And all over a slave.
Marsia was shorter than him, though tall for a woman. She was broad-shouldered, almost mannish in her upper frame, although her sizeable bust would leave no one in doubt as to her gender. Her long black hair was tied back tightly in a simple pony tail, giving her face a severe appearance, and her strong facial features would never lead anyone to class her as a classical beauty.
But she captivated him, and he didn’t know why.
They strolled in silence, walking along a goat path which skirted a hill a short distance from the farm. Broken clouds allowed the sun to appear intermittently, and the weather was cool but not unpleasant. When Quintus had asked Marsia to take a walk with him, she had betrayed no surprise, simply inclined her head as a slave should. Vespillo had said nothing, just watched them leave with interest.
“How come you know so much?” asked Quintus, then, as Marsia turned her gaze on him, he cursed his clumsiness. Where was the boy who had studied elocution and rhetoric under experts in Greece, when he needed him?
“So much for a slave, you mean?” asked Marsia.
“No,” said Quintus. “I mean, the other day, you knew more than anyone in that room about the old legends. How did you acquire such knowledge?” That was slightly better put, he thought.
“I was taught,” she said.
Quintus considered, then, surprising himself at how much courage this took, he said, “No, Marsia, that’s not good enough. Give me a more complete explanation.”
Marsia raised her eyebrows, and was silent for a moment. Then she said, “Why do you want to know?”
In other circumstances, Quintus might have had a slave beaten for such impudence. But he detected a genuine interest in her question, rather than mere defiance. Besides, he couldn’t imagine letting anyone hurt Marsia.
“Because you are amazing,” he said, then clamped his mouth shut. He turned his head forward, no longer able to meet her eyes, face now burning. “I mean,” he said, still not looking at her, though feeling her gaze boring into him. “You are a remarkable woman in many ways. Your bravery when we were attacked, your intelligence, your…”
Her hand slipped into his, and he marvelled at how neatly they fitted together, and how the touch of her skin on his sent a little flood of satisfaction through him. He looked back at her, and she was smiling. She stopped, looked around, and pointed to a flat rock sticking out from the hillside. “Let’s sit.”
She sat, and he settled next to her, and after a moment’s hesitation, he slid his arm around her waist. She leaned into him and rested her head on his shoulder, and he held still, savouring the sensation, completely confused about his feelings for this slave, but at that moment not caring one bit.
Time passed but he lost track. Was it racing or standing still? The sun barely seemed to have moved in the sky and yet he felt like he had been holding her an age when she looked up at him.
“I was taken from my people when I had seen twelve winters. My father was a good, strong man, high in the tribe, but he had enemies. One of them kidnapped me, in revenge for what, I never knew. I was purchased by slavers, who sold me in a market in Rome, with all the other goods and produce.”
Quintus watched her as she spoke. Her voice was calm and dispassionate, but he could read the heavy sadness in her eyes.
“The master who bought me was old, and kind. He ran a welcoming household. He was wealthy, but a widower, with no heirs. The other slaves were mostly friendly, and they taught me to sew and clean and cook, and comforted me when I cried for my homeland.
“The master was an intelligent man, and he saw something in me that he loved. Not the way a man loves a woman, or even a father loves a daughter. More, how a teacher loves an able pupil. He liked teaching, and I would keep him company for hours, while he talked. I learned from hearing his stories, and as I grew older and he realised how much I was absorbing from him, his lessons became more formal, and more in depth.
“He taught me Latin grammar, rhetoric, oratory, mathematics, law. He taught me about the Greek and Roman gods and the stories of the heroes of olden days. He read to me the poems of Homer and Hesiod, the histories of Herodotus and Xenophon, and the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle. He even took me to see plays by Sophocles and Aeschylus. I drank the knowledge like a thirsty dog drains a bowl of water. I like to think I taught him a little myself, about the language and customs of my people, and some of it he wrote down and shared with his friends.
