The Sword of Revenge

by Jack Ludlow

  ‘Turn again,’ the old man said dispassionately, and the girl obeyed, her eyes cast down in a maidenly fashion, her hands set likewise to cover the sparse hair on her mons pubis. Lucius’s voice took on a note of anger. ‘Take your hands out of the way and look at me.’

  The girl obeyed quickly, fixing Lucius with her almond eyes, her full red lips parted to show even white teeth.

  ‘Is she a virgin?’

  Lucius noticed the overseer from his Campanian farm hesitate; the fellow knew better than to lie to Lucius, but it was obvious he had been tempted to do so, assuming that, even if it had not been specified, it was what his employer required.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no!’

  The man’s shoulders seemed to shrink into his body as a way of emphasising his regret but for all his apparent grovelling, he was damned if he was going to tell the senator the truth. According to the guards that had delivered her, Cassius Barbinus, before he sent her away, had used her as he used everyone: without feeling. Lucius Falerius Nerva would not touch anything that Barbinus had taken, even a gifted slave, but his overseer thought her wasted where she was, on a farm that her master rarely visited. Besides, she was becoming a problem – not herself, for she was a meek creature – but the male slaves he oversaw, a rough lot, were openly lusting after the girl and his own wife, who had seen his eye wander to her swaying hips, had scolded him for his own interest. Much better for her to be here, in Rome, where she could, if Lucius permitted it, form an attachment to a more refined household slave, with the added benefit that it would make his own domestic life a little easier.

  ‘Do you not recall her, Eminence?’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘She was a gift from Cassius Barbinus, sent to me two years ago. While she was his property she became attached to a boy her own age. It is thought matters might have gone too far.’

  ‘That would be typical of Barbinus. The man can’t even control his slaves.’ Lucius stepped forward and ran a hand over the smooth olive skin, and she shivered slightly at the touch. ‘The parents, both Greeks?’

  ‘Yes. I was told the father’s from Thrace, the mother Macedonian.’

  Lucius nearly asked about the Thracian; famous for their strength and fortitude, especially in the sun, they were usually employed in Sicily growing wheat. Then he remembered, just in time, that he had sold his property on the island. The need to do so made him frown angrily, so unlike him was it to lose touch. The barracking he had given his fellow-senators over the Parthian gifts, was, he realised now, unwise. His overseer mistook the look generated by such thoughts and spoke hastily.

  ‘There are other girls on the farm who are virgins, Excellency, though none as pretty as this.’

  ‘I don’t want a virgin!’ Lucius took the girl’s chin in his hand, thumb one side, index finger the other. The grip was firm without being painful. ‘I own you, girl, body and soul, do you realise that?’ The girl nodded with difficulty. ‘Please me and you will be well rewarded, thwart my wishes and you’ll lose your looks down a lead mine. You will come here, to my house, as a normal household slave. The tasks I set you will not be too arduous and for that your duties will be light. Do you understand?’

  Again the girl nodded. The overseer had told her all about the betrothal, so she knew that the daughter of Appius Claudius was not yet ten years old. The wedding, between her and Marcellus Falerius, would not take place for several years.

  ‘My son is a handsome fellow and I think he will treat you kindly. If you do likewise then he will not see the need to expend his energies in the brothel. In time, he will have a wife, then I will send you back to the farm, with permission to take a man and bear children.’ The girl, who had once dreamt of marriage and children on the farm where she was raised, tried hard to hide a smile; perhaps this old man would send her back there. ‘What’s your name?’

  She whispered in reply. ‘Sosia, master.’

  ‘Well, you’re a pretty specimen, Sosia, pretty enough to make an old man wish he was twenty years younger.’

  ‘Where is my son? I sent for him half an hour ago.’

  The household steward bowed slightly. ‘He’s not yet returned from the Campus Martius, master.’

  Lucius looked up at the evening sky. ‘Don’t be a fool, it’s nearly dark.’

  ‘He has taken to stopping off at the Trebonius house on the way home.’ The steward noticed the brow of his master furrow and spoke hastily, lest blame be attached to him. ‘Or so his body slave informs me.’

  ‘He sees the Trebonius boy all day, man. They attend school together, never mind their games.’

