Rome

by Matthew Thayer

  Sabriana’s sobs carried over the creaks of her father’s departing wagon as I knelt at the base of my stone hearth to be chained. New soldiers guarded me, though these wore the same inscrutable scowls that said I better not try anything stupid.

  As the ironsmith spread his wares upon the granite hearthstone, I made the mistake of trying to pass him a coin. A slap sent the silver flying across the room.

  “What do you think that buys? Loose cuffs? Escape? You think I’d sell my honor for an antoninianus?”

  “No offense was intended, kind sir. I have recently returned from the East where it is common practice to offer a coin before being shackled. It is a courtesy to show respect for the armorer’s craft and to ask that he might use his file to smooth away any burrs or sharp edges.”

  The centurion looked up from the rows of figures he was tallying in his journal to arch an eyebrow in the candlelight. “How does a Roman citizen know so much about being cast in chains? Are you an escaped slave?”

  “Quite the opposite,” I said as the smith seized my right wrist, placed it in a semi-circle of rusted iron and slapped the manacle’s matching half down over. As I worried, it was a tight fit. There was no sense trying to speak over the hammer blows as the iron rivets were flattened to secure the cuffs around my wrists.

  “Slave owner?” He asked while the armorer fiddled with the four-foot-long chain spanning the distance between my wrists.

  “Trader. This was a past life.”

  The centurion waited for the next drum solo of iron rivets being flattened between hammer and granite flagstone to finish.

  “And you charged the slaves for comfort?”

  “My armorer accepted the coins,” I said as the smith carefully returned his tools to their proper slots in his leather satchel. “It was the armorer’s way of providing extra for his family.”

  “It is obvious you lie. Where did slaves get coins?”

  “Why, I gave them the coins. One each. It was an inexpensive way to care for my property and earn their loyalty.”

  At the sound of the front door banging open, I turned to find Faustinius the magistrate being ushered in. Keeping the white-haired dignitary standing, the centurion directed his comments to me.

  “I’m told this magistrate was my brother’s partner.” Holding up a palm, he silenced Faustinius without taking his gaze off me. “Together, they sold this property at least five times. My sources can confirm four bogus sales in Rome and one in Assisi–you. Does that make you angry?”

  “Lies!” Faustinius blustered as he turned for the door. A pair of soldiers grabbed his arms and forced him to join me at the hearth, where the smith unrolled his leather tool kit and once again arranged his manacle wares.

  “Make sure to offer him a coin,” I said, drawing a bewildered look from the frightened magistrate and a smirk from the centurion. Pushing his chair away from my table and standing, the centurion began to pace.

  “Alerio and his wife combined expensive tastes with poor habits. This swindle was one of the ways they kept oil in their lamps. As I understand it, my brother sold only to buyers who needed to escape Rome for political or other sensitive reasons. That made them easy targets for Faustinius to arrest and confiscate their property.”

  Turning toward the lying bastard kneeling beside me leaking tears, I said, “I’ve never seen this man before.” It was worth a shot.

  “Is that so? Well, you two can get acquainted on the march to Assisi.”

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  63 A.D.

  I doubt Faustinius will survive the night. Sixteen hours of forced march has left him ashen and barely breathing. They prodded him in the back so many times he’s pissing blood.

  Each time the corpulent man faltered, I too suffered jabs to the kidneys and slashes across my shoulders. My day became one long coax to keep the bugger moving. His bellows reduced to begging, Faustinius maintained he was merely helping Nero’s people sort out traitors who cannot be trusted. So what if he made a few coins in the process. “What’s the harm in that?”

  By eavesdropping, I’ve gathered the unit is part of a legion tasked with marching to Iberia to quell an uprising. There is concern the centurion is wasting time honoring his brother. As the group falls behind it risks the wrath of the top man, the primo ordine, who sounds like a real prick.

  Not for the first time, I was surprised to have this computer returned to me. “Here, this belongs with you,” the smith said as I was being led out of the house. The device must put off a low-level transmission or subliminal signal that not only convinces people they don’t want the thing, but also that they should give it to me. Rather handy, I’d say. Too bad my belt and pulsers didn’t last so long. I could sure use a gun right now.

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  63 A.D.

  Hilltop Assisi seemed to float above the diminishing fog. Backlit by the morning sun, temples and commercial buildings cast long shadows into the mists as we approached from the west. How many locals would remember the man who shamed Roman magistrate Alerio at dice? It would only take one to fink me out.

  Faustinius was dumped from his travois and forced to join me on foot as we made the final slog up the steep, cobbled road leading to the gates of Assisi proper. Halfway up, a group of riders intercepted the centurion and his unit. Even from a distance it was plain the centurion was at the wrong end of a very serious discussion.

  The scolding continued as the leader of the cavalry unit cantered the length of the infantry squad, trailing the chastised centurion, who had to run to keep up. Reining to a halt before me, the decurion gave me a quick up and down.

  “The centurion claims you murdered his brother. Is this true?”

  His disdain caused me to take a gamble.

  “Yes, I exterminated the cockroach.”

  “You admit it. Good. Why did you ‘exterminate’ Alerio?”

