“Yes, Quaestor,” replied the older of the two. “A wife and child.”
“Then go home to them,” I told him. “Gather a few things and flee the city. By tomorrow only the thieves and dying will remain behind. Go now.”
As he ran off, I turned to the other one. “What is your name, soldier?”
“Titus, my lord.”
“Where is your family, Titus?”
“They live in Lucania,” he said.
“Guard the gate while I am inside, and when I am finished, you will come with me. As soon as we are away from the city, you can go home to Lucania.”
He looked at me. “What will I tell the centurion?”
“He placed you under my command,” I replied. “And I command you to go home and stay there until this plague has run its course. The army will need you then.”
He gave me a salute and resumed his place by the door. Holding the lamp, I made my way across the courtyard to the low stable where the vicarius kept several of the horses he used while in the city. He had taken two with him but, as I thought, had left two behind—and they were glad to see me. They were hungry and thirsty, so I watered and fed them and left them to their food while I readied the carriage. It was only a small city carriage—large enough for two but with a small board behind the rear axle which might be used to carry a few things. I filled two jars with water and tied them to the backboard, then led one of the horses to the traces, strapped him in, and tied the other to the rear of the carriage, which I then led into the courtyard.
I paused to look once more at the house. It was dark and silent as I had left it earlier. I did not know whether Helena lived yet or had succumbed, but I knew I would never see her again.
Together Titus and I led the carriage down the hill. I told him to guard the horses while I went inside to get the others. Agatha was ready with a bundle of provisions for us and for the child. “Get some cloth to cover your faces,” I told her.
Oriana was sitting in our bedroom holding little Concessa, who was sleeping peacefully in her arms. “I’ve brought a carriage,” I said. “Come, we’re leaving.”
She nodded, rose, and followed me from the room. Agatha was waiting by the door with a handful of cloth strips. I took these from her, put them in a basin, and poured water over them. “Tie them over your nose and mouth,” I instructed, “then Oriana and the child likewise.”
Taking one piece of cloth for myself and one for the soldier, I led the women out into the yard. The smoke filled the air like a sour fog; the sky glowed with a filthy, lurid glow. I helped Oriana into the carriage and then turned for Agatha—only to find that she had gone back inside. I ran to fetch her back, saying, “Come, we are all going together.”
“I stay here,” she said.
“No,” I told her firmly. “You must come with us.”
Agatha shook her head furiously. “I stay here,” she insisted. “Chase robbers away.”
“I need you,” I told her. “Oriana needs you to help her with the baby.” I held out my hand. “Come. It is time to go.” She hesitated, but I took her hand in mine, led her out to the carriage, and lifted her bodily into it.
I hurried to where Titus was waiting. “Draw your sword and give me your spear. You lead the carriage, and I will guard the rear.”
“Which gate?”
I paused. “Via Appia,” I decided. “Make for the Porta Capena.”
Putting his hand to the bridle, Titus started off. The street was empty, and the sound of the iron-rimmed wheels on the stone-paved streets echoed back from the houses and courtyards we passed. We soon entered a district of humbler dwellings; there was more activity here: people flitting furtively from house to house, some carrying torches, others darting from one doorway to the next. Some of these were thieves, I was certain, but they could have whatever they could find to steal—much it would profit them when the fever laid them low.
We made good speed through the city and came in sight of the Circus Maximus. The street made a sharp bend and, upon turning the corner, Titus halted. Just ahead of him stood a gang of ruffians with clubs and torches. I hung back in the shadows and heard Titus call out. “We want no trouble here,” he shouted firmly. “Stand aside and let us pass.”
FIFTY-TWO
YOU CAN PASS,” growled the leader of the gang. “But you have to pay the toll.” Holding a torch above his head, he advanced slowly. “Those horses will do for a start. And then you can show us what you’ve got in the carriage.”
“Stay back,” said Titus. “This is your last warning.”
