True Freedom

by Carol Ashby

  Marcus popped the last pastry into his mouth, and the juice of the fruit hidden within oozed across his tongue. A satisfying finale to an evening of watching their target.

  “Julia, is something wrong? You’ve been so quiet tonight. Can I help?”

  “Something’s wrong, but nothing can be done to fix it. Metilia’s brother died in Britannia, and I’m worried about her.”

  “Why?”

  “She hasn’t been to the baths for several days. Actually, no one has seen her since the news came. She hasn’t even answered the letter I sent the day Aulus told me.”

  Julia nibbled her lip. “I stopped by the house to see her on the way home from the baths this morning, but only her father was there. She and her mother have gone to their villa to get away from all the condolence visitors. He promised to let me know when she returns. He thought it would be at least two weeks and more likely three.”

  Marcus glanced at Aulus, whose face was placid as he picked up another raisin, tipped his head back, and dropped into his mouth. Either his friend was an excellent actor, or he failed to see what her words meant.

  “It must be hard to wait for a chance to cheer her up. I know you’ll drop everything and go to her the moment she’s back.”

  Julia’s smile was sad but warm. “Yes. I love her like a sister. Just like you and Aulus would do anything for each other; that’s how it is with Metilia and me.”

  Marcus wiped his mouth before folding the napkin and placing it on the couch beside him. “Maybe it won’t be as long as her father thought. Maybe she didn’t even see your letter before she left. Surely, she’ll let you know as soon as she gets home.”

  “That can’t be too soon for me.” She swung her legs off the couch. “I think I’ll retire now so you two can enjoy each other’s company. I’m rather tired.”

  As she left the room, Marcus clapped his hands once. All the slaves serving the diners snapped to attention and turned their eyes on him. “Leave us, and don’t come back to disturb us.”

  With small bows, they filed out.

  He listened to be certain their footsteps faded away. He even rose and checked at the door before turning to Aulus. “Fortuna just smiled on us. I know what we should do, and I can start arranging it this week, if you’ll agree to it.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Aulus’s shoulders sagged. “It’s probably the best way.”

  “No.” Marcus walked back to his couch and sat on the edge. “It’s the only way.”

  Aulus ran his hand through his hair. “Maybe, but only the ransom, not the sale. I can’t do that to her. I don’t need extra. I only need enough.”

  “Whatever you want, that’s what I’ll arrange. Enough for the debt and to pay whomever we hire.”

  Marcus poured more wine into his silver goblet. “The greatest success comes to those who take risks.” He raised it toward Aulus. “To risk and reward.”

  Aulus lifted his own goblet. “And no surprises.”

  They both tossed back their heads and drank deeply of the ruby liquid.

  Marcus slapped his knees and stood. “I feel like a few games of tabula.”

  Aulus rose as well. As they entered the atrium and headed toward the library, he punched Marcus’s arm. “But no high-stakes betting. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Chapter 8: Serving Too Well

  Day 6

  Dacius swept the sweat from his brow with a grimy arm. He’d undoubtedly left a veneer of mud behind, but it was either wipe it or have the sweat get in his eyes again.

  It was a hot, muggy day, and he’d stripped his tunic off to work in just his loincloth. Digging the new reflecting pool wasn’t so bad when the moist air formed broken clouds that gave short respites from the summer sun. But today’s mix of unbroken sunshine and humidity made the drizzle of the day before that had coated the hard-packed earth with a slippery skin seem almost pleasant.

  He swung his pick several times to break the hard surface before trading it for the shovel. If only it was straw and manure instead of clods of clay that he heaved into the handcart. But his task for the day wasn’t his to choose, and Vilicus had ordered him into the garden right after breakfast.

  To his right, a string of curses was followed by Vilicus slapping the back of Rusticus’s head for not working fast enough.

  Dacius tossed another shovelful into the handcart. As boring as it was to spend the day waiting by the litter, today he would welcome a summons to the stable yard to clean up for litter duty.

