“Keep your hands off me.”
A shout of sardonic laughter echoed through the courtyard. Thallus’s countenance grew black, spreading like poison across his face. He seized Philip by the shoulder, his grip painful.
“British scum! Do you dare command me?”
Philip’s mouth twitched. He could only think of one answer. In one swift move, he struck Thallus across the face. Reeling backwards, Thallus stumbled to the marble floor. He laid a hand over his mouth, bringing it away crimson with blood.
Philip stepped a little closer. “And do you dare challenge me, Roman?”
Another shout of delighted laughter rose in the circle. Their mockery was like a goad. Thallus sprang to his feet and flung himself on Philip.
“Cur! How dare you–”
Philip was ready for the onslaught. Long hours of training had taught him rage rarely accomplished anything where physical competition was involved. He swung at Thallus, again striking him full in the face.
Thallus made a choking sound. Philip hit him again, following the blow up with a kick that sent him swaying to a prostrate position on the floor. For one fleeting instant, he felt himself at home, a warrior among the chieftains. He tightened his hands into fierce fists.
“British dog, am I? Now you have seen what a Briton can do!”
Thallus raised himself on one elbow, blood running in little rivulets from his nostrils and lips. “And you will learn how Romans deal with this sort of rebellion, scum. Marcus, call in the rods! This British swine shall see who is master. I demand it.”
“You will make no demand of me, Thallus.” Marcus’s laughter rang out, supporting by the low chuckles of the others. “I think we have all seen who is master of this situation. Surely you would not like to threaten your honor by resorting to the help of others!”
Thallus’s eyes kindled, a quick oath escaping his lips. “By the gods! Do you mean to–”
“Do I deny your demand?” Marcus cut him off. “Yes. My slave has beaten one some five years his senior. Shall I disable, torture him for doing it? No. I am rather pleased to see you getting what you deserve for once, friend.”
The fire in Thallus’s eyes was terrible to see. Despite the adrenaline in his blood, Philip himself felt a prickle of apprehension. But, looking at Marcus for his reaction, he saw his master was far from intimidated. He turned his back coldly on the prostrate Thallus, warmth in his eyes.
“Well done, Philip. You are a grand tribute to your people. Mars, but I should have instated you as my body guard rather than my attendant.”
“He will keep his hands off me in the future.” Philip spoke low, realizing for the first time the extent of what he had done. He half-averted his gaze under his master’s keen eyes, unable to discern what thoughts were present behind his amused expression.
“As will we all.” Caius laughed, making Marcus an approving nod. “Speaking for us all, I can wager none of us will have much inclination to try your temper. I had heard that the Britons are a very warrior-like race, but I little expected to find their spirit instilled in one so young.”
“He is the true son of his country.” Marcus continued to rest an amused gaze upon Philip. “I saw as much when he was upon the slave podium.”
“And, in purchasing him, you have become a Roman worthy of the Caesars, Marcus.” Vitellis spoke good-naturedly, simultaneously aiding Thallus to his feet.
“He has become a Roman imbecile.” Thallus straightened his toga with a slow hand, fixing Marcus with a cold, meaningful look. “Any slave with a temper like that would very likely murder his master in his bed–particularly one whose master is too craven to check his insolence.”
Marcus’s countenance was chillingly quiet. “My slave knows his lord, Thallus.” His dark eyes roved until they met Philip’s, their meaningful expression holding him in masterful captivity. “He would not lift his hand or will against me.”
Philip again felt the strange power of Marcus’s authority. A new tinge of apprehension smote him. If it had been his master instead of Thallus, could he have controlled his temper? Or would he have dared to hit him? And face crucifixion. The thought chilled him through, realizing he didn’t know the answer.
There was a fleeting moment of awkward silence.
Marcus finally laughed. “I have spent enough time in your company, friends. Farewell, and may the gods keep you!”
The others uttered a swift chorus of farewells. Only Thallus kept his peace, continuing to fix Marcus with a menacing expression. Marcus met his chilling eyes, sardonically lifting his hand in farewell.
