From the Dark to the Dawn

by Alicia A Willis

  “Down!” The referee’s voice sounded through the hot blood pounding in Philip’s ear. “The victory goes to the slave of Marcus Virginius!”

  Shaking, Philip rose to his feet. The banquet chamber seemed to whirl around him, and he heard a wild din of handclapping and cheers.

  You have won. Accept your victory.

  Philip pulled himself erect. His heart pounded with an uncontrollable cadence against his chest. Slowly, as his mind cleared, he became conscious of his admirers. The women tossed golden bangles and silver denarius at his feet, lavishly applauding and cheering him.

  A final surge of adrenaline coursed through his body, and he turned to lay eyes on his opponent. Already, the German was being dragged from the room. The expression of Thallus was terrible, his cold, grim countenance revealing his merciless intentions.

  Philip felt a twinge, but brushed it resolutely aside. Men did not weep for their enemies. And, in the heartless jaws of slavery, it was every man for himself.

  Marcus arose from his seat, beckoning. Philip approached him, boldly meeting the young man’s eye. He had won, proving himself and his heritage before his conquerors. Inwardly, he breathed a tirade.

  So much for your threats, Roman scum! The forest gods are not dead. Nor have they finished with me–or you!

  “You have done well.” Marcus spoke quietly, but there was a flashing light in his eyes that revealed his inner satisfaction. “Keep the spoils of your victory. You have won the right, and I am pleased to bestow them on you.”

  Philip bent his head. “The gods favor my lord for his generosity.” He made no effort to hide his sarcasm. He had saved Marcus from disgrace before Thallus–and how graciously Marcus condescended to praise him!

  Marcus alone could see his irony. His mouth tightened, but he made no reproof. “You may go.”

  Philip half-bowed, a sardonic smile playing about his lips. Turning, he gathered the spoils of his victory, then, straightened himself erect. A second round of applause met his ears. He lifted his hand before bowing, then, strode proudly from the room.

  Outside the banquet-chamber, he stopped. The full reality of all that had occurred struck him like a pugio in the chest, and he exhaled slowly.

  His heart had not yet resumed its normal cadence. One, two, three… Again, he exhaled. How strange was the favor of the gods! They had chosen him over his opponent. How else could he explain why it was not he who lay groveling for mercy beneath the fury of a master?

  Philip straightened his shoulders, brushing aside the thought. He was not the victim, but the victor. And the victor he would remain.

  “Hand me my belt.” Marcus’s tone was surly. Groggy and red eyed, he cut far from his normally dashing, handsome figure after a long night of revelry and heavy drinking.

  Philip handed Marcus the belt, inwardly disgusted. These Romans drank like pigs. He called to mind scenes of the night before, as he had helped his inebriated master to bed. Little had he known that his victory over the German would inspire such uncontrollable consumption.

  Insufferable louts, all of them. It didn’t matter that his own people drank deeply. The Roman fashion of gorging themselves on food and drink went too far for his fancy.

  “Bring me mulsum.” Marcus’s voice cut sharply through Philip’s thoughts. “You doddering blockhead, can’t you see what I want?”

  Philip stifled an inner sigh and wordlessly poured out the honeyed wine. He had never seen Marcus so testy. Obviously, the consequences of such late night reveling were not as enjoyable as their momentary pleasure. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “Yes.” Marcus’s tight voice softened abruptly. “Tell me, Philip, what did your father say of your victory?”

  “He was well-pleased, my lord.”

  “And, like a good son, you desire to give pleasure to your father. Am I right?”

  Philip felt a tinge of confusion. He peered closely at Marcus. He seemed to have recovered well enough from last night’s drunkenness, despite the lasting appearances. “Of course, my lord.”

  Marcus moved a step closer. “And, as my loyal servant, you desire to please me also?”

  Philip gazed a moment at him. Marcus’s dark eyes were sardonic. Despite what consequences might follow, he decided to play on his lord’s sarcasm. “I desire to keep from the arena or the cross, master.”

