Читать книгу Atilus the Slave - E. C. Tubb - Страница 6

CHAPTER TWO

The captives were herded into the stronghold, prisoners in the very place which, if held, would have given them safety. The women were separated from the men and squatted, keening, their hair over their faces, blood running from the flesh they had torn with their nails.

The men were crushed, broken, many wounded, convinced the gods had turned against them. Among them were a few boys, all older than myself, and one of them joined me where I sat as a soldier yelled something from beyond the stockade.

‘What’s he saying, Atilus?’

Cymbelle was of my own tribe, but we had never been friends. The son of a noble, he’d had little time for the offspring of a trader, but now his father and uncle were dead, his elder brother somewhere on the road to Colchester. He might escape to freedom, but Cymbelle would not. Now he was eager for any familiar company.

‘Atilus?’

‘He’s asking about feeding us,’ I said. ‘And he mentioned water.’

‘They’ll poison it.’

‘No.’

‘You can’t be sure,’ he insisted. ‘It would be a quick way to get rid of us.’

He was ignorant for all his nobility, but I’d had the advantage of a father who knew how Rome operated.

‘If they’d wanted to kill us, they would have done it when we were taken,’ I said patiently. ‘We’re war-captives now, slaves. As such, we’re worth money to Rome. They’ll feed us and the water won’t be poisoned.’

He scowled, barely convinced and more than a little afraid. He had been hurt, a minor wound on his left arm, and blood was oozing from the cut. I tore a strip from his tunic and bound it tight over the gaping flesh. He thanked me and continued to talk.

‘I could have got away,’ he muttered. ‘When the chariot overturned I was lucky. The reins snapped and I was thrown clear. I should have stayed where I’d fallen and pretended to be dead. A chance would have offered itself—but there was not time to think.’

He touched his arm, wincing.

‘Caractacus ran towards Colchester, I saw him go. Perhaps he’ll make a stand somewhere down the road. We could even be rescued.’

He was dreaming, hoping when there was no hope, but he was a noble and I said nothing. My silence unnerved him and he left me to wander among the others. I was glad to be alone.

The afternoon ended, and from all sides came cries from the wounded as they suffered from thirst. The women had stopped their keening and sat moaning instead, the sound eerie and frightening. Some of them committed suicide by swallowing their tongues. A few ripped open veins with their jagged nails. The rest sat and waited as did the men.

There was nothing else to do.

At dusk the Romans gave us water, taking a party of twenty men to haul it from the river, but they gave us nothing to eat until well past the following dawn. It was a mess of sour porridge and we ate it with our bare hands, using fingers to thrust it into our mouths. For a week nothing else was given us but water at dusk and porridge in the morning. The compound in which we were held stank of urine and excreta and several men died of their wounds.

I would have starved if it hadn’t been for a guard.

Mucius was a grizzled veteran with scarred thighs and a snaggle of broken and rotting teeth. His breath smelt and his eyes were yellowed, the lower lids inflamed, the lashes and corners speckled with dried pus. He was in charge of the party delivering the food and he had noted my smallness. Noted too that I stood little chance against the men whom hunger had made savage as they fought over the buckets.

‘What’s your name, boy?’ He grunted as I told him. ‘So you’re the young devil who tried to knife Butuus. A pity you didn’t make it, the swine still owes me five denarii from a dice game. Hungry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Like something nice to eat?’ He chuckled at my expression. ‘Don’t look so scared. I’m no Greek after your rounded young bottom. Go outside and wait.’ He added, casually. ‘Try to run and you’ll maybe get ten yards, then you’ll be spitted like a goose.’

He took me to where fires blazed under suspended pots and gave me bread, oil, and a scrap of honeycomb. As I ate I looked around. The Roman camp had extended itself up the slope and legionaries seemed to be everywhere. Men were busy at work piling broken chariots and other damaged equipment into a great pile on a stretch of level ground.

‘They’ll be burned as an offering to the gods,’ said Mucius. He had watched the movements of my eyes. ‘Still hungry?’

He handed me another wedge of bread and I learned why he had been so generous.

‘You move around in there,’ his head jerked at the compound. ‘You’re young and they wouldn’t notice if you edged close. You might be able to learn things. If you hear anyone planning anything let me know, eh?’ He winked. ‘It’ll just be between the two of us.’

‘You want me to be a spy?’

‘I want to avoid trouble, boy. The best way to stop it is before it starts. I’ll put you on the food detail, that way they won’t suspect anything and you’ll get a chance to eat before those wolves snatch it all. If they ask why you were ordered outside, tell them that you were questioned about your mother. Three of the fourteenth have been arrested for rape—they die tomorrow.’

That night, when I dreamed of my mother, she was smiling.

