After five months of torment, Titus Cornelius Festus remembered an accident he’d had as a boy. His father had bought him a new horse – a fine, black stallion, high-stepping and proud – a magnificent beast that had thrown him before he’d ridden ten paces.
How old had he been? Eleven? Twelve? He’d cried, he remembered – tears of shame more than hurt. And of fear. With its nostrils flared, snorting, pawing the ground – the horse had suddenly looked like a monster from the ancient tales.
How angry his father had been! He’d ordered Titus to get up off the ground, to get back on the horse, to show it who was master. “Conquer your terror, you screaming sissy. Or it will conquer you.”
Perhaps the same principle could be applied to the girl? Titus began to think that there was only one way to recover his sanity.
He should buy a new slave. A redhead. An obedient virgin to take Cassia’s place. He would select her himself.
And where was the best, the biggest slave market in Britannia?
Londinium.
A week later Titus Cornelius Festus set forth for the city. His temper had not improved these past months and the steward had been at the receiving end of it, day after day. He watched his master depart with a sense of glorious relief.
By road it was a journey of some forty miles from villa to the city – a ride that could have been managed in a single day had Titus Cornelius Festus the will to do so. He did not. He was soft and heavy of body and did not care to sit astride a horse. Instead he was propelled along in a carriage stuffed with silken cushions and pulled by a pair of well-groomed horses.
They had to proceed at a slow pace, for behind the carriage ran the master’s body slaves. They were tied to the end of a rope in case they were tempted to run away like that bitch of a girl, Cassia.
Oh, he was aware of the effect she’d had on his slaves. Somehow she’d put a spring into their steps. They carried their heads higher these days. Often he felt their eyes straying to his ruined ear. They were not such fools as to let him catch them staring. But he could feel their suppressed smirks, their contained laughter. He’d had several of them whipped for it, his steward included, but the smiles were still there.
She’d given them a fable to cling to, given them hope.
Curse the woman! He’d never had any trouble managing his slaves before. Well … let them see how he treated the girl he’d bring home from Londinium. He’d break her, and break her well. She’d serve as an example to them all.
Titus Cornelius Festus stopped for the night at a wayside inn, where he demanded the best rooms to be given over for his use. He made straight for the bath-house, where his slaves scraped and oiled his skin. A jug of wine, the finest food the inn could offer. When he lay on his couch, clean and with a full belly, his mind turned to the satiation of his other appetites.
He called for the innkeeper to see what was on offer and the man returned with a woman. Her red hair was a wig and she was far older than he would have liked, but the creature was willing and able to please him and just then that was all he desired.
When he was done, he slept.
He’d planned to be on his way at dawn the next morning. But he woke late, his head aching from too much inferior wine. He groaned, rolled onto his back. Scratched himself.
And – oh, curse that whore! – his old problem had begun to flare. He recognized the telltale itch and that hideous burning when he urinated into the pisspot. Jupiter and all the gods on Mount Olympus! Were they playing some kind of joke on him?
Maybe it would pass off as they travelled.
It did not.
Moment by moment, mile by mile, the pain grew worse.
They reached Londinium at sundown and went straight to the tavern where he was accustomed to stay. He spent the night in torment.
The following dawn was a ravishing one – clear and cool, with the welcome promise of warmth to come. But Titus Cornelius Festus missed all the beauty of the sunrise.
He needed help. A doctor. A healer. Someone. Urgently. He sent a slave to fetch the tavern owner and the man recommended a pharmacist at the edge of the city.
Before long the innkeeper’s boy was running through the streets of Londinium towards the home of Gaius Quintus Hortensius.
XV
Dawn that day found Cassia in the garden, weeding between the rows of freshly sprung herbs. The smell of the earth, the feel of the sun on her back, the colour of the new growth – all conspired to make her miss Rufus more than ever. The bluebells would be out soon. He used to pick them for her, even though she always told him to leave them where they grew. He could never resist pressing bunches into her hands, bluer than the sky on a spring day. She’d like to breathe in that colour, to fill herself with it.
And here she was, trapped in Londinium, while Marcus, the only person in the entire city who was close to being a friend, was making preparations to leave. This week, or the next – any day now – he’d be back on the road, he said.
He’d offered to take her with him. She’d refused. She didn’t know why. There was nothing to hold her here. But there was some nagging sense of a task undone. Something incomplete that kept her chained, unable to move.
Cassia had no inkling of what was to happen that day. She felt no prickling of the skin, no dark presentiment. She was so engrossed in her work and so far down the garden that she didn’t even hear the innkeeper’s boy arrive or the pharmacist questioning the details of the guest’s condition.
The boy was sent back with word that the remedy would be delivered as soon as it was made. It would take an hour or two, no more.
It was only when Gaius called Cassia to come and grind dried berries into paste that she realized he had a new client. She walked into the house with no sense of foreboding and made the preparation as he instructed. Then she delivered the salve to the tavern.
And the fates of Titus Cornelius Festus and Cassia collided once more.
