by Clare Smith
He ought to be grateful to be moving for at least there would be some chance of shade, but he wasn’t, as every time he moved somewhere new his situation became worse. It was the same for the others chained in the long line behind him. When they had left the Roman camp on the Rhenus there had been nearly five hundred of them, chained together and driven forward like beasts going to market. Now there were just two hundred abject slaves who had no idea of what fate Rome had decided for them.
Prabax, who had once traded with the Romans, said they were to be sent to the arena where they would be given wooden swords to fight the trained killers who entertained the crowds. Praxis, his mother’s brother, had said they were to be crucified as a warning to other Gauls of what happens if you stand against Rome. He’d seen the bodies of men hung on their wooden crosses on the Appian Way and had decided it would be best to die with a sword in your hand, even if it was a wooden one.
In some ways he envied those who had died on the battlefield. At least their death had been quick and they had died bravely. He even envied those who had died of their wounds or exhaustion on the way to Rome. None of them had faced the searing agony of being branded or the humiliation of being paraded through the streets in just a loincloth.
For a moment he thought about his father and his brothers, and wondered what they would say to him now if they were still alive. His father would weep for his youngest son and admonish him for being foolish enough to be caught. On the other hand his brothers would tell him it was better to fight and die than to be a slave, and for once they were probably right.
They were moving now; the Commander at the front who was still being showered with flowers and behind him the legion, or at least as many as could be spared from guarding Rome’s new province, and then came the slaves. After them came some guards all dressed in white, who Prabax had told him were the elite of the Roman army and were to be feared. Finally, at the very rear, were some caged wolves half mad with hunger, although he couldn’t imagine why anyone would want them in their victory parade.
The wolves were thirsty just like he was, but at least they had shade and weren’t being burnt to a crisp. He closed his eyes for a moment to rest them from the glare and ran into the back of the big slave in front of him who had stopped. The man growled something nasty at him, so he held up his hands as far as his chains would allow in way of an apology. He couldn’t blame the man for being touchy, he’d been a berserker, and the Romans had left him as he was to show off his tattoos to the crowd.
The procession had stopped at the foot of a hill and that was where the Commander’s interest in proceedings stopped, as he turned his chariot under an archway and up the steep roadway. At the same time the guards in white reversed direction and marched away. For a moment he thought the legionaries were going to leave them where they were, but they didn’t of course. Instead, thirty or so guards with long spears appeared and herded them into a nearby stone building with bars at the entrance. It was dark inside and blessedly cool, but the smell of blood hung heavily in the air as if the stones were steeped in it.
One by one they were released from the chains which held them together and were taken away in groups. The berserker and the three axe men were the first to go, led away under heavy guard with spear points pressed against their skin in case of any trouble. Then another six who he remembered fighting together at the shield wall were taken away. After that they went in groups of a dozen or so, hurried down a long corridor and out of sight, whilst the line of slaves shuffled forward.
It was obvious to him that they were taking the slaves away in groups depending on their age or perhaps their size. He’d never been particularly big, something which he’d always put down to the problems his mother had birthing him. His eldest brother, dead now for four years from a Roman gladius which had taken his arm, always called him the runt of the litter who should have been put down at birth, but he wasn’t that small. In fact, as he looked along the line of remaining slaves he realised that he was probably the biggest and the oldest amongst them, although that didn’t mean much.
The rest looked to be just boys hardly old enough to hold a sword let alone go into battle. That should have made him feel superior or disdainful, but it had the opposite effect; he didn’t think that being big was going to be an advantage here. It was then that they were herded to one side whilst the cages with the starving wolves were pulled through. He thought it was a coincidence, until one of the guards poked him with the butt end of his spear, pointed at the wolves and laughed.
As he realised what that meant his blood ran cold. He’d seen what a single wolf could do to a hunting hound which had teeth and claws with which to fight, but here there were a dozen wolves at least, and he bet they wouldn’t be given anything with which to defend themselves. He wasn’t the only one who had guessed what was going to happen. The youth next to him had pissed himself, and the one on the other side was on his knees sobbing. At least he wasn’t doing that, however much he felt like doing so.
Then the guards were moving them forwards towards the barred door at the end of the long corridor. He could see daylight and there was a sound like the wind in the trees only louder and harsher. The guards released his manacles and pushed him through the door into a large circular area with a wall all the way around it. The noise was deafening, and when he looked up he could see hundreds of people sitting on stone benches all shouting and screaming down at him.
Someone had told him that the Romans considered the people from Gaul to be barbarians, but they had it all wrong; the savages sat on the benches. He turned away in disgust and studied the rest of his surroundings, although there wasn’t much to see. The wolves were already there in their cages, but now there were men standing on top ready to release the doors and set them free. Sand covered the floor of the arena, and whilst someone had tried to sweep the area clean, blood still oozed from beneath the sand turning it rusty brown.
