“I from Dacia,” said Sica. “I should not be here either. Not my fault I had to cut off my master’s cock to stop him raping me.”
The other slaves looked at her in surprise for a moment. Sica pointed at one of the women.
“I’m Pamphile,” said the one Sica indicated. “And this is my older sister Agamede.” Her accent had a tinge of Attic. “We were hairdressers to rich matrons in Nola. Freeborn. We don’t belong here either.” Carbo could see tears glistening at the corner of her eyes.
Sica stared at the man with the thief brand, who looked back at her defiantly.
“You aren’t going to tell us your name?” asked Carbo.
“Why should I?” asked the thief stubbornly.
“Oh there are a few reasons. I might say, ‘Sica would you like this bread that the guards have brought?’ Or Pamphile may say, ‘Meru, would you like me to massage the ache away from the day’s work?’ Or I might say to you, whatever your name is, ‘Would you like me to stop punching you in the face?’ Of course I would need to know your name to be able to ask you that question.”
The thief spat. “Fine. Call me Curtius.”
“Pleased to meet you, Curtius.”
The door flew open again, and a guard poked his head in. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of their night’s excretions, then barked at them. “Everyone out.”
The prisoners rose to their feet, slowly stretching out aching joints, trying to co-ordinate their movements so they didn’t get tangled in their chains. When they were up, they exchanged glances, none of them in a hurry to be the first one out.
Sica shrugged, and stepped outside, and Carbo had to follow her. One by one they all emerged into the cold, bright early morning. By their order in the links of the chain, Orobazes was last out. Four guards faced them as they stood uncertainly outside their cell. Each was armed with a club, stowed in a belt, and one of them held a whip loosely, its leather straps trailing on the ground. This one, apparently their leader, walked behind Orobazes, and laid the whip firmly into his back. Tiny bits of gravel picked up from the ground added to the bite, leaving a row of dots of blood beading up through the rip in his tunic that the whip had created.
“Next time, be quicker, or you will all be whipped. Now follow me.”
The eight prisoners shuffled after him, a guard flanking them on either side, and one bringing up the rear. They walked over rough ground a short distance. They rounded the rock face that skirted the path on one side, and Carbo saw the mine works for the first time.
Wooden huts ringed a large dark hole. Above the hole a pulley was set up, the ropes of which were being hauled on by a small group of slaves. As Carbo watched, a large bucket of grey-black, shiny stone appeared, which was manhandled into a cart. When the cart was loaded, it was hauled away by oxen towards furnaces which belched black smoke and pungent fumes.
The whip cracked near Carbo’s head, the tip slicing the skin on Agamede’s shoulder, who screamed, then bit her lip.
“No dawdling, move it,” yelled the guard. The prisoners walked on in their line to the huts. Durmius was screaming at a thin, elderly man, who lay curled up on the ground, to get up. The tremoring man made no attempt to stand, just babbling incoherently. The overseer began to kick him, blows of such severity with hob-nailed boots, they sent blood spraying wherever they fell. After what seemed an eternity, during which the prisoners watched in silence, the overseer stopped. He wiped the sweat of his exertions from his head, and looked down at the dead man at his feet. He gestured to two nearby guards.
“Dump him in the burial pit.” The guards hurried to obey, lifting the emaciated body easily and carrying it away. The overseer turned to the guard that had escorted Carbo’s group.
“Let’s get the newcomers started then. Get the four men picks and aprons, they will work at the rock face. We cracked a new one yesterday. The boy and the young girl can be loaders, and the old ladies can work the Egyptian screw. The water level is getting a bit high after the recent rain.”
Guards came forward and unlocked the prisoners’ chains. Agamede and Pamphile were led away, chattering miserably to each other. Carbo rubbed his wrists, examining the red skin where the iron had chafed. One guard handed a pick to each of the adult male prisoners. Carbo hefted it thoughtfully in his hand, testing the weight of the head, the balance of the shaft. He looked up and noticed a guard watching him closely, hand hovering near his sword, and Carbo let the pick hang loosely at his side.
