Beyond the Wall

  It was not until the evening that Marcus was recovered enough to stand. He took himself down to the tavern to eat and make merry. It was part of his performance, he’d told her: he must seem to be a wastrel of a man, intent on pleasure, letting all the money he’d made from Livia Tertia run through his fingers like water. Only then would it be plausible for them to move on in order to earn more.

  Cassia was banished to the stables with the horses. If she could only be doing something, it would have been more bearable. Enforced idleness was painful in the extreme.

  Word of what had happened spread, of course. The stable lads were on fire with the story that Cassia’s brother had now vanished, and two other slaves along with him. She had to listen to tales of them being drawn into the clouds, or melting into the river. Something wild and supernatural had occurred. It must have done. How else could three people – one of them an old crone – not have been hunted down by those dogs?

  When the lads finally slept, Cassia lay awake. She could barely keep still. Her mind ran in circles, trying to fathom how they were going to get safely beyond the reach of the steward and his men. She could find no solution, and the more she worried at the problem, the more tangled her thoughts became.

  Once more Marcus came to her at night, when the tavern slept. He stank of wine, but he must have poured away more than he drank because his voice was sober and steady.

  They talked, foreheads so close they were almost pressed together, breath mingling as they whispered.

  “How do we get them away?” she asked.

  “I have no idea. The boy can be concealed in the pannier as we planned. But the others? Your warrior friend is too tall to be hidden. As for Flavia? She might fit in the second pannier if we abandon everything stored inside. But I think she’s too fragile to endure such rough treatment. Bent double, crushed like that? Her bones would break.” He paused. “Perhaps we should keep to our plan with the boy? They could go on alone.”

  “No. We cannot let them loose. They will be caught.”

  “They must take their chances.”

  “They will talk. They would be forced to.” He gave a nod of understanding. “We need to get all three away together, but I don’t know how.” Pressing the palms of her hands to her eyes, she said, “We will all end up dead!”

  Dead.

  Dead.

  In her mind’s eye she saw the funeral procession she’d passed on her way to Londinium.

  Her skin prickled into goosebumps. The small corpse in the back of a cart. The grief-stricken family walking behind. The mother’s face.

  People had stood aside to let them pass. They had turned their heads away, avoiding looking at the mourners for fear they might catch their misery like a disease.

  A funeral procession.

  Who would question such a thing? Who would look for the living among the dead?

  Her palms prickled. A sudden wild excitement gripped her.

  “My friend,” she said, her eyes glinting, a slight smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “we need a corpse.”

  XXII

  The idea was a daring one: a concept so outrageous that Marcus declared it had to succeed. Yet the practicalities of its execution took all their combined ingenuity.

  Cassia – knowing this small part of the country well, knowing its inhabitants by reputation if not in person – had the advantage over Marcus. It was she who drew the fine detail, she who would have the responsibility for carrying out the greater part of the plan.

  The next morning – as they had agreed – Cassia rode the distance to the nearest town. Tied to her waist she carried a bulging purse of coins. It banged against her hip as she rode, a thudding reminder that Marcus was still a mystery to her. The longer she spent in his company, the more she liked him. And yet the more perplexed she became.

  He was a working man, so he’d always told her. He had to earn his own way, pay his own keep. She’d been under the impression that he’d left Londinium with nothing, and she knew precisely how much Livia Tertia had paid for the remedy he’d sold her. So where had the bulging purse he’d produced that morning come from?

  He’d put his finger to her lips as he’d pressed it into her hands and told her to ask no questions. She was hardly in a position to do so. She supposed she should be grateful that he had coins that he was willing to use for her benefit. But she was now uncomfortably in his debt and it weighed heavily on her.

  She had left the inn apparently on an errand for her master who, once again, lay in bed with a sore and aching head. The three fugitives remained concealed in the room with him, their nerves strained almost to breaking.

  But when the town was barely in sight, she left the road, giving the place a wide berth, skirting its perimeter through woodland and field, until she had reached its far side. There she rejoined the road, finally approaching from the opposite direction at a steady trot, as though she had ridden from the coast.

  Cassia had spent years of her life listening to slaves’ gossip. The rumour ran that there was a farm on the outskirts: a grubby, run-down establishment whose owner was known to be a drunkard and a lecher who would have sold his own children for a jug of wine. He was, by reputation, a man of both great laziness and great greed: a combination she could now make use of.

  Her months in Londinium had served her well. She adopted the accent of someone who’d come from overseas. Slowly, as though unaccustomed to Britannia and its modes of speech, she hailed the landowner, and asked for his help.

  His curiosity was aroused by seeing a stranger before him. He listened while Cassia spun a tale of a tragedy: the death of a young boy, mortally wounded by an accident in Gallia, a lad whose dying wish was to be laid in the family plot beside his mother.

  His corpse, she said, had been brought across the sea. She’d been sent by her master to find a means of transport that could carry the lad to his final resting place.

  “Why didn’t you hire a cart at the port?”

  “I tried, believe me. But the place was too busy. No one can spare a vehicle for the length of time we need it. The lad’s home is in the far north.”