To Philip, leaving the Baths was a blur. He was still shocked by what had just transpired. New dread settled in the pit of his stomach. Marcus was amused here. Would he be so later?
Marcus could scarcely keep from laughing aloud. He weaved a course around milling pedestrians and street side peddlers, chuckling inwardly.
By Jupiter, what iron wills these Iceni captives possessed! It was small wonder the divine Nero had considered withdrawing his legions from Britain. If their men were as brazen as Philip, the Roman legionaries would have had good cause for fearing defeat.
Stupid boy. Marcus shook his head. Philip knew what he might have done to him, but he had lifted his hand against a Roman patrician anyway. And of all the patricians to choose. He knew Thallus would not forget the insult. Not that he cared, but he wondered if Philip realized his own foolishness. Marcus made a mental note to scold him later.
Yet, for the time, he wanted to enjoy the moment. Philip had made this particular visit to the Baths a very enjoyable one. And for that, he was gratified.
Chapter Five
Alone in the little bedchamber connected to the apartments of Marcus, Philip looked down into the dark street outside the domus. The flickering torches of pedestrians were like fireflies, dancing in the darkness. It was an interesting view, but nothing could divert his confusion.
What a brash fool he had been. He had once again dared to strike and humiliate a Roman nobleman! Why did he always let his temper get the better of him? There was no explaining what strange power had both granted him victory over Thallus and spared him from a torturous death.
Marcus had not yet offered him a single reproof. In the back of his mind, he had always expected to be punished, perhaps even whipped. To say the least, Marcus’s mercy was confusing. Did he not resent the insult his slave had offered his companion?
Philip cast one final glance at the street. In the distance, the temple of Vesta was aglow with light. The smoke rising from her sacred flame was a jolting reminder. He should thank the gods.
He dropped to his knees and raised both hands towards the ceiling. “Thank you, Anextiomarus.” Somehow, even so far away from his people and priests, the Iceni god of protection had not forgotten him. “Thank you for sparing my life.”
He stood up. Hopefully Anextiomarus would continue to be with him. He sensed that everything was not over. Much as he dreaded a confrontation with Marcus, it was pretty sure to come.
The sound of clapping hands sounded from the next room.
Philip’s heart rate kicked up a notch. His own fear irritated him, but he could not curtail it. He had no desire whatsoever to go into Marcus’s presence.
Stoically, he set his jaw. If he had to go, he would do so as a warrior, portraying no fear. He threw his shoulders back and strode into the next room.
“You summoned me, my lord?”
Marcus looked up from pouring out a glass of wine. “Yes.” He was casually attired, dressed only in his simple tunic. Clearly, he had no banquet or other social event to attend that evening. He cradled his cup in both hands, his eyes narrowing. “What’s the matter with you? Does it offend you to be called into my presence?”
Philip realized how stiffly he was carrying himself. To a discerning man like Marcus, he must appear positively mutinous. He settled his face more naturally. “No, my lord. I meant no harm.”
“Good.” Marcus tapped his wine glass
contemplatively. He seemed to have something on his mind. “Tell me, what idiocy made you strike Thallus today?”
Philip stiffened. The confrontation was here. He inhaled slowly, attempting to quiet his nerves. “He had no right to lay hands on me.”
“But you did not strike the others.”
Philip said nothing. Marcus looked keenly at him, gesturing.
“You have been among us long enough to know how to keep your own counsel. That is well. However, I command you to answer me freely. Why did you not strike the others?”
“They did not grate on my nerves as soundly as that haughty pig.”
Marcus cocked a brow. “And what does your father think of all this?”
“I have not told him, my lord.”
Marcus laughed unexpectedly. “What?” he asked, apparently amused. “You have not told him? Why, you utterly thrashed a Roman.”
“Is that such an honorable feat?”