“And then he died, very suddenly. His estate was divided among a number of beneficiaries. One was his chief steward, a slave called Publius Sergius. Publius was a competent, if unimaginative man, and he was rewarded in the will with his freedom, some money, and a slave of his choice. He chose me. I wondered for a long time why I had not been freed, not given any reward from my master who I thought cared for me. Later, Publius told me that my master had been talking about changing his will before he died, though he didn’t tell him what the changes would be. I like to think if he had not been taken away so suddenly, he would have given me my freedom. But thinking about what might have been doesn’t change what is.
“So Publius chose me, and bought a tavern in the Subura. I helped him run it, and Publius used my intelligence and education to help with the accounting and the general running of the business. But I no longer discussed philosophy, or went to plays, or read histories. Life became a drudge of cleaning and serving.”
Quintus squeezed Marsia’s hand.
“Those were your only duties?” he asked tentatively.
“I was never whored,” said Marsia. Quintus let out what he hoped was a quiet sigh of relief. “My first master had stipulated in his will that none of his slaves may be sold on into prostitution. I had the usual pinches and gropes that a serving slave expects, but Publius was very honourable about upholding my status, though he had offers.”
“And he never made use of you that way himself?” asked Quintus, surprised.
“Of course he did,” said Marsia. “I am a slave, he is a man. I serve in whatever way I am ordered.”
Quintus flushed and looked down.
“Does it disappoint you?”
“No, no,” he stammered. “I just… I would never order you to do that, if you were mine.”
“I am not desirable, sir?” asked Marsia.
“No, it’s not that, it’s not that I wouldn’t want to, I just…” He looked up to find Marsia smiling at him, and he cursed for allowing himself to be teased. He laughed, and pinched her backside, and she yelped, then laughed too. Then she grew somber.
“There was a time, when it nearly happened. Publius ran the tavern badly, ignored my advice. Local thugs extorted money from him, and it crippled him. One of them decided he was going to make use of me, and Publius could not or would not stop him.
“That took Carbo.”
Quintus looked at her in surprise, then understanding dawned. “He saved you?”
“He faced down the thug, then when Publius decided to flee from the inevitable retribution, he bought the tavern, and defended it against the local criminals. He put me in charge, and he respected me and he cared for me and he still does.”
“Did,” corrected Quintus gently.
“Does!” said Marsia angrily, pushing Quintus away from her.
“Marsia,” said Quintus, voice soothing. “He was taken. If he is in Atreus’ hands, and still alive, then he won’t be for much longer.”
Marsia stood abruptly. “Then why are we taking walks, and talking like lovers? We should be looking for him, before it is too late.”
“Marsia, please,” said Quintus, alarmed by the sudden change in her demeanour. “I…like you. I wanted to spend some time with you.”
“I am a slave, Quintus,” she said coldly. “If you wish to take me for your pleasure, that is your choice, though you will have to answer to my master for the use of his property without permission. Otherwise, I would like to return to my master’s farm.”
Quintus s
tared at her, trying to work out what had gone wrong. For a brief, blissful moment, he had been holding this woman who had been constantly in his thoughts these last days and weeks. Now that moment was gone, popped like a bubble in a fountain. He slowly got to his feet.
“Very well. Let’s return.” He stomped off in the direction of the farm. He didn’t look back, but he heard Marsia following him, and he thought he heard a stifled sob.
Vespillo looked up as Marsia marched into the atrium, and straight through into the house, then turned back to his conversation with Lutorius. Moments later, Quintus knocked and entered, face like a thundercloud. Lutorius opened his mouth to ask what the matter was, but from the corner of his eye caught Vespillo’s slight shake of the head. Instead, he addressed Quintus as if he had noticed nothing amiss.
“Quintus, we interrogated that prisoner from the thieves’ hideout.”
Quintus composed himself, then inclined his head.
“What did you learn?”
“Not much,” admitted Lutorius. “But he mentioned slavery, and the docks at Neapolis.”
“You think Carbo may have been sold as a slave?” Quintus shook his head. “That’s pretty bold, enslaving a free citizen and a distinguished veteran like Carbo.”