“Right,” said Durmius. “Most important rule. You will do as I say without question or you will be severely punished. Is that understood?” The prisoners nodded, the ones who didn’t understand following the example of the others. “Good. Now, all of you strip.”
The prisoners hesitated and looked at each other. A whip cracked out, opening a red stripe on Meru’s upper arm. Hastily, they all shed their clothes, the two fugitives copying the others in confusion. Soon they were all naked, using their hands and arms to cover themselves as best they could. The air was cool, and they all shivered.
Durmius smiled with obvious enjoyment of their discomfort and humiliation. His gaze lingered on Sica, who stood with her legs tightly pressed together, one arm across her breasts and a hand covering the area between her legs. She gazed back at him defiantly and he chuckled unpleasantly.
“You probably think I made you do that for fun. That’s only partly true. You will be thanking me soon, though.” He turned to the guards. “Give the men aprons. Give the boy and girl baskets.”
The guards handed leather aprons to Carbo, Curtius and the two fugitives, and woven baskets to Sica and Meru. The aprons covered their fronts, reaching down just below their knees, and fastening with leather straps behind them. Carbo felt a little more covered and less vulnerable, though he was aware that Sica behind him had a good view of his buttocks. Sica and Meru did not get any protective clothing.
“Right, you men, you will be hacking ore out of the rock face. It has already been broken up by fire cracking. You’ll find out more about that in time. Well, if you live long enough. You two, the boy and girl, you will be collecting the rock pieces they mine and carrying them to the buckets to be hauled to the surface. You will keep working unless told you may rest. Anyone who stops working without authorisation, anyone who works too slowly, any idleness of any sort will be punished severely. There are no excuses. Understand?”
They all nodded.
“We’ll see. One or two of you look like you might still have some defiance in you. Maybe that’s why you got sent here in the first place. Let me make it clear. Your only hope of survival here is to work hard and obey. There is no other choice.” Durmius beckoned over a slave who had been hovering nearby. The slave, bent-backed and stiff, limped over.
“This is Amasis, he will show you the ropes. Obey him like you would me. Amasis, take them down.”
Amasis shuffled off towards the hole, and the six prisoners followed them. When they reached the edge, Carbo saw a ladder leading down into the darkness.
“Follow me,” said Amasis, wearily, climbing onto the ladder and starting to descend. Phraates and Orobazes followed Amasis, and as Carbo waited his turn, he tried to make out anything in the darkness. Far below, he could see flickering lamps. A sudden creaking noise startled him, and the rope down the centre of the hole started to move around the pulley as nearby slaves hauled on it. A huge iron bucket slowly inched its way upwards, filled with pieces of dark grey-silver rock. When it reached the surface, it was hauled to the edge of the pit, and with difficulty tipped into a waiting wagon. Once it was empty, the wagon was pulled away by mules, and the bucket lowered down again.
Carbo’s turn came and he clambered onto the ladder. He was aware of a long drop and gripped each rung tightly. The climb was long and slow. He could see little below him. When he looked up, he saw Sica’s bare legs.
Eventually they reached solid ground, and Carbo stepped onto rough rock. Sharp pebbles dug into his bare feet painfully. He had soles
hardened by long marches, but always protected by caligae, and he knew that much walking on this surface would soon leave his feet blistered and sore.
They were in a large cavern, six shafts leading away in different directions. Small oil lamps set in niches in the walls shed a low-level illumination. Amasis was already walking slowly but purposefully down one, and the others followed him. The shafts were much lower than a man’s height. Even Sica had to bend her head to avoid banging it, and Carbo had to stoop right over, the highest point of his back scraping the ceiling if he didn’t bend enough. The low ceiling was supported by stone pillars that had been left in the original rock when it was originally excavated, with wooden supports patching up other areas.
“Don’t ever touch those pillars with your picks,” said Amasis, gesturing at them. “Penalty for excavating them is death.” Carbo wondered who would be stupid enough to do such a thing.
