The Last Roman: Book One: Exile

by B. K. Greenwood

  "Huh?"

  Marcus slapped him. "Your name!"

  "Mi, Mi–"

  "Well?"

  "Miltiades!"

  "Are you the captain of the Hesperides?"

  "Yes!"

  "Did you pick up a group of slaves in Massilia three months ago?"

  "No–" Marcus pulled back his hand to strike again. "I mean yes—yes, I did."

  Marcus snarled through clenched teeth, "Where did you take them?"

  "Cairo…always Cairo. My brother runs a slave market there."

  "A name!"

  "What?"

  Marcus pulled him from the wall and slammed his head into the stone. The heavy thud sounded like a melon cracking, which meant his skull was fractured. I better hurry before he blacks out, Marcus thought. He leaned forward. "What is his name!"

  "Sappho…His name is Sappho." His voice slurred.

  Marcus held up a gold coin. "For Charon."

  Marcus pressed the coin into his mouth and clamped it shut. He held it closed with one hand and used his other to shove a dagger into the Greek's midsection. Eyes bulging, Miltiades tried to squirm away. Unrelenting, Marcus slid the blade to the side, watching as the life drained from his countenance. As Marcus stepped back, Miltiades buckled to the ground. His mouth fell open, the coin glinting in the moonlight.

  Marcus looked at the knife, clutched in his blood-soaked hand. He dropped the knife, disappearing into the darkness. He would need to catch the tide if he wanted to sail tonight.

  For more than a week, the galley skirted the dark African coast. Marcus paced the worn deck like a wounded animal, stopping now and then to look up at the billowing sail. Just after sundown on the eighth day, a string of fireflies appeared on the horizon. The captain was summoned, and after conferring with his first mate, they agreed it was Cairo. Marcus was standing near the railing when the captain gave the order to lower the sail.

  Marcus frowned at him. "Why are we reducing sail?"

  "It's too dark. We shall slow our approach and enter the city at sunrise."

  The sailors stopped to watch their exchange. He turned his gaze toward Cairo, his hands on his hips, grinding his teeth. So close.

  Marcus studied the captain. He was a short and stocky Sicilian with thick leather skin from years beneath the blistering sun. Beside him stood the first mate, a tall Phoenician with a mangled left ear and a lazy eye. The second man shifted closer to the captain, offering moral support.

  Marcus glared at them. They were not the same men he had hired three months ago. After selling his family's assets in Massilia, Marcus had plenty of gold, and he used it. The captain and his crew, having been paid twice the going rate, were eager to please. But in the ensuing three months, they had sailed farther than most ships would in a year. And Marcus was an impatient client, often pushing the captain to ignore customary discretion in favor of expediency. They could tell another such request was forthcoming. The captain preempted the Roman.

  "I cannot navigate the harbor at night…the entrance is too narrow." He looked up at the sliver of a moon. "With better light, I might try such a thing. But it's too dark for that tonight."

  Marcus glowered at him, the lines of his face sharpening. Only the night stood between them as the boat rolled in the shallow swells. The creaking of the old ship and the occasional ripple of the sail magnified the silence.

  Nodding, Marcus looked away. "Very well. I want to be moving into the harbor as the sun rises."

  "Of course."

  Marcus ignored him, just as he ignored the hatred in his heart. It would have to wait one more day.

  Once they docked, it did not take Marcus long to find Sappho. There were hundreds of slave traders in Cairo, but few were Greek, and only one was named Sappho. It turned out that he traded in all commodities, not just slaves. But Marcus didn't care; he was after one thing and one thing only. Sappho would provide that before he died.

  Marcus waited in the shade of a fruit stand, chewing on a handful of dried dates as he studied a two-story building across the dusty plaza. It was one of a dozen similar buildings that served as slaver's row. Marcus had learned that the slaves were sold and traded twice a week in auctions held in the plaza he was now surveying.

  Over the next few hours, he watched a dozen men enter and leave the building. The afternoon was giving way to the night when Marcus abandoned the stand, leaving a few coins with the vendor. It had been at least thirty minutes since the last customer had left the building, and Marcus was convinced the Greek would soon close shop for the day. Sappho was not aware that he would receive one more customer.