  “Well, you can’t have mine either.”

  “Are you sure? My master’s family are wealthy. I pay a good price and I’ll buy it outright. I’m desperate, sir.”

  The unmistakeable gleam of greed was in the man’s eyes although he feigned indifference. When she produced the pouch of coins, his hand was out before he could stop himself.

  It took more than half the purse’s contents to persuade him to part with two ill-fed oxen and a rough-looking hooped cart covered with a sheet of moth-eaten canvas. Even then he sold it with noisy protests, saying that he was being robbed, he was a fool to be so generous, he was too kind-hearted for his own good.

  Cassia knew the money would buy women. Women and wine. If there was any justice in the world, it would buy a barrel big enough for him to drown in.

  She harnessed the oxen, tied her pony to the rear of the cart, and led them away, apparently heading towards the coast.

  She wasn’t even out of sight before the farmer had called a slave to bring his horse. In a few moments more he was off to the town brothel. All being well, he would not return for a day or two.

  She planned to conceal the oxen and the wagon on the boundary of his own land. She’d noticed a byre, no doubt used to shelter cattle in winter but standing empty now.

  When she reached the place, she discovered it filthy, no one having given the order to dig out the manure that had accumulated during the winter. A vile stench was emanating from one corner where some creature had died and lay rotting. She worried for the oxen’s health: leaving them breathing in such bad air for the length of the day would do them no good. And yet there seemed no choice. With luck, no one would pass this way. She assumed that the farmer’s slaves would make use of his absence and snatch a day of rest. There was, of course, the danger of the steward and his men searching the byre but surely they’d already done so? M
ight they do it again? It was possible. They’d scour the countryside until the fugitives were found. What would he think if he found an unattended cart and pair of oxen standing in a filthy byre? He might find it odd. But it was more likely, wasn’t it, that he’d put it down to the farmer’s lazy incompetence? She could only pray that would be the case.

  Besides the steward there was the fear that Titus Cornelius Festus would tire of searching for her in the city and return to his home. The prospect of encountering her former master on the road was enough to turn her bowels to water. It was some time before she could mount the pony once more and ride through the woods, skirting the town and coming at it now from the other direction.

  This time she spoke in the accents of a travel-weary slave from Londinium, complaining of a master who was insensible at the tavern some few miles further along the road. A man who would spend all he had made and be empty-handed again before the week was out. A man of inordinate vanity who had sent her out to buy luxuries he could barely afford. Two lengths of fine cloth for tunics. Two thick woollen cloaks – when summer was coming on and he would hardly have use for them! And food – luxuries he had a sudden desire for, as though the tavern he stayed in could not supply all he needed!

  She grumbled convincingly enough, but the slave who served her soon tired of the subject and turned their talk towards the runaways.

  “Four have gone from that place these last few months!”

  “Four? I heard three.”

  “No … there was a girl back last autumn. Bit half her master’s ear off, can you believe? Then she ran.”

  “And was she caught?”

  “No. She disappeared. It was like she was drawn into the sky. I reckon she flew away. Maybe she’s in the stars, eh? Drowned in the river, some said, but a body was never found.”

  “The river? Perhaps these others have gone that way. They must be halfway to Londinium by now.”

  “They’ll be found, soon enough. I wouldn’t want to be in their skins when they do. Not known for his forgiving nature is Titus Cornelius Festus.”

  They exchanged a look. One slave to another. Whatever was said aloud, in their hearts they both hoped that the fugitives would get clean away. The conversation came to an end. Packing her purchases onto the pony, Cassia returned to the inn.

  She could hear Marcus yelling for her from half a mile away, or so it seemed, calling her a lazy good-for-nothing scoundrel. Threatening to whip her, or sell her in the market of Londinium. The hatred on her face when she glanced up at the window before dismounting required little of the actor’s skill.

  XXIII

  Rufus would be the corpse.

  A child’s body would be the most pitiable: the mourners’ grief raw, overwhelming and dreadful to behold. Anyone they passed on the road would be eager to avoid close contact with such a procession. People would turn their eyes away; they would not be questioned.

  Rufus accepted his role in sullen silence. As Cassia outlined her plan, the boy would not meet his sister’s eyes. “You’ll be tightly bound. You’ll see nothing. And you must keep perfectly still. It will be hard.”

  He wouldn’t speak to her, but pursed his lips, resentment rising like a shimmering haze of heat.

  Marcus asked him, “Are you up to this? All our lives depend on you. It’s a man’s job, truly.”

  Cassia was surprised to see her brother lift his chin and look directly at Marcus, eyes eager, shoulders squared. He nodded and was rewarded with, “Brave lad.”

  It stung her. Marcus had held a knife to her brother’s throat and threatened him! Yet he shrank from her and sought the Roman’s approval. She was a demon, but Marcus had become a god!

  She opened her mouth to speak, but Flavia drew her aside.

  “Swallow the pain,” she whispered. “Push it from your thoughts. There will be time to heal the rift when we are living free. But there is much to be done between here and there. One thing at a time. One step, then the next.”

