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CHAPTER THREE

Publius Varus Severus was a tall, spare man in his middle forties. His shoulders were stooped, his lips thin, and he walked with a slight limp, the relic of a wound he had received during military service. He was a widower with a son a year older than myself, his other, older son, having died three years earlier. It was for the sake of Macer rather than a need for slaves which made him interested in me.

His villa was at Vienne, which lay to the south of Lyons where Brachus had disposed of the other slaves he had bought. We had travelled fast, yet had been caught by the winter, and I was cold and miserable as we were led into the house.

Severus prodded me as if I had been a horse.

‘He’s fit, Domini,’ said Brachus. ‘Strong bones and muscles and his teeth are sound. Open your mouth, boy.’

Severus nodded as he looked inside. He wore a heavy ring on his hand, the signet of a member of the equestrian order. A knight, he had great local influence and family connections in Rome.

‘From Britain, you say?’

‘Taken during the Emperor’s campaign. He fought like a man and put up such a good show the legionaries spared him. As a soldier yourself, Domini, you can appreciate how they like a display of courage. He’s a little wild, but can be tamed. And he speaks good Latin and knows Greek.’

‘Greek?’

‘Yes.’ Brachus had been pleased at the discovery; it enhanced my value. ‘And he’s tough. He kept up all the time even though his feet were bleeding. You could use him in the fields, but he’d be of greater value in the house. It would be a pity to waste all that education.’

‘Your name, boy?’

I told him and Brachus slapped my face.

You address the Domini as “master”,’ he snapped. ‘And your name is simply Atilus, a slave needs no more than one.’

The blow had been hard and I lowered my face to stare at the elaborate mosaics set into the floor of the atrium. It was a large chamber with glowing braziers set at intervals and a line of statues at the walls. The air was warm and scented with the tang of incense which had been burned before the household gods. There were couches and low tables set with vases of alabaster. The house itself was the largest I had ever entered and I wondered why, if the Romans had so much, they should be greedy for more.

Severus said, thoughtfully, ‘He needs taming, you say?’

‘Training, rather, Domini. The Britons are savages and unused to civilised customs, but he is young and will quickly learn. I thought of you as soon as I saw him.’

‘The price?’

‘Twenty gold pieces.’

‘Ten. I could use the boy, but the price of slaves has fallen and will drop even lower now that the Emperor has taken Britain. Take it or leave it, I am not inclined to haggle.’

Brachus took it and I entered the household.

I was house-trained, taught certain skills, even tutored after a fashion, but my main purpose was to fetch and carry and to attend Macer wherever he went.

As the years passed we grew close.

He was lonely, chafing at the restrictions of the farm, impatient to enter the life beyond. Though he was older than I was, he had barely more growth, a lack he tried to make up with strenuous exercise. Together we chopped wood, swinging axes until our muscles ached, digging, running, leaping from tuft to tuft of the thick grass which grew in the western marshes.

I grew tall and strong. The food, though plain, was wholesome, and the female slaves in the kitchens always had a little extra to spare. One of them, Celia, used to save scraps from the master’s table, sharing them with me as we sat beneath the trees edging the slave quarters.

She was of Macer’s age, a slim, dark-haired girl with a budding figure, and was already conscious of her physical attractions. Some of the men had tried to get close to her and she told me about it as we chewed fragments of chicken and goose.

‘Cilo tried to kiss me this morning,’ she said casually. ‘He said he loved me, but all he wants is to use my body. Do you, Atilus?’

‘Love you?’

‘Use my body, stupid. You know what women are for, don’t you?’ She bit into another scrap of meat. ‘Is it true that before a fight all the British warriors lie with women? And if there aren’t enough women to go around, they share what is available?’

‘No,’ I said flatly. ‘That isn’t true.’

‘How can you be sure? You were only a boy at the time. Anyway, you can’t deny they fight naked and covered with paint.’

‘That isn’t true, either. Woad isn’t paint.’

‘It’s close enough.’ She shrugged and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. ‘Kiss me, Atilus.’

She was on me before I knew it, body pressing, lips rammed against my own. As a kiss it was clumsy, but I was young and couldn’t help but respond. Laughing she pulled away.

‘There, Atilus, you see? You’re just like all the rest. Think of me the next time Macer takes you to the baths.’