  He would escape another grueling day with pick and shovel, but that wasn’t why he wanted to hear Taurus’s guttural voice summoning him. He might get a chance to warn Mistress Julia about her brother’s plans.

  She’d never said a word to him that would allow him speak to her. She’d never done more than glance at him before sitting on the litter and swinging her legs in. But God might make today different so he could protect her from his sisters’ fate.

  Her kindness to her nieces and friends revealed a good heart, no matter how she treated him. Twelve years as a slave had taught him to expect nothing from Roman masters, and she was only living up to his expectations.

  The handcart was full enough to satisfy even Vilicus, and he trundled it over to the growing pile that would soon be terraced to make a new rose bed. With knees bent, he positioned the handles on his shoulders and stood, tipping the cart so the dirt tumbled out.

  Rusticus struggled to do the same beside him.

  “Let me.” Dacius crouched between the handles.

  As he dumped the handcart, Rusticus glanced at the overseer. Vilicus stood with fists on his hips and his back toward them. The corners of Rusticus’s mouth twitched up; then the old man’s shoulders sagged.

  His voice cracked, even as he whispered. “Thank you, but don’t let Vilicus see you help me. That would be bad for both of us.”

  Dacius shrugged and patted Rusticus’s arm. Then he gripped the handles of his own cart and pushed it back to where his pick and shovel waited. He was about to step into the shallow pit when a movement under the grape arbor caught his eye.

  Mistress Julia was reading a codex…alone and only thirty feet away. There could be no better opportunity to warn her with no one else listening.

  He glanced at Vilicus, who was now holding his whip, playing with the three leather strips as the men he was watching double-timed their digging.

  Nine quick steps and he stood before her. “Mistress, I―”

  Fear flashed across her face. She sprang from the bench and slipped behind the arbor post. “Stay away from me!” Panic made her voice shrill and loud.

  “I mean no harm, mistress, but your brother’s dangerous. He plans to―”

  The brass knob of Vilicus’s whip slammed into the side of his head. The first explosion of pain was followed by a second, dropping him to his hands and knees.

  “Mistress…” He tipped his face toward her. Surely she knew one of her litter bearers would never hurt her. But no sign of recognition lit her eyes.

  The first lash struck his back, and he felt the flesh tear. The mistress’s hand flew to her mouth as she gasped.

  Vilicus’s foot to his ribs drove the breath from him. He gulped some air before he could lift his face again and speak. “Please, mistress…”

  Her cheeks turned ashen as she stared at his back. Then she spun and ran toward the door.

  Three new lines of pain shot across his back as the lash struck the second time. He braced for another strike as the first trickle of blood ran down his side.

  “Vilicus. Stop that.” Gallio’s voice froze Vilicus’s arm midswing.

  The overseer turned toward the steward. He drew his fingers down the first leather strip and flicked the blood off before cleaning the second and third.

  “Isn’t that one of the litter bearers?” Gallio stood with arms crossed, glaring at Vilicus.

  “Yes, steward.”

  “I don’t want him da
maged too badly to carry her. Why are you whipping him?”

  “He spoke to Mistress Julia and frightened her.”

  Gallio’s gaze met Dacius’s and held for a moment before flipping back to Vilicus. “I doubt he was going to hurt her. Taurus says this one is the best of the lot.”

  His eyes focused on Dacius again. “Go to Glyptus and have him put something on that. You’ll probably be needed for the litter tomorrow, so don’t do anything to make it worse the rest of today.”

  Dacius rose. “Yes, steward.”

  He took careful steps as he walked toward the kitchen, but the cuts from the lash still triggered ripples of pain with each movement of his back.

  Gallio’s voice was harsh behind him. “Think before you make one of the slaves that serve Mistress Julia bleed. At least he’s at the back so she won’t see much of him. If the cuts ooze some when he’s carrying, it shouldn’t show with the red tunic. Not enough to make her faint, anyway.”

  Vilicus mumbled his apology.

