by Ben Kane
It didn’t take the Egyptian long to sell the friends. Thanks to the impending games at Capua, sales at the Neapolis slave market were brisk. There were few specimens on sale to compare with the two Carthaginians’ muscular build, or the Numidians’ wiry frames, and buyers crowded round the naked men, squeezing their arms and staring into their eyes for signs of fear. Although Hanno’s miserable demeanour was not that of a combatant, he impressed nonetheless. Cleverly, the Egyptian refused to sell them except as a pair. Several dealers bid against each other to purchase the two friends, and the eventual victor was a dour Latin by the name of Solinus. He also bought four of the Egyptian’s other captives.
Hanno took little notice of what was going on in the noisy market place. Suniaton’s efforts to revive his spirits with whispers of encouragement were futile. Hanno felt more hopeless than he ever had in his life. Since surviving the storm, every possible chance of redemption had turned to dust. Unknowingly, they had rowed out to sea rather than towards the land. Instead of a merchant vessel, fate had brought them the bireme. In a heaven-sent opportunity, Carthaginians had been present at Neapolis, but he hadn’t been able to speak to them. Lastly, they were to be sold as gladiators rather than the more common classes of slaves, which guaranteed their death. What more proof did he need that the gods had forgotten them completely? Hanno’s misery coated him like a heavy, wet blanket.
Along with an assortment of Gauls, Greeks and Iberians, the six captives were marched out of the town and on to the dusty road to Capua. It was twenty miles from Neapolis to the Campanian capital, a long day’s walk at most, but Solinus broke the journey with an overnight stop at a roadside inn. As the prisoners watched miserably, the Latin and his guards sat down to enjoy a meal of wine, roast pork and freshly baked bread. All the captives got was a bucket of water from the well, which afforded each man no more than half a dozen mouthfuls. At length, however, a servant delivered several stale loaves and a platter of cheese rinds. However paltry the portions, the waste food tasted divine, and revived the captives greatly. As Suniaton bitterly told Hanno, they would be worth far less if they arrived in Capua at death’s door. It was therefore worth spending a few coppers on provisions, however poor.
Hanno didn’t respond. Suniaton soon gave up trying to raise his spirits, and they sat in silence. Deep in their own misery, and strangers to each other, none of the other slaves spoke either. As it grew dark, they lay down side by side, staring at the glittering vista of stars illuminating the night sky. It was a beautiful sight, reminding Hanno again of Carthage, the home he would never see again. His emotions quickly got the better of him, and, grateful for the darkness, he sobbed silently into the crook of an elbow.
Their current suffering was nothing. What was to come would be far worse.
In the morning, Quintus had his first hangover. During the celebratory dinner the previous night, Fabricius had plied him with wine. Although he had often taken surreptitious tastes from amphorae in the kitchen, it had been the first time Quintus was officially permitted to drink. He had not held back. His approving mother had not protested. With Aurelia hanging on his every word, Elira casting smouldering glances each time she delivered food and his father throwing him frequent compliments, he’d felt like a conquering hero. Agesandros too had been full of praise when, after dinner, he had brought the freshly skinned bear pelt to the table. Flushed with success, Quintus rapidly lost count of how many glasses he’d downed. While the wine was watered down in the traditional manner, he was not used to handling its effects. By the time the plates were cleared away, Quintus had been vaguely aware that he was slurring his words. Atia had swiftly moved the jug out of his reach and, soon after, Fabricius had helped him to bed. When a naked Elira had slipped under the covers a short time later, Quintus had barely stirred; he hadn’t noticed her leave either.
Now, with the early morning sun beating down on his throbbing head, he felt like a piece of metal being hammered on a smith’s anvil. It was little more than an hour since his father had woken him, and even less since they had set off from the farm. Nauseous, Quintus had refused the breakfast proffered him by a sympathetic Aurelia. Encouraged by a grinning Agesandros, he’d drunk several cups of water, and mutely accepted a full clay gourd for the journey. There was still a foul taste in Quintus’ mouth, though, and every movement of the horse between his knees threatened to make him vomit yet again. So far, he’d done so four times. The only things keeping him on the saddle blanket were his vice-like hold on the reins, and his knees, which were tightly gripping the horse’s sides. Fortunately, his mount had a placid nature. Eyeing the uneven track that stretched off into the distance, Quintus muttered a curse. Capua was a long distance away yet.
