The Golden Slave

VIII

But still they tarried. A new thought had come to Eodan. When he asked Phryne, she said it was good ― less hopeless, at least, than most things they might attempt.

They sat in the chamber and waited. Little was spoken. Hwicca lay on the couch, after Eodan told her to rest. She stared at the ceiling; only her lungs moved. Eodan sat beside her, stroking her hair. Phryne kept her back to them.

The night grew gray. Hwicca had said Flavius was out to some banquet. Eodan began to wonder if her own slave-girls might not come in to attend her before the Roman returned. That could be a risky thing, capturing them!

The Cimbrian had not dreamed he would be glad to see Flavius again, save as an object of revenge. But when “Vale!” and laughter sounded in the hall, and a little afterward the latch went up, he drew his sword and glided to the door with more happiness than the night had yet given him.

Flavius entered. He wore a wine-stained toga and a wreath slightly askew. He saw Hwicca sitting up on the couch and raised his free arm. “Are you awake, my dear? I did not mean to be so late. It was tedious without you―”

Eodan put the sword against his back and laid a hand on his shoulder. He closed his fingers as tightly as he could, so that Flavius gasped with pain. “If you cry out, you are a dead man,” said Eodan.

Phryne closed the door. Flavius turned about with great care. Lamplight gleamed on steel. For a moment the Roman’s narrow, curving face was nearly fluid, as he struggled to cast off bewilderment and wine. Then it steadied. The dim light sparkled wet across his brow, but he straightened himself.

“Eodan,” he said. “I did not know you at once, with your hair black.”

“Not so loudly,” said Phryne. She barred the door and circled about, her own dagger cocked for an underhanded stab in the way Eodan had shown her.

“But where did you find this handsome boy?” asked Flavius as if a gibe would armor him.

“No matter that,” snapped the Cimbrian. He looked into the other man’s rust-colored eyes. A lock of hair had fallen across one of them. Eodan thought of Hwicca’s hands brushing it back, and for a moment he stood in flames.

A year ago he would have seen Flavius’ heart. A few wont is back, he would have found some quiet place and stretched his revenge through days. But, on this night, he shuddered to stillness. His blade was almost at Flavius’ throat; the Roman had backed against the wall, panting, trying to shed his clumsy toga.

Eodan skinned his teeth and said, “You owe me a heavy blood price. You can never pay it, not with all your lands. So for my honor I should kill you. But I will forego that. It is more to my honor that we three here gain our own lives back.”

“I could manumit you,” whispered Flavius through sandy lips.

Eodan laughed unmirthfully. “How long afterward would we live? No, you shall see us to safety. Once we are beyond Rome’s reach, we can let you go. Meanwhile, you shall not be without us. This sword will be under my cloak. Do not think to trick us and call for help, because, if it even looks as if we are not going to get free, I will kill you.”

Flavius nodded. “Let me past,” he said. Eodan drew the blade back a few inches. Flavius walked to a table, shedding his toga. Eodan followed each step. Flavius took a wine jug and poured into a chalice; he drank with care.

Then, turning about and looking straight up at Eodan: “I would be interested to know how you escaped. It is a leak I must plug, when this affair is over.”

The Cimbrian answered with relish: “Part of the road went through your wife’s bed.”

“Oh, so.” Flavius nodded again. His wits had returned; they had never flown far. His face was almost a mask, save that the shadow of a smile played now and then across it. He moved with the wildcat ease Eodan remembered, unshaken and unhurried.

“No matter!” snapped Phryne. “I have thought what we must do.” Flavius regarded her with measuring eyes. “At this season, ships leave each day for all ports. You will engage passage for a short trip ― that can be done without exciting too much gossip ― let us say to Massilia in Gaul. We shall all four go.”

“Massilia is subject to Rome,” Flavius reminded her.

“But it is not many days’ travel by horse to the frontier. Beyond lies Aquitania, which is free. Even I have heard how the Gauls are still in upheaval after the Cimbrian trek. We can make our own way among them. And you can return home from there.”

Flavius stroked his chin. “Phryne, is it not?” he mused. “Cordelia’s slave, become a most charming boy. Do you think to instruct the barbarians in Greek?”

“Enough,” growled Eodan.

“I think you have breathed fever-mists,” said Flavius. “Do you really believe you can make your way through all Rome and Gaul ― alive?”

“We have come thus far,” said Phryne. In the earliest sky-lightening, Eodan saw how her eyes were dark-rimmed from weariness. He himself felt bowstring tense; sleep would be his enemy.

“What have we to lose?” he added to the girl’s words.

