The soldiers drew back, clear dissatisfaction on their faces. Marcus beckoned, and Philip felt himself being yanked to his feet. His knees trembled. The sudden rush of blood from his head made him feel dizzy. He lowered his head, inhaling deeply. Don’t faint.
When he raised his head, the curious onlookers and soldiers had scattered away. Marcus stood gazing at him in disgust.
“By the gods, rouse yourself! Do you think I granted you mercy to look like a dying sheep? Remember the exorbitant fee I paid for your worthless skin and look like a slave ought!”
The wrathful sarcasm in his master’s voice sent a tingle of blood to Philip’s face, but he obeyed. Shaking, he straightened his shoulders, blinking to keep back the tears that rose involuntarily in his eyes. This day had been too hard.
Marcus took him by the arm, clearly frustrated. His powerful grip was painful. Philip tensed, afraid he was going to hit him.
“What are you crying for? By Aphrodite! I showed you mercy and for what? You have not even bothered to thank me.” He turned to Demetrius, his teeth clenched. “These Britons are utter imbeciles.”
“The boy is unworthy of your clemency.” Demerius’s voice was grim. “I fear you will have nothing but trouble with him.”
Philip exhaled, controlling his bated breathing. Panic again pounded somewhere against his throat, but he no longer cared. His eyes drifted towards the auction block. He could hear the auctioneer’s incessant drawl. In another few minutes, he would be separated from Beric.
Forever.
He felt his arm released. Looking back at Marcus, he realized he had been following the direction of his gaze. Marcus’s brows were knit in something like contemplation. Abruptly, he shook his head, gesturing.
“Take this wretched little cur home, Demetrius, and attire him in something decent. I will follow shortly. And,” he added, as Demetrius bowed, “I will expect you to have taught him something of common propriety.”
Fighting his rising emotion, Philip submitted to Demetrius’s beckon. His legs moved mechanically beneath him. Weary and dejected, they carried him away from the noisy forum.
Chapter Three
To Philip, the trek to his new home seemed never ending. He walked meekly at the side of Demetrius, his spirit crushed within him. Everything seemed a blur. Was it possible that all the events of the last hour had truly happened?
He didn’t raise his head until Demetrius made a slight pause. When he did, it was to see the tall composite columns of a large marble mansion. Demetrius gestured, his voice a grunt.
“The domus of Rowland Virginius.”
Philip’s heart skipped a beat. The grandeur was over-whelming. Silent with awe, he followed the steward up the steps to the elegant portico.
At the door, Demetrius knocked. A tunic-clad slave answered, swinging the door open. The steward brushed swiftly past him, clearly impatient. Philip followed him, feeling as if he was being transported to some new world.
Inside, the feeling deepened.
Philip stopped short, coolness washing over his perspiring skin. His eyes drank in the sights around him. Tall fountains, carved with the intricate countenances of men and animals, played softly in the middle of the room. One of them overflowed into a pool at one end of the atrium. Leafy flora and vegetation fairly littered the open courtyard, visible from the doorway.
Clearly, the Romans credited their wealth to their gods. Mounted upon pedestals or standing alone, marble busts of the deities gave the domus of a sense of coupled reverence and art. It was as if he was in a shrine.
Philip felt overwhelmed. Even his position as a chieftain’s son had not given him grandeur such as he saw here. For as long as he could remember, he could only recall the mud huts of his tribe, except perhaps for the buildings of Roman settlements Camulodunium or Londinium. And even they had not compared with what he saw in his master’s home. His thoughts breathed themselves into words.
“My master is a man of means.”
“Your master is a man of many things, boy, not the least of which is justice.” Demetrius surveyed him glaringly. “Bear that in mind.”
Philip stiffened. As expected, Demetrius was not finished.
“You are not in your barbaric British Isles any longer, slave. You will find that the masters of the universe do not tolerate disorderliness, as would some. What my lord Marcus sees in you, I cannot tell; yet, I know that he is not a man to overlook rebellion a second time. Unless you wish for very unpleasant things to befall you, I advise that you treat your master as becomes a proper slave.”