The day was warm, but I felt a chill as I entered the house. Celia had reminded me of things I had almost forgotten. The strongest grief can be eased by time and now the past seemed very remote. The life of the villa had enfolded me, kept me busy, softened me while it developed both body and mind. I was a slave and had accepted the life of a slave. Romans fed, housed, and clothed me and, like a tamed beast, I no longer flinched at the touch of the hands which had made it captive.

For that Didius was partly to blame.

The tutor was an old man, a Greek, and he had been delighted to learn that I spoke his tongue, though badly. He had insisted that we speak it together when Macer was present, and much to Severus’s pleasure, both he and I had gained proficiency in the language. He had given the old man a new woollen garment. I had received nothing, but I was only a barbarian, while Didius was the product of a civilisation which had been old when Rome was young.

‘The exercise of logic demands that we accept the inevitable, Atilus,’ he told me when, one winter’s day, we sat hunched before a brazier. Severus had taken Macer on a visit to the nearby town. ‘You are a slave as I am, and there has always been, and will always be, slaves. It is a fact of life like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Would you struggle against the wetness of the sea? Or the heat of summer, or the cold of winter? These things are and cannot be altered. To cavil against them is to set yourself against the gods.’

‘Do you believe in the gods, Didius?’

‘I would be a fool to say that I did not,’ he said dryly. ‘But there are degrees of belief, as there are degrees of love. And what have you lost? In Britain you were a savage, here you share the comforts of civilisation. If you were freed tomorrow, what would you live on? A wise man looks at the good things of life, he does not count his misfortunes.’

There had been more, skilful words to instill doubt in a young mind, to erode previous convictions. Now I heard his voice raised as I entered the house. It grew louder as I passed into his chamber.

‘Macer, attend! You will be considered an idiot in Rome unless you improve your rhetoric. Only a raw provincial would state his case in such an uncouth manner. If you ever become a senator, you will be laughed from the Forum.’

Macer was stubborn, his cheeks flushed with anger.

‘I don’t want to become a senator. I’m going to join the army.’

‘Even so—’

‘You’re a slave! I don’t have to listen to you!’ He turned towards me. ‘Come on, Atilus, let’s go and ride the horses.’

A slave also, I had no choice but to obey. We rode for a while and then wrestled, stripped to the raw and throwing each other to the ground. I was the stronger and he exerted himself even more. By accident I struck his nose and he looked at the blood, his face ugly.

‘You struck me! You struck me!’

‘It was an accident.’

‘Yes.’ He stood, breathing deeply. ‘Let’s get back to the house.’

Severus was waiting; Didius had complained. The beating Macer received was only a token, the one given me was savage. My silence beneath the rod appealed to the knight’s Stoic leanings.

‘There is good in you, Atilus. A man should be able to bear pain without flinching. The discomfort of the body must not be allowed to disturb the calm tranquillity of the mind. You realise why you are being punished?’

‘Master, I did no wrong.’

‘That is true, but Macer must learn that his actions affect others. To insult his tutor was impolite, to defy my orders was unforgiveable. The next time he is tempted to disobey, he will know that it is not he alone who will suffer.’

A form of logic with which I had no sympathy. Later, at the baths, when examining my weals, Macer laughed.

‘At least, Atilus, you’ll know what to expect if you join the army. Stripes are common.’

‘I can’t join the army. No slave can be a legionary.’

‘Would you become one if you could?’ Macer’s eyes held a peculiar expression as if he held secret knowledge. ‘Would you?’

‘I might.’

‘I want to know, Atilus.’

I couldn’t understand his insistence, but it was easier to agree than to argue. ‘Yes, but—’

‘You can’t be accepted until you are free,’ he interrupted. ‘I know that.’

He leaned back on the couch, sweating in the heat. With a strigil I scraped the dirt and oil from his pores, wiping the curved, bronze blade on a scrap of linen. An attendant slave scowled at me as he passed, taking me for a normal client robbing him of a tip.

‘I’ll have to do military service anyway if I hope to gain public office,’ mused Macer. ‘Father wants me to stand for election, but I think I’ll stay with the army. When I’m the legate of a legion, I’ll show these armchair warriors just how to achieve victories. Earn a triumph too, maybe. Did you know that Aulus Plautius could claim a triumph if he wanted? He’s killed more than five thousand of the British; that’s more than the Emperor Claudius did and he was granted a triumph. You know, Atilus, the real power of Rome lies not in the Senate but with the legions. You’ll see.’

I said nothing, finishing my scraping, then following him into the cold plunge where we sported for a while before he decided that he wanted his massage.

I used scented oils and my fingers dug deep.

‘Careful, Atilus!’