They travelled in single file, with his father at the front. Dressed in his finest tunic, Fabricius sat astride his grey stallion. His gladius hung from a gilded baldric, necessary protection against bandits. Also armed, Quintus came next. The tightly rolled bear pelt was tied up behind his saddle blanket. It needed to dry out, but he was determined to show it to Gaius. His mother and his sister were next, sitting in a litter carried by six slaves. Aurelia would have ridden, but Atia’s presence precluded that. Despite the tradition that women did not ride, Quintus had given in to his sister’s demands years before. She had turned out to be a natural horsewoman. Their father had happened to see them practising one day, and had been amazed. Because of her ability, Fabricius had chosen to indulge her in this, but Atia had been kept in the dark. There was no way that she would have agreed to it. Knowing this, Aurelia had not protested as they’d left.
Taking up the rear was Agesandros, his feet dangling either side of a sturdy mule. He was to visit the slave market and find a replacement for the dead Gaul. A metal-tipped staff was slung over his back, and his whip, the badge of his office, was jammed into his belt. The Sicilian had left his deputy, a grinning Iberian with little brain but plenty of brawn, to supervise the taking in of the harvest. Last of all came a pair of prize lambs, bleating indignantly as Agesandros dragged them along by their head ropes.
Time passed and gradually Quintus felt more human. He drained the water gourd twice, refilling it from a noisy stream that ran parallel to the road. The pain in his head was lessening, allowing him to take more of an interest in his surroundings. The hills where they had hunted the bear were now just a hazy line on the horizon behind them. On either side sprawled fields of ripe wheat, ground which belonged to their neighbours. Campania possessed some of the most fertile land in Italy, and the proof lay all around. Groups of slaves were at work everywhere, wielding their scythes, gathering armfuls of the cut stalks, stacking sheaves. Their activities were of scant interest to Quintus, who was beginning to feel excited about wearing his first adult toga.
Aurelia drew the curtain as the litter came alongside. ‘You look better,’ she said brightly.
‘A little, I suppose,’ he admitted.
‘You shouldn’t have drunk so much,’ Atia scolded.
‘It’s not every day a man kills a bear,’ Quintus mumbled.
Fabricius turned his head. ‘That’s right.’
Aurelia’s lips thinned, but she didn’t pursue the issue.
‘A day like yesterday comes along only a few times in a lifetime. It is right to celebrate it,’ Fabricius declared. ‘A sore head is a small price to pay afterwards.’
‘True enough,’ Atia admitted from the depths of the litter. ‘You have honoured your Oscan, as well as your Roman, heritage. I’m proud to have you as my son.’
Shortly after midday, they reached Capua’s impressive walls. Surrounded by a deep ditch, the stone fortifications ran around the city’s entire circumference. Watchtowers had been built at regular intervals, and six gates, manned by sentries, controlled the access. Quintus, who had never seen Rome, loved it dearly. Originally built by the Etruscans more than four hundred years before, Capua had been the head of a league of twelve cities. Two centuries previously, however, marauding Oscans had swept in, s
eizing the area for their people. My mother’s race, thought Quintus proudly. Under Oscan rule, Capua had grown into one of the most powerful cities in Italy, but was eventually forced to seek aid from Rome when successive waves of Samnite invaders threatened its independence.
Quintus’ father was descended from a member of the Roman relief force, which meant that his children were citizens. Campania’s association with the Republic meant that its people were also citizens, but only the nobility were allowed to vote. This distinction was still the cause of resentment among many Campanian plebeians, who had to present themselves for military service alongside the legions, despite their lack of suffrage. The loudest among them claimed that they were remaining true to their Oscan ancestors. There was even some talk of Capua regaining its independence, which Fabricius decried as treason. Quintus felt torn if he thought about their protests, not least because his mother conspicuously remained silent at such times. It seemed hypocritical that local men who might fight and die for Rome were not permitted to have a say in who ran the Republic. It also brought Quintus to the thorny question of whether he was denying his mother’s heritage in favour of his father’s? It was a point that Gaius, Flavius Martialis’ son, loved to tease him about. Although they had Roman citizenship and could vote, Martialis and Gaius were Oscan nobility through and through.