Philip dropped his gaze. His knowledge of Latin was not broad enough to have understood all that the steward had said, but he was quite well-aware that nothing less than complete submission was expected of him. Demetrius’s irritated tone and expression revealed his unfavorable opinion of him, and it somehow conjured up a new fear.
“Will my master deal harshly with me on his return?”
“That is for my lord himself to answer.” Demetrius turned his back on him, clapping his hands.
A slave appeared in answer to the summons. Demetrius motioned to Philip. “See to it that this boy is bathed and attired in something decent. He must be ready to attend the lord Marcus upon his return.”
Half an hour later, Philip stood freshly bathed and attired in his new garments. Much to his relief, he was only given a short tunic and a simple pair of sandals. He would not for the world strike the cumbered appearance he had seen in so many Romans.
Demetrius was on hand to give his opinion. He nodded his approval. “You will do. It is a pity a change of raiment cannot change the barbaric blood running in your veins. I foresee my lord Marcus having a time of amending your manners.”
Philip bit his tongue to keep from answering. It seemed the insults would never end. Demetrius looked as if he would continue, but was checked by a strong knock at the door. He wheeled around and hastened across the polished floor.
Philip involuntarily shrank back a little. Demetrius’s haste signified it could only be the Lord Marcus who sought admittance. He pulled his fingers into fists, allowing them to bite into the palms. What would happen to him now? Marcus had spared him public exposure and chastisement, but he might have changed his mind about private revenge. After all, his new master was by all appearances a resolute young man.
Marcus stepped briskly into the entry. He was not alone. A tall Briton accompanied him, gravely erect.
Philip caught his breath. “Father!” He sprang forward, his arms poised to throw around Beric’s neck. How could this be? They had always expected to be separated. Yet, here he was, apparently to stay.
Demetrius hissed a sharp check. “Be still, you fool!”
Philip slid to a halt. He could feel the blood tingling in his cheeks. He had forgotten everything for a moment, including his own servitude. Slowly, awkwardly, he bowed in Marcus’s direction.
Marcus cocked an eyebrow, unimpressed. “So you couldn’t even teach him how to greet me, Demetrius. I see I shall have to take all matters about his training into my own hands. Come with me, boy.”
Philip understood by the gesture he was to follow Marcus. Not daring to cast so much as a glance at Beric, he followed his master’s saunter from the atrium into an adjoining room.
The walls of the room were covered with cubicles, each holding neat rows of scrolls. The pungent smell of ink and new parchment filled his nostrils. Apparently, this was the bibliotheca, or, library.
Marcus threw himself down on a couch at one end of the room. “Don’t stand gawking there. Come here.”
Philip hesitated. What form of homage was expected of him? He moved forward, dropping awkwardly on one knee before his master’s couch. A swift upward glance revealed Marcus once again cocking a brow.
“Your disposition is confusing, Philip. You are humble enough now, but what a strange contrast it makes to your shocking behavior in the forum. Jove, I would think even a barbaric little fool such as you would know better than to stri
ke your master.”
Philip was again surprised to hear Marcus’s voice flow easily over the Iceni words. His surroundings made it impossible to imagine he was at home, but there was comfort in hearing his own tongue.
“My lord–” He checked himself, ensuring his soft tones hinted no presumption. “How is it you know the language of the Iceni?”
“I know many things.” Marcus was curt. He rose from his couch to pour out a goblet of wine. He brought to his lips, tasting it. “But, if you must know, my brother was a legionary of the fourteenth twin legion in your country. When he was transported, I made every effort to learn the language.”
Philip felt a twinge. So the mysterious brother was one of those who had killed his people. The gods would have ordered it so.
Marcus continued. “This will be the last time I will speak to you in Iceni. You must learn our language and ways. Let there be no confusion–you know what I mean. I am still astonished by the insolence you are capable of.” Philip felt as if Marcus’s dark eyes were boring into his very soul. “But I do not think you will behave so again.”