‘Sorry.’

After the massage we sat in the cooling room and listened to the gossip. Today it was of Messalina, the Emperor’s wife. Claudius had finally discovered her flagrantly wanton behaviour and, after giving her a chance to commit suicide, had sent an officer to run her through with his sword.

The symbolism amused those present.

‘I’ll bet that’s the first time she’d had something long and hard shoved into her and didn’t like it,’ said a fat, red-faced man.

Another laughed.

‘Maybe she wouldn’t have complained had he put it somewhere else.’

‘Did you ever see her?’ A lean man with a badly scarred leg hunched forward on his chair. ‘She was a real beauty. I saw her once when I visited Rome; she was at the arena, you know, the one built by Titus Statilius.’

‘The Taurus? Is that still standing?’

‘Yes.’

‘A good show?’

‘Fair. I dropped in during the afternoon hoping to see some real action, but there was nothing special. They had a fairly good secutor, and some of the bestiarii weren’t too bad, but you can see as good at Lyons anyday. That wasn’t what I was going to tell you. Messalina was there with a few sychophants, among them a young lute player. Well, he was afraid of her, everyone could see that, and she kept threatening to throw him into the arena unless he did exactly what she wanted. I had a good seat and she didn’t trouble to lower her voice, so I could hear every word. The poor devil was sweating and he looked ready to throw a fit. She had a big gladiator with her and when she gave the signal, he picked up the lute player by his feet and held him head downwards over the sand. He had long hair and it hung down like a woman’s. A lion took a swipe at it and almost scalped him—he screamed as if he’d been gutted.’

‘And?’

‘He begged her to forgive him. When the gladiator set him down he dropped to his knees and kissed her feet. We could all tell what he had to do once they were alone.’

‘I bet he regrets it now,’ said the fat man. ‘From what I hear heads are falling all over Rome. The woman must have operated like a brothel.’

Macer said, ‘Why did she have to threaten anyone to make them go with her? If she was a beauty, surely any man would have been willing.’

The lean man grunted. ‘You’re young, friend, but think about it. Would you commit adultery with the wife of the Emperor? A word, and you’d find yourself tied in a sack with a boar. Or hanging on a cross. Or watching as they frizzled your genitals on a fire. No woman’s worth it.’

‘But how did she get away with it for so long?’

‘The husband’s the last to know,’ said the fat man. ‘Remember that when you’re married.’

‘But the Emperor! Surely someone would have told him?’

‘Would you have done?’ The lean man shook his head. ‘It’s taking a risk to tell any man his wife’s acting the harlot; carry a tale like that to a man like Claudius and he’d accuse you of treason. He doted on her. You know what they say, no fool like an old fool, and he was old enough to be her father. He even gave orders to people that they should do exactly what she told them. Naturally he didn’t know what her instructions would be—she certainly had him blinkered. Anyway, it’s over now. Say, did you hear about that senator in Ravenna?’

The talk went on, and it was late when we left the baths. Macer chose to take the long way back home, and he headed to where the legion camp stood on a flat stretch of ground beneath a low hill. It was a training camp for new recruits and we could see a detachment returning from a route march. The setting sun threw gleaming reflections from their shields and armour, and they made a fine sight as they passed. A tribune rode with them and he came trotting over to join us.

Tullius Voculus was just past twenty and already considered himself a veteran. He saluted Macer in the Roman manner.

‘Come to look us over?’

‘Just passing the time. Did you hear about Messalina?’

‘Probably long before you did.’ Voculus’s gesture hinted that it was stale news and no longer of interest to an officer of the legion like himself. ‘How is your father?’

‘Well. We haven’t seen you lately.’

‘I’ve been too busy breaking in this batch.’ The plume on the tribune’s helmet nodded as he jerked his head towards the marching men. ‘But I’ll be around soon. I enjoy dining with your family and I’ve got some family news from Rome.’

Voculus was a distant relative of Severus and liked to keep in contact. In the army, influence could always help an ambitious man to rise, and the tribune was ambitious.

Looking at the marching column, Macer said, ‘How are they shaping?’

‘Well enough, but they won’t be true legionaries until they’ve faced the enemy. That’ll weed out the failures and stiffen the rest. Come to think of it, I’ve a punishment scheduled. I don’t believe in keeping these things waiting; a quick show of discipline sets an example. It would do you good to watch. Teach you how men should be handled.’

Macer hesitated. ‘It’s late and I promised I would be home before dark.’

