Connor threw the doors open and strode out of the villa. The sun was setting. Thought began to coalesce once more, churning furiously, flowing like the images that Maximus etched in the dirt. Montevarius was talking to Lorentius, bringing him to heel as best as he could presumably. But the truth was clear. Montevarius was intent on ruling over him, content to live his life as his ancestors always had. Lorentius on the other hand was close to murdering him; and would not be happy until Connor was maimed or killed. In the meantime, that child of Satan would go on to hurt whomever he wanted however he wanted, with any connection of his victim to Connor being an added benefit. Lucia would marry in the spring and go on to live her life, sacrificing to her secret goddess and praying for something better. Maybe Connor would see her now and again. Maybe. He was walking down the path, walking towards home, where he would find his friends in sorrow. He would tell them what had happened, despite the threats. What would they say? They would all drink and curse their misfortunes, but then what? They would all just go back to work in the morning. The image of Maximus’ etchings played out again in Connor’s mind – the flow of things, the flow of life, power, and fate. He looked up again at the sun setting over the hills, just beyond the stone walls of the estate. Connor began to walk faster, then to jog, and then to run through the arcades of trees and towards the wall. He was at a full sprint as he crossed the wooden bridge. He did not notice the few that saw him, or even stop when he was challenged. He ran faster until he reached the wall, and then leapt. Grasping the rough-hewn capstones he scrambled up and then over; and as the sun dipped behind the hills he landed on the other side.
XIII
Connor jumped up, scattering the leaves and bracken that had covered him. He was in a low ditch, just a dozen paces from the side of the now-deserted road. It was first light. He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing through the entangled small twigs and dirt. The dream had been so lifelike, so pressing, that he still felt as if he could not catch his breath. His heart galloped in his chest, even as the memory became intangible in the gray light. In his mind he had been on the ship again – the first slave ship with the men who destroyed his village. But Lorentius had been there as well, at times taking the place of the narrow-eyed man. Grania was there too, and though in the dream she was a gray corpse she still spoke to him – though he could not remember what she said. Lucia had also been there, huddling in the back of the boat praying for protection from the murderers who raped the captives.
Connor held his pounding head, and tried to shake the dream off. Despite the brief sleep, he was exhausted. His body ached, and the cold of the wet earth seemed to have seeped into his very bones. He had jogged along the dark road nearly all night, taking advantage of the moonlight – trying to put as much distance between him and the estate as possible. And now it was time to move again.
Connor climbed out of the ditch and resumed his march along the roadway, in the direction – he hoped – of Massilia. The land on either side of him looked grim in the morning light, as many of the trees had lost their leaves and the first taste of winter was creeping in. This land seemed deserted. Though small farmhouses dotted the countryside, even some of these appeared to be abandoned – a sign of the times. Any other travelers were still probably in their shelters and would not appear for some hours. This was a blessing. The fewer eyes and the fewer questions the better. Though hungry, cold, and thirsty, Connor picked up his pace.
In the months of his confinement – of his slavery – Connor had planned his escape thousands of times. But he realized now, as the sun began to climb and the light stripped away the hiding places, that this escape had been the weakest, most haphazard attempt possible. He had no money, no food, not even any water. While there was no standard for slave clothing or other marking that instantly gave away his identity – a precaution, Connor had learned, lest the slaves of the land realize their own numbers and revolt – his simple tunic, breeches, and shoes would make it difficult to pass as much else. If anyone were to talk to him his accent and manners would also give him away. But what was more, was that he had not taken enough precaution in his leaving. His passion inflamed, he had barely waited for cover of darkness, and had taken no steps to disguise his absence. For all he knew, Lorentius and his henchmen were already at his heels. Had they followed him all night on horseback? Where they near or far? Were they just ahead of him, waiting to ambush him as he walked ignorantly by? Part of him believed that Lucius Montevarius would not pursue him. But Connor knew that Lorentius would pursue him tirelessly, and that if he was caught he was unlikely to escape torture and even death at the hands of that craven man and his followers.
But though reality had set in, and he had neither food, nor water, nor money, nor safety, Connor had freedom. And he was drunk on it. For the first time in more than a year he was his own master. And whether he succeeded or failed rested on his shoulders. He had no regrets as he further quickened his pace on the long road. He had endured the yoke for too long already. How could he have let himself believe that a quiet life was a good substitute for freedom? Or that safety was worth sacrificing dignity? He had been beguiled by the virtues of the slave life, beguiled by the occasional shows of charity from his masters – led even to believe that Montevarius or Lucia cared about him – or that they were in fact put in their positions by God. And when these beliefs had failed to quell his heart’s fire, there was always the wine to drink away his responsibility to himself. Now he was shaking it all off. Now he was free. And freedom alone would sustain him, though his life be only a few hours. But Connor knew – he swore – that he would never be pushed or pulled into subservience again.