Their first stop was the temple of Mars, which was located in a side street a short distance from the forum. While the family watched, one lamb was offered up for sacrifice. Quintus was relieved when the priest pronounced good omens. The same assertion was made at Diana’s shrine, delighting him further.
‘No surprise there,’ Fabricius murmured as they left.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Quintus.
‘After hearing what happened on the hunt, the priest was hardly going to give us an unfavourable reading.’ Fabricius smiled at Quintus’ shock. ‘Come now! I believe in the gods too, but we didn’t need to be told that they were pleased with us yesterday. It was obvious. What was important today was to pay our respects, and that we have done.’ He clapped his hands. ‘It’s time to clean up at the baths, and then buy you a new toga.’
An hour later, they were all standing in a tailor’s shop. Thanks to its proximity to the fullers’ workshops, the premises reeked of stale urine, increasing Quintus’ desire to get on with the matter in hand. Workers were busy in the background, raising the nap on rolls of cloth with small spiked boards, trimming it with cropping shears to give a soft finish, and folding the finished fabric before pressing it. The proprietor, an obsequious figure with greasy hair, laid out different qualities of wool for them to choose from, but Atia quickly motioned at the best. Soon Quintus had been fitted in his toga virilis. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot while a delighted Atia fussed and bothered, adjusting the voluminous folds until they met with her approval. Fabricius stood in the background, a proud smile on his lips while Aurelia bobbed up and down excitedly alongside.
‘The young master looks very distinguished,’ gushed the shopkeeper.
Atia gave an approving nod. ‘He does.’
Feeling proud but self-conscious, Quintus gave her a tight smile.
‘A fine sight,’ Fabricius added. Counting out the relevant coinage, he handed it over. ‘Time to visit Flavius Martialis. Gaius will want to see you in all your glory.’
Leaving the proprietor bowing and scraping in their wake, they walked outside. There Agesandros, who had taken their mounts to a stables, was waiting. He bowed deeply to Quintus. ‘You are truly a man now, sir.’
Pleased by the gesture, Quintus grinned. ‘Thank you.’
Fabricius looked at his overseer. ‘Why don’t you go to the market now? You know where Martialis’ house is. Just come along when you’ve bought the new slave.’ He handed over a purse. ‘There’s a hundred didrachms.’
‘Of course,’ Agesandros replied. He turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Quintus cried on impulse. ‘I’ll tag along. I need to start learning about things like this.’
Agesandros’ dark eyes regarded him steadily. ‘“Things like this”?’ he repeated.
‘Buying slaves, I mean.’ Quintus had never really given much thought to the process before, which, for obvious reasons, still impacted on Agesandros. ‘You can teach me.’
The Sicilian glanced at Fabricius, who gave an approving nod.
‘Why not?’ Atia declared. ‘It would be good experience for you.’
Agesandros’ lips curved upwards. ‘Very well.’
Aurelia rushed to Quintus’ side. ‘I’m coming too,’ she declared.
Agesandros arched an eyebrow. ‘I’m not sure …’ he began.
‘It’s out of the question,’ said Fabricius.
‘There are things in the slave market which are not fitting for a girl to see,’ Atia added.
‘I’m almost a woman, as you keep telling me,’ Aurelia retorted. ‘When I’ve been married off, and I’m mistress of my own house, I will be able to visit such places whenever I choose. Why not now?’
‘Aurelia!’ Atia snapped.
‘You do what I say!’ interrupted Fabricius. ‘I am your father. Remember that. Your husband, whoever he may be, will also expect you to be obedient.’
Aurelia dropped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I just wanted to accompany Quintus as he walked through the town, looking so fine in his new toga.’
Disarmed, Fabricius cleared his throat. ‘Come now,’ he said. He glanced at Atia, who frowned.
‘Please?’ Aurelia pleaded.