The words, however quiet, were an incisive threat. Philip could feel it. The realization of his master’s absolute power over him breathed like a cold whisper down his neck. Everything about his new lord was authoritative, inexorable. He expected to be obeyed and obeyed well. And, if not…
Marcus settled himself more comfortably. “I have purchased your father. Your childish desire to be with him is pitiful, but I’m in a generous mood.” He again touched the goblet to his lips. “Don’t be afraid to speak to me. Have you nothing to say?”
Philip swallowed. “I am grateful, master.”
“As you should be. Your thanks is woefully overdue, Philip. Although, I don’t know what else I might have expected from you.” Marcus rubbed his forehead contemplatively. “But, whatever else, I know you are not a slave who will flatter me into good humor–thank the gods!”
A muscle tensed in Philip’s neck. “I am not as uncivilized as you think.”
“No.” Marcus’s lips curled. “You are only an Iceni captive, taken from your homeland because your people dared think they could conquer the masters of the universe.” He leaned forward. “You are only the insolent cur who struck me.”
Say nothing. Resentment boiled up in Philip’s throat despite the common sense holding his tongue. So this was the gist of being a slave. To be taunted, ridiculed, all at the whim of a sarcastic master.
A master whose only purpose was to get his money’s worth.
He felt Marcus’s eyes taking in his features, and he bit his lip. Blue eyes and blonde hair were swiftly becoming a curse.
“You will create quite a stir when I present you to my friends. Hercules! Few of them have seen hair like yours.”
Philip tasted blood from the force of his own teeth on his lips. His chest swelled, surging with anger. This was becoming too much. “Among my people, I was not valued for my looks. I was a warrior, not a clown to be admired by Roman pigs! I–”
“Enough!” Marcus’s face was suddenly terrible to behold.
Philip took one upward glance into his dark, flashing eyes and shrank back onto his knees. Dimly, he realized he was shaking. He lowered his head, half to hide his crimson face, half to appease the furious young man before him.
Marcus kept his seat. From what he had seen of Roman lords, Philip knew it was to his credit. They had precious little self-control. He felt certain it was only the remembrance of the high price he had paid for his new slave that kept Marcus from chastising his brazen temper.
He saw Marcus’s fingers close tightly around his goblet. “You Britons have the faces of gods, but you come with a high price–the wills of adders! Eternals gods, Philip. Take some advice and learn your place quickly. You are as handsome a slave as ever set foot in Rome, but that will not save you from my justice if you continue to set your spirit against mine.”
I will end this tyranny. And it will be a tale for centuries!
The pledge he had sworn at the time of his capture flashed into Philip’s mind. This Roman pig might own him now, but it would not always be so. He would one day be free. And, until then, he would never allow his hatred to die. Even at that moment, it seeped into every core of his body.
He could feel Marcus glowering at him. He sensed if his lord continued lecturing him, it would be impossible to control another wave of rage. But, fortunately, the door swung open. From his peripheral vision, Philip saw it was a middle-aged man. Tall and dark, he was undoubtedly Marcus’s father. The master of the domus.
Marcus stood up, flourishing. “See the purchase I made today, father! I obtained two of these Briton slaves, one as my attendant and the other as a present for you. It was only the other day you complained of the lack of garden attendants. What do you think?”
“He is strong and good-looking.” Philip’s skin crawled under Rowland’s traveling gaze. “If the other one is as muscular, I will be very pleased of your present. But I hope you have not taken too much upon you, Marcus. They say these Britons are too high-spirited and obstinate to make good house slaves.”
“I will add my voice to whatever unhappy master made you that quote.” Marcus’s gaze narrowed, casting a notable glare upon Philip. “Already, this barbarous wretch has been more trouble than all the rest of our slaves put together.”
Philip fidgeted, understanding enough Latin to know what they were talking about. Would Marcus tell his father what had happened in the forum? He doubted the master of the domus would approve of his son’s clemency.
