Philip’s breathing quickened as the mansion of Virginius arose before him. The soldiers pulled him roughly up the steps, shoving him inside. Shoved from behind, he stumbled through the entry and down the few steps into the atrium.
Marcus stood in a stern, masterful stance, his arms crossed upon his chest. “Unbind him.”
The soldiers quickly cut the cords binding his wrists, releasing his arms from their cramped position.
Philip let his arms fall to his sides. A sudden shove sent him flying forward, his hands flailing before him. His knees made contact with the hard marble floor, his palms resting atop the cold surface.
He had been in this position before. Kneeling, groveling before Marcus. Great gods, let this be brief.
The silence grew long.
Philip’s middle tightened, his heart pounding against his chest. He could feel Marcus’s stony gaze resting upon him, piercing him through. After an eternity, the sound of his voice cut through the wild hammering in Philip’s ears, echoing coldly throughout the atrium.
“You are strangely calm. Are you not afraid?”
Philip did not raise himself to look up. The last thing he wanted to see was his master’s fiery, merciless eyes–the eyes that had always been able to see through him and conquer his flashes of rebellion with such strange power.
“Answer me, slave!”
The anger in Marcus’s voice sent waves of fear rolling down Philip’s spine, chilling, infuriating him. Just shut your mouth, Roman.
“Have done toying with me, Marcus,” he heard himself say aloud. “Wreak your pleasure on me and end my miserable existence.” To his surprise, his voice faltered. “Then I will be at peace.”
“Peace.” Marcus spoke scornfully. “Nothing about you has ever reeked of peace, Philip.”
Philip raised his eyes, feeling them water strangely. “Then my death will be the better for both of us.”
A smarting lump gathered in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to control the rising mist in his eyes. Get a hold of yourself! By the gods, die like a man.
But he couldn’t.
Despite his own fierce chiding, he could not stop the well of tears. He was afraid to die, afraid to meet the unknown afterlife. And he didn’t want to go there on the wings of pain, breathing his last with nail-pierced wrists and ankles.
Marcus took a step forward, his mocking laughter filling the atrium. “By Hercules! My brave Iceni warrior is in tears! You are afraid, Philip. I have at last made an impression on you.”
Resentment simmered in Philip’s chest, but he made no answer. What need was there to speak? A few moments more, and his shrieks would be the only utterance he would ever again make in this cursed Roman world.
“Take him to the culina.” Marcus’s impatient voice broke through the apathy of his thoughts.
The culina? Philip’s mind whirled in uncertainty. Why should he be taken there? Was Marcus going to poison him, leaving him to die in the throngs of agony?
Philip felt himself jerked to his feet, his arms secured in the strong grips of the soldiers. He was shoved forward, forced to walk through the atrium to the lowlier parts of the house, past the slave quarters, and into the culina.
At the door, he stopped.
A poker rested atop the bright open flames of the grate, its end glowing scarlet. Philip cringed, perspiration standing out afresh on his pallid face. Was he to be branded, as was so common? But the poker bore no branding iron, no F-shaped mark, as was the custom when branding runaway slaves.
Marcus spoke behind him, his orders sharp. “Take that ring and fasten it around his neck. Mind that the ends are securely welded.”
It was then Philip saw the steel ring, inscribed with the chilling words: I am a slave who has run away from his master.
Marcus’s sharp, stern voice continued. “He has shamed and dishonored me before others, now let him live a life of shame and dishonor before all those who see him.”
Philip’s breathing quickened. He, the son of a British chieftain, was to be disgraced for life? This was his punishment–the never-ending shame of public exposure and humiliation?
No! No!
Philip twisted violently, evading the grip of the soldiers. He threw himself down on his knees before Marcus, desperate enough to think nothing of supplication. “No, my lord! I would rather die than be so degraded. Kill me, only don’t dishonor my father’s name! I beg you, Marcus!”