I didn’t see the executions, but I heard the trumpets, and though I doubt if the men had killed my mother, it helped to think they had. At least, afterwards, I slept easier, though the food may have had something to do with that. I made no attempt to act the spy, and I don’t think Mucius expected me to; it was probably an excuse to justify his generosity in case of need.

Ten days after our arrangement, the prisoners were sorted. Tables had been set up outside the compound and small groups taken out at sword point to answer questions. Those who held a high position or who were the sons of chiefs or nobles were offered the chance to buy their freedom, but first they had to swear loyalty to Rome. Cymbelle was one of them. He didn’t look towards me as he burned a pinch of incense at the altar and gave his oath.

The rest of us were to be shipped to Gaul.

Mucius was one of the guards conducting the party. He was a decanus in charge of ten men and was close to having served his thirty years. Because I was no real threat, he allowed me to walk beside him, a thong around my neck attached to his wrist. If I made any attempt to escape, a jerk would bring me down, choking.

The other captives were also held at the neck, each man attached to others by a yoke in groups of five, an arrangement which left them free to walk, but made it impossible for them to make any attempt to gain their freedom.

At night we camped, the yokes held by ropes fastened to stakes hammered into the ground, and Mucius talked.

‘This seems a fine country, Atilus. I’ve half a mind to settle here when I’m released. I could open a wine shop in London or Colchester and take things easy. A wife to take care of things, a slave, maybe, to do all the hard work, what man could wish for more?’

He belched over his bowl of wine.

‘Take Germany, now. That’s where I did most of my service. Forests so dark you could walk in them for months, and a barbarian behind every tree. We’ve settled the Rhine and things aren’t too bad there now, but the winters are hard. I remember one time when I went to relieve a man on guard, we found him frozen as stiff as a board. You couldn’t stand still a minute if you didn’t want to stick to the ground. I’ve seen men who had to cut boots from their feet before they could move. Do you get winters like that?’

‘Not often,’ I admitted. ‘But it gets damp.’

‘That’s bad.’ He helped himself to more wine from a skin he’d managed to sneak into the supplies. ‘Damp can hurt the bones and make a man creak when he tries to stand. I’m too old for that. Just give me a little comfort and I’ll be happy. Spain, now, the sun is hot there like it is in Capua. That’s where I was born,’ he explained. ‘A decent city and a fine arena.’ He fell silent, brooding, staring into his bowl. ‘Damned woman,’ he muttered. ‘She was a real hell-cat.’

‘Your wife?’

‘My mother, stepmother, that is. My father was a fool. He could have fixed himself up with a nice young slave girl, but he had to get ambitious. She had a little property of her own, a widow with a snot of a son, and he thought it would be smart to combine what they had and go into business. He had as much idea of trade as I have of flying, and they skinned him. She never let him forget it, nagging all the time and making life hell. Finally he wound up taking care of the beasts at the arena. A nursemaid to a bunch of animals. I can smell them yet.’ He stiffened. ‘What’s that?’

‘A wolf.’ I listened to the distant howling. ‘It’s calling for a mate.’

‘Have you ever hunted them?’ He answered his own question. ‘No, of course you haven’t, you’re too young. We had some at the arena once. They broke out of their cage and attacked some bears, then turned on the keepers. A couple had their throats torn out and another lost a hand. For a while it was as good as an actual event at the games, blood everywhere; then they called in the archers to take care of them. My father was blamed and had to pay for some of the damage. I thought my stepmother would go mad. That’s when I left home and joined up.’

‘Because she quarrelled?’

‘Not exactly. I fetched her a crack with an empty amphora of wine and thought it best not to hang around.’ Mucius threw the dregs of his wine into the fire. ‘Well, I’d better go the rounds. You still hungry?’

‘Yes.’

‘Boys are always hungry.’ He handed me a lump of cold porridge. ‘Don’t forget the water for the morning.’

I’d offered to bathe his eyes; he woke with them crusted and it was an effort to part the lids, but water warmed at the fire dissolved the dried pus and cleared the lashes. In a way it was serving Rome, but I liked the man and I needed the food he could give me. A weakness perhaps, but a small boy, alone, could not be blamed.

My mother did not blame me. That night she came even closer and I could hear her voice.

‘Atilus, my son, live. Live to grow into a man. A boy can do little against Rome, but a man—live, my son. Live!’

A message sent with the aid of the gods who now watched over her. One I would do my best to obey.

We reached the coast where we were to take ship for Boulogne. Winter was coming and, with it, storms, yet the port was busy. More troops, officers coming to take over their command, couriers and with them a host of civilians and slaves; men to take care of accounts, others to win what they could from the new province.