Ahead Connor spied a small spring, with a shrine to either the Virgin Mary or Cybele. Connor knelt and drank his fill. It was the second boon from God. His fear burned bright, but he could believe that his fortunes were changing. He was already miles from the estate, and miles closer to Massilia – where he could easily blend in long enough to join a ship’s crew as an oarsman. He had worked that plan out long ago. All he needed to do was to work his passage on a trade vessel to Britannia. Then he would figure it out from there. Again cursing his foolishness for not having at least brought a waterskin to fill, Connor rose from the spring and moved on.
Of course, there was the problem of Dania. Andopaxtes would have been under pressure to sell her in Massilia. But the slave trader could be anywhere in the world right now, and obviously if Connor approached him he would only be exposed and caught. Nonetheless, might there not be some written sales record somewhere? He had seen Andopaxtes and Lucius writing something when he was bought. Could there be a way to track Dania through such records? If not, Connor was prepared to search for her through any possible lead, no matter how long it took. But when he did find her, what then? Connor had long imagined as he toiled in the vineyard, that he would arrive with money to buy her, or a sword to rescue her by force. Now, in the light of day, as he was hastening towards the city in which she was presumably imprisoned, these solutions were revealed as nearly impossible – not if they were to escape the city together by ship. Massilia may be a rough and diverse metropolis, but even there how could a man who was a runaway slave, and a thief, and a killer expect to avoid detection for long – especially when he was friendless and ignorant of the city and so many of the customs. It was a problem that he had miles to find a solution for, Connor told himself. But he could not leave Dania – if she yet lived. He had made too many sacrifices already. He owed her that. God owed her that, and though he seemed unwilling to work though miracles, Connor hoped that God may yet work through him.
The sun was climbing higher in the sky, clearing the mountains that seemed to line the road off to his right side. Travelers were on the road now. There were not many, for in this season of the year the harvest had already been sold, and most of the trading between villages and cities began to slow for the winter. But there were groups – mostly of men – leading their wagons. Connor noticed that despite being
deep in the heart of the Pax Romana, many of these men were carrying weapons. The lands were not at peace. Bacaudae – gangs of outlaws – roamed at will, because the soldiers of Rome and the foederati were too busy fighting each other to control the land. Connor wondered what had happened with the emperor Constantine being besieged by the forces of the emperor Honorius. Whatever had happened, it was clear that peace had not returned. Connor dared not ask any of the others for news, because his ignorance would draw attention to the fact that he had been long-withdrawn; which could only reveal his identity. And every Roman citizen had a duty, as a member of the establishment, to turn in a runaway slave. As Connor felt the wary eyes of the travelers on him – either curious at his lack of travel gear, or suspecting him as a possible outlaw and a threat – he realized that he had more than Lorentius to worry about. Everyone who saw him could report him. The first patrol of soldiers he came across – thinned out as they may be – may detain him for questioning. He may himself run across the bacaudae; and they may choose to take him prisoner and sell him somewhere else. Connor’s pulse quickened and he lost the color in his face. No, he had much more than Lorentius to worry about. Everyone – from the merchant on the road with his suspicious eyes, to the pirates who may seize his ship at sea even as he escaped – was his enemy. They were all ready to drive him right back into slavery or death. And this time, Connor knew it would be worse. Possibly far worse.
He had to get off the road.
Connor waited until he had made it past the wagons and the road curved, before going off into the hills to the immediate south. He would have to stick close to the road, or become hopelessly lost in the wilder lands. But if he were seen from the road, it would of course amplify any suspicions of him. This could be disastrous.
Connor was dismayed at how much the attempted stealth was slowing his progress. It was now the first hour after noon. He had not eaten in nearly twenty hours, and Mary’s wellspring seemed a distant memory. He was beginning to feel very weak, his nerves frayed from vigilance. He trudged on, his steps becoming clumsy in their weariness over the uncertain terrain. He tried to distract his mind from his situation. At first he fantasized about his homecoming. He imagined the green shores of Eire, the soft grass, and cool breezes, the rain and the running water. He envisioned the faces of his loved ones as they reached out their arms to him. But so many of those faces were now dead, and no amount of wishing could bring them back. And the last time he saw the green shores of Eire was when they were receding into the distance – and these memories shouldered their way to the fore of his mind. He turned his thoughts to Lucia. He allowed himself to think of what it would have been like to hold her, to take her in his bed. What was the harm in fantasizing of it? He would never see her again. He imagined her black hair in his hands, and the sweat fragrance of her skin. He imagined love in her eyes – love he had never seen from her. He imagined the feel of her under him. He dwelt on the luxurious thoughts for as long as he could, until their falseness shone through, and he realized that they brought him more pain than pleasure. Lucia did not love him. She never had, and she never would. He would never possess her. That was for the whelp Mercius Effacus to do. No. She was behind him now. She was an idol, a false goddess of his slavery. Her favor was just another opiate for his soul. He was better off letting her memory fade.
It was getting late, maybe the third or fourth hour after noon. The autumn sun would not hold. Connor was still close to the road, but there had been no sign of the city. He had hoped he would have been there by now. He had seen no cross-road. He had to figure out where he was, to make sure that he was not lost already. Connor resolved to climb to the top of the hill he was skirting and have a quick look.