“Be quiet.” Anger rolled over Marcus’s face. “I have decreed your sentence. Almighty gods, Philip! Thank fortune your miserable life is spared.”
He turned to the soldiers. “For the love of Aphrodite! Do as I have commanded.”
The soldiers forced Philip to the grate, tearing the cloak from his shoulders. Twisting, struggling, Philip turned, one final, desperate cry escaping his lips.
“Marcus! No!”
A flashing look of scorn in his dark eyes, Marcus turned and left the culina.
Left alone in the little room adjoining Marcus’s chamber, Philip stood motionless for several long minutes after the soldiers had left him. Slowly, his hands found their way to the steel collar fastened around his neck, tracing its inscription.
I am a slave who has run away from his master.
A sudden torrent of tears rose in his eyes. Impulsively, he threw himself forward, flinging himself face down on his couch. Why? Why?
The salty tears crept down his cheeks. He didn’t understand. Questions ran rampant in his mind, bewildering him, causing his head to ache.
There was one question that stood out from among the others.
Why hadn’t Marcus killed him? Why was he not even now writhing on a coarse wooden cross, bleeding, lashed by the whip? He didn’t understand. Marcus had sworn to kill him. Up until half-an-hour ago, he had seemed ready and willing to crucify him. And he had told another as much.
Daniel.
Philip rolled over onto his side, looking with bleary eyes at the wall opposite him. It couldn’t be that the mysterious words of a Jewish breadmaker had provoked this change in Marcus’s mind. It simply wasn’t possible. Roman masters didn’t break their sworn oath at the word of an inferior, particularly when the master was Marcus.
The very thought of Marcus sent anger rushing in a boiling wave throughout Philip’s body. How he hated him!
His fingers brushed the collar about his neck, the symbol of disgrace he was to wear until it became the will of his master to file it off. If it ever became his will.
Raising himself, Philip suddenly shook his fist at the door leading to his lord’s chamber. “I’ll kill you someday, Marcus.” His voice was a coarse whisper, his throat broken by tears. “I’ll kill you! You think you’ve won, that you’ve conquered me, but you haven’t. You haven’t!”
Forgiveness is greater.
Philip sat a little straighter, startled. How clearly the words had met his ear! But how was it possible? He glanced uneasily around. Then, abruptly, he shook himself, disgusted by his own superstition.
Vengeance was his desire, his life’s one hope. No Christian would filch that from him. They would not play tricks on his mind, deceiving him with beautiful tales. After all, perhaps it was true. Perhaps the Christians were sorcerers.
Swinging his sandaled feet over the side of his couch, Philip arose. He cringed a little, feeling pain discharge through his legs. Holding out his arms, he surveyed them bitterly. The lash-mark had begun to heal, leaving a deep scar in its wake.
So there he had it.
Rome had made another lasting mark upon him. First the murder of his family, his imprisonment, and his slavery. And now he was scored by the lash and bore a degrading metal ring around his neck, marking him as a runaway and troublemaker.
Weary and heartsore, Philip stepped to the casement, gazing out on the bustling streets of Rome. The tears threatened to again spill down his cheeks, but he held them resolutely back. He was a man, not a child.
And it would take a truly great man to conquer
the monstrosity of Rome.
Upon the balcony adjoined to the room opposite Philip, Marcus also stood gazing out over the city. His dark eyes drifted over the afternoon sky, fixing themselves upon a lone starling as it glided upon the soft currents of air.
Abruptly, his handsome face contorted, as if in pain. His eyes closed, hiding a strange, sudden glisten.
“Owen.” The name fell breath-like from his lips. “I was so happy when you were alive. I am not the man I was before. Your death has changed me.”
Marcus’s features again contorted, and, abruptly, he dropped his head into his strong hands. His lips moved in low, muttered syllables.
“May the gods be praised you are in Elysium. You, at least, have escaped the passions that torture us mortals below.”
Chapter Ten
Philip awoke the next morning with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. For a moment, he lay motionless, unable to understand his depression. Then, slowly, the full remembrance of all that had occurred came back to him.