‘You can’t begin to learn too soon,’ snapped Voculus. ‘It’s only a scourging, and since when has a Roman objected to the sight of blood? Come on, now, you don’t want to get a reputation for being weak.’

We rode into the camp and down the straight lanes between the tents and administration buildings. Any legionary could have found his way through any camp blindfolded, they were all built to exactly the same pattern. The man to be punished had been slow to obey an order, and when a centurion had beaten him with his vine staff, he had turned with an upraised hand. Had he struck the officer, he would have been crucified, as it was, the flesh would be torn from his back with lead-weighted thongs.

They did it with ceremony. The man was marched to the whipping post before the assembled men, his clothes ripped from his back as his hands were tied, a centurion calling out the reason for the punishment.

The horses shied at the first lash of the whip, with the scream they tore from the man’s throat. I soothed them as I stood on the edge of the parade ground while the punishment continued. The first blows ripped the skin, those after gouged gobbets of flesh from the muscles below, blood running to puddle on the ground. The screaming died as the man slumped unconscious against the pole, but the scourging was continued until the white of bone showed in the crimson ruin of his back.

Macer joined me as bugles broke the assembly. He was white, his eyes strained.

‘They’ve asked me to dine, Atilus,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to wait outside with the horses, as it will be dark by the time we’re finished.’

He was swaying a little when he finally rejoined me and his breath reeked of wine. I helped him to mount and rode close beside him to catch him if he fell. Luckily the moon had risen early and gave a clear light so we made fairly good time.

Severus came from the house as we approached, warned by a slave. In the dancing light of torches his face was stern.

‘Macer?’

‘I’m sorry, father, but it couldn’t be helped.’ The ride had sobered him so that he did not stumble as he dismounted. Severus relaxed when he heard the explanation.

‘And Tullius Voculus will come to dinner tomorrow? Good. It is time we heard the latest news of the legions. I shall order a sucking-pig to be prepared and open some of the best wine. But you should have sent Atilus to tell me what had happened.’

Dismissed, I handed the horses over to the stable-slaves. It was late and I was hungry. The cook gave me a mess of cold vegetables and some bread which I dipped in oil. The slave quarters were dark; people who rose before dawn were ready for bed at dusk; besides which, Severus was mean with oil for the lamps.

From the trees came a rustle and a low voice.

‘Atilus?’

It was Celia. She came running forward, grabbed me by the hand and led me into the shadows.

‘I was getting worried,’ she said. ‘I thought something might have happened to you. Are you hungry?’

‘The cook gave me something.’

‘And I can guess what. That fat old bitch treats the food as if she paid for it. Here, I saved you a piece of pie.’

It was good and I ate it sitting on the far side of the trees. The moon gave out a silver light and stars were bright in the sky.

‘What happened, Atilus? Why were you so late?’

She sucked in her breath as I told her, making me repeat details, her lower lip full as I described the scourging.

‘I’ve never seen a man flogged,’ she said. ‘And I’ve never seen a man bleed like that. What will happen to him? Will he die?’

‘He might. It all depends on the way he heals.’

‘But soldiers get wounded all the time and they don’t all die. Would you like to be a soldier, Atilus? You could kill men and take women and hold them and force their legs open and—’

‘Stop it!’

‘But wouldn’t you like to take a woman and do that to her?’ She pulled up the hem of her gown. ‘Look at my legs, aren’t they nice? Wouldn’t you like to touch them? You can if you want.’

They were pale in the moonlight, tapering shafts joined with darkness, the skin soft and delicately downed.

‘I’ve always liked you, Atilus,’ she whispered. ‘You’re tall and fair and different to the others. Don’t you like me? Wouldn’t you like to kiss me?’ Her lips came close. ‘Wouldn’t you, Atilus? Wouldn’t you?’

This time it was different. Her lips were soft and warm, parting to emit her tongue, her arms lifting to close around my neck, holding me close so that I could feel the soft impact of her breasts.

And it didn’t stop at a kiss.

She was afire and demanding fuel, kindling a similar flame in me, quenching it to fan it into greater life so that we rolled in a paroxysm of physical abandon until, finally, the flame was drowned.

Unsteadily I rose and, turning, looked into my past at a ghost.

She lay on her back, the gown pulled from her shoulders, her breasts exposed. Her legs were wide, joined with darkness which seemed to be blood. Her face was turned, shadowed as was her hair.

‘Atilus?’ She stirred. ‘Come to me, Atilus.’

But I was running, crying, sick with shame.