Marcus raised his brows. A flicker of disapprobation darkened his countenance. “You are a fool.” He paused, gazing keenly at Philip. “Yet, it is not within my will to castigate your incessant insolence. Come, I want you to wrestle me.”
Philip felt his lips twitch with amusement. “My lord just called me a fool. Yet, he must know I am not so much of one as to have forgotten his threat.”
Marcus smiled in his turn. “I give you permission to strike me–if, that is, you think you can accomplish the feat. I am not ill-trained in the arts of war.” Then, with a sarcastic expression of amusement, “Come, my Iceni warrior. Fly at me as you did Thallus.”
Philip didn’t wait for further urging. He flew across the marble floor, closing the few paces between them. By your own word, Roman cur.
Marcus stood ready for him, standing with wide, well-braced feet and the calm confidence of a soldier. Every aspect of his well-developed muscles was visible, from his rounded biceps to the sun-tanned calves protruding beneath his short, close-fitting tunic. He cut an intimidating figure, and the half-amused expression in his dark eyes seemed to portray that he knew it.
Philip brushed aside any thought of apprehension. His master was formidably strong, but that meant nothing. He had downed young men twice his age in the wild British Isles. There could be little difference in throwing a Roman, however soldierly that Roman stood and looked.
In a single instant, Philip flung his entire weight against Marcus’s chest. He gripped his shoulders, digging his fingers into the flesh. Expertly evading the strong hands flailing to seize him, he struck Marcus a savage blow on the neck, then followed up the stunning impact by a violent jab and shove.
Marcus stumbled back, the breath battered out of him by the jab to his diaphragm. Philip offered him a swift sweep of the foot, catching his sinewy legs. His balance destroyed, Marcus fell back, his right shoulder catching his fall against the hard floor.
Assuming as much cool nonchalance as he considered prudent, Philip stepped over him. Fighting his instincts, he forewent the kick that would have ordinarily finished his opponent off.
Marcus’s expression was nothing short of astonished. “Jupiter, but you are strong! I have grappled with many men, but I have never seen a style quite like yours.”
Philip bit his lip. Had Marcus expected to find an untrained weakling in him? Forcing his respect, he offered Marcus his hand. Marcus accepted it, rising with painful stiffness to his feet.
“By the gods! I shall feel that for some time.” He grimaced, touching his swelling neck. “I might have known. You are as rebellious as any one slave could be. No common slave would strike his lord so heavily.”
“You commanded it of me, my lord. I struck you at your own challenge.”
“Truth.” Marcus’s mouth twitched with a hint of a smile. “You took my dare with ready vigor–and I cannot blame you. Jove, what a thing it is to be beaten by a slave!”
“Another round?”
“Yes.” Marcus removed the silver bands encircling his wrists and tossed them onto his couch. “There–I am ready for you.”
Philip drew back, readying himself. His eyes met Marcus’s, anticipating his every move. Marcus stepped nearer, and, simultaneously, they circled one another. Then, Marcus himself sprang forward.
Philip braced himself, feeling the powerful force of the young man’s strength. With lightening-like speed, he blocked his falling hand and averted the blow, twisting to disentangle himself. Assuming his first strategy, he gripped Marcus by the shoulders and twisted him downwards.
Marcus dropped to one knee, but quickly recovered himself. Swiftly, he regained his feet, shaking Philip’s hands loose. In one rapid move, he blocked Philip against the wall.
“Take care, slave–I see your strategy.”
Philip’s breathing quickened. He attempted to dart past him and recover a favorable position, but Marcus’s hand held him like a vise. Twisting, he struggled to free himself, seeking an opportunity to regain his hold on Marcus and force him back.
It was a futile attempt. Marcus had seen his strategy and it was too late to adopt another. And, in the face of his lord’s superior strength, Philip sensed his inability to recover himself. He twisted, giving another, harder struggle. Marcus’s mastery was apparent, but no Roman would down him without a fight.
Marcus easily forced him downward, albeit, making no move to strike him. On his knees, Philip looked up, knowing himself beaten. He hid his embarrassment with as much nonchalance as he could muster.