  Marcus slipped through the thinning crowd and stopped before the building, checking both directions before pushing open the door.

  The interior was dark and cool and would have felt refreshing in any other circumstance. As the door swung closed behind Marcus, he glanced around the shop. It was full of various trinkets, junk mostly, from all over the empire. An extended counter stood before the back wall, with a bead-covered arch leading to a backroom. Marcus reached back to the door and secured the latch. As he turned back into the shop, the beads split open to reveal a half-dressed man with an annoyed expression on his sweaty face.

  "I'm closed. Come back tomorrow." He said in Egyptian. Sappho didn't bother entering the room until he noticed Marcus did not appear to be leaving. He tried again in broken Latin. "I'm closed. Come back tomorrow."

  "I think I'll stay," Marcus replied in Greek.

  Disgruntled, Sappho pushed his way through the beads as he tied the drawstring of his trousers. He was taller than his brother but had the same shiny, pockmarked complexion. They must have shared the disease as children. Marcus grinned as he thought about what else they would soon share.

  "What are you smiling about?" Sappho stepped further into the room. "Get out of here!"

  Marcus punched him in the chest. Grunting, the Greek spun around and stumbled into the counter. Sappho fought to catch his breath, clawing at the bar to keep from falling. Marcus stepped forward and kicked him between the shoulder blades, driving his chest into the edge of the countertop. Sappho would have screamed, but his lungs were empty. Gasping, he slid to the ground.

  Marcus pulled him to his feet and dragged him through the beads. That's when he realized why Sappho was half-dressed.

  A large bed, occupied by a young, frightened girl, was pushed up against the far wall. She could not have been over twelve and was probably younger. She sat on the edge of the straw mattress and tried to reposition her dirty, ripped tunic to cover her thin body. Marcus pulled his eyes from the girl and settled them on the wheezing Greek.

  Sappho, trying to recover, glanced at the girl, then at Marcus. His eyes bulged.

  "Wait, I can ex–"

  Marcus grabbed his jaw and mouth with one hand, cutting off his excuse. As Sappho struggled to free himself, Marcus turned toward the girl. "Go into the other room and wait for me."

  She stared at him, a blank expression on her face. So Marcus repeated the instructions in Greek. She still didn't understand. Exasperated, Marcus glanced down at Sappho, who was close to passing out. Marcus dropped his body to the floor and looked at the girl. Again, he repeated the instructions, this time in stilted Egyptian. She seemed to understand, stood, and crossed the room. Her focus shifted back and forth between Sappho and Marcus.

  When she disappeared through the beads, Marcus leaned over and pulled the Greek to his feet. He was still groggy when Marcus shoved him into a nearby chair. Sappho squinted and looked up at Marcus.

  "Who are you?"

  Marcus slapped him. "I ask the questions."

  Sappho rubbed the side of his face and scowled at Marcus. "Do you know who I am?"

  Marcus slapped him again, this time almost knocking Sappho from the chair. He climbed back into the seat, glaring at Marcus. His lips trembled as he swallowed another question.

  Marcus picked up a nearby broom and snapped off the handle. "You will answer me immediately, or I'm going
to break one of your bones. Understand?"

  Sappho nodded.

  "Your brother sold you a shipment of slaves he picked up in Massilia. Do you remember?"

  "He brings me many slaves," Sappho said.

  "These would have been Roman. A woman, with two…" His voice trembled. Marcus had to stop and swallow, before going on, "two children. A boy and a girl. Both young teenagers. Do you remember them?"

  "Yes." Sappho stared at Marcus, his dark eyes probing. Marcus resented the intrusion and pulled back the handle. "Don't look at me!"

  Sappho dropped his eyes to the floor.

  "Where did they go?"

  "I don't know."

  Marcus smashed his right shin with the stick, shattering the tibia. Sappho bent over, howling in agony. Marcus grabbed his hair and yanked him back into the chair.

  "Where did they go!"

  "I don't remember!"

  "Wrong answer."

  Marcus shattered the kneecap on his other leg. Sappho threw back his head and squealed. Marcus clenched his jaw and watched him squirm.

  "Where?"

  "I…I…" Sappho looked up at Marcus. "A Syrian bought the children."

