A shudder ran through Philip’s body, momentarily paralyzing him. Was he to be beaten to death? Marcus strode towards him, loosening the metal bands encircling his wrists.
You are still his slave. His father’s words washed over his mind. Philip struggled to his knees, lifting an imploring hand, willing the uplifted flagellum to stop. “Marcus! Please–”
The whip descended, slashing his arms. Philip cried out in agony. He buried his head in his arms, attempting to protect himself.
“Roman dog, am I?” Marcus’s angry voice cut through the hot blood pounding in his ears. “And what are you? Nothing but a plague! You will regret what you have done, filth.”
A searing pain shot through Philip’s leg. He swallowed, fighting back the impulse to scream. The whip descended again, over his calves, his loins. A wave of faintness washed over him, nauseating him. He felt his knees slide out from under him on the cold marble floor. Still shielding his head, he rolled onto his stomach, cringing as the fiery lash stung his thighs.
His lungs burned uncontrollably. He wanted to cry, to scream. A heavy weight pressed harder and harder on his chest, choking him. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he couldn’t breathe to sob. The salty moisture crept down his perspiring face, stinging his cuts.
Dimly, he heard the rustle of Marcus’s clothing and the whistle of the flagellum being raised. He lay still, waiting for the lash to tear his back.
So this is the end.
The sound of a crash filled the room. Philip saw the shadow of the flagellum as it was hurled across the atrium, landing with vehement force against one of the marble busts at its end.
He raised his head. Bewildered, he watched Marcus stride angrily from the atrium, leaving the lash where it had fallen. A death-like silence followed his departure, leaving only the echo of his blows pounding in Philip’s ears.
Shaking, Philip lifted himself, struggling to his knees. Searing pain throbbed throughout his body, escaping in a sobbing moan. He looked down, seeing blood seep from the crimson welt stretched across his arms. A cold trickle ran over his calves, and, touching them, he brought his hand away scarlet with blood.
A cold shudder ran over him. He bent his head forward, fighting the impulse to lose consciousness. His mind reeled and he felt sick, but bewilderment aided his struggle for sensibility.
Why had Marcus stopped? Had seeing his slave lie prostrate and helpless before him been enough? Or was he about to return?
Philip struggled feverishly to his feet. He was not going to wait for Marcus to return and order his crucifixion. Tears swam in his eyes, but he dashed them impatiently aside. A son of Briton cannot cry. You cannot!
His body protesting every step, Philip stumbled to the entry. Marcus’s cape and money pouch lay carelessly thrown over a settee, where, ordinarily, a slave would find and restore them to their proper place.
Take them.
Philip snatched up the cape and threw it over his shoulders, hiding his bleeding arms. He quivered from head to foot, scarcely able to think.
There was but one thought that reigned uppermost in his fevered mind: it was now freedom or death. There was no other option. He would no longer endure this curse of slavery. If he lived, it would be as his own master. And, if he died, it would be by his own hand, not writhing on some Roman cross.
Leave now!
Casting one final glance behind him, Philip tucked the pouch into his belt and stepped out into the humid air.
Chapter Eight
Dusk was falling. Philip pulled his cape more tightly around him, quickly scanning the pedestrians still upon the streets. They paid him little attention. Be natural. So long as he carried himself well, no one would suspect him of being anything but a slave intent on an errand.
Philip’s heart thudded wildly. For one fleeting moment, his mind dwelt upon his father. Forget him. If he was caught, he would die anyway. It was best to forever estrange his heart from Beric and focus on one thing: liberty.
Run. Before Marcus discovers you are gone!
He darted quickly down the marble steps. Stepping onto the cobble-stoned Vicus Tuscus, he mingled with the passing pedestrians, then, when certain he would attract no attention, broke into a run.
His lugs pumped beneath him, aching. Philip inhaled deeply and tried to ignore the burning pain shooting up and down his calves. His mind spun, and he felt weak and dizzy. Where had his strength gone? Where was the fearless Briton, the champion wrestler of Roman banquet-halls?