Moving in quickly behind the horse, I stepped to the rear of the carriage, keeping the vehicle between myself and the thugs. “Oriana!” I whispered. “Remain in the carriage and stay down. Whatever happens, stay down.”
The chief thug laughed. “Keep your warning. We’ll take the horses.”
I crouched low, knelt, and untied the horse. Then, taking up the reins, I sprang onto his back and rode out from behind the carriage. “This soldier is under my command,” I said, taking my place beside Titus. “Stand aside”—I lowered the spear—“or die.”
The chief thug glared at me. “So you say,” he growled, hefting his club. “I say you are dead men.” Turning to his band of rogues, he called, “There are only two of them. Spread out, all of you. Get in behind and give them the sharp end of your blades!”
As the gang moved warily, fanning out around us, I said to Titus, “When the leader goes down, the rest will scatter. I will take him now. Protect my back.”
He nodded to show he understood, whereupon I cried, “Hie! Up!” and slashed the reins across my mount’s flanks. The horse leapt forward. I drove right for the bandit chieftain, leveling my spear as I came. A few running strides carried me to him; he flung the torch at me and dived to the side.
It was a clumsy move, easily anticipated, and I swerved the horse into him even as he raised the club to strike. I saw his mouth open in a curse as he tumbled backward. Before he could gain his feet, I wheeled my mount and came at him again. He scrambled to avoid the horse’s hooves. I dipped the spear and gave him a sharp poke in the meaty part of his shoulder. I could have killed him without any trouble at all but thought that a painful flesh wound would suffice.
The blade slashed through his tunic and into his skin; the force sent him sprawling facedown in the street. I stopped the horse and stood over him, placing the spear point in the small of his back as he lay bawling and writhing on the ground. Half the gang, seeing how easily I had defeated their strongman, turned and legged it down the street. “Give up,” I told him, “and I might let you live.”
He went limp. “Now, then, tell your fellow thieves to back off.” He made no move to follow my instruction, so I gave him a sharp nip between the shoulder blades. “Now! While you still have breath to do so.”
He raised his head. “Get back! All of you get back!” he screamed. “He’ll kill me.” The thieves, glad to remove themselves from any confrontation with my spear, edged away.
Turning to Titus, I said, “Walk on. I will meet you at the gate.”
When the carriage had gone, the bandit chief, somehow imagining he had gained the upper hand, craned his neck around and sneered, “You won’t walk away from here. Your soldier friend is gone. We have you surrounded. As soon as your back is turned, I’ll have you.”
“I thought you might come to that,” I told him. “That is why you are going to accompany me to the gate.” I prodded him with the spear. “Get up and turn around.” He rose slowly and put his back to me. I kept the spear point between his shoulder blades. “Now, pick up the torch and start moving,” I ordered, “and if I see so much as the glimmer of a knife blade behind us, I will run you through without a second thought.”
He lurched forward, shouting, “Stay back! All of you stay back!”
“Hurry!” I said, jabbing him again. “I’ve wasted enough time on you already.” We moved off together—he at a lumbering trot, I on horseback right behind.
We rejoined the carriage just before it reached the gate, which was open to allow the unimpeded flow of citizens from the city.
I sent Titus and the carriage through the portal and then said to my hostage, “Get out of my sight!” He stood there blinking, unable to believe that I would not kill him the moment his back was turned. “Go on. Move!” I shouted.
He shuffled backward a couple steps, then, judging he was out of my reach, turned and fled into the darkened street. I watched him go, then rode to where the others were waiting for me on the road. Oriana gave a cry of relief as I rode up. I comforted her and saw that little Concessa slept on, blissfully unaware of the commotion swirling around her.
“You let him go,” said Titus. “I would have gutted him.”
“He is not worth blunting the edge of your blade,” I replied. “Anyway, I did him no favor. If the plague does not catch him, the Praetorians will. Either way he is as good as dead.”
With that we joined the desperate flight from the city.