The access tunnel angled downwards, and Carbo noticed the air getting heavier and warmer. Every so often a shaft in the ceiling allowed ventilation, but Carbo could see how far underground they were by the tiny size of the circle of light at top. The oil lamps set in the niches burned progressively lower as the air became less fresh.
The ceiling got lower still, until Carbo was bent over double, his back getting grazed by the rough surface, muscles stiffening, and the heat increased. The oil lamps gave out a thin smoke, and Carbo found his breathing becoming laboured.
Further along the tunnel was a rockfall. Carbo could see a wooden support had splintered and come down, together with a portion of the ceiling. He noticed a foul smell, and as he walked past, he looked down, and saw a rotting arm sticking out from beneath the rubble. He looked back and saw Sica staring at the same thing in open-mouthed horror.
“Sica,” he said to her. She looked up at him, and he held her gaze until he could see she was more composed.
“Come on, you lot back there,” Amasis’ voice came back to them. “They will get angry if you don’t mine your quota this shift.”
They carried on, and soon the walls widened out into a gallery. The ceiling was even lower though, and Carbo had to get on his hands and knees. The gallery was a rough, elongated circle. At the furthest end were large boulders.
“These were fire-cracked yesterday,” said Amasis. “Now the rocks need breaking. You guys, get to work with your picks. Two of you breaking the boulders into pieces small enough to carry. Two of you work at the face and hack out more rocks where the fire has weakened it. You two little ones, you put the boulders in your baskets and take them back to the bucket in the main gallery. The overseer will check how much you mine and if you don’t make your quota you will be punished.”
“What’s the quota?” asked Carbo.
“No idea,” said Amasis. “They don’t tell you. Means you just have to work as hard as you can. The shift lasts ten hours. Good luck.”
Amasis turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” asked Curtius.
Amasis looked suprised.
“I survived. They promoted me to supervisor. I don’t have to do this any more. Thank all the gods.” He crawled painfully and stiffly away.
When he was gone, the six of them looked at each other. Curtius laughed and sat down against the wall.
“They send us down here without supervision, and expect us to work our backsides off. They can forget it.”
“He said they would punish us if we didn’t fulfill the quota,” said Meru nervously.
“Screw them,” said Curtius.
Carbo sighed and picked up his pick. He surveyed the rock wall before him, focussed on a crack and swung at it. The shock of the impact vibrated up the pick handle, and Carbo nearly dropped the tool. Rock yielded a lot less than flesh when you hit it, he realised. Even less than wood and metal. He drew the tool back and swung again. It was awkward from his half-crouched, half kneeling position, but the second swing was more measured, and he saw the crack he was aiming at widen. A third swing and a chunk of ore fell to the ground. He picked it up and passed it backwards. Phraates took it off him, and used his own pick to break the chunk into small pieces. Sica, who had been holding the basket across her body to disguise her nakedness, looked questioningly at Carbo. He nodded, and she bent down and started loading the pieces into her basket. Orobazes started attacking the already fallen boulders, swinging with gusto, and Meru stepped up and started filling his own basket. Now they were all at work apart from Curtius, who remained seated, watching them all contemptuously.
Soon Carbo was getting into a rhythm, and the rock was building up at his feet as fast as Phraates could take it away and break it up. A sheen of sweat built up on his skin in the warm humid air, and he realised why they had to strip. Working like this all day would bring on heat exhaustion quickly if wearing too many layers.
Carbo’s mind emptied, eyes unfocused. The physical activity actually felt good, mindless, repetitious, demanding, taking his thoughts away from grief and despair and loss. After some time, Phraates tapped him on the shoulder. Meru and Sica’s baskets were full and they had disappeared down the tunnel to fill up the bucket. Phraates pointed at where Curtius still sat, chin cradled in his hands, staring off into space. Carbo shrugged. He was breathing hard now, finding he had to take deeper breaths in the warm, thick air. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He paused in his work, enough to let his breathing settle. Meru and Sica returned with their empty baskets, and got back to work on hands and knees, picking up fragments of ore. Carbo turned to the rockface and lifted his pick again.
