Marcellus glanced at the stonemason with distaste. “I don’t care for flattery. For myself, I judge a man’s value by what he accomplishes on his own, and not what his father or stepfather have done.”
Haridas’s right eye twitched. “To be sure, to be sure. I wasn’t implying that you’ve not made the world take notice of you. No—nothing like that. I am but a stonemason whose fortune has been improved because your stepfather sent me to work for you.”
Marcellus turned and stared at him. “What did you say?”
“I … do not know what you refer to.”
“You said my stepfather sent you?” Marcellus demanded.
“Well …” Haridas said, mentally cursing himself for a fool. He should have known better than to mention Senator Quadatus’s name. “Not him personally—a friend heard through him that you needed a stonemason. I was hired because of your stepfather’s recommendation.”
If his stepfather had made arrangements for the man to work on the aqueduct, there was reason to mistrust him. “To whom are you loyal, stonemason?”
“To none but you, Tribune,” Haridas said hurriedly. “I hope my work will prove my loyalty.”
Marcellus had to know he could trust the man he left in charge, and he did not trust Haridas. Caesar was depending on him, and he must depend on the men who worked under him.
Marcellus focused on the workers. Regardless of the fact that heat from the noonday sun struck against the thirsty land like fire against parchment, they plied their trades, pausing every so often to wipe sweat from their stinging eyes with grimy hands.
Haridas pointed to the huts that had grown up around the site. “It was a brilliant notion to have the ironworkers encamped near the project; thus, they can repair and build new tools as needed.”
Marcellus nodded as he watched brick makers toil beside carpenters. “I can’t take credit for that. It was Caesar’s idea. He will be glad to hear it’s working out well.”
“You know the great Caesar personally?”
Marcellus drew in a wary breath. “We have met on occasion.”
“Of course you have. I wonder if you could tell me some things about him?” The stonemason’s face became flushed, and his voice excited. “What are his ambitions? Does he want to be emperor, or is he satisfied being elected dictator for life?”
Marcellus focused on the man suspiciously. He began to suspect his stepfather had sent this man to spy on him and, through him, Caesar. It would not be the first time Quadatus had set spies near him. “I am not in Caesar’s head or even his confidence,” he replied tersely. “The next time you see my stepfather, advise him to look to someone else if he wants information on Caesar.”
“You mistake me,” Haridas sputtered. “I was merely—”
Marcellus held up his hand to silence the man. “How many days did it take to cut through the rock cliff?” he asked, bringing the conversation back to the aqueduct.
“A week, maybe two. I was sick on my cot at the time, and when I regained my strength, it was done.”
Marcellus removed his helmet and placed it on a camp stool. “So the work went forward without you?”
“Slaves are inspired when they fear the whip.”
Marcellus looked closely at several of the workers, and noticed there were welts and dried blood on their backs. In anger his head snapped around to the stonemason. “You refer to the whip. Is it your habit to beat my workers?”
Haridas shrugged. “If you don’t apply an incentive for them to toil, they slack off, and your aqueduct will never be built.”
Marcellus’s jaw tightened; then he turned his attention back to the workers. Sweat glistened on angry red whip marks on the back of one poor wretch. Marcellus watched as another man stumbled and fell under a heavy load of bricks. Before Marcellus could intercede, a guard plied the whip to the man’s back, and he fumbled to gather his bricks.
“You there—guard!” Marcellus called out as he made his way down the embankment. “Give me that whip!”
The guard bowed his head and offered up the whip, his eyes downcast, his arms trembling. “How can I serve you, Tribune?”
Marcellus tossed the whip aside contemptuously. “He who serves me best does not apply a whip to my workers. Isn’t their burden heavy enough without you adding misery to their toil?”
The guard, a hulk of a man, shot a glance at Haridas, and it was clear to Marcellus the man waited for some signal from the stonemason. When none was forthcoming, the man met Marcellus’s gaze. “I was told you would expect it of your guards. This lot will not work if they are not prodded.”
“Gather what belongings you have and leave.”
The man’s lips paled and his face reddened. “Master—”
“Do it now.” Marcellus dismissed the gaping guard from his mind, concentrating on Haridas. “Call a meeting of all the guards immediately.”
To the workers, Marcellus called out: “Everyone, stop what you are doing. Find shade and rest—replenish yourself. I will speak to you later.”
A stunned silence followed the tribune’s orders. One by one the men paused, but none was brave enough to abandon his work. They watched the architect as if he'd been too long in the sun.
“You there,” Marcellus called out to the slave nearest him. “Spread the word to those who are not within hearing of my voice. They are to rest and fortify themselves with water and sustenance until I give orders to the contrary.”
The man nodded. “It will be as you say, Master.” He smiled, hurrying to tell the others before the tribune changed his mind.
The guards gathered to hear the tribune’s orders. Many had worked for him on other projects; some he had never seen before. “It has never been my way to beat a slave to make him work. In my experience, you can get more labor from a well-fed, healthy man than a sickly, weak one.”
