At last he stepped back. “Thank the gods, father! We were prepared to be separated, but the forest gods have shown us this strange mercy.”
“Yes.” Beric was strangely grave. “And we have another reason for giving thanks, my son.”
Philip dropped his eyes. Was his father rebuking him? “What do you mean?” he asked, though knowing what Beric implied.
“I mean it was a strange power that worked in the heart of your master, Philip. How else can you explain the reason for which he spared you from brutal scourging or worse?”
Philip felt a flush burn in his cheeks. His father had not approved. “You know why I fled, father. It was cruelty in itself that the Romans carried us from our homeland, but I could not have born being forever separated from you. You are all have. I swear, had Marcus not purchased you, I would have only run away again.”
“And, doubtless, you would have been captured and scourged before you went a mile. But, there–my heart is too glad at our reunitement to have more to say. I will thank the gods with you, my son. We have been shown great mercy.”
“Not so great a mercy.” Philip released his father’s arms. His frustration began to well up inside him once again. “It is beyond endurance that you–a chieftain and loyal servant of Queen Boudica–should be demeaned like this.”
“The gods have given us this lot. I do not complain, Philip. Our only choice now is submission to our fate and the masters who bought us.”
“How can I submit to the people who have changed my every hope and joy into misery!” Philip did not quench the fire he knew burned in his eyes. His father might desire submission to the gods, but he did not. “The Romans would have done better to have killed us. This slavery is a cruelty that cannot be endured.”
“Have you forgotten we ourselves had slaves?” Beric’s hands rested with fatherly compassion on Philip’s shoulders. “Take heart, son. Whether free men or slaves, we are the same race, the same people we were before.”
“But–”
“Circumstances may change, but we have not.” Beric fixed Philip with a grave, almost stern look. “Remain a Briton at heart, Philip, but never forget your life is in the hands of another. Think of me, of your people. Do not bring disgrace or death upon yourself with your rebellion, for it will do nothing for either of us. To be a true Briton, you must prove yourself noble even in the heartless jaws of slavery.”
Philip slowly took his father’s hand in his own. He was not sure he agreed, but there was love in every word Beric uttered. In the old gesture of love and respect, he pressed the hand to his forehead.
“I will try to do as you wish, my father. I will endeavor to be compliant to my master, if only for your sake. But I will never forget my oath.” Philip paused, meeting Beric’s blue eyes. “Rome will regret what she has done. And I will not always be a slave.”
Chapter Four
Philip absently walked through his master’s chamber, seeing that it presented its usual well-kept appearance. A single glance showed that everything was in its proper place, as it had been upon his last inspection.
He turned to vacate the room, then, paused, the sight of the flapping drapes bordering the large casement catching his attention. Almost grateful for an occupation, he stepped across the polished floor and straightened the sheer hangings. As his hands dropped from the material, his eyes fell upon the gardens beyond the casement.
Slowly, he lapsed into motionlessness, letting his mind go.
It had been one long week–a week full of new tasks, a new language, and the wearying adjustments to a strange new life. With each passing day, he grew a little more accustomed to his new surroundings. Still, he felt as if he would never fully master the Roman customs and way of living.
He had to grant their positions were not altogether distasteful ones. Beric had been assigned the position of a lower-gardener and was almost constantly employed beneath the instruction and commands of the head-gardener. Philip saw him much, though not as constantly as he would have liked. His own position as the attendant of his master was not an arduous one, yet he was obliged to be constantly at hand–constantly ready to fulfill the slightest desire of Marcus.
Marcus.
Philip’s chest constricted and he tightened his hands into slow fists. How he hated him, if only because he was his master. There was very little other reason to hate him, but the fact that Marcus controlled him, owned him, was enough.
The injustice of his feelings smote him a little.
Contrary to his expectations, Marcus had thus far proven a reasonable master. He was determined that his new slave would submit respectfully in all areas of service, but, beyond that, was generally a considerate and pleasant young man. In fact, Philip sensed that Marcus had no real desire to ill-use him.
Of course, while he was doing all that was required of him.