  "Who?"

  "Calimade…He's a merchant from Antioch."

  Calimade. Always another name, Marcus thought.

  "And the woman?"

  Sappho took short, stunted breaths, sweat pouring down his face.

  "You're going to kill me."

  "Yes, but how much pain you suffer is up to you."

  Sappho took a deep breath, sitting up in the chair. Exhaling, he nodded and looked up at Marcus. "She went to a local brothel owner. His name is Sayid."

  The room spun. Light-headed, Marcus focused on standing upright. She was in the city! He took a sharp breath and studied the Greek. To Marcus, it sounded as if a stranger was asking the question.

  "Where is this brothel?"

  "It is near the docks. Ask any sailor; he will know." Knowing his fate gave him a little courage. "You should hurry. Women don't last very long in a place like that."

  Marcus clenched his jaw and pulled a gold coin from his pocket. He looked down at the coin as he rubbed the smooth surface with his thumb. His eyes shifted to the sharp end of the broken stick, then to Sappho. The latter shook his head and sobbed, but Marcus ignored his pleas and spun the rod around, plunging it down through his collarbone and into his torso. Sappho screamed and tried to push Marcus away, but the Roman was too strong. He pushed the stick down until it punctured Sappho's heart. A few moments later, he stopped struggling and crumpled to the floor.

  Marcus moved to the bed, using the blanket to wipe the blood from his hands. Tossing it aside, he grabbed a clay lantern from the table and shattered it on the floor near the bed. The fish oil inside splattered across the bedding, and soon the flames were climbing up the walls.

  Smoke was pouring from the building by the time Marcus led the young girl across the plaza. He handed her a small bag of coins and motioned for her to leave. As the sun disappeared into the blood orange sky, flames poked from the doors and windows of the slave shop. Marcus watched the shopkeepers scurry like rats as the fire spread to the surrounding buildings.

  Turning toward the docks, Marcus began the longest walk of his life.

  Marcus had been sitting at the bar for an hour yet had not worked up the courage to speak.

  He looked down into the wooden cup of cheap wine and raised it to his mouth. It took every ounce of energy to keep his hand from shaking. The bartender, a skinny Egyptian with only a couple of teeth, studied him from behind the bar. Marcus choked down the wine, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Marcus shifted his attention to the black opening in the far corner and clenched his teeth. He glanced up at the bartender.

  "Girls?" Marcus mumbled.

  The bartender took a step forward and squinted at Marcus. "What?"

  Marcus cleared his throat. "Girls?"

  He nodded and then tilted his head toward the opening. "In there."

  Marcus pushed himself away from the counter and forced himself to walk toward the doorway. The narrow hallway beyond smelled like stale urine and sweat. Marcus fought the bile rising in his throat and continued into the small room beyond. There seemed to be several corridors, each leading down a hallway with more doors. Another skinny Egyptian sat on a stool in the shadow of a slow-burning torch.

  He studied Marcus with dull, black eyes. "One girl or two?"

  "Ah," Marcus stuttered.

  "Just one?"

  Marcus wiped his sweating forehead and blurted out, "I'm looking for a woman…"

  "Yes, yes, of course." He stood.

  Marcus put his shaking hand on the other man's chest. "A special woman."

  The man looked down at his hand, then up at Marcus. The Roman was a good eight inches taller than him.

  "What special woman?"

  "A Roman."

  His expression dropped, the blood draining from his face. "No woman like that here. No Romans, they're illegal."

  Marcus could feel the Egyptian's heart pounding. He grabbed a fistful of tunic and growled, "Where is she?"

  The man shrunk away, his eyes shifting toward the corridor. Marcus turned just as the bartender smashed a stool across his back. The chair shattered into a dozen pieces. Unfazed, Marcus flung the man he held at the bartender, knocking them both to the ground. The bartender tried to stand, but Marcus kicked him in the face. As he slumped to the ground, Marcus used both hands to grab the other man's tunic and lifted him off the ground as he repeated his earlier demand.

  "Where is she!"

  The man clawed at his iron grip, but Marcus just lifted him higher. As the man struggled, Marcus saw the bartender move, so he kicked him again, then again.