Mucius reported to a tribune and was told to load us on a ship due to leave within the hour. It was a round-ship used to shift cargo, fitted with oars and a big, square sail. The oars were used when entering and leaving harbour, the sail when on the open sea. The master was annoyed at the extra cargo.

‘The wind’s wrong,’ he complained. ‘If it shifts we’ll be in trouble. And I’m overloaded as it is.’

‘If you want to complain, don’t do it to me.’ Mucius was curt. He had expected to pass us over and return to his legion; now he had to take us on to Boulogne. ‘I’ve got my orders.’

‘Mine come from Neptune.’

‘And mine from Aulus Plautius via his tribune. And he gets his from the Emperor. If you want to argue with him, I don’t. Now, do we get moving or stand here all day?’

The voyage was a nightmare. Even though Mucius kept me with him, I was sick most of the time, and it must have been terrible for those locked in the hold. At Boulogne we were taken to an empty shed and given a meal of beans boiled with turnips and fragments of meat, some bread, and a measure of vinegary wine. The man doling out the food hesitated when he saw me, but Mucius snapped, ‘Give him the same as the rest.’

‘A boy?’

‘A war-captive of the Emperor, and don’t you forget it.’ He had suffered during the voyage and his temper was short. ‘Now get on with it and let’s have less of your mouth!’

I didn’t drink the wine, but gave it instead to a man who had bruised his face when he had fallen in the hold. He took it without thanks and sat, brooding, for the rest of the night.

In the morning we were fed again, told to wash, and then assembled for the inspection of the buyers. They thronged into the shed, some simply curious, others intent on purchase. Among them was a Greek with curled and scented hair, a burly man with scarred hands, and a fussy little person with a cap which had flaps that could be lowered over the ears.

The Greek called out to him as he passed down the line.

‘Don’t take them all, Capaneus. Others have to make a living, and we haven’t all got the backing of the Statilius family.’

‘I’ll take what I need.’

‘But why be so particular? Anything’s good enough to provide a show.’

‘That’s why you’re falling out of favour, Thalidies,’ said the burly man with a laugh. ‘More than one Master of the Games had told me that unless you provide better wares, they’ll not waste their time dealing with you.’

‘Perhaps.’ The Greek shrugged. He had full lips and his fingers looked like worms. ‘They’ll change their minds when the crowd roars and contenders run short. Anyway, Brachus, a tip for your ear. I’m not going to Lyons this time. I’ll leave the market open to you. Just remember the favour when I ask you to accommodate me some other time.’

‘What favour?’ Brachus scowled. ‘The time you do anything to help me is the time I watch for a dagger in the back. Greeks, who can trust them? Hurry now, Capaneus.’

The agent made no comment. He stared at the man to whom I’d given the wine.

‘What were you, chariot or sword?’

The man stared, not understanding the Latin. The agent frowned, suspecting insolence, lifting his hand to signal a guard who stood to one side. He held a whip with lumps of lead knotted into the thong.

I said, quickly, ‘He doesn’t understand you.’

He looked at me in surprise then said, ‘But you do? Good. Ask him the question. What did he use in battle, chariot or sword.’

‘Sword,’ I said immediately.

‘I asked him, not you.’

‘The answer would be the same. He is not a noble and so would have owned no chariot.’

Thrusting himself forward, the Greek touched me, his lips moist, his hands clammy.

‘An unexpected pleasure,’ he purred. ‘A young boy who can talk a civilised language. I think I could use such a lad. Oiled, taught a few of the more tender arts, he could command a fair price in Antioch.’

‘Greeks!’ The burly man spat. ‘You turn a man’s stomach.’

‘Careful, Brachus!’

‘Why? I’m a Roman citizen and as good as any man who walks the earth. You want to bid for the boy? Then name your figure, but by all the gods you’ll not get him cheap!’

His anger was real and I sensed a rivalry of long standing between the two men. Another of the buyers came forward, ran his hands over my shoulders, arms and body, stared into my eyes then shook his head.

‘No. Taming him would take too long. You’re a fool to consider him, Thalidies, he could do your client a serious injury.’

‘Stick to the east if you want perverts,’ advised another. ‘That young barbarian can’t be trusted. What do you know of him, decarus?’

‘He knifed a legionary,’ said Mucius stiffly. ‘It took three to hold him.’

An exaggeration, but it worked. The Greek shrugged and turned away. Brachus remained, his eyes thoughtful. I saw him whisper to Mucius and coins changed hands.

Later, on the way to the auction block, Mucius trod heavily on my foot. I was limping as I mounted the pedestal and a small, crippled boy was of little worth.

Brachus bought me cheap, but he didn’t keep me for long. He sold me to a man who owned land and a villa in Narbonese Gaul.