There was no time in the darkness. Just the rhythmic rise and fall of the pick, the clunk of metal on rock, the coming and going of Meru and Sica with the baskets. Carbo’s breathing was heavy, the air not feeling satisfying to his lungs, no matter how hard he breathed, and he found himself tiring easily. The others too, looked exhausted, except for Curtius who sat, watching them work with a wry half-smile on his face. He wondered about forcing the man to help, but he was seized by a deep lassitude, and left him alone. How long had it been anyway? Had they nearly finished for the day?
Meru and Sica returned again with empty baskets, and this time, they were accompanied by Amasis. The supervisor looked at Curtius sitting on the ground with alarm.
“What is he doing? What’s going on?”
Carbo stopped, dropping the pick and flexing his wrists to try to work away the burning sensation.
“He won’t work,” said Carbo, forcing the words out breathlessly through a dry, dust-filled mouth.
“You are well under quota at the moment. And you have only been working for half a morning.”
“Half a morning?” groaned Meru in despair.
“If you carry on at this rate, you will be so far under quota they will flog the skin off you all. They won’t care who has pulled their weight and who hasn’t. That’s up to you lot to deal with that kind of thing.” Amasis shook his head. “Best of luck to you all. I’m not going to stick my neck out for you though. Sort him out.”
Amasis crawled away, leaving the group of slaves looking at each other.
“We in trouble?” asked Sica.
“We will be,” said Meru miserably, “If Curtius doesn’t help.”
Phraates and Orobazes were watching, furrowed brows attempting to understand what was happening. Sica turned to them, and pointed to Curtius.
“He not help.” She mimed using her pick. “We in trouble.” She pointed to all of them, then mimed a whip. Phraates and Orobazes nodded understanding, then turned to Carbo.
Carbo sighed. Why was it up to him to deal with this? He wasn’t a leader anymore. He was a nobody, a failed person, less than a person, a slave. He caught Sica’s eye, saw her expectant gaze on him. He imagined her tied up to a tree, her naked back lashed until streams of blood ran in torrents where skin used to be. He shook his head in resignation.
“Take up your pick, Curtius.”
Curtius made no mov
e, looking at him defiantly.
“Why should I?”
“Because if you don’t,” said Carbo, wearily. “I will have to kill you.”
Everyone was still. The only noises were the rhythmic drip of water and the far off sounds of pick on stone where another part of the mine was being worked. Curtius reached forward slowly for his pick.
Gripped it tightly and locked eyes with Carbo.
Froze.
Pressed against the side of his neck was a wickedly sharp fragment of rock.
“Or I kill you,” hissed Sica into his ear. “You help us, or you dead man.”
Curtius hesitated, then lifted the pick. Carbo was aware that if this came to blows the fighting would be awkward, and quite probably absurd, with them both on their hands and knees to avoid the low ceiling, swinging at each other like puppets in a forum show. The moment stretched, then Curtius shuffled forward, holding the pick in front of him like a gladius. Sica watched carefully, holding her improvised blade before her. Carbo’s heart pounded, the familiar tension he always felt before battle washing over him. Curtius lifted the pick, brought it down. Carbo tensed, his own pick before him.
Curtius’ tool smacked into the rock face, wedging into a crack. He pulled it out with a heave, and chunks of ore came loose. Curtius looked across to Carbo with a sneer, swung the pick again. Carbo watched for a little longer, then went back to work.
Chapter XV
A light drizzle carried by a firm breeze bathed Quintus’ face like the spray on a sea voyage. He sat on a stone bench in the covered colonnade that bordered the peristylium, his mood as grey as the sky. His father was out, he didn’t know where, and this was somehow a relief. Though he had no intention of discussing his feelings for Marsia with his father, just possessing those emotions in his father’s presence felt like Blaesus was intruding. He closed his eyes, cold and damp, and sighed.
A hand on his shoulder made him jump.
“Jupiter, what are you doing out here in the rain?”
Quintus opened his eyes to see Publius’ broad face grinning down at him.
Bandits of Rome Page 20