There was a long pause, before Atia gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Fabricius smiled. ‘Very well. You may go with your brother.’
‘Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother.’ Aurelia avoided Atia’s hard stare, which promised all kinds of dressing-down later.
‘Go on, then.’ Fabricius made a benevolent gesture of dismissal.
As Agesandros silently led them down the busy street, Quintus gave Aurelia a reproving look. ‘It’s not only my exercises that you’ve been spying on, eh? You’re quite the conspirator.’
‘You’re surprised? I have every right to listen in to your little conversations with Father.’ Her blue eyes flashed. ‘Why should I just play with my toys while you two discuss possible husbands? I may be able to do nothing about it, but it’s my right to know.’
‘You’re right. I should have told you before,’ Quintus admitted. ‘I’m sorry.’
Suddenly, her eyes were full of tears. ‘I don’t want an arranged marriage,’ she whispered. ‘Mother says that it won’t be that bad, but how would she know?’
Quintus felt stricken. Such a bargain might help them climb to the upper level of society. If so, their family’s fate would be changed for ever. The price required made him feel very uncomfortable, however. It didn’t help that Aurelia was right beside him, waiting for his response. Quintus didn’t want to tell an outright lie, so, ducking his head, he increased his pace. ‘Hurry,’ he urged. ‘Agesandros is leaving us behind.’
She saw through his pretence at once. ‘See? You think the same.’
Stung, he stopped.
‘Father and Mother married for love. Why shouldn’t I?’
‘It is our duty to obey their orders. You know that,’ said Quintus, feeling awful. ‘They know best, and we must accept that.’
Agesandros turned to address them, abruptly ending their conversation. Quintus was relieved to see that they had reached the slave market, which was situated in an open area by the town’s south gate. Already it was becoming hard to make oneself heard above the din. Aurelia could do little but fall into an angry silence.
‘Here we are,’ the Sicilian directed. ‘Take it all in.’
Mutely, the siblings obeyed. Although they had seen the market countless times, neither had paid it much heed before. It was part of everyday life, just like the stalls hawking fruit and vegetables, and the butchers selling freshly slaughtered lambs, goats and pigs. Yet, Quintus realis
ed, it was different here. These were people on sale. Prisoners of war or criminals for the most part, but people nonetheless.
Hundreds of naked men, women and children were on display, chained or bound together with rope. Chalk coated everyone’s feet. Black-, brown- and white-skinned, they were every nationality under the sun. Tall, muscular Gauls with blond hair stood beside short, slender Greeks. Broad-nosed, powerfully built Nubians towered over the wiry figures of Numidians and Egyptians. Full-breasted Gaulish women clustered together beside rangy, narrow-hipped Judaeans and Illyrians. Many were sobbing; some were even wailing with distress. Babies and young children added their cries to that of their mothers. Others, catatonic from their trauma, stared into space. Dealers stalked up and down, loudly extolling the qualities of their merchandise to the plentiful buyers who were wandering between the lines of slaves. On the fringes of the throng, groups of hard-faced, armed men lounged about, a mixture of guards and fugitivarii, or slave-catchers.
‘The choice is enormous, so you have to know what you want in advance. Otherwise, it would take all day,’ said Agesandros. He looked enquiringly at Quintus.
Quintus thought of the tattooed Gaul, whose primary duty had been working in the fields. His skill with the hunting dogs had merely been an added bonus. ‘He needs to be young and physically fit. Good teeth are important too.’ He paused, thinking.
‘Anything else?’ Agesandros barked.
Quintus was surprised by the change in the Sicilian, whose usual genial manner had disappeared. ‘There should be no obvious infirmities or signs of disease. Hernias, poorly healed fractures, dirty wounds and so on.’
Aurelia screwed up her face in distaste.
‘Is that it?’
Irritated, Quintus shook his head. ‘Yes, I think so.’
Agesandros pulled out his dagger, and Aurelia gasped. ‘You’re forgetting the most important thing,’ the Sicilian said, raising the blade. ‘Look in his eyes, and decide how much spirit he has. Ask yourself: will this whoreson ever try to cut my throat? If you think he might, walk away and choose another. Otherwise you might regret it one dark night.’