The road was wide and good, but the procession was far from orderly; it juddered along slowly, like a wounded snake, with many halts and shivering starts. As dawn gathered in the east, shedding a thin gray light on the trail, the awful extent of the flight became apparent. Tangled lines of people stretched to the far hilltop horizon—a turgid black river seeping along pale white banks. As far as the eye could see, people toiled ahead in knots and clumps, many carrying their belongings on their backs or piled high in handcarts—and not people only: horses, mules, donkeys, and even cows, goats, and dogs were hitched to carts.
Daylight strengthened, and I saw, in the ditches and fields ’round about, hundreds of impromptu camps. Too tired to go on, people had simply wandered off the road and slept where they dropped. With daylight came the low, murmuring sound of soft moaning. By this I knew that many of those who had fallen beside the road would not be getting up again.
All through the morning we rolled on. The day grew hot beneath a wide-open sky. When I became tired of riding, I gave my mount to Titus and took his place leading the horse that pulled the wagon. As the sun crept toward midday, the line halted; from someplace up ahead I heard shouting, and, leaving Titus to guard the carriage, I went to determine the cause of the commotion.
A cart was lying on its side in the middle of the road. Under a high and heavy burden, its slender axle had snapped, spilling the contents into the road. The donkey pulling the cart had fallen, and from the way the poor beast was thrashing around, trying to regain its feet, I suspected that it had broken a leg. A desperate man was pushing people away from the wreck in a vain effort to keep them from plundering his belongings.
“Step aside! Step aside!” I said, shoving in to where he stood panting and dripping with sweat. “Here, let me help you.” A quick look at his cart and donkey confirmed my suspicions. “The cart is ruined,” I told him, “and the animal is injured. If you like, I will help you get them off the road.”
“My things,” he said, indicating the heap of furniture and utensils. “I cannot leave my property behind.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But you cannot stay here. You are blocking the way.”
“Please,” he said, snatching at me, “it’s all I own! I cannot leave it behind.”
“Maybe the cart can be mended,” I offered. “Here,” I said, turning to the onlookers, “you, you, and you”—I pulled them in—“help me move this out of the way.”
“And who are you?” demanded one of the men, “the emperor?”
I turned to meet him face-to-face. “I am a quaestor of the city and a centurion of the Roman army, and I am conscripting you to help me. Now, do as I say.”
Grumbling, the men stepped forward, and together we unhitched the donkey and dragged the suffering creature away. Next we began shifting the bulk of the man’s belongings to the side of the road. One of the men bent to pick up a long, bulky bundle. I heard him curse; he dropped the parcel and jumped back. “There’s someone in there!” he said.
“My wife! My wife!” said the owner, rushing forward. He fell upon the bundle as if to protect it from us.
Stooping down beside him, I glimpsed through a fold of the cloth the waxy, bloated flesh of a woman’s face: slack-jawed, staring up with dry, clouded eyes, an angry, bulging, blue-black carbuncle distorting the tender flesh below her jaw. The stench emanating from the wrappings banished any lingering doubt that the woman might yet live.
“My wife—” said the man, pushing at me as he tried to rearrange the covering.
“She must be buried at once.” I gestured to the men to help me remove her from the road, but they drew away.
“Plague!” someone shouted, and all at once the crowd surged back. “Plague! Plague!” they shouted, stumbling over themselves in their haste to flee.
Instantly angry, some of them picked up stones from the road and began pelting the man. He cried out and fell upon the corpse of his wife. I was struck several times as I tried to get him to help me drag the body from the road. The man refused; he clung to the corpse, shouting and crying. “She is sleeping!” he cried. “She is only sleeping!”
One of the bystanders grabbed a piece of wood from the broken wagon. A whiffling sound filled the air, and I was knocked to my knees. “Stop!” I shouted. “Wait!” I took another blow in the small of my back and rolled onto my side. The improvised club rose high and hung suspended over me.