  It was sound advice. Soothing. Gratefully, Cassia embraced the frail old woman. She was glad to have Flavia with them. Perhaps she would not be a burden but a source of wisdom? Maybe the gods had meant it to be this way?

  As for Silvio – what part did they intend him to play in this? He’d already carried Rufus to her. Without him, could she have got her brother away from the estate? Unlikely. That was enough reason to be grateful for his presence. Besides that, he’d continued to call her “my queen”. Each time he said it, it made her smile. Silvio had always been part of her life. She trusted him. But the depth of that trust only served to highlight the reservations she still had about Marcus…

  As the day wore on, the Roman continued in his role of libertine.

  But the landlord had met men of his kind before. When Marcus called for more meat and wine, payment for board and lodging was demanded before anything else was brought to his room.

  Marcus reached for his public purse – the one he’d given to Cassia having been concealed. When his coins were counted out, there was barely enough to pay one more night’s keep.

  “Time to move on,” Marcus told the landlord. He said he’d do so in the morning. His slave must make ready to leave: he’d expect the horses to be packed and prepared so they could be off the moment the sun was up. Yes … at first light he’d be on his way. But until then, why, he’d drink the last of his money in the form of the landlord’s wine.

  He kept up the pretence of carousing as he’d done for the last two nights. Cassia emptied the room of Marcus’s possessions and stacked them in the stable, ready to be loaded onto the packhorse. After that it was a matter of waiting for the night to come – that was all. But it was the hardest part.

  While Cassia was hounded by worries, one by one the travellers at the inn retired to bed. Gradually their chatter and noise ceased. Even the beasts slept. Eventually all was quiet. All was still.

  And then – as stealthily as she could – Cassia loaded the pack animal. She muffled its hooves with cloth and did the same to the ponies. She made ready to go.

  Only then could the fugitives leave the room they had been trapped in. This was the time of greatest danger.

  Cassia had taken the horses from their stalls. Marcus now lifted Flavia onto one and Rufus onto the other.

  Cassia led the way, Silvio walking beside her. Marcus brought up the rear with the pack animal.

  It was no easy journey in the dead of night with no flaming torch, no oil lamp to light their way. The moon was almost full, but there were stretches of road where the trees grew so thick either side that its light could hardly penetrate.

  They did not dare go through the town, but skirted it and in the density of undergrowth they could not pass swiftly. Brambles snagged skin and clothing, nettles stung flesh. Their progress was slow, but not disastrously so. There was an hour left of the night when they finally reached the byre.

  The oxen – who had been tied up but neither fed nor watered – lowed in greeting. To keep their noise from disturbing anyone Cassia untied them and led them out to drink from the stream and graze a little.

  Marcus, meanwhile, began to dig deep in the panniers for all manner of things that he’d brought from Londinium.

  In the moonlight he began to bind Rufus in a length of rough linen.

  Her brother stood still and calm while it was done. Only when Marcus reached his face, did Rufus show some alarm. To have to go through a long journey and not see any of the dangers. To be bound so that he could not run – it was too much to ask of him!

  Marcus said nothing, but clenched his fist and placed it under the boy’s chin, bringing his face up so he could look into his eyes. Rufus seemed to draw strength from it. When the Roman wound the cloth about his head her brother made no sound or sign of protest. Something about Marcus poured courage into him. It was strange. She was so slow, so reluctant to absolutely trust the man. Was there something Rufus saw that she did not?

  They laid him in the cart. The makeshift linen shrou
d was fresh and bright. Even in the moonlight Cassia could see it would look too clean to have made their supposed journey across the sea. When she said so, Marcus scraped up dirt from the floor, apologizing to Rufus as he rubbed it into the folds.

  As he was doing that, the stench from the corner of the byre reached Cassia’s nostrils – and gave her an idea.

  “So many days since he died. Would he not now be … decomposing?”

  Marcus nodded, at once understanding her train of thought. He searched out the source of the odour. A small dog, or maybe a wolf cub? Hard to tell. It was long dead, and reeking of decay. With more apologies to Rufus, he tucked it into the shroud under the boy’s legs. Nothing would convince a passing stranger of the genuineness of the corpse more effectively than that smell of death.

  Cassia harnessed the oxen to the cart. And now she and Marcus turned their attention to the mourners.

  Flavia: supposedly grandmother to the dead boy.

  Taking the knife, Flavia’s hair was cut in token of mourning – long strands of grey and gold that were then buried in the byre.

  But she was still too recognizable. If the steward saw her, he would know her.

  Cassia thought the only solution was for her to keep the hood of her cloak pulled down, over her face, but Marcus surprised her.

  Among the jars and vials he’d obtained from Gaius he had an array of women’s cosmetics: thick white face cream, rouge. He plastered Flavia’s wrinkled skin with it, outlined her lips with a brush, painted them scarlet. Dressed in the cloth Cassia had purchased from town and with the cloak around her shoulders she had the look of an elderly woman – a Roman – who, despite her grief, was making a huge effort to maintain a respectable appearance. Only her calloused palms gave her away, but who would inspect those?