“Get up, or be dragged the whole way.”
A whip cracked and the lash on his back forced a groan through his dry throat. After several tries he managed to bring his chained feet beneath him. He had to concentrate on keeping pace with the cart to avoid being dragged again. Smaller stones cut the tender soles of his feet, but he put one foot in front of the other—over and over—plotting escape and revenge with every step.
After three days, the whips no longer drew cries of pain. So to punish his continued escape attempts the guards took to using the wooden shafts of their spears as clubs. The physical punishment chiseled away at his resistance, leaving a hollow void.
Tonight his head rested between the wooden spokes of the oxcart they’d chained him to. The flies feasting on his shredded back irritated him more than the pain of a broken rib. Pain he could only avoid the rare moments sleep would overtake him. A cruel kindness, for in sleep visions of Dio’s death returned.
He wasn’t the only one still awake. The soft weeping of a child mingled with the crackle and snap of the guard’s watch fire. The woman holding the little girl against her breast and stroking her hair carried the child most of the day. A mother, made more devoted from their shared oppression. And for the first time since his own mother died, Jonathan lifted the voice of his heart to his forgotten God.
But no deliverance came. God did not spare him now, as He hadn’t spared his mother four years ago. Somewhere along the Via Appia, the last ember of Jonathan’s faith turned to ash—snuffed by the lashes and blows that fell like rain, mile after mile.
At the slave market in Capua, Jonathan was stripped of his ragged loincloth and scrubbed with oil and hyssop. He was given a cloth to wrap around his waist, and his wrists were bound again, with rope this time. The guards led him to a platform in the street with the others. One by one Fabricius Clavis marked a price on a slate and hung it around their necks. When the man reached him, Clavis frowned and reached for his mother’s carving.
Jonathan flinched and met the man’s gaze. “Please,” he whispered.
The slave trader’s hand hung in the air like the indecision in his eyes. His mouth tightened and he raised the slate and hung it from Jonathan’s neck, leaving the small pendant. The guard who’d beaten him after his last escape attempt shoved him toward the steps to the platform. Jonathan took an open place in the line of bodies and kept his gaze on his bare feet.
No insult Manius or the bullies in his childhood ever hurled brought the shame now pouring through him. Children sold first, led away by their new masters. The girl he’d watched on the road sobbed, reaching for her mother, who stood rooted beside him. He felt the child’s pain, and her mother’s, as keenly as his own wounds.
A few inquired about him, but none would pay the price written on his slate. He hadn’t looked to read it, nor did he want to. Whatever the sum, Fabricius held firm to it, and Jonathan kept his eyes on his blistered feet for hours. Thirsty and exhausted, he raised his head when a flash of bold color touched the edge of his vision. A large litter passed near, carried by eight men wearing bronze slave collars. The sheerness of the partially drawn blue curtains revealed a woman lying within. As they passed, the angle changed, and he glimpsed her face.
She was Helen of Troy reborn—beautiful enough to cause a war. Too far to see the color, her eyes were no less striking, and they watched him as much as he watched her being carried away from him. Her hand moved the curtain edge so she could still see him as the litter moved through the crowds. Her lips moved, and the slaves halted in unison. When they lowered the litter to its rests, she stepped from the curtains without ever taking her gaze from him. Her regal bearing as she approached parted the people between them like the prow of a great ship cutting through calm water.
“Lady Valentina, what an unexpected pleasure.” The slave trader bent low at the waist.
She ignored him and her perusal intensified. “Turn around, slave.”
Jonathan presented his back to her, his legs unsteady after being still for so long.
“Did he refuse your advances, Fabricius?” Her voice was as captivating as her face.
“His manner needed refining, my lady.”
“Did it?”
Her amused tone made Jonathan uneasy as he stared at the dirty stone wall in front of him.
“Turn and face me,” she ordered. “And remove your cloth.”
Every muscle tightened in protest.
“Obey the lady.” The edge in the slave trader’s voice held warning.