I covered my head with my arms and braced myself for the blow. Instead, however, my assailant gave out a shout and spun sideways to the ground. Titus appeared above me, took my arm, and pulled me to my feet; he then turned, sword drawn, and shouted, “Stand aside, all of you!”
I strode to the man who had assaulted me. “You there! On your feet. You can help me move the wagon.” I chose three more from the crowd, and together we dragged the wagon to the ditch while Titus got the crowd moving again. We carried the corpse of the man’s wife to a hollow beside the road, and I made my grumbling volunteers dig a grave for her. The bereft and frantic widower insisted all the while that his wife would wake soon and they would go on, but when the first clods of dirt struck the shroud, he slumped to the ground and wept. He would not be consoled, so we left him there, prostrate on his wife’s grave.
By the time I returned to the carriage where Oriana and the others waited, the long, slow migration was moving again. We ate a little bread and drank some water and then resumed the journey, not stopping again until sundown. We camped in a field beside the road, and while Titus grazed the horses, Agatha prepared a simple meal which we ate as the last light of day dimmed in the west.
We were on the road again before dawn, and this time we did not stop. The towns along the way were shut to any fleeing the plague; no one would sell food or anything else to any travelers passing through. I saw people collapse in the road, but we did not stop. I saw an old man, bent double by the weight of the bundle on his back, stagger and fall to his knees; I removed the pack from his back, threw it aside, and gave him water—but I did not stop. The relentless sun beat down on our uncovered heads, Concessa cried through the day, and hungry people begged for food and water as we passed, but I did not stop.
The next day there were fewer on the road, and the next day fewer still. We moved on at better speed and reached the port at Neapolis. It took the remains of that day and most of the next to find a boat and captain who would agree to take us across the narrow stretch of water to Aenaria.
I dismissed Titus, thanking him for his good service, and gave him a handful of coins—as much as I could spare from the little I had with me. I gave him the horses, too, and sent him on his way to his home in the south. Then, taking Concessa in my arms, I led Oriana and Agatha down to the boatyard to wait for the boat to arrive. We sat through the day, watching and waiting.
“Where is he?” I said, growing impatient at last. “He said he would be here. What can be keeping him?”
“Sit down, Succat,” Oriana said. “You can rest now. We are almost
there.” With that she laid her head on her arm and closed her eyes. “I am so thirsty.”
I walked back to the carriage and fetched the last of the bread and wine. I drank the wine and refilled the jar with water from a well in the square above the harbor. Upon my return I woke Oriana so she could drink. She rose with difficulty, rubbing her upper arm. I gave her the jar, and she drank, wincing slightly as she swallowed.
“Are you feeling well?” I asked.
“I am just tired,” she said, and I noticed a rawness in her voice I had not heard before. “The journey has exhausted me.” Unwilling to accept this vague assurance, I pulled aside her mantle, examined the skin of her throat, and felt the sides of her neck but found nothing unusual. “It is just the heat,” she insisted.
Concessa woke and began crying then, and while Oriana saw to feeding her, the boat’s master appeared. I jumped up and ran to meet him. Slump-shouldered with exhaustion, he removed his wide-brimmed hat and said, “We’re losing light. If you want to go, it must be now.”
We gathered our few things and followed him down to the wharf, where three of his men were busy keeping a crowd of would-be passengers at bay with the blade ends of their oars. “Everyone wants to leave,” said the captain. “I’ve made four trips to the island today a’ready. This here’ll be my last.”
“I am in your debt,” I told him.
Aenaria lay no great distance off the coast, the last and largest of a string of small islands rimming the great bowl of the bay. Nevertheless the winds were contrary, and the sailors had to row through a rough chop; passage was slow. It was almost dark by the time we reached the tiny harbor of Ischia. After paying the boatman and sending him on his weary way, I turned to Oriana. “How far is the villa?”
She looked at me curiously and opened her mouth to speak. “Ah, it…it is—” Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes rolled up into her head, and she collapsed. I caught her and the baby as she fell and eased both of them to the ground.
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