That made him think about death and what it would be like to die. He wasn’t scared of dying, life was hard and people died all the time. What he was scared of was dying badly and showing his fear. Being torn apart and eaten by wolves had to be one of the worst ways to go, and he could feel the fear building inside of him. He looked up intending to pray to his gods for courage and stopped with his mouth open. In all his twenty two years he’d never seen anything like this, and clearly the crowd hadn’t either as they now stood in silence staring upwards.
The sky was the purple and black of a day old bruise, and lightning flickered across the black clouds which seemed to have come from nowhere. As if the storm had been waiting to catch everyone’s attention before it erupted, there was a clap of thunder which reverberated around the arena and shook the ground. Forked lightening leaped from the sky and hit one of the men who was standing on the metal cages which held the wolves. There was the smell of burning flesh, another clap of thunder and the arena exploded into chaos.
On the stone benches, people screamed and fought with each other to escape the storm, whilst the men on the other two cages ran for the shelter of the passageway. From the protection of the slave’s entrance, the guards beckoned to the slaves and most of them ran for shelter eager to get out of the sheeting rain. Banniff stayed where he was, letting the rain wash the filth from his hair and body and cool the burns across his back and shoulders.
It wasn’t a sensible thing to do when there was lightning around, but he’d come to the conclusion that being struck down by the hands of the gods was a much better way to go than to be eaten by wolves. He was still standing there when the rain suddenly stopped and the clouds blew away. It was strangely quiet standing in the arena by himself with only the eight wolves for company, but he guessed it wouldn’t last for long. He was right.
As soon as the sun came out the rest of the slaves were driven out into the arena, only now the guards didn’t know what to do with them. Without a crowd to entertain it seemed a waste to use up the wolves, but they had their orders that the Gauls
had to die. They were still arguing about it when an old man in a long white robe, and with half a dozen acolytes around him, entered a cordoned off area and called down to the guards.
The man and his followers reminded him of the druids back home and he really wished that he had a better understanding of what was being said, as the old man looked determined and the guards looked increasingly unsure of themselves.
One of the other prisoners came and stood next to him. “It looks like we’re in luck. The old man’s a priest of some deity called Mars and ‘e said that Mars is angry at all the blood spilt outside of war and it’s got to stop.”
“You know how to speak Roman?” Banniff asked in surprise.
“Yeh, sort of. We ‘ad a Roman slave and ‘e taught me some of their lingo before ‘e got used for target practice. I can’t speak it but I can pick up most of what they say.”
He wished that his Roman was that good. “So what are they saying now?”
“Er, something about bein’ sold. Yeh, that’s what they’ve agreed. They’re goin’ to take us to the slave market and sell us and the money’s goin’ to buy offerin’s to Mars.” The boy smiled at him looking pleased with himself but Banniff didn’t respond. “Well that’s got to be better than endin’ up as a wolf’s dinner, ain’t it?”
Banniff nodded but wasn’t so sure.
*
The slave market was no better than anywhere else he’d been in Rome. He’d been taken from the arena chained to the others until they had reached a line of stone sheds where they were pushed inside and left. Inside the shed it was dark and airless and stank of piss and faeces, but at least they had been given water to drink and some brown slop to eat which was gritty and tasteless. For all of that it was still the best meal he’d eaten since he’d left Gaul.
Now he stood in a line with the others, his hands chained to a post whilst people walked past and looked him over as if he were a horse for sale. So far two men had stopped to look at him, and one had seemed vaguely interested, only when he spat at him the man had given up his haggling and walked away muttering angrily. It had cost him two lashes across his back from the overseer’s whip, but it had been worth it; the man had made his skin crawl. He knew he couldn’t choose who his master would be but perhaps he could influence it.
By the time noon had come and gone there were only three of them left and he was beginning to wonder what happened to slaves that no one wanted. He assumed they ended up in the arena being eaten by wolves, but as the priest of Mars said he wasn’t to die that way, they would have to think of something else. Crucifixion sprang into his mind, but he pushed that thought away and concentrated on what was going on around him.
Whilst he’d been contemplating his likely fate, a man had come into the area where he and the other two slaves were being held. Instead of looking them up and down or prodding them as others had done, the man just stood and stared around him as if he didn’t know what to do. He also looked different than the other buyers being short, round and completely bald.
If he’d worn the usual toga or long tunic he might not have looked so odd and out of place. Instead he wore baggy trousers fastened at the ankles, a shirt with oversized sleeves which almost covered his hands, and a sleeveless jerkin embroidered in garish colours. The slave trader must have thought he was odd too because he completely ignored the man until the man tapped him on the shoulder.
Banniff watched them as they argued for a few minutes and then walked over to look at the other slaves and finally came to stand in front of him. The man said something to the slave trader who looked offended but didn’t respond.
“I’ve been told that you speak some Roman so I will speak slowly as I’m looking for something very specific, and I don’t want this fool to fob me off with any old rubbish which would be totally unsuitable for my needs. Now, young man, do you read and write?”