Haridas’s voice was argumentative as he stated, “Yet we are ahead of schedule; is that not a contradiction of your belief? Did you not compliment me on my accomplishment?”
Marcellus continued as if the stonemason had not spoken. “ I’ll have no man whipped unless he’s done something to deserve it.” He looked at the twenty guards who had gathered in the shade, and then he spoke to the stonemason. “Haridas, you will leave today with no recommendation from me.”
Haridas’s mouth flew open in disbelief, then he became angry. “You would not dare!” he sputtered. “You’ve no right to dismiss me—I am in the employ of Senator Quadatus.”
“That is one of the reasons you will be leaving. My stepfather has no authority here. Gather your belongings and be gone before sundown.” Marcellus turned his back on the stonemason and started to move away. He observed his soldiers standing nearby, and when he motioned to them, they stepped forward with their hands on the hilts of their swords. “Stand at ease,” he instructed. “One of you go with this man and see that he leaves at once.”
A murderous glint darkened the stonemason’s eyes. “You’ll be sorry for this.”
Marcellus nodded to his centurion. “Perhaps you should help him on his way.”
“You’ll remember this day! I promise you, you will,” Haridas threatened. But he hurried away to gather his possessions when the centurion moved toward him with a drawn sword.
Dismissing Haridas from his mind, Marcellus turned his attention back to the guards. “You saw what happened with the stonemason—if there are any among you who can’t obey orders, or if you feel you have to enforce my rules with a whip, leave now. Should you choose to remain, the whip will not be used unless the man accused has had a fair hearing. Be warned: I will be leaving three of my soldiers to enforce my orders.”
One of the guards stepped forward, lowering his head. “Tribune, may I speak?”
Marcellus nodded. “Go ahead.”
“It was not Haridas who oversaw the building of the aqueduct.”
“If not he, then who?” Marcellus demanded.
“The daily work was directed by a Greek slave. He is
truly a man of insight, and most of us would be pleased if he was recognized for his work.”
“You are saying that Haridas was not in charge?”
The guard shifted from one foot to the other, as if he were afraid to say more.
“No one has ever been punished for speaking the truth to me,” Marcellus said. “Say what you will without fear of reprisal.”
“Days would pass and we would not see the stonemason. He … there were several women who took up his time. There is more, but I dare not speak of it. If you ask the Greek, he may tell you.”
“What is your name?” Marcellus asked.
“Gentimas, master.”
“Well, Gentimas, because I appreciate your honesty, from this day forward you shall be in charge of all the guards. See that they do not unduly put their whips to the slaves.”
The man grinned and bowed. “Your every command will be followed.”
Marcellus looked at him speculatively. “Then bring the Greek to me.”
Marcellus’s personal servant, Planus, had cleaned and aired the tent that had been used by Haridas. The bed had fresh linens now, and everything that had belonged to the stonemason had been removed.
It was nearing evening before Marcellus finished inspecting the aqueduct and made his way wearily to his tent. The heat inside was sweltering as Planus helped him out of his heavy armor. The servant, who had a plain face and a thick, solid body, had been with the tribune for fifteen years—certainly long enough that he needed no instruction as he set about polishing his master’s bronze breastplate.
As he waited for the Greek, Marcellus grew impatient, and he had time to think. Since his stepfather had controlled the stonemason, he would have to discover how much damage had been done by the man.
He dismissed Planus and dropped down on the cot. Tiredly, he fell back and closed his eyes, soon falling asleep.
A short time later something woke Marcellus. Whether it was a sound or a feeling, he could not have said, but he glanced up to find a stranger standing over him. The man was huge, at least a head above Marcellus in height. He had black, curly hair and sharp blue eyes that were blazing with anger.
Marcellus went for his dagger, only to realize it was across the room with his armor. “What do you want?” he demanded, rolling to his feet, realizing that the giant could easily kill him before he could reach his weapons.
“You sent for me,” the man said gruffly.
“Ah.” Marcellus rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the man. The blue eyes held a jaded look, though if Marcellus were any judge, the man was not much older than he. “I suppose you would be the Greek.”
Despite the slave collar the man wore around his neck, he was not in the least subservient. “I am Greek. My name is Damianon.”
Marcellus’s eyes narrowed. “You took your time getting here.”
“I was in the mountains adjusting the drainage pipes when they brought word you wanted to see me. I assumed you’d want me to finish the task before seeking you out.”
“I was told that you are responsible for much of the construction—it that true?”
The Greek’s gaze bored into Marcellus. “I have some knowledge of the project.”
“Do you read?”
“In several languages.” This was spoken matter-of-factly, as if the Greek didn’t expect to be believed and didn’t care whether he was or not.
Marcellus motioned him to the table where the plans had been spread out. “Do you understand what is written here?”
“I do. And if you will look, you will find I’ve made changes.”
Marcellus was more curious than angry about the man’s behavior. “Why would you change my plans?”
“If these are your plans, they call for inferior materials; the aqueduct would not have stood past a decade. Was it you who specified the clay piping?”