“I don’t think this will be his first time,” said Vespillo. “To carry that off, you have to have contacts in the slave industry who won’t ask questions. Lutorius, do you know any slavers we could talk to?”
Lutorius shook his head. “We tend not to cross paths. They aren’t criminals, and we wouldn’t meet socially.”
“My father entertained local businessmen and merchants from time to time,” said Quintus. “I remember one he had to dinner recently, a sea captain who shipped slaves. What was his name? Zosi… something. Zosimus, that’s it!”
Vespillo smiled. “Sounds like someone I need to meet.”
Carbo was able to track the time by the light coming through the cracks in the boards above him. Twice since he had been brought on board, cloudy grey sky had given way to complete blackness. With no moon or starlight, the hold was black as the tar that gave the ship one of its distinctive smells. Sweat, urine and brine was now being overwhelmed by the stench of faeces, as some of the prisoners could no longer hold their bowels. Carbo himself hadn’t felt the need. Sometimes fear caused the guts to tighten, sometimes to loosen. Right now, Carbo knew he couldn’t evacuate himself if he had half an hour in a latrine with Caesar’s Gallic Wars to read.
Worse was the hunger. They hadn’t taken his gag off at any stage, and the corners of his mouth were sore, agonies shooting through him when his facial expressions changed. He had stopped smiling when Sica attempted to boost his spirits. He hoped she could see why.
Thirst was a problem too. Here at least the guards had displayed a modicum of compassion, or at least sense, when it came to looking after the cargo, and each time they had come round they had poured some water onto his face. Some he had managed to swallow, some had soaked his gag, which he had been able to suck dry. It wasn’t much, and he felt parched most of the time, but it was sufficient to sustain him.
Two days was not long enough for most diseases and contagion to spread, Carbo thought, but at least two of the prisoners were showing signs of ill health already. One was coughing up copious phlegm, and his wheezy breathing filled the room at night. The other, a middle-aged woman, two bodies down from Carbo, was vomiting, and passing watery, mephitic motions. She had been moaning continuously over the past day, but for the last couple of hours, she had gone quiet and limp. Her chest still rose and fell, but Carbo suspected she would not survive these conditions long. He had seen disease spread through a camp, he knew how quickly it could take hold and how much damage it could do. And that was under the discipline of the legions, with their dedicated latrines, and their carefully controlled supply of nourishing, if not appetising food.
He wondered how long this journey would be. Atreus had mentioned Sicily. What was that, two days sailing? Three? They must be getting close. Maybe not close enough for the woman, but enough for the rest of them. That, of course, would just be the start of their suffering, though. Carbo had been dwelling on the recent past, to the exclusion of the future. But there was nothing he could do to prevent what awaited him. And he wasn’t really sure he wanted to. He had failed Rufa and she was gone. He had failed to avenge her. Only shame and loss remained for him.
Rufa had visited him twice more, each time her face looming suddenly out of the darkness, making him gasp and shrink back. On each occasion, Sica had reached out to him, and the touch of her fingertips had been enough to bring him back from the edge of the abyss of madness and terror that he was teetering over. When Rufa’s visage had receded, he was overcome by relief and guilt in equal measures. He should be treasuring her visits, yet they terrified him. He had wept without restraint. When he had finished, the other prisoners regarded him with fear and suspicion. Except Sica, whose eyes held only compassion.
In the times between Rufa’s visits, in those rare moments when he was not dwelling on the tragedy of his recent past, or the trauma of his more distant past, or the misery of his present, or the terror of his future, he wondered about Sica. What had she done to earn her place on this journey to punishment and death. Maybe it was their mutual predicament, maybe it was the little touches, physical and emotional, that showed him her kindness, maybe he just needed someone to care for and protect. Something he had so badly failed to do for the one he had loved most. Whatever it was, he felt a bond growing between them, despite the fact that he had never spoken a word to her, and that she said little. He supposed, when he was at his most lucid, that in extremes of despair the mind took tiny crumbs of comfort wherever it found them.