Philip stiffened and cringed simultaneously, calling to mind the events of yesterday. For the first time during his first week of service to his new master, Marcus had lost his temper with him. Having never before served another, Philip knew his services were, at best, awkward. And, to say the least, Marcus was accustomed to skilful attendance.
An angry shiver ran down Philip’s spine and his cheeks tingled, smarting in remembrance. Marcus, goaded to utter frustration, had lifted his hand against him. And, in that single stroke, he had felt the brutal resolution that governed the wills of the masters of the universe. Oh, he had controlled himself. He had stood rigidly straight and taken the blow, his pride refusing to allow any sign of pain. But, inwardly, he had cursed the name of Marcus.
“Philip.”
Philip whirled around, his face burning hot. Attempting to control his breathing, he pulled himself erect. Fleetingly, he dared to consider how long his master had been standing behind him and wondering if he knew his thoughts.
Marcus surveyed him with a slow smile of amusement. “How easily you Britons color! What are you guilty of, I wonder?”
Philip met the young man’s sardonic gaze, attempting to muster the correct Latin words to explain his behavior. “I did not hear you behind me, master. I–”
Marcus waved his hand impatiently. “I am not interested in your excuses. I am going to the Baths and want your services. Acquire some fresh clothing, then, meet me on the portico.”
Philip hastened to obey. He had often wondered what the Roman Baths looked like. Now, it seemed, was his chance to find out. Snatching up a fresh tunic and toga, he draped them over his arm and strode quickly from the chamber to the appointed meeting place.
Marcus’s impatience to be gone was evident. He turned curtly at the sound of his slave’s steps, his brow furrowed. “Stand erect–I want to look at you.”
Philip obeyed, stiffening. Marcus nodded slowly.
“Yes, you will do. Many of my friends will be present at the Baths and have heard much of you British captives. Prepare to be presented before them.”
Philip’s heart lurched. So he was to be paraded as an oddity before his lord’s rich acquaintances. He did not dare speak. Not that he cared to offer Marcus the respect of an answer anyway.
Marcus seemed to sense his feelings. An expression of displeasure flitted across his handsome face. The careless pleasantness that usually distinguished his countenance disappeared, and he leaned ominously close to Philip.
“Remember you are a slave.”
Philip, caught between boiling pride and honest fear, resisted the instinct to step away from Marcus. He stood still, conscious of the young man’s imposing superiority. Everything about Marcus was a dark threat, even to the musky scent of his perfumed toga. Here was the Roman side of his master. He had seen this side of him yesterday and now knew to dread it, however much he hated himself for giving place to fear.
Marcus seemed to see his cringing apprehension. His dark eyes softened. Clearly appeased by his slave’s fear, he stepped back. “Come,” he ordered shortly.
As he spoke, Marcus strode lightly down the steps of t
he portico. Out on the street Philip had heard called the Vicus Tuscus, he set up a leisurely pace. Philip followed, creating a respectful arm’s distance between them.
Though accustomed to walking at a much faster pace, Philip scarcely noticed the painfully casual tread. This was the first time he had been out of the domus, and there was much to see.
Rome. Colossal temples, the world-famous cobblestoned streets, a constant clatter of Greek and Latin tongues. People representing all nationalities swarmed the streets, some in the toga of citizenship, others dressed in the tunic of slaves. So this was the glorious city that had spawned such magnificence and brought her people to the height of masters of the universe.
Could anyone doubt she was favored by the gods?
Philip struggled with the thought. His loyalty to his own people was fierce, but there was so much to admire here. He drank in the sight and sounds like one parched from the desert heat. He had never seen such vast eminence, such glory. Rome fairly basked in greatness.
Standing under the shadows of the towering Baths confirmed his feelings. Great gods. He felt dizzy, as if his head was being turned. The marble structure was more massive than he had dreamed. Its delicately-carved columns, arches, and statues were palatial, nothing like he had ever seen before.
Marcus snapped his fingers at him. Coming down to earth, Philip realized his lord had moved on to the entrance and was waiting for him. He jumped to join him.