  If his back and head didn’t hurt so much, Dacius might have laughed. Saved by the steward, not because he disapproved of lashing slaves who’d done nothing wrong, but because the mistress might faint if she saw his blood.

  Well, he’d tried to warn her. He wouldn’t do that again. Next time could be a beating or a full whipping instead of only two lashes. He could only pray for her now. Maybe her brother wouldn’t actually do what his friend was planning.

  As Dacius entered the kitchen, Glyptus swept a pile of chopped vegetables into the stewpot and placed it atop the stove.

  “Glyptus.” The cook glanced over his shoulder. “I need some help.”

  Glyptus’s head bounced back when he turned. “What happened to you?”

  “Vilicus, but Steward Gallio stopped him before he got more than two strokes in.” He started to shrug, but that triggered a grimace. Then his face relaxed into an ironic smile. “Gallio didn’t want me damaged too much to carry the litter.”

  “At least it’s not as bad as the last one I had to treat. When Vilicus gets drunk, he loses count.” He dragged his fingers across Dacius’s chest and wrinkled his nose at the sweat and dirt on his hand. “We need to clean you up first.”

  Glyptus snapped his fingers, and a kitchen boy trotted over. “Take a clean bucket and get fresh water from the fountain in the street.” As the boy scurried away, Glyptus rested his hand on Dacius’s shoulder and leaned in close to look at the cuts. “Could be worse. We’ll wash the mud off you, pour some wine on the cuts, and smear them with honey. They usually don’t infect when I do that. Sit over there.” He pointed to the slaves’ regular table. “Lepus runs like a rabbit. He’ll be back quick.”

  Dacius took a seat. With elbows on the table, he rested his forehead against his hands and closed his eyes.

  God, I know You let Gallio buy me, so I’m probably here for some reason. I’m trying to serve as if I’m serving You, but Vilicus makes that so hard. He filled his lungs and blew the air out between pursed lips.

  He startled when Glyptus’s hand settled on his shoulder again. “Lepus is back. It will only hurt more if we wait. Lean over.”

  The water pouring across the cuts didn’t hurt much. The soap hurt more, and the wine burned as Glyptus dribbled it repeatedly along each cut.

  With eyes scrunched, Dacius sucked air between clenched teeth.

  Glyptus tousled his hair. “Cleaning is done. Now the honey to protect and heal. Rest your chest on the table.”

  When Glyptus finished smearing honey into each cut, Dacius straightened in the chair. He opened his eyes to find Primus leaning against the doorframe, sneering at him.

  “So, what did you do to get a lashing?”

  Dacius swallowed the retort before it escaped his lips and said nothing.

  Primus took a step into the room. “Did the lash hurt your ears as well?”

  Glyptus glared at him. “Vilicus doesn’t need a good reason to whip anyone, so you should watch your tongue, Primus.” He fixed his gaze past Primus. “Isn’t that right, overseer?”

  Primus’s eyes saucered, and he spun. A frown pulled his mouth down when he turned back. “Very funny, Glyptus.”

  One of the house slaves stuck her head in. “How’s your back, Dacius?”

  “It’s been better, but it could be worse.” Dacius managed a smile.

  Primus faked a concerned frown. “Why did Vilicus do this?”

  She shrugged. “Mistress Julia was frightened when Dacius got so close and told her Master Aulus was dangerous, but who knows why Vilicus decides to hurt anyone.”

  She withdrew, and Primus’s sneer turned into a smirk. “Trying to protect her from her brother? That’s maybe the stupidest thing you’ve done here.”

  Dacius’s jaw clenched, but he forced his voice to remain calm. “A man should try to protect any innocent person if he possibly can.”

  Primus spat. “No rich Roman is innocent. I don’t care about any of the ones who’ve owned me. In their eyes, I’m not a man…and neither are you. We’re only work animals to them, and they’re nothing to me.”

  He sauntered from the kitchen, but his chuckle drifted back into the room.

  Glyptus’s mouth curved down. “He’s right, you know.”