  “He had no honor. He was a liar and a cheat, a scoundrel. This world is better off without him.”

  “Tell me about this old man beside you?”

  “Faustinius is also a liar, a cheat and a scoundrel.”

  “Why haven’t you killed him?”

  “I needed someone to converse with on the journey here.”

  Tossing his gladius at my feet, he said, “Your journey’s over.”

  As Faustinius began to sob, I motioned him to be calm. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t hurt you,” I said, picking up the short sword and turning to face the decurion. Pivoting at the silent count of two, I delivered a wicked two-handed chop designed to sever the magistrate’s head from his body. If the Roman cavalry wanted a show, I would give it.

  The blade whistled through empty air.

  Faustinius must have been a soldier or brawler in his day. Crouched like a feral pig, the magistrate yanked the chain connecting our wrists to unbalance me. Springing to lock both hands around my wrist, he attempted gutting me with my own sword. Our chains became a tangle as we lurched and spun. Judging by their laughter, the Roman horsemen thought it was jolly good fun.

  Grunting, sucking air through his mouth, Faustinius ground the top of his head under my chin as he struggled to wrest the weapon from my grasp. With a judo sweep of his legs, I sent us both crashing to the ground.

  Rolling on top, using his weight to full advantage, Faustinius stretched a length of chain across my throat and pressed with every ounce of strength he had left. His beady eyes shot wide as I slid the gladius between our necks. Pressing upward as he tried to flinch away, I drew the well-honed blade across his jugular, releasing a deluge of hot blood and spittle over my face.

  Scrambling from underneath the gurgling man, I gathered myself for one more try at a showy decapitation. This slash also ended in failure. My hands were slippery and I could barely see.

  “Taking a man’s head is harder than it looks,” the decurion said from his saddle. “Before you hit a stone and chip my blade, please
hand the gladius, handle first, to Linus here. He will clean it.”

  I surrendered the sword and shuffled as far away from Faustinius as our short chains would allow.

  The decurion took my measure as I stood panting, coated in sticky blood and flies.

  “What are we going to do with you?”

  I knew better than to beg, just kept my gob shut.

  “Can you ride?”

  “Like a Mongol.”

  “Good answer.”

  The centurion received the rest of his dressing down in stony silence. Eyes focused straight forward, he learned he and his men had earned two months’ latrine duty for disobeying orders and another two for falling a week behind their cohort. He had been warned not to waste time avenging his brother. It made no difference that he had only recently returned to Italy after a stint in Greece, or that he was now headed to the far reaches of Iberia, perhaps never to return.

  Turning to me, he called, “What property did they confiscate from you? Jewels? Coins?” Not knowing for certain to whom my fate was tied, I found myself balancing on a tightrope. In for a penny . . .

  “Both. The soldier called Number Two will know the location of my belongings. They should include a kettle of coins, a gold chain of high quality and a leather bag with an assortment of rings, brooches and bracelets.”

  “What else did they steal from you?”

  “Excuse me, sir, if I misspoke. While the centurion and his men kept a grueling pace, they have behaved in a professional manner.”

  “You honestly believe they were going to return your gold chains and rings once you reached Assisi?”

  Of course not. No more than I expected him to relinquish my property.

  “Strange things happen,” I drawled. “I once saw a blind squirrel find a nut.”

  My lame attempt at playing the fool inspired a dangerous turn.

  “Are you calling the centurion a squirrel?” The horseman snorted. “He does have the teeth.”

  After issuing one last reminder of the vile things that will happen to the troops if they do not rejoin the main cohort as fast as humanly possible, the decurion tossed a parting barb down from his saddle.

  “Scurry now, you squirrels. What are you waiting for? I’ll take care of your prisoner. You are dismissed! Be gone! Scurry, squirrels!”

  If looks could murder. The centurion glared at me through gaps in the ranks as his men performed crisp about-faces and started double-timing their way to Western Spain. Red faced, steam nearly spouting from his ears, the officer fell in last after dosing me with a glower of pure hatred.

  “We’ve both made an enemy there,” the decurion said, watching him go. “Lucky for us, those men will probably never make it back.”

  “Many of them take local wives and retire in Iberia,” said the deputy as he handed the polished short sword up to his leader.

  “Are you the primo ordine?” My chance comment prompted a snort of laughter from the deputy and a double-take by the decurion.

  “No, I’m not the primo ordine!” he shouted. “He’s old, bald and missing two front teeth. Do I look old and bald to you?” He growled to show me his healthy white teeth.

  As I stood there contemplating an appropriate reply, the deputy named Linus gave a small shake of his head signaling me to hold my tongue. The decurion turned his horse in a tight circle, danced him sideways to back me up until the chain tethering me to Faustinius was pulled taut.

  “Do you know why you are alive?” he asked, leaning toward me and lowering his voice. “You are alive because a good friend of mine, and also of the primo ordine, was swindled by Alerio of Rome. Alerio sold our friend a villa in Tuscany that was not his to sell. He also helped him assume a new family name to avoid certain problems.

