From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  Philip’s keen eyes fell upon a group of beautiful young slave women. Their duties would be to serve and entertain the patricians–a volatile task when bestowed upon men who knew little restraint.

  His heart ached as he looked at one of them. Though dark haired, she reminded him of his sweet mother, a gentle, yet courageous woman who had served her family well. Inwardly, he thanked the gods that she had been killed. It would have been more than he could have borne to see her turned into an object of Roman sport and lasciviousness.

  At once, the laughing chatter of the women became stilled. Philip looked up to see Marcus stride through the entry. He motioned slightly to the women and they moved on, the delicate bells upon their wrists and ankles filling the air with their tinkling resonance.

  Philip himself stood still, waiting. Marcus approached him.

  “Are you prepared for the match tonight?”

  “As ready as I will ever be, my lord.”

  Philip felt undeniable tension building up within him, seeing Marcus’s features. Contrary to his usual carefree expression, Marcus’s dark eyes held a glint of grim resolve. A cold chill washed over him, dwelling for one fleeting instant upon what might befall him if he failed.

  Marcus eyed him menacingly. “Watch yourself well tonight, boy. I have a wager of fifty sestertia with Thallus, to say nothing of the value of my pride. I have no intentions of losing face with that despicable cur.”

  Philip felt a glimmer of mischief lightening his mood. “You do not like him any more than I do.”

  “I have little reason to. But we will not discuss it. Wrestle his slave into perdition tonight, and all shall be well with you.”

  At that moment, the steward announced that the house of Saturius had arrived. They entered the atrium with careless pomp, accepting the services of the slaves who hastened to serve them with callous unconcern.

  Philip glanced at Marcus. Without taking his eyes from the party, Marcus answered his unspoken question, his voice low.

  “The master is Saturius, his wife Julia, and, of course, the son and heir is Thallus. The young woman is Delicia, so named for her beauty.”

  Philip caught the slightly sarcastic ring that penetrated Marcus’s tone as he said the last name. Small wonder. “A she-goat would be a greater object of beauty than she,” he observed brashly.

  Marcus wheeled suddenly about. His voice was a quick hiss. “Hold your tongue, insolent cub! Don’t you know she is to be my wife?”

  Philip stepped away from Marcus’s flashing eyes, startled. He raised his hands, afraid Marcus was going to hit him.

  Marcus glared at him, but did not move. “Her father and mine think our union will be a profitable one, both socially and politically.”

  “And–and you are willing to have her to wife?” Philip cringed at his own boldness, but was far too overcome with astonishment to check the burning question.

  “Of course. I consider her a rare gem of accomplishment and high social status. Such a wife will greatly serve me in my future as a military patrician.” Marcus paused, obviously annoyed. “But, by the gods, Philip, what is this matter to you? Will you never learn your place?”

  Philip could not contain the disgust he knew must be creeping steadily over his features, but the knowledge Marcus was not far from passionate wrath curtailed his tongue. “I did not mean to give offense, my lord.”

  “Offense seems to be your greatest accomplishment. Go aid the other slaves at the door, and thank the gods my wagers are fixed on you tonight!”

  Philip moved quickly away, fully understanding he was being punished. He took up a basin of water and threw a towel over his shoulder. So Marcus chose wounding his pride over striking him–a kind gesture!

  He ground his teeth, his cheeks tingling. “Such generous forbearance,” he muttered under his breath. “How careful he is of me when fifty sestertia are at stake!”

  He moved across the wide atrium, unavoidably meeting the eagle-like gaze of Thallus. Even still, the haughty young patrician snapped his fingers at him. Resentfully, Philip obeyed the unspoken command.

  Kneeling, he removed Thallus’s sandals. His chest tightened, but he forced himself to wash his feet in the basin and dry them. The distasteful task done, he arose and looked Thallus boldly in the eye, offering a look of disdain in return for the young man’s domineering expression.

  “Will that be all, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  Thallus spoke coldly, his eyes holding an ominous expression. It was clear he had forgiven nothing. Philip fixed him with a fearless expression, unblinking, standing his ground until Thallus turned away.