Marcellus was studying the plans, his frown deepening. “I did, but not of this poor quality. These are not my designs.” He flipped to another scroll and found the same discrepancy. Inferior supplies had been specified here as well, though he hadn’t noticed when he’d looked at the plans earlier.
“I wasn’t certain if the graft was the stonemason’s doing, or if it was you who was cheating.” The Greek shrugged. “It didn’t much matter to me—but I don’t like to waste my time using inferior supplies.” He met Marcellus’s steady gaze. “So I changed the plans. It was not difficult, since Haridas was occupied elsewhere and paid little attention to what went on with the work.”
Marcellus dipped his head and studied the accounting. He traced a column of figures with his finger and glanced back at Damianon. “I see what you mean.”
The Greek nodded. “In truth, I had heard only good of you. Hence, I suspected the cheating wasn’t of your doing, but it is your fault nonetheless. With a project of this importance, you left the work to lesser men when you should have overseen the progress yourself.”
Marcellus nodded. “I agree with you.” He set one scroll aside and studied several more. “None of these are my specifications.”
Damianon stared in the distance. “I was told you dismissed Haridas.”
Marcellus suspected the stonemason had been attempting to increase not only his own wealth but, in all likelihood, Quadatus’s as well. “Not soon enough, it would seem.”
“Perhaps the damage is not irreparable. I have taken precautions.”
“And I thank you for that. Obviously, you have some knowledge of building aqueducts.”
“My father was a master builder in Macedonia—he passed that knowledge on to me and my three brothers.”
“Yet you are a slave. How did that come to be?”
“Rome,” Damianon said dully. “Rome conquers, and Rome takes prisoners.”
Marcellus was lost in his own thoughts for a moment. Then he asked, “Would you be willing to take Haridas’s position?”
“I have already been doing his work, and yours. Why should that change?”
Marcellus gave a slight smile, and then he laughed at how easily the Greek could deliver an insult. “Why, indeed? Except, as of today, you are no longer a slave. I will have your collar removed at once. And you shall be paid well for your work.”
Mistrustful blue eyes stared back at him. “I have heard that your name is an old and honored one. I am pleased to find you are not the fool I thought you were.”
Marcellus laughed long and deep. “I will never have to worry that you won’t tell me the truth. But explain what I have done to redeem myself in your eyes.”
“You saw through Haridas. And you put a stop to the beatings.”
“Go to the smithy and tell him I want your collar removed. Then wash yourself, and we will sup together,” Marcellus said, smiling. “Perhaps I can convince you that you can trust me.”
Marcellus watched Damianon leave and then refocused his attention on the scrolls. His jaw hardened when he thought of his mother’s husband, who had tried to ruin him. And Quadatus might have succeeded if not for the Greek.
His mother was no better than her husband, and maybe even worse, since she had betrayed Marcellus’s father. He could hardly think of her without contempt. He remembered happy days when he’d thought she loved his father, and they had been a family—or had he been a blind fool even then?
No—they had been happy—he knew they had.
His mother had sent a messenger with a request for him to visit her and his stepfather. Marcellus had ignored the invitation, but now he thought it was time he paid them a visit.
Egyptian Desert
Adhaniá’s horse was racing full-out toward the target some hundred paces away. She took careful aim and let loose her arrow, watching in disgust as it landed on the third ring and not on the center.
Slipping off her horse, she pulled the arrow from the target. “I missed three out of four. I’ll never be good enough to enter the contest if I do not improve.”
Heikki, who had stretched out on the sand, shook his head. “Better n
ot to enter at all, then. There is no praise for those who come in second or third.”
She stomped her booted foot petulantly. “I can do it—I know I can! I just need more practice.”
Heikki gazed at the waning sun. “You have been at it all day. Let us return to the encampment before dark.”
“Not yet. I want to make another try.” She gathered the reins and leaped onto her saddle. Racing some distance away, she whirled her horse and galloped forward, taking aim. She watched the arrow sail through the air and slice through the center of the target.
Leaping off her horse before the mare stopped, she ran to the target and fell joyously to her knees. “I know what I have been doing wrong!” A smile lit her face, and she swung around to glance at Heikki. “I was firing into the wind, and I should have compensated. I will need to pay heed to what direction the wind is blowing on the day of the contest.”
Heikki leaned on his elbow, observing her next attempt. Disheartened, he watched her arrow hit true. She tried it again, and again it struck the center of the target. He sat up, his spirits sinking lower—she had mastered the bow.
There would be no stopping her now.
Chapter Three
Rome
Marcellus dismounted, and a young slave gathered the reins and led the horse toward the stable.
“Give him water and rub him down, but do not stable him. I won’t be staying that long.”
The front door swung open, and Marcellus’s mother stood hesitant, her eyes giving the impression of eagerness. “Marcellus, my son,” she cried, stepping forward, placing her hand on his shoulder and gazing into his eyes as if she was looking for some response from him. “It has been too long since your last visit. One would think you had forgotten that you have a mother.”
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