  ‘It is not the boy he goes to see, master. I believe he has become attached to Gaius Trebonius’s sister, Valeria.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘Several weeks, master,’ the steward lied; it was many months, instead of mere weeks.

  The voice was like the lash of a whip, making the fellow cringe. ‘And you did not see fit to inform me of this?’

  ‘I’ll send for him right away, master.’

  ‘Go yourself!’

  ‘But, master…’

  Lucius stepped forward and grabbed the man by the hair, shaking him violently. ‘Yes, idiot. They’ll think that you’ve been reduced to a mere household dogsbody, a paltry messenger boy, and every slave on the Palatine will laugh at you for weeks. Be warned, messenger, that is what will come to pass if you keep information about anything from me, let alone the whereabouts of my son.’

  Valeria rubbed her hand over Marcellus’s forearm, still bruised from the blows he had fended off in his boxing bout, as he finished relating to her the latest news from the frontier of Hispania Ulterior. Being privy to the reports passed on to his father, he was probably the best informed youth in Rome, eagerly listened to by his contemporaries, avid for news of war wherever it occurred, but none had the passion of Valeria and no one demanded that he outline each detail with such diligent insistence. Another insurrection had broken out, this time caused by a tribe called the Averici. Mounted on small ponies, they were very mobile, the worst kind of enemy the disciplined Romans could face. As usual, such an uprising was backed, indeed fostered, by the Duncani, who lay in wait for any Roman legate stupid enough to pursue the lightly armed cavalry into the hills.

  The Averici seemed particularly callous, not content just to kill but instead inclined to torture and rape on a scale not seen in Spain for decades. Originally, when setting out to relate such tales, Marcellus had tried to shock Valeria with his graphic descriptions. Not now; he still provided her with the gory details, but it was to see the way she reacted, the way she tensed and released her breath, that drove him, sometimes, to colour stories that were quite horrific enough without embellishment.

  ‘I prefer it when you come like this.’ Her hand slipped across his filthy red smock. ‘Somehow it makes everything more real.’

  ‘Smelling of manure and sweat?’ Marcellus shivered, himself, at the lightness of her touch. Valeria was dressed in everyday clothes, a plain white woollen garment, tied at the waist with a decorated belt. Her hair was dressed in that same way, high and curled above her forehead. The dark eyes, seemingly amused, looked at the tall boy who stood before her. Part of him could not resist the temptation to administer a rebuke. ‘That’s a very odd notion, Valeria.’

  He attempted to touch her arm in turn, hoping that by doing so he could pull her closer, but she slid away from him, replying, with her back half-turned, in a little girl voice. ‘Is it, Marcellus? To me it’s like a soldier fresh from the very battles you describe, the blood of his enemies still on his sword. A hero who, having slain the barbarian, comes to claim his prize.’

  ‘May the Gods preserve us from such poetic rubbish,’ said her brother, Gaius, entirely spoiling the mood of intimacy.

  Marcellus, who had been quite taken with the sentiment, was annoyed. ‘Can’t you go somewhere else, Gaius?’

  ‘Nothing would give me gre
ater pleasure, friend, but if I go, you’ll have Valeria’s maid to watch over you and she’ll keep you ten feet apart. The only thing Valeria will smell is her rancid armpits and there will be none of these little caresses that I allow.’

  Valeria turned and stuck her tongue out at him, in the way she had, until recently, reserved for people like Marcellus. ‘Pig.’

  ‘Better a pig than a snake, sister,’ replied her brother, unruffled.

  ‘Please don’t talk to Valeria like that,’ Marcellus insisted.

  Gaius adopted a haughty expression, though it was impossible to say whether it was aimed at Marcellus, or the slave who had just sidled up to stand beside him. ‘Sorry friend. Not even you can deny me a brother’s privileges.’ He turned to the slave. ‘What do you want?’

  The slave grinned, much to the annoyance of Gaius, which was not eased by the way the fellow addressed the other boy direct, ignoring his question. ‘Marcellus Falerius, your father’s steward is at the gate, requesting that you be fetched immediately.’

  ‘His steward?’

  The boy’s response only widened the grin on the fellow’s face, for the Falerii steward was a haughty bugger, yet there he was at the door like a common household skivvy. Many would take pleasure from his humiliation.