Flavius looked over at Hwicca. She sat on the bed’s edge, white-mouthed and red-eyed, watching them like a leashed dumb beast. “Much, my friend,” said Flavius. “As runaway slaves, you should be killed, or at least whipped and branded, but I could still save you. I could say you went on a secret errand for me. I could not save you if you were caught after having taken a Roman citizen hostage.”

“Would you spare us even now?” snorted Eodan. “What oath can you give me?”

“None,” said Flavius. “You would have to chance my mood. But be sure I have no complaint against Hwicca ― yet. If she is taken with you, though, abetting your flight and my capture, she will also die, piece by piece.” He shook his head. “Eodan, Eodan, you meant to save this girl, but you will give her to death!”

“Better that than you!”

“Do you not understand?” said Flavius gently. “It would not be a quick throat-cutting. The least she could await would be the arena beasts, under the eye of all Rome. But the people have developed more refined tastes in such matters ― and they are savage in their fear of slave mutiny. A servile war was ended only months ago in Sicily; I do not think she would merely face lions.”

It was as though some hand closed on Eodan’s heart. His wrist went slack, the sword drooped downward.

“Hwicca,” he mumbled, “what have we done to the Powers?”

Flavius smiled in his own locked manner and held out his hand. “Will you give me that sword?” he asked.

Phryne whirled upon Hwicca. “You lump!” she yelled. “Is it you that he would die for?”

The Cimbrian girl shook herself. She got to her feet and moved across the floor like a sleepwalker. “No, Eodan,” she said in their own tongue. “Hold fast.”

There was scant life in her voice, but it tapped the wells of his inward self. Eodan drew his head up again, so that be loomed over them all, and laughter grew in his mouth. He jabbed at Flavius’ throat, forcing the Roman back. “We sail today,” he said in Latin. “Or else you shall be spitted on this. And I will be swift enough afterward to kill the girls and fall on the blade myself.”

Flavius caught a breath as though to speak, met Eodan’s green gaze and blew out again. He spread his hands and shrugged.

“Now,” said Phryne, “we must have a plausible story for your sudden departure. Eodan and I are Narbonensian Gauls who have brought you an urgent message from your kinsman Septimus, who resides in Massilia.”

“You kept your ears wide while you ate my salt, Phryne,” said Flavius, with a sidelong glance at Hwicca.

The Grecian girl swiped the air, angrily, and went on: “You need say little more. Speak of a chance to invest money, and all will expect you to be close-mouthed. No one knows Eodan, so he will accompany you about the house; but you will stay within doors, sending your slaves out on the needful errands. When the social calls are paid you in the forenoon, your doorkeeper must turn them back on the plea that you are sick from too much wine. I shall remain here, lest I be recognized. Food will be brought to this door for Hwicca and myself, but no one is to enter save you two.”

She turned to the Cimbrian as she continued: “Eodan, do you know about writing ― the marks made by stylus or quill? Good. Be sure he writes nothing that I do not see him write. Also, be sure that he speaks only in Latin. If he says two words running that you do not understand, kill him!”

Flavius pursed his lips. He regarded her for a long while before he said, very softly, “And I hardly knew you existed, little one.”

“Well, go!” She stamped her foot. “It will take time to find out about ships. Rouse a man now to inquire.”

Eodan draped his cloak around the sword, which he carried bare under his left arm, and followed Flavius out.

The morning dragged. There was a clepsydra in the atrium. Once, when Eodan asked, Flavius told him how it counted time. Thereafter the Cimbrian sat listening to its drip, drip, drip, and shuddered under a tightly held calm; for this was trolldom, where each falling drop eked out another measure of a man’s life.

This waiting was the hardest thing he had yet done. Flavius himself suggested a casual remark to be made to the porter, explaining why the Gauls had not been seen entering the house ― he had heard them talk beneath his garden wall, climbed a ladder in curiosity and invited them over! He dealt smoothly enough with his stewards and errand boys. He reclined on the couch, chatting plausibly of Gallic affairs, when food was served him and Eodan. He seemed to enjoy the scandalized faces of his older retainers when they saw a Roman so familiar with a provincial. Why, it was unheard of ― they went to the privy together! But chiefly there was nothing to do but wait. Eodan stayed within a quick lunge of Flavius, never taking eyes off him. Flavius shrugged lightly, called for some books and lay on a couch reading when he did not nap. It had never before seemed to Eodan that hours on end of silence could be a torment.

