The Exiled

by David Barbaree

  ‘Come,’ he says. ‘You will help with dinner. The gods will be angry if you don’t participate.’

  ‘And how will I cook without any eyes?’

  ‘I have it worked out. You will not use your blindness as an excuse.’

  Doryphorus guides me into the kitchen. Theseus, who knows how to cook, is directing Marcus, and soon directs me. They have me peel prawns, and I’m soon covered in slime and smell of the sea.

  ‘Marcus,’ Theseus says, ‘take these pistachios to the tablinum.’

  ‘Finished,’ I say, proudly, after I’ve peeled the last of the prawns. ‘Can someone help me wash up?’

  ‘Come,’ Doryphorus says, ‘the towels are in the next room.’ He takes me by the arm and walks me into the adjoining room. ‘Wait here,’ he says, and I can hear him opening and closing cupboards.

  The smell of burning comes from the next room.

  ‘Doryphorus,’ Theseus calls from the kitchen. ‘I need you. Now.’

  Doryphorus puts my hands on the door handles of a cupboard. ‘Stay put. I will be back,’ he says and rushes off to help Theseus.

  Not content to wait, I open the cupboard and start groping for a towel.

  ‘Stop!’ Marcus yells from the next room – at who I’m not entirely sure.

  I keep searching the cupboard.

  ‘Wait!’ Marcus yells – louder this time.

  I have been with my companions so many years that I know how each of them walks. I know by the length of their strides and the force with which they place their feet on the floor, whether we are inside or out, in the rain or on sun-baked trails in the woods. Thus, I know the person running toward me is Marcus.

  My hand touches the unmistakable curve of a shoulder – a slender, bony shoulder. Unmistakable, but so unexpected – so strange to find a human shoulder in a cupboard – that, with my other free hand, I reach out to find what the shoulder is attached to. My other hand touches flesh – a cheek, the corner of a lip.

  Marcus is behind me. He sighs in defeat.

  Theseus and Doryphorus barrel into the room.

  ‘And who might you be?’ I ask the person hiding in our pantry.

  ‘It’s a girl,’ Theseus says. ‘About sixteen years old.’

  ‘Sulpicius’s missing slave girl,’ I say. It is not a question, so no one feels the need to answer.

  *

  We lock the girl in a bedroom and Marcus tries to explain himself.

  The day after we ripped the tattoo off his shoulder blade, hungover and thirsty, he dragged himself to the crossroads for fresh water. He filled a carafe, but was too exhausted to walk back right away. He waited to restore his energy. As he was sipping his water, gathering his strength, he heard a sneeze. There was an overturned amphora nearby, the massive ones used to cart wine and olive oil across the empire. There was a large hole in its side. Marcus poked his head into it and saw the girl, clutching her knees. He knew who she was right away.

  ‘She’ll be crucified if she’s caught,’ he says. ‘You saw what they did to her parents.’

  ‘We cannot afford to draw the ire of the most powerful Senator in Asia,’ Doryphorus says. ‘Every moment she is under our roof, we put ourselves in danger. We haven’t come this far to be undone by a slave girl. We must return her to Sulpicius.’

  ‘Coward,’ Marcus roars at Doryphorus.

  The lightness we felt from the Saturnalia is gone. We are once again on edge – as we’ve been since we nearly lost Marcus in Rhodes. And that’s what this is about, Marcus surviving when his friend Orestes did not. We had tracked the eunuch Halotus to Asia and laid a trap for him in Rhodes, but he was on to us. While we successfully surprised Halotus, members of his cult, Torcus, kidnapped Marcus and his friend. We saved Marcus, but were too late to save his friend from being butchered to some dark German god.

  Marcus couldn’t save Orestes, but he can save this girl.

  ‘Theseus,’ I ask, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘I agree with Doryphorus that we must be careful,’ he says. ‘If this girl’s presence in our home is a significant danger to us, we should return her to Sulpicius. But I think the danger has passed. Our home has already been searched. They are unlikely to do so again. And I am now friends with Minnow. We have a man on the inside, so to speak, if they decide to search our home again.’

  ‘What are you proposing?’ I say.