  Marcus laughed unexpectedly. “Well-said. Continue to keep that desire.” He cradled his cup and stepped to the casement, then, after a brief glance at the street, turned about. “It would seem that you will have further opportunity to please me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that a champion wrestler such as you cannot be kept hidden. Already, I have had offers from two of my friends, desiring that you wrestle their slaves. I think it a good idea.”

  Philip felt the hot blood rush to his face. For a moment, he could not speak for anger. When he did, it was in a torrent. “By the great gods! How can–”

  “Enough.” Marcus’s bleary eyes flashed with sudden fury. “You will do as you are commanded.”

  Philip’s heart swelled with passion. How was he to continually endure such torture? How could he live under threat and in such constant peril of his lord’s wrath? The thought was too much to endure.

  Marcus stepped forward, considering him. “Come, Philip, I know you do not despise the laurels of victory. And, as your victories are a credit to your master, you have every reason for doing your best.”

  Naturally. There is no motivation like avoiding torture.

  Philip ground his teeth. The overwhelming desire to attack Marcus, to fly at him with swinging fists almost frightened him. It was madness, he knew. But, oh! How easy it would be knock the haughty young patrician off his feet and prostrate him before his own slave. How doubly easy it would be to deliver one swift kick and watch him grovel in pain.

  “You are a fool.” Marcus’s scornful voice cut through the red haze of his thoughts. “You think to rebel when you know no idiot would dare to do so.”

  Philip cringed, a prickle running down his spine. How did Marcus always know his mind? Was it so obvious? Great gods! Will you never aid me? The man even knows my thoughts!

  Marcus stepped still nearer, chillingly quiet. “I will forbear to threaten you, Philip. We both know there is no need.”

  Philip swallowed hard. Of course. He had heard every threat Marcus had to make and knew his resolution better than any other. As always, his choices were laid clearly before him. A curse ran through his mind, condemning the unlucky fate that had brought him to this hopeless point.

  Slowly, his hands found their place on his chest, averting his smoldering eyes. He was bound to speak submissively. “I am here to serve you, my lord.”

  “Yes.” Marcus’s contemptuous gaze rested on him. “So serve me well–and live.”

  Philip felt as if he were choking, helpless in the midst of his rage. Live. Except for avoiding torture, there was not much to live for if one was a slave. His heart twisted. Surely, somewhere, there was something beyond this meaningless existence.

  Wasn’t there?

  Chapter Seven

  Philip scanned the garden, feasting his gaze on the lush foliage. Its tranquility was refreshing, calming him. His eyes stopped at the sparkling fountain, resting on the clear water. Restless, yet calming, the liquid seemed to mirror his innermost being.

  Eight matches. Seven victories.

  The last two months had been one long, stimulating daze of activity and adjustments. Time had flown so quickly, without the full comprehension of its presence. He felt as if the days and weeks had merged into one never-ending blur. Days had been replaced by wrestling matches, giving life one sole purpose:

  Victory.

  But he had been treated well. Much as he hated to admit it, he had to acknowledge Marcus had met his victories with indulgence and even friendliness. Even after his one failure, when he had dreaded severe retribution, Marcus had said little. His confidence i
n his slave’s ability to recover his prowess was firm.

  Perhaps that is why he had taken such pains to prove himself on the next round. If Marcus had treated him harshly, he would have died rather than continue gratifying him. But Marcus had been just. And he had won every round since.

  Philip shifted on his bench. The fates were surely with him. Now, he accompanied Marcus everywhere, his duties more of a companion than an attendant. And, within his master’s wealthy circles, he was overwhelmingly popular. Everyone said he was spirited and handsome, a credit to his own country and to Rome.

  Just thinking of it, he felt warm. It was followed by a twinge. His father said his mannerism had changed. He said he was careless, his manner free and pompous.

  How the lowly love to ape their masters.

  Philip stiffened. Only yesterday, Beric had called him aside and issued the first rebuke since their capture. It was strange how his words still haunted him.

  How long do you think you can continue like this, Philip? Victory has spoiled you. You are haughty, willful, always exerting your demands. Marcus humors you for the time being, but he will not always do so. He is your master. I fear for you, my son. It will not be long before he brings you to your place.

