“Yes, we need money. I have wealth, but little income. I enjoy my fine art, my fine wine. I can sell estates and property that I own if I need to, but that is a slow process, and would anyway reduce what meagre amounts we have coming in. So, when we need money, your uncle and I go and take it. He is, w…was, a fine bowman, and after I left the legions, I kept my sword skills sharp training with gladiators, and then when we left Rome, with Lucius.”
“I never see you train.”
“You have never shown any interest in the arts of war, son. Lucius and I would go into the hills and spar for hours on end, then he would practice his archery while I did exercises. You see me as a weak old man, son, because you never look at me properly.”
“But haven’t you restored your fortune now?”
Blaesus sighed. “When you are exiled from the great city, boredom is your greatest enemy. No longer proving yourself in politics, in the courts. No groups of clients paying respect at your door every morning. No plays, or chariot racing in the hippodrome, or great gladiatorial displays in the arena. Festivals, markets, religious ceremonies. Rome is life!”
“You think I don’t know about boredom, father? Stuck here since I was a child.”
“No, you don’t know, because you have never h…had it, so you have no idea what it is that was lost.” Blaesus shook his head. “Lucius was a loyal brother, he st…stuck by me through everything. But while I lost myself in my art, and my fine living, he looked elsewhere. High class prostitutes and large quantities of wine diverted him for a while. Eventually though, he discovered gambling. He ended up owing a large amount of money to that barbarian, Rabidus. Rabidus demanded repayment of the whole sum, or else face retribution. And he made it clear that retribution would mean the death of loved ones. Of you, since Quintus was away at the time.”
“You’re telling me you did this all for me, father?” Publius sneered.
“I’m not asking you to believe anything. I’m just answering your question.”
“So why do you carry on?”
“Money is power,” said Blaesus. “It c…commands the hearts of men, more than wine, more than women, more than family. And power prevents boredom. Boredom, Publius, is death, to the soul. And your uncle and I, we loved being bandits, hidden behind our masks. Powerful, feared, as we used to be in Rome.”
“And when uncle Lucius died, even then you didn’t stop?”
Blaesus’ face darkened. “It is not something you can give up, any more than the drunkard can give up wine. And, there were other reasons not to stop. Vengeance.”
“But you needed a partner.”
Blaesus nodded. “You can’t do it alone. You need someone you can trust.”
“And why not me, father?” Plaintive now.
“I already said. You have no interest in, nor ability with, the sword. Besides, you have hardly made any efforts to improve your lot in life. Living off my wealth, no thought for betterment. Not like Quintus, who took himself off to Greece, learned philosophy, learned to fight.”
“Father. I thought I was your favourite.”
Blaesus shook his head. “No, just the oldest.”
For a moment, they looked at each other. Publius felt tears stinging the corners of his eyes, gritted his teeth angrily to hold back any display of emotion.
“Well, father. At least I know what you think of me now. Maybe one day you will change your mind.” He turned, the mask gripped tight in his hand, and barged Pharnaces out of the way as he left the room.
Publius cantered along the road to Nola, hands tight on the reins, desperate to be out of the house, out of his father’s presence. The tears flowed now there was no one to see them. His heart ached with a sense of betrayal, not because his father had done these things, but because he hadn’t trusted his oldest son to be part of them. He cursed Quintus too, who had kept his father’s secrets from him, who had gone on these hunts with their father. And not even Quintus’ real father at that. Blaesus had chosen a bastard, the product of his brother’s cuckoldry, over his own flesh and blood.
Quintus was a cold one, Publius thought. Acting like that Carbo fellow’s best friend. Yet if the stories were right, Menelaus had been right there when Atreus had slit his girlfriend’s throat. And Quintus had the balls to offer him sympathy.
Publius gripped the hilt of the sword at his belt. He had donned it from habit before leaving the house - it would be foolish to travel the isolated roads alone and unarmed. He drew it, swung it experimentally. His father had exaggerated. Publius had trained with the sword as a young man. He knew how to thrust, cut, parry, how to move his feet, how to read his opponent. But his father had been right that it held no interest for him.
