The fire’s heat rushed at Fortunada. For a moment she was once again at the caravan’s camp. There she had stood by the door and looked into a flame-filled night as the screams of the dying echoed in her ears. On the ground, she saw dear Jana, her life’s blood nothing more than a stain upon her linen tunic. In the man who sat upon the stump, she saw the same one who had invaded her tent. Her pulse raced and her head buzzed.
No. Fortunada controlled her thoughts. The man who had attacked her was dead. Poor Jana had died by her own hand. Once safely in Novum Comum, Fortunada would take time to mourn her beloved slave. Now, she would think of only one thing—escape.
“Ceres,” said the guard. “She will keep you right.”
“Usually she does,” said Fortunada with an exaggerated eye roll. “Perhaps I have done something to anger her.”
A log in the campfire broke with a crack. Thousands of sparks rose into the sky. The litter, consumed by fire, flashed into her mind. Fortunada wiped a sweating and shaky palm on the interior canvas wall. Control, she reminded herself.
The man laughed a little and gave a small shrug. “I hope you have not angered her too much.”
“I always keep a clay likeness of Ceres in a pouch I wear round my waist. I took it off in the tent right before.” She did not bother to add, you attacked and murdered all those people and then took me hostage. She did not need to. The guard knew the truth as well as she.
“If it was in one of those tents, it is gone now,” the guard said. “If you want, I can get you a piece of bread. Set that to the flame as an offering to Ceres.”
“You would do that for me?” A pang of guilt for having befriended the man under false pretenses resonated within her chest. Then she recalled as quickly who he was and what he had done. Her remorse slipped away like steam from a pot. Though she cared not for his answer, Fortunada’s insistence on knowing the truth compelled her to ask, “Why?”
“The entire republic wants me dead. I do not need a pantheon of gods after me as well.”
The man laughed and Fortunada with him, though she could blame neither the gods nor mortals for wanting ill to befall him. “Anything from the harvest that I can offer to Ceres would help us both,” she said.
“Cook does not like to be bothered so early like this,” said the guard. “I will see if I can find bread somewhere else. It might take a moment. You will not go anywhere, will you?”
“Where would I go?” asked Fortunada. “It is dark. My husband is with Dax the Marauder. I know not even where I am. No, I will remain here, waiting for my offering.”
“I thought as much.”
Fortunada watched the man walk away from the circle of firelight. Perhaps the goddess was with her still.
Chapter 20
Baro
Baro followed Dax through the camp. Night was waning, giving way to day. When they first arrived, it had been fully dark. Elements that had been hidden in the shadows were now revealed, and the scene before Baro was so familiar that his heartbeat quickened with nostalgia. In true legionnaire fashion, Dax had replicated an army camp.
A row of a half-dozen tents stood on either side of a narrow lane. They were set up so near to one another that they almost touched. Behind the tents, Baro saw walls—six feet high, a wooden palisade made of thick trees trunks with their ends sharpened to spikes—surrounded the whole. Beyond was a trench meant to carry away rainfall and waste.
The camp sat atop a rocky rise that overlooked a valley. For the marauders, this was the perfect place from which to see any approaching legionnaire troops while they were still miles away. Escape from a true legionnaires’ camp would be impossible. He hoped that these marauders had lost more than their honor and that the camp was in some sort of disrepair as well.
From behind, Baro studied Dax, his large shoulders and thick neck. With the right amount of pressure across the windpipe to silence him, and a quick twist to the side, he could break the brigand’s spine and disappear quickly into the dawn. He discarded the idea as soon as it came. First, with his injury, Baro could hardly go anywhere quickly, even if he could find a way to breach the palisade. Second, he would never abandon Fortunada. In order to get safely away, he needed to bide his time and wait for the right moment.
Stopping before a tent very much like the one in which Baro and Fortunada had been placed, Dax pulled back the flap. A young man sat at the table, a stack of scrolls before him. Two lamps burned at his elbow, sending off more smoke than light.
“Medicus,” said Dax, “this is Baro the Equestrian. You will see to his leg and tend any other injuries he has.”
“Baro the Equestrian.” The medicus repeated Baro’s name with breathless awe. He rose from his seat and bumped into the table on his way to standing. Several scrolls rolled to the floor. “It is a pleasure, an honor, to meet you.”
“See to his leg,” snapped Dax. “Do not allow him from your tent unattended, no matter how honored you might be.” Then to Baro, Dax said, “I will come to you within the hour. There is still the matter of your ransom letters.”
“I will have him back well before then,” said the medicus. Dax heard him not. He had already left.
The medicus rubbed his hands as if trying to warm them, then gestured to the lone chair. “Sit, please,” he said. Baro sat and glanced at the scroll that lay open upon the table. The medicus took it away, rewinding it on the dowel—but not before Baro saw that it was a missive from an ailing lady to her elderly mother. “Correspondence from the caravan?” Baro guessed.
“You never know what kind of information is in one of these.” The medicus held up the scroll and gave it a little shake. “Aside from Dax, I am the only one in the camp who can read.”
“How is stealing the letters of a dying woman going to bring you any kind of coin? Or do you plan to sell that to the lady’s mother, just so she can read her daughter’s last words?”