  Philip shrugged, trying to ignore the cold fingers of uneasiness creeping up his neck. His father was overly-cautious, perhaps even overbearing. Marcus was proud of his handsome, talented slave. Why should matters change?

  He stood up, flexing his muscles. He watched their ripple with satisfied eyes. Strength had brought him far. Oh, he was still a slave. But triumph had won him many admirers and, one day, he would be the master. Under public pressure, Marcus would surely be bound to someday free him.

  Marcus is a Roman, Philip. His indulgence is only of gratification, not affection. He will promote you only as long as you are bettering his popularity. And, when you have satisfied his desires, you will find that you are still his slave.

  Philip ground his teeth. By the gods, why must his father insist on troubling his mind with dark forebodings? For the first time, he was content. His position was one of ease and pleasure–and Beric would not filch those things from him!

  “Pluto take you!”

  Philip turned, startled. Marcus stood behind him, frustration high in his face. He stepped towards Philip, his voice cross. “By Hercules, Philip, I have called you four times now.”

  “My apologies, Marcus.” Philip assumed an easy air. Since the development of his popularity, he had lapsed into a less formal mode of address with his lord. Marcus had not stopped him. “For what reason did you call me?”

  “I am going to the Baths. You will accompany me.”

  “And are you going to visit Delicia afterwards?”

  “No.” Marcus stifled a yawn. “At this point, the prospect of being tied to one woman seems a dismal bore. Thank the gods our betrothal is not yet official.” Then, as Demetrius appeared, “Well, and what do you want?”

  “The lord Thallus is here to see you, sir. He is in the atrium.”

  The look that crossed Marcus’s face was decidedly vexed. “Confound the man! His visits are becoming increasingly more regular.” Then, to Philip, “Come; I must meet with him.”

  Philip followed Marcus from the garden. He suppressed a sigh. If there was anyone who disliked a visit from Thallus as much as Marcus, it was he. Time had made no great change in his character, and Thallus was cold and disagreeable. At times, he wondered why Thallus bothered to visit Marcus at all. Was it because they were to be brothers-in-law? Or did he have a more sinister reason in mind?

  In the atrium, Thallus stood impatiently awaiting the arrival of his host. As Marcus appeared, he stepped forward, extending his hand.

  “Good day, Marcus.”

  “And to you, Thallus.” Marcus scarcely touched the out-stretched hand. He seemed unwilling to hide the fact that his guest’s visit brought him little pleasure. “What brings you here?”

  “Do I need a reason to visit my brother-to-be? But, I do have a reason of more importance for my visit.”

  “Continue.”

  “Your handsome slave.” Thallus’s gesture was strangely tangible. Philip felt a pit settle in his stomach. “My father is hosting a large party one week from today. I desire to set a slave of mine against yours in a match. What say you?”

  “I object.”

  Thallus started a little, then laughed and colored. “Oh, come, Marcus! The match will be fair enough.”

  “It cannot be fair enough in my opinion.” Marcus maintained a cool, unyielding demeanor. “Your word profited little in the last match I agreed to on your terms. Philip is a valuable slave, and I shall not pit him against your sorry Goths.”

  Thallus’s face rapidly gathered blackness. “I do not believe it is for concern for your slave that causes you to refuse me, Marcus. If I did not know better, I should say it was cowardice.”

  Marcus colored with what Philip knew was suppressed anger. “I do not know what you insinuate, Thallus. Of what am I afraid?”

  “Your precious Briton, I should say.” Thallus laughed discordantly. “We all know that he is a very rebellious, hot-headed slave and that you, Marcus, are still foolishly disinclined towards breaking his spirit once and for all.”

  “I have no need of breaking his spirit. It has served me well. And, as I have often reminded you, Philip knows better than to set his will against mine.”

  “Yes, so you have often said.” Thallus’s narrowed eyes were more eagle-like than ever. “But you have never proved it, Marcus. Command him to kneel at your feet and pay you the homage a submissive servant should.”

  “Is that a challenge?” Marcus snapped at him.