He sheathed the sword again, and looked at the mask, whose strap was wrapped around the wrist of his non-sword arm. Comedy. He had seen some provincial performances of some of the Greek and Latin plays, some tragedies, some comedies. They were mildly diverting. As a child he had found the eerie masks disturbing, and he wondered how it would seem to a terrified traveller to be confronted by a bandit wearing it. He slid it over his head, tightened the strap around the back. The inside smelled of metal and sweat. He stared out of the eye holes, and thought he had an awareness, an understanding of the power and excitement that came with the anonymity and the terror the mask instilled.
He rounded a corner and saw a traveller, walking towards Nola, back towards him, a hundred feet away. As he approached rapidly, the traveller, an older man carrying a sack over his back, turned, and started in alarm. He threw down his sack, extended his arms outwards to show he wasn’t reaching for a weapon.
Publius pulled up, dismounted.
“Please, master,” said the traveller. “Please don’t hurt me.”
Publius stared in wonder at the terror on the man’s face. It was entrancing, intoxicating. Was this what his father and Quintus felt each time they did this? He drew his sword, slowly, almost contemplatively, and raised it vertically in front of his face. He could see the empty road behind him in the highly polished metal. He looked at the traveller, who sank to his knees.
“I’m a poor man, master,” he babbled, clasping his hands together in supplication. “Take what I have. Please spare my life. I have a daughter and a granddaughter who need me. Please, I beg you.”
Publius lowered the tip of the sword towards the traveller, and noticed a wet patch appear on the front of his tunic, urine leaking down his leg. He thrust the sword forward, a rapid in and out, penetrating the traveller’s neck. It happened so quickly, the traveller almost seemed to have missed it. Then his eyes widened, his hands went to his throat, and blood spurted between his fingers. Eyes fixed on Publius, he fell to one side, gurgling, convulsing. Publius watched until he was still. Then he stepped forward and wiped the blood off his sword on the traveller’s tunic.
The sack lay half open where the traveller had discarded it. Publius opened its drawstring and upended it. He kicked through the contents that now littered the ground. Bread, a flask of water, half a dozen copper coins, and a child’s rag doll. He stared down for a while, then sheathed his sword, removed the mask and remounted his horse.
Now it was over, he wasn’t sure how he felt. The thrill, the climax was over, leaving something of an emptiness. Then he remembered the feeling of power as he leaned over the cowering man, and he knew it was a feeling he wanted again.
Agamede’s scream awoke Carbo with such a start he tried to leap up, the chains he was attached to choking Sica momentarily before he realised what he was doing. He slackened the tension, and looked across to Agamede. The first shafts of sun lent dim illumination to the room. Agamede started to moan wordlessly. Pamphile’s head was in her lap, but everything seemed dark around her. Carbo squinted to make it out in the gloom.
Agamede slowly lifted her hand so that Carbo could see.
It was caked in congealing blood.
Carbo crawled forwards to Agamede, gently placed his hands on Pamphile, turning the slave woman towa
rds him. Blank eyes stared past him. At the side of her neck was a deep gash, out of which her life blood had poured away, like yesterday’s soup discarded onto the street. In one hand, Pamphile still clutched a jagged nail. She must have found it in the hut, or on her way back from her work, and waited until everyone was asleep before using it on herself.
Carbo let her head fall back into Agamede’s lap, who caressed her sister’s hair while keening softly. He sat back next to Sica.
“She dead too?” asked Sica softly. Carbo nodded.
No one tried to get back to sleep. They sat in silence, staring into the distance, thinking, grieving, or preparing themselves for what was to come.
The door opened, and a bowl of water and some bread was thrown in.
Everyone seemed to hold their breath as Carbo counted the loaves.
Seven.