  ‘I can only speak for myself,’ Theseus says, ‘but I do not want to cause the death of a young girl, particularly after Marcus has given his word to protect her. I propose she stays here, so long as she follows certain rules. The most important being that she cannot leave this house. Not ever.’

  Is this what I’ve become? A rooming house for slaves and freedmen, outcasts and runaways?

  I nod my head in agreement, but cut Marcus off before he can say thank you. ‘This is a tenuous compact,’ I say. ‘We are agreeing to keep her safe so long as the danger to us is not great. This could change. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  We unlock the girl.

  I explain that we will keep her hidden for the time being, but that could change. She thanks me, though not as ebulliently as I would have expected. Then again, she lost two parents and spent two nights sleeping in an empty amphorae. She must be exhausted and devastated. I’d be in a pissy mood myself.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Olympias.’

  *

  In a matter of days, Olympias has made herself a member of our tribe. Her presence has shown us what we have been lacking. For five years my world smelled of leather, sharpened steel and poorly concealed body odour. Now, seven days after taking her in, walking through our home is like walking through a spring meadow. There are bouquets of flowers in every room – a feat in itself, considering she is not allowed to leave our home. And the incense she burns is fresher, less medicinal than whatever it was we burned before. Twice I have caught Theseus inhaling and then sighing like a lovesick youth. Yesterday, she volunteered to comb my hair and trim my beard – not because she is a slave, but because she has a maternal instinct. She felt sorry for the dishevelled, blind man stalking the halls of our home.

  I asked her, ‘am I so disgusting?’ as she picked something large and sticky from below my chin.

  ‘Not disgusting,’ she said, ‘but there is room for improvement.’

  Doryphorus was sceptical at first, but he is now her greatest advocate. All it took was her to laugh at his jokes, to marvel at his impressions, to clap at his disguises. He is an actor, after all. She even appreciates his most recent creation – a Persian named Cyrus – and gave him pointers on how to make the disguise more believable.

  The greatest impact, though, has been on Marcus. He is happy again, for the first time since Rhodes. We can hear him talking with Olympias – talking! – rather than brooding in silence. I even heard him laugh the other day. She is, I would guess, two years his senior. He tries to impress her with stories of where he’s been and what he’s seen. But, thankfully, she does not fawn over the rich boy who took her in.

  ‘I lived in Alexandria,’ I heard him say last night.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. It’s beautiful. The most beautiful city in the empire.’

  ‘I heard there are too many snakes. I don’t like snakes.’

  Marcus conceded the point. ‘I don’t like snakes either.’

  This evening, after Marcus and Olympias have gone to bed, Theseus and I discuss the new woman in our lives. ‘You raised Marcus to be a patrician and he falls in love with a slave. He takes after you.’

  I nod. ‘I suppose so. My first love was a slave. Her name was Acte. Olympias reminds me of her.’

  ‘Because she knew how to handle a lusty teenager?’

  I smile. ‘In part. Yes.’

  *

  Olympias is bright and wonderfully observant. I can feel her eyes on me, trying to figure out the eccentric Senator from Spain. She asks questions, subtly trying to
learn more. She must know there is more to us than we care to admit.

  Today she watches me cross the room without Doryphorus, using only my staff.

  Tap tap tap.

  She cannot help herself. ‘Master Ulpius . . . ’

  ‘I’m not your master, Olympias. You are my guest. Call me Lucius.’

  ‘Sorry, Mas – Sorry, Lucius,’ she says, awkwardly. ‘Normally, you have your freedman helping you walk. But just now you walked without him, as though you could see.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, how did you do it?’

  ‘This is what we have been lacking in our household. Someone who appreciates me. Do you think Theseus or Marcus would admire a blind man walking across the room? No, they are immune to my daily Herculean efforts.’

  She laughs. Gods, it is nice to hear a woman laugh.

  ‘Since you asked so nicely, I will tell you.’ I motion for her to come sit beside me. I hold my staff in the air. ‘You see, my dear, I have become quite proficient with my staff. I can tap it, like this’ – I tap it three times on the floor, then sweep it side to side – ‘and move it side-to-side. By doing this I can get a sense of my terrain, and I can spot objects blocking my path. It’s not only whether the staff hits an object or a rut in the road. It’s the sound the staff makes that can give me confidence to move forward or lead me to proceed with caution. When the territory is new, I must move slowly. But I’ve covered the ground in this apartment so many times already that I have a crude mental map.’