His eyes scanned the road before him, seeking sanctuary. Where could he hide? And, above all, how could he hide his true identity? An ordinary slave could easily escape unnoticed, but there was little chance for a Briton, whose blonde hair and blue eyes stood him apart from all others.
His Latin was tolerable, but could he hope to mix with the common people? There was precious little slang spoken in the Virginius household, and although he had picked up a few phrases elsewhere, he had previously scorned to speak them.
Run, run!
Philip brushed shoulders with a hurrying patrician, jarring him. With a muffled oath, the man shoved him aside.
“Watch where you are going!”
Philip stumbled against a nearby wall and warily watched the man hurry on. He stood still, his breathing ragged. His diaphragm was sore, still protesting the fierceness of Marcus’s blow.
Slowly, he straightened himself erect and forced himself to take a few staggering steps. He must keep going. If he should be caught… The thought sent a thrill of fear prickling down his spine. Spurred onward, his legs again raced beneath him.
Before long, the Vicus Tuscus led into the Imperial Fora, revealing a maze of streets, colossal buildings, and temples. Philip shuddered. It was here he had been sold to Marcus and attempted his first escape.
This time I will not fail.
He paused, gathering his cape around him. His choice of options was dazing, to say the least. Should he attempt to gain employment in one of the many shops? Or would it be safer to lose himself among the poorest class of Rome, perhaps in the Subura, or, slum district?
Considering the language problem, Philip brushed the thought aside of mixing with the low-lives. And, weariness was already overtaking him. He could not hope to find sanctuary before the need for rest became necessary.
The necessity seemed almost immediately at hand. Philip struggled to keep his bleary eyes open. His head ached wildly, and he could scarcely command his legs to walk. He forced himself to take a few more steps, then, collapsed beneath a pastry booth.
The owner had gone for the night, leaving the booth uninhabited. Surely, he would be safe here until morning. He would snatch a few hours of sleep and regain the strength Marcus had sapped from him. Then, his mind would be clear for further decisions.
Philip pulled himself more fully beneath the booth. Wearily, he settled himself into a comfortable position and spread his cape over himself.
For several minutes, he gazed up at the stars, their luminous twinkle growing brighter as the dusky sky darkened into blackness. Slowly, a soft mist welled up in his eyes.
How different the stars appeared here than they had at home. The remembrance of the rolling green hills and rugged forests of Britain rolled over his mind, a striking contrast to the marble and stone surrounding him.
They were hard. Cold.
Philip shuddered. Like Marcus. Rome was all the same. From her colossal buildings to her masters, she was merciless, unyielding. How had he ever come to underestimate his lord’s authority? Beric had been painfully right.
Marcus. Philip clenched his fists, swallowing back a moan as pain shot through the lash-mark scoring his arms. Oh, mighty gods! Marcus must not find him. The thought of what would befall him was too much to endure.
He turned over, his lips moving in silent petition. Guide me, oh great gods of my forefathers. Keep Marcus from finding me. I will make good on my vow. I will destroy Rome. Only, keep Marcus away…
Philip awoke with a start,
feeling the warmth of the bright morning sun streaming upon his face. He squinted upwards, then, scrambled to his feet, scarcely avoiding the surly kick of a merchant.
“Oaf!” The man shouted, shaking his fist at him. “This is not a public inn! Begone, before I lay hands on you!”
Philip thrust a hasty hand into Marcus’s purse and held up a small coin. “My apologies, good sir. Allow me to make good on my trespass by purchasing a pastry.”
The countenance of the merchant transformed with radical speed. Striking a brisk mannerism, he bent his head. “Ah, yes. Permit me just a moment, young sir.”
Philip grinned to himself. If he was a patron, then, apparently, all was forgiven. Impatiently, he waited for the merchant to select the delicate sweetmeat. When it was handed over, he tossed the man his coin and strode away.
The taste of the pastry was sweet on his tongue. It quickly became gall, a cutting reminder. He had often eaten sweetmeats like this in the banqueting hall of Marcus’s friends. And, until now, he had enjoyed them.