“You will know how to break him in, Marcus. He is only a boy. Give him the feel of your right arm and it will amend his manners once and for all.”
“Yes.” Marcus looked sidelong at him. His eyes were dark, meaningful. “But I trust I did not pay such an exorbitant sum for an idiot. He will not test me.”
Rowland shrugged. “Hopefully not. But, come–the evening meal is prepared. Bring your new slave along. He might as well begin serving at once.”
Marcus snapped his fingers at him. Swallowing back his resentment, Philip followed him and his father from the room. They had spoken about him as if he had been no more living than the marble busts of the gods. Was he no longer human now that he was a slave?
It was a short distance to the triclinium, or, room where the family took their meals. Philip stood against the strong columns, taking in the room. It was only beginning to grow dusk, but the oil lamps were already lit, casting their warm glow over the table. The table itself was low to the ground, surrounded by comfortable couches decked with cushions. It would seem the family reclined as they ate.
His insides tightened at the sight of the food. Much of the bountiful feast was unfamiliar, but the scent was invigorating. His knees shook. He had not eaten more than a mouthful of bread all day. Still, it appeared that he was obliged to push aside his hunger until his master dismissed him.
The family filed in and took their places. Beside Marcus and his father, there were two women, one of matronly age, the other a child. Evidently, they were the mother and daughter of the family.
Taking his cue from the other slaves, Philip moved close to his master’s side. Marcus gestured at a pitcher of wine, and he poured out a goblet full with hands trembling from hunger. For what seemed an eternity, he cut meat and offered platters. At last, Marcus waved him back, satisfied.
Afraid he was going to collapse, Philip stumbled against a pillar, allowing the shadows to hide his face. To divert his thoughts from his stomach, he gazed at the family members around the table.
He had heard the lady addressed as Persis. She seemed gentle, to say nothing of charming. Philip brushed aside his prejudices, allowing himself to admit she was beautiful. Her long stola was elegant, and she wore her dark hair in the neatly-coiled fashion he had seen adopted by many other Roman ladies. All through the meal, she laughed and chatted, flattering Rowland into perfect good humor.
Philip’s eyes traveled to t
he child seated at her mother’s right. She was delicate, even more beautiful than her mother. Eventually, Marcus addressed her as Diantha. Philip’s heart skipped a beat. He had never heard a more breathtaking name, even if it was Roman.
He peered through the shadows, then, jerked back. What was he thinking? He was openly gazing at the female relatives of his master. A nervous glance revealed Marcus had not noticed. His intentions were harmless, but still, one could never know what Romans did to slaves who gawked shamelessly at their women.
He settled back against the pillar. Somewhere, deep inside, he was throbbing. The two women were beautiful, but they could never compare with his own mother and sisters. They had turned the heads of more than a few Iceni men. And, unlike Roman women, they could hold their own. Philip recalled the hours his father had taken, training them to fight.
“You may go.”
Philip blinked at the curt tone. Marcus lifted a dismissing hand. “Go to the culina. The cook will give you food.”
Philip bent his head. His legs shook as they carried him from the room. Another few minutes, and he knew he would have collapsed.
Rome! He could have spit on the polished atrium floor. How he hated her! She had taken everything from him–his family, his way of living, his liberty. He could not even eat when he chose. His life was in his master’s hands.
Acidity tinged his tongue. Strange how he could even taste the bitterness of captivity.
A strong, tall figure was standing by the fountain, his back turned. Philip stopped short. Father! The sight of Beric almost erased the hatred simmering through his body. Here was his reason for still living.
His sandaled foot swished the floor with his sudden stop, and Beric turned at the sound. His grave features lightened, and he held out his hand. Philip dashed forward. Forget the pangs in his stomach. Food could wait.
Their arms met in a long embrace. Philip held onto his father’s muscular body as long as could, basking in the comforting warmth. He was no child, as Marcus had taunted. But he was not ashamed of his love for Beric, either.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 4