  ‘How impressive,’ she says.

  ‘Oh, I’m not sure how impressive it is. You would not congratulate a bird for flapping its wings, rather than it plummeting to its death, would you?’

  *

  Olympias is a joy in our household. Yet she is worried about her brother, Alexander. Constantly, unbearably worried. She is grateful for our generosity in taking her in, so she consciously works to ensure we do not share her emotional toll. But her pain is obvious. She cries, nearly every day. She does so in private, but we can hear her through the paper-thin walls.

  The best she can hope for is no news at all. If her brother is able to avoid Sulpicius’s gladiators and escape the city – this will only be confirmed through endless silence. And if he’s successful in escaping Antioch, there is little chance she will ever see him again. If he is discovered, however, judging from Sulpicius’s treatment of their parents, the boy has little hope of surviving.

  These are the two fates open to her: Alexander lives but she never sees him again; or he is discovered and crucified. Quite the dilemma for a girl of sixteen to deal with, particularly after losing her parents earlier this month.

  *

  In the evening, I receive a letter.

  ‘Who is it from?’ I ask.

  I can hear Doryphorus unspool the papyrus. ‘Senator Sulpicius.’

  Doryphorus reads the letter. It is an invitation to visit his home.

  ‘What, by Jupiter, does that man hope to gain by inviting me to his home?’

  ‘The invitation is not only for you, but Theseus as well,’ Doryphorus says.

  ‘Ah, I see. His gladiator Minnow must have told him about Theseus. He wants the retired Roman gladiator to come teach his provincial hacks how to win.’

  ‘I can go,’ Theseus says, ‘but is there a risk in you going? Why give him the chance to figure out who you really are?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean, Theseus. I am Lucius Ulpius. Spaniard. King of the olive tree. Besides, I am bored. Don’t deny me the chance to escape this small apartment.’

  *

  Sulpicius’s compound is less than a mile north of the city limits. We arrive at midday.

  We are greeted by a slave who takes us to his master. I can hear the empty slap of our shoes on the atrium floor before we traverse a set of stairs; then the sound of wood cracking against wood, and men, growling, shouting, whistling and laughing.

  ‘We are on a balcony,’ Doryphorus says, ‘overlooking the training ground. Two gladiators are fighting.’

  The doctore’s whip cracks below.

  ‘You’re a cripple?’

  The voice is deep and gritty, like pebbles under a wagon’s wheel. Sulpicius.

  Sulpicius would have met me in Rome. But I am not worried he will recognise me. It was many years ago and I am a shell of my former self. The bits torn of a prawn before Theseus throws it in the pan. People only notice what is missing: my eyes.

  ‘I am blind,’ I say to Sulpicius, ‘but not a cripple. Lucius Ulpius,’ I say and hold out my hand.

  He doesn’t take it.

  ‘Why would you come to see my fighters if you can’t see my fighters?’

  ‘I can hear everything you can see,’ I say.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Alright,’ Sulpicius says. He roars at his doctore below, who in turn barks out instructions to his men.

  I can hear feet shuffling on the sandy floor of the training ground as two fighters take their position. Doryphorus stands behind me as we planned. He touches my left elbow and right hip. According to the system we have worked out in advance, left elbow means Gallic class of fighter. Right hip means Hoplomachus class, a rarely used denomination of fighter.

  ‘A Gallic and Hoplomachus,’ I say to Sulpicius. ‘A strange pairing.’

  ‘How did you know that?’ Sulpicius is unable to hide his surprise.

  ‘I told you,’ I say, pointing at my right ear. ‘I can hear it.’

  ‘A lucky guess.’

  ‘If it were a guess,’ I say, ‘it would be very lucky indeed.’

  A fight begins. Feet slide across sand; idle gladiators whistle and hiss; occasionally there is a tumult of wood cracking against wood.