  “Our good friend and his family had not been on the land for more than two weeks before the militia arrived to arrest them for treason. Faustinius the magistrate conducted the inquiry in a single morning. Our friend was executed that afternoon in the town square by hot iron poker. After being forced to watch, his family was split up and sold into slavery.

  His voice lowered to a whisper.

  “Alerio and his partner here were untouchable to me. A superior officer and public official appointed by the Emperor? Career suicide. You did me and the primo ordine a favor, now I’ll do you one. Until someone claims you, I take responsibility. What is your name?”

  “I am Hunter.”

  “Hunter, I am in need of a valet and groom. How would you like a job?”

  From the log of Hunter

  Ethics Specialist

  63 A.D.

  This lowered station in life provides me an opportunity to learn how to be a more effective businessman and leader of men. Every culture features tales of kings and sultans who shed their robes to mingle within common society. Those storybook rulers always emerge with great insights.

  It helps that I like my masters.

  With his affinity for word play and finer things in life, decurion Quintus Vinarius reminds me a little of my son Salvatore when he was on his A game. Of course, browsing through the journal entries a third time has placed that long-ago son in the forefront of my mind. Again this white, nondescript device has been inexplicably handed back without question or curiosity.

  Tonight we bivouac within the walls of a country estate owned by family friends of Quintus. Having proven myself his near equal on horseback–I’m not so foolish as to show up a narcissistic boss–I have been elevated to the status of second groom. The job comes with the same level of pay, zero, but it has perks. Tonight, I am allowed to sleep in the barn with the horses.

  Before retiring, I spent the evening next to a fire built at the bottom edge of the estate’s vegetable garden. Joining a circle of other grooms and worker bees too lowly to be invited to the orgy, I passed around a bag of vino my master had given me for just this purpose.

  “Arrive with a bag of nectar and you won’t be a stranger for long,” Quintus said. “Off with you, Hunter. Make some friends while we adults play.”

  Aristocracy assumes we peons can’t wait to get together to gossip and complain about our lots in life. They have no understanding of how closely our fortunes are tied to theirs. Loose lips not only sink ships, they can cost your benefactor his head. Current weather conditions and the likelihood of an early winter were two topics deemed safe as our betters frolicked about the marble mansion.

  We could not help but watch from our seats in the shadows as the events up at the house grew wilder and wilder. One race around the fountains featured a dozen naked women riding on a dozen naked men’s shoulders. The combination of wet marble and unsteady legs made for several horrific spills, but that didn’t stop the crowd from cheering the blood-gushing competitors to remount and get back in the race.

  Couples didn’t wander off for privacy for their intimate moments, but rather put their rutting on display. Apart from the statuary and architecture, the sexual antics remind me of things I might have seen in the Stone Age. Again, crowds gathered to urge the participants on or to join in.

  “Blame it on the lead pipes and pots,” a pock-faced groom in leather tunic said. He waited for the wisecracks to die off before explaining. “My family’s been in the plumbing business for 10 generations. If I didn’t have five older brothers, I’d be in the plumbing business too. Pays better than mucking out stalls, I can tell you that.

  “My grandfather figured it out. As he grew older, he noticed how many clients who got lead pipes, after a few years, complained of gout. A few more years and most had gone “different” in the head.”

  He had our attention now.

  “These were all rich people who could also afford lead pots and pans. He used to say if they had enough money to boil fruit juice in a lead pot for a week, they got what they deserved.”

  Such a bold statement left no room for comment. We sat by the smoldering fire in silence until a commotion drew our attention to the top of the garden. A group of men in togas stood
in a circle clapping and chanting. When they parted we could see it was two fellows trying to have sex and still remain standing. The evening’s host was clamped onto the rear of his hunched guest like a dog on a bitch in heat.

  Scanning the cheering section, I was not too surprised to find Quintus and Linus observing from the second ranks, laughing and pointing.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  TRANSMISSION:

  Kaikane: “This is Specialist Kaikane hailing Chief Botanist Duarte. Come in please.”

  From the log of Paul Kaikane

  Recreation Specialist

  Old man gave me a “shit or get off the pot” pep talk today.

  We had the kayaks tied together and were gigging octopus, drifting with the current over the southern reef–me standing and dipping the poles, him sitting in a seat, baiting and emptying the wicker traps. I showed him how to bite the octopuses between the eyes to kill them and he got the hang of it no problem. Strange to see them go from wriggling and flashing colors to dead white the instant their brain is squashed. Sad too. Octopuses are smart critters.

  Didn’t take long to catch all we could use. Heading back, Gray Beard started in on how good it was to finally have some help with the chores. A fair dig. I’ve been out of it, haven’t felt like eating or leaving the project. Gray Beard’s done almost all the hunting and gathering–while I stumble around worrying about Maria and feeling sorry for myself.

  He hadn’t lied when he said it would do me good to get away from the tar pits and puttering. The air was free of sulfur and petroleum. It really drove home how lame a place we chose to site our work camp.

  The fish and game on the edge of the flats have no fear of man, which makes me think we may be the first humans to harvest here in a long, long time, maybe ever. I had two poles going with two traps each and was hauling in octopus as quick as the old man could empty the baskets and rebait with crushed crabs and clams.