His steps slowed, thoughts of Marcus foremost in his mind. Where was he to go?
Already, the forum was bustling with activity. Most of the street-side merchants and shop owners had opened for business, and the air hummed with a din of Greek, Latin, and foreign tongues. Plebians, slaves, patricians, and soldiers mingled together, intent upon business and pleasure.
Philip warily eyed the latter. Knowing Marcus’s pride, he was certain the slave-catchers had already been informed of his escape. Was it possible the forum soldiers had also been notified?
Instinctively, he pulled the hood of his cape over his blonde hair, partially shielding his bruised face. The sight of a battered British slave with no apparent business to attend to was almost certain to attract attention.
“Move back!”
Philip stepped back against a wall as a line of shackled slaves were herded past him. The slave master brandished his flagellum, shouting an order in some foreign tongue. The slaves shuffled by, sullen and silent, their gaze fixed moodily upon the cobblestones beneath their feet.
Philip’s gaze rested on their naked backs, scored by the whip. A shudder ran through him. Welcome to Rome.
The sound of the flagellum striking a victim echoed in Philip’s ears. He turned away, gripped by nausea. Upon the auction block, he had known slavery was a curse, but now his entire soul rose up in sorrow for those about to be sold.
Was this really what life was all about? Men owning other men, torturing them, stripping them of hope and spirit? Why had the fates decreed it thus? He felt sick, but some compulsion forced him to watch the slave master herd his helpless prey towards the auction block.
His heart lurched. Marcus!
Surrounded by several soldiers and a man who could only be a professional slave-catcher, Marcus stood on one of the lower steps of the temple of Janus. His dark eyes scanned the milling crowd, restless, searching.
Philip shrank back against a wall, inhaling sharply. How was it possible? Marcus–here? Hundreds of runaway slaves inhabited the city; why had he not obtained his happy freedom as easily as they? Why had fate brought him only a few paces away from the young man he never wanted to clap eyes on again?
Run. Now!
Philip leaned forward, breathing hard. His eyes darted over the milling crowd, taking a quick survey of Marcus.
At that precise moment, the slave-catcher lifted his eyes, and, even from that far distance, Philip felt his gaze rest upon him. The slave-catcher brushed Marcus’s shoulder in quick awareness, pointing.
Marcus’s eyes narrowed, following the direction of the man’s finger. He ran down the temple steps, his exclamation audible even above the forum’s noisy din. “He is here!”
They had seen him! Philip turned and dashed into the hordes of incoming shoppers. He fought his way through them, wild adrenaline coursing through his veins. Run, run!
Behind him, Philip heard a slow murmur, like a storm rolling over the Mediterranean Sea. The sound loudened into a shout, spreading through the crowd.
“Stop him! Runaway slave!”
Philip’s heart pounded uncontrollably. His lungs constricted, burning so that he could scarcely breathe. He couldn’t stop; there wasn’t time!
A rough hand rested on his shoulder, gripping his shoulder.
“Stop, in the name of the Caesars!”
Philip half-turned. In one fluid move, he drove his elbow into his antagonist’s diaphragm, following up the forceful jab with a swift punch to the stomach.
The plebian let him go, grunting. Philip dashed on before the man could recover himself, hearing the cry resume behind him.
“Stop him! Stop him!”
Philip looked frantically about. Where could he go? Where could he hope to hide? From small to great, the crowd was against him, spurred on by the relentless shouts of his pursuers.
He stumbled over a jutting piece of cobblestone, his foot catching against a basket. Figs rolled out into the street, and the fruit peddler swore angrily at him.
Philip regained his feet, breathing heavily. Ordinarily, such running would be nothing to him, but not now. Pain shot through the lash marks creasing his legs, strangely sickening him.
Nearly spent, he darted down a side-street, again stumbling. He staggered forward, brushing against the chest of a tall, fixed form.
“Steady there, lad.”
The kind voice calmed the pounding in Philip’s ears. He looked up into the quiet face of a middle-aged man. Desperate, a wave of urgency burst from his throat. “Give me sanctuary, sir! I am spent.”