It was early morning, Carbo estimated. Patches of blue and light grey were shining through the cracks above him, and had been for an hour or so. His gag itched, and his tongue felt ulcerated. He was thirsty, famished and his back ached with a dull, intense pain that he could not relieve by shifting his position. He sighed, and looked over to Sica. She gave him a serious stare, then crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out, attempting to lick the end of her nose. Carbo watched her clownish efforts and surprised himself by chuckling. The smile that accompanied this made him wince in pain, but Sica had seen she had amused him, and gave him an impish grin.
“So, big Roman knows how to laugh.”
Carbo nodded, keeping his mouth in its least painful, neutral position, but crinkling his eyes at her.
“Think we will need to remember how to laugh, soon.” Her voice was now solemn. Carbo looked at her, undoubtedly a woman, but not long ago a child. He realised her bravery and high spirits covered a fear as deep as any. He looked into her eyes, then extended his fingers. She touched the tips, as she did whenever he needed reassurance. He held the touch, and nodded to her. The moment passed between them, wordless, but overflowing with meaning.
A loud, hacking cough came from the prisoner with the breathing problems, who then spat, the phlegm making a wet splat on the floor. Sica rolled her eyes, and Carbo grinned, then winced again.
Cries came from above them, the sound of hands shouting instructions to each other. The flapping noise of sails being hauled in reached them. The prisoners looked at each other questioningly.
“We’ve arrived,” said the man to Carbo’s left.
Shortly after, a gentle impact juddered through the ship as it docked. The hatch to the deck above them opened. Brightness flooded in, making Carbo squint. A ladder dropped down, and two guards climbed down. They went along the prisoners, unlocking the chains that attached them to the pole, but leaving the ones that bound wrists and ankles in place. With kicks and liberal strikes with a cane, they roused the prisoners to their feet.
They all cried and groaned as they stood, stiff spines and elbows and knees protesting in agony as they unbent for the first time in a couple of days. Carbo didn’t wait to be struck before he stood, but he felt the pain keenly in the joints
that twenty-five years of service in the legions had abused. He gritted his teeth, biting on the gag to prevent himself from crying out. Sica, with her young bones, didn’t suffer as badly, but even she stretched and flexed and extended as best her chains would allow.
The prisoner who had been vomiting did not stand. One of the guards started to beat her repeatedly with his cane, until the other one held up a hand.
“She’s dead, you idiot. Move on.”
When all the surviving prisoners were on their feet, the guards wasted no time in herding the prisoners to the ladder. It was a slow process, getting the stiff, chained prisoners, some of whom were elderly or infirm, onto the deck. When Sica’s turn came, she went up with the speed of a squirrel up a tree. Carbo followed her more slowly, one step at a time, trying to get feeling and strength back into his limbs. He clambered out onto the deck and took his place in line with the other prisoners.
The port was busy, thronged with legionaries, sailors and dock workers. Just like any other port Carbo had ever been in, although he could see Italy a few short miles away across the Straits, the lighthouse on the peninsular side of the Straits just visible.
The ship was docked, thick ropes tying it to a wooden jetty. A gangway was lowered, and a bald, hook-nosed man with a broad smile came on board with four burly guards. He shook the hand of the captain vigorously.
“Good morning, Zozimus. You have made excellent time.”
The captain shook his hand with enthusiasm, clapping him on the back. “We had a good following wind, Durmius.”
“Wonderful, wonderful.” Durmius looked over to the prisoners congregated on the deck. He approached, walking up and down the line, squeezing a leg here, pulling a mouth open there. When he got to Carbo, he looked up and whistled, feeling the width of his upper arms appreciatively. Then he looked at Sica, and shook his head.
“Bit of a mixed bag, captain. Any dead?”
“Just one,” said Zosimus. “A fat old woman, no great loss. But we had a last minute extra anyway.” He gestured to Carbo.
Bandits of Rome Page 18