  “About them seeing us as property, yes. About us being animals and not men, that’s a choice we make, not them.” His mouth relaxed into a slight smile. “And I choose to be a man.”

  Glyptus squeezed the top of his shoulder. “Go find the laundress. I need cloth strips to wrap your chest. Tell her I said to give you a clean tunic, too.”

  He turned back to the stove and stirred the stew. Dacius headed out the door, then turned back to watch his friend.

  Men like Glyptus would always be men, no matter what their Roman masters thought.

  That evening, Dacius entered the empty stall where he usually slept and leaned his shoulder against the wall. Morning would come early, and he’d have to rise before dawn to feed the horses before his own breakfast. And then…Gallio expected him to carry if the mistress wanted to go somewhere, but at least the steward had told Vilicus not to put him digging until his back healed.

  God, please let her decide to stay home tomorrow. But if she doesn’t, let it be a short trip.

  As he straightened, he felt every stripe. Please heal me fast. Help me bear this until You do.

  A deep breath was followed by a deeper sigh. He’d made it through twelve years as a slave without a single lash mark. How ironic that he didn’t get these from failing to serve. He’d tried to serve too well.

  He winced as he lowered his chest to the ground and raised his arms so he could rest his head on his hands. He’d sleep on his stomach until his back stopped hurting. With his neck twisted sideways to get his nose clear of the straw, he tried to relax.

  For a moment, deep regret surged through him. Why had God let the Crassus estate sell most of its racehorses…and him? Life had actually been good there.

  Then he shoved it out of his mind. No point in grieving over what was gone. Somehow, he would manage to serve in this chaotic household under an incompetent overseer with a mean streak. Maybe it would get better when the master came home. Surely a man who could run a province could make his own estate run properly.

  He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. If sleep would only come, it would quiet the pain.

  Maybe, if God chose to show him special mercy, he’d be sold again to only work with horses, like he loved. Until then…

  God, some days it’s so hard here. Please give me strength to serve this household as if I were serving You.

  Chapter 9: The Next Step

  The Drusus townhouse, afternoon of Day 7

  Marcus eyed his father as he popped the last dried date into his mouth. This lunch was the first step in his plan.

  It can be hard to find a partner in crime when you don’t know any criminals. But even a senator or equestrian occasionally need
ed someone to take care of a problem in a less-than-legal way. The most ruthless person Marcus knew was his father. Father had hired men to drag Aunt Claudia back from Thracia when Quintus Sabinus was determined to marry her four years earlier. Perhaps that wasn’t kidnapping since Father was her guardian, but the same kind of men were exactly what he needed.

  Marcus swung his legs off the dining couch. “Aulus is busy this afternoon, so would you like to play a few games of Mercenaries?”

  The smile on Father’s face was exactly what he expected from a man who loved strategy games.

  “My afternoon is free as well.” Father stood and swept his hand toward the door. “Go set up the board, and I’ll be right there.”

  In the library, Marcus arranged the beige and blue rondels of sliced bone and the king pyramids on the wooden board. His finger traced several of the swords in the intricate battle scenes carved along two edges of the grid.

  When Father entered and sat at the desk, Marcus lowered himself into the second chair.

  “You go first, son.” One corner of Father’s mouth turned up. “To give you a better chance at beating me.”

  Marcus turned on a grin. “With what you’ve taught me, almost no one but you beats me now. No one wants to bet with me anymore.”

  “I had that problem myself at your age.”

  Marcus moved his first piece, and they settled into a companionable battle. As the game neared completion, he deliberately chose a move that left him open to attack. The corner of Father’s mouth twitched as Marcus opened the way to victory.

  “Father.” His father’s gaze shifted from the board to his face. “Have you ever had to hire muscle for something?”

  “Malleolus usually hires guards for transporting money through Brutus’s ludus.”

  Marcus picked up a captured rondel. “That’s not quite what I meant. When Sabinus sent the gladiator to give Aulus that demand for payment, where would he have found such a man? Someone willing to threaten the son of a senator in the middle of hundreds of people at a public place like the baths?”