In the Shadow of the Wall (10 page)

The Boresti were silent, made to think hard by his words. Only Brude spoke up. “Is there no other way?”

Basillus shook his head, smiling at Frual. “He’s a persistent lad, isn’t he? What it is to be young, eh?” To Brude he said, “Well, I didn’t want to make things hard for you lot but even with most of your war paint cleaned off you look different to the Romans. As a rule, they don’t like people who are different. If I had to bet, I’d say you’ve got a good chance of ending up in the arena. You can win your freedom there if you are very lucky.”

They all gave him blank looks. “What’s the arena?” one man asked.

“It’s where you fight. For show. The Romans like to see people fighting.”

“We can do that!” said Drugh happily.

The others laughed but Basillus did not join in the laughter. “You fight each other. Usually to the death.”

There was a silence as a pall came over them. “To the death?” Frual asked.

Basillus nodded. “Usually. If you’re a war captive or a criminal, they’ll make you fight or they’ll just cut you down if you don’t. Sometimes they give you special training to become a gladiator, and then you might live a bit longer. A few win their freedom if they fight well. Very few.” He looked round their worried faces. “I wouldn’t count on winning your freedom that way. Better to hope for a job as a house slave and earn it.”

Brude nodded sombrely. If the only way he could win his freedom was by killing his friends, he didn’t think he could do that.

The slave market was held in an open space outside the stockade. They were paraded on a wooden platform to allow the audience of prospective purchasers to see them. They went up in groups of three or four, prodded by spears held by tough-looking guards. Sometimes a buyer would come up to inspect some of them, even having them stripped naked so that their limbs could be checked for sign of deformity.

They were unchained from the coffle but ha leg irons put on, so when Brude’s turn came to climb on to the platform he had to hobble up slowly, taking care not to stumble. There were two other Boresti with him, men he had only known since their captivity had started. Both of them were older than him.

He stood blinking in the warm sun, trying to look indifferent to his fate. He looked out at the audience, noticing that there were only two or three paying any attention to him or to the other men beside him. There were some calls, some waving of hands, then the guard jabbed him with the butt of his spear, indicating that they should make their way down the steps at the other side where more guards waited. Brude was separated from the others and led away to the side of the stockade where he was roughly pushed to join two men and a young woman who had been through the auction before him. He did not know any of them and none of them spoke any language that he understood. He looked round for Frual or any of the other Boresti but they were nowhere to be seen in the crowd.

A small man approached them, rubbing his hands, obviously pleased with himself. He was wearing a smart tunic and a wide-brimmed hat, and was accompanied by three burly guards. He spoke to them in Latin, but the only word Brude could make out was
serui – slaves
. The man waved a hand imperiously and one of the guards removed their leg irons while another fastened them into a coffle. At a word from the small man they set off, Brude at the tail end of the coffle, heading out of the stockade and back onto another of the seemingly never ending Roman roads. Brude tried to twist round to see where his friends were but he got a cuff on the head from the guard behind him. He realised that he had not even said farewell to Frual, Drugh or any of the others.

They were heading west and south and they walked nearly all day. By evening, they turned off the road onto a less well-made track, passing through fields of wheat and barley where slaves were busy gathering in the harvest. Up ahead was a large two-storey building with a red tiled roof. It was surrounded by several other buildings, all made of stone or brick with white painted walls which dazzled in the sunlight. They were marched round the back of the villa to an area that comprised many small rooms facing inwards on to a large square courtyard. The rooms were cells with strong, plastered walls and doors with bars of iron. One at a time they were released from the coffle and pushed into a cell. Brude was last to go in and he found himself in a tiny space with no windows. The door slammed shut behind him and he heard the lock grate as it closed.

There was a ledge, made of stone, just wide enough for him to lie on; two blankets, old and smelly, and a wooden bucket in the corner. Nothing else.

Tired from the long day, still hungry and thirsty, he folded one of the blankets into a makeshift pillow, lay down on the hard stone shelf and covered himself with the other blanket. Through the small barred grille in the door he watched as the daylight slowly faded. His thoughts turned to his home, to his mother, to Mairead who would think him dead, and to his father. He began to shiver, suddenly unable to stop trembling. Tears came to his eyes and would not stop. He was just sixteen years old and he was truly alck r the first time in his life.

The villa belonged to a wealthy Roman named Sextus Arminius Rufus. Brude never saw him. One part of the villa was set aside for Rufus to use when he did visit, but that was a rare occurrence so the rooms were left empty most of the time.

Brude’s life revolved at the whim of Marcus Arminius, a former slave who had been freed, taken his master’s name and now ran the estate for him. He was assisted by a retinue of former soldiers who were only ever too happy to enforce his will, and by the small man who wore the wide-brimmed hat and who had overseen Brude’s purchase from the slave market. He was another ex-slave who had taken the name of Tiberius Arminius. Rather timid and indecisive, he was the person responsible for allocating the slaves’ duties on a daily basis in accordance with Marcus’ wishes.

Brude soon learned that the advice he had been given by Basillus was worth following; he kept his mouth shut, his eyes down and never raised a finger to anyone. That way he escaped the beatings that some of the other slaves received. He was a field slave, the lowest of the low. To the Romans he had no name; he was simply a slave and that was what they called him when they spoke to him at all, which was usually only when the guards gave him orders. Even the freedmen, Marcus and Tiberius, were indifferent towards the slaves. Brude was learning that in Roman society everyone did indeed have their place and was expected to behave accordingly.