He still didn’t move—except to tremble like a snared hare before a starving wolf. A guard approached and uncoiled the whip in his hand. They would have their way, with or without the pain. With his bound hands, he pulled the tuck of the linen at his waist free. He wished for death behind his closed eyelids and turned to face them.
“I’ll take him.”
Jonathan wouldn’t look at her, even after he wrapped the cloth back around himself. Not an easy task still bound, but he managed. The guard put his whip away and removed the slate from Jonathan’s neck.
Fabricius looked pleased. “As for payment—”
“I don’t expect you to make a gift of him.” The woman crossed her arms and though a head shorter than the slave trader, seemed to still look down at him. “His price will be taken from what you owe my husband.”
Fabricius smiled, yet his lips were as tight as the fists at his sides. “Do give him my regards.”
The guard tied a lead rope to Jonathan’s wrists and pulled him from the platform. The woman’s slave occupying the end position on the litter poles took the rope. The woman climbed back into her litter, her gaze on him until the curtain blocked her from sight. He’d been bought and sold like the cattle bound for the temples to be sacrificed. The way she’d looked at him gave him little hope his fate would be any better.
Chapter 7 – Lost
The villa Jonathan followed the slaves into rivaled his father’s in Rome. Two armored men with spears in hand and swords at the hip flanked a pair of wide wooden doors. Between them a tall man in a fine tunic hurried down marble steps and stopped at the same time the slaves carrying the litter did.
Valentina stepped out of the litter and regarded Jonathan with a look he’d seen too many times to mistake. She took his rope and dismissed the litter bearers with a flick of her free hand. “Has the master returned from Pompeii?”
“Yes, Mistress, about midday,” the new servant answered.
“Why he visits that dreadful place is beyond understanding. There’s nothing left of it.” She spoke to the servant, yet continued to watch Jonathan.
“I believe he meets with his overseer there, Mistress.”
Valentina leveled a hard look at the man. “It was not a question, Brennus. If I wanted to know anything about my husband or his concerns, I would not ask a slave.”
“Apologies.”
Her gaze returned to Jonathan, absent the desire from a moment ago. “What’s your name?”
Dare he tell her? The House of Tarquinius descended from the Etruscan kings who first ruled Rome. Would she think he mocked her?
“Answer the mistress,” Brennus said.
“Jonathan.”
She studied him and from the tight set of her face, something displeased her. Perhaps that would work in his favor.
“It doesn’t suit you, but nothing better comes to mind I haven’t already used. You may keep it.” She passed the end of his rope to Brennus. “See Jonathan’s back is tended and he begins his duties tomorrow.”
“What are those to be, Mistress?”
“I will let you know when I’ve decided.”
Jonathan followed them up the steps. The guards at the door exchanged amused grins the moment Valentina passed them. A reprimanding glare from Brennus smoothed their expressions. Jonathan’s bare feet padded over a tiled mosaic floor depicting hunters pursuing a stag. Corinthian pottery lined the walls in rich hues between two large couches with cushions plump as a ful
l grain sack. The first doorway in the passage to the left of the central garden revealed a chamber with an entire wall covered in shelves of scrolls, hundreds of wax tablets, and baskets on the floor filled with more scrolls. Valentina left them at the second doorway, entering another chamber. Hers? The deeper into the villa Brennus led him, the flooring turned from mosaic tile to bare stone. The furnishings became sparse and poorer quality.
It was like walking backwards through his life.
The scent of onion and burning wood strengthened as they approached what could only be a kitchen. Inside the room, a heavyset woman with grayed hair stood behind a table, pulling feathers from a dead goose. Beside her a younger woman sliced onions. Both stopped their work and stared at him.
“Who’s this?” the older woman asked.
“Trouble.” Brennus dropped the rope and crossed his arms. “From the looks of him he has an insolent tongue or clumsy hands.”
“You don’t know that.” The younger woman approached and began to untie the rope binding Jonathan’s wrists. She was about his age it would seem, from the smoothness of her face. Onion and… a pleasant scent he couldn’t identify clung to her.