The medicus knelt before Baro and started unwrapping the bandage. “I saw you fight once, Baro the Equestrian. You won.”
Baro refused to entertain him with his exploits in the arena. “I won most of the time,” he said. “That is how I became champion.”
“And yet you have this.” The medicus poked Baro’s wound as he examined the stitches.
He swallowed the pain along with the desire to kick the medicus in the head. “I did not say I won all the time.”
“When I watched you fight, I imagined that you were much more entertaining in person than you actually are.”
“If you want to be entertained, you should steal a monkey.”
“Steal a monkey, ha! Perhaps you are funny. The good news is that your leg only needs willow salve and a clean bandage.”
“My wife said as much.” Baro liked calling Fortunada his wife.
“Smart woman, your wife,” said the medicus. From a table at the rear of the tent, he retrieved a clay jar and a tightly wrapped length of linen. He also held a cup. Handing Baro the cup, the medicus said, “Drink this.”
“What is it?”
“Wine with a crushed laurel leaf. It will help with the pain.”
Bits of thick leaves floated atop murky red wine. Baro took only a sip. It was bitter, but not wholly unpleasant. Warmth spread from his middle, radiating outward and easing the discomfort in his leg.
Taking the rest of the drink in one gulp, Baro felt as if his insides were filled with molten gold. “Medicus, you are not the bad sort,” Baro said, setting the cup aside. “In any case, I have seen worse physicians.”
“That is quite a compliment, coming from you.”
The medicus applied a thick, black paste to the wound with quick, even strokes of his index finger. The ludus physician would have done no better.
“How is it you came to be here?” Baro asked.
“I was taken captive years ago and traded my medical skills for not being put to the
sword,” he said. The medicus wrapped a length of cloth around Baro’s leg. Pulling it snug, he tied the ends. “That should hold for a few days. Then I can remove the stitches. Is there anything else you need?” he asked.
“Something to eat,” said Baro. Now that his life was no longer in immediate danger, the other physical needs returned, and the most pressing was for food.
The medicus looked at the door. “I am not supposed to take you anywhere,” he said.
“Actually,” Baro corrected, “you are not supposed to let me wander alone. Other than that, you were charged with seeing to all my needs.”
“Before we go, you should also have this,” said the medicus. He held out a lone wooden crutch.
Slipping the crutch under his arm, Baro shifted his weight, and the wound’s discomfort vanished. In that moment, he almost respected the medicus. “Gratitude,” he said.
“Your thanks are greatly appreciated.” The medicus opened the tent’s flap and pointed to the right. “The kitchen is over there.”
Looking where the medicus pointed, Baro first saw a gate with a single guard. Nearby stood a dome-shaped brick oven with smoke wafting out of the chimney. Beyond a row of tables, several fire pits blazed. Spits and iron hooks holding steaming pots hung above the flames. A gray-haired woman with round hips and stooped shoulders stirred one of the pots. A pile of bowls sat at her feet. On one of the spits, several hares—their flesh red and raw—had just been put out to cook. Another woman, this one thin, held tight to a rag and slowly turned the handle.
As Baro and the medicus approached, the round woman called out, “Dax has not given the order to eat. You know better than to try and sneak a bowl early, Medicus. Come back with everyone else.”
“Dax ordered that I take care of this man,” the medicus said.
“Is that the gladiator, then?” the cook asked.
“They call him Baro the Equestrian.”
“I know what they call him,” she said as she turned back to her pot of porridge. “We will get a good amount of golden sesterces for him, I am sure.” From the pile of dishes at her feet, she retrieved a bowl, filled it with porridge, and gave it to Baro.
Hunger pains tightened his stomach, and Baro’s mouth began to water. He paused only a moment to wonder about the cleanliness of the bowl. Reaching in with his fingers, he scooped out a mouthful of porridge. It burned both his lips and fingers. Without care, he ate four more bites before stopping. The medicus held out a flat-bottomed wooden spoon. Baro accepted it with a nod and returned to eating, this time more slowly—aware that by giving in to his hunger, he had reduced himself from being a legend to a mere man.
“I would take some porridge to my wife,” he said, wiping his sticky fingers on the hem of his tunic.
The woman filled another bowl and handed it to Baro.
“Gratitude,” he said.
Baro watched as the sky began to blush pink with a new day. East. Then over his left shoulder would be south and Rome. If they were able to get away from the camp, he and Fortunada would travel north toward the Alps and then on to Novum Comum.
The medicus began to walk back through the straight line of tents, and Baro silently followed. To his left, toward Rome, was the valley he had seen before. The camp was situated in a perfect position, allowing Dax and his men to see anyone approaching for miles. It would also make it near impossible for anyone—Baro and Fortunada, included—to escape unnoticed. To his right were steep cliffs.
Baro did not know which idea he liked less, an ascent or descent, as they both involved great heights. Yet, to escape he would have to choose one or the other.
From behind came a low growl. Taken unawares, Baro and the medicus whirled around. It was the black dog that had attacked the cart when Baro and Fortunada had first arrived. Without the cart as a barrier, the cur looked bigger. One ear stood up straight, alert, listening. The other had been bisected by a cut, healed long ago, and only the front half was erect. The back part of the ear flopped down in a way that made Baro want to scratch that soft spot where ear and skull met.