She smelled him before she saw him. She’d been directed to the large chamber at the top of the building and had climbed the stairs in all innocence. She was barely through the door when her nostrils were assaulted by the stink of wealth and over-indulgence. Of lechery.
For a moment she froze. Stood petrified.
He had his back to her. She could have escaped without him knowing. If only his slave’s eyes hadn’t widened; if only he’d not let out that astonished cry.
Titus looked at the boy. Turned his head to see what had alarmed him. Saw Cassia’s red hair, bright in a shaft of sunlight.
And then it was as though he had unleashed the Furies.
He rose from the stool he was sitting on, leaping up so violently it crashed to the ground. “Get her, get her, get her,” he shouted, the words melding together into one phrase.
He was a wealthy man, and he liked to display his affluence in the retinue that accompanied him. There were five slaves waiting on his every whim. Five men set on one girl. Though their hearts might not be in the chase, they’d seen what the consequences were when she escaped the first time. No one would willingly endure that kind of torment.
She was down the stairs, through the door and running. Her pursuers cast aside everything in their way – tables, stools, customers. Titus Cornelius himself discovered the use of his feet – running down the stairs, through the tavern and along the street in pursuit of Cassia for perhaps twenty paces before he exhausted himself.
As for Cassia – her work had been easier this last winter, much of it indoors. Her muscles weren’t as hard as they had been: she couldn’t run as far or as fast as she once had. Panic tightened her chest and her breath came in pained snatches.
The slaves were running to escape a certain beating. Cassia was running for her life, but so blinded by fear she couldn’t think. She turned one corner, then another. Then a third. She thought she’d shaken them off, but had merely run around the outside of a tenement block and almost straight back into her pursuers.
Pushing her way through the
crowds, splashing through mud and filth, she entered the market. It was the busiest time of day, with people pressed so tightly together she could not run. Indeed she could barely walk and had to go with the human tide as it flowed in and then moved from stall to stall. She had the presence of mind – just – to duck down a little, so her red hair did not act as a flaming beacon to her fellow slaves.
She saw them come in. Split up. They spread out, each heading to the separate exits. There they stood guard at each doorway knowing that the market would eventually end, that the place would clear: that she would not get through without having to pass them by.
And then they waited.
It was a long, weary morning. But by noon the crowds began to thin.
One by one, the traders began to close their stalls.
Cassia was in despair. She’d run herself right into a trap. The urge to weep, to scream, to tear her hair was overwhelming. She dropped to her knees. Crawled under the table of a stall where a sudden calmness descended. She was seized with an odd kind of detachment, as though watching herself from above. A story slipped into her head. One Marcus had told her. Ulysses, escaping from the monstrous Cyclops under the belly of a gigantic sheep.
There were no creatures to hide under, but there were vehicles, being brought in now in ones and twos. The nearest was a four-wheeled donkey cart, low to the ground.
She tied her hair into a knot. Gathering her skirt through her legs she stuffed the hem into her belt and then crept underneath it. Ulysses had clung to the sheep’s fleece. Could she not find something to cling to now?
Forcing her toes into the space between the rear axle and the floorboards, ramming her fingers into the hole at the front, she held on like a limpet, praying she would not be thrown down the moment the cart moved.
But first it had to be loaded and the stallholder was in no hurry to be off home. He chatted while he worked. Each thud of an empty amphora hitting the boards went through her, jarring her spine, setting every muscle on edge.
She was in an agony of impatience but soon discovered the folly of wanting to be underway. While the cart was stationary, clinging to its belly was bearable. As soon as the wheels began to turn, the axle moved with them, scraping against flesh and bone, bruising her, grinding her feet and hands. She would be crushed! Or she would be dislodged and flung to the ground.
They neared the exit. She could see the feet of one of her pursuers. Saw him approach, walk around the cart, glance into it in case there was a stowaway crouched between the jars. But he did not think to bend down and look at what was underneath.
And then the cart was out of the market and into the street. Every stone, every pothole jolted the vehicle and gave her fresh pain. The blood was rushing to her head; her hands and arms had begun to shake. As the wheels turned, they cast manure into her face.
When they hit a particularly deep pothole, she could cling on no more. She fell, landing with a splash in a pool of urine.
The cart driver heard nothing over the grate of metalled wheels on stone.
For now Cassia was free.
But she could not go back to Gaius. She could not stay anywhere in the city now Titus Cornelius Festus knew she was here.
Once more she was on her own. Once more she must flee.
Where to?
She stood in the street, and at that moment a cart piled with hides trundled past. Bear. Beaver. Wolf. Dead, grey fur, stirred by a breath of wind.
The coolness that had overtaken her grew and spread. Her skin felt as though she had been stroked with ice.
The women’s voices: the dreams she had been having all winter came to her now in broad daylight. Still she could not understand the words. But the tone? They were desperate. But not angry. Pleading. Begging. Inviting. She could feel their invisible hands reaching out, pulling her towards them.
I will come, she thought. But where? Where?