“You have caught on easily, my lord.”
“Yes.” Marcus released him. His eyes revealed his admiration. “And, it is to my own discredit that I have. You are some four years my junior, but I only won because you chanced to show your tactic. You are to be applauded.”
The slow color came into Philip’s face. Here was a Roman who did not scorn to admit himself beaten or to have met his match. Gratified, he bowed his head. “You are kind, my lord.”
Marcus turned to recover his bands, fastening them thought-fully around his stalwart wrists. “Tell me,” he said at last, “have you heard of tomorrow’s festivities?”
“Yes.” To Philip, the question was a pointless one. What slave in Rowland Virginius’s household was not aware of the festival of Cerealia, the week-long celebration of the wheat goddess? A lavish dinner party was being thrown to most of Rome’s most distinguished patricians and their families to celebrate the commencement of the festival.
“Then you must know that we will be in need of entertainment. After we returned today, Saturius approached my father concerning you.”
“Saturius?”
“Yes. Saturius Quinctia, the father of Thallus.” Marcus paused. “It seems Thallus desires to pit his own slave against you. Of course, he only wishes to mortify me, but my father has given his consent.”
Philip’s heart sank. So now he, the eldest son of a chieftain, was to be brought to the level of an entertainer before every member of the dinner party? A wave of regret washed over him, and he struggled to keep from cursing his own arrogant folly. How little he had expected the forest gods to turn his show of strength against him!
“My lord, I don’t know the rules of wrestling. I’m certain the way I came at you was far from within the guidelines.”
“I will teach you.”
“What if I fail?”
Marcus looked at him. “You will not fail.”
Philip struggled to accept the irony in Marcus’s voice. Had the decision been so finalized? He allowed as much appeal to creep into his voice and face as he dared. “I am only thirteen years, my lord. Surely you must consider your own honor! You said yourself Thallus desires this to humiliate you.”
“That is why I tested you myself.” Marcus fixed Philip with an immovable expression. “You are strong as an ox and nimble of foot. I have no fears for you–and your only fear must be failing me.”
The meaning in Marcus’s tone was clear. Philip felt sick. He must win or suffer. The choice was unmistakably presented.
�
�What if…” His voice cracked, nearly choking. “What if I don’t–”
“Are you arguing with me?” Marcus stepped forward. He was ominously quiet, somehow threateningly so. The muscles tightened in his arms, and Philip sensed there was nothing that would keep him back from demonstrating who was master. His eyes narrowed. “Answer me.”
Philip shook his head, miserable. A wave of rebellion shot through his chest, nearly choking him. By the gods, why should he be so demeaned? Why must his life be in total accordance to the will of his master? To be paraded as an object of sport; to be brutally punished if he failed; to constantly seek the pleasure of a man who cared nothing for him!
The thoughts brought the flaming color to his face. He could feel Marcus’s dark, keen eyes resting on him, sending a prickle down his spine. Glancing sidelong, he saw his hand gesture ever so slightly, chilling him with the terrifying reality that his master knew his thoughts.
“I don’t think you know who your lord is, Philip.” Marcus played with his wristbands. His easy ability to remove them hinted at the readiness to take physical action. “Perhaps–”
“No.” Philip’s heart pumped wildly. Bound by dread, he bowed. Though outwardly submissive, he inwardly cursed the mysterious intuition that empowered Marcus to read his innermost thoughts. “I will do anything you command, my lord.”
The following evening was warm and humid. The house of Rowland Virginius stood aglow with light, flooding the dusky street just beyond with warmth.
Inside, Philip stood leaning against one of the pillars in the atrium. As the attendant of Marcus, he had no household duties to speak of and was entirely at his leisure to watch the last-minute preparations of the dinner party.
In one corner of the banqueting chamber, musicians gathered, preparing their lutes and harps. An elderly slave made one final inspection of the chamber itself, fluffing up the cushions upon which the guests were to recline with delicate care.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 6