  Quickly, Philip put down his basin, wishing at all events to leave the entry before another party of guests arrived. From the corner of his eye, he saw Marcus come forward to greet his guests. Coldly, the young man shook hands with Thallus, then, took Delicia stiffly by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks.

  A rare gem of accomplishment and high social standing–pure twaddle!

  Philip shook his head. He was beginning to understand why Marcus had not punished his audacity more severely. He may be a slave, but he was no fool when it came to women. Indeed, he could almost pity his master for his unfortunate alliance.

  The atrium was rapidly filling with guests. Uncomfortable by the clamorous noise and bustle of so many bodies, Philip slipped from the atrium into the banqueting chamber.

  He took up his place in a quiet corner. His heart was already beginning to pound, but he brushed away the discomfort. Better to forget everything until the time of testing arrived. He would focus on the guests.

  It was not long before all of the expected guests arrived and the banquet proceeded.

  The female slaves carried gilded trays from couch to couch, presenting their tempting spreads of olives, salad, and oysters. The center piece of the feast was a large roasted boar, stuffed with radishes and onions, and basted in a sauce made of pepper, honey, and vinegar. The guests ate heartily, unmindful of the fact that seven courses were prepared for them.

  Philip watched the gluttonous eating of the guests with inner disgust. The indulgence of these Roman patricians seemed to have no bounds. A tinge of gratitude penetrated his revulsion. At least being the personal attendant of his master kept him from the service of these swine.

  From his position, he was clearly able to observe the occupants of Marcus’s table. With an interest in his master’s personal life he could scarcely understand, he watched them, Delicia in particular.

  The young lady’s giddy laughter was clearly discernable, even above the noisy din of the banqueting chamber. Philip shook his head. Flirtatious, haughty, and willful–he could discern her character at a glance. The willfulness will change. She was unsuited to Marcus to the core, but he at least would be the master over his own household.

  Despite his personal opinions about her appearance, it was apparent by the behavior of the young noblemen that Delicia was considered a very attractive young lady. Philip grimaced wryly. Little wonder, when strong drink flows like water. He studied Delicia still closer, coming to a deeper assurance of the validity his own first impression.

  Her stola was gaudy, its sea-green hue cutting a striking, goddess-like appearance. Rogue and powder embellished her countenance until all appearance of beauty was hidden, saved only by the flirtatious smile that hovered constantly on her parted lips. Like many Roman women, she wore a wig of curled light-brown hair, streaked by the blonde highlights that had taken fashionable Rome by storm.

  Philip again shook his head. What could Marcus possibly do with such a wife? He is no deity, but by Hercules! She’ll wear him thin before the sun has set upon the marriage date! I wonder–

  “Philip!”

  Philip started, jolted to reality by Marcus’s stern voice. It was obvious the young man had summoned him more than once. He had risen from his reclined position upon the cushions and stood beside his table, impatience furrowed on his brow.

  Quickly, Philip went
to him, crossing his arms on his breast. “You called, master?”

  “Yes–twice. Go now and prepare for the match. The guests desire their entertainment.”

  Philip felt an unmistakable chill run down his spine. Marcus was terrifyingly quiet, his dark eyes holding some unknown threat. Delicia’s charms had not made the slightest good impact upon his humor. If anything, he seemed more merciless than before.

  Philip bent his head, the icy hand of dread clamping around heart. If I fail…

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Chapter Six

  Alone in the quiet atrium, Philip quickly pulled his tunic over his shoulders and tossed it unceremoniously over a marble bench beside the pool. Thus stripped, he fastened a thin kilt of blue silk around his loins. In a wrestling match, ensuring his ability to move freely was essential.

  Having completed his attire, there was nothing to do save return to the banquet chamber. Philip exhaled slowly, attempting to ease his growing apprehension. The room was warm, yet, a prickle of goose-bumps ran up his arms.