  Moving toward the opening in the back of the room, Marcus dragged the Egyptian with him. There were no other doors in this narrow hallway, just a tall archway near the end. He advanced and emerged into some sort of lounge, filled with a dozen startled women. Heart skipping, Marcus scanned their faces. He saw a mixture of fear and curiosity, but nothing familiar. The Egyptian had stopped struggling, so Marcus dropped his limp body.

  "Does anyone speak Latin?"

  "I do." One woman raised her hand. She could have been twenty or forty; it was impossible to tell.

  "I have gold, and I'll free all of you if you help me."

  Standing, she studied him for a moment and took a few steps forward. "What do you want?"

  "I'm here for a…friend."

  "Natalia?"

  The sound of her name knocked the wind out of him. Marcus bit his lip and nodded.

  Without waiting for an answer, she said, "How much gold?"

  "More than you need…and I can get you out of the city as well."

  She looked around at the other girls as Marcus waited for her to answer.

  "We will do it."

  "Good. How many others?"

  "Three. Two are with clients, and Natalia is upstairs…she is very sick."

  Marcus swallowed hard. Nodding, he looked at the nearby staircase.

  "Is there another exit?"

  "Through there." She pointed to a dark opening in the corner.

  "Very good, ah…" he looked at her.

  "Sabrina."

  "Sabrina…tie him up." Marcus nodded to the Egyptian. "I'll bring the other one."

  "And then?"

  "Then you get the other two girls away from their clients. Have them collect their things, only what they can carry. Do it all quietly."

  She spoke to the others. Marcus recognized the Egyptian word for gold, and their response was immediate. The man was waking up when two of the ladies pounced on him. He screamed, but they shoved a cloth down into his mouth and, flipping him over, bound his hands and feet together.

  Marcus moved back down the hallway and grabbed the bartender by his collar. He dragged him to the lounge and flung him next to the other man. The girls secured him as well.

  "I have sent for th
e other girls," Sabrina said.

  "Good." Marcus glanced at the staircase.

  "I'll take you to her." Sabrina started for the stairs.

  Marcus willed his legs to follow Sabrina as she climbed the steps. They moved down a long hallway with a half-dozen doors. Several of them were open, and Marcus could see women gathering their belongings. Sabrina led him to a closed door at the end of the hallway. She paused and turned back to him.

  "As I mentioned, she is very sick. It happened almost as soon as she got here," she said.

  Marcus only nodded. She looked away from his tear-filled eyes and opened the door, stepping aside so he could enter.

  The room was dark and small, a single candle flickering near a tiny window. The faint scent of jasmine failed to hide the heavy mildew smell. In the corner, nestled into a pile of ragged cushions, lay a woman. Marcus licked his lips with a dry tongue and took several steps forward and fell to his knees. She was facing the wall, so Marcus reached forward and placed his hand on her shoulder. He could feel her fever through the thin fabric.

  "Natalia?" His voice cracked.

  She stirred but did not reply. Marcus pulled her toward him.

  She mumbled something he could not understand, rolling over onto her other shoulder, thick black hair falling across her gaunt and sallow face.

  Tears were rolling down his cheek. "Natalia?"

  As her eyes fluttered open, he brushed the hair back from her face and lay down beside her. She somehow managed a weak smile. "Marcus."

  He pulled her into his arms and sobbed. He rocked back and forth and ran a hand through her hair and whispered, "I'm here, baby…it's going to be alright."

  Sabrina, watching the exchange from the door, turned and disappeared down the hallway.

  Fifteen minutes later, Marcus emerged from the room, his eyes puffy and red, his jaw clenched. Sabrina was waiting for him in the hallway. He met her gaze but could not speak.

  "They're all waiting in the kitchen, ready to go," she said.

  Marcus nodded and disappeared back into the room.

  Marcus led them through the shadows, pausing now and then to let a pack of drunken sailors stumble past. At the corner of a large warehouse, Marcus looked down and studied Natalia's face in the shallow light. He held her nestled against his chest, her shallow breath rising and falling in rhythm with his. She had not spoken since she first said his name. He shifted her frail body in his arms and led the others across the narrow street and onto the creaking wooden jetty.