Inside was even more breathtaking. Philip came to a slow stop. The courtyard was massive, aglow with warmth and light. His eyes drifted over the tinkling fountains and high-domed ceilings. Here, for one fleeting moment, he could forget he was a slave.
“You are not in your barbarous Brittania any longer, Philip.” Marcus was surveying him with an amused smile. “Did you expect your paltry mud-huts to have a place in Rome? What you see here is nothing. It does not compare with the majority of our buildings–the Circus Maximus, for example.”
“I have never seen anything so magnificent.” Philip breathed the words, not realizing he spoke in Iceni. “Your gods are very powerful.”
Marcus laughed. “Our gods are all-powerful, boy. Come–I came for more reasons than to see you gaping.”
From the sunny courtyard, Marcus led the way from the apodyterium, or, changing room. There, he hastily disrobed and handed his toga to Philip. A quick observation revealed the rows of cubicles in the wall. Philip folded the garment and laid it in an empty shelf.
He scarcely had time to do so before Marcus stepped from the room into the adjoining caldarium, where he slipped into the hot water. Steam rose thickly from the pool, nearly cutting off all view of the water itself. The air was thick and warm, and mingled chatter and laughter arose from the other men and boys in the apartment.
Philip watched the antics of the bathers with keen interest, although prudently keeping watch for any signal from Marcus.
The young man, as with all of his peers, took his time, seeming to enjoy the daily bathing ritual as much as any of them. Yet, unlike many of the bathers, he applied the strigil himself and did not once summon Philip to his assistance.
Philip felt no end of relief. He had only just seen the strigil applied and didn’t have the slightest idea of how he was to perform this service if called upon to do so. He watched Marcus keenly, noting the smooth, gliding way he brought the strigil over himself and scraped away the oil used as a cleanser.
At last Marcus was through. He gave one masterful snap of the fingers, and Philip silently brought the towel he had obtained in the apodyterium forward. Marcus draped it quickly about himself and wordlessly strode from the pool into the next apartment.
At the door, Philip paused, surveying the proceedings within the spacious interior. This apartment seemed to be the massage chamber, as he gathered by the numerous marble slabs occupying the room.
As in the caldarium, the air hummed with activity and conversation, although the general atmosphere was that of relaxation. Towel-girded men sat or lay atop the slabs, enjoying their daily massage. Their slaves skillfully rubbed scented oils into their broad backs and shoulders, many of them applying shell scrapers in the process.
Marcus sauntered briskly to an open slab and stretched himself full-length across it, motioning to a bottle of cream.
“Use that stuff there.” Then, as Philip stood in confused immobility, “What’s the matter with you? Take that bottle!”
Philip cringed at the tone and quickly took the urn. Gingerly, he poured the rich, strong-scented contents into his hand. Apparently, Marcus expected him to massage him. He glanced at the other slaves for his example, then, began to knead the oil onto Marcus’s strong back.
“By the spear of Mars, lad!” Marcus raised his head with a gesture of impatience. “Have you no muscle? Rub harder.”
Philip’s lungs began to burn, and he realized he had been holding his breath. He could feel apprehension rising like a burning choke-hold in his throat. To what extent did Marcus expect him to rub? If he should do so too hard… From the corner of his eye, he watched the other slaves, endeavoring to do as they did.
“Enough!” Marcus raised his head with an angry gesture. “Jupiter, but must I instruct you in everything? Plaudio,” and he motioned to one of the professional attendants, “you attend me. My Iceni warrior has the arm of a woman!”
The attendant obeyed. Philip stepped back, struggling to swallow the sarcastic rebuke. Feeling disgraced, he watched as the attendant heartily pounded and massaged his master’s back. He could almost curse the fear that had kept him from exercising the same amount of vigor.
At last, Marcus signaled that he was satisfied. The attendant stepped back, and Marcus motioned for Philip to hand him his purse. Taking out a bronze dupondius, he tossed it into the man’s out-stretched hand.
“My gratitude for your services.”