  Philip ran his hands over his arms, considering. He was a Briton and, as one, he would fight and conquer. And, if he failed… Marcus would soon see that he could not wring a cry from him. Whatever terrible fate Marcus might hold for him, he would face it with quiet courage.

  The gods aid me. Be it eagles or forests spirits–be my strength!

  Surely, one of his own deities would help him. But, if not, Rome’s gods would honor him for doing his best for his master. Philip squared his shoulders and threw out his chest before striding back into the noisy banqueting chamber.

  A quick glance revealed that Thallus was nowhere visible. Evidently, he had gone in search of his own slave. Philip turned his attention to his master’s table. Marcus beckoned him over, waving his hand over his table companions.

  “Behold, friends! Here is the slave who will represent my wagers in the match tonight.”

  Delicia leaned forward, her brow quizzical. “Is that the infamous slave who struck my brother at the Baths?” A short laugh escaped her throat. “And I was of the opinion he was a rugged barbarian! Surely you are not going to pit that child against my brother’s slave, Marcus.”

  The corners of Marcus’s mouth tightened. “I am.”

  “And you expect him to win?”

  “I do. These Britons have warfare in their very blood. Philip is strong and knows what is expected of him.”

  Delicia shrugged her pretty shoulders. “I can almost pity him for possessing a master with so little good sense. You might as well hand Thallus your sestertia now, my love.”

  Philip saw Marcus’s eyes flash, his jaw clenching into a firm line. The other young men around the table shared a knowing wink, apparently amused by Delicia’s sarcasm.

  An uneasy feeling settled in Philip’s stomach. For the first time, he was beginning to realize that it was no ordinary slave who was going to be pitted against him. Delicia’s behavior signified it, and he certainly would not put it above Thallus.

  He glanced at Marcus and saw with a sinking feeling that his fears coupled his own. Marcus was looking restlessly around the chamber, his eyes glittering.

  In another moment, Thallus reentered the room. Marcus was instantly on his feet, his tones dark with indignation.

  “By Jove, Thallus! Do you call this an equal match?”

  Philip’s heart failed him as he looked at the silent slave at Thallus’s side. A Goth. Rugged, grim-faced, and muscular, he cut a formidable figure. The sickening feeling in his stomach increased, hearing Thallus’s smooth tones.

  “Come, Marcus! They are nearly the same age. What more can you expect?”

  “I expected that you would keep your word, Thallus.” Marcus’s voice was tense with anger. “Your slave is both taller and broader shouldered than mine.”

  “And what of it?” Thallus laughed sardonically. “I have wagers to win also, friend.”

  Marcus’s mouth opened, then clamped in a hard, grim line. He turned, so fiercely Philip was startled.

  “Confound the man!” He spoke in a type of hiss, his teeth tightly clenched. “Do not disappoint me, slave. I will not lose face to him. Lose this match and–Jupiter be my witness!–I will send you to the arena. Do you hear me?”

  Philip looked into his flashing pupils and knew he meant every word he said. He felt his own eyes flash, a tingling prickle running down his spine and clenching his hands into fists. The arena. The stadium of pleasure for the watchers, the grounds of death for the participants. Was this how he would end his days? As a gladiator? Or worse, as prey to starving lions?

  Marcus resumed his seat. Philip saw his eye meet Rowland’s, signaling his readiness for the match.

  Rowland rose from his seat and lifted his hand for silence. An instant hush fell over the noisy banqueting chamber, and the guests turned expectant eyes on their host.

  “Friends, as you all know, a wrestling match has been drawn up between the slave of my son Marcus and the slave of the noble Thallus Quinctia. By your pleasure, the contest will now commence.”

  A round of applause circulated. Rowland resumed his seat, gesturing.

  Philip exhaled slowly, conscious of the cold beads of sweat on his brow. Now was the time. Give me strength! He stepped onto a mat in the center of the room, eyeing his opponent.

  The German stood with wide-spread feet, his countenance grim. Evidently, their common lot was not one that brought them mutual sympathy. No doubt Thallus had made even worse threats than Marcus.