It was a stupid question, no one in the clans wasted their time on such things. He was going to snap back an answer but he thought about being nailed to a cross and gave a brief bow instead. “No, master but I’m quick to learn.”
“Um, a pity. I need someone to help me with my work.” He turned away and then stopped and came back again. “I also need a body slave. Have you ever been a body slave?”
He’d no idea what a body slave was but wasn’t going to say so and make the man think he was a fool. “No, master, I was a warrior.”
“’E’s the son of a clan chief,” put in the slave trader hopefully.
“Is that true?” the man asked, looking more interested in him now.
“Yes, master.”
“Now that’s interesting.” For a moment the man stood and tapped his podgy finger against his lips whilst he thought about something. “Has he been cut?”
“No, but I’ll do that now if you want.” The slave trader pulled out a small, curved knife, grabbed Banniff’s loin cloth and pulled it off. Banniff yelped in surprise and then pulled as far away from the slave trader as he could.
“No, no, no. I need him just as he is.” The man stared down at his manhood and then prodded him painfully in the groin with the small stick he carried under his arm. “Yes, he’ll do nicely. I need a present for my wife to keep her occupied whilst I’m busy, and she says that a man who has been cut is less vigorous. You are vigorous, aren’t you, boy?”
Banniff nodded almost speechless.
“Good, that’s settled then.”
Banniff watched as the two of them haggled over a price and coins were exchanged. Of all the fates he thought might be his, ending up as a stud to a crazy man’s wife was not one of them. Still, it was better than being eaten by wolves.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
CHAPTER THREE
Tobrin the Brit
England
He didn’t want to be there, it was as simple as that. He’d lived all his life in cities and the last six years in London. It was his home and the place where his friends lived. It was where he went to school and the athletics club and played tennis. His football team was there and his girlfriend and everything he knew and cared about. It was all there, but he wasn’t.
His parents were to blame of course, especially his dad who had lost his job. It sounded so simple to say that he’d lost his job, and it would have been if he’d been made redundant or something like that, but it wasn’t simple at all. He’d been caught taking gifts from his overseas suppliers, and on the condition that he repaid the value of the bribes he’d taken and kept his mouth shut, the company had turned a blind eye instead of reporting him to the police.
After that he’d decided it was a good time to retire from corporate life and go off and do something completely different. That wasn’t the real reason they were here though, even if his parents wouldn’t admit it. The real reason was that now they had paid all the money back, they couldn’t afford the mortgage on their spacious house in Pimlico. They could have stayed in London and downsized like anyone else with half a brain would have done, but instead they had moved to this dreary hole and he hated it.
He hated having to get up at six in the morning and walk two miles to catch the school bus. At home he could get up at eight, step on the tube and still have time to kick a ball around the school yard with his mates before the bell went. Even worse was having to run for the school bus the moment the day finished, and then repeat the endless walk home. At his old school he’d stayed behind most nights for some activity or other, or just to talk to his friends, but here there was no chance. He’d missed the bus one night and it had taken him four hours to get home.
Feeling totally miserable, Tobrin fingered the bruise which was starting to bloom on the side of his face and flexed his fingers, trying to ease the ache in his knuckles. In all his life he’d never hit anyone in anger, in fact, he didn’t think he knew how. Yet here he was sitting in the same room he’d sat in last week after he’d lashed out at someone else. Then he’d said that he didn’t know why he’d hit the boy and had got away with it, but he didn’
t think that would work this time.
What he should have done of course was to ignore Brandon’s taunting and just walked away. Unfortunately, when the boy had called him a stuck up arse licker and a shit eating swat, something inside of him had snapped. He supposed that he could plead that he’d been provoked, but none of Brandon’s gang, who had stood around watching the fight and cheering, were going to back up his story.
Even if by some fluke the Deputy Head did believe him, he still wouldn’t do anything about it, as Brandon’s dad was a school governor, which meant the boy could get away with anything. He supposed that was the way of life where everyone knew everyone else and everyone’s business. One thing was for certain, his dad’s misdeeds wouldn’t be a secret for long, not in a place like this.
His father thought he was being so clever moving into the middle of nowhere and pretending to be a retired farmer, but people like Brandon’s dad would soon realise that he knew nothing about farming. He’d already been to visit on the pretence of welcoming them to the village, and had looked pretty unimpressed by the motley collection of cows, pigs and chickens which scratched about in the yard.
The animals were meant to provide an income to pay for their rented smallholding, but so far all they had done was eat their way through what little money there was and messed everywhere. On top of all that, he was meant to help with the milking and caring for the stock, which was one of the worst parts of living in the country. He hated the cold and the smell and the waste of time when there were so many other things he wanted to do.
He looked down at his hands and sighed. His future had looked so bright, but what did he have now? There was very little as far as he could see, except shovelling pig shit and going to a dead end school. He’d thought of just getting up and leaving and going back to London, but he couldn’t do that to his mum, it would break her heart.