They breathed out. With Meru dead, there was one each. That surely meant they had made their quota, that they weren’t being decimated today. After a short while the door opened, and they were herded out. Pamphile was still chained to her sister, so neither Agamede, nor anyone in the chain, could move. Carbo picked up the body and carried it out into the daylight. The guard took one look at the exsanguinated slave woman, and spat.
“Durmius is going to go nuts.”
They shuffled to the assembly area, Carbo still carrying Pamphile. When they were given the command to line up, Carbo gently placed the body on the ground. Durmius stared at Pamphile in disbelief.
“What in the name of all the gods is this?”
“Bitch topped herself,” said one of the guards.
“Damned waste, she had a sweet cunnus,” said another.
Durmius let his eyes slide across the workgroup, none of whom could meet his gaze.
“You let her die. One of my workers.” His voice rose. “No one dies here, unless I order it!”
Durmius’ suddenly noticed Phraates. “And what is that?” he screamed, pointing at the broken arm. “Amasis? Amasis!”
The supervisor hurried over.
“I don’t know what you have let happen to your workgroup, but if they don’t meet their quota today, then you will get to choose a stone along with the rest of them.”
“Master, I’m sorry, I…”
“Your workgroup is down to five. That woman will take the dead slave’s place in the mines.”
“But Master, the one with the broken arm…”
“Enough. Get to work everyone.”
Carbo touched Amasis on the shoulder, making him jump.
“How are we going to meet the quota with one of us carrying a broken arm?”
“I don’t know,” said Amasis miserably.
“You will have to help,” said Carbo.
“Me?” gasped Amasis. “I don’t labour any more.”
“Well, if you don’t, and we don’t hit the target, you may be the one we stone to death tomorrow morning.”
Amasis led them down the mineshaft for the third day. When they reached the rockface, Amasis gathered them round.
“Engineers will firecrack the rock face, around midday today. It will take about an hour for them to heat the rock enough. Then it will be your job to pour vinegar over the rockface to split it apart.”
“I can’t believe that will work,” said Curtius.
“It worked for Hannibal,” said Carbo.
“It has been working for miners for hundreds of years,” snapped Amasis.
“Is dangerous?” asked Sica.
“No, no, no,” said Amasis. “Well. Yes, I suppose it can be. Flying splinters of rock, collapses, asphyxiation.”
Curtius growled, but Carbo shrugged. “It’s not like we get a say in this, is it?”
Amasis looked surprised. “Of course not. Now, we need to put in a good morning’s work to get as near quota as possible. They will make allowances for the time out for the firecracking, but they will still expect a good load from us for the rest of the day.”
“Can we do it, Amasis?” asked Carbo. “Make our quota, in these circumstances.”
“Oh yes, I’m sure we can.”
But it quickly became obvious that it was hopeless. Amasis had been retired from manual labour for a reason. His body was so broken from the years of work that he was all but useless. He was helping Sica in the role that Meru and Agamede had filled the last two days, but he cried out every time he stooped to pick up a piece of rock, and moved at the speed of a slug as he dragged his full basket away. Phraates tried to break up the rocks that Curtius and Carbo mined with his one good arm, but he couldn’t get enough force without a double handed grip, and many of his blows glanced ineffectually off the ore. Curtius and Carbo struggled more and more as the rock they tried to mine became progressively denser.
Amasis still brought them their drinks as well as performing his role helping with the haulage. After a morning’s work, he returned with water and told them they were finished for the time being. He led them out to the main ladder, and they watched engineers take flammable material down the tunnel from which they had just come. After a while in which they rested and breathed the slightly better quality air gratefully, the engineers emerged again.
“Let the fire burn for one hour,” said one of the engineers. “Then extinguish it, and throw the vinegar onto the rocks. Quickly, mind you.”
“I know how it works,” said Amasis, sniffily.
“Well, it’s on your head,” said the engineer, and climbed the ladder.
For the next hour, they ferried amphorae of vinegar from the surface down the ladder. When they were on top, they could see dark smoke pouring out of the ventilation shafts, and when they were down below, the thick air was acrid. When all the amphorae were in place, they waited, while Amasis estimated the time. After a period Carbo guessed was near enough an hour, Amasis said, “Carbo, Curtius, take these buckets of water and put the fire out. Make sure you don’t splash the rockface.”