Slowly, he arose from his couch and dressed himself. The metal collar made dressing awkward, and he winced every time he felt its cold clasp. Who knew when it was to be removed–or if ever?
His dressing complete, Philip drew a deep breath. It was time to face Marcus. He didn’t know if his offered services would be accepted, but he did not dare keep away. He squared his shoulders before stepping though the doorway dividing his little chamber from Marcus’s spacious apartments.
Marcus was already awake, standing near one of the open windows. He cradled a cup in his hands, sipping of the contents. A flicker of sternness crossed his face as he saw Philip, and he set the cup down hard upon a table.
“It’s about time you were up.”
Philip swallowed hard. “Then you desire my services, my lord?”
“Of course. You didn’t think you were exempt from servitude because you are no longer in my pleasure, did you?”
Philip bit his lip, fighting back the impulse to make a sarcastic reply. Say nothing.
He moved noiselessly across the room, taking up Marcus’s white toga. Folding it in half, he silently draped one end over Marcus’s left arm, around his stalwart back, then beneath his right arm. Stepping in front of him, he stretched it neatly over his chest, then across his left shoulder and arm.
His toga in place, Marcus stepped past him and picked his signet ring off a table, slipping it onto his fourth finger.
Philip watched in silence. Abruptly, Marcus turned on him, his voice sharp.
“Don’t just stand there. Get me my pallium.”
Philip lingered a moment. Marcus had several capes, each of which was considered suitable to be worn over his toga. “Which one, my–”
A sudden, stinging blow fell heavily across his face. Philip stepped back, barely suppressing an exclamation of pain and anger. Marcus leaned close to him, his tones dark.
“Just get it.”
Philip lifted his eyes, momentarily meeting the cold gaze fixed ominously upon him. He did not dare allow his resentment to show. Marcus’s close presence hinted chilling intimidation in its every sense, sending the boiling heat of fear and wrath rushing like adrenaline through his veins.
So this was how it was to be. No tolerance, no favor. Just the stern commands of a master, the ever-abiding fear of his displeasure, and his own subservience.
Aware of the crimson color high in his face, Philip walked across the chamber and took up the cape. Averting his eyes in the outer appearance of submission, he returned, draping the garment around Marcus’s shoulders.
Without another word, Marcus left the room. Philip stood where he had left him, following his departure with narrowed, simmering eyes.
Marcus humors you for the time being, but he will not always do so. He is the master…
Philip felt a wave of sudden shame. How had his father known? How had he known that Marcus’s favor would not last? He had scorned Beric’s wise insight at the time it was given, but now…
The overwhelming desire to see his father struck Philip like a dart in the chest. With urgency he did not understand, he strode rapidly from the room, treading lightly down the stairs, and into the wide, luxurious atrium. From there, he stepped out into the garden.
A quick glance revealed his father, pruning the shrubbery.
Suddenly hesitant, Philip stood. The sound of his steps attracted Beric’s attention and he looked up. Slowly, he straightened himself erect, his eyes grave and something like sternness bordered on his countenance.
Philip felt a sudden pang. So he was in disgrace with his father as well.
But, there was little wonder in that. He had scorned Beric’s counsel, run away without saying goodbye, and brought shame upon himself and his father’s house. Beric could not be expected to be at all pleased with him.
It seemed the gods were determined to humble him. And, perhaps humility was his now his best course after all.
Averting his eyes, he advanced. Meekly, he took his father’s hand in his own, pressing it silently to his forehead.
There was a long silence.
Philip’s heart swelled. Until that moment, he had not realized how much he valued his father’s good opinion. Life was not worth living without it. Great gods of my fathers, let him forgive me.
Slowly, hesitantly, he looked up, meeting the quiet gaze of Beric’s cobalt eyes. Adopting the deference of a Briton in the presence of his chieftain, he waited, yearning to hear a single word of favor.