  “It is.” Thallus laughed. His smooth voice dropped like oil from a broken jar. “Unless, of course, you do not wish to sully your honor with his rebellion. And you do know he will rebel, Marcus.”

  Marcus’s grim countenance befitted a gladiator. His lips tightened, the wrathful color tingeing his swarthy countenance. He turned, his sandals squeaking at his abrupt movement. “Philip, come here.”

  Philip clenched his teeth as he stepped forward. Already, he was seething in resentment. The two young men had spoken as if he were not present. Was he not a living being, a champion of the banquet halls of Rome? Or was he no more alive than the statues adorning the room? The thought sent burning heat pulsating through his temples.

  Marcus’s gaze was stony. “You have heard the challenge. Kneel at my feet.”

  Scorn flickered over Philip’s mind. How easily Marcus had been persuaded to humiliate his slave. But he would not be so easily swayed. Masters of the universe–cowardly, haughty swine! So you succumb to see me grovel. But you will not see it, Roman.

  “Do you hear me, slave?” Marcus’s furious voice rent through the red haze of his thoughts. “Obey!”

  Philip stiffened, drawing himself erect. Now was the time. He was a champion, a son of Britain! Marcus was nothing. And no worthless cur would humiliate him before a son of Rome.

  “No.”

  The defiance in his tones rang throughout the atrium. It was shrouded by death-like silence.

  Marcus started visibly. Shock and passion flooded his demeanor for one full moment before he acted. Philip braced himself against the pain as Marcus’s hand found his arm, its grip furiously intense.

  “Are you daring to defy me, you lowly dog?” Dark and low, Marcus’s voice signaled he was giving one final chance.

  Philip chose to ignore the warning. “I am.” Adrenaline pounded through his veins, filling him with a strange, wild strength. He heard his own voice, all restraint broken. It seemed as if all the hate he had harbored since his capture chose this moment to break forth. “Better to be a dog of Briton than a swine of this accursed nation, Roman scum!”

  A stinging blow fell across his face. Half-stunned, he stepped back, trying to regain his balance. Somewhere, deep inside, something rent. He could feel all self-control tearing, replaced by a rage he had ne
ver known himself capable of.

  Curse, curse you!

  He heard his own voice, shouting. A red haze blinded him, leaving only Marcus’s shadowy outline in its wake. He projected himself forward. His chest brushed Marcus’s side, his hands flailing to find his throat, to strike him, to kill him!

  A second blow sent him spinning. Pain contorting his face, Philip felt the floor beneath him. A tiny stream of blood trickled into his mouth. He spat, struggling to rise. Get up! Don’t kneel!

  An iron hand seized him, pulling him upwards. Struggling, Philip lifted himself, only to feel a violent fist punch into his diaphragm. He choked, coughing, struggling to breathe. A second blow landed deep in his stomach, expelling the little breath still left in his burning lungs.

  “Curse you!”

  Philip dimly heard Marcus’s enraged voice. He crumpled. Darkness shrouded his vision, then, slowly, an orb of light flooded his eyes. The room came into focus, revealing Marcus’s furious countenance.

  Thallus’s mocking laughter grated in Philip’s ears. “I shall return later, Marcus! And, by that time, I shall expect your spirited slave to have learned his place.”

  Philip coughed violently, attempting to breathe. He watched Marcus escort Thallus to the door, saw their hands clasp in farewell.

  The uncontrollable rage was gone. Its wild power had left him helpless, weak. Philip raised himself on one elbow, dimly seeing a splatter of blood on his tunic. Slow panic began to spread through his chest.

  Great gods, help me! It was too late to redeem himself, too late to run. Was he now going to die? Philip drew a shaky, gasping breath. He had no hope that the brunt of his punishment was over. He knew Marcus far too well for that.

  Don’t let him kill me! For the sake of my father–

  Marcus turned, his countenance terrible. Even at the distance between them, Philip could see his eyes blazed with murderous, merciless intent. He stepped to a small table beside the entry and picked up a small flagellum. The small whip had never looked so ominous. His fingers closed around the handle, deliberation governing his every act.