“Thank you,” Jonathan whispered when she finished freeing his hands.
She gave him her gaze and the faintest of smiles before coiling the rope and handing it to Brennus. Jonathan would have thrown it into the hearth and let the blaze beneath the large bronze pot consume it.
“Cyra is right.” The older woman glanced at Brennus. “You should show him the kindness you were so in need of when you first came.”
Brennus’ scowl became a frown. “You might as well be head servant, Frona. Prepare him some food. Cyra will see to his wounds while I fetch him a tunic and sandals.” He turned toward Jonathan and the hardness in his features eased. “Count yourself favored of whatever god you worship. You could have ended up in worse places.”
He didn’t worship a god. Not anymore.
Frona resumed her feather plucking. “I make a salve that will heal those knees.”
Brennus snorted. “It’s not his knees that are cause for concern. It’s his back.” He turned to Jonathan. “Show them.”
Jonathan turned, grateful he was allowed to keep the rest of himself covered this time.
A soft gasp made him turn again. Women shouldn’t have to see such things.
“Was that deserved?” Frona asked.
How should he answer? This entire situation was unjust, but the beatings were punishment for attempting escape.
“If they were undeserved,” she said, “you’ll find here the master never raises a whip without cause. But if you bring trouble, we won’t tolerate it and neither will the master.” She chose that moment to flip the dead goose.
“I understand.”
“Good then.” Frona’s smile returned as she yanked more feathers. “Cyra, take Jonathan to a storeroom and clean his wounds. Brennus will bring the salve.”
“Yes, Mother.” Cyra motioned for Jonathan to follow.
They entered a passage off the kitchen and then the first room to the left. Large amphorae, probably filled with wine or olive oil, stood like legionnaires against the far wall. Woven baskets of produce, sacks of grain and salt, and the familiar stink of garum filled the room. The flavored sauce made by taking fish entrails and salted water and letting it set for two months had been a favorite of Manius.
Jonathan hated it for no other reason than that.
Cyra turned an empty crate on its side. “You should sit here.”
She filled a bowl with wine and moved behind him. Wet cloth touched his wounds and his back arched.
“I’m sorry.” Her touch was gentle, like her voice.
She continued to clean the grime and dried blood away. Worse was coming. When he cut himself on a potshard in his father’s garden, Dio had cleaned the wound with wine and packed it with salt to prevent fouling. It was the first time Jonathan had ever cursed. He had half expected Deborah to appear and swat his head, but she hadn’t. He’d avoided her after his mother’s death, preferring to send coin, which she tried to send back in the beginning. He’d always meant to visit her one day, to try to understand how their God had failed him. Now it was too late.
Because God had failed him again.
Cyra rubbed the salt into the first stripe. Even though he was prepared, every muscle went rigid and a sharp hiss passed through his teeth.
“I’m sorry.”
The guilt woven into her tone bothered him. He turned to see her as well as he could over his shoulder. “Thank you.”
She was younger than him, maybe a year or two, with light brown hair and eyes. Eyes that looked away as her cheeks turned the color of pomegranate.
Brennus appeared in the doorway. “Here’s Frona’s salve.” He set it down on the floor near her. “Call out if you need anything, Cyra. Anything at all.”
Did he think Jonathan meant to harm her?
“I will.”
She waited for him to leave before continuing with the salt. Jonathan endured it by holding his lower lip between his teeth. Until a question came to him he thought she might answer. “Why does Brennus say I should be thankful to be here?”
“He has been with many houses and served in the grape fields of the last one. It must have been very bad, because he imagines this to be paradise.”
Cyra took up the jar of rust-colored cream and began to apply it. The salve brought some relief, burning less than the salt. “I saw his back once, without a tunic. It looked worse than yours. The scars I mean.”