The dog growled again, this time baring his teeth. The fur at the nape of his neck stood on end.
“Damn dog,” the medicus cursed. “I know not why Dax allows him to roam freely. Because of that mongrel, I have stitched up more than one man.” He kicked a sandaled foot in the dog’s direction.
Snarling, the dog lunged at the medicus.
Baro held up his arms and stepped in front of the dog. “Down,” he commanded.
The dog drew his ears back and growled.
“Down,” Baro said again, this time lowering his voice.
The dog took a step back, and the fur at his nape lay flat again.
“Down.” Baro pointed to the ground.
The dog lowered his massive head and pawed at the ground. Then he sat.
“Good dog,” said Baro. “I will name you Mars because of your strength and power.”
“You should call him Hades’s Asshole, because that is what he is,” said the medicus.
Ignoring the medicus, Baro held up his half-finished porridge. “Mars, are you hungry?” It was how he had trained his other dog. His previous pet had come to him as a pup from a reputable breeder, and Baro imagined that what worked with one dog also worked with another.
“Dax does not want him fed,” said the medicus. “If he is hungry, then he is mean.”
Baro turned a narrowed eye to the medicus. “Shut up, lest you get fed to him next.” Setting down the bowl of porridge, he nudged it with his toe, “Good, Mars, it is for you.”
Mars approached slowly and sniffed. With one lick of his enormous tongue, he cleaned out the bowl. With a low woof, he ambled away between the tents. Baro watched the dog go. Aside from the satisfaction of having taken care of Mars, he saw one important thing—the dog had slipped under the palisade and now lumbered on a narrow track up the side of the hill. Without question, it was a way out. Which brought up another important consideration—was escape the best stratagem?
Chapter 21
Fortunada
Leaning heavily on a crutch, Baro entered the tent. He handed Fortunada a bowl of steaming porridge. The earthy scent of cooked wheat filled the air. Her stomach clenched and gave an audible growl.
“Gratitude,” she said, taking the offered bowl. She ate quickly, caring not that the porridge tasted of dirt, or that she hardly looked like a lady as she shoveled food into her mouth. After devouring half the porridge, she held out the bowl to Baro. “Have you eaten?”
“I have,” he said. “And need no more. As you finish eating, let us speak of our options. You recall that Dax mentioned he once served with the legions.”
Fortunada began to say something about Dax never having served anyone, no matter what he did in the legions, but stopped herself. They had no time to waste, and a rude—though true—comment would take moments they could ill afford to spare.
“This camp is set up as a typical legionnaire post,” Baro continued, “with a high wall that surrounds the whole. There is but a single manned gate that leads in and out. The encampment sits on a bluff, with cliffs at the front and rear.”
“We are trapped?” she asked. She set the empty bowl on the table.
“I understand your fear of remaining. Still, to my mind there is only one prudent stratagem—we stay and wait for Dax’s ransom demands to be met.”
Stay? Was he mad? “The only reason I rode in a cart instead of being bound hand to neck and forced to march is because Dax thinks I am your wife. The truth will present itself soon enough, and when it does, I will pay the price. The marauders also believe you to be a wealthy man. How well do you think they will receive the knowledge that you are without coin?”
Fortunada finished giving voice to her most deeply held fears, and exhaustion stole into her bones. Moving to the single chair, she sat and thought of
the gray, lumpy mess her life had become—much like the porridge she had just eaten. She refused to believe their only hope was to stay and pray for kindness from violent and ruthless men. Then she realized that Baro had not actually answered her question. “Is there, or is there not, a way out?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “The dog we saw last night, the one who attacked our cart, snuck out through the palisade—I know approximately where. There is also a trail that goes up. Certainly Dax and his men know of both.”
Freedom and escape were possible. Excitement coursed through her veins. If they were to get away, they must leave immediately. It was not yet fully light, and the air still held a chill. It might be a day or more before finding their way to civilization, so they should take what little the tent offered them. She shoved the fire starter into the belt at her waist. Wrenching both blankets from the bed, she threw one over her shoulders and tied the ends together into a cloak. Then she handed the other blanket to Baro. Quietly, she approached the door and peered through.
The stump, which the guard had sat upon, was still empty.
She motioned Baro forward. “Come,” she said. “The guard has gone to find some grain as an offering to Ceres. He said it would take some time, but I know not how much longer we will have.”
As if rooted to the ground, Baro did not move. With a shake of his head, he set the blanket upon the bed. “You know not what we risk by leaving. Aside from the marauders, we will have to battle the elements, hunger, thirst. Out there, death waits for us, and we know not where.”
“Behind these walls it is our companion,” she said.
“It is not my safety or life that I care for. It is yours. Stay here; let me keep you safe. I have considerable influence in Rome. Trust me when I say that I will raise both our ransoms quickly.”
“And what if the people in whose hands you place our lives fail? What then?”
Baro picked up the blanket and regarded it.
The Gladiator's Temptation (Champions of Rome) Page 13