Word came about noon ― a small galley was to leave Ostia for Massilia next sunrise. It carried only cheap wares, glass goods made in slave factories for barbarian markets… perhaps a chance person or two paid a few sesterces for space on deck, carrying their own food. Surely the great Master Flavius would not travel in such a tub? And with three companions! In another few days a fine trireme with ample accommodations would depart ― Well, if Master Flavius insisted ― Well, if he would pay that generously, the officers would turn their cabin over to his party and sleep under canvas themselves, but of course Master Flavius must not expect the cabin to be very comfortable; one would advise that he bring his own mattress….

And then it was again to wait.

Once Eodan caught himself nodding. His eyes had closed; all at once he realized it and opened them with a gasp. Flavius looked up from a scroll and chuckled. “You only slept for a heartbeat,” he said. “But how long do you think you can keep awake?”

“Long enough!” spat the Cimbrian.

The household bustled, shouted, chattered, a whirl of pompous orders and acknowledgments. There would be a hive’s buzzing about this, thought Eodan, his mind creaking with weariness. And some of Rome’s mighty folk would hear and wonder. No matter, though. He would be at sea by that time, ahead of any messages. Once out of Massilia town, with a saddle beneath him and a string of remounts, he could race the whole Roman army to Aquitania.

They left for Ostia, in mid-afternoon, with four chariots. Flavius drove one, reckless and skilled. Eodan stood beside him and knew unsureness, as he hung onto the bumping, bouncing, rattling thing, not knowing whether he would be able to wield sword and not lose his feet. Hwicca and Phryne paced them in another. The Cimbrian girl held reins and whip; she had never driven such a wagon before, but she kept an even distance behind Flavius, and looking back Eodan saw in a glad leap of his heart that she smiled! The other two cars bore only a man apiece and the needful travel goods; also some purses, fat with auri, to see them through this land where gold had more strength than iron.

Even in these days of a dying Republic, when new wealth openly flouted old laws, this was no common faring on the Ostian Way. Wagoners, horsemen, foot travelers, porters, donkey drivers, men in tavern doors and cottage windows and haughty gates, the rich matron in a litter and all her bearers, child and laborer and aged beggar ― all must stare at four galloping chariots with a Roman guiding one and a yellow-haired foreign woman the next. Well, let them talk too, thought Eodan. He wished he could give Rome a redder memory of his passage.

Though this road was broad and superbly paved, there were miles to go. Once they stopped to change teams. It was after dark when they entered the Ostian streets. Torches flared; the horses stumbled on cobblestones. Flavius looked wind-flushed at Eodan and laughed. “Thank you for a good ride, at least! Now, shall we to an inn?”

“No.” It was hard to think clearly, with a skull full of sand. But every stop, every man they spoke to, was another hazard. “Let us go aboard at once.”

Flavius clicked his tongue, but turned the chariot down toward the waterfront. There was just enough light, from the city and the pharos in the outer harbor, for Eodan to see a world of ships. Their spars hemmed in the sky. Many of them were lit by torch or firepot, so that slaves could continue loading. Such was the galley they sought.

It was, indeed, neither large nor beautiful. It was battered, in need of paint, reeking of tar and slavery. The small bronze figurehead was so corroded you could not tell what it had been intended to depict. Ten ports on a side showed where the oars would emerge; through them came a sound of chains and animal sleep. Phryne gagged at the smell. A line of near-naked dock workers moved up and down a gangplank, bearing cases to be stowed in the hold, while an overseer and an armed guard watched. There was also a stout, dark, bearded man with a rolling gait who came up, gave a bear’s bow and said he was Demetrios, captain of this vessel. He had not been expecting his distinguished passengers yet.

“Take us to our cabin,” said Flavius. “We would sleep a few hours before you leave.”

“The noise, master,” said the captain. “You would not sleep at all, I fear.”

Eodan looked wildly about. He had not thought of this … if the Demetrios man grew suspicious ― what to do, what to do?

Flavius winked and jerked his thumb at Hwicca and Phryne. “I should not have said ‘sleep,’ captain.”

“Oh,” said Demetrios enviously. “Of course.”

They went up on deck. There was a high poop, where the great steering oar was lashed; the stem-post curled up over it like a flaunting tail. The forecastle stood somewhat lower, bearing a rough tent erected for the officers. The free deck-hands would bed in the open, as always. Amidships rose the single mast, with a flimsy cabin just aft where Flavius’ attendants laid down his gear. A lamp showed it windowless, though crannies let in ample cold air, and bare save for a little wooden sea-god nailed to his shelf.

Demetrios bowed in the doorway. “Good night, then, noble master,” he said. “I hope we’ll get a pleasant voyage.” Flavius smiled graciously. “I am sure we will.”