The answer dropped into her head and she said aloud, “North.”
Of course! For as long as she was within the Empire, Titus Cornelius Festus could pursue her, take her back, do as he wished with her. But the Empire had its limits. The thought of the wild tribes made her blood run cold. Savages, they were called. Vermin.
But was that not the same way the Romans talked of Boudica and the Iceni?
Romans. Who put men to death for their own amusement. Surely the savage tribes could not be more barbaric than the men who now ruled Britannia? Could she not take her chances with them?
Again she spoke aloud: “Yes.”
And – as if in response – another thought came into her head.
Not without Rufus.
The fears and worries, the forgotten task that lay undone: the grief that had so clouded her head cleared. She knew precisely what she must do.
Even as her plan was taking solid form, her feet were leading her to the place where Marcus had his lodgings.
She entered his chamber without knocking.
Before he could ask her what was wrong, the words were out of her mouth, cool and resolute.
“I need a Roman.”
XVI
Cassia told Marcus that she would travel with him, as he’d asked. But first she had a job to do. There was someone she needed to find, someone of immense importance, who she must rescue from bondage and bring secretly away. Someone she needed to take north of the wall.
She expected him to refuse. He was a Roman, after all – why would he help her with something so clandestine? At the very least, she thought, he’ll want to know more about Rufus. To demand why he was so important to her.
She’d expected to use every argument, every means of persuasion in her power. Gods! She’d even sleep with him, if necessary. There were times he’d seemed to burn with lust for her: she would use that, if need be, to gain his help. He was young. Handsome. How bad could it be? If she kept her eyes shut and tried not to breathe in, it would soon be over.
And yet she didn’t need to offer herself.
He asked her nothing but agreed to help. No questions. No conditions. Indeed, he said it was probably for the best if she kept her secrets to herself. “What I don’t know I can’t tell.”
It was astonishing! He seemed to be helping her for no other reason than that he was a good man. She struggled to believe it, then rebuked herself for being so surprised. Titus Cornelius Festus had surely twisted her mind out of shape. Not all men were like him, she reminded herself. This past winter Marcus had never given her cause to doubt him. It was foolish of her to not entirely trust him.
When she described to Marcus the place where Rufus was, he offered suggestions of how they could get there. He wondered aloud how best they might bring him away. But he never once asked for more information.
The land between Londinium and the villa was unfamiliar to Cassia but she knew the general direction they should take. Marcus assured her there was a road running east that would take them there.
He proposed riding – native ponies could be purchased at a small price and they were hardy and sure-footed, well used to travelling great distances at speed. Cassia had never ridden a horse in her life but was loath to admit it. How hard could it be? she thought. Surely, she’d only have to sit still and let herself be carried along? If children managed it, so would she.
And so her hair was cut. In the room where he’d spent the cold, dark months Marcus took his knife and Cassia’s red tresses fell to the floor. What little remained on her head was dyed with a stinking concoction of dead leeches steeped in wine that he’d obtained from the barber along the street. Her arms and legs, her face and hands were darkened with walnut juice from the same source until the marks on ankles and wrists were almost obliterated and she looked like what she was pretending to be – the boy slave of a travelling trader.
They were agreed: they’d set forth at first light.
Leaving her alone in his room, Marcus went into the city. There was business he needed to complete before leaving, he said. Once it was done he went to Ga
ius, returning with jars of potions, pots of salves, pestles, mortars – a whole pharmacy of remedies that could be sold as they journeyed north. Cassia was concerned that Gaius, when he noticed her absence, would have reported her as a runaway – but Marcus assured her that she need have no fear. He had made things right with her one-time master, he said, and she didn’t pursue the matter. For not only had he brought her the garments of a boy, he’d acquired a packhorse and a pair of panniers, one of which was stuffed with all manner of things that might prove useful. The other was empty, but – if the gods were willing – it would conceal a small boy for long enough to bring him to freedom.
They slept that night in the same room and in the same bed, Marcus facing the wall, his back to Cassia.
He did not lay a finger on her. He’d complained of tiredness and shut his eyes, yet he did not seem to sleep. Cassia dozed fitfully, but each time she woke she felt his spine at her back. His breathing was slow and steady, but she’d slept in the slave huts all her life: she knew the difference between real and faked slumber. She wondered at it, but soon her puzzlement turned to gratitude.
He’d helped her so much already, and asked for nothing in return. Now, together, they would free Rufus. As she lay in the dark, feeling his warmth against her, for the first time she thought his touch would not be at all unwelcome.
XVII
Cassia was used to handling oxen. She knew and understood their temperament. A pony, she soon discovered, was entirely different. Alert, wary, sensitive to her every movement and reacting, so it seemed, to her anxious thoughts. She looked at the creature, wondering how to get astride. The task seemed impossible and, perplexed, she let out a sudden hiss of breath. The animal threw its head up and pulled away, wheeling in a circle at the end of its rope. It took her some time to calm it. When it was finally standing still she scrambled in an ungainly manner onto its back.