Connor climbed, and when the way turned steeper he used his arms to pull himself up from cypress trunk to cypress trunk. He wove his way around the gray boulders to the top of the ridgeline, and then scrambled up to the crest. He could see much of the valley, between the north and south ridges; and much of the road as it stretched as straight as it may towards the west. Just ahead he could see a smaller road, cutting across it. This was not reassuring. The road should have turned more southward to reach Massilia. Unless there was a bigger cross road further down. Or unless he had already missed it, miles ago in the night. Connor wondered if it would be wise to take the smaller road that did run south. A smaller road may also mean less traffic, and less scrutiny. He sighed. He did not anticipate that it would be this difficult to find his way.
And then he noticed it – no more than half a mile away and very near to the road –another sacred spring.
Connor left the vista. He could imagine the feel of the water on his dry throat. His weary body had been crying out for food and for rest all these long hours; but what Connor absolutely had to have was water.
Despite his fixation with his thirst, his mind grew clearer as he picked his way towards the spring. He would take the south road, he decided. It could throw off his pursuers and at least get him closer to Massilia. In the meantime, he would need the water of the spring, as another long night in the woods seemed inevitable.
As he drew nearer he hesitated. The spring was indeed very near the road – clearly visible from it – and there were at least half a dozen travelers loitering there. More waited by the road, or moved slowly past. But there was no choice. He must endure the glances of the travelers, and whatever dangers it may bring; or he must fade from thirst and weariness.
To his small surprise, he did not have to wait for his place at the spring. The men that were gathered around it had either already filled their vessels, or made way for him. He should have expected that, for he realized that he must look strange indeed – an exhausted man creeping out of the woods, with not even a cloak and bag to prepare him for the road. He brushed past a cloaked man, and almost collapsed to his knees in front of the bubbling water. As before, there was a marble figurine of some vague saint or deity above the stones that framed the small pool. Connor plunged his mouth into the water and drank lustily. The water smelled of iron, but also had a strange sweetness to it. It cooled him down to the core. It seemed that he could almost feel it filling his veins – strengthening blood and muscles. And still he drank, coming up only for hurried gasps of air.
“Don’t drink it all.”
Connor glanced up to see a young man standing above him. He realized at once that it had been the cloaked and hooded man that he had brushed past. But as he looked into that face, he recognized Merridius – just as the young man reared back to swing his cudgel.
Connor brought his arms up, instinctively caging his head. The wood slammed home hard, but it struck Connor’s big arms, and not his skull. The force knocked him to the ground, and Merridius leapt upon him – pinning him down with all his weight.
“Well that did not take long.”
Connor could not see the speaker, but he recognized the voice. It was Lorentius, approaching from the road. And Connor was aware that there were others with him.
Connor’s arm felt heavy and burned with pain. Merridius had driven the air from his lungs as he had crashed on to him. The young man brandished his cudgel threateningly overhead, waiting for the others to reach him. Connor looked up into the sneering face, the eyes bright with triumph and mockery; and a fire far above any pain instantly coursed through him. Merridius had failed to strike his head and steal his consciousness from him, and he had failed even to break his arm as Connor absorbed the blow. But more than all these things, Merridius had failed to realize that Connor was a warrior, and that Connor would never be taken alive again.
Connor grabbed Merridius’ arm. Bucking hard with his hips and rolling, he pushed Merridius off of his chest and came up on top of him. With a savage cry, Connor drove his elbow down hard into Merridius’ face. Cartilage crushed, and blood exploded out. But there was no time to finish his enemy. Lorentius was almost upon him, sword drawn. Connor was aware that the others – he knew not how many – were also closing in. He sprang to h
is feet, grabbing Merridius’ cudgel as he went. He could hear the whistle of the blade at his back as Lorentius swung at him. But Lorentius missed, as Connor shot into a full sprint into the forest.
Connor could hear the commotion behind him as his assailants became entangled with the other travelers at the spring. He could hear Lorentius cursing at him – though as yet he still did not dare to look behind him and see the man. Death was only a pace or two behind, striking with a bright sword, and Connor ran for all he held dear.
The overconfidence of his enemies played into his hands – at least for this brief moment. When Merridius had pinned him, it would seem that all of them made for Connor without pulling their horses along with them. As the distance grew between Lorentius and Connor, the men had to turn back to mount. Connor could hear their cries and curses momentarily recede behind him. But then, just as his confidence began to grow, he heard the crash of horses amidst the trees.
Connor ran deeper into the forest. He could never outrun horses. His only chance was to find denser thicket, or maybe even a place to hide. As Connor dared to steal a glance over his shoulder his hope suffered another kill stroke. There were seven horses behind him. His track over the difficult terrain was forcing them into a single file line, but this was little help. There would be no hope of making a stand against so many, and they were already much too close to hope to hide.
Connor ran faster. His heart felt like it would burst in his chest. The close branches tore at his skin. But it was all he could do.
The Songs of Slaves Page 19