The attitude had its desired effect.
“When I heard that my son had run away from his master, I did not think I would ever again see him alive. The gods have dealt mercifully with us both, Philip.”
Philip continued his downward gaze, fixing his eyes on a tiny patch of delicate violets. “Part of me would prefer to be dead.”
“Yet you live.”
“Yes.” Philip bit his lip. “Were I more of a man, I would end my life, but my paltry courage is not equal to the deed.” Then, looking up, “Do you despise my cowardice, father?”
“No.” Beric’s unexpected return was firmly steadfast. “I know death is anticipated with joy among our people, but I could not rejoice in my son’s demise. You are the only blessing left to me. And, perhaps, after all, the will to live is a greater strength than suicide.”
“The idea is a strange one, coming from you.”
“I don’t doubt it. You know my zeal for the ways of our people was unsurpassed. Still,” and Beric paused, “slavery has opened my eyes to many things. The beauty of life is one of them.”
There was a short moment of silence. Philip at last shook his head, contemplative.
“I have heard so many new ideas lately that my head fairly spins with them. Would you believe that one of those mystical Christians gave me sanctuary yesterday?”
A flicker of interest glimmered in Beric’s eyes. “What was he like?”
“Like any ordinary man, but gentler than most. He told me of his religion, and I must confess it was the strangest concept I have ever heard. But, somehow, it was beautiful too.”
Philip’s voice died away. Beric looked closely at him.
“Would you forsake your gods, Philip?”
Philip did not answer for a long moment. He struggled with a rising feeling of helplessness and confusion he did not understand.
For the life of him, he did not know why he suddenly felt strangely drawn to the Christian faith. Had he not mocked it in his mind only the night before? And how was he to explain to his father, chieftain of the Britons, that his gods no longer satisfied him?
“Father, I cannot explain what it I feel. I am…confused.”
“Confusion is not a thing to reject. It often signifies growth. But,” and gravity bordered on Beric’s tones, “if you mean to deny your gods, Philip, I trust you will do so with great care.”
He turned back to his work, brushing Philip’s shoulder in fatherly affection before picking up his tools.
Ph
ilip stood motionless for a long moment. Slowly, he turned, stepping back into the cool atrium.
His father obviously had little to say, but Philip was relieved he had made no rebuke. No doubt Beric had seen the bruises covering his face and sensed he had undergone enough punishment.
And, strangely, he had not grown angry when Philip did not avow his complete allegiance to the forest gods. Strange. Did Beric respect his son’s opinions and choice? Or was he only tired of rearing his rebellious son?
Philip brushed aside his thoughts. It really did not matter which. He had no intention of forsaking his gods. He was a Briton and their worship was good enough for him.
Still, he would not mind thanking Daniel for all his kindness. He had always been allowed to walk in the streets, and, as Marcus had not revoked that liberty, he could see no reason why he should not visit the little bread-shop.
Before he could change his mind, Philip took quick action. Stepping quickly across the atrium, he mounted the steps leading up to the entry and slipped from the heavy gilt door.
Out upon the Vicus Tuscus, Philip felt for the first time the shame of the collar around his neck. The slow color crept up in his cheeks, seeing countless pedestrians glance at the words inscribed upon the ring. Marcus had chosen an appropriate revenge. And he was right–the gods did desire to humble him.
Having no desire to linger in the streets, Philip arrived at his destination in good time. He rapped upon the door he had entered at the day before, but received no answer. Stepping around the side of the building, he stepped through the main entry into the shop’s dusky interior.
Daniel was occupied with several customers, but he glanced up at Philip’s entrance. A look of warm, almost relieved recognition flitted across his face, and he nodded shortly at him.
Philip felt a rush of relief. So Daniel did not reject his coming.
Silently, he waited until the customers left the little shop, then, stepped up to the counter. From its opposite side, Daniel leaned across the smooth top, his voice warm.
From the Dark to the Dawn Page 11