The other slaves were friendlier, of course, although at first only one of them could speak to him in a language he understood, a man in his thirties called Batix, a
Gaul
who had been a slave since he was a boy. Batix helped him learn to speak Latin and they would practise while out in the fields or in the orchards as long as they were out of earshot of the guards. Thanks to Batix, Brude was able, within a few weeks, to at least exchange some words with the other slaves. They were from all over the empire, some with dark olive skin, others with hair the colour of wheat, the likes of which Brude had never seen before.

They worked hard in the fields as long as there was daylight, doing whatever task Tiberius allocated to them but in many ways life was not so bad. For one thing, they wore no shackles, which Brude questioned with Batix. The older man said, “They know we won’t run. There’s nowhere for a slave to run to and if you do run, when they catch you, they just kill you. You get no second chances with the Romans.”

Brude was tempted to try to escape anyway but he knew in his heart that Batix was right. Where would he run to? A life of hiding in the forests did not appeal to him. He owned nothing, not even the tunic he wore, so how would he survive alone? Still he dreamed, but he decided it would be better to learn as much as he could about the Romans and then find a way to get free somehow.

The slaves were allowed to congregate in the courtyard where they ate their meals and could sit and talk before the guards locked them in the cells each night. There were informal family groups among the slaves and though the men were supposed to be locked away separately from the women, the guards usually turned a blind eye if some couples were locked in a cell together overnight. Slaves were not allowed to marry but among themselves they performed their own unofficial marriages, which the Romans did not mind. Any children who were born were automatically slaves who would be able to work on the farm from a very early age. Batix had a young wife called Brigid, who was originally from
Germania
. The two of them allowed Brude to eat with them while they taught him the ways of life as a slave.

Much to his surprise, Brude learned to speak Latin quickly, paying special attention whenever Marcus Arminius or Tiberius spoke because they were freedmen who tried to speak Latin the way the Roman gentry did, not the coarse slang of the soldiers and slaves. Brude surprised himself by being able to detect the difference. He was tempted to try speaking to Marcus in an attempt to get a job as a house slave but he had seen another slave get beaten half to death for approaching Marcus in a way the overseer deemed inappropriate, so he bided his time. Tiberius was more approachable but even Brude, young and inexperienced as he was, recognised that the little freedman had no real influence.

Day followed day, month followed month, and the winter came. They celebrated the Roman midwinter feast of Saturnalia with an extra ration of bread and some watered wine, which the master had graciously allowed them. It wasn’t quite the Samhain feast Brude was used to, but it was better than their normal fare, which, though reasonably plentiful, was very plain.

The field slaves had less work to do in the winter as the days were shorter. They all liked that, even though they were cold for several months. When spring came, things changed and they were all soon exhausted with the ploughing and sowing through the longer days.

Brude turned seventeen. He was aware that he was filling out, his muscles becoming honed by the heavy manual work. Brigid assured him that some of the younger women would be glad to slip into his cell if he asked them but Brude was wary of that. He still dreamed of Mairead most nights even though he was a man now and he could not help but look at the younger slave women.

By midsummer, Brigid had encouraged one of the young girls, whose name was Julia, to join them at evening meal and sit next to Brude. Julia was shy but clearly fascinated by Brude. Brigid practically threw them at each other. Brude, feeling awkward and clumsy, cast an appealing look at Batix who just shrugged and gave him an encouraging smile. Brigid almost shoved Julia into Brude’s cell that night. They made love clumsily but enthusiastically and Julia clung to him all night. She came to his bed every night after that. Brigid smiled, telling him he was a lucky boy to get such a young and attractive girl for himself. Brude felt as proud as he had ever done, wlking tall and feeling invincible. Batix, although not meaning to, deflated him a little by telling him that because Julia was now nearly fifteen years old, she wanted to get pregnant; expectant women were generally given lighter duties and if she was really lucky she might even be taken to the master’s house to act as a wet nurse if there were any babies in the master’s family. Brude, feeling rather used, mentioned it to Julia that evening. She openly admitted it. “Of course,” she said. “That’s what all the women do. But I do love you,” she added, putting her hand on his arm. Brude wasn’t so sure now and that night he thought about Mairead again for the first time in several weeks.

He never learned whether Julia became pregnant, for only a few days later his whole world changed again. The slaves knew that something was wrong when the sun rose but the guards did not arrive to unlock the doors to their quarters. They sat, confused, isolated and scared, sometimes calling to one another softly, but nobody seemed to know what was happening. Brude was worried. The routine of life was never disturbed, so something serious must have happened. And if something serious happened in a Roman household, the slaves were always affected.

It was near the second hour when the doors were at last unlocked and swung open to reveal the unexpected sight of little Tiberius standing in the centre of the courtyard, an expression of pure misery consuming his lined face. He stood there, the brim of his hat doing nothing to hide his anxiety, looking at them, trying to compose himself. They watched him, silently, waiting for him to speak. When he did, his voice was cracked with emotion. “Your Master, Sextus Arminius Rufus, is dead.” He waited for a reaction but there was none. None of the slaves had ever seen their master so his death meant nothing to them. They were slaves and knew better than to display emotion. Tiberius went on, “He has committed suicide following the victory of Lucius Septimius Severus over Decimus Clodius Albinus.”