The two men discarded their leather aprons, which would only be an encumbrance for this task. Carbo picked up two pails, one in each hand, and set off down the tunnel. The smoke from the fire stung his throat, worked its way quickly into his lungs. The poor air quality was worsened drastically by the fumes, and soon he was gasping and coughing. The smoke seemed to cling to the ceiling, so he got on his hands and knees, keeping his head low, searching for clean air. But as the ceiling got lower, the smoke filled the tunnel. Tears blurred his vision, the lining of his nose and throat felt like it had ignited, and every time he took a deep breath, he spluttered it out again uncontrollably. His heart started to race, head swim, and he felt a sudden need to get out, to run. But Curtius was behind him, blocking the passageway, and he knew that running would get him killed.
His experience of fighting panic actually helped him this time. The sensation was familiar, almost like an old friend. He embraced it, and let it propel him forward, even as a darkness started to close in around him.
The air abruptly cleared. At least partially. They had reached one of the ventilation shafts, and the smoke swirled around, mixing with fresh air. Carbo and Curtius breathed deeply, still coughing, but feeling less light-headed.
“This is madness,” said Curtius, when he was finally able to draw enough breath to speak. “How do they expect us to do this and survive?”
“They don’t care whether we survive,” said Carbo, traumatised throat making his voice a husky growl.
“Cocksuckers,” said Curtius, his voice also hoarse. “Let’s go back.”
Carbo shook his head. “We can’t. If we don’t do this, we will be drawing lots tomorrow morning. One of us will die.”
“Better odds that one of us die, than I definitely die down here.”
“Curtius, we can do this. We know there are three more ventilation shafts, and the last one is just before the fire. We can make it to each shaft, then rush the last bit to the fire, put it out, and back to the shaft.”
Curtius shook his head. “Are you serious?”
&nbs
p; “Listen, they may not care much about our lives, but they wouldn’t expect us to do this if it was certain death. They need the fire put out, and they must think it can be done. It’s unpleasant, but it’s possible.”
“Unpleasant?” Curtius tried to laugh, then doubled over in a paroxysm of coughing.
“I need you with me on this Curtius,” said Carbo. “I can’t do it on my own.”
Curtius looked at him uncertainly, then nodded.
“Good man. Let’s go.”
They crawled on, seeking out pockets of fresh air amongst the eddying smoke, like oxen at a trough taking gulps of water. Having made it to the first ventilation shaft, Carbo knew it could be done, and though he still felt the panic of suffocation, he could control it. They reached another ventilation shaft, paused to breathe.
“You still with me?” asked Carbo.
Curtius glowered at him, taking deep, raspy breaths. When his breathing became more settled, he said, “Come on, let’s get this done.”
Twice more they crawled between the oases of fresh air, each time worse than before, as the air quality deteriorated. Warm as it had been before in the deep mine, the fire blazing ahead of them made it feel like they were headed into Vulcan’s home. They paused at the last ventilation shaft.
“How are we going to do this?” asked Curtius.
“Quickly,” said Carbo. “The distance to the fire isn’t as far as the distance between shafts, so we can get there, throw the water and double back.”
“Easy,” said Curtius bitterly.
“Let’s get it over with.”
The last stretch was the worst. The heat was unbearable, the smoke thick. The fire sucked in all the fresh air, and belched out acrid fumes. Carbo emerged into the cavern that for the last three days had been their workspace, to be greeted by a vision straight from Tartarus. The bright glow of the flames was obscured by the dense smoke, giving an eerie quality to the underground room. The heat was intense, scorching his face and bare torso. Chest heaving, he advanced and threw his water onto the fire, first one bucket, then the other. Clouds of hot steam hissed outwards, dispelling the smoke, but doing nothing to improve the breathable air. The fire dimmed, but still burned.
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