  ‘Damn you!’ snapped Gaius. ‘I asked you a question.’

  The smile disappeared off the slave’s face and he pulled away fearfully from Gaius, though he was twenty years the boy’s senior. ‘Did I not answer it, sir?’

  ‘No, you did not! In this house you report to me, not to my guests, however favoured they may be.’

  ‘Why, Gaius,’ said Valeria teasingly, throwing up her arms in mock alarm. ‘You look quite grown up.’

  Marcellus had his eyes on her, and the breasts that swelled up through her dress. There was no doubt that she was grown up and he had to drag his mind from the image of her body. He placed himself between the angry Gaius and the cowed servant, addressing his friend.

  ‘I must go. If my father has sent his steward, it must be something of importance.’

  He turned back and bowed slightly to Valeria. She smiled at him sweetly, though her nostrils flared slightly and her voice dropped to a compelling whisper. ‘Remember what I said, Marcellus. Come to me each day, on your way home, and tell me all the latest news.’ She was close again, her fingertips reaching out to a particularly heavy blue-black mark on his upper arm. ‘Should you be wounded on the Campus Martius, properly wounded, I will dress the cut myself.’

  Marcellus frowned, but he had no time to ponder why a high-born Roman girl should undertake the task of a slave. He left, thanking the man who had brought the message, who took the opportunity to slip away from potential trouble by following in his wake.

  ‘I do not wish to forbid it,’ said Lucius, ‘but I will not have you turning up at another senator’s house smelling like an overworked street sweeper.’

  ‘Neither Gaius nor his sister seemed to mind,’ Marcellus protested, ‘and it is on the way.’

  ‘I mind, and that is sufficient. You will come home first, bathe and dress in proper clothes. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘And remember that you are betrothed to the Claudian girl. That does not debar you from other pursuits, but it does call for a proper degree of discretion.’

  There was no point in Marcellus stating that he preferred Valeria Trebonius, no point at all, and not just because of his father’s views. Sitting here, it was easy to tell himself that he would avoid her, stay away from the house and her endless teasing, but his resolve always weakened. There was no way to avoid her front door on his way home from the Campus Martius and her attitude, on such occasions, was so markedly different from that she employed at other times. He was strong with other people, including girls, never allowing anyone the least liberty, but all that seemed to evaporate in her presence. She produced an ache in him that no amount of self-abasement could control. It was almost as if Valeria knew she was the sole object of his nocturnal fantasies and so took every opportunity she could to come just close enough to make his obvious arousal unbearable. He could see the light in her eyes, bordering on mockery. What did she see in his eyes? He dragged his mind away from Valeria, back to his father, who was still talking.

  ‘I trust that you are as ardent as any boy your age.’ He was smiling, despite the hard tone of his voice. ‘Go to your room, Marcellus. You will find that your needs will be fully catered for, by me!’

  Marcellus ran his nose from her armpit to her nipple, taking in the musky smell of her body. When the slave girl had first been shown into his room, whatever reserve he had felt had now completely evaporated. Sosia was Falerii property, his to do with as he wished. That she had shown little passion actually pleased him, since that absolved him from the need to feel or respond. He did not want to get to know this girl, just to use her. She could be an image, in the darkness, on which he would project whatever thoughts he desired. His lips circled the erect nipple, his tongue darting in and out as Sosia tried to hold her reactions in check, fighting off the sounds that would indicate intimacy. Yet it was hard, for in the dark one man could very well be another, and her body was so sensitive to the touch, just as her mind could not reject the image of Aquila. That was how she had survived the callousness of Barbinus, and the same vision would aid her now, blocking out the attentions being paid to her by her new owner.