“The pleasure is mine, sir.” The attendant bowed and withdrew. His departure left Marcus to turn glowering eyes on Philip.
“Aid me to robe, slave, if you can do that much.”
Philip bit his lip. Marcus’s utter frustration with him was evident, invoking his usual feeling of hatred. Slave–Marcus seemed to sense how greatly he despised the word. Why else would he couple it with his irritated rebuke? He only wanted to hurt him, to rile his spirit just because it was his right to do so.
He forced himself to make no expression. So what if he was nearly choked with bitterness? Marcus would not have the pleasure of seeing him angry. Forcing himself to concentrate, he helped him dress.
When Marcus was attired, he strode out to the sunny courtyard. Philip followed at a sullen distance. The Baths had already lost their charm. Now, their glory was acidity in his mouth.
Glory built on the backs of slaves.
A group of young men were standing in a careless group just beyond the massage chamber. Attired in white togas and attended by their own slaves, it was not difficult to determine they were patricians of Marcus’s rank and status. One stepped out, extending his hand.
“Hail, Marcus Virginius! What has kept you of late? Have you taken to private bathing or none at all?”
Marcus laughed. Already, Philip knew that not bathing was unthinkable for Romans. “I have been here, Caius, but have had little time for your idle gossip. But, enough there. I have brought something today that should make up for my absence.”
“And that would be?”
Marcus snapped his fingers. The unspoken command was clear. Philip stepped forward, fighting himself. He had dreaded this moment. A murmur of surprise and admiration circulated, and the blood tingled in his cheeks.
“Why, he has the face of a god!” One of the young men laughed. Philip’s skin crawled, feeling his hand pinch his biceps. “And he has the muscles of a gladiator! You have made an excellent choice, Marcus.”
“Can you doubt it? I pride myself in knowing a good slave when I lay eyes on one. Of course, he cost a pretty sum, but these Britons do not go for mean prices.”
“Perhaps I ought to consider purchasing such a slave.” Caius pulled Philip towards him, scrutinizing the width of his shoulders. Philip’s heart pounded, nearly choking him. Would Marcus stand there and do nothing? “These Britons have the build and looks to be pleasing enough. But, by the gods! How he colors! Does your slave object to us, Marcus?”
Philip sent a quick look of appeal in Marcus’s direction. His young master only cocked a brow, his expression nothing short of inexorable. The laughing tone of his voice proved doubly maddening. “He has the temper of Mars. I have never before seen a slave with such a proud spirit.”
The first speaker laughed, his boastful tenors grating. “I would soon knock the temper from him if he were mine, Virginius. Has Rome fallen so low that she allows arrogance to control her slaves?”
“A shrewd question, but I do not generally pride myself in disabling my slaves as you do, Vitellis. It is said your attendant is still unable to rise from his bed. The unfortunate plight of being too fond of strong wine and flogging the life out of your slaves, eh?”
“Whereas you, Marcus, have the more sickening plight of a woman’s stomach.” Marcus’s teasing laughter was silenced by a grim new arrival. A tall young man joined the group. To Philip, his countenance was eagle-like, strangely handsome. He fixed his cold eyes with disdain on Marcus. “Has the story reached you, my friends? It is said that this Briton dared to strike and flee from our noble companion. But it would seem Marcus did not have the fortitude to see him beaten.”
Marcus’s dark eyes flickered. “I paid too much for this slave to have his looks spoiled by a misguided blow at the hands of those clumsy officers. And, what is that to you, Thallus?”
A mocking expression curled Thallus’s lips. “How easily you become offended, Marcus. Of course my motives are only of the sincerest concern for your well-being.” His hand closed around Philip’s wrist. “Let me examine this slave you are so concerned about.”
Philip jerked his wrist from Thallus’s fingers. He had stood too long listening to the sickeningly sarcastic, meaningless exchanges between these Romans. What were they, these lords of creation, who stood about in rich luxury and made menacing remarks to each other? Haughty pigs, drunk with pleasure. And he had no doubt this Thallus was the worst of the lot.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 5