wished me dead and for fear of whom I had stayed away from Rome.
Now, apparently, she had changed. I was no longer a voice to be stilled but a hand to be used. She, or those involved in her ambition, sought my friendship, and it was easy to guess what would happen should I refuse to give it. Trapped in the house, I could vanish without trace.
On the table the gold shone with a rich, yellow warmth. The stuff which could provide comfort and luxury. Money to buy passage to Greece or Egypt, Syria or Spain. To Britain even, anywhere far enough away from those who had let ambition dull their minds. Money I dared not refuse. Later, when the chance came, I would decide what to do. For now I had no choice.
Aurelius relaxed as I swept up the coins. Racilia, more discerning, said, ‘No questions, Atilus?’
‘Like these coins, Domina, silence can be golden.’
‘No curiosity, then?’
‘About what?’ Turning I met her eyes, my own bland. ‘You have been most generous in regard to my stained tunic, and I appreciate both the meal and your gift. It isn’t often that a gladiator’s skill is so highly rewarded by a gracious patron.’
I saw her frown at my apparent dullness, then the crease between her eyes vanished as she recognised the opening I offered, the one I prayed she would take. As yet nothing had been said which could harm her or her companions. I could leave, the recipient of a gift, and there would be an end. An end to my involvement with plots and intrigue and the trouble they would bring. And there was a plot, every instinct warned me of it, why else the gold and the mention of things best forgotten?
‘You are shrewd, Atilus,’ said Racilia. ‘But the money was not for your tunic. Neither was it a gift. It is your fee for protecting me on my journey to Rome.’
‘Rome?’
‘We leave at dawn,’ she said. ‘Everything has been arranged. You will, naturally, stay here tonight.’
‘And my slave?’
‘He will be sent for. We shall talk later, Atilus, now let us return to the others. I am sure that Cadius will want to talk about various fighters you have known and the skills they employ.’ Racilia smiled, a woman triumphant. ‘And I’m sure that we shall enjoy the journey to Rome.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Dawn broke with mist and a scud of rain, both unusual for the time of the year and, to a superstitious man, ominous. The conditions delayed our departure, and the sun was high in the east when we moved north along the Appian Way. Aurelius and Cadius, mounted, rode a little ahead. The women sat in litters borne by stalwart slaves, and from the first it was obvious that my protection was unnecessary.
A dozen armed men marched as escort, tough freedmen with a couple of ex-legionaires among them. Grizzled veterans of the German campaigns who strode along as if they could march forever. The guards who had surrounded the domus during the night, I guessed, hard men who wouldn’t hesitate in carrying out their orders. And from the way some of them looked at me, I had a good idea of what those orders were.
In effect, I was a prisoner in a cage, the bars of which would remain invisible until I tried to escape.
Heraculis snuffled as he trudged at my side, making much of the burden he carried. It was a light bundle containing a few clothes and little else. The equipment I’d used in the arena had been borrowed from Sentonius. Once I’d owned my own, but bad times had forced me to sell. Now, with gold, I could choose the best.
Early as it was, the road was fairly busy. Carts with solid wheels rumbled towards the town, carrying produce for sale in the market. A file of slaves trotted past, their necks shackled, their overseer busy with his whip. A scatter of pedestrians, some of whom had travelled through the night, risking the danger of brigands.
Despite the police patrolling the road, they were always to be feared. Savage men driven desperate by poverty who were willing to kill for the sake of a few coins. Some were runaway slaves, others deserters from the legions, and all faced the same punishment when caught.
‘Master!’ Heraculis lifted a hand to shield his eyes. ‘Something’s going on up there.’
My eyes were better than his and I recognised the figures of uniformed men. As we approached, an officer rode towards us.
‘Your name and business?’ He nodded respectfully as Aurelius gave the information. ‘You have women with you? I thought so.’ He glanced at the litters. ‘It might be a good idea not to linger.’
‘Why not?’ Racilia had thrust her head through the curtains. ‘What’s going on? Are we in danger?’
‘No.’ The officer masked his scorn with a smile. ‘Not with us around to take care of things. It’s just that we’ve caught a brigand and are giving him what he deserves.’
‘Then I want to watch!’ Emillia swung her legs over the side of her litter. ‘Racilia, may I? Cadius, say I can.’
‘You can watch,’ said Aurelius. ‘The slaves also. It will show them what to expect if they disobey.’ He sat on his horse, smiling, a Roman watching the might of Roman law. ‘Will you be long, officer?’
‘No.’ The man turned away. ‘Hurry with that cross there! Hurry!’
An upright had been set into the dirt at the side of the road, a crosspiece lashed firm some ten feet high. The man the patrol had captured was small, stooped, his face and body bruised and marked with old scars. Naked, the ribs stood out clear against the skin of his chest, and his stomach, shrunken, was a taut expanse between the prominent bones of his hips. He writhed as he was lifted up by soldiers, riding on the shoulders of their companions who laughed and joked as they lashed his wrist to the crosspiece. Another, his face expressionless, hammered a block to the upright beneath the man’s feet.
Aurelius said, ‘No doubt, officer?’
‘None. We caught him almost in the act. A dead man was found a mile down the road and we grabbed this thing as he tried to run into the bushes. He had a purse on him and a silver brooch. A mark on the dead man’s cloak showed from where it had been torn. Anyway, he’s a branded slave.’
Branded because once he had tried to run, and now, having run again, his fate was sealed. Naked, he hung from his lashings and already his skin was dewed with a patina of pain. It would grow worse as the day progressed and the sun began to scorch his flesh. Thirst would torment him but, above all, he would be racked by fierce cramps in the muscles of shoulders, back, arms, and torso.
A long and dragging death. In order to breathe, the man would have to support his weight on the block at his feet and so ease the constriction of his chest. Sagging, he would begin to asphyxiate and have to support his weight again.
‘Are you going to leave him like that?’ Emillia’s voice was ugly. ‘Suppose he has friends to cut him down?’
‘It’s unlikely that he has,’ said the officer. ‘But even if he should, they won’t get much. You there!’ He pointed at a soldier. ‘Blind him!’
Two pokes with a spear and it was done. The man screamed as the point found his eyes, ripping into the orbs, sending blood and limpid fluid running down his cheeks. Later the birds would come to peck at the ravaged tissue, tearing the flesh from his lips, his eyes.
He would hang until he died, until he rotted, a grim reminder of the harsh justice of Rome.
‘Move!’ snapped Aurelius. ‘Let’s be on our way. I want to reach Bovillae well before dark.’
For a mounted man the journey was nothing. For a man on foot a steady day’s walking, but for the litter-bearers it was hard going. Frequent pauses had to be made in order to give them rest.
During one of them Heraculis said, quietly, ‘Master, what is happening?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No?’ Like those of a wary animal his eyes were shrewd. ‘Men came to me