Scars. He hadn’t thought that far. She knelt at his feet to clean and tend his knees. From the color in her face, she shared his discomfort at her nearness. He remained still, with new thoughts of escape. From here that would be the simple task. Avoiding recapture and returning to Rome would be the difficulty.
Cyra stood and lifted his wrist to apply salve to the chaffed and bruised skin. The shackles had punished his every movement for days, but her gentle touch as she rubbed in the cream soothed more than his wrists. “Thank you.”
Her forehead wrinkled as she looked him full in the face. “You say that often. Why?”
“My mother taught me if I feel it but say nothing, it’s wasted. Does my gratitude bother you?”
“No, I’m just not accustomed to hearing it.” She stared into his eyes for a long moment, before looking away as she rose. “We should return to the kitchen. I’m sure by now Frona has a meal for you.” She gathered the salve and soiled cloths before Jonathan followed her out. In the empty kitchen there waited a plate of boiled carrots, roasted fish, and a large chunk of bread. Beside the meal lay a folded tunic and leather sandals.
“I should return to my duties.” Cyra moved toward the passageway but turned back and smiled at him before disappearing beyond the plaster walls.
It pained him to pull the tunic over his head, but then the fabric fell in place and covered him. The sandals were tight, but a rubdown with olive oil would cure that later.
He savored the hot, hearty meal and relaxed for first time since waking up in a slave cart. At the moment he had food, clothes, and no one beating him.
He was picking the last of the fish from the bones when Brennus appeared in the doorway. “The master summons you.”
Jonathan sprang to his feet to follow, but grabbed the last bite of bread and stuffed it in his mouth before jogging after Brennus.
“Be warned the master is in high temper. The mistress has reduced one of his accounts by three thousand sesterces.”
Jonathan halted midstride. “Three thousand sesterces? That’s seven hundred fifty denarii… that’s… twenty-five aureii of solid gold.”
“I can’t count that high. Make haste.” Brennus set off again with a lengthened stride. Jonathan moved to catch up, though he wanted to be going the opposite direction.
They reached a chamber at the end of the passage. Beside Valentina, her husband Gaius Florus sat straight as a Roman highway, with a
n expression as flat and hard as the stones that paved them. Jonathan had been right to fear. This chamber was small like the kitchen, but the far half of the floor rose up to elevate the master’s long couch, ensuring that even seated he would look down on whoever entered. Potted palms on either side of the long couch looked like they should be holding spears instead of the pair of exotic birds Jonathan had never seen before.
Brennus stopped and bowed low. “Master.”
Should he bow? Valentina looked scared and that made him happy. Unless he should be scared too, more than he already was.
Gaius Florus was gray enough to be his father but far from being frail, judging by the strong curves of the shoulders filling his tunic. The man’s gaze traveled from the floor to Jonathan’s face before turning to Valentina. “Three thousand sesterces?”
Her face paled, and Gaius turned back to him. “What are you called, slave?”
“Jonathan.”
“My lord,” Brennus corrected him. “His name is Jonathan, my lord.”
Gaius sighed and crossed his arms. “What do you excel at?”
Surviving a beating. Trying to save women like his mother. Neither were answers he could give.
“Excellent.” Gaius flashed a glare at his wife and turned to Brennus. “My wife has paid five months’ profits for a simpleton. What do you think should be done with him?”
They could let him go.
“Gaius, please.” Valentina grabbed his arm. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see the horrible way Fabricius was treating him. He was flogging him even as I passed.”
Tears welled in her eyes. That she could lie with such emotion was both impressive and disconcerting. She reminded him more and more of Manius.
“Have him remove his tunic and view his back. I know it wasn’t my place to spend such a sum without permission, but I couldn’t leave him in the hands of that dreadful man. I couldn’t.”
“Stop crying.” Gaius shoved her hands away and shifted on the couch to face her. “You and I both know, as will everyone in Capua, this young man isn’t here because of his back. The poles of your litter can’t possibly hold any more slaves better suited to a brothel than a merchant’s villa. Therefore I will decide what becomes of him.”
Chasing the Lion Page 5