  Philip fought to curtail his quickened breathing. Relax. Fight like a Briton. He glanced around, waiting for the signal.

  An impartial patrician had been chosen for the referee. Without further adieu, he stepped forward and dropped a white handkerchief. With the traditional signal to start, Philip launched himself forward, a distant cheer echoing dimly through the hot blood pounding in his ears.

  His body met the rugged strength of his opponent. Flailing, his hands fought to find the German’s shoulders. In a flash, his fingers found his collarbone, then tightened, gripping his sinewy neck. The German twisted, his hands finding a place on Philip’s shoulders.

  Philip dug his bare feet into the mat. Jove, but the German was strong! He threw his entire weight against his opponent, tightening his strangling grip on his throat[1]. Marcus had spent much time impressing this point of the rules upon him–and he dared not forget them.

  The German twisted again, but was unable to break Philip’s hold. Adrenaline pounding through his veins, Philip forced him downwards, leverage increasing his strength. Slowly, agonizingly, the German was bent downwards until his hip brushed the mat.

  The referee shouted a command. Philip released his hold, springing backwards. The first point was won! According to the rules, he allowed the Goth a moment to recover himself. He exhaled slowly, his heart beating wildly against his chest.

  One point–two more to go!

  With a rush of savage strength, the German sprang against Philip. Philip was startled by his vehement lunge. He twisted, his heart thudding. Hold your ground! Don’t let him–

  The Goth’s hands found his shoulders, encircling his neck. Philip twisted violently, struggling to withstand his choking hold.

  No! No!

  The grip tightened. Philip gasped, choking. The German, with one savage move, thrust him downward, bending him against the floor. Philip cringed, feeling the mat beneath his naked back.

  “Down!”

  The referee’s voice sounded above the noisy din, echoing in Philip’s ears. He looked up, seeing Marcus through the red haze shrouding his gaze. The young man’s countenance was dark, threatening. The auction block, the arena…

  Philip sprang to his feet, controlling the groan that sprang to his lips. Already, his legs ached. The German was strong–and every bit as desperate as he was. With vehement force, Philip threw himself against his opponent, gripping his perspiring arms.

  His breathing hot and hard, he looked into the German’s
eyes.

  Bitterness. Rage. And the warrior’s desire to kill.

  Philip had seen the look before. He was not a chieftain’s son for nothing. He knew the fierceness that governed this German slave. And he knew how to conquer him.

  Making one violent, unexpected twist, Philip threw the German off his footwork. A second lunge, a fierce rush of strength, and he forced his opponent on his knees.

  A roaring shout sounded in Philip’s ears. One more. One more!

  Behind him, Philip heard Thallus, his tones furious. “Memento virgam, servies[2]!”

  Philip’s breathing quickened. So his opponent would be flogged if he failed. Little surprise. Thallus was pitiless to the core. But, then, so was Marcus. It was his opponent or him–one of them must win, the other suffer.

  Philip paused to allow the German a moment to recuperate. Their gaze locked, he saw the German’s desperation. This next round would decide much.

  With a shout, the Goth sprang forward. Philip was ready for him. Their arms locked in each other’s deathly vise, the beads of sweat glistening on their tense foreheads. Philip dug his feet into the floor, pushing, fighting.

  Don’t trip. Don’t fall! Force him down! Force him–

  With a choked grunt, the German spun and stumbled to his knees. In a flash, Philip sprang atop him, forcing him to his belly upon the floor. He had him now.

  As if in the distance, Philip heard the roaring cheers of the dinner guests. The German’s hands flailed wildly, attempting to grip Philip’s arm. Philip’s breathing quickened. He knew the strategy.

  Don’t let him roll you! Don’t let your back hit the ground!

  Philip’s hands tightened on his opponent’s neck, choking him. Would the choke never be complete? Great gods, help me! His hands gripped harder, a rivulet of sweat running down into his eyes.

  Then, he saw the signal.

  Weak, nearly unconscious, the German lifted his finger. He conceded defeat.