Silently, the man motioned to the open door of a bakery directly to his right.
Brushing past him, Philip darted inside. He stood, panting, just beyond the threshold. If only the crowds had not noted his turn, he would be safe.
The man stepped inside, closing the door upon its rustic hinges. Philip looked up at him, attempting to recover his breath. “May the gods bless you, good sir! You will be well-paid–I swear it.”
“Sit down, boy.” The man gestured to a low couch. “I will bring bread.”
Philip collapsed gratefully on the couch, his legs throbbing. His wounds burned like fire, doubtless from overexertion. His benefactor had aided him none too soon. Another few moments, and he was certain he would have collapsed in the street.
The man returned to the room with a platter of bread and olives in one hand, a pitcher of wine in the other. He set the platter before Philip. His bearded face was kind.
“I am Daniel of Judea. I was once a resident of Jerusalem; now, I am a breadmaker of Rome. This is my humble shop and home, which I open freely to you. Now, tell me, my young friend, who are you?”
“I am Philip, once of Briton.” Philip spoke slowly. It was useless to hide his identity–any man with eyes knew he was a Briton. Still, it was almost as if admitting his ancestry was to acknowledge himself a slave.
Daniel seemed to notice his hesitance, but he did not question him. Stepping across the room, he took up a pitcher of water and a towel. With an easy air, he returned and knelt before Philip, removing his sandals.
Philip started a little. This man was no slave! Why did he wash his feet? He felt a tinge of color creep into his cheeks, strangely humbled and relieved. Surely this man did not know who he was, or he would never perform so menial an action.
“You are very kind, sir. I thank you.”
“I am pleased to be of service to you, young Philip.” Daniel looked up from drying Philip’s feet, his tones even. “You seemed to be in a great hurry a moment ago.”
“Yes.” Philip felt foolish. What else was he to say? He could not explain his haste without lying, and, at the moment, his overwrought mind would not allow him to think of a single plausible excuse.
As his mind slowly clearly, the searing pain in his legs increased. Philip bit his lip, withholding a groan. He saw Daniel glance at the lash marks, his face gravely quiet.
New fear gripped Philip’s heart, escalatin
g his pulse to its former pounding cadence. If he suspects you, you’re as good as lost! He cannot know the truth.
“These Roman charioteers will let nothing stop them,” he heard himself say lightly. “I passed one in the street this morning and he gave me the lash for not hurrying past him quickly enough. Nice work, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed.” A strange smile hovered over Daniel’s mouth. “By all appearances, he buffeted you pretty sorely, my boy.”
Philip colored a little. Of course, his face must be covered in bruises. The heavy clouts of Marcus would have not have left him without a mark. “I–I tripped in an alley earlier.”
The foolishness of the lie struck Philip even before the words left his mouth. This man Daniel would be dense indeed to believe him.
“Were you on some task for your master then?”
Daniel spoke matter-of-factly, as if he believed Philip’s explanation. Philip’s heart sank, but he fiercely chided himself. You’re a Briton. It is only natural to assume you are a slave.
“Yes. My lord sent me out this morning.” Anxious to change the disagreeable subject, Philip pulled a dupondius from the pouch at his waist. “I wish to repay you for your kindness. Please accept this coin as a token of my gratitude.”
Daniel rose to his feet, returning the pitcher and towel to their former places. “No, young Philip. Freely have I received favor, freely will I serve you.”
Philip stared at him. “You will not accept it?”
“No.”
“But, why?” Philip felt foolish, stammering the words. But, then, it was small wonder he was surprised. There was not another man in Rome who would reject recompense, even if it were a far more trifling sum than he offered.
Daniel looked at him with a gentleness Philip had never before seen in a free-born man. “My faith bids me do unto you as I would also have done unto myself, my boy.”
“Your faith?”
“Yes.”
Philip felt a wave of frustrated confusion. What sort of faith kept a man from accepting his well-merited reward? “You mean your religion?” he said, more as if in a statement of the facts than a question.
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