  Sosia had no knowledge of Roman ways, especially those of the nobility, so when his hands took her shoulders and spun her so that she was face down, she was confused. The tongue now ran up and down the vee of her spine, just touching the fine hairs that lined her back. Staying as stiff as she could, she heard Marcellus murmur a name and then his knee was between her legs, pushing them open. He grunted slightly as he pushed hard into her. The name he had groaned, Valeria, was blocked out of her mind by the pain.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The trail Aquila was leaving would be easy to follow, but he had no choice. They had left the coastal plain behind and started to climb into the hills long before daylight. Now, with the sun full up, he could look back at the foothills beneath him, with the burnt wheat fields, laid out in the regular Roman pattern, criss-crossed at strict intervals by roads and paths stretching all the way to the sea. Gadoric and his fellow rebel, called Hypolitas, were with the horses in a deep ravine and if there was no immediate pursuit, that was where they would spend the day. There was pasture for the horses on a nearby ridge, quite possibly water too, since the grass was green, and the same ridge would also provide a convenient place to look out for anyone hunting them. He slid down the scree slope into the gorse at the mouth of the ravine and pushed his way through to find Hypolitas flat on his back, sound asleep, while Gadoric had fought to stay awake so that the boy should not have the entire burden of the rescue placed on his young shoulders.

  Aquila knelt down beside him, speaking quietly. ‘No sign of anyone chasing us.’

  The Celt’s red-rimmed eyes lingered on the gold charm, swinging slightly before his eyes, then he shut them tight, as though the effort of staring was too much. ‘They will. They wouldn’t go blundering about the countryside, at night, once they’d lost our trail.’ Great coughs racked his body, but he kept talking. ‘But they’ll be out in strength at first light.’

  ‘Are we that important?’

  Gadoric rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘To them, yes. If they have people that can follow our trail, we shouldn’t wait here.’

  Aquila smiled; a problem he should have thought about before had just occurred to him. ‘Where will we go, Gadoric?’

  ‘We must join the other runaway slaves in the hills. There are hundreds of them out here somewhere.’

  The boy decided to say nothing of what had happened the day before; Gadoric was too exhausted, so he put his hand on the shepherd’s shoulder to push him back into the grass. He felt the man resist, though in truth it was feeble. ‘Rest, my friend. They cannot surprise us. I
can see the whole coastal road from here.’

  ‘We must find the other runaway slaves.’

  ‘No, Gadoric. You need rest, food and time to recover. If these runaway slaves are any good, they will find us before the overseers.’

  They were like insects, mere specks in the distance as they made their way slowly down the tracks between the fields, stopping occasionally so that the man following their trail could check on their spoor. He counted thirty men, and though he could not be sure at this distance, he thought that Flaccus was leading them. Behind him the horses munched at the juicy grass, below the two slaves slept. Aquila had already drunk his fill of the fresh water that gurgled out of a fissure in the rocks before disappearing underground. The supply of food he had brought would not last long, so he had set snares to catch game. Using some saplings he constructed a canopy with his cloak to keep the hot sun off his back and from that shaded position, with water to hand, he could watch the progress of the pursuit without discomfort.

  Their trail was, as he had suspected, easy to follow. A heavily laden horse, bearing two people, leaves a much deeper hoof print than normal. The task would become more difficult as they made their way into the hills, but they would come on, regardless of the problems, he knew that now. It was not just Gadoric’s words; they would not have set out, in such a large party, if they did not intend to see the three crucifixes fully employed. Besides, Flaccus must have added his own disappearance to that of the condemned men. Given the presence of Cassius Barbinus in Sicily, the ex-centurion would be mightily embarrassed by the loss of his attendant, his horses and his weapons. Aquila thought back to the men who had ambushed them the day before, ten, maybe twelve people, not very well armed. Was that just one roving band, or were there more?

  They only had two possibilities. Either they must disappear, or join a group that would frighten off the men coming after them. First he had to slow the latter down; Gadoric and Hypolitas needed time to recover their strength but if they were allowed to come on at their present pace he would be forced to move right away. The important people were the trackers; kill them and the whole enterprise would falter. But how? Against thirty men he had a spear, his bow and a quiver of arrows, two swords and one knife. He slipped out of his makeshift tent, rolling up his dark brown cloak, checked that the horses were properly hobbled, before climbing down to look at his companions. They slept, the remaining food and water between them, and he lifted the food and placed it under a bush, tucking the empty sack into his belt. A quick arrangement of twigs, something they had played at so long ago, left a message for Gadoric that he would be back. He took his spear and headed off downhill, looking for a place to attack, preferably as close to the coastal plain as possible.