupondius. “The gods favor you.” Then, to the boy, “Get up.”
Philip understood the order and gesture. Slowly, shakily, he rose. His new master beckoned to him, signifying he was to follow. Silently, he obeyed. The young man led him several paces away from the auction block, then turned.
“What is your name?”
Philip understood the words. The last few months of captivity had taught him much, including how to speak halting Latin. “I am named Philip.”
Even as he answered, he felt a thrill of resentment. He could never forgive his mother for choosing a Greek name rather than one of his own people. At the time, his parents had thought signs of outer influence might appease the Romans. A lot of good it did.
“And you are Iceni?”
“Yes.” Philip bit his lip under the young man’s probing gaze. He longed to turn his gaze towards the auction block, where his father would be sold soon. Above all, he wished he could escape the mastery of the man he knew owned him.
“My name is Marcus Virginius. Of course, you will address me as your lord.” Marcus paused a moment. “You understand me?”
“Yes, my lord.” Philip hoped Marcus would understand his stammer over the words as part of the language barrier. In truth, it was gall in his mouth to address any man as his master.
“Good. Follow me.”
Marcus turned, his pace strong, yet casual. Philip sensed he had much to learn about his particular mannerisms. Everything about him was self-assured and masterful, yet strangely nonchalant.
Before they had gone far, another man approached them. His low bow seemed to signify he knew Marcus as his master.
“My lord Marcus.”
“Demetrius.” Marcus waved a sweeping hand over Philip. “I acquired one of the new captives from Briton. Charming lad, isn’t he? I think he will do well as my attendant.”
“Yes.” Philip could feel the shrewd eyes of Demetrius running up and down him. “He is striking. Still, I will admit I do not understand your reason for purchasing another slave, my lord. The domus is adequately supplied.”
“You were ever practical, Demetrius. Yes, we have enough of the common rabble, but even you must admit I have no attendant that can be compared with this young warrior. He will make a perfect stir when I introduce him to my friends, barbaric dog though he is.”
Philip felt the flaming color rise in his cheeks. He understood enough Latin to know what his lord had said. Why this Roman insistence of calling him a dog? Marcus’s haughty demeanor only deepened the tingling smart. Already, he hated him. His fingers flew into a tight fist, choking back the furious exclamation he wanted to scream from the rooftops.
Marcus didn’t appear to notice. He turned his back on him. Apparently, he didn’t expect that his new property would dare do anything but follow him.
Stupid Roman presumption.
Philip cast a swift glance over his shoulder. The crowds were milling, a packed rabble. It would be easy to lose himself among them. It would be easier still to discover who purchased his father. He would lay in hiding for a few days, then, join him. They would be together. He would be free.
The simplicity of it all was too alluring to pass up.
Philip felt the hot blood coursing through his veins. Now! He dashed into the crowd, zigzagging his path. He almost slipped on the sandaled foot of a peddler, and his hands brushed against the dirty cobblestones. His heart thudded.
Somewhere behind him, he heard a hasty shout. “My lord, the slave!”
They had seen him.
Philip dashed towards an inviting alley. It seemed so near, yet so far away. If he could only make it to its dark recesses…
A strong hand fell on his shoulder, spinning him around. “Are you mad, boy?” Angry and authoritative, Marcus glowered at him.
Philip twisted under the inexorable grip, nearly choked with rising panic. His mind whirled. If he was taken now, there was no telling what his new master might do to him. Fight him. The thought blazed like mountain lightning into his brain. Before he fairly knew what he was doing, he struck Marcus wildly across the face.
Marcus stepped back, relinquishing his grip. He looked half-stunned. Instant, fiery color washed over his face. “Eternal gods! Vile brute! How dare you–”
Philip turned, cutting off the furious shout. He plunged forward. His legs pumped, adrenaline spurring him on. There was no time to consider what he had just done. Or the consequences.
Another, more violent hand yanked him back. Philip looked up into the furious face of Demetrius, simultaneously feeling his arms pinned behind him.
“Insolent cur!” The man spat the words. “How dare you strike your lawful master? And he is the eldest son of Rowland Virginius! Come, brute, you will pay well for this.”
Philip’s heart lurched. He attempted a fight, but Demetrius’s iron grip and sturdy strength were more than his match. He felt himself dragged along, his bare feet scraping the cobblestones. A slow blur encompassed his vision, then melted, his eyes focusing on the imposing figure of his master.
Marcus was composed and apparently recovered from his vehement blow, but Philip read intense fury in every feature of his countenance. He stood still, his dark eyes flashing. It went beyond saying he was unaccustomed to such brazen rebellion.
Philip ceased struggling as they neared. His heart pulsed. Given time to think, the full realization of what he had just done settled over him. He shuddered. He had witnessed a slave being scourged to death for trying to escape during the journey to Rome. What could he expect Marcus would do to him?
Marcus turned, as if to confirm his thoughts. His look chilled him to the core of his being. “You are a fool.” His eyes narrowed. “A perfect fool. But I imagine it won’t be long before you learn common sense.”
Philip felt a shudder run down his spine.
In his peripheral vision, he saw several members of the city guard run up. Apparently, they had seen what had happened. Swiftly, they cleared a circle in the mass of curious onlookers. One of them brandished a heavy rod. With silent deference, he bowed his head, offering Marcus the instrument of punishment.
Philip’s knees went weak. No. No! His pulse pounded so hard he couldn’t breathe. He had forgotten nothing of his experience under the merciless strokes of the Roman legionary. And he had seen men die under rods like the one before him.
The seconds seemed like hours. Marcus did not take the rod. His sternness seemed hindered by some strange indecision. Did he not mean to take his vengeance?
Philip sent a wild glance at the soldiers, then, flung himself on his kne
es. He felt their hands brush his shoulders in a quick attempt to stop him, but he jerked away. Pleading for mercy was his only chance.
“My lord, I beg you! Do not let them beat me. I did not run to disrespect you. I only wanted to join my father! Have mercy–”
He stopped abruptly, realizing too late he was speaking in his native Iceni. Desperation washed over him–his mind was befogged. He could remember nothing of the Latin he had learned. Miserably, he raised his eyes to Marcus’s face.
“My lord–”
“Enough.” Marcus lifted his hand. He stepped a little nearer, ominous.
Philip shrank back under his shadow, feeling the blood drain from his face. Swiftly, he touched his head to the ground. What he was not allowed to say in words he could demonstrate in actions.
“Lift up your head.”
Philip started. Slowly, he obeyed, a prickling chill rushing over him. Marcus spoke in the Iceni tongue. His speech was slow, true, but his every word was fully comprehensible.
“To strike your master and flee from him is an offence worthy of death, boy. You have been among us Romans long enough to know I could crucify you. Still, I will show you mercy–though, if you were any less striking or if I had paid any less for you, I’d have you beaten as soundly as you deserve.”
Philip resisted the shudder threatening to roll over his shoulders. Marcus was frighteningly quiet. His voice paused, then, continued above him, low and dark.
“Take heed, slave. I am not a weak man. If you ever again strike me or run away, I will have you scourged until you cannot stand! Do you understand me?”
Philip met his stony gaze. He felt sick and shocked all at once. Yet, much as he longed to ask Marcus how he had acquired the Iceni tongue, he felt far too aware of his own dire strait to question him. He averted his gaze.
“Yes, my lord.”
Marcus gestured at the officer, reverting back to Latin. “Take that rod away. It is not my pleasure that he be punished.”
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 3