  Doryphorus touches my left elbow, and then taps my right shoulder blade three times.

  ‘An effective defence from your Gallic fighter.’

  Someone other than Sulpicius – one of his slaves, perhaps – mumbles, ‘Wow,’ at my ability to follow the fight.

  Doryphorus and I continue this routine. He signals to me every attack and defence, and I describe it to Sulpicius. It’s a good trick. But, in truth, not very difficult. There isn’t much to gladiatorial fights: attack and defence, attack and defence, until one man is victorious.

  ‘Enough,’ Sulpicius says, and the doctore stops the fight.

  Sulpicius takes my hand and shakes it. ‘Hell of a set of ears you have.’

  And like that, Sulpicius and I are friends. He takes us for a tour of his facility. He has gone from one extreme to the other. Before he thought my lack of eyes prevented me from knowing anything about the physical world. Now he thinks – despite my handicap – I see and understand everything. He asks my opinion on mosaics and sculptures, whether the bust of his grandfather looks anything like him. (He even gives me time to run my hands along the marble.) And he asks for my thoughts on gladiatorial diets or how to treat his favourite Myrmillo’s wound. Rather than demur, I play the part. ‘Yes, I see a likeness, in the chin and the eyes.’ ‘Oh, it does not look good, but you’ll have to ask my man, Theseus, on how to treat it.’

  Theseus and Minnow are reunited. We leave them to talk while Sulpicius and I enjoy lunch on the portico looking down on the training ground.

  *

  Near the end of our meal, there is a commotion below. Doryphorus leans in and whispers that four visitors are entering the training ground through a set of double doors. Tradesmen, Doryphorus says, by the look of their rough clothing and lack of gold. They have one horse between them. Sitting on top is a boy, about fourteen or so, with his hands tied behind his back and a rag tied across his mouth. ‘He looks scared,’ Doryphorus whispers.

  ‘Master,’ a slave yells from below, ‘these men found Alexander.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Sulpicius roars as he stands up from our table. ‘Where was the damned boy hiding?’

  ‘In our warehouse, senator. We caught him trying to hide in a carriage headed for the port.�
��

  ‘And his sister? Any sign of her?’

  ‘None. We found only the boy.’

  ‘Bring the little prick forward,’ Sulpicius yells.

  I hear Alexander’s muffled cries of resistance as he’s dragged through the sand.

  ‘Let him speak. Remove the rag,’ Sulpicius says. ‘Where’s your sister, boy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Alexander’s voice quivers with fear.

  ‘You will tell me, boy,’ Sulpicius says. ‘I have ways of making people talk.’

  I can hear the boy begin to sob.

  ‘He could be telling the truth,’ I say to Sulpicius. ‘If they were separated, he’d not know where she ran to.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sulpicius says, quietly. Then, louder, to the men below, he says, ‘You. What’s your name?’

  The tradesman below gives his name.

  ‘You’ll get your reward today, but your work isn’t done. You’re to go back to Antioch and let it be known that this boy, Alexander, the runaway slave, will be crucified in the market tomorrow. Unless his sister comes forward. If she does, they both may live.’

  After the tradesmen have left, I ask Sulpicius, ‘Do you think such a plan will work?’

  ‘You’ve never seen a brother and sister closer than those two. She’ll not want to let any harm come to her brother – not if she can stop it.’

  ‘But why does it matter,’ I say, ‘one slave girl? I’m sure you have your share of slaves.’

  ‘If one slave escapes successfully, it gives the others hope. They reckon: maybe I could get away as well. Any slave thinks that, it’s bad enough. But if you own gladiators, it can be deadly. No slave of mine escapes. No exceptions.’

  ‘Will you kill the boy if his sister doesn’t come forward?’ I ask. ‘I’d heard you planned on training him as a gladiator. He must have some talent. It would be a waste to simply kill him.’

  ‘Like I said: it’s policy. I’ll have to make an example out of him.’

  *

  ‘You can’t trust him!’ Marcus grabs my arm, looking for me to support his cause. ‘Tell her. Sulpicius can’t be trusted.’

  Marcus has grown close to Olympias and